Eddie rolled his palm to hurry Mirabelle along to the point of his journey north. ‘The alexandrite,’ he said. ‘Found in the first woman’s stomach.’
‘Ah, that’s what you’re interested in?’
Eddie nodded.
‘I wondered. Why?’
‘You are supposed to be debriefing me,’ Eddie objected. Mirabelle cocked her head. If she understood what he wanted, it would make the whole thing quicker, and he knew it. ‘Oh, very well. It seems this alexandrite is useful stuff,’ he said.
‘Useful?’
‘Do you know what a microwave is?’
Mirabelle shook her head.
‘Our boffins are currently extremely excited about them. Last year the Yanks developed a machine called a maser. Heard of it?’
‘No.’
‘It stands for, now let me get this right, Microwave amplification by stimulated emission of radiation. Quite a mouthful. It keeps time in atomic clocks.’ Eddie clapped his palms. ‘For bombs, Mirabelle. Or rather, The Bomb. The only one that counts.’
‘And alexandrite?’
‘Refracts light or energy or something. Inside the maser. I’m not a scientist.’
‘Ah,’ Mirabelle said. The police thought they were kicking the case upstairs when they found the Russian pistol and heard about the mysterious stranger in the woods, but Eddie had been on it well before that. ‘So when alexandrite turned up …’
‘It came to me.’
‘Would that be at the Home Office?’ McGregor asked.
‘A bit higher up than that, old chap.’ Eddie sounded testy. ‘So who was the woman exactly? The one who swallowed it. Did you meet her?’
‘She died before we got here. All I know is that she was a visiting Russian American. She’d been here about a week when she was killed. A fashion buyer. Right wing, I’d say. Very,’ Mirabelle filled him in. Eddie’s gaze made her wonder if Nina might be more than she seemed. If she was what Jack had always referred to as ‘connected’.
‘She’s not one of ours,’ Eddie read her expression. ‘Do you think this woman wanted alexandrite for the Russian government?’
‘Oh no. Nina was a White Russian. A civilian. A fascist sympathiser, in fact. She got into an affray and, let me see—’
‘This isn’t at all clear,’ Eddie snapped. ‘Where did the woman get the alexandrite? And why? What is the Russian involvement – were they set to buy it?’
‘I can’t see that they would need to buy it. I mean, it’s from Russia. They have the source.’
Eddie sighed. ‘Yes. Well if they aren’t buying it, they’re either supplying it or selling it. Either way we can’t have that willy-nilly. And I need to find out why it’s up here at all. We have our work cut out. What have you been doing with your time? And where is the telephone?’ he asked.
Mirabelle indicated the door to the hall. ‘There’s one out there. Or, if you prefer privacy, next to the dining room there’s another in Bruce’s study.’
‘I’ll report what we have. And then we’ll get on, shall we?’ Eddie left the room.
McGregor turned to Mirabelle. ‘Well?’ he said. ‘Maybe you should debrief me too.’
She felt sick. McGregor coming clean about his secret had ultimately made her feel closer to him, but she wasn’t sure that returning the favour was going to have the same effect on his emotions. As she took a deep breath, she thought of Niko, encouraging her to speak up. ‘I want to tell you that I had a difficult war,’ she started. ‘I’m like you. I failed too. People died because of me and the truth is there were more than fifteen of them. I never told you any more than you told me so really there’s no reason for you to feel guilty about what you did.’
‘You always said you were a secretary during the war.’
‘I was. I worked for a man called Jack Duggan. I was in love with him. He was a senior naval officer working in intelligence and he was married – the same man I told you about before. I was assigned to his office because I could speak French and German. While I was there, I learned Spanish.’
‘Spain was neutral. You pointed that out yourself when Bruce said it. Do you remember?’
‘Nominally. Yes, it was neutral.’ Mirabelle arched her eyebrow. ‘Jack operated several of our people in the field and worked closely with Resistance cells in France and Germany. We had escape corridors through Spain,’ she admitted. ‘I signed the Official Secrets Act. I’ve never told a soul. I probably still can’t – tell you the details, I mean.’ She felt tears welling. ‘Jack and I …’
McGregor took her hand. ‘I know you were in love, Belle,’ he said gently. ‘A woman like you … how could I be the first? I have no regrets that you have a past. How could I? But who’s this man? Brandon?’
