The two of them rushed inside, down two flights of stairs and through the hallway. Mrs Gillies was working in the kitchen as they burst in. ‘Sir!’ she objected, but there was no time to explain. They crashed through a second hallway at the rear, past the laundry where a whiff of soapsuds hung on the air, past a rack which, Mirabelle realised, still held Susan’s coat and hat, and out of the back door.
‘That van belongs to one of the newsmen. He’s selling his story,’ McGregor panted. ‘Bastard.’
Mirabelle’s mind raced. Of course. The red tops would pay for an account of what was happening inside the house. She wondered if Gregory knew about the alexandrite. He must – surely the police had questioned him about it. Tash would be furious or, worse, heartbroken when she found out he’d sold her out, Mirabelle thought as they hammered up the lane in the twilight, coming to a halt as McGregor put out his hand to stop her a few yards behind the van. Both of them were out of breath.
Then they heard it. The sound of a struggle. The acoustics weren’t normal because of the trees and the way the land cut away to one side, and at first, eerily, Mirabelle thought the sound was coming from behind them, but then she realised it emanated from the van itself. McGregor pressed his finger to his lips. He flicked his head towards the low stone wall that ran around the passing place. Together they climbed over the copings and he pulled her down behind a tangle of roots where a tree had been removed. Then, the two of them peered over the top. Inside the van, Gregory and another man were fighting. The sound of one of them banging against the side made her pull back.
‘Should we help him?’ she whispered.
McGregor shook his head. ‘Gregory the Grim can take care of himself. Let’s listen and see if they say anything.’
Another bang emanated from the van. Then it began to rock. Mirabelle stood up. ‘They’re not fighting,’ she said.
‘Well what are they … ?’ McGregor didn’t finish this question as the answer came to him. ‘Oh, god. Well I’m not arresting them. That’s a whole can of worms. It’s a bit cold out here, isn’t it?’
Mirabelle grinned. During the war, London’s parks were famously the haunts of homosexual activity at night. Churchill himself once expressed his admiration for men braving the icy winter weather. ‘Makes you proud to be British,’ he’d said. She’d heard that the American troops were just as bad. There had been some excitement in gay circles, what with the influx of American soldiers, including black regiments. Mirabelle remembered one upper-class queer referring to them as ‘fresh pansy blood’ at a party.
‘Oh God, that’s it,’ she hissed. ‘Of course.’
‘What?’
‘Gregory’s alibi. It was another man. In the bed, I mean. In the hotel.’
McGregor shook his head. ‘The maid identified him.’
‘You think she was looking at his face?’ Mirabelle smiled. ‘You think anyone even thought there might be two black guys. In Glasgow. Both homosexuals? But it’s a port, isn’t it? Like Bruce said. Gregory got lucky – good for him. And it means he probably was in Greenock the morning Nina’s body was discovered, just as he said – even further away from the scene of the crime. He left the hotel while the other guy was still asleep.’
‘Maybe,’ said McGregor as he worked it out.
‘Should we tell the police?’
McGregor shook his head. ‘It’s illegal. I don’t know how they view that kind of thing up here. If we say anything, they might arrest him. But at least we know. I’ll check with him, discreetly, later. If you’re right, it means we can count Gregory out.’ McGregor screwed up his face. ‘Come on.’ He motioned her to head back in the direction of the house as the sound of a loud grunt came from the van.
Mirabelle giggled.
McGregor helped her back over the low wall and they were about to sneak off when the vehicle’s back door snapped open and Gregory jumped on to the track. ‘Hey,’ he said, looking up the empty road and back at the two of them.
Mirabelle squirmed. McGregor stiffened. ‘Is there a journalist in that van?’ McGregor asked.
The engine started and Gregory slammed the door, stepping to the side of the road. ‘Photographer,’ he said.
‘You realise,’ Mirabelle smirked, ‘that’s doubly inappropriate. Really, Gregory. You shouldn’t be consorting with those people. However, as it happens, it lets you off the hook.’
The van took off. Gregory looked sheepish. ‘Off the hook?’ he said.
‘Your alibi in Glasgow. You had a man in your room. And you couldn’t tell the police that for obvious reasons.’
