[Mirabelle Bevan 08] - Highland Fling

by Sara Sheridan

  ‘Our boys?’

  ‘My nephew,’ Gillies said.

  ‘So you lost your husband to the Great War, and your nephew in the second? I’m very sorry.’

  Gillies gave an almost indiscernible shrug. ‘I recall serving at table in this house and a guest remarking that the first war was necessary,’ she said. ‘To keep the power on the right. To stop Britain becoming a Communist state – as if that was ever our way. Afterwards I was sick. All those lads dead and it was for nothing. General Haig should have been strung up. None of us want it to be pointless, but it was and that’s the truth.’

  ‘I take it, you’d heard Eleanor talk about politics and you’d agreed with her, more or less?’

  Gillies acquiesced. ‘You asked me if I like her. I’d say she’s a good woman, at heart. Better than most.’

  ‘And the current situation, Mrs Gillies? The Cold War?’

  ‘The rockets, you mean? My sister says the hills will act as a shield if the Russians launch a strike. One thing’s for sure, they’re not aiming at old women like me, Miss Bevan.’

  Mirabelle nodded slowly. ‘Thank you for trusting me, Mrs Gillies, I won’t say a word.’

  Mirabelle headed back to the drawing room. It would never have struck her that the Highlands was so political or, for that matter, principled. In Brighton, morals had become more lax since the war. There was no doubt of that. Young people didn’t care as much as her generation had – they wanted something new. Something more free. If anything, that’s what they’d fight for. She’d had the expectation that up here it would be the same as Brighton, but this was a different country. If many people thought like Mrs Gillies, Macmillan and his government wouldn’t be able to count on Scotland’s vote, she thought. Not that that kind of thing was her business any more.

  Bruce had joined McGregor and Eddie in the drawing room and was giving a short lecture about the estate’s layout. Eddie had lit a cigarette. ‘It’s not a kidnap,’ Mirabelle announced. ‘It’s not what we thought it was. None of it.’

  ‘Do you know where she is?’ Eddie asked.

  ‘I know she left of her own free will.’

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘The watch,’ Mirabelle replied, because that made sense now. ‘No kidnapper lets you don jewellery before he takes you. Eleanor only ever wore it in the evening. It’s a dress piece. It wasn’t on her wrist when she left the drawing room yesterday afternoon – she had her little gold strip – so if she dropped the diamond watch once she’d left, it means she fetched it before leaving. She knew she was going to go.’

  ‘It wasn’t a kidnap.’

  ‘I realised when I was upstairs. She went up there. She changed – probably into suitable clothes to travel. She removed her valuables – the watch and who knows what else, but certainly any alexandrite there might have been. And then she ran.’

  ‘Look here,’ Bruce started to object.

  McGregor put a hand on his cousin’s arm. ‘We need to figure this out to find Eleanor. Go on, Mirabelle.’

  ‘But she wouldn’t leave me,’ Bruce said. ‘She couldn’t.’

  Everyone ignored his comment and Mirabelle continued. ‘We don’t know what Eleanor was running from, or indeed what she might be running to. But if we know it wasn’t kidnap, it makes her marginally easier to follow. She’s working to her own agenda and people generally run to somewhere they know. There are no cars missing. The horses are in the paddock. That means it’s likely Eleanor’s on foot. Bruce, could you fetch the walking maps?’

  Bruce hesitated a moment and then disappeared out of the room.

  ‘Should we pass on this information to the men looking for her?’ McGregor asked.

  ‘Not yet,’ said Eddie. ‘You know more, don’t you, Belle? Does she have the alexandrite? Do you know that?’

  ‘Not for sure,’ Mirabelle admitted. ‘But she definitely took something she was hiding. I don’t know what it was but there was a package of some sort concealed in her room.’

  ‘How do you know?’ McGregor asked.

  Mirabelle felt her cheeks colour. She hoped he wouldn’t notice. ‘Dust moved on a surface,’ she said. ‘In an alcove. A hiding place.’ It was always better to tell the truth – just, in this case, maybe not the whole truth.

  McGregor seemed to accept this. ‘So, did she know who tried to kill her?’ he asked.

  Bruce returned with the walking maps and behind his back Mirabelle shrugged. They were all aware they couldn’t talk freely in front of McGregor’s cousin. Instead, Mirabelle helped him to lay out the map.

  ‘Where did they find the watch?’ she asked Eddie.

