Niko lit a cigarette. ‘They said we’ll get my sister’s body back in a few days. We’ll bury her at home. The airline is making the arrangements.’
McGregor strolled in, debonair in his evening suit. ‘Am I the last?’ he asked as if surprised. ‘I apologise.’ He shook Willie’s hand and they clapped each other on the shoulder.
‘We’re wiser as well as older, I hope,’ Willie said.
McGregor kissed Gwendolyn’s hand. ‘Lady Dougal.’ Gwendolyn did not invite him to use her first name.
‘I hear the fishing was a profitable endeavour.’ Willie launched into conversation as McGregor eschewed the cocktail tray and poured himself a whisky with a dash of soda.
‘I’ve missed it, if I’m honest,’ McGregor said.
‘Catching vagabonds on the south coast isn’t a patch on the Highland air and a rod in your hand.’ Bruce sounded delighted.
Gwendolyn Dougal sighed, clearly bored by countryside pursuits. She turned away from her husband and addressed Niko. ‘I liked your sister tremendously,’ she said. ‘This kind of thing is abominable. We haven’t had a murder here since historical times.’
‘That’s not quite right, darling,’ her husband chided. ‘During the war …’
Gwendolyn ignored him. It seemed clear she considered whatever had happened during the war irrelevant. ‘I feel so sorry for dear Nina. This is the kind of thing that happens,’ she said, ‘when women go out to work.’
Tash coughed as if she had choked on her cocktail.
‘This is the kind of thing that happens when there’s a prowler on the loose,’ Eleanor objected. Gwendolyn’s terrier barked and Gwendolyn smiled indulgently. Mirabelle understood suddenly why Jinx had stationed himself at the bottom of the stairs – the tiny dog was as much of a bully as his mistress.
‘What do you think, Alan? You’re a policeman,’ Eleanor said with the air of somebody calling in the cavalry.
Alan sipped his whisky. ‘It’s not my case. But there’s been no evidence to suggest a prowler. And,’ he nodded towards Lady Dougal, ‘Gregory has an alibi. Quite a good one, actually, from what I understand.’
Bruce cut in. ‘Yes. Well. My guess is that everyone’s alibis are checking out far too well. As far as I can see, the police have no idea. There was nothing at all on the poor woman’s body, no footprints at the back door and no note arranging a lover’s assignation or any other. It’s a mystery.’ Tash stood up and walked over to the fireplace. ‘I’m sorry, my dear,’ Bruce apologised. ‘Perhaps we shouldn’t talk about it.’
‘I’m OK. It’s only, if it wasn’t a prowler, then it means it was somebody here. Somebody in the house,’ Tash said.
An awkward ripple of discomfort shuddered around the company. Nobody had, as yet, said this out loud, though, Mirabelle thought, they must have each considered it.
‘Why don’t I speak to the inspector?’ McGregor offered. ‘As a detective, I’ll see what I can get out of him.’
‘That would be helpful,’ Bruce said.
‘Well,’ Eleanor cut in, ‘I think it’s time we went to the table.’
After the meal, the women formed an uncomfortable company in the drawing room. Eleanor played jazz records loudly. Mirabelle felt grateful for the music – she didn’t want to speak to Gwendolyn. Lady Dougal had continued to be unpleasant throughout dinner, airing her views on a range of subjects including tenants’ rights (she was in favour of fewer) and sanctions against Russia (she wanted more), which set off Niko Orlov on an anti-Red tirade that included five full minutes on Eisenhower’s ineffectiveness and the tragedy of Senator McCarthy’s death the previous year. Now, as the jazz music tailed off, they sipped sweet Spanish sherry and Lady Dougal exuded disapproval as Tash talked about New York – her friends, her career and, ultimately, the space left now her godmother was gone. Mirabelle felt grateful when Willie appeared in the doorway and suggested he drive his wife home.
‘You’re welcome to stay,’ Eleanor offered, but outside, Willie packed Gwendolyn into the passenger seat with the terrier at her feet. ‘Are you sure, old man?’ Bruce said. ‘You’ve had a skinful.’
‘There’s nothing on the road this time of night,’ Willie insisted.
The blue clock on the mantelpiece struck midnight as everyone waved them off. The car’s tail-lights disappeared down the drive in a relatively straight line given the amount of alcohol Lord Dougal had consumed. Coming back inside, Niko flung the last of his cigar onto the fire. ‘Interesting woman,’ he said.