‘Oh that. Yes.’
‘And now, of course, you owe us one.’
Gregory looked grim. Mirabelle wondered if that was where his boxing moniker had come from. His expression was stony. ‘I didn’t tell the photographer anything. He asked. You know, about the body of the maid and the gun. I’d never say anything. I’m not a grass.’
‘How did you know about the gun?’ McGregor cut in.
Mirabelle turned to him. ‘What gun?’ she said. ‘I thought we were supposed to be working together.’
It was McGregor’s turn to squirm. ‘I meant to tell you. I’m sorry. The police told me about it the same time as their concerns over Gregory’s alibi, but I skipped over it. We went back to the drawing room for drinks.’
‘Skipped over it,’ Mirabelle repeated. ‘For drinks.’
‘Sorry. Yes. They found a gun. In the ditch. Near Susan’s body.’
‘A Russian gun,’ Gregory said. ‘I heard about it at the police station when they were questioning me. It made me think, perhaps Niko is right.’
‘What? And the Russian secret service are now picking off maids to get at the Orlovs?’ Mirabelle stared at the darkening landscape before her. It seemed highly unlikely. ‘God. What a mess.’
‘I don’t know,’ said McGregor. ‘I mean people bring guns home, don’t they? From service. However it got here, whoever owned it, it looks like they took Susan up to the field at gunpoint and then broke her neck. Which is an odd thing to do when you have a gun. Perhaps it was quieter. Perhaps she tried to fight and they dropped the gun in the affray.’
Mirabelle considered this. Susan hadn’t seemed the kind of person who would put up much of a fight, but then, you never could tell. ‘Either way, it means her death was premeditated – professional, in fact,’ she said.
‘Someone with a service background,’ McGregor added.
Gregory shivered. ‘Can I go?’ he asked. ‘It’s getting cold up here.’
‘Yes. Go on,’ McGregor dismissed him.
‘You won’t tell Natasha?’
‘No need to upset her,’ Mirabelle said. ‘But be careful, Gregory. You need to pick your liaisons more wisely.’
They watched him head back down the road towards the farm where he was lodging.
‘You’re nonchalant, I must say.’ McGregor sounded impressed.
Mirabelle shrugged. It was becoming increasingly apparent that when it came down to it, McGregor had had a tame kind of war amid the tragedy.
‘Sex and death cannot be news to you,’ she said. ‘Not in your profession.’
As they swung through the back yard, Bruce was in one of the outhouses. The deer carcass was hanging from a hook on the main beam. He was covered in blood, gutting it, steam rising from the animal’s body. ‘Hello!’ he called. ‘Where have you two been?’
‘Romantic walk,’ McGregor replied.
‘Good. Good,’ said Bruce, and returned to plunging his hands deep inside the dead animal’s belly.
Chapter 13
Murder: the killing of a person without valid excuse
The next morning, when Mirabelle woke, McGregor was, for once, ready before her. As she opened her eyes she tried to focus on him putting on his jacket in front of the mirror and running a comb over his hair. ‘Good morning,’ she said sleepily.
Alan pulled open the curtain. ‘I was going to let you sleep on.’
She hauled h
erself on to her elbows and glanced blearily through the window at the view of the hills. ‘It looks like a lovely day.’
McGregor checked his watch.
‘Are you going shooting?’
He grinned. ‘I wish I was,’ he said. ‘It’s Sunday.’
Mirabelle blinked. Then she realised what he meant and cocked her head. ‘Alan McGregor, are you going to church?’
‘We always go to church here.’
‘Wait. I’m coming.’
It was nice, she thought, to do things together like this. She scrambled out of bed and pulled on clothes, choosing the suit she’d arrived in – smart but not too showy. She lingered in front of the mirror only long enough to apply a creamy slash of lipstick and check that her hair looked passable before she doubled back to the wardrobe to pull out her hat, pinning it in place as she gestured for him to get going. ‘Is it because it’s a family tradition?’ McGregor asked.
She eyed him with dubiety. ‘Not at all,’ she said. ‘It’s because we might find out something.’