  Eddie examined the map efficiently. ‘West of here and north.’ He pointed to the moor beyond the mountains that overlooked Brochmor.

  ‘On foot she might make four miles an hour. She’d be lucky at that – it’s difficult ground,’ Mirabelle said. Bruce looked at her with a shocked expression tempered with admiration. ‘She started here.’ Mirabelle pointed at the location of the Robertson estate. ‘By the time she dropped the watch, it must have been three hours later. She was set on a course. I mean, we can guess the broad sweep of her direction from that information, and actually, it’s a strange one.’

  ‘Yes,’ Eddie mused as he perused it. ‘What’s a clue but a mistake given another name?’

  ‘What’s strange about it?’ Bruce stared at the map.

  McGregor nodded slowly as he took in the information. ‘It’s illogical, Bruce. I mean, if you want to get out of difficult territory you make for transport. As your wife, Eleanor can’t just turn up at the local railway station – or anywhere local, in fact. Everybody knows who she is. She’d be recognised in a heartbeat. Logically she should make for somewhere she won’t be recognised, and her best chance at that is on the coast.’

  Eddie nodded. ‘It’s a long coastline,’ he said. ‘Look at it.’

  This was certainly true. The line intruded inland a long way, taking in the inlets of a sea loch which Eleanor had seemingly passed by. McGregor continued. ‘She could steal a boat, or even hire one, if it was far away enough. She’d be less likely to be recognised, wouldn’t she? Either that or she ought to make for as large a town as she can – she might get away unnoticed at Inverness Railway Station, for example, or Aberdeen. But she hasn’t gone in that direction. Actually, she hasn’t gone straight for the coast either. She’s headed inland to the Highlands. Away from the coast and away from the main towns. I mean, what’s she playing at? There’s nothing there.’

  ‘I wouldn’t say that, old man. There’s got to be something,’ Eddie laid a finger on the land to the west of where the watch was found. ‘They lost her scent over rock – that has to be somewhere here,’ he mused. ‘Mr Robertson, what’s in this direction? This twenty-mile stretch, say?’ He drew a circle with his finger.

  Bruce put his hand to his chin. ‘There are a couple of places – friends with estates,’ he said. ‘Small villages. Are you sure she isn’t heading for the coast – the west coast, that is?’

  Mirabelle considered this. ‘It’s a helluva walk,’ she said. ‘Across hills too. Why would she do that? She doesn’t have to, just to get to the sea. Is there anybody in this area she likes, Bruce?’ Mirabelle refocused Bruce’s attention on the circle Eddie had drawn. ‘Anyone she might feel close to?’

  ‘Quite the reverse, I’d say. And they mostly live in London. They come up for the shooting, that kind of thing. Not at this time of year. A lot of that area is forested, actually. There are a few climbers’ huts. Some academics from time to time – mostly in the summer.’

  ‘Academics?’ Eddie’s voice sounded casual. Mirabelle stifled a smile. He was very good. Bruce continued, getting into his stride. He wanted his wife back, after all. They all did.

  ‘The geology is interesting, apparently. And the archaeology. St Andrews brings students up during the breaks – not at this time of year, though.’

  Eddie grinned. ‘We’ve found the boffins,’ he said.
‘Do you know where they live while they’re here?’

  ‘They bought a place,’ Bruce replied. ‘On Michael McGregor’s estate. He couldn’t believe what they paid.’

  ‘And where is that?’

  Bruce squinted at the map. ‘There,’ he replied, pointing. ‘West of Struy.’

  Eddie picked up the chart and left the room. ‘Sergeant,’ he shouted as he passed through the doorway and headed towards the kitchen.

  Mirabelle sank on to the sofa.

  ‘Will they find her now?’ Bruce asked. ‘I mean, if she ran, she must have been terrified. Someone tried to kill her yesterday and she didn’t feel safe here, in her own home. My poor El.’

  Mirabelle’s heart sank. She wasn’t sure what to say. Eleanor almost certainly had the alexandrite. And that meant she was involved in something unspeakably shady. Government lists of potential spies included a high proportion of academics and journalists. Eleanor had been in the second group before she got married and this might link her to the first. ‘Bruce,’ she said, trying to break it to him gently. ‘The thing is, Eleanor might be with somebody.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘She might not be … alone.’

