‘I’m not sure why I brought it up,’ she said, closing the subject.
Chapter 2
Courage is the quality that guarantees all others
The police arrived five minutes later in a rickety car that looked as if it had seen better days. The women heard it before they saw it, the bell ringing intermittently as it approached. It pulled up in front of the drawing-room windows and Eleanor went to the door to let the men in. When she returned she placed the guard in front of the fire. Jinx got to his feet.
‘How do you feel about going to the kitchen?’ she said. ‘It’s not the form, but at least I could make us coffee.’
‘Thanks,’ said Mirabelle. ‘That would be nice.’
The coffee was strong and Eleanor found shortbread in the pantry. Mirabelle slid on to a bench that ran up one side of the scrubbed pine kitchen table. McGregor had mentioned this table – or at least the hearty bowls of broth that had been served there with thickly buttered bread at lunchtime, the stuff of childhood memory.
‘The police will want to speak to Tash, I imagine,’ Mirabelle said.
Eleanor slumped into a chair. ‘God.’
‘I wonder how she died.’ Mirabelle peered out of the kitchen window. She tried to figure out where the body was located. McGregor had not been clear about the layout of the house in his reminiscences. Through the glass she could see a kitchen garden, a stretch of lawn and, beyond that, more hills.
‘Perhaps she had a heart attack,’ Eleanor said.
‘Maybe,’ Mirabelle sounded doubtful. The prospect of natural causes hadn’t occurred to her. McGregor, she realised, was right about them needing a holiday. She sipped her coffee and the caffeine assailed her. Eleanor pushed the biscuits across the table. At length a policeman knocked on the door and put his head round.
‘Mrs Robertson and …’ his voice trailed into a silent question mark.
‘Miss Bevan,’ Mirabelle confirmed. The man took a note.
‘I just want to confirm. You got back from the railway station and entered through the front door. You haven’t been to the orangery?’
‘Is that where she is?’ Eleanor sounded horrified.
‘Yes.’
Mirabelle piped up. ‘Might I ask, officer, what you think happened to the poor woman?’
‘Oh it’s murder, miss. She’s been strangled.’
‘Murder?’ Eleanor put her hand to her mouth and Mirabelle noticed her perfect, white teeth digging into the flesh of her finger.
‘Yes, Mrs Robertson. The laird is there with the English policeman now. They’re talking to the sergeant. They all agree. It can’t be anything else.’
‘Superintendent McGregor is from Edinburgh,’ Mirabelle explained.
‘I see.’ The man looked at his notepad but didn’t write this down.
Mirabelle continued. ‘In answer to your question – we arrived from the station at around 11.30. We went directly into the drawing room. Mrs Robertson rang for coffee and when the girl came she told us that she and the housekeeper,’ here Mirabelle flicked her eyes towards Eleanor, who nodded, ‘had found the body and the other woman had gone to fetch the police. Superintendent McGregor insisted on seeing the scene of the crime. Mr Robertson then went to find Miss Orlova’s goddaughter. Mrs Robertson and I waited in the drawing room for a few minutes before coming here. Neither of us have seen the body. I have never met Miss Orlova.’
‘Thank you, miss. Most efficient.’
Mirabelle nodded. There was no point explaining how she knew what he needed.
‘And Mrs Robertson, when did you last see Miss Orlova?’
‘They came the night before last for dinner. We had beef en croute. There was a crowd of us. Neighbours and so forth.’
‘Did you see Miss Orlova yesterday at all? Or at any time since?’
Eleanor thought for a second. ‘No,’ she said.
The constable took a note. ‘You seem very self-possessed, ma’am.’
Eleanor became flustered. She half rose from her seat. ‘Well, it’s such a shock,’ she said. ‘I’m not sure what to do.’
Mirabelle was about to ask a question about the crime scene when there was the sound of steps approaching up the hallway and the policeman sprang out of the way to allow a tidy-looking older woman with a black coat and a felt hat pinned in place to come into the kitchen. Behind her a tall, dark-haired girl slipped into the room. She was swathed in a tartan woollen rug that kept falling off her shoulders.
