Knowing he couldn’t sleep any longer, he’d dressed and slipped out of the house, trying not to wake Nathan.
He took the path that led from the bottom of Nathan’s garden down to the Cam. From the morning mist that lay in the dips and hollows along the river, tendrils floated out like ghostly fingers. Reflections of the old trees swam insubstantially in the still surface of the water, and the air smelled of damp earth, and faintly of decay.
Kit walked along the river path until he could see into the back garden of his old house. The cottage’s Suffolk-pink plaster glowed rosily in the morning light, but the grass in the garden was uncut, the patio empty. Perhaps the new family had not yet moved in, he thought, but then he’d heard a door slam, and seen a flash of movement at the uncurtained kitchen window.
For an instant, behind the streaky glass, he thought he
saw his mum’s profile and the swing of her pale hair.
Then he had turned and run, blindly, back to Nathan’s, hiding himself away beneath the yews, trying to get the surge of his emotions under control.
The gate creaked, and Nathan’s stocky silhouette filled the arbor’s entrance.
“I thought I might find you here,” Nathan said, coming to sit down beside him. That was one of the things Kit liked about Nathan; he never minded getting dirty. “Duncan rang a few minutes ago. He said he let your school know you’d be absent for a couple of days.” Nathan rubbed a yew needle between his fingers, then added,
“He also told me about Ian.”
They sat in silence for a bit. That was another thing Kit liked about Nathan; he could sit with you in silence, without telling you what you should think about something.
“I’d been saving all term for that trip to Toronto,” Kit said, when he thought he could trust his voice.
“Rotten luck. Or maybe I should say rotten timing, as far as Ian’s concerned.” Nathan smiled. “You know, Kit, just because people are grown up doesn’t mean they always think through the consequences of things. I’m sure he didn’t realize how much you were counting on that visit.”
“He wants rid of me,” Kit said thickly. “He said he was starting over, with a new life, a new family. I’m sure that’s why he wanted me to have the DNA test.”
Nathan thought about this for a moment. “And you don’t want to have the test, right?”
“Right.”
“But even if what you said about Ian were true—and I don’t think it is, mind you—your life is with Duncan and Gemma now. Are you not happy there?”
“No, it’s not that—well, school’s not all that brilliant, really, but it’s not that, either. It’s just—” Kit rested his chin on his knees, struggling to put something he could barely get his mind round into words.
“Are you afraid the test won’t prove Duncan’s your father? Or that it will?” Nathan added softly, as if he’d suddenly understood something.
A spark of sunlight stole through the yew branches, illuminating the lace on Kit’s shoe with a microscopic clar-ity. “Yes,” Kit said. “Both. If Duncan’s not really my dad, then I’d have to go away, and I don’t—” He swallowed.
“We’re like family, you know. But if it proves that Ian was never my dad, then it means that everything that went before was a lie. Mum, and Ian, and me. This.” His nod took in the cottage down the road, the village, everything that had been his reality for twelve years. “And that makes me . . . not who I thought I was.”
Slowly, Nathan said, “Kit, no test, no configuration of molecules, can take your past away from you. That experience will always be a part of you, no matter what happens in the future, no matter where you live, or how many times Ian gets married. Those layers of living build up like a pearl in an oyster—you can’t just slice them away . . . although sometimes it might be easier for people if they could.”
“But what if— If I wasn’t— What if Duncan didn’t want me anymore?” There, he had said it. He felt suddenly lighter.
“Kit, I think Duncan wants to prove you’re his son because he loves you and is proud of you, not the other way round. Does that make sense? But no one can make you have this test. You have to do what you think is right for you.”
“But what about my grandmother?” Kit’s voice rose as the panicked feeling set in again.
“You can go to the judge and tell him how you feel. In fact, you can tell him exactly what you’ve told me. You’re old enough to have a voice in your own future, if you’re strong enough to make it heard. It’s what you want that matters now.”