  ‘I don’t care about anything like that. I mean, this is more important. Poor El. After everything that’s gone on, she’s afraid for her life. And frankly, the police have been bloody useless! Until your friend turned up, nobody had a bloody clue.’

  Alan laid a hand on Mirabelle’s shoulder. He knew Mirabelle wasn’t referring to an affair but there was no point filling Bruce in. ‘We’ll know soon enough,’ he said. ‘Let’s not worry about it till then.’

  Chapter 17

  Trust: belief in someone or something

  The police brought Eleanor back just after ten o’clock. Bruce burst out of the front door, launching himself at his wife as she approached the house, flanked by two officers who had parked their vehicle at the top of the drive. He flung his arms around her as she stepped on to the portico. ‘Oh thank God! We’ve been so worried.’

  ‘The dogs found me,’ Eleanor said.

  ‘It wasn’t only the dogs, darling. Mirabelle has been a marvel. She figured out where you were, from those old maps in the cupboard and your bally watch,’ Bruce enthused.

  Eleanor cast Mirabelle a cold glance as she stood in the doorway. Then Eddie stepped forward and introduced himself. ‘A word, Mrs Robertson?’

  ‘We can talk later. I’m exhausted. Is it all right if I go to bed?’ Eleanor said, pushing past him and into the hall.

  ‘No,’ Eddie replied. ‘It is not.’

  Eleanor cast a glance up the stairs. ‘If I could only wash and change my clothes—’

  ‘That’s out of the question, Eleanor,’ Mirabelle stepped in. ‘You won’t be going up to your room,’ she said with finality. Bruce looked taken aback. Denying a woman the right to freshen up was an unthinkable discourtesy. Eleanor played on this. She hadn’t given up on being able to sneak off through the wardrobe. Or, Mirabelle thought, perhaps just hide in the secret room until it was safe to escape again.

  ‘First I was kidnapped …’ she started.

  ‘Kidnapped?’ Eddie snapped. ‘By whom? Did you arrest somebody with Mrs Robertson?’ One of the police officers behind Eleanor shook his head.

  ‘I was bound. Hand and foot,’ Eleanor hissed.

  ‘And yet you were alone when the police found you, Mrs Robertson. Who was this kidnapper? Can you describe him? What was his name?’

  ‘I don’t know. He didn’t give me his calling card. He was Russian – a tall chap with dark hair. He grabbed me. Gagged me.’

  ‘Where?’

  Eleanor sighed. ‘He bundled me out of the back door. Gillies was in the laundry.’

  Mirabelle shook her head. ‘We know you weren’t kidnapped,’ she said. ‘We know that, Eleanor.’

  Quite apart from the watch, Mirabelle noticed that Eleanor was wearing two cashmere sweaters and a thick jacket. She had known she was leaving. She had dressed for it.

  ‘I have to sleep. I just have to,’ Eleanor continued, insistent. ‘I think it’s the shock.’

  ‘The dogs are still looking for the man, sir,’ the policeman chipped in. ‘So far they haven’t picked up his scent. We have a team searching the cottage where we found Mrs Robertson.’

  Eleanor was swaying on her feet as if she might fall. It was a convincing act, Mirabelle thought, but she wasn’t about to let her disappear through the wardrobe again.

  ‘And you found Mrs Robertson constrained?’ she checked with the men.

  ‘Yes, miss.’

  ‘How was she constrained exactly?’

  Eleanor shot further daggers in Mirabelle’s direction. ‘I was gagged,’ she said. ‘And tied up using rope.’ She held out her hands to show Mirabelle the marks.

  ‘And this person, this tall, dark man, just left you? In a cottage. In the middle of nowhere?’

  ‘Yes!’ Eleanor snapped. ‘I was terrified.’ There was fury in her eyes but also, Mirabelle noticed, tears welling. Bruce noticed too. He produced a handkerchief.

  Mirabelle’s mind swam, trying to figure out how much of what Eleanor said was true. Although she hadn’t been kidnapped, it was possible she had an accomplice – probable, in fact. Still, in any conclusion everything would have to fit into place, like a lock opening. Like Gregory cracking the safe. She considered the evidence that they had accumulated – the life Bruce and Eleanor had built, Nina’s character, the discarded Russian pistol on the back lane, the alexandrite and Eleanor’s face as she arrived home only a few moments before. She smiled, remembering Gregory trying to follow the money, and then her attention returned to Eleanor’s diamond watch and the way she was dressed. The ideas became a flood, more than she could focus on. But, she realised, if you thought about it, there was money. Right there, at the nub of things. ‘I need to talk to Mrs Robertson alone,’ she announced. ‘You have some questions to answer, Eleanor, and it’s best we do that privately. In the day room, perhaps?’

