“No. Especially now that I’ve read through these.” Cameron indicated the stack of reports. “You’re wanting to know what’s here, are you now?”
“Yes, please,” she said, trying to look as guileless as possible.
Judging by the glint in his eye, Cameron wasn’t fooled. But he wasn’t put off, either. Getting personal was not on the agenda. “You mind the clothes I was showing you? The shirts, the coats, the skirts and blouses were clean. But the forensics chaps found the same tweed threads, several more hairs, and muckle twine fibers on one of the kilts.”
“Rick’s.”
“No. Walsh’s”
“What? Toby really did kill George?” Jean shook her head, as though the negative motion would make the facts change themselves around.
“I doubt he was acting on MacSorley’s orders, just as he was acting on Mrs. MacSorley’s orders when he burgled the house.”
“But breaking and entering is a far cry from murdering someone who helped out your family. Someone you liked.”
“It is that, aye.”
“Dammit, Toby’s just too—too easy to pick on. Too cheap.”
“That he is. But how else are you explaining the forensics?”
Jean could only shrug. She could have used one of those perceptual machetes.
“There’s one thing,” Cameron went on. “Lovelace’s right jaw was bruised a bit, as though the killer bashed him one with his fist. Probably not hard enough to knock him out . . .”
“. . . but enough to make him woozy, so he wouldn’t fight back. That fine old man. . . .” She let her voice run down. Nothing she could say now would change anything.
Was that a gleam of sympathy in Cameron’s eye or a twinge of pain? “The killer might could be left-handed. You’ve had more chance to take note of such things than I’ve done.”
“Oh. Well.” Jean raised her own hands, looking from the one to the other, visualizing everyone’s gestures. “Kieran lighting his cigarette—yeah, he’s right-handed. Charlotte pouring the tea, ditto. Vanessa fluffed up her hair and poured drinks. She’s right-handed too. Rick was eating his dinner with his fork in his right hand.”
“That’s American fashion.”
“But left-handed Americans usually hold their forks in their left hands, just tines up instead of down, like y’all do.”
“Ah. I see.”
“Toby was stirring the soup with his right hand. And. . . .” Jean frowned, seeing Fiona’s smooth white hand, the one with the wedding ring, stroking Clarinda’s fur. “Fiona’s left-handed. But you knew that.”
His eyebrows rose a millimeter. “Can’t say as I’ve . . . oh aye, you’re right, I mind her signing her statement.”
Men, Jean thought unfairly. Never notice anything. “That covers it, except for Neil. And he. . . . Oh. He was waxing Rick’s car. He’s left-handed, too, it’s just that everyone plays the pipes right-handed, because of the design. But he couldn’t have killed George, I heard him playing the entire time I was in the sitting room. I saw him walking around.”
Cameron’s brows were still off kilter, now indicating less puzzlement than thought processes at full-throttle. Like his were ever anything less, Fiona’s handedness to the contrary. “How’s this for you?” he asked. “Do you mind Hawley’s car accident?”
“We were wondering if it really was an accident.”
“One of the rocks from the MacSorleys’ garden was found to have brake fluid on it. What if immediately after the accident MacSorley backed the car up to its usual parking place, drained the brake fluid, then bashed in the line?”
“So it would look like the fluid drained out by itself overnight. And then he rolled the car back down to the end of the drive and stopped it with the emergency brake, as though Charlotte had used the emergency brake when she almost hit the other car.”
“And all the while Norman’s drowning.”
“Kieran thought Norman was a threat to the scam, because he’d overheard some important conversation with George.”
“True enough, but I’m thinking something else just now.”
“That Kieran and Charlotte took advantage of the accident to throw suspicion on Toby, being nothing if not opportunists. Because they wanted to protect Rick, do you think?”
“Or perhaps it was Neil who needs protecting.”
Jean folded her arms defensively. Neil? He had a heck of a surface gloss, that was for sure, but that didn’t mean he was rotten beneath. It didn’t mean he wasn’t, either. “You’re right,” she said with a sigh. “It could go either way.”
“I’m not saying you didn’t hear what you heard,” Cameron said, spreading his hands placatingly. “I’m just . . .”