Tash’s brow furrowed. ‘You’re so old-fashioned, Uncle Niko. I’m going to bed.’
Niko checked his huge gold wristwatch. ‘It’s not late in New York.’ Tash shrugged, waved a cheery goodnight and disappeared up the hallway, crossing paths with Jinx who, with the terrier out of the way, climbed onto a chair by the door and then, in response to Eleanor’s aghast expression, dropped stoically back to the floor. ‘Jinxy,’ Eleanor patted the dog fondly. ‘That’s better.’
Niko waited until Tash had gone upstairs. ‘Actually, I have something to ask,’ he said.
‘Shoot.’ Eleanor grinned.
‘I was wondering if I might go to the orangery. I didn’t want to upset Natasha.’
‘What do you mean, old man?’ Bruce asked.
‘Nina died there at night. I want to see what it was like in the dark.’
‘That’s a bit gruesome.’
Niko looked mournfully at his feet. ‘Perhaps,’ he said.
Mirabelle slipped her arm through his. ‘I’ll go with you,’ she offered. ‘I’d like to see it too.’
‘Next it’ll be bloody ghost tours,’ Bruce grumbled. ‘All right. We’ll all go.’
The five of them trooped through. The fires hadn’t been set on this side of the house and the air was colder, though the stove in the orangery glowed on a low setting. ‘Don’t turn on the main light,’ Niko instructed as Bruce put his hand to the switch. ‘I want to see what it was like for her. It must have been dark. She was found with the light off, wasn’t she?’
‘We don’t know.’ Eleanor loitered at the door. ‘She might have turned on the light and the murderer turned it off again.’
Niko brushed her words aside. Inside, the orangery was lit by the moon – eerie blue light filtered through the glass and played on the wide, dark leaves of the tropical plants. Beyond, the hills loomed like enormous voids behind the orchard.
‘I still don’t understand why she came up here,’ McGregor said.
‘It must have been an assignation,’ Mirabelle cut in. ‘What I don’t understand is the fingerprints. Did the killer wipe their prints from everything once she was dead? It was quick thinking if he did. And why didn’t he remove the body? He could have dumped her miles away. She wouldn’t have been found for ages. But he just left her and ran.’
The bamboo sofa creaked loudly as Eleanor sat. ‘Oh, this is just maudlin,’ she said, her eyes avoiding the area where Nina’s body had lain.
‘I’m Russian. Forgive me,’ Niko dismissed her. ‘I want to feel it.’
‘Well wherever Nina is now, let’s hope she’s at peace,’ Bruce said.
Niko ran his fingers across the long stem of a tall palm. ‘Oh no,’ he said. ‘I don’t think so. Nina won’t be at peace until we catch him. Not until he hangs. My sister was a fighter. She would demand vengeance. Nina always got to the bottom of everything.’
Mirabelle felt suddenly queasy. The orangery seemed isolated in the dark, more part of the world outside than of the house – a place of contained darkness. The cool air was like silk but you wouldn’t meet a lover here, she thought. It was too cold even with the stove alight. You’d meet a lover inside. Quietly, by the embers of the fire, where you could curl up and whisper and throw on a log to burn. The orangery was somewhere you’d meet someone if you wanted to talk. If you were planning to argue. If you didn’t want to spend a lot of time. It was an odd kind of room when it was blacked out. There was something alien about the jutting plants and the wa
sh of pale moonlight through the glass. ‘Where does Jinx sleep?’ she asked.
‘Upstairs with us,’ Eleanor said. ‘On the other side of the house. You know what he’s like. He follows me everywhere.’
But, Mirabelle thought, Jinx hadn’t followed Eleanor tonight. He loitered in the hallway even now.
‘I miss Nina,’ Niko said sadly. ‘I feel her here.’
‘We’re all very sorry, old man.’ Bruce paused and made his way to the door where Eleanor slipped her hand into his. Niko sighed and followed, back into the certainty of rooms lit by electric light.
Left behind, Mirabelle watched as McGregor turned, the moonlight catching his white shirt, stark against his black jacket. A jagged shadow fell across one side of his face so he looked like a charcoal drawing. ‘I’ll speak to the police tomorrow,’ he said. ‘I’ll see what I can find out.’
