‘He was a poet, wasn’t he?’ Eleanor said. ‘A friend of a friend.’
Bruce spotted a rabbit and let off a shot, setting off down the hill purposefully to pick it up. ‘Jinx is a hopeless gun dog,’ he said.
‘Poor Jinxy,’ Eleanor petted the dog. ‘Poor boy.’
‘Epic,’ Niko repeated, as if he was considering the word. ‘It’s invigorating up here. I’ll say that. And impressive. No poetry about it.’ He pulled out a magnesium-blue Fabergé cigarette case, a snake inlaid in diamonds curling around it, and offered it round, lighting up after everyone had refused. A gust of wind blew the smoke away as it changed direction, and Jinx barked.
‘It’s too late now, old boy,’ Bruce said, as he returned with the rabbit’s hind legs jutting from the game pouch slung over his shoulder. Jinx barked again. He strained, pulling Eleanor downhill into the wind.
‘He’s had enough of the scenery, apparently,’ Eleanor called over her shoulder. ‘Maybe we should go on. There’s another outlook further along. It’s a good spot for twitchers. There is a pair of eagles that nest on the crags, though it’s too early in the year to see them.’
‘We should have brought binoculars,’ McGregor chimed as Eleanor disappeared down the slope with a determined Jinx ahead.
The others followed. It was pleasant in the sunshine, though the wind was bracing. Mirabelle held McGregor’s hand. ‘Our land stretches as far as the largest Munro over there,’ Bruce pointed out. Jinx was now barking so loudly that it was difficult to make out what Bruce was saying. ‘Whatever has got into that animal?’ he snapped. Eleanor struggled to control him. ‘Jinx!’ she berated, but it was useless.
At speed the descent was difficult. Mirabelle couldn’t help thinking of a John Buchan book she’d read where the hero had escaped, running miles across this kind of terrain, disappearing into the heather. Running would be dangerous – the ground was too uneven. Though not for Jinx. He dragged Eleanor across a bank of shale, on to the track and into a ditch, beyond which the land dropped into a long field planted with potatoes.
A moment later, Eleanor screamed, mud spattering her overcoat as she dropped the animal’s lead. For a moment, both Eleanor and the dog disappeared out of sight on the lower ground. Then Jinx barked again. Behind them, everyone broke into a run, Bruce loading his gun as he went. Then Eleanor’s face appeared above the line of the track. Her skin was pink, her mouth open in a quivering, uneven slash.
‘Are you all right?’ Tash shouted.
The sound Eleanor made in reply was not related to speech. It was a high, keening note.
‘What is it, darling?’ Bruce called.
Eleanor stopped dead. ‘It’s Susan,’ she said weakly.
McGregor and Mirabelle moved forward as the others fell back. It was telling, Mirabelle thought, people’s first reaction. There was no time to consider – you simply did what you did. Together she and McGregor climbed across the trench. The mud splashed cold on their ankles as they dropped on to the thick earth on the other side. The girl’s body was soaked. Wet hair covered her face. Her legs were spattered with mud. Mirabelle crouched and felt, hopelessly, for a pulse. She brushed Susan’s mousy tresses across her cheek and scanned the body for some kind of wound. There was nothing. McGregor put his arm around Eleanor, holding her back as much as comforting her. ‘It’s a nightmare,’ Eleanor shouted and started to cry. He managed to pull her away, and with Bruce’s help guided her on to the track. Then he turned towards Mirabelle, who had completed a rudimentary examination of the body.
‘It’s a hangman’s fracture,’ she pronounced.
‘What’s that?’ Tash squealed.
‘Her neck’s broken,’ McGregor explained.
‘Did she fall?’ Tash babbled. ‘I mean, maybe she cut across the field and fell.’
Mirabelle stood up. ‘No. If that was the case, she would have tried to break her fall. She’d have gone down with her hands ahead of her. This is a professional job,’ she said. ‘Someone broke her neck from behind. This wasn’t an accident. This woman was murdered.’
‘You mean, someone …’ Tash’s voice tailed off. ‘God. This place.’
‘I’ll stay with her,’ Mirabelle took charge. ‘You should all go back to the house and alert the police.’
‘You can’t stay alone,’ McGregor sounded concerned. ‘He could still be nearby. Anything could happen.’
