A Step So Grave

by Catriona McPherson

  ‘I’ve been talking about the fact that your son thinks it was you,’ he said. ‘Mitten believes you killed Lavinia.’

  ‘Why on earth would I have done that?’

  ‘Why on earth would Biddy?’ I countered.

  Tibball gave a yearning sort of look at Alec’s breast pocket but, when the flask reappeared, he shook his head. ‘I’ll be tipsy before the first champagne cork pops,’ he said. ‘Why would Biddy kill Lady Love? Where do I start? How far back do I need to go?’

  ‘They’re best friends!’ Alec said. ‘Lifelong chums. Aren’t they?’

  It was one of those moments when I loved him most. Such innocence and optimism about his fellow man. Or rather, and this was very much to the point, woman.

  ‘Lifelong chums who started more or less as equals,’ said Tibball. ‘Of course, Applecross was always more ancient and romantic than Biddy’s family place at the Shieldaig. But it was two gentlemen with two estates and two daughters who went to dancing classes together, fell off their first ponies together and were bridesmaids at one another’s weddings. Biddy left home after we married, of course, and LL stayed, but otherwise they were on – what do you call it – parallel paths. There was a time, even, when Biddy looked to be doing a little better, if one was in the mood to call it a competition. We had a son to carry on the family name and Lady Love and Lachlan produced only daughters. Then our fortunes began to diverge, is the best way to put it. And here we are. Still chums, and related of course, by the marriage of our boy to their girl. Perfectly happy. At least, I’m perfectly happy. And Biddy is a good, loyal friend and a good, loyal wife.’

  He nodded as if satisfied with his account of the lives of the Dunnochs and Tibballs. If we had not been trying to account for one murdering another, that would have been marvellous. As it was, someone needed to nudge him on to the next chapter. It was my turn, Alec told me with a glare.

  ‘But something went wrong?’ I said. ‘To upset the …’ Apple cart was too close to a pun for this solemn matter.

  ‘Something went wrong,’ Tibball agreed. ‘Something in LL’s head went badly wrong.’

  ‘But if she did any of the reckless things she talked about,’ said Alec. ‘Selling the house and giving away the land. Even if she and Lord Ross moved to the manse and did not need a nurse and a helper any more, your son wouldn’t turn you out. I don’t quite see the problem.’

  ‘It was nothing to do with keeping a roof over our heads,’ Tibball said. ‘We are fine on that score. Although, I must say it’s nice to be in the big house rather than in that bloody hut that passes for a cottage. Lachlan likes the company, you see. And Cherry is useless anywhere except a sheep dip, so Biddy is essential to keep the house ticking over.’

  We waited.

  ‘I don’t suppose there’s any chance you could just forget all about this, is there?’ he said. ‘Or even just forget about it until after the party? Poor Mallory. She deserves one night before the horror comes crashing down on her, doesn’t she?’

  We waited again.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ said Tibball. ‘Silly of me. Oh Lord, it’s just all so very exhausting to think of what’s ahead of us. Not to mention painful. But very well. Biddy found something out, you see. Lachlan told her something. Something he should either have told her long ago or taken to his grave.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Those are often the two best options and yet people so very regularly plump for a third one.’

  ‘Which is what happened here. A secret kept and kept until life relies on its keeping, like some ancient wisteria holding a house up. Then for some silly reason the gardener decides to prune the thing and crash. Roof falls in, walls crumble to nothing, family of six trapped inside as dead as doornails.’

  ‘What was the secret?’ Alec said.

  ‘Simply this. Biddy found out that Lachlan loved her all those years ago when she was a girl. He loved her and Lady Love knew it, but she wanted a title and some money and had an estate to offer in return and she stole him away.’

  ‘Phew,’ said Alec. ‘That most definitely should have been kept for ever. Why on earth would Lachlan suddenly tell Biddy after all these years?’

  Tibball shook his head. ‘I don’t know, but Biddy saw red. She said to me she went out for a walk and thought about the night that Lady Love and Lachlan met. It was at Biddy’s dance in London, the season they both came out. She’d met Lachlan a few times before, of course, but he was playing his cards very close to his chest and she had no idea that he cared for her. She saw him dancing with Lady Love and thought they made a handsome pair. The next day – the very next day! – at a luncheon, LL introduced Biddy to me. She said to me Biddy had pestered her. And she said to Biddy that I had clamoured to be presented.’