Mirabelle felt her tears subside. ‘Eddie worked for Jack,’ she explained. ‘I’ve known him since 1940. He’s highly competent. There was a lot of pressure during the war. Sometimes we made the wrong decisions. I probably had more input than I should have. Jack used to take me everywhere. But I was good at it. When we debriefed, we realised some of the men responded better to a woman, so they upped my security clearance so I could work with returning escapees – you know, from the POW camps. And with couriers. And with Germans,’ she added. ‘Double agents. Nobody ever talks about those.’
McGregor seemed to take the revelations in his stride. ‘I bet you were good at getting people to talk.’
She nodded. ‘A cup of tea and just listening can work wonders. Jack was the stick. I was the carrot. Eddie was something in between. He’s a devious bastard. That’s not me talking – that’s what Jack always said about him. Hard as nails. And queer. And clever. I have never seen him with a hair out of place.’
‘Queer?’
‘As Gregory. Anyway, I’m not perfect either. That’s the point. For us, I mean.’
‘What you’re talking about is different from my case,’ McGregor cut in. ‘What you did isn’t negligence. In fact, it’s the opposite of negligence.’
‘It still feels like guilt. Jack took difficult decisions. Quite often we wouldn’t sleep afterwards. We used to walk around London for hours. In the blackout. One night during the Blitz we stayed out all night. I think we were waiting for some kind of divine retribution in the shape of a Luftwaffe bomb. Four brave people died that day. Actually, it’s worse than that. Jack let them die. We all did.’
McGregor’s eyes softened. ‘We’re some pair, aren’t we?’
‘Niko said I should tell you. That I was hopeless at talking about, you know, relationships.’
‘Niko?’ McGregor stiffened. ‘You told Niko this?’
‘I didn’t tell him anything. But he’s right. Knowing about you has brought us closer. Maybe it would be good if you knew more about me. Eddie seems OK with you being here. He didn’t have to keep you in the room just now. That means we can work on this together. If you still want to. I’m only a civilian here.’
‘A civilian,’ McGregor repeated.
‘Yes,’ Mirabelle said, considering the word and realising that, clearly, some people weren’t civilians. Somebody had been working for the Russians. One person at least.
‘Well, if you’re a civilian, I guess I am too. And I’m less concerned with the alexandrite than your friend is. The main thing is that we get Eleanor back,’ McGregor said.
Mirabelle was deep in thought. ‘Her diamond watch,’ she managed to get out. ‘That’s the thing. I can’t quite put my finger on it.’
Within half an hour, the staff were up. Elizabeth set the fires, replacing the pillows scattered across the drawing-room floor on the sofa frames and opening the curtains. The sun was rising across the glen. The policemen gathered in the kitchen, where Mrs Gillies dispensed fried egg rolls and sweet tea as they chatted. ‘It’s not summer out there, Davey,’ one said.
‘I’ve heard the Russian winter is worse.’
‘Aye. That’ll be why they’re here, the Russians, in our balmy temperatures, trying to snatch the laird’s wif
e. Three below zero is a holiday for them.’
The dining room was set for McGregor, Mirabelle and Eddie, who had requested tea and thin slices of buttered toast. ‘You’ve searched the house, I take it?’ Eddie checked with Mirabelle. ‘Because, if not, we need to tear the place apart in case there are more stones.’
‘I went through Eleanor’s office last night,’ Mirabelle admitted. ‘There was nothing. And the police went through her private rooms yesterday. The day before I checked in here and the drawing room.’ McGregor looked at her. ‘While you were out …’ Mirabelle answered his unspoken question.
‘And Eleanor?’ McGregor said. ‘What about her?’
‘The police are still looking,’ Eddie replied. ‘We need to turn our attention to this. It’s a matter of national security and it’s connected.’
‘You think both murders were because of this alexandrite?’ McGregor added.
Eddie hated explaining. He bit into a slice of toast and sipped his tea. ‘Yes. Of course,’ he said.
Mirabelle stepped in. ‘Obviously Nina’s was. I mean, she swallowed a stone. We don’t definitely know what happened to Susan. But it seems likely now we know the value of alexandrite – that there is more than monetary value, I mean. She must have found out, somehow.’
‘So who do you think killed them?’