‘Tash, darling.’ Eleanor got to her feet and threw her arms around the girl, who, Mirabelle noted, wore a glazed expression. Her cheeks were oily with tears as she nestled in Eleanor’s embrace, with her arms curled around her own body as if she was protecting herself. Meanwhile, the woman removed her hat and coat and went into the rear of the kitchen, reappearing as she tied on a well-starched linen apron.
‘Neil Gordon,’ she said. ‘Do you need a cup of tea?’
‘That would be very kind, Mrs Gillies,’ the policeman replied.
‘How many of you are there?’
‘Just me and the sergeant.’
‘Only two of you? One of the laird’s guests has been murdered.’
‘They’re sending more men from Inverness.’
‘I should hope so.’
‘If this is the lady’s goddaughter, I need to speak to her,’ the policeman said sheepishly.
The girl looked up as if his voice had come out of nowhere.
‘What’s wrong with you, man?’ Mrs Gillies snapped. ‘The bairn’s only just been told. Have you no decency?’
‘But …’ the policeman started. Mrs Gillies, however, cast him a glance that halted further dialogue. ‘I’ll bring a tray,’ she said.
The policeman hovered for a moment and then disappeared. The redoubtable Mrs Gillies straightened her apron and put the kettle on the range. The girl sank on to the bench along from Mirabelle. Her lashes were so long, Mirabelle wondered if they could possibly be real. Tash gasped – a tiny gasp like a baby who can’t quite catch its breath or an animal that has been hurt. She squinted and sniffed. Shock, Mirabelle diagnosed silently.
‘Tash, this is Mirabelle. She’s a cousin of Bruce’s by marriage,’ Eleanor said.
Mirabelle smiled. ‘Hello there. Actually, we’re not married yet, so I suppose I’m not really a cousin. I’m so sorry to meet you in these circumstances.’
The girl kept her eyes trained on the floor. She gulped in another breath, this time as if she had been half-drowned. More than anything, she reminded Mirabelle of bruised fruit. Mirabelle remembered that feeling – an ache and a numbness at once. Under the table, the poodle laid his head on the girl’s feet.
‘We’re going to look after you, sweetheart. Don’t worry,’ Eleanor said sagely. ‘Gillies will move your things up to the house, won’t you, Gillies, and we’ll make all the arrangements. You won’t have to do a thing.’
Tash made a keening sound and Eleanor put a comforting hand on her shoulder. ‘There,’ she said. ‘That’s right.’ As if making the child cry was some form of progress.
‘I’ll take you to your room, shall I, miss?’ Gillies cut in, her tone making it clear that there would be no further examination of anyone’s feelings. ‘I’ll fetch a brandy for the shock and then I expect it would be good if you could manage a nap.’
The girl nodded and got up, folding the tartan rug around herself as if it was armour. She was crying quietly now – quite a beauty, even in pale grief, as she shuffled out of the room behind Mrs Gillies like an obedient puppy.
‘I don’t mind helping,’ Eleanor said as she moved the kettle off the boil and poured the water into the teapot that Mrs Gillies had left warming on the side. ‘I mean, it’s all hands on deck at a time like this.’
‘Jinx is very good. Calm, I mean,’ Mirabelle said.
‘Oh he’s deaf, dear thing.’ Eleanor put her hand on the dog’s collar. ‘Aren’t you?’ she raised her voice. The dog didn’t move. ‘He’s a sweetheart and you�
�re right – very placid. I sometimes imagine what it must be like for him – living in absolute silence. I mean, he’s no idea what’s going on.’
Mirabelle sipped her coffee. She had wondered about Jinx the minute the policeman had intimated it was murder. Most dogs would have woken in the night if they had heard a tussle. Most would have barked at least.
‘Strangulation is a violent crime.’ She heard the sound of her own voice. She couldn’t help herself. ‘I mean, the constable said she’d been strangled – murdered. That suggests rage to me,’ she continued. ‘A fight.’
‘Rage?’
‘I mean, not cold-blooded. It’s a hands-on way to kill someone, not like shooting or poisoning. The victim dies in front of you. Comparatively, it takes a long time. They pass out quickly, but to kill someone you have to continue restricting their airflow. You have to really want them gone.’
Eleanor laid two mugs on a small tray, adding a jug of milk and a sugar bowl. ‘I suppose, as a policeman’s wife, you probably know a lot about this kind of thing. But if Nina’s dead, I don’t think we should dwell on it. What’s the point of worrying about whether it was poison or strangulation?’
