Callum had told her he’d seen Louise from a distance on Sunday morning, walking across the river meadow with a shotgun. He hadn’t thought she’d seen him, but he had begun to wonder when she’d come calling on Sunday afternoon.
Gemma remembered Louise making an excuse to go out, shortly after the police had finished their interviews that day. And then yesterday, when Louise had been out gathering boughs, had she slipped into Callum’s cottage with Pascal’s tablets? It was Louise who did the rooms in the B&B, Louise who would naturally have seen the bottle of painkillers, Louise who could have pocketed it so easily.
Drops of rain began to spatter against the windscreen, and Gemma slowed, swearing. Rain after a dry spell always made driving conditions particularly hazardous, and she couldn’t afford an accident. Moving over into the center lane, she resumed her musing.
Louise, then, had had the means and the opportunity, but why would she have shot Donald Brodie? And where
did Tim Cavendish come into it? Reaching for her phone, she speed dialed Kincaid, but the call went directly to voice mail. He was probably still in the air, she thought, glancing at the dashboard clock, but he should be landing soon. She hung up without leaving a message; she would talk to Ross first.
But if Louise had used the shotgun, why had residue not shown up in the swab results? It took more than scrubbing with soap and water to remove nitrate traces.
An image came back to her—Louise arranging the boughs she had cut, her hands scratched and dirty, a nail broken. She’d guessed Louise normally wore gloves when she gardened, but what if Louise had been wearing her gloves when she fired the gun, and they had protected her hands? She could have found some way to dispose of the gloves, but then she wouldn’t have wanted to call attention to their absence by getting a new pair.
Was there any physical evidence to support Callum’s statement? Callum could be easily discredited in court, given his demonstrated grudge against Donald over Alison Grant. Without motive or forensics evidence, the case would be difficult to prove. Nor did it help to go into an interrogation blind, without some idea of the reason behind the crime.
If anyone might understand Louise’s motives, Gemma realized as she exited the motorway, it was Hazel.
The rain stopped, then started again, drumming against the windscreen in volleys. As Gemma turned into Benvulin’s drive, she saw a figure sprint from the house to the distillery office. The woman was recognizable even at a distance, in the rain, by the fall of long, dark hair.
Gemma parked the car, grabbed her anorak from the backseat, and held it over her head as she ran for the office herself. The temperature had plunged in the half hour
since she’d left Inverness, and a biting wind plucked at her clothes.
She found Heather already at her desk, the phone to her ear. When Heather looked up at her entrance and covered the mouthpiece, Gemma said softly, “Hazel? Is she still in the house?”
Heather shook her head, frowning. “No. She left a few minutes ago.”
“Left?” Gemma repeated blankly. What could have possessed Hazel to leave without news of Tim?
“She borrowed my car. She said she wanted to go to Carnmore. I think it was—” Heather’s attention shifted back to the phone. “Yes, I’m still holding,” she said into the mouthpiece, then covered it again as she looked back up at Gemma. “I’m sorry, Gemma. I’ve got to take this call. It’s the chairman of the board.”
Gemma was debating whether to wait for her to finish her call or to go on to the Inneses’, when Heather added, “Oh, by the way, Louise rang a few minutes ago.
She was looking for Hazel as well.”
Chapter Twenty
Fair the fall of songs
When the singer sings them.
Still they are caroled and said—
On wings they are carried—
After the singer is dead
And the maker buried.
—robert louis stevenson,
“Bright Is the Ring of Words”
From the Diary of Helen Brodie, Benvulin, March
Today, Benvulin shipped the first of many casks of our best aged whisky to the Aberdeen grocers. I have labored over the winter to keep the distillery running until this contract could be brought to fruition, and now we can only hope that this sale stimulates interest from other blenders.
None of this, however, would have been possible without the mysterious infusion of funds into our bank account. Livvy Urquhart has never admitted to the gift, and her father, when I called upon him in Grantown, avowed he must have been
mistaken. So I have incurred an unacknowledged debt that I cannot repay, and if Rab’s children have an inheritance, they will owe it to the Urquharts.
