Scarlet Wakefield 02 - Kisses and Lies

by Lauren Henderson

  “What is it?” she gasps, swinging one leg off the bike, snapping off it, and propping it up against the wall of the stables in a single practiced movement.

  I hand her my transcription.

  “I copied it from the entail,” I explain.

  “What does it say?”

  “You read it and see what you think. I want to make sure I’ve got it right.”

  It doesn’t take Taylor that long to absorb its significance. She has a brain like a steel trap.

  “Oh my God,” she says, raising her head from the paper. “This is horrible.”

  I nod bleakly.

  “If there were male heirs, but they die before they’re eighteen, a daughter can inherit,” I say. “It’s a loophole, really. And then it goes down through her kids, but they have to take the surname McAndrew. So there’s always a McAndrew at Castle Airlie,” I add, remembering my conversation with Mr. McAndrew in the dungeons.

  “So a daughter can’t inherit otherwise?”

  I shake my head. “I checked the rest of the entail. It looked like the estate just gets passed down through the male line, to the next male relative. That means her kids couldn’t inherit either.”

  “Sexist,” Taylor says angrily. “Isn’t Catriona the oldest kid?”

  “Yes.”

  “So it should be her who inherits!”

  I shake my head. “It skips over her and goes to the boys.”

  “Unless they die before they attain their majority,” Taylor says, reading from the paper. “I wonder why they put that in the entail?”

  “Maybe, when they drew it up, there were sons but they were all sickly,” I suggest, having had some time to think this over. “You know, likely to die young. There was lots of infant mortality in those days—I think more children died young than made it to adulthood. And they were frightened that there wouldn’t be anyone in their family to inherit the castle. So they wanted to make sure that if the sons all died young, it would go to one of their sisters, rather than going out of the immediate family to a distant cousin.”

  “It’s as good a theory as any,” Taylor says, shrugging. “So where’s Callum?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well, we have to find him.” It’s the first time I’ve ever heard a note of panic in Taylor’s voice. “It’s his birthday day after tomorrow, right?”

  “Yeah, but how can I confront him and tell him what we think? I’ve got no proof! I can’t just start throwing accusations around. And if no one believes me, it could be really dangerous.”

  Taylor’s face falls. “You’re right.”

  “I think I know a way. Plus this, of course.” I tap the piece of paper. “Yesterday evening, I rang Nadia.”

  “You did what?”

  “I wanted to find out who was at the party when Dan died.”

  Taylor shrugs. “So? She couldn’t have seen everyone.”

  She waves the paper at me.

  “They’ve got security cameras in the hallway at Nadia’s place,” I say. “Upstairs, just outside the lift.”

  Taylor immediately gets it.

  “You think they save it all?”

  “It’s a computer feed. The security guy archives it and backs it up. Apparently they keep it for a year. They’ve got tons of insurance, and Nadia’s parents are really paranoid. That’s what she told me. Also, she said they think it means she can’t bring boys back, because they’d see.”

  “Well, that’s pretty dumb,” Taylor comments.

  “Exactly. She just goes to the boys’ places instead. But anyway, she said she’d look at the backups and let me know if anyone shows up from the photos I sent her.”

  “What photos?”

  I wiggle my phone at her. “I took photos of everyone. Smart or what?”

  “Good thinking,” Taylor says respectfully. “Did you tell her we’d delete that video of her puking?”

  Now it’s my turn to shrug. “What’s the point? She wouldn’t believe us. No one trusts anyone. Basically, until she gets something on me or you, we’ve got the advantage. We can make Nadia do us favors, as long as we don’t push it.”

  “We’d better just make sure she doesn’t get something on us,” Taylor says grimly.

  I grimace. It isn’t a pleasant thought.

  “You ring her now,” I instruct Taylor. “Tell her to get on with it, if she hasn’t done it already.”

  “Me?” She stares at me. “What about you? What are you going to be doing?”

  “I’m going back into the castle,” I say. “I’ve got an idea about something I might find in Catriona’s room.”