“. . . brainstorming. I know. Besides, if you’ve got the goods on Toby, there’s no reason to try and break Neil’s alibi.”
“Walsh has the means and the opportunity, if not exactly a motive.”
“Maybe you can prove that Kieran manipulated him into murdering George the way he manipulated George into forging the papers.”
“Chance would be a fine thing.” Cameron pressed his fingertips into his brow ridge, as though his brain was swelling and he was trying to push it back into his skull.
“Besides, under Scottish law you need two independent streams of evidence before you can bring anyone to trial, don’t you?”
“Corroborative evidence, aye. Even Toby’s kilt’s not enough. As yet.”
“Yeah.” Jean felt a brief twinge in her left temple—his headache was catching. The breathless, stuffy feeling in her chest might be from the metallic odor in the small room, or might be a reaction to the electrical buzz in the larger one. Maybe she was merely anticipating Rick’s dinner party.
Cameron looked up, one corner of his mouth tucked in, probably indicating frustration. “It’s almost time for the dinner. We’d better be putting on our glad rags.”
“I’ll see you in a little while then.” Jean headed back up the stairs to her room, informing herself that the weight in her chest wasn’t anticipation but dread. No, she didn’t want to play the decoy. But Cameron would be at the dinner, too. That thought was so reassuring it set her teeth on edge.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Jean checked herself over in the mirror. The only pair of black shoes she had with her owed more to comfort than to style, her long, straight skirt was soft denim, and her white blouse was utilitarian. But the tartan sash, draped from her left shoulder around her opposite hip and caught back at the shoulder with a breathtaking Celtic-design brooch, was indisputably posh.
Her face was flushed, she saw, and her eyes dazed. She’d blend right in with the other inmates.
She shooed Clarinda into the hall and locked her door. Walking down the hall wasn’t so bad—the skirt had a deep enough slit in the back she could almost take her full stride. But descending the staircase meant clinging to the banister with one hand and raising the skirt with the other. Not that fashion and comfort had ever coincided. At least Rick didn’t want her to wear the hoop skirts of Charlie’s day, so voluminous that one Jacobite woman hid her lover beneath them when the redcoats came to arrest him.
The dining room was perfumed by vases of flowers, most of them white like Charlie’s cockade, although a few blue ones alluded to the blue and white of Scotland’s flag. The colors complemented the MacLyon tartan runner stretching the length of the table atop a dazzling white linen cloth.
Crystal, china, and silver place settings were equally dazzling. Antique candlesticks repeated the intricate curves of the chandelier. Fiona, wearing a skirt of bright red and green Royal Stewart that was no doubt Rick’s idea, was just lighting the candles. “Good evening,” she said as calmly as though she’d been sitting zazen all day—until the match she was holding singed her fingertips and with an abrupt gesture she shook it out. Even Fiona, then, wasn’t immune to the tension in the air, a faint squeal like the whine of a fluorescent light that had Jean clenching her jaw. Contents under pressure.
The door opened. Kieran ushered Charlotte inside. Jean quailed at the sight of his knobby knees below the hem of his kilt. Even so, there was something about a kilt that caused even a dinosaur to look dignified, although in Kieran’s case the black vest, jacket, and bow tie made him look like a dignified butler. If only he’d lose the aftershave.
Charlotte’s long kilted skirt and lace blouse might as well have the price tags on the outside. She looked Jean up and down, smiled her best Lady Gracious smile, and said, “Now that you know Rick’s little secret, I’m sure you and dear Miranda will write a lovely article. Despite his eccentricities, Rick’s risen above his upbringing and done so much for the community.”
“You should write an article about Rick’s philanthropic work,” said Kieran, his tone of voice as peremptory as Clarinda’s meow.
The MacSorleys had to know the jig was up on their Jacobite scam. They were trying to rescue something from the wreckage. No way would Jean let them make her part of the salvage operation. Smiling back, she said, “I’m sure Miranda and I can come up with something.”
Cameron stepped through the door. The MacSorleys vanished from Jean’s vision as though they’d burst like bubbles. A good thing her face was already flushed, because she could feel even more heat mounting into it.