“Will they charge John?” Hazel asked from the backseat of the Honda as they sped towards Benvulin. Saying that Hazel was needed urgently at the distillery, they had left the chief inspector taking John once again over his visit to Callum’s cottage. Ross had made no attempt to detain them, but when Pascal had offered to come with them, Ross had insisted he stay until he’d completed a written statement about his missing medication.
“He’d have charged him already if he had the evidence,” Kincaid said, turning towards her. “He’s just stirring things at the moment while he waits to see what the forensics team turn up in the car.”
“I don’t believe it,” Hazel protested. “I simply can’t believe John would have taken Pascal’s tablets and poisoned this man—Callum.”
None of the other options were any more palatable, Gemma thought as she slowed for the entrance to Benvulin, but she didn’t say so. She was increasingly worried over the lack of news about Tim Cavendish. Hazel had spoken to her mother-in-law earlier that morning, and Carolyn had told her she’d had no word from Tim since the previous evening. Was he still “helping” the Met with their inquiries?
Kincaid looked round with interest as Gemma parked the car in Benvulin’s drive. “What a lovely place—more fairy-tale than industrial. Is the design unique?”
“No.” As they got out of the car, Hazel studied the distillery buildings as if seeing them anew. “The twin
pagoda-roofed kilns were an innovation of a Victorian ar-chitect called Charles Doig, and the design was adopted by a number of Highland distilleries—but nowhere did all the elements come together quite so well as they did here at Benvulin. You can see why the Brodies loved it, sometimes beyond reason, I suspect.”
“And Donald was no exception,” Gemma murmured.
She had started automatically for the offices when Heather came out the door of Benvulin House and waved to them.
Heather wore trainers and old jeans rather than smart work clothes. The others changed course, and as Gemma mounted the steps to the house, she saw that Heather had a smudge of dirt over one eyebrow.
“Heather, what’s happened?” Hazel asked without pre-amble. “Is it something to do with the business?”
“No.” Heather’s manner seemed suddenly hesitant.
“I’ve been going through Donald’s personal papers. I’ve made a start on the funeral arrangements, and I was hoping to find something that would tell me what Donald wanted. And in truth”—she looked directly at her cousin—“I’d hoped I might find another will.”
“Heather, you know I didn’t want—”
“No, it’s all right. It was silly of me, and unfair. I know this isn’t your choice, but it’s what Donald thought best, and I have to come to terms with it. But that’s not why I called. Come and see for yourselves.” Heather turned and led them inside, through a great hall and up a massive carved staircase.
Glancing into rooms as she passed, Gemma glimpsed richly faded Persian rugs and heavy velvet draperies.
Stag heads loomed on walls, beside the gilt of ornate mirrors and framed portraits, and the house had an overall air of heavy, faded, and slightly shabby opulence.
“Scotch baronial at its finest,” said Heather. “This place is a dinosaur, and horrifically expensive to maintain.” She led them into a room at the top of the stairs. Its tall windows looked out, not on the distillery, but towards the gray sweep of the river.
Here was ample evidence
of her endeavors; stacks of books and papers covered the floor as well as the old leather-topped desk. “I don’t think Donald ever felt really comfortable in this room,” Heather continued. “It reminded him too much of his father.” Seeing Kincaid studying a watercolor of Benvulin hanging over the desk, she added, “That’s a Land-seer, a gift to Donald’s great-grandfather, I believe. The painter was well known for dashing off a painting of his hosts’ properties in return for their extended hospitality.”
Hazel still stood in the doorway. “Heather, what—”
“Here.” Heather touched a stack of cloth-bound books on the corner of the desk. “I found Donald’s great-grandfather’s sister’s diaries. And I think I’ve discovered what caused the rift between the Brodies and the Urquharts, but I want you to read it for yourself.”
Hazel stepped into the room with obvious reluctance just as Gemma’s phone rang again. “Bloody hell,”
Gemma muttered, snatching it up. It was Alun Ross.