Mirabelle held back from repeating that she and McGregor weren’t married. She wondered if Eleanor’s assumptions might mean she and McGregor would get to share a room. Then she chastised herself for thinking so selfishly at a time like this. ‘I’ll take in the tea if you like,’ she offered and, before Eleanor could object, she had picked up the tray and slipped out of the kitchen in the direction of the orangery or, at least, the direction in which the policeman had disappeared.
Eleanor, it seemed, had decorated the whole of this floor. Mirabelle passed through a day room freshly done in plummy, gothic tones with heavily fringed furnishings and dark family portraits in gilded frames. Beyond, the orangery glowed with light. It looked onto a garden and a small orchard of old fruit trees with lichen dotted over their gnarled branches. The sky was brightening now, the clouds blown away. A bank of wicker chairs with comfortable canvas cushions, festooned with fashionable, geometric designs in black, orange and khaki, lay between Mirabelle and the men crowded around the body of the woman on the tiled floor. Peroxide blonde, slim and dressed in a smart red tailored suit, she looked out of place in the surroundings – as if she had been overlaid on to the scene like some kind of strange découpage.
‘Mirabelle.’ McGregor stepped into her sight line.
‘Eleanor sent tea for the uniformed officers. Would you and Bruce like anything?’
Bruce had been crying. He shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I’m fine. Thank you.’
McGregor motioned to her, and Mirabelle laid the tray on a small wooden table beside a tropical plant with huge glossy leaves. ‘Nina’s goddaughter is here. The housekeeper took her upstairs to lie down. I think she hasn’t quite taken it in,’ she said.
‘She was a wonderful woman,’ Bruce cut in. ‘Seeing her like this is a travesty. She was so full of life.’
‘Perhaps, sir,’ the sergeant said, ‘you might like to join your wife. She must be shocked too. After all, Miss Orlova was a friend of hers.’
Bruce clearly hadn’t thought of this. ‘Oh yes,’ he said. ‘Are you all right here, old chap?’ he asked McGregor.
‘You never entirely get used to it,’ McGregor admitted. ‘But I’m fine.’
Bruce walked out of the room like a man in a trance. The policemen picked up their tea and moved off, discussing arrangements quietly as they gazed out of the long glass panes, glancing back now and again at the body.
Mirabelle peered. The woman had undoubtedly been beautiful. There was something of the film star about her, even in death. Her elegant legs were splayed in their heels, her lipstick still perfect, though she had clearly bitten her tongue during the death throes and her face was swollen. Mirabelle tried not to ask the question but she couldn’t help it. ‘Do you know what she was strangled with?’
McGregor indicated a slip of fabric, which had been folded into a square and placed on a side table. ‘Her scarf. It’s Italian – real silk. It was on the ground but the officer picked it up. Looks like she broke a nail as she struggled to get it off her neck.’
Mirabelle shuddered.
‘It’s rather macabre,’ McGregor admitted. ‘Sorry.’
Mirabelle ignored him. ‘But they can’t have known,’ she said, eyeing the scarf, which was embellished with a fashionable pattern of red roses.
‘Known?’
‘Yes, the murderer can’t have known she would wear a scarf. I mean, it can’t have been planned, can it?’
McGregor’s eyes widened. ‘You think it was a crime of passion? Spur of the moment?’
Mirabelle nodded.
‘I suppose,’ McGregor conceded. ‘Yes.’
Mirabelle peered through the doorway behind her. Bruce had gone. The policemen were on the other side of the orangery. She lowered her voice to a whisper. ‘It seems so intimate. You would need to be very close. You don’t think your cousin was involved?’ she asked as she thought of Bruce dashing the rock into the fox’s skull.
Alan laughed. ‘That’s a leap, Mirabelle. Bruce is a sentimental old fool but I think he adores his wife – are you postulating an affair gone wrong?’
Mirabelle considered this. ‘No,’ she said uncertainly. It worried her that she cared so much. Eleanor was lurking in the kitchen – you couldn’t have paid her to come into the orangery, and that, in truth, seemed more normal. But then Mirabelle had never been normal.
‘Well?’ McGregor was waiting.
