[Mirabelle Bevan 08] - Highland Fling

by Sara Sheridan

*

  Eleanor and Bruce were seated on either side of the fire. Jinx had settled at Bruce’s feet and appeared to have gone to sleep. Bruce nursed a glass of whisky. Eleanor was staring blankly into the flames. The burning peat, with which Bruce had stoked the fire, reminded Mirabelle of the smell of Laphroaig.

  ‘Help yourself,’ Bruce nodded to Alan, motioning in the direction of the drinks tray as they came in.

  ‘Mirabelle?’ McGregor offered.

  ‘I won’t. Thank you.’

  ‘Nasty business. I can’t imagine who would want to hurt Nina.’ Bruce’s voice sounded hollow.

  ‘We need to focus on her goddaughter now. God, poor Tash,’ Eleanor said. She reached over to a side table and languidly removed a cigarette from a silver box, lighting it with a spill directly from the fire. ‘That was your instinct, Bruce. And that’s what we ought to do. I guess we should call somebody.’

  ‘Do you know if she had relations?’ McGregor asked.

  Eleanor glanced apologetically in Mirabelle’s direction, as if mentioning a lack of relations was some kind of dig. ‘Smoke?’ she offered. Mirabelle shook her head.

  Eleanor continued. ‘We were more acquaintances than friends. I think she had a brother. I know who to ring, though – friend of a friend. It’s almost time to get up in New York. What were you two whispering about in the hallway?’ Her eyes twinkled with curiosity. ‘Lovers’ tiff?’

  ‘I asked Mrs Gillies why she hadn’t used the telephone to call the police,’ Mirabelle said.

  Bruce sat forward in his seat. ‘That’s a good point.’

  ‘Alan didn’t want me to bring it up,’ Mirabelle admitted.

  ‘It’s so unpleasant, isn’t it? All this.’ Eleanor drew deeply on her cigarette. ‘We just need to get through it.’

  ‘What did old Gillies say?’ Bruce asked.

  ‘She said she rang but nobody picked up. Somebody is expecting a baby and she thought the police must be helping with the birth.’

  ‘Martin and Davina McCrossan’s first child. It’s late,’ Eleanor said. ‘They run the bar in the village.’

  ‘As a result, Gillies didn’t ring 999. She said she didn’t want to distract the police from the living towards the dead and decided to walk to the village herself to make the report.’

  Mrs Gillies cleared her throat as she appeared in the doorway with a tray that contained a tidily organised platter of sandwiches and another pot of coffee. She laid it on the side and began to unload the contents on to a satinwood table behind one of the sofas.

  Bruce got to his feet. ‘I’ll find us a bottle of wine, shall I?’

  ‘Miss Orlova had been dead for a while, madam, since you’re discussing the matter,’ Mrs Gillies said, and Mirabelle shifted uncomfortably at having been overheard.

  Eleanor blew out a cloud of smoke. ‘Really, Gillies? How on earth do you know?’

  ‘It was before your time, Mrs Robertson, but I was a nurse during the Great War. As a girl.’

  ‘Gosh. I had no idea. At the front?’

  The housekeeper’s gaze fell coldly on Mirabelle. ‘Near the front, ma’am. In Serbia. Miss Orlova died, by my estimation, early this morning. Certainly well after midnight and before breakfast. I was also able to determine that she had been garrotted. Strangled, that is. With a ligature. I saw the marks when I examined the body.’

  ‘He used her scarf,’ said Bruce. ‘The police found it. On the ground beside her.’

  Gillies didn’t speak for a moment, as if she was scanning the crime scene in her memory. ‘I didn’t notice that, sir. I simply examined the body.’

  ‘Did you allow for the temperature in the orangery, Mrs Gillies, given the glass?’ Alan asked.

  ‘I did, sir. You’re right. It’s colder by a degree or two – more at night, though we keep the electric stove on for the plants. It takes the edge off.’ Gillies turned to Eleanor. ‘I gave Susan the afternoon off, ma’am. She is shaken.’

  ‘Of course. Yes.’ Eleanor stubbed out her cigarette and picked up a sandwich. She extracted the ham and offered it to Jinx, who snapped it up eagerly. ‘It feels like an age since breakfast,’ she said.