  ‘But did you never compare notes after you were married?’ I said.

  ‘Of course! On our honeymoon. How we laughed. We thought she was matchmaking and we were glad she had. But really what she was doing was taking Biddy off the market so Lachlan was fair game, you see?’

  ‘But haven’t you been happy?’ I said. ‘You seem happy.’

  ‘We’ve been happy enough,’ said Tibball. ‘I mean, yes of course we’ve been happy. But the thing is, well, Shieldaig – Biddy’s father’s place, you know – is long gone. Sold up and turned over to sheep. They took the roof off the house to avoid the death tax when Biddy’s father went. And Lachlan’s money – if Lachlan had married the girl of his choice – would have kept the place afloat. Shieldaig would be thriving and Applecross just a memory. And then Lachlan wouldn’t have gone out to save the Applecross gardener’s son, because Biddy and he would have lived at his place. Lachlan might have been in a different regiment altogether. I wouldn’t have had anything to do with the Highlanders and I wouldn’t be living out my days with this wretched shell shock always waiting under the next bridge to leap out and drag me down.’

  It was a horrible image and if accurate, my sympathy for Dickie Tibball would be increased markedly.

  ‘But that’s a fool’s game,’ Alec said, with somewhat less pity than I was feeling. ‘I mean, who knows what would have happened to any of you if Lachlan had married Biddy. She might have died in childbirth, you might have been crippled on the battlefield. Lachlan … well, all right, it is hard to imagine many things worse than twenty years in a bath chair and burnt hands but he might have been blown to bits in a different battle altogether. Anything might have happened.’

  ‘I know, I know,’ Tibball said. ‘But that’s where all the silliness about the monks and crofters comes in. That LL was willing to steal a man to keep the estate and then a few short years later – speaking in terms of how long A’ Chomraich has been in existence, I mean – she’s changed her mind and wants the place broken up? It’s the caprice, you see. It’s worth scheming for and then the wind changes and she’s ready to let it all go.’

  ‘So Biddy and she argued,’ I said. ‘When?’

  Tibball gave me a sudden sharp look and seemed almost pleased.

  ‘Exactly,’ he said. ‘The night before her birthday. It was the night before. You see? It wasn’t the day she was found. It was the night before. No one else could have killed her so early and hidden it so long.’

  ‘What makes the task easier for Biddy than for anyone else?’ Alec said. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘I asked Mrs McReadie how she found out that LL wanted dinner on a tray the night before,’ Dickie said. ‘And she gave me a long, silent, staring look and said, “A note on her door, sir, like always”.’ I nodded. Inspector Hutcheson had surmised as much.

  ‘Notes!’ Dickie repeated, with a fervour that was lost on me until he continued: ‘I was terrified Mrs McReadie would know why I was asking. That she’d realise only Biddy could get away with it.’

  ‘The handwriting!’ I said. ‘The dame school! Miss Whatsername?’

  ‘Miss Alva,’ said Tibball. ‘We used to laugh about it. Lachlan and me. I can’t imagine ever laughing again now.’

>   ‘So, you’re saying only Biddy could have faked up notes about dinner and breakfast and managed to cloud the time of death?’ Tibball nodded. ‘But there was another social fixture beyond meals,’ I went on. ‘Mallory told us earlier today that Mitten cancelled the plans to go to the church. You don’t think he knew what his mother had done, do you?’

  ‘Not a chance,’ said Tibball. ‘No.’

  ‘So do you think the reason he gave is true: that Cherry – in her condition – shouldn’t be out in the snow on a cold dark night?’

  ‘Cherry?’ said Tibball, and despite his claim that his laughing days were over he gave a hearty chuckle. ‘She’s out in the potato field today with Mitten egging her on,’ he said. ‘In her condition! Nonsense.’

  I stared at him. Something was bothering me. Those words were acting on my memory like a tuning fork, setting me thrumming. But what was it? ‘So why then?’ I said.

  ‘Didn’t you ask him?’ said Tibball. ‘When you were getting Mitten to reveal that he thinks his father is a murderer, didn’t you ask him why he cancelled the church plan? And why on earth was that, anyway? What made the boy think I was the one?’