  Mirabelle gestured up the hallway towards the gothic room next to the orangery. It would be the best place, she thought – to the rear of the house, relatively easy to guard, and small enough for Eleanor to feel constrained if she played it right. ‘We need a policeman outside the window,’ she said.

  Eddie nodded. ‘All right,’ he agreed. ‘I’ll sit in.’

  ‘Give me five minutes,’ Mirabelle’s tone was flat – she was telling him, not asking. ‘On our own.’

  Eddie looked at his watch. ‘Five minutes.’

  Ahead of them the maid disappeared into the back room, carrying a zinc bucket of kindling and a small brush and shovel, ready to set the fire. The niceties, Mirabelle thought; still it would be cold in there. The girl left the door slightly open and Mirabelle followed her. A constable appeared outside the window. Mirabelle gestured to him to move away. He was only there to stop Eleanor breaking out. She curled her finger, miming for him to turn round. Then she closed the lower shutters to block out the bottom of the window. She locked the door to the orangery, slipped the key into her pocket and snapped on the overhead light. They would need privacy.

  Inside, accompanied by one of the officers, Eleanor sat down. The electric light was unforgiving. Dark circles under her eyes made it clear she hadn’t slept. The officer closed the door behind him as he left the room and Elizabeth stood up, the curl of flames kindling in the grate. ‘Thank you, Elizabeth,’ Mirabelle said, considering where to start – perhaps telling Eleanor she knew how she had got out, to make it clear there would be no escape, and her best bet was to come clean. But as she was about to speak, the maid reached into the bucket, drawing a gun with a distended barrel from underneath the kindling. It had a silencer. She pointed the gun at Eleanor.

  ‘Look out!’ Mirabelle snapped in warning.

  At these words, Elizabeth turned towards Mirabelle, her eyes hard. She clicked off the safety catch. Without thinking any further, Mirabelle launched herself at t
he maid, catching her arm so that she let off two shots that hardly made a sound and thankfully missed both Mirabelle and Eleanor, embedding themselves in the door. ‘Move!’ Mirabelle called to Eleanor as she tried to grab hold of Elizabeth, who immediately let off another two silent bullets.

  Mirabelle cried out. Her arm suddenly flared with pain as one of the bullets penetrated her flesh at close range. Her legs gave way and a wave of nausea turned her stomach as blood dripped down her forearm on to the carpet. Breathing deeply, she managed to regain her footing, clasping her injured arm.

  ‘Oh shit,’ Eleanor said, moving towards the door, but she wasn’t quick enough and Elizabeth once more turned the gun towards her mistress. Eleanor froze, raising her hands. ‘What are you doing?’ she asked.

  ‘What does it look like, madam?’ Elizabeth sneered.

  ‘You?’ said Eleanor. ‘They’ll come in here, you know. They’ll catch you.’

  Mirabelle knew this wasn’t true, not immediately. Eddie would give her a full five minutes – that was the drill. The men would have returned to the drawing room. Any officers in the house would have been told not to enter no matter what. Eddie knew what asking for time alone with a witness usually meant. Any noise and he’d assume Mirabelle was applying pressure of a particular kind. They needed to make it to the door, she thought. And, unless they could disarm the girl when they did so, they’d have to be careful in case there was an officer standing in the hallway. She didn’t want anyone else getting shot.

  She ignored the pain that was blossoming along her arm and attempted to focus. Using her other arm, she shoved the maid hard. The girl stumbled and fired another two bullets in rapid succession. One disappeared into the carpet and the second hit Eleanor in the foot. To her credit she didn’t howl, instead gasping in pain. Elizabeth moved smartly. Furious at missing her shot, the girl turned once more towards Eleanor to finish the job, but Mirabelle launched herself in the maid’s direction again, this time knocking the gun hard so that it fell to the floor. Quick as lightning, Eleanor picked it up as Mirabelle held Elizabeth back. ‘If I don’t get you, one of us will,’ the girl snarled at her mistress. ‘You’re a dead woman. You’re a traitor and a thief. Where are the stones? Where have you hidden them?’