  ‘We only had a cup of tea on the train,’ McGregor admitted. ‘Both of us slept in.’

  Eleanor smiled indulgently. ‘Honeymooners,’ she said as Bruce arrived with a bottle of red wine.

  Behind him, Mrs Gillies disappeared out of the door as he poured four glasses. Mirabelle relented from asking more questions and helped herself to a cheese sandwich. It tasted good. Gillies had taken the trouble to add chives to the butter. Mirabelle was hungry. The steak and mushrooms in the dining car had been quite some time ago. She took another sandwich as the enamel and ormolu clock on the mantelpiece struck the half-hour. One thirty.

  ‘This wine’s Italian,’ Bruce announced. ‘Dad used to only buy French for the cellar, but I’ve taken to investing in Italian wine and Spanish sherries. Some people won’t buy from places that fought alongside the other chaps – but I think some of these vintages are terribly good.’ He handed Mirabelle a glass. To say it tasted like nectar would be only a slight overstatement. She wondered if it was the fresh air that had given her such an appetite. It seemed impossible that only earlier this morning Alan and Eleanor had stood on the summit of the hill and screamed into the wind.

  ‘The Spanish were neutral,’ she said. ‘In the war.’

  Bruce smiled. ‘Yes,’ he replied, raising a fist to reinforce his point. ‘But the French were on our side. I suppose that’s their reasoning. People are funny, aren’t they? I was down in London last year and drinking vodka these days is practically seen as treason because of the Ruskies.’

  ‘This is delicious, Bruce.’ McGregor smacked his lips.

  ‘We don’t do too badly,’ Bruce grinned.

  ‘I never knew Gillies was a nurse,’ Eleanor said. ‘I suppose when the men joined up, some of the girls must have gone as well, though I haven’t seen any of their names on the war memorial in the village.’

  ‘Nurses? They don’t put nurses on war memorials, dear.’ Bruce sounded bluff.

  ‘Well, why ever not?’ Eleanor objected. ‘Really. This country.’

  ‘Are things different in the US?’ Mirabelle asked.

  Eleanor shrugged. ‘Yes. And no,’ she admitted. ‘Some ways. I’m going to speak to Reverend Wood about it – the war memorial, I mean. If women from the village died in the theatre of combat they ought to be commemorated. Alongside their male comrades.’

  ‘See,’ Bruce said fondly, ‘she’s changing everything.’

  Chapter 3

  There is nothing insignificant in the world

  Upstairs, Eleanor and Bruce put them in separate rooms but on a discreet corridor at the end of an otherwise deserted wing. The rooms were side by side, both decorated with oriental wallpaper and velvet furnishings, one in shades of yellow and green and the other in yellow and blue. Mirabelle’s cases had been left in one and Alan’s in the other. There was some debate about whether they ought to be moved to the other side of the house as the view from the windows took in the corner of the orangery, though not the area where Nina’s body lay. In the end they decided against it.

  ‘The guest rooms on the other wing aren’t as nice,’ Bruce said. ‘And it’s more private here.’

  ‘More policemen have arrived,’ Mirabelle announced as she peered through the window. A constable was smoking under one of the apple trees. She supposed he was keeping an eye out. For miles beyond, there wasn’t another soul – only rolling hills bathed in bright sunlight as clear as an iced glass of water. Even from inside, Mirabelle shuddered at her insignificance in the face of the scale of the landscape.

  ‘This room was where my mother used to stay,’ Alan said. ‘You haven’t decorated it, have you, Eleanor?’

  ‘Upstairs was much better than down and, besides, Bruce insisted I stop spending money! I love this old paper, don’t you, Mirabelle? I think it’s hand-painted.’

  Mirabelle t
urned back into the room. ‘I think it is.’

  ‘If you need anything, just ring, won’t you?’

  ‘Does Gillies live in?’ Mirabelle ventured.

  Eleanor nodded. ‘Both of them do. Despite what you saw today of her, Susan is actually very practical. She fixes things and touches up the paintwork and she is astonishing with the laundry. She can iron practically anything. We’re lucky to have them. The gardeners come up from the village and we have a cleaner some days. For larger house parties we use this wonderful agency in Aberdeen who find you bar staff or jugglers or, well, anything you want.’

