Death Will Find Me (A Tessa Kilpatrick Mystery, Book 1)

by Vanessa Robertson

  Chapter Seven

  Edinburgh’s mortuary was near the Cowgate, a dark place in the old part of the city. Run down tenements rose above the narrow street, lined at ground level with brothels and public houses. It was a part of town