‘My guess is that she died yesterday. I doubt whoever did it will still be here. We can’t just leave her, and you’re the best one to talk to the officers,’ Mirabelle replied. Bruce looked as if he was about to speak. ‘You need to look after your wife,’ she added. She was right. Eleanor was crying silently, her knuckles white as she clenched her fists, as if she had something to hold on to when, the truth was, there was nothing to grasp. Niko had his arm around Tash, who looked as if she was going to be sick. ‘There’s nobody up here – not now,’ Mirabelle said steadily. ‘I’m just securing the scene. Like a policewoman.’ McGregor nodded curtly.
‘I can’t believe she’s just lying on the ground,’ Eleanor said. ‘Like roadkill or a dead cat. An animal out in the fields.’
‘Hush,’ Bruce murmured.
‘Are you sure you will be all right?’ McGregor checked.
‘Yes. Go,’ Mirabelle said.
Mirabelle watched as the group disappeared ragtag down the laneway, Tash crying as Niko guided her. Eleanor seemingly limping, and Jinx trailing his lead through the puddles. The sky above them was clear blue for miles, like a postcard. McGregor looked back and she limply raised her arm.
Once they were out of sight, Mirabelle turned to the body. Susan was still wearing the apron she had on when she’d brought the coffee to Eleanor’s office the day before. She wasn’t dressed to walk home – no coat, no hat. She would never have come up here in her day clothes – a good quarter of an hour away from the house as the crow flies – in the driving rain. Mirabelle checked the girl’s pockets, which contained only a safety pin and a handkerchief. She inspected the obvious places on her skin, looking for defensive wounds but, she concluded, it was most likely Susan hadn’t even known someone was attacking her. The killer must have taken her completely by surprise, in or near the house. Had he come from behind, she wondered? It was a quick and more professional hit, Mirabelle realised, than the one on Nina Orlova. It was almost as if the killer had taken her advice the day before – to remove the body somewhere it was less likely to be found or perhaps to kill the girl elsewhere. Was it even the same person, or were there two murderers, here in the middle of nowhere? She shuddered at the thought and wondered what the girl had wanted to say to Eleanor when she’d interrupted their conversation in the office. ‘What happened to you?’ she whispered to the silent, muddy corpse.
After about twenty minutes, an elderly constable appeared, cycling towards her on a rickety bicycle. She stepped away from Susan’s body, instinctively – aware that he wouldn’t appreciate her checking the girl’s pockets. The mud at the scene was churned up, what with her footprints, Eleanor’s and McGregor’s – all of them squelching about, and the dog too. It was impossible to see if there had been an earlier set of prints – the murderer’s. She cursed herself that they hadn’t thought of that.
The policeman laboured up the slope. He tipped his hat as he propped the bicycle on the hedgerow. ‘I can take it from here, lass,’ he said, and offered his hand to help her over the ditch. ‘The team are on the way from the station. The laird said it was the housemaid?’
‘Her name was Susan,’ Mirabelle blurted. ‘She was from Inverslain. We thought she went home. Someone either killed her at the house and dumped her here, or kidnapped her and brought her up the hill to execute her.’
The policeman eyed Mirabelle with dubiety.
‘She’s not wearing a coat,’ Mirabelle insisted. ‘She wouldn’t have come up here voluntarily without one. Especially not yesterday – it was freezing cold and raining heavily. She was a good girl.’ She wasn’t sure why s
he was so set on defending Susan’s honour but, even though the policeman was there, she didn’t want to leave the girl.
‘Will you be all right walking back?’ the man checked.
Mirabelle sighed. She had to remain rational. He would be able to watch her descent towards the house at least half the way, and she could be of more use, now, down there. ‘Yes, officer.’ She kept her tone crisp.
Unwillingly Mirabelle turned back down the lane. Crows swooped across the line of the hill as she wound towards the house, peering back to check the figure of the policeman standing next to the body. She suddenly felt she was going to be sick. She stopped, her stomach heaving, while she collected herself. Up till now it hadn’t felt as if there was a killer on the loose – it had felt as if Nina’s death was a mistake, or if not exactly a mistake, then at least a crime of passion. Susan had been dispatched more coldly. Two bodies in three days. Two days, really – Susan hadn’t been found straight away.