Margaret has not returned from London, even to visit the children. I will keep them here and raise them with the care I would give my own.
The thaws came early this spring, with much rain. No amount of searching, however, among the moors and tracks, has turned up any sign of my brother. I would have been content with even a button from his coat, so that I could set my mind to rest.
Benvulin, May
As the months pass without word or sign of my dear brother’s body, the doubt has grown in my heart like a cancer. What if, I ask myself, Rab did visit Carnmore on that fateful day, and some misadven-ture befell him there?
I called on Olivia Grant once again, and spoke to her like a sister. Still she denied me most force-fully, saying that Rab never came to Carnmore. But there is a change in her since the autumn, a new grimness in her countenance, a hardness to her manner. I took my leave as firmly, saying I meant to pursue the matter.
But what, in truth, can I do? I have the word of a shopkeeper in Tomintoul who thought he glimpsed my brother, cloaked and hatted, riding through the village—nothing more. What authority would give credence to such a tale told by a grieving sister?
Do I owe the survival of everything my brother
held most dear to a woman responsible for his death? Such a terrible irony seems more than I can bear. For if our life here at Benvulin has gone on as before, the light has gone from mine.
I will not forget what we owe the Urquharts, nor will I allow those who come after me to do so.
As Hazel drove, the last entries in Helen Brodie’s journal kept repeating in her head. As the road snaked over the tops of the moors, she glimpsed the snow markers and shuddered. Rab Brodie could very easily have been lost as a blizzard swept over the hills, and if so, it was highly unlikely his remains would have been found in this vast, trackless expanse of heather and bracken. His sister’s affection for him had made her imagine things, and Hazel understood the need to lay blame for the death of someone so loved.
And yet . . . the images from her dreams clung, insinuating themselves into Helen’s story like wraiths. Blood and whisky . . . a violent death at Carnmore. Will Urquhart had been her grandfather, Olivia Urquhart her great-grandmother. Was it possible that her dreams were somehow a reflection of Livvy’s experience, a translated snippet of consciousness?
She shook her head. That was nonsense, even more daft than Helen Brodie’s suspicions. And yet . . . the Brodies had taken Rab’s death at Carnmore for fact—that much was obvious. Helen had passed the story, and her diaries, to Rab’s children, and so it had come down the generations.
Donald had known it, that much was clear—perhaps not when he had first fallen in love with her, but later, after his father’s death. Was that why he had left the interest in Benvulin to her? To settle a debt? As a mark of
forgiveness for the sins her family had committed? Or both? Had he meant to tell her? She would never know.
But what she did know was that she couldn’t let it rest.
She had to go back to Carnmore, where it had all begun.
Carnmore, November
“Rab, you mustn’t stay!” Having seen him ride into the yard and dismount, Livvy had flown out of the house and clutched at the sleeve of his coat.
“Livvy, I got your note. Tell me what’s happened.”
Livvy looked round wildly; the yard was empty, but it wouldn’t remain so for long. “You must go, please, before someone tells Will—”
“Will? Livvy, I’ve ridden all the way from Benvulin in a lather. I am not leaving until you tell me what’s wrong.
If this is about your father, surely we can work something out—”
“No, it’s more than that.” Realizing that Rab wasn’t going to budge, Livvy took the horse’s bridle and began urging the beast towards the back of the warehouse. The wind that had blown from the east throughout the day had died, and the peat smoke from the kilns rose to meet the bank of cloud hovering over the hilltops. “Come this way, then. We can talk in the warehouse.” Will was over-seeing a distillation run and should be occupied in the still-house for a while longer.
Livvy tethered the horse to a stunted rowan and led Rab into the warehouse through the back door. The angels’ share hung heavily in the still, cold air. She turned to him, breathing hard, her back against a rank of casks. “Father told Will, and Will—I’d no idea he would mind so much. He’s furious with me, and with you. It’s as if he’s held back everything since his father’s death, and now—”
“Livvy, I can pay back the money, with interest, in the spring. Surely, I can make him see reason.”