She listened for several moments, then said, “Yes, I’ll tell him. Yes, right away. No, I can drive him.” When she rang off, however, it was not Kincaid she looked at, but Hazel.
“That was Chief Inspector Ross.” She took a breath.
There was no way she could soften the news. “The London police found a receipt from a petrol station in Aviemore in Tim’s car, dated Saturday. They’re holding Tim for questioning. Tim’s refused a solicitor—he says he won’t speak to anyone but Duncan.” She turned to Kincaid. “There’s a flight from Inverness to London in a little over an hour. I said I’d have you on it.”
Chapter Nineteen
I have trod the upward and the downward slope; I have endured and done in days before; I have longed for all, and bid farewell to hope; And I have lived and loved, and closed the door.
—robert louis stevenson,
“I Have Trod the Upward and the Downward Slope”
Carnmore, November
Livvy stood in the distillery office, her father’s letter dangling from her nerveless fingers. She had been found out, her undoing a mere slip of the tongue by the banker, sharing a midday dram with her father. The banker, assuming her father privy to her affairs, had casually mentioned her withdrawal of funds from her account, and now she would have to deal with the consequences.
She’d felt a nagging sense of foreboding for some weeks, but she’d put it down to the time of year. It was more than the upcoming anniversary of Charles’s death; she hated the dark, the closing in of the days, the interminable nights with nothing but her few books and a bit of sewing to keep her thoughts occupied. Not even to herself had she
been willing to admit how much she dreaded the curtailing of Rab’s visits, which would inevitably follow on bad weather.
The shooting season had brought Rab frequently to Carnmore’s door, as he was on friendly terms with the duke of Gordon and was often invited for a day’s sport at the duke’s lodge in Tomintoul. Their tea and conversation at her kitchen table had quickly become her cornerstone, the events round which revolved the rest of her existence.
It was no more than Highland hospitality, she told herself, ignoring the whispering of her neighbors, as she did Will’s increasingly obvious dislike of Rab. She prided herself on her status as Rab’s friend, and she’d listened to his tales of Benvulin’s troubles with increasing distress.
Other distilleries were suffering, she knew; some had already closed their doors, and as the weeks went by she became more and more worried that Benvulin would share that fate. If the same thing were to happen to Carnmore, she and Will could at least fall back on her father—
Rab had nothing. She’d wished desperately for some way to help him, but it was not until her autumn visit to her father in Grantown that she’d conceived a plan.
Both she and Rab had attended a recital at the home of a Grantown dignitary. Aware of Rab’s absence during the dinner buffet that had followed the musical performance, she’d slipped away from the dining room to search for him. When she’d found him at last, he’d been sitting alone in the small conservatory, his head in his hands.
He looked up at the sound of her entrance. “Livvy! You shouldn’t be here. People will talk.”
“I don’t mind,” she said, going to him as he stood.
“Rab, what is it?”
He’d touched her cheek. “You’re too kind, Olivia, do
you know that? I’ve no intention of spoiling your evening with my troubles. Go back to the buffet, before someone notices your absence.”
“Not until you tell me what’s troubling you.”
“Blackmail, is it?” he said, giving her a crooked smile.
“Well, I suppose I might as well tell you, as everyone will know before long. I don’t think I can keep Benvulin going any longer, Livvy. I’ve had a hint of a buyer for some of the stock, from a grocer in Aberdeen who’s selling his own blend—”
“But, Rab, that’s good news—”
“It would be, except that it will take several months to complete the arrangement—if it materializes at all—and in the meantime, I can’t pay the men’s wages. Not that it’s likely another distillery can take them on, but they can at least try to find some sort of work that will feed their families. I can’t see that I have any choice but to close the doors.”
“Rab, what about your family?”
“Margaret has gone back to her uncle’s in London—
leaving the sinking ship, I fear—although I don’t know how long he will keep his patience with her spending habits. I’ve kept the children here, but it looks as though I’ll have to let the governess go soon, as well.”
