‘Nothing else monogrammed. Just some amethysts he had been left in an inheritance.’
Mirabelle’s heart quickened. ‘Do you have them?’
‘They’re going to auction. Lyon and Turnbull. Next week. Would you like to see?’ The auction houses would be watched by now, Mirabelle thought, and wondered if Eddie would be clever enough to include in his alert description not only alexandrite but any stone that might be confused with it.
‘Yes please,’ she said.
They didn’t seem enough to kill over. The one in Nina’s stomach had been the largest. The scatter of sparkling violet cascaded out of a buff envelope on to a dark velvet tray. ‘How much do you want for these?’ Mirabelle asked.
‘They’re marked up to £321/10 shillings. So many of them, do you see? But they’re off to the sale, madam.’
Mirabelle drew out her cheque book and pen. If the girl had known what they were, the price would have been ten times higher. More. ‘Let me add on a little extra for the trouble,’ she said.
Outside she prevaricated for a minute, wondering whether to call Eddie in London. But Dunn was gone. He had been, it seemed, grey as well. Of course he was – if he had been a black and white person he’d have killed Eleanor. She felt she owed him something for that. Reporting him to Eddie was stoking the fires. The very opposite of what she wanted. Dunn was welcome to his freedom. To continue his research in America or wherever he’d gone. Physicists were welcome everywhere – their skills endowing them with forgiveness for whatever they had done before. American laboratories were peopled with scientists who had helped the Nazis. The British, she imagined, were no more exacting.
Haymarket Station was a five-minute walk. She stopped for a moment, slipping into the rectangle of green beside St Mary’s Cathedral, where she sat on a bench. An elderly man was walking a Highland terrier, the two well matched, short legged, and so old they almost creaked. Inside the cathedral somebody was practising the organ, the same piece over and over. ‘The Day Thou Gavest Lord Has Ended’. She’d only ever heard it at funerals. They hadn’t played it at Eleanor’s and Bruce’s, which had taken place in private with no service to speak of, only Mirabelle and McGregor holding hands over the grave and Mrs Gillies clutching a handkerchief but not, as far as Mirabelle could recall, actually crying.
When the old man left the park she picked up some stones at the edge of the grass – two reasonable-sized rocks to weight down the bag. Then she walked smartly to Haymarket and bought a ticket for Kirkcaldy. It was strange, she thought, just choosing a place like that. She could have opted to go to Burntisland or Rosyth, but Kirkcaldy seemed like the right place. The train had only four carriages. Mirabelle slipped into first class alone as it chugged out of the city, past South Queensferry. The bridge was spectacular – a draw for tourists, painted a strong rust colour that stood out against the misty blue sky over the Firth. She’d need to time it well, she knew, but there was a rhythm to the girders as they flew past. Mirabelle pushed down the window and counted. At the middle of the bridge she threw the bag, with all her might, out of the window and into the water.
Back in Edinburgh, a round trip later, she took a taxi to Heriot Row.
‘Have you been to Scotland before, miss?’ the driver asked as he started the engine and set off towards town.
‘We’re here on holiday,’ she replied, ‘It’s my first time up north.’
As she let herself into the building, snow began to tumble out of the darkening sky. Flecks caught in the light from the streetlamps, which came on before it was dark here, late in the afternoon. Mirabelle smiled as the flakes swirled as if they were dancing. On the table, Mrs Gillies had forwarded two wooden boxes. McGregor came out to greet her as she took off her hat and gloves.
‘Where have you been?’
‘I have something for you,’ she said. ‘A gift.’
‘This?’ he asked, indicating the boxes.
They opened the first box in the small kitchen with a knife from the drawer. Inside, the bottles were lined up like soldiers, packed in straw. McGregor picked one up and squinted at the label. ‘Nineteen twelve,’ he said. ‘When did you buy these?’
‘I met one of the girls from the distillery. Our distillery now, I suppose. It’s a wedding gift,’ she said. ‘I chose 1912 because it’s the year you were born. Before the wars,’ she pointed out. ‘Before any of the trouble started.’
‘Before the Russian Revolution,’ McGregor confirmed.
‘The other box is gin. For me.’
‘Gin? From the Highlands?’ McGregor made a face.
He went to the washstand and took down two glasses, lining them up on the edge of the sink and pouring a generous amber dram into each with a splash of water. In this light he looked handsome as his fringe flopped over his forehead. The glow of the lamp seemed to make his eyes bluer. It was McGregor she wanted now – no doubt in her mind. He handed her a glass. ‘To you,’ he toasted, raising his whisky. ‘My wonderful wife-to-be.’