“No, Rab, I don’t want you to try.” The truth was that her sweet and biddable child had become a man, a stranger, and she had seen something in his eyes that frightened her. “Just give me time, I’ll talk to him, and my father. This was my idea; I won’t have them blame you.”
Rab grasped her shoulders, as he had the night of the harvest-home, and she felt a shuddering ache run through her body. “Dear God, Livvy, I’ve never seen you like this. You are so beautiful I can hardly bear it.” He plunged a hand into her hair, and she felt it tumble loose, cascading down her back. “Have you any idea how much I want you? There must be a way—”
“Rab, no.” She twisted in his grip, panic warring with desire. “We can’t— You’re married, and I—if Will—”
“You’re a grown woman, Livvy. You can choose what you want.”
“But I can’t, Rab,” she whispered. “I’ve seen that.” Yet she had stopped struggling, and when his lips came down on hers, she returned the kiss fiercely. She was lost, and she knew it. Her body had no defense against him.
“You bastard.” Will’s voice cut through the haze of her need like ice.
Rab let her go, and stepped away.
Will stood in the doorway, his eyes lit with a cold fury.
“First you cheat my mother out of her money, then you try to seduce her. Or have you already?” He came towards them, fists clenched.
“Will, be sensible,” Rab said easily, but Livvy felt him tense. “You don’t want to insult your mother—”
“Me? Insult my mother?” Will’s voice rose and cracked. “How dare you suggest it, when you’ve made a mockery of her, and of me, and of my father’s memory—”
“Will, your father has nothing to do with this. Your father wouldn’t have wanted to see another distillery fail—”
“You think my father would have wanted to see another man with his wife? You think my father wouldn’t have wanted me to defend his honor?” Will was within striking distance now, his fists raised.
“I think your father wouldn’t have wanted you to get hurt, Will.” Rab rocked forward on his toes. “I outweigh you by a good three stone. You’re going to regret it if I hit you.”
“Stop it, both of you,” shouted Livvy, but it was too late. Will’s right hand had flashed out in a blur of motion. Blood streamed from Rab’s nose, and then they were grappling and shoving, grunting with effort.
Livvy tried to pull Will away, but he flung her off into the dirt. Rab got in a punch that grazed Will’s head, but not even his weight and experience seemed a match for Will’s anger. They came together again, in a parody of an embrace, and for a moment Rab had Will pinned against the casks. Then Will twisted free, quick as a cat, and Rab spun with him. Will staggered back, then catapulted himself forward, stiff-armed, and gave Rab a shove that had all his weight behind it.
Rab fell, hard, into the casks, and Livvy heard the crack of bone against wood. Will was still on him, pum-meling wildly with his fists as Rab slumped to the floor.
“Will, stop!” screamed Livvy, clawing at him. “He’s hurt, Will.” At last she got her arms round her son’s waist and pulled him away. Only then did Will seem to realize that the other man wasn’t hitting back.
The smell of whisky filled the air, burning Livvy’s throat. The bung of the cask where Rab had hit his head had come loose, and whisky dripped to the floor.
She looked down at Rab Brodie’s crumpled form with
growing horror. Livvy’s mother had died in her arms, as had her baby daughter, and her husband. She knew the face of death when she saw it. Still, she knelt beside him, shaking him, sobbing as she stroked his cheek. There was no response.
“Dear God, Will, you’ve killed him,” she whispered, her voice cracking.
Will sank to his knees, as if his legs had suddenly refused to support him. “No. He can’t be. I’ll get help. The men are gone—I sent them home early, with the weather closing in, but I can go to the village—”
“Will, no.” Livvy felt an icy calm envelop her. She had lost everything that mattered to her, except her son. She would not lose him, too.