By the time she reached the house, an ambulance had pulled up and a police car was parked at the door. Another officer was immediately dispatched up the laneway. It felt good to get inside. In the vestibule, Bruce’s game pouch was dumped on the floor, the dead rabbit spilling on to the oak boards like a gruesome warning. The door to the dining room was open a crack and, through it, Mirabelle could see Gillies sitting at the table with Eleanor opposite, breaking the news. The housekeeper clasped a glass of whisky in her hands. Her face was streaked with tears. She turned away shamefaced, as Mirabelle opened the door.
‘Mrs Gillies, I’m so sorry. You must have known Susan better than anybody,’ she said.
‘Thank you, miss. I’d best be getting on.’ Gillies got to her feet and placed her glass on the tray. At the door, she turned. ‘Susan MacLeod was a good girl,’ she pronounced.
‘I told the officer that,’ Mirabelle said. ‘Can you think, Mrs Gillies, who on earth would want to kill her?’
Gillies sniffed. ‘Of course not.’
‘Jesus, Mirabelle,’ Eleanor cut in. ‘Give it a rest. The police are going to be bad enough.’
‘I best get back to the kitchen,’ Gillies pronounced.
‘If you’re sure,’ Eleanor replied.
With Gillies gone, Eleanor scrabbled around in the sideboard for a cigarette. Her hands were shaking and the flame quivered in mid-air as she lit it. Mirabelle couldn’t blame her. ‘Come on,’ Eleanor said. ‘We should go back into the drawing room with the others. The police will want to speak to us.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘God – I sound like a professional witness.’
Across the hallway, Bruce, Tash and Niko sat on the sofas. ‘Where’s Alan?’ Mirabelle asked.
‘Talking to the police in the study,’ Bruce said. ‘They wanted him first.’
Eleanor paced, agitated, in front of the fireplace. ‘I was going to visit the McCrossans this afternoon. They called their baby Heather and I got a blanket for her from the mill and some Pear’s soap,’ she said.
‘Darling …’ Bruce started.
‘Well, what were you going to do?’ Eleanor spat. ‘Go for a ride? Head out with your shotgun?’
‘We’ve got to eat.’ Bruce sounded sheepish.
‘I’m sorry,’ Eleanor apologised. She sank on to a chair. ‘I didn’t mean to get at you.’
Niko, standing at the window, pulled back. Outside, a bevy of men with cameras and notebooks was heading towards the house. Smartly, Eleanor jumped up. She closed the curtains and snapped on the lamps.
‘Don’t answer that,’ she said as the doorbell rang. ‘They’ve seen the police are here is all – nosey parkers.’
Everyone froze for a second. ‘This is ridiculous,’ Niko said. ‘Leave it to me. Those goddam sharks. If we just give them a statement they’ll go away.’ The room shifted as he left and everyone listened while he answered the door and talked about his sister’s death. Eleanor peered at the men through a gap in the curtains. Niko did a good job, Mirabelle thought. He remained dignified, asking for the family to be left alone. ‘No photographs, please,’ he finished, but the men took a couple of him standing with the door half open anyway. One journalist framed a couple of questions, which made it clear he did not yet know about Susan’s body. ‘And the man they’ve arrested,’ he snapped. ‘What can you say about him?’
‘Arrested?’ Niko asked.
‘The coloured fellow.’
The words hung in the air. Then Niko recovered his composure. ‘I can’t make any statement about the enquiry. You need to ask the police,’ he said and closed the door.
Mirabelle’s mind raced. Gregory had been Bruce’s first instinct. He had the strength needed to kill Susan, but then, she thought, why would he want to? And what had changed – McGregor had said that Gregory’s alibi was sound. Eleanor peered through the gap in the curtains. ‘They’re leaving,’ she said, holding out her arm as if conducting an orchestra. Everybody stayed silent until she pronounced the men gone and drew the curtain to let the light back in.
As Niko rejoined them, Tash got up from the sofa. ‘The police have arrested Gregory!’ she said. ‘That’s what they said, right?’
‘I thought he had an alibi,’ Niko replied.
Tash punched her uncle’s arm. ‘He does!’ she insisted. ‘Gregory wouldn’t harm Nina and you know it. Nor some little maid neither. Those bastards. We have to bail him out. Come on. Get your coat!’
This time Mirabelle held up her hand ‘Hang on. Just because a journalist says someone has been arrested, doesn’t mean it’s true. I can’t see why they’d do that.’
Tash’s fingers fluttered across the buttons of her jacket. ‘Isn’t it obvious? Because he’s black. You have to help,’ she said. ‘It’s monstrous. We can’t let these dreadful things rob us of our humanity.’