“And your sister?”
“Helen will stand by me until the bloody end, I think.
She loves Benvulin almost as much as I do. And she has nowhere else to go.”
“Rab . . .” Gazing at him, Livvy realized the seed of an idea had been germinating for weeks. “Is there any way you can hold out a bit longer?”
“I could sell some of the pictures, and the silver, I suppose, but if I do, there may be nothing else to keep us.”
“Do you trust me?”
He looked at her in surprise. “Of course. You’ve been a good friend these last few months, Livvy. If things were different . . .”
It was the first time either of them had spoken of what lay between them. She swallowed and glanced away.
Wishful thinking would get them nowhere, and she couldn’t let it distract her from what she could do.
She had money, left to her by her mother. It was hers to do with as she wished, but she knew Rab would never agree to take it if she told him what she meant to do.
“Rab, promise me you won’t take any action yet. Wait just a bit longer, even if it means selling a punch bowl or two.”
He smiled at that but quickly sobered, taking her shoulders in his hands. “Do you mean to work miracles, Livvy? I fear that’s not possible.”
“Wait and see,” she had told him, and slipped back to the party.
It had taken some maneuvering on her part to remove the money from the bank without Will’s or her father’s knowledge, but on the evening of the harvest-home given by one of the Laird of Grant’s tenants, she had pulled Rab aside and presented him with the banker’s draft.
He had looked up from the paper he held, his usually ruddy complexion gone pale with shock. “Livvy, you can’t be serious. I can’t take this.”
“You can,” she said earnestly. “It’s not for you, Rab, it’s for Benvulin. Consider it a loan. You can pay it back as soon as things improve.”
“I—”
“Don’t ye argue with me, Rab, my mind’s made up. It’s my money, and I want to help you. It will be our secret.”
And so it had remained, until now. Her father’s outrage had leapt from the page in the quick, bold strokes
of his handwriting. She had betrayed his trust, he said; she had compromised her family, and he meant to take steps to learn exactly what she had done
with the funds.
Livvy’s cheeks burned with humiliation. She very much feared that her father would have no trouble coaxing further indiscretions from the banker . . . and that meant she’d have to find some way to warn Rab before he faced the onslaught of her father’s wrath.
Gemma could think of no innocent reason why Tim Cavendish would have been in Aviemore over the weekend. Nor had she been able to offer much comfort to a stricken Hazel, who had at first insisted on flying back to London with Kincaid.
“There’s nothing you can do in London until we know more,” Gemma had told her. “At least here you can help Heather. I’ll come straight back from the airport, and Duncan will phone us as soon as he’s seen Tim.”
Hazel had seemed too shocked to offer much protest.
“Tim can’t have shot Donald,” she had whispered as they were leaving. “There must be some other explanation.
There must be.”
Now, as they passed the turnoff for Culloden Battle-field, Gemma said to Kincaid, “Do you suppose Ross is wrong about the gun, then?”
He looked up from the map he’d been studying and absently ran a hand through his hair. “Of course, it’s possible. But in that case, there’s no logical explanation I can see for John Innes’s gun ending up in the river. And how would Tim have laid hands on a gun? He’s not exactly the sporting type.”
“I’d never have imagined Tim Cavendish spying on Hazel, or lying about what he’d done, or refusing even to
speak to her. What’s one more improbable thing to add to the list?”
“But if Tim shot Donald, who poisoned Callum MacGillivray?” argued Kincaid. “We know Tim was in London yesterday. Are we looking at two different per-petrators, two unrelated crimes?”
Frowning, Gemma slowed for the exit onto the A, the route to the Highlands and Islands Airport east of Inverness. “I suppose it’s possible,” she said, echoing Kincaid’s earlier comment. “Could someone have been taking advantage of the suspicion Donald’s murder cast on John?”
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