Downstairs, however, it became apparent that the Robertsons were not intending to go to church, or, at least, not Eleanor. The two of them were at the breakfast table, she wearing clothes wholly unsuitable for worship – a pair of check trousers and a short-sleeved cashmere top. ‘Oh God,’ Eleanor exclaimed seeing the two of them in their Sunday best. ‘If you want to go, take the car.’
McGregor picked up a sausage from the sideboard and ate it with his fingers. ‘It’s only habit,’ he said. ‘I mean, we always went to church when Bruce and I were kids. Mirabelle and I don’t bother in Brighton.’
Bruce stood up. ‘Well, I have to. I feel bad enough about not going to see Susan MacLeod’s family yesterday.’
Eleanor looked hollowed out. Mirabelle wondered if she had slept. ‘Why don’t you two go,’ she said kindly. ‘We girls can stay here.’
After McGregor and Bruce left, Gillies replenished the toast. The clock on the mantelpiece seemed to tick particularly loudly this morning. Eleanor peered over her shoulder to check the housekeeper had closed the door. Then she got up and opened the sideboard, taking out a newspaper. ‘Bruce cancelled ours but I managed to get this sent up from the village,’ she said. ‘I miss the news, don’t you? I like knowing what’s going on – the Cold War is still headlining, I see.’
It was a Sunday Telegraph. ‘Shadow of the Bomb’, it pronounced. ‘It was the only paper left,’ Eleanor explained. She split the copy into two and offered Mirabelle half.
Neither woman spoke until Tash came down. As the door opened, Eleanor jumped like a schoolgirl caught with contraband. ‘Oh, it’s you,’ she said.
‘Uncle Niko still has jet lag,’ Tash declared. ‘It’s the worst.’
Mirabelle poured the girl a cup of tea and set the paper aside. She had been wondering about a few things – now the facts had had time to settle.
‘Tash, do you have any idea if there was a link between Susan and your godmother? Anything at all?’
‘I think we’ve all had enough questions,’ Eleanor objected. ‘I mean, there are policemen in the shrubbery and pressmen at the gates and really, enough is enough.’
‘It’s all right, Eleanor,’ Tash said as she picked up her cup. She leaned across the table. ‘There’s no point pretending we aren’t thinking about it the whole time. So, the answer is … I doubt it. Nina wasn’t one for befriending the staff.’
‘Did you ever see them speak?’
‘Yes. Susan did our laundry.’
Eleanor gestured, rolling her hand in the air as if to ask what the point was of having this conversation.
‘And apart from that?’ Mirabelle pressed the girl.
‘I’ve got nothing. I’m sorry.’
Mirabelle turned to Eleanor. ‘And Susan had no connection with Russia that you’re aware of?’
Eleanor snorted. ‘Russia? Susan?’
‘The police found a gun. A Russian one. Near the field where Susan died.’
Eleanor’s brow crinkled. ‘That doesn’t make sense,’ she said. ‘You met her. She was just an ordinary girl. If you’re thinking she was somehow involved with the KGB – well, KGB agents don’t recruit maids, at least not in the Highlands. If she’d been placed in service to someone in the SOE—’
‘What’s the SOE?’ Tash enquired.
‘The British secret service, as was,’ Mirabelle replied smoothly. ‘It’s not called that any more.’
‘Well,’ said Eleanor. ‘If she’d been in the household of a senior secret service officer, I’d say maybe, but why would the Reds place Susan MacLeod here, in this old place with Bruce and me?’
‘Had she worked for you for long?’
‘She started before we got married.’
‘Who took her on?’
‘Gillies knows her mother. I honestly don’t think the girl had ever been further from home than this house. It doesn’t make sense.’
‘So, she would have been … fifteen or sixteen when she first came to work here?’
‘Around that. Poor kid. God, I feel like we’re living in a rat trap. God knows who’s next.’
Mirabelle decided against pushing Eleanor further. She was obviously finding it difficult. ‘What were you doing at fifteen?’ she asked.
Eleanor smiled. ‘In New York? I was still at school.’
‘Tash?’
‘Same. What about you, Mirabelle?’
‘We lived in London. I was about to be sent to be finished.’