‘Perhaps they’ve only brought him in for questioning,’ Mirabelle said.
‘They didn’t bring in any of us for questioning,’ Tash snapped. ‘They asked all the white folks questions right here. But they’ve taken Gregory to prison.’
‘For heaven’s sake, Tash,’ Niko cut in. ‘Nobody said anything about prison. Panicking isn’t going to help.’
‘He didn’t do anything,’ Tash insisted.
Mirabelle considered this. ‘I agree. It’s highly unlikely Gregory is the murderer.’
‘It’s not unlikely. It’s impossible.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I know him. He just wouldn’t. God! It’s as if nobody cares.’ Tash was on the cusp of bursting into tears of frustration. ‘Doesn’t anyone read between the lines? The papers at home are full of it – the right ones, that is. The easy answer for the police is always the black man.’
The girl’s rant was interrupted by the sound of the police emerging from the study. Tash stopped and they all listened. McGregor’s voice sounded comforting, Mirabelle thought. ‘I feel as if I’m caged here. Jesus!’ Tash burst out. Then, fired by fury and desperation, she took off through the double doors. ‘What have you done with him?’ she shouted up the hall at the group of men around McGregor.
Alan stepped forward. ‘What do you mean? What happened?’
‘They’ve arrested Gregory. You have, haven’t you? When the hell were you going to tell us?’
‘Gregory was taken into the station this morning, Miss Orlova,’ the officer said. ‘We don’t have to keep you informed about our enquiries.’
‘What the hell’s he being charged with?’ Tash snapped. ‘You racists! Nazis!’
The officer was taken aback. ‘Well that’s something to say. To be frank, miss, most of the men here risked their lives fighting the Nazis not long ago, so we don’t take kindly to that sort of talk. As far as I’m aware your steward was only being questioned when I left the station – a normal procedure and nothing to do with his colour. Now, if you’ll excuse me,’ he motioned to the ambulance driver and the doctor, ‘we need to attend to the new victim – the young lady—’
‘Why don’t I phone the station and see what’s happene
d?’ Alan cut in. He locked eyes with Mirabelle as she came into the hallway. ‘Help Tash, would you?’
‘Jesus Christ,’ Tash said, shrugging off Mirabelle’s arm.
‘We should sit down.’ Mirabelle realised she sounded like a nanny. Still, Tash followed her into the drawing room and perched on the edge of a chair, ramrod straight, while McGregor went to make the call. ‘We’ll sort it out,’ she promised.
Tash looked as if she might cry. ‘It’s important to stand up for what you believe in. Gregory never would have hurt Nina and I can’t see why he’d bother killing the maid. We’ve been here a week. We don’t know anyone. The police have to pin it on somebody, that’s all.’
‘You’re very loyal.’ Mirabelle thought of what her friend Vesta would say. Tash was right – the police hadn’t taken anybody else into custody. From the other side of the room, Niko was watching her carefully. ‘Tash enjoys a demonstration,’ he said. ‘It’s a hobby of hers.’
Tash drew herself up. ‘I can’t bear people being picked on, especially for something as stupid as the colour of their skin.’
‘You’re right, darling,’ Eleanor cut in.
Encouraged, Bruce joined her. ‘I’ve heard it’s difficult for coloured people in the States.’
‘Difficult! Are you kidding!’
‘It’s not quite the same here,’ Bruce continued.
‘Yeah.’ Tash’s tone was loaded with irony. ‘Everyone in this country is equal. I can see that.’ She looked around the room pointedly.
Eleanor laughed. ‘You know me, honey. This isn’t where I come from. It’s what I came to this country to write about. Class.’
‘I don’t know if we have class any more. Not like we used to,’ Mirabelle said, and cursed herself for sounding prim.
Eleanor and Tash as good as erupted. They squealed and giggled, while Bruce looked confused.
‘Take it from me, you definitely have class,’ Tash said. ‘The way you all know each other. It’s a club. What the hell is the difference between a drawing room and a sitting room anyway?’ The sound of guns being fired wafted up the hill and Tash flung her hands in the air. ‘God, I wish we hadn’t come.’ Mirabelle felt sheepish. She had a sneaking suspicion the girl was right. She was about to say something when McGregor returned.
[Mirabelle Bevan 08] - Highland Fling Page 12