“There’s no help for him now,” she said. “We’ve no proof that this was an accident. Helen Brodie has powerful friends. I won’t have you go to prison.”
“Prison? But I never meant—”
“What you meant doesn’t matter now. If I hadn’t—”
She shook her head hopelessly. “Will, this is going to be between you and me, our secret. I won’t have you suffer for what I’ve done.”
“But we can’t—”
“We can. We’ll bury him here, beneath the casks. No one will ever know.”
But she would. She would carry Rab’s death with her like a mark, and for her, there would be no forgiveness on either side of the grave.
The confines of the old warehouse were dim, and several degrees colder than the outside air. Although it was not quite noon, the sky had darkened ominously.
Hazel stood, letting her eyes adjust to the light, looking round the cavernous empty space. The ranks of casks
that had filled it in her childhood were long gone, but for an instant, she thought she caught the faint scent of whisky. Had the angels’ share leached into the stone itself, a permanent reminder of the past?
No, she told herself, it was just her imagination, as were these dreams. But here the images seemed stronger, and if she closed her eyes she could almost hear their voices. Olivia and Will Urquhart, Rab Brodie.
She could put names to them now, if not faces.
Suddenly, she remembered a recurring childhood terror. There had been a spot in the warehouse, halfway down the left-hand side, that had always inexplicably frightened her. Had there been a reason for her fear?
With a swift decision, she left the warehouse and walked across the nettle-studded yard to the old barn. She dug around in a jumble of rusty tools, brushing cobwebs from her face, until she found an ancient spade. The wood of the handle was cracked, the head slightly loose, but it would have to do.
Going back to the warehouse, she stood in the doorway, closing her eyes again, deliberately placing herself within the dream perspective. Sweat broke out under her arms, on her forehead, as she felt again the panic of her dream.
She walked forward, slowly, twenty paces, then stepped to the left. The casks had stood here; the earth was packed as hard as concrete. When she jabbed the tip of the spade into the ground, the shock reverberated up her arms. But she swung again, and again, her face set in determination, until her hair was damp with sweat and her hands were numb.
She knew this ground; she knew there was only a shallow layer
of topsoil over rock. If they had buried Rab Brodie here, they had not buried him deep. She dug on, beginning to wonder if she was mad.
Hazel had almost given up when her spade struck something more yielding. Dropping to her knees, she scrabbled in the dirt with her bare hands. There—she brushed away another layer of soil, more gently this time, except that it didn’t feel like soil. It crumbled in her fingers . . . was it peat? Beneath that, she felt something pliable, a leaf—no, it was cloth, a heavy cloth . . .
wool . . . a man’s coat, perhaps? The fragile scrap seemed to disintegrate even as she touched it, revealing the dark knob of a stick—no, it was bone, bone stained with the rich, deep brown of peat.
Hazel snatched her hand back and clapped it to her mouth, stifling a moan. She hadn’t believed it, even as she dug, not really, but now the grief in the dream came back to her as if it were her own.
Her eyes swam with tears and she began to weep, short, hiccoughing sobs that grew stronger until they wrenched at her chest. Was she crying for Livvy Urquhart and Rab Brodie, or for her grandfather, Will . . . or for Donald . . . and Tim . . . and herself?
The spasms began to ease and she sat back, sniffing.
She would have to tell someone—it was past time Rab Brodie’s death came to light.
The light voice came from behind her, making her heart jolt in surprise. “Hazel? What on earth are you doing?”
Hazel stood and squinted at the small form silhouetted in the doorway. “Louise? What are you doing here?”
“I came to see you.” Louise came forward until Hazel could see her more clearly. “You know, we really haven’t had any time alone together for a chat since you’ve come.”
“Has something happened? Is it Tim? Or John? Have they arrested John?”
“No. I don’t think they will arrest John,” said Louise, and there was a note in her voice Hazel couldn’t identify.
“What are you doing?” she added, coming close enough to peer down into Hazel’s small trench. “You’ve been digging.”
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