‘I can’t drink to myself,’ she said.
McGregor sat back down. ‘Why not? You’ve been amazing, Mirabelle.’
Mirabelle regarded her glass as if it was a crossword clue. ‘Maybe we should toast the Robertsons. The Green Lady, even.’
‘The ghost?’
‘The legend,’ Mirabelle raised her glass.
The taste took her back to the loch-side – standing with Eleanor by the car, talking about McGregor’s childhood and the war and feeling that she might have found, if not a sister, at least a relation. That’s what had happened. They’d become family. That was the tragedy of it, or one of them. Whisky could never only be a drink now; it was a feeling distilled into liquid form. But she didn’t say that. Instead, she kissed McGregor, relishing the bitterness of the iodine and the hint of smoked peat that opened on his lips as the spirit rose to body temperature.
There was nothing for it in the end but to choose to live. She’d learned that with Jack in Nuremberg and had returned home determined to turn her back on all the death. And then Jack, himself, had died. ‘We need to find a house, Superintendent McGregor,’ she said. ‘And a date. And a dress. I’m going to get Vesta to help me.’
‘Is this what you think about when I leave you on your own?’ McGregor teased. ‘I like it.’ She took another sip of the whisky. ‘Let’s go out for dinner tonight,’ he said. At first they hadn’t eaten at all, but now slowly their appetites were returning, outrunning Mirabelle’s limited ability to cook. They had eaten out every night in the last week. The Pompadour restaurant at the Caledonian Hotel, with its hand-painted wallpaper and fancy French food, and the carvery at the George – meat and two veg. ‘I heard they serve roast beef up at the bar at the Roxburghe,’ McGregor said. ‘It sounds chic. Italian waiters and glasses of champagne. I think you’d like it.’
‘I’ll get changed,’ Mirabelle said. She’d bought a cocktail dress in Jenners the other day. McGregor had declared he liked it. ‘Silver suits you,’ he enthused. She’d wear that one tonight, she decided, though it wasn’t silver, she insisted silently. It was definitely more of a grey.
Author’s note
The quotations and misquotations used to open each Chapter are taken from the following sources:
It is best to avoid the beginnings of evil: Henry David Thoreau. Courage is the quality that guarantees all others: Aristotle. There is nothing insignificant in the world: Goethe. The death of a beautiful woman is the most poetical topic in the world: Edgar Allan Poe. Better three hours too soon than a minute too late: Shakespeare. Happiness was born a twin: Byron. Belief is a wise wager: Pascal.
We must take our friends as they are: Boswell. Make perseverance your bosom friend: Joseph Addison. To be prepared is half the victory: Miguel de Cervantes. If Heaven had looked upon riches to be valuable, it would not have given them to such a fool: Jonathan Swift. Dreams are the touchstones of character: Henry David Thoreau. Murder: the killing of a person without valid excuse: dictionary definition. To d
o a great right do a little wrong: Shakespeare. Every man is a piece of the continent: John Donne. The only evil is ignorance: Herodotus. Trust: belief in someone or something: dictionary definition. No one can confidently say that he will still be living tomorrow: Euripides. Goodness is the only investment that never fails: Henry David Thoreau. Nothing great was achieved without danger: Machiavelli. A beautiful woman must expect to be accountable for her steps: Samuel Richardson.
Acknowledgements
Highland Fling goes out to the Lindley/McKenzie clan whose family home is the basis of the house in the Highlands that Mirabelle visits in this novel (though in real life it isn’t in the Highlands and nobody has ever been murdered there). The book is dedicated particularly to the memory of Clive Lindley, my wonderful uncle, sadly missed for his advice, his ability to listen and his interesting take on just about everything. Thanks are also due to my parents, Kate and Ron Goodwin, who are staunch Mirabelle fans (I think they quite like me as well …), and a shout-out to my long-suffering editor, Krystyna Green, who knows what she likes and is usually right, goddamn it. She suggested rewriting part of the first draft of this novel, thus improving the narrative immeasurably, and is a star for that. To Penny Isaac, whose unwavering eye and dedication to the 1950s detail is always an inspiration and valuable support, and Amanda Keats who keeps us organised – thank goodness! To Alan Ferrier and Molly Sheridan, suppliers of elegant solutions of all kinds – thank you for your patience and kindness. Molly, you keep me exacting no matter what. And lastly, to Jenny Brown my brilliant agent, who dedicates herself to stories that change the world, even ones like mine, that hope to do so laterally.
[Mirabelle Bevan 08] - Highland Fling Page 29