There was something about a kilt that made even an ordinary man devastatingly handsome. The jacket and tie, the kilt in the dark red Cameron sett, the tall socks, fit his body to a tee. Firm, straight legs, broad shoulders, one strong hand still on the doorknob, the other resting on a modest leather sporran. Grave and yet keen expression on a face carved in fine-grained basalt. Eyes a quicksilver blue, like a loch beneath a clear sky. . . . His eyes were lit with a subtle amusement. He knew Jean was impressed.
He should be embarrassed by his vanity. Sending for his own kilt had not been doing things properly, it had been getting in touch with his inner peacock. She strolled away, remembering at the last second to take smaller steps. The kilt was no big deal, she told herself sternly. Unlike, say, jeans and a T-shirt, a kilt flattered every variation of masculine shape. Cameron was heavier and more solidly built than Neil, who with all his airs and graces was still heavier than bird-boned Rick. Neil was also the tallest of the men, having an inch or two even on his father. Toby was about Rick’s height but had a linebacker’s body—and he looked good in a kilt, too.
From outside came the first peal of pipe music. A flash of tartan behind the hedge became Neil, pacing up and down in the waning sunlight, his shadow keeping step and his kilt swinging fetchingly. Tonight, he, too, was in Royal Stewart. He would be handsome wearing a gunny sack, but as far as Jean was concerned, he was no longer a menu option.
A sudden pop made her spin around. Fiona had opened a bottle of champagne and was pouring it, frothing, into crystal flutes. Kieran picked up two and handed one to Charlotte. She regarded Cameron with the strained smile of someone who smells a fart. Cameron looked up at the picture of Charlie and Flora, eyes slightly crossed.
The door crashed open. Ah, the main characters, Rick and Vanessa. They made a grand entrance to the strains of “Scotland the Brave,” Neil having nothing if not good timing.
Rick looked feverish, although he might simply be hot from the weight of the cloth and the knickknacks in the same over-the-top outfit he’d worn Friday morning. One slender hand was knotted on the hilt of his dirk, the other held Vanessa’s in the air with a “now presenting Miss America” gesture.
Her black velvet skirt and vest, lace blouse, and MacLyon sash looked dull and plain next to Rick’s splendor. Except for the glistening stones in her brooch, which Jean bet her next paycheck were genuine diamonds.
“Welcome,” proclaimed Rick. “How good to see all of you on this important occasion, the beginning of a new era for Scotland.”
Fiona handed Jean a glass of champagne. It was so light she almost fumbled it. She’d have to ask Miranda what brand of crystal was spun from wind and sea-foam.
“To the royal house of Stuart!” declaimed Rick, and swigged.
Jean took only a sip—now, if ever, she needed a clear head. The bubbles tickled her tongue, seeming to evaporate before they ever reached her throat. From the corner of her eye she saw Cameron swallow, then nod approvingly. Either he was also concealing a palate beneath his crust, or she’d noted a bit of poseur in his personality. . . . She really needed to stop paying so much attention to the man.
Jean was seated on Rick’s right, next to Kieran, while Cameron was on Vanessa’s right. This left Jean with a view of Charlotte across the table, who, judging by her lemon-sucking expression, was not at all amused by the interlopers getting the seats of honor.
Vanessa gestured as though throwing coins to the peasantry. Fiona opened the kitchen door and said, “You may serve now.” A parade of white-coated servitors began offering soup. Prawn bisque, Jean saw, and took one ladle-full. The bread was brown soda with spinach and raisin.
Rick picked up his spoon, set it down again, and launched into a monologue about Charlie, charisma, and Stuart absolutism, which in his view—ignorance apparently being a valid viewpoint—became benevolence, tolerance, and the wellspring of democratic principle. Kieran and Charlotte threw in the occasional flattery. Vanessa looked either morose or resigned. She was no idiot. She knew it was over. The Titanic was sinking, no matter how hard they all tried to ignore the icy water washing across the carpet. But then, maybe Vanessa had intended all along to sink Rick’s ship.
The second course was salmon salad with red peppers and artichokes. Very good, yes, but Jean couldn’t force more than a few bites past the knot in her esophagus. It was her brain that was working overtime. She was squeezing it like Neil squeezed the bag of his pipes, although he was producing music and she was producing static.