Mirabelle shrugged. There was no point in taking the theory only halfway. ‘It’s just that there isn’t anybody here. Two house staff – both women a million miles away from this lady’s world. Her goddaughter, who reminds me of Bambi more than anything else – hardly a murderer. And Bruce and Eleanor. I suppose there might be a gardener or something. How close is the nearest house? And what on earth could the motive be? I mean, she’d only been here a week.’
McGregor’s eyes twinkled. ‘You just imagined a motive,’ he pointed out. ‘It wasn’t a very good one. Who knows what the woman was up to, in here, in the middle of the night? The police will have to investigate.’ McGregor folded his arms and then, realising that this conveyed his unwillingness to talk about the murder, he unfolded them. ‘Look, we’re on holiday. This isn’t our responsibility. I’ve secured the crime scene. I’ve talked to the officers and offered my professional opinion. The first thing they need to do is place everybody in the vicinity. And that’s what they’ll get on with, I imagine. Given you and I were on the overnight train, there’s no need for us to get involved. We’re supposed to be getting away, darling. Frankly, I could do with a proper drink.’ He checked his watch. ‘I wonder if Bruce might make an exception. It’s a little early for spirits.’ He got to his feet. ‘You’ll let me know time of death?’ he said to the sergeant.
‘Yes, sir. The doctor and the rest of the team will be here from Inverness in the next half an hour.’
McGregor guided Mirabelle into the hallway. He laid his hand casually in the small of her back. Through the open door to the kitchen, they could see Mrs Gillies slicing a cucumber with the efficient movement of a woman who did not appreciate her schedule being interrupted. At the table the maid, Susan, was sitting with a large handkerchief pressed against her mouth. She was heaving gulps of air through the cotton as tears ran down her pink cheeks. Mrs Gillies looked up. ‘They’re in the drawing room, sir,’ she said.
‘Mrs Gillies,’ Alan greeted her. ‘Nice to see you again. It’s been a long time. I’m sorry it has to be on such a difficult day.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Gillies said. ‘I understand congratulations are due.’
Mirabelle stepped through the threshold. ‘Excuse me, Mrs Gillies,’ she said brightly. ‘Might I ask a question?’
Gillies came to the end of the cucumber. ‘Sandwiches,’ she replied. ‘Instead of lunch. Mrs Robertson said to bring them to the drawi
ng room and you’d help yourselves.’
‘It wasn’t that. I just wondered why you didn’t ring the police? There is a telephone here, isn’t there? When he was arranging our trip, Mr McGregor rang his cousin several times. But you went down to the village to fetch the police officers. Is the line out?’
Susan stared at Mrs Gillies as if this named her the guilty party. The housekeeper remained completely calm. ‘I rang to the police station, miss, but there was no reply. Davina McCrossan’s baby is due and I thought the boys must be assisting. So I walked down to the village to report Miss Orlova’s death.’
‘Instead of ringing 999 and asking for another station?’
‘Mrs McCrossan is alive. Miss Orlova was not. Dialling 999 would not have changed matters.’ Gillies stared sternly. ‘There are only two policemen between here and Inverness on any number.’
‘And was Mrs McCrossan in labour?’ Mirabelle was not deterred.
‘Andrew and Neil – that is the constable and the sergeant – were busy with another matter when I got down.’
‘Really?’ The village, Mirabelle realised, sounded like a hotbed of crises. ‘What were they doing?’
‘One of the dogs had injured a sheep. They were seeing to it.’
‘Seeing to it?’
‘Shooting it, miss. Or making sure that the farmer did.’
McGregor cut in, pulling Mirabelle by the arm. ‘Thank you, Mrs Gillies. Ham, is it?’
‘We have ham and cheese, sir. And I thought I’d make some with cucumber in case anybody was feeling delicate.’
‘Marvellous,’ he said.
‘Well, somebody had to ask,’ Mirabelle spat in her defence as he guided her down the hall, his hand firmly on her arm. ‘It didn’t make sense.’
‘And you thought that old woman was somehow involved?’ McGregor kept his voice to a whisper. ‘She’s in with the bricks, Mirabelle. She’s worked here since I was a child.’
‘Someone here did it,’ Mirabelle hissed. ‘You said it yourself – we need to figure out everybody’s whereabouts.’
‘The police do. The boys in blue.’
[Mirabelle Bevan 08] - Highland Fling Page 3