Eddie put down his cup. Mirabelle stiffened. This was generally the precursor to somebody getting a rollicking and McGregor was being dense. Before Eddie could speak, though, a constable came into the room. ‘A telegram, miss,’ he said, and handed a slip to Mirabelle. ‘From Inverness.’
‘Thank you.’ She opened it.
On way, it said. EB
Mirabelle turned it over. ‘Looks like you’re on your way, Eddie.’
They laughed. ‘Faster than a speeding bullet,’ Eddie said. ‘Well, it was only polite to give you notice. So, first, I need a plan of the house and estate.’
‘There’s one framed upstairs, in the hallway,’ McGregor offered.
Eddie put down his cup. ‘Let’s fetch it.’
From the doorway, Mrs Gillies cleared her throat. ‘Miss Bevan,’ she said, ‘I wondered about lunch.’
Mirabelle waved her off. ‘I’m sure the policemen would like soup or something, Mrs Gillies, but I don’t have the heart. Just do whatever you think is best.’
Mrs Gillies lingered. ‘There are a couple of other household issues, miss. Might I have a word?’
Mirabelle wasn’t sure how to explain. She was hopeless at anything domestic. Gillies was treating her like the mistress of the house, and, as the top-ranking woman, perhaps that was right, but honestly, the housekeeper would probably get more sense out of Bruce. The men disappeared up the hall to fetch the plans. ‘Please, miss,’ Gillies was insistent. ‘If I could see you privately. Only for a moment.’
‘Perhaps Mr Robertson can help …’ Mirabelle started, but Gillies came further into the dining room and closed the door. ‘Forgive my dishonesty, miss, but I think I might be able to help with your investigation. That is to say, there’s something you ought to know.’
‘Really, Gillies?’
‘It’s only …’ The housekeeper crossed herself. ‘It’s Robertson business and for the women alone.’
Mirabelle felt her fingertips tingling. ‘What is it?’
‘The Green Lady, Miss Bevan.’
‘The ghost?’
‘Oh, she’s not a ghost. Heaven’s sake, that’s only chatter in the village. What do they know? The thing is, I can’t tell the officers about it. You mustn’t either.’
‘We can’t withhold information, Mrs Gillies. There’s too much at stake.’
‘This is the Highlands. We’ve been withholding information from the authorities for centuries. If I show you, and it’s relevant, we’ll have to think of something.’ Mirabelle considered this momentarily. She wanted Gillies to tell her. ‘Very well,’ she said.
Gillies led her through the hallway and up the main staircase into the dressing room of the main suite, where she carefully locked the connecting door to the bedroom in which Bruce lay sleeping. The place was in disarray. The policemen hadn’t been careful. It would take hours to put the room back. Uncharacteristically, Gillies ignored the mess and instead opened the doors of the large mahogany wardrobe, which had been filled with Eleanor’s clothes. She muttered a short prayer, pulled out one of the drawers and twisted a knob hidden beneath the lip. Then she pushed back the clothes the police search had left to reveal the back of the wardrobe as it slid to one side.
Mirabelle peered inside. Lit by a tiny skylight, the wardrobe concealed a room. It was only six feet square, and inside stood a worn wooden statue mounted on a plinth, of a woman in a green robe, the paint long flaking. ‘Is this a priest hole?’ she asked.
Gillies shook her head. ‘There was a priest hole in the old Robertson house. That was many generations ago. By the time the family built this place, the killing times were over and the lady of the house had this hidden chamber installed, almost in memoriam. I understand it came in handy after Culloden when Charlie Robertson was on the retreat. His sister hid him here for several weeks in 1746 before they could smuggle him to France. There were redcoats everywhere, running amok.’
‘And Eleanor knew this was here?’ Mirabelle checked.
‘Only Mrs Robertson knew, apart from myself.’
‘Not Bruce?’
‘The Robertson women pass the secret from generation to generation. Mother to daughter. I suppose Katrine Robertson must have shown her brother when she saved his life, but the secret died with him, in the male line. When you marry Mr McGregor, you’ll be a Robertson, Miss Bevan, and you’ll be entitled to the knowledge. I didn’t want to withhold this place, but I couldn’t bring myself to tell one of the policemen. The Robertson women have kept the Green Lady safe all the years; I couldn’t throw her open.’