  ‘Two house staff. It’s nothing, is it? When we were young there was a squad of them, but that’s the reality these days. Well, we’ll leave you two to settle in,’ Bruce said. ‘Dinner will be at seven thirty. You’ll hear the gong and if you want anything, just come and find us. I’ll be in my study and Eleanor …?’

  ‘I guess I’ll try to get hold of someone in the Big Apple. You know, about the body.’

  Once they were alone, McGregor tutted loudly. ‘Who lives in? Who was around in the middle of the night, you mean. Who’s on the suspect list?’

  ‘Well,’ Mirabelle retorted, ‘we need to know.’

  ‘That man will know.’ McGregor pointed out of the window in the direction of a police officer. ‘In an area like this they’ll know everybody who lives in a twenty-mile radius and probably have a good idea where they were last night.’ He kissed her on the cheek. ‘I’m going to unpack.’

  He stalked out of the room and Mirabelle heard his door open and close. She surveyed the adjoining door and slowly removed her lockpicks from her handbag. It took less than twenty seconds to spring the catch. McGregor laughed as she turned the porcelain handle, joining the rooms into a suite.

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘at least you’re putting your skills to good use.’ He laid down the shirt he was unpacking and wrapped his arms around her. ‘It’s lovely here, isn’t it?’

  ‘Apart from the murder.’ She smiled.

  ‘Why don’t we get changed and walk to the village? I can show you my childhood haunts.’

  ‘I’d love that.’

  Outside, the air still felt crisp and cool but the greyness had disappeared. The bright sunshine was at odds both with the temperature and the enforced quietness of a murder scene. Walking down the drive felt like an escape. It was strange to be in flat shoes, but the road was uneven and Mirabelle knew it would only get worse beyond the estate. On the ride from the station she’d been distracted by the scenery, but Eleanor was right – the roads were terrible. She pulled her woollen coat around her and took McGregor’s hand. ‘How far to the village?’

  ‘A couple of miles further down the road we drove in on,’ McGregor said. ‘Eleanor’s got the measure of the place. There’s nothing there apart from the pub and a shop. From memory the shop doesn’t sell a lot. Some boilings, milk and newspapers.’

  ‘I haven’t had a boiling in years.’

  ‘What do you like? Aniseed balls? I bet you’re an aniseed ball kind of girl.’

  ‘Certainly not. My favourite is lemon sherbet, I expect.’

  ‘You don’t know your favourite?’

  ‘I always keep my options open. You’d better remember that.’

  McGregor smiled. He liked that she kept him on his toes. It was one of the things that made him want to spend his whole life with this woman.

  ‘If we go cross-country, we’ll see more,’ he gestured. They began to climb a small hill that ran up the side of the road. ‘It feels like an escape here, doesn’t it?’

  Mirabelle smiled. ‘I love it,’ she said. ‘Except …’

  ‘Yes. The murder. Sorry about that. Look, you can make out most of the estate from here. There are a couple of farms.’

  ‘Sheep?’

  ‘Mostly. Sometimes when I was a kid we were here for the lambing. I suppose it must have been Easter. I recall the weather being good. They just tipped Bruce and me out in the morning – we were like little savages, on our own in all this. Other times it was shearing season. They sent the bales of wool down south on the train, packed on a horse and cart to go to the station. It seems so quaint – I bet they use a motor now.’

  ‘It’s very isolated.’

  ‘When we were little, I never thought of it that way. It felt safe because we knew everyone.’

  ‘I always think of you as a city boy.’

  ‘I am. Do you know, I can’t remember being sad in this house. Not till today, and we didn’t really know her, did we?’

  ‘Bruce and Eleanor seem happy – together, I mean.’

  ‘I’m glad for him.’

  ‘I wonder where they met?’ Mirabelle tried to picture it. ‘They are quite different.’

  ‘I suppose that’s what attracted them. I mean, when it happens, it happens, doesn’t it? They literally met four years ago. A shorter time than us, and they’re married already.’

  ‘Do you think we’re different from each other?’

  ‘No. We’re similar. If I was in your situation, I’d do just what you do.’

  ‘But you’re always warning me off when you’re working on a case.’

  ‘That doesn’t mean you aren’t useful occasionally.’

  ‘Useful!’ She punched him playfully on the arm. ‘You know perfectly well that there are times I’ve solved the whole thing.’