Neil. A good-looking self-centered kid. A fine musician. Not a murderer, no. Drat Cameron, for planting that idea in her mind.
He sat scooping his food onto the back of his fork with his knife in good British fashion, eating some of everything, all of nothing. Self-disciplined? Repressed? Not nerveless. By the set of his shoulders beneath the epaulettes of his jacket she could tell he was ready to spring from the chair or dive under the table, whatever was required by. . . . By what?
Rick groped in his sporran, pulled out his cell phone, squinted at its tiny screen, and set it down on the table. A waiter whisked away his untouched plate.
Fiona opened two bottles of red wine. Italian, of the sort Charlie had drowned his sorrows in. Jean accepted another air-spun glass and again only sipped. Even so every object in the room, the candles, the gilded frames of the paintings, the silky petals of the flowers, seemed oddly distinct, fraught with significance. The pipe music resonated in her teeth and down her spine. Now was the time for the ghost of Archie MacSorley to walk through the room, like Banquo’s ghost walking through the dining hall in Macbeth. But the moment was as much Alice in Wonderland as Shakespeare.
A hand set another plate in front of her. Haggis slices, sautéed in a batter light as tempura, served with horseradish sauce on a pedestal of turnips roasted to a caramel brown and frilled with mashed potato. Robert Burns would never have recognized his humble haggis, neeps, and tatties, the food of people who had to make do with what they could get.
“. . .and the loyalty of his people,” Rick was saying. “There was a price of thirty thousand pounds on Prince Charles’ head, a fortune, but no, none of his loyal subjects ever turned him in.”
Not that quite a few of his disgusted would-be subjects wouldn’t have wanted to. They just couldn’t catch him. Jean tasted the haggis. Its cloying but meaty flavor was mitigated by its accompaniments.
“His loyal subjects turned out to help him, passing him from hand to hand. . . .”
Like a hot potato. Jean caught a gleam from Cameron’s eye and ignored it.
“. . . including the lovely Flora,” Rick said, gesturing toward the painting with his fork. “A MacDonald, as is my wife.”
&n
bsp; Vanessa smiled with her red lips only, not her eyes.
“Prince Charles,” said Kieran, “was betrayed by the disloyal, cheated out of his inheritance.”
Charlotte nodded. “People of quality always have to guard against that stab in the back from the envious.”
“No matter how threadbare and dirty Charles was,” Rick said, “everyone still remarked on his bearing, his majesty. Blood will tell.”
Yeah, right, Jean repeated wearily to herself. It was Rick’s mantras that were getting threadbare.
The servitors were doling out dessert, stemmed glasses heaped with beige clouds. Jean licked a curl from the end of her spoon. Atholl Brose—oatmeal, honey, cream, and whiskey. Her stomach felt as tight as a snare drum, beating out the pulse of the music and of her heart as well.
Outside, in the gloaming, Neil played “Lord Lovat’s Lament.” Rick scooped his hair back from his glistening forehead and talked on, faster and faster, leaving out words and running the others together. “. . . Charlie—such courage—a prince living under such conditions. . . .”
Better than being executed in as gruesome a fashion as the English could devise. Although if he had turned himself in, would the English have gone on rooting out what to them was a rebellion and sowing salt in its ruins?
What would have happened if George had turned himself in? He’d still be alive, for one thing.
Vanessa held out her glass and Fiona refilled it. Kieran and Charlotte ate with tiny, genteel bites. Cameron ate half his Atholl Brose and started sculpting the rest, hand steady, face set in neutral. But Jean could almost see each tendril of his hair standing up alert as antenna, taking in every nuance of his surroundings. He probably never relaxed, even off-duty. . . . He was still on duty, wasn’t he? He didn’t think he had the murderer. He’d said himself, the evidence of the kilt wasn’t enough.
And suddenly she wondered, how did the police lab know that the incriminating kilt was Toby’s, when they all looked alike? Was it simply Toby’s kilt because it was in the bag labeled with Toby’s name? What if the kilt with the threads and the hair and the fibers was actually Rick’s?
The Secret Portrait (A Jean Fairbairn/Alasdair Cameron mystery Book 1) Page 30