Eleanor leaned forward. ‘I’ve always wondered what exactly girls are taught at finishing school.’
Mirabelle smiled. Eleanor was a strange mixture this morning – both forthright and vulnerable. ‘Household management and etiquette – how to address the royal family and senior clergy. Deportment. Elocution—’
‘I thought you went to Oxford?’ Eleanor interrupted. ‘Alan told Bruce that you had a degree.’
Mirabelle smiled. ‘I do. Languages.’
‘Do you speak Russian?’ Tash asked.
‘I can say a few words – I picked those up later, during the war. But I studied French and German. Women at Oxford were expected to get married – that’s what we were there to do, really. Find a husband, though I failed that particular assignment.’
She recalled her student room in Lady Margaret Hall. Everybody knew what had happened to her parents. There had been a couple of young men who had taken a particular interest and it had been painful to realise that it was the money she’d inherited that had brought her to their attention. After that she played her cards close to her chest. It had taken her a long time with Jack to show her cards, and as long again with McGregor and, even now, if she was honest, she was holding an ace or two up her sleeve. Like Niko, though for entirely different reasons, trust was not her strong point.
‘Didn’t you want a husband?’ Eleanor seemed interested.
‘That took a bit longer.’ Mirabelle smiled. ‘I made friends, though. Did you study at college?’
‘I didn’t,’ Eleanor admitted. ‘My family didn’t have the money, and when I was seventeen I started writing for the newspapers. I guess I was lucky – there was a vogue a few years ago for the female point of view.’
‘Oh, that’s ongoing,’ Tash said sagely. ‘I got a commission last year from Harpers to write a piece about not being interested in domestic life.’
‘How did it go down?’
Tash smiled. ‘Let’s just say, the magazine got a lot of mail.’
‘You speak Russian, don’t you, Tash?’ Mirabelle brought them back closer to the point.
‘Da. I grew up with it in the house.’
‘But you don’t hanker after … the old life?’
‘Nyet. Unless by the old life you mean living on the Upper West Side. I guess that’s the old life to me.’
‘Will you stay there when you get home?’
‘I don’t know,’ she said, swirling the tea around her cup.
Eleanor stared at the clock. ‘
I’m going to let Jinx out,’ she said, and pulled the dog from under the table as if he was a magic trick. Jinx, Mirabelle thought, was the quietest animal she’d ever met – except the time he scented Susan’s body on the hill.
Tash watched Eleanor go. Then, when she spoke, the words came in a rush. ‘Mirabelle, I think I know what they might have in common. Susan and my godmother.’
‘What?’
‘It’s something Nina said. She said Bruce was quite shocking. I didn’t think anything of it at the time and then last night I remembered and I’ve been thinking about it ever since.’
‘What do you think she meant?’
‘Two women dying in his house? I am beginning to wonder if what they had in common was, you know, Bruce’s attention.’
‘Bruce?’ It seemed unlikely to Mirabelle. Bruce was far more interested in shooting than he was in people, and more interested in whisky than he was in shooting, if it came to that. Besides, Nina was one kind of woman, a particular kind of conquest; Susan quite another. Tash might be extending the kind of behaviour she suspected Niko of indulging in, to all men.
‘Are you sure that’s what she meant?’ she said. ‘He’s never so much as looked at me.’
‘Me neither,’ Tash admitted, ‘though it makes sense, doesn’t it? As a cover-up, I mean. He doesn’t want his wife to know what he’s been up to. It’s a helluva lot more likely than Uncle Niko’s obsession with the Communists. And Eleanor is so upset. I mean, she was quite gay when we first arrived but yesterday and today she’s been on edge. I suppose we all have, but perhaps it’s because she suspects something? It would be awful, wouldn’t it? I mean if it was your husband.’
Mirabelle considered this. Bruce had been her first instinct too. He was strong and not squeamish. She thought of him, elbow-deep in gore, gutting the deer at the back of the house. ‘He seems so devoted to Eleanor,’ she replied, parroting what McGregor had said. ‘And the alexandrite, Tash? What about that?’
[Mirabelle Bevan 08] - Highland Fling Page 18