  “Be careful, Scarlett,” Taylor warns. “Dan’s already been killed, and you’ve been shot at. This is getting beyond dangerous.”

  She’s right.

  But the deed of trust isn’t enough. It’s only motive—it isn’t proof.

  And proof is what we desperately need right now.

  twenty-one

  “PUT THE GUN DOWN”

  I sneak back into Castle Airlie through the door to the larder and up the back stairs. I can hear Moira in the kitchen clattering pans around, but I manage to avoid her, and the back stairs are carpeted with an old drugget that muffles my footsteps. I reach the second floor without bumping into anyone, and gingerly push open the baize-covered door that leads onto the main corridor.

  It creaks open gently, and I slip through it, easing it back into place. Still there’s no one about: the house feels eerily deserted. I nip down the corridor to the far end, where Catriona’s room is situated. Several knocks on the door, and no answer. I turn the handle and walk in, not wanting to call Catriona’s name in case she’s nearby and I alert her attention.

  She’s not there. I close the door quietly and dash across the room, throwing open Catriona’s huge antique wardrobe, which is almost as big as my whole room back at Aunt Gwen’s. She showed me its contents briefly yesterday evening, but I didn’t get a close look at anything, just enough to admire the shoe racks built on one side, the long clothes rails, and the shelves on the other side with handbags and other accessories neatly arranged. Catriona actually doesn’t have that many things, not like Lucy, who I bet has brimming drawers and cupboards stuffed full with designer gear. So it’s easy to find what I’m looking for on the handbag shelves.

  There it is: a Marc Jacobs bag, chestnut, leather, with a big limited-edition buckle with MJ on it, barrel-shaped, with two big side straps. I pull it out and rummage inside. I wasn’t really expecting to find Dan’s EpiPen inside it, and of course, it’s not there. But there’s other stuff. A lipstick. Some mint breath fresheners. One broken earring. A small folded London A–Z map. A postcard from someone called Fitz, sent from holiday in Sardinia. A paperback book called The Fountainhead, with a folded piece of paper serving as a bookmark. I open the book and pull out the paper, just to be thorough. On it is written:

  Cat——want this bag? That bitch Plum just bought it too. I’ve only had it two weeks! God, I hate her! Keep it if you want or just give it to the charity shop in Airlie, I don’t care. So pissed off. Luce x x

  I turn the paper over. It’s a receipt for a facial, and the salon where Lucy had it done has written in the date of her treatment. I do a lightning-quick calculation: almost a month before Dan’s death. I can’t imagine Lucy keeps old receipts for any length of time—she’d just chuck them out rather than have them cluttering up her pockets. So she must have written this note shortly after the date on the receipt. Which means she gave the bag to Catriona weeks before the night of Nadia’s party.

  I reconstruct the chronology. Lucy bought the bag, and doubtless showed it round to everyone she knew, excited about having the very latest, limited-edition, featured-in-all-the-magazines It-bag. Lizzie would certainly have noticed instantly that Lucy was the owner of the newest Marc Jacobs, even without being told: Lizzie has an encyclopedic memory for fashion trivia.

  But then Plum managed to secure one too, and that made Lucy so angry that she gav
e the bag to Catriona rather than have the same one as Plum. (Lucy, I note in passing, must be absolutely loaded—because that bag must have cost a fortune, and if it was barely used, she could have sold it on eBay and got back most of what she paid for it.)

  So, on the night of Nadia’s party, the bag was in Catriona’s possession.

  I turn the bag over and examine it. It’s a dark chestnut, glossy and polished, its flap decorated with gold studs. There are studs underneath, as well, so it doesn’t get dirty when you put it down: the studs touch whatever surface you put it on, not the leather. So the underside is smooth and unstained.

  But I can’t say the same for the back of the bag. You have to look closely to see it, because the stain is small and faint and not much darker than the brown color of the leather, but it’s definitely there. It’s seeped into the leather enough that I don’t think it would be possible to get it out now. I put my fingers inside and probe the lining of the bag. It’s a pale beige material, but when I work my hand down to the place where the outer leather is stained, and pull out the lining, I can see that there’s a much bigger stain on it. It looks greasy. There’s some white residue around it, as if someone’s unsuccessfully tried to clean it. I put my nose to it and sniff, but there’s no smell. I didn’t really expect one from six months ago, but I thought I should try anyway.

  Grease. Oil. Peanut oil. I think about the bottle of peanut oil I found hidden in a cupboard, tucked away behind the bar at Nadia’s flat. Someone brought in that bottle of peanut oil, so they could poison the crisps they hoped Dan would eat. And they left the bottle in the cupboard, because they couldn’t risk the oil being found in their possession in case their plan went wrong. I stretch out the mouth of the Marc Jacobs bag, confirming that, as I thought, there’s plenty of room to put a bottle of peanut oil inside. And if it were to have tipped over in the bag, and the plastic seal wasn’t perfect, it might have leaked a little from its neck, and some oil might have seeped out. Enough to stain the lining, and to leak through and stain the leather, too. Proof, if someone analyzes this stain, that peanut oil was carried in this handbag.

  I wonder whether whoever brought in that bottle of peanut oil wiped it clean afterward. At the time I thought they must have. But it would still be worth checking, if the police will take this seriously. And maybe, now that I’m accumulating all this evidence, they will. . . .

  Just then I hear a noise outside in the corridor, and I jump about a foot in the air with shock. Slipping the bag back onto the shelf, I close the door, shoving the note into my jeans pocket. I look round me frantically for somewhere to hide. Next to the wardrobe is the door to Catriona’s study: I slip in there, leaving the door open a crack, and put my eye to it.

  The bedroom door opens, and someone comes in. Oh God, it’s Catriona! I back away from the door, wondering if I’ll be able to hide behind it if she comes into her study, hoping she isn’t going to stay in her room for long. . . . Then I notice that her walk seems oddly wobbly. She crosses the room to the window, and as she turns to look out of it, I realize to my great relief that it’s not Catriona after all. It’s Mrs. McAndrew, back from church. They’re so alike—the red hair, the slim build—but it’s creepy to see what you think is a twenty-year-old and then notice all the lines and wrinkles on her face, like a horror movie where someone ages before your eyes.

  “Catriona?” she says, but not as if she’s expecting to find her daughter here. It’s like she’s asking a question to which she already knows the answer.

  There’s that same oddness in her voice that I noticed before, out on the drawbridge. Now, without her husband offering her his arm, she wobbles and grabs on to the window curtain to catch herself.

  Oh my God. I think Mrs. McAndrew is drunk.

  “Catriona,” she says again, and then she starts crying.

  I duck my head. The sight of her grief is too much for me. Has inviting me here to Castle Airlie tipped Mrs. McAndrew over the edge? I feel incredibly guilty. I want to go up to her and give her a hug, let her cry on my shoulder, but the shock of me appearing in what she thinks is an empty room might make things even worse. I’m probably the last person she wants to see, anyway. I’m a walking reminder of how her son died—in mysterious circumstances that must make it even harder for her to bear.

  Though if Taylor and I are right in our theory of who killed Dan, and why, probably the only thing worse for Mrs. McAndrew than his death remaining a mystery would be for her to learn the truth behind it. . . .

  I hear movement, and look back through the partly opened door into the bedroom. Mrs. McAndrew’s making her way back across the room, stumbling as she goes. She stops in front of the door to the corridor and pulls something out of her pocket.

  It’s a hip flask.

  She takes a swig from it, wipes her lips, and sighs in satisfaction, slipping the flask back into her trouser pocket again. When she leaves the room, she’s actually walking better, as if whatever she drank has picked her up.

  This is really, really sad.

  I wait several minutes before easing the door open. Mrs. McAndrew is nowhere in sight. I dash down the main staircase, too impatient to double back to the servants’ stairs, running down it two, three steps at a time. Finding that bag in Catriona’s wardrobe has convinced me more than ever that Callum may be in danger right now. Only, because of the weird layout of Castle Airlie, I end up having to run around two sides of the castle in order to get to the kitchen. I should have taken the back stairs after all.

  I’m breathing fast as I burst into the kitchen.

  “Moira, have you seen Callum anywhere?” I demand.

  Moira looks up at me, startled.

  “Scarlett! What are you in such a hurry for, hen?” she asks. “Hold on—I’m just getting the last of this cake batter in the tin.”

  She’s holding a big china bowl, tilting it over a metal cake tin with one hand, scraping it with a spatula with the other.

  “Chocolate and raspberry,” she says. “Master Callum’s favorite.”

  “I need to find him,” I say urgently. “Do you know where he is?”

  “He took a gun out after breakfast,” Moira says, opening the iron door of the huge Aga oven. A great rush of heat pours out, but Moira is completely unfazed. She slides in the cake tin and clangs the heavy iron door shut again. “Said he wanted to do some clay-pigeon shooting.”

  “Where would he go if he wanted to do that?”

  Moira raises her eyebrows, hearing the hurry in my voice. But she doesn’t ask what’s going on, just nods to the kitchen door, saying:

  “Out there, turn left, and walk along the cliff. You’ll see the ruins ahead, where the old castle was. The clay-pigeon range’s in front of the old ruined tower. You cannae miss it.”

  “Thanks, Moira,” I say, and run for the door.

  I’ve never been so glad in my life that I’m fit. I sprint across the concrete bridge and by the time I hit the cliff path I’m running—not a jog, a full-out run. It’s further than I thought, but I keep up my pace, fast and steady. I’d hear my even, panting breathing if it weren’t for the sounds of the waves breaking against the cliff below and the cries of the seagulls circling above my head, or swooping and diving for fish. I can’t hear anything but the sea and the birds, not even the sound of a shotgun firing.

  Which doesn’t, of course, mean anything at all.

  Eventually I see the first sign of the ruined castle: gray stone, half hidden by a huge oak tree. It’s a tower, as Moira said, and it’s so striking that I stare at it, forgetting to watch my step. I trip over a stone in the path and nearly go flying. I save myself with a huge, awkward jump, landing with both feet.

  I stand and survey the tower. I’m almost under it now. And it’s more than a tower, actually: there’s a lot of the old castle that surrounded it remaining, though in a sad condition. Weeds are growing up between the stones, and it looks as if the oak tree is growing much too close to the tower for safety, because one of its branc
hes seems to have grown through one of the walls.

  I walk, slower, round the tower, looking up at the existing walls of the old castle. I’m searching for the clay-pigeon range, but before I find it, I hear a shot. From above me.

  Birds fly up from where they’ve been hidden in the oak tree, shrieking to one another, their wings flapping loudly.

  And my phone buzzes in my pocket. I have an incoming message.

  From Taylor.

  WHERE R U?

  I text back frantically, my fingers shaking from nerves:

  TRYING 2 FIND CALLUM

  Taylor texts back almost immediately:

  N MATCHED PIC FROM SECURITY CAM SENDING NOW

  I put the phone on Silent. I’m circling the walls now, looking for the way up into the tower. Finally, a gap in the wall. I dash through it and find myself in a grassy open area which must once have been the main hall of the castle, because still here are the stumps of wide stone pillars, wide enough to hold up a big vaulted ceiling.

  And straight ahead of me is the base of the tower.

  My phone vibrates against my hip bone. I drag it out and stab a button to see my incoming message. The window opens.

  I stare, horrified, at the photo in front of me.

  It’s Moira, smiling at me above the stack of dishes she’s carrying.

  Moira’s face showed up on Nadia’s security cameras.

  Moira was at the party when Dan died.

  So how does Catriona fit into this? Maybe Callum isn’t in danger at all. Or is Moira trying to kill Callum too so that Catriona can inherit?

  I turn to dash back to Castle Airlie.

  And then another shot rings out, high up in the tower. It can’t be Moira up there—no way could she have got here before me, not with me running full-out.

  I hesitate. It could be Callum up above, taking aim at birds. There’s a perfectly innocent explanation for those shots. And as long as Callum and Moira don’t meet up, nothing bad can happen. I’ve got to get back to the castle.