  ‘He found her necklet in your pocket when he was helping you undress.’

  Tibball gasped. ‘Good God!’ he said. ‘Oh Lord! I completely forgot! I picked it up. I picked it up and put it in my pocket and I absolutely utterly and completely forgot from that moment to this!’

  If he was acting then it was the best act I had ever seen, including West End plays and the talkies.

  ‘Picked it up where?’ I asked.

  ‘On the path,’ said Tibball. ‘When I was following Biddy. After that ungodly scream, we went out of the library doors – poor Lach was stuck there – and Biddy was running hell for leather. She tripped and put a hand out. I thought she was going to go head over heels but she righted herself and kept moving. I glanced down to see what had tripped her and it was one of those bally woollen necklets we all had to wear. I picked it up and shoved it in my pocket to save anyone else getting tangled in it and then I went to see what was amiss wherever Biddy was. She was yelling by then. Well, not so much yelling as sobbing. Good heavens, and so Mitten found it in my pocket, did he?’ He thought for a moment. ‘How did it come to be on the path though?’

  ‘I wonder if Biddy dropped it as she ran,’ Alec said.

  ‘Maybe LL dropped it there on her way to the dovecote,’ Tibball said. ‘Before she died.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ I said. ‘Mitten told us it had blood on it.’ I was thinking furiously. If someone had dragged Lady Love’s body feet first, her woollen necklet might well have come off and it might well have got bloody, but if she was dragged at all it was from the potting shed side, where the arbours would hide the marks from anyone who looked out of a window. Then a thought struck me.

  ‘This has been troubling me even though it was buried so deep I couldn’t have told you it was there,’ I said. It was a sensation familiar to Alec and me from cases of old but I wondered if it would sound like nonsense to Dickie Tibball.

  ‘Like the pea under twenty feather beds,’ he said.

  ‘Exactly! Ross told us about the unearthly scream. You were in the library and the windows were shut, isn’t that right?’

  ‘But they are French windows,’ Tibball said.

  I shushed him. ‘The scream came from the dovecote, did it not? And you were in the house and heard it. And you say that Biddy was in the lead, running, and you followed her?’

  Alec gave a low whistle.

  ‘What? What?’ said Tibball. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘How did she know where to go?’ Alec said. ‘A scream from outside, from round the corner of the house, heard through the closed windows. There is no way Biddy would know to run to the knot in the middle of the dovecote unless she already knew what she’d find there.’

  16

  I will never quite understand how he persuaded us to let the engagement party go ahead as planned. To be sure, if Biddy Tibball was the murderer then my worries about Mallory joining my family were somewhat allayed. Her sister’s mother-in-law hanged for murder was much better than her father, her sister or herself. I thought the Gilvers could probably weather a scandal at that remove. And I did so want to let her have her happy moment. The poor child had earned it, after all those months keeping Mitten’s secret and aching for her family, not to mention mourning her mother. My mother was an irritating woman: she landed me with the name Dandelion for one thing and she ruined a perfectly nice house with a lot of pale paint and pre-Raphaelite pictures. Still, when she died, it took me a few months to stop suddenly bursting out into fits of weeping and a few years to stop suddenly feeling sad whenever I remembered her. A woman like Lady Love plucked away from her daughter by violent means when the girl still lived at home must have left even more furious storms of weeping and bouts of sadness behind her.

  So we set off back to Applecross House ready to drink cocktails, dance reels and toast the happy couple and it was just as well, for the house had gathered the momentum of the party and was skidding downhill towards it unstoppably. The maids who Mrs McReadie was so keen to stress did not live in the house had arrived from the village by the handful. They were not dressed in black, but in whatever dresses they happened to be wearing, although they had crisp white pinnies on top and someone had persuaded them to put little hats on too. A trio of them was busy carrying bud vases of flowers across the hall when we entered, presumably for supper tables.

  ‘Lamb ma,’ one of them called out to us.

  ‘Good afternoon,’ I hazarded.

  ‘Are you here for the celebration?’ said another. ‘And come in time for a wee ceilidh to yourselves. See and get in the library there. See, listen?’

  Indeed, when I cocked an ear I could hear strains of fiddle music through the library door. Once again, it seemed, the guests had landed hours early and were making themselves at home.