Mirabelle got up. ‘I’m tired. Let’s pack it in.’
He draped his arm around her shoulder. ‘We should say goodnight to the others.’
In the drawing room, Eleanor and Bruce were lounging on the sofa. Niko had already gone upstairs. ‘Are you two all right?’ Eleanor asked.
McGregor kissed Mirabelle on the cheek. ‘Better than this morning,’ he said.
Bruce grinned. ‘Do you remember sneaking downstairs and sniffing the brandy in here? You must have been all of six years old.’
McGregor smiled back. ‘The grown-ups were at dinner. We made it to the drinks trolley and the fumes just about knocked us out. You wanted to taste it.’
‘I did taste it,’ Bruce said. ‘Twelve years of age and a connoisseur. It made me sick as a dog. I still can’t drink the bally stuff.’
At the fringes of Mirabelle’s mind, something niggled. A detail that wouldn’t fall into place. Something about Nina.
‘Who were the other couple?’ she asked.
‘What couple?’ Bruce said.
‘At dinner the other night. The last time you saw Nina. It was Nina and Tash, you two, the Dougals—’
‘And the Walkers,’ Eleanor cut in. ‘They live in the other direction. Almost in Inverness. They’re nice – a pudding of a couple.’
‘And might Nina have upset them?’
‘I doubt it. It was a pleasant evening. Gwendolyn was better than usual. Better than tonight.’
‘Now, dear …’ Bruce admonished her.
‘Well, she’s a witch.’ Eleanor sighed. ‘Shame they don’t burn them any more.’
McGregor laughed. ‘That seems quite extreme, though I take your point. Poor Willie Dougal.’
‘Perhaps Willie likes it,’ Bruce said, and everybody laughed.
‘Tomorrow we have to do something – we can’t just sit around,’ Eleanor sounded decisive. ‘It’s not good for Tash, or for any of us.’
‘Right you are,’ Bruce agreed. ‘Keep calm and carry on.’
Mirabelle was suddenly struck by the memory of a tattered poster flapping in the breeze on the side of a shop that had been bombed. It had always felt strange when it was sunny the morning after a bombing raid, she thought. What had she been doing there, watching two women trying to salvage their things from the rubble before the Home Guard arrived? She couldn’t remember, but it was not a promising image.
‘Time for bed,’ McGregor suggested, also thinking about the wartime maxim. Mirabelle nodded.
‘Goodnight,’ she called, and slid her arm around his waist as they made for the stairs.
Chapter 8
We must take our friends as they are
It was raining again when she woke, but today the drops fell half-heartedly through an unrelenting sheet of thin grey cloud and the fire in the grate lay unlit. Mirabelle crept across the cold carpet and tossed a match into the kindling. In the distance the telephone was ringing. She checked her watch and wondered who was on the wire so early.
Eleanor met her on her way down the stairs.
‘It was bound to happen,’ she said.
‘What?’ Mirabelle enquired airily.
‘What Kenzie said the other night. The press picked up the story,’ Eleanor hissed and, right on cue, the telephone sounded again. Bruce stormed out of the dining room into his study, looking as if he might explode. He slammed the door behind him. The women hovered at the foot of the stairs. The sound of Bruce bellowing into the handset penetrated the closed door.
‘Good morning, miss,’ Gillies said as she swept up the hall.
‘Good morning, Mrs Gillies,’ Mirabelle replied as the housekeeper disappeared again. ‘She seems happy this morning.’
‘I managed to engage a temporary maid through the employment agency in Aberdeen,’ Eleanor said. ‘Now she’s got somebody to boss around. We could use the extra pair of hands, let’s face it, what with Susan off the deep end and six of us in the house.’
Bruce opened the study door, but no sooner had he done so than the telephone rang again. His face was livid. ‘Good morning,’ he nodded at the women and retreated. Behind them, Tash descended. ‘I can’t be bothered with breakfast,’ she said. ‘Especially as there’s no coffee.’
‘I’m sorry, honey.’ Eleanor sounded sympathetic. ‘Mrs Gillies is immovable. No coffee until eleven.’
Tash stared at the closed door to the study. ‘The press have picked up the story, I’m afraid,’ Eleanor said. ‘They’ve been calling every few minutes.’