  From the higher ground, the view spread like a roll of carpet, but there was a nasty wind. Mirabelle’s ears ached as she strained to make out the footprint of the house. She spotted a roof terrace with a long wooden bench, which she decided to explore later. On a clear day like today, it would be a pleasant place to sit. Beyond the house, in the glen, she could just make out one of the farms and, beyond that, the village nestled in a dip.

  ‘Where’s the lodge?’ she asked.

  McGregor pointed down the hill. ‘On the other side of those trees. It used to be the main entrance to the old place but it’s been out of use for years.’ He watched as she strained on tiptoe. ‘Do you want to have a look?’

  Mirabelle nodded.

  ‘When we were kids we thought there were fairies in those woods.’ McGregor’s cheeks were whipped pink by the breeze.

  ‘Who lived there when you were a boy?’

  ‘It’s like Bruce said. There used to be more staff. I can’t remember whose place it was – but someone who worked on the estate. The old house was quite posh in those days. There was a butler, but he was about a hundred, even then. I expect he’s been dead for years. And two footmen. And a cook and an army of maids. The war did for the family finances, though. It’s a good thing Bruce’s fallen for a woman who’s prepared to roll up her sleeves.’

  Far off, the sound of shotgun fire echoed on the air. Mirabelle arched an eyebrow.

  ‘It’s the countryside,’ McGregor berated her. ‘Don’t go seeing murder and mayhem everywhere.’

  ‘All right,’ she said.

  They trooped downhill and the light changed as they hit the lower ground, where the air smelled of wet grass and the slope provided shelter. McGregor took a few deep breaths and his stride widened. ‘You don’t get this in Brighton. Not even on the Downs.’

  The wood had different kinds of trees. A path had been cleared and lined with chipped branches. Mirabelle could understand how children might believe there were fairies between the holly, the silver birch and the long-needled firs. There was something magical about stepping on to the track. The air smelled green and, above them, she spotted a robin flitting between the branches. She took McGregor’s hand. ‘I’m half expecting it to be a gingerbread house.’

  McGregor laughed. ‘Nothing so continental.’

  Turning back towards the hill, she noticed the curtains were closed in one of the bedrooms on the first floor of the main house. That must be where Tash had been put to bed. It was unlikely the girl was sleeping but it might help to lie in the dark. She remembered closing the window of her own bedroom when her parents died. The n
oise of the traffic had suddenly seemed overwhelming.

  A police constable walked around the side of the house and stationed himself at the front door. They would probably start searching the grounds soon, combing the grass for signs of anybody prowling in the night or making an escape cross-country. After dark, she imagined, it must be absolutely black here, miles from any artificial light. She tried to remember if there had been a full moon last night but she couldn’t. A few steps further and the house was completely masked by trees. In these woods you could ignore the order of things, she thought. You could be private.

  McGregor pulled her behind him. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘You wanted to snoop.’

  The lodge house was situated beside an old gate, chained shut and sealed with a mass of rusted metal and rosemary growing in between. The old place must be dark inside, Mirabelle thought, with all these trees. It was pretty, though – a good-sized, double-fronted stone cottage with a slate roof and a patch of partially cleared ground at the front that served as a garden. Wild roses grew in a tangle on both sides of the path and there was the faint smell of thyme. McGregor pushed open the front door. Inside, there was a countryside theme with pretty, patterned wallpaper that featured posies of flowers. A brass umbrella stand stood next to the door, with several black umbrellas bunched inside like flowers in a vase. To the left there was a sitting room furnished with large chairs. A skylight meant it was lighter than she had expected. On the oak table beside the simple fireplace, there were offcuts of cashmere in different colours scattered across the wood. Mirabelle ran her fingers over the wool. It felt luxurious. She pulled a small square of turquoise material between her fingers. ‘This one’s nice,’ she said.

  McGregor opened the doors as he moved ahead. Straight on there was a kitchen. To the right a bedroom with a comfortable-looking bed, its plump mattress swaddled in pink blankets with a satin quilt on top. The ashes lay piled in the grate from the night before. ‘They must have hated this,’ Mirabelle said.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. I think it’s got a certain old-world charm. If you were American, you would definitely think so. The rooms are quite large for a cottage, don’t you think?’