The little room felt eerie. As Mirabelle climbed through the wardrobe, Gillies stood guard like a gorgon. Briefly Mirabelle imagined hiding in this room for weeks, maybe months on end. It was like a cell. She ran her hands over the plinth and up the Green Lady’s robes. Her fingers quickly searched out a tiny button on the reverse of the wooden book the saint was holding. She clicked it and behind the plinth a second concealed door opened. ‘What’s this?’
‘The tunnel,’ Gillies said. ‘It comes out down behind the lodge. Nobody has used it for centuries as far as I’m aware. Is it a help, miss?’
Mirabelle peered inside. The tunnel was low – perhaps only four feet high. A set of steps ran down, between what she realised was the back wall of the drawing room and the front wall of the day room. She used her fingers to check the walls at the top of the stair. They were solid. Then, as she turned, she inspected the back of the door. People forgot doors once they had passed through them. The fronting was lined with four pine panels. As she tapped she realised one was hollow. An examination of the edging revealed how to open it so the panel swung out. Inside, there was an old bible. Mirabelle removed it. ‘Mrs Gillies?’
‘I don’t know, miss.’ Gillies said. ‘I didn’t know that was there.’
There was nothing inside the book beyond the printed text. Mirabelle noted the date on the flyleaf – 1790 – such a long time ago. In spidery writing at the front, somebody had drawn a Robertson family tree going back to the 1640s. She felt momentarily as if she was being pulled by a long thread, anchored centuries ago by a clever woman. ‘Miss,’ Gillies said, ‘I can hear Mr Robertson stirring.’
Mirabelle nodded. She replaced the bible and it was only then she realised that the old book wasn’t dusty enough. The rest of the crevice was coated in a thick layer, but not the cover. Something had sat on top of the book and had been removed.
‘Was Mrs Robertson devout?’ she asked, as she closed the door and climbed out of the wardrobe.
‘Not especially,’ Gillies said doubtfully.
‘I didn’t think so. Thank you, Mrs Gillies.’ Mirabelle thought for a m
oment. ‘If this is somewhere the Robertson women keep to themselves, did Alan’s mother know about it?’
‘Oh yes, miss. Miss Deidre was the one who showed me. She knew once she was gone there would be nobody to keep the secret, what with Mr Bruce and Mr Alan both being bachelors. She hoped one of them would marry. I showed Mrs Robertson when she first came to the house as Mr Bruce’s bride. She was delighted.’
Mirabelle grimaced. ‘I’m sure she was,’ she said. ‘And nobody else knows?’
‘You and I, Miss Bevan, and I for one will take the lady’s secret to the grave.’
The room smelled of dust now. Both women stopped as they heard Bruce leave the main bedroom and pad along the hallway towards the stairs. At least he’d managed some sleep. ‘I shall tell them we were discussing dinner, if they ask,’ Gillies said. ‘Do you have any instructions about what to serve?’
‘I wouldn’t dream of issuing you with instructions, Mrs Gillies. You fire ahead with whatever you think best. Mr Brandon will probably be joining us. Before you go, can I ask, do you like Mrs Robertson?’
‘Like?’ Gillies looked for a moment as if she was considering if she had ever liked anybody.
‘Yes,’ Mirabelle persisted. ‘I mean, Eleanor’s fun. Lively. Good for Bruce. She was a breath of fresh air around here, wasn’t she?’
‘I was glad that Mr Bruce married,’ Gillies allowed herself to say.
‘And politically she was quite a change. Do you support that change?’
‘I’m not a Communist, if that’s what you’re asking.’
‘But I’ll bet you’re glad Eleanor is your mistress and not, say, Gwendolyn Dougal.’
Mrs Gillies sniffed. ‘Our boys died,’ she said simply. ‘And Nazi sympathisers like Lady Dougal never paid for what they did – they encouraged the Germans for years before the war started.’
‘I think Gwendolyn Dougal would be more accurately termed a conservative,’ Mirabelle said.
Gillies’s eyes sparked. ‘That’s what they call it now. But let me tell you, the Earl of Erroll had a sporran with a Nazi insignia – his valet told me. The Duke of Buccleugh was an appeaser. In 1939, the Duke of Hamilton wrote a piece in The Times about Germany’s right to take Poland. We all read it. And they got away with it. Every one of them. And our boys died fighting. Those people sided with the enemy and kept quiet about it afterwards – they can call themselves whatever they like now, it makes no difference to me. I know who they are.’
[Mirabelle Bevan 08] - Highland Fling Page 23