They could hear the bell chiming as Bruce slammed down the handset. The women waited in silence until he came out. ‘They know your uncle’s arrived,’ he said to Tash. ‘I’ve taken the bally thing off the hook.’
McGregor did not materialise. Niko had jet lag and slept in, so it was well after ten by the time everyone appeared downstairs. McGregor loitered at the long windows, peering down the driveway.
‘What are you looking at, old man?’ Bruce interrogated him.
‘There’s somebody down there.’
The men walked into the field beyond the drive to get a better view.
‘I was a terrible hostess yesterday,’ Eleanor announced, ‘but today we must do things.’
Tash got up and walked towards the window. McGregor and Bruce were having some kind of altercation on the grass. Together they turned and walked purposefully back into the hallway. Eleanor sighed. ‘What is it?’
‘There are three photographers at the gates,’ McGregor said. ‘And Murdo Kenzie.’
‘Apparently, there’s nothing we can do,’ Bruce spat.
‘It’s a public road, Bruce,’ McGregor said. ‘Stay away from the front gates. You’ve done the right thing taking the phone off.’
‘At home—’ Niko started.
‘You’re not at home,’ McGregor cut him off. ‘They have the right to be there and the right to telephone. What we do at our end is our responsibility.’
Eleanor folded her arms. ‘I’m not going to be trapped in my own house by Murdo Kenzie, damn it. We’ll go for a walk,’ she declared. ‘Up the back road. Come on everybody.’
Outside, Eleanor put Jinx on to a lead. ‘Might as well bring the old chap,’ she said.
Arrayed in thick coats and sensible shoes, she led the way with Niko as the group turned on to the lane, Bruce bringing up the rear, his shotgun over his arm. ‘If I can get a potshot at a rabbit, I’ll take it,’ he said, but Mirabelle wasn’t sure that was why he had brought the weapon. The press intrusion had disturbed him and, for Bruce, she thought, his gun was a comfort that he wasn’t entirely defenceless. She hoped the newspapermen hadn’t sent anybody in the other direction. McGregor hovered beside his cousin, ready to intervene just in case. ‘I love the cold when it’s like this,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Clear and razor sharp.’ He laid his hand on Bruce’s shoulder.
On the laneway beyond the staff quarters, two small boys in brown jackets and shorts passed them. The children kept their eyes on the ground and cut so close to the hedge that they almost disappeared through it as they shied away from the group. As they passed, one whispered something to the other about the G
reen Lady and they broke into a run, clattering down the hill, squealing. Bruce turned as if he might shout after them, but McGregor shook his head. ‘They’re only kids,’ he said.
‘Do you think there’s any truth in the story?’ Mirabelle asked. ‘The Green Lady, I mean?’
Bruce grunted. ‘The poor woman died young, but as to the circumstances …’
‘That’s all we need – a ghost story in the papers,’ Eleanor said. ‘Hopefully those kids won’t say they saw us when they pass the photographers, otherwise they’ll walk up to hound us, I suppose.’
‘At least the press care,’ Niko commented. ‘The fact they’re there will put pressure on the police.’
‘They don’t care, Uncle Niko. They just want a story. They’re ghouls.’ Tash sounded bitter.
‘Now, now,’ Eleanor’s tone was upbeat. ‘Come along.’ She picked up the pace.
Tash linked her arm through Mirabelle’s as the countryside slowly swallowed them. After ten minutes, Eleanor turned on to a trail through the bracken that led to a steep incline. Three sheep stared at the party from a distance as they emerged, single file, at the top of the slope. ‘There’s a great view from the summit,’ Eleanor promised cheerfully. ‘It’ll be good for us.’ As they climbed, the sun came out. They were out of breath by the time they got to the top. The air smelled different up here, as if it was drawn around the hillside like a cloak. Tash opened her coat and turned to take in the view of the glen, which unrolled for miles to the south of the house in a lush wash of green. ‘It’s beautiful, isn’t it?’ she breathed.
‘The valley was formed by glaciers millions of years ago – huge blocks of ice carving up the landscape – the whole of the Highlands, the lochs, all of it. People go on about the hills and glens, but what I love is the colours,’ Bruce said. ‘Every day it’s a different view. I’ll never get bored of living here. We had a visitor last year who called it “epic”. I thought that was rather good.’
[Mirabelle Bevan 08] - Highland Fling Page 11