  ‘No, Mornie,’ said another, digging her compatriot in the ribs with an elbow. ‘This here’s not guests. This here’s Donald’s mother and her man.’

  I could not be bothered to correct her, so I simply nodded and smiled.

  ‘A fine boy you’ve had there,’ said Mornie, giving it rather an agricultural ring, to my ears. ‘And thanks be to you taking our Mallory away to safety. Thanks be.’

  ‘Safety,’ Alec repeated.

  ‘Thanks be,’ the other woman chimed in and then they all bustled off with the little vases clinking in their hands. It was a cheerful sound but it did not drive away the chill I felt.

  ‘Ignore them, Dan,’ Alec said softly. He had seen my shudder. ‘How many times have we been embroiled in cases with ghosts and goblins coming down every chimney? And every time the answer to our question is a plain ordinary fact of human failing.’

  I thought he was overstating it just a little, for there have been many odd little queries I have been forced to walk away from, leaving them unresolved. Instead of answering, I drew him towards the flower room.

  ‘I want to check what we’ve been told about these garden diaries,’ I said.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because,’ I answered, lifting one of the gilt-stamped volumes from a shelf, ‘it was the middle of February.’ I flicked through the pages of the book I was holding and nodded. ‘She started a new diary each year on the first day of January and wrote through until the thirty-first of December.’

  ‘I see,’ Alec said. It is one of my very favourite things about him that he always does see. ‘So she packed a heavy book full of blank pages.’

  ‘Don’t you find that odd?’

  ‘Very. I wish we knew where her belongings had got to.’

  ‘Do you suppose anyone searched?’ Alec said. ‘Who shall we ask?’

  ‘Grant,’ I said.

  ‘Grant,’ I said, entering my bedroom. ‘Those bags you were pretending to look for. Lady Ross’s luggage. Has anyone actually been looking?’

  Grant ha
d the grace to blush. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Lord Ross had the beaters out all over the estate as soon as the weather cleared after Valentine’s Day and Mrs McReadie ransacked the house and turned up nothing. I apologise for my little white lie earlier, madam.’

  I barely heard her, because I had just seen what was laid out on my bed.

  ‘No,’ I said, pointing and then folding my arms.

  ‘Oh come now, madam,’ Grant said. ‘Simply because you are about to be a mother-in-law and – if we are lucky – a grandmother very soon, is no reason to give up.’

  ‘Nice try,’ I said. ‘I see through you as easily as I see through that.’ I snatched up the dress she had draped over my counterpane and held it up to the window. The light shone through the diaphanous silk so clearly that we could see the transoms. ‘It’s obscene!’ I said.

  ‘It’s got an underskirt,’ said Grant.

  ‘And it’s not just the fact that one could … what’s that marvellous phrase?’

  ‘I have no idea what you mean,’ Grant lied.

  ‘You “could spit peas through it”,’ I said, in triumph. It was one of my laundrymaid’s sayings, most usually employed in relation to linens worn thin from use but just as apposite to this ludicrous garment that started life thin by design. ‘And what’s this?’ I said, flicking one of the enormous shoulder ruffles so that it danced up and down like a can-can petticoat.

  ‘It’s this year’s silhouette,’ said Grant. ‘Shoulders are back.’

  ‘But how is one supposed to walk?’ I demanded, for the skirt portion dwindled from hip to knee before bursting into another explosion of ruffles.

  ‘Elegantly,’ said Grant. ‘“One” is supposed to float. “One” is not supposed to march about like a soldier on parade. It’s called a “mermaid hem”.’

  ‘Hmph,’ I said. ‘Mermaids are, after all, noted for their walking. I refuse to have anything to do with it. What else have you brought?’

  Grant stuck her chin in the air and said nothing.

  ‘This better be a joke,’ I told her.

  ‘I have no idea what you mean,’ she said, but the spots of colour on her cheeks said otherwise. Grant used to buy startling garments and try to persuade me to take them to parties. Then she bought them and started packing them when we went away to parties. She would hang them on the back of the wardrobe door and nag me while I dressed in my respectable frock. Recently, she had taken to laying out the backless wonders, the Turkish pants, the Chinese cheongsams, and only very begrudgingly letting me see the alternative once I had made a fuss. If she had finally taken the last step, if she had not brought anything else for me to wear, tonight of all nights, then she was going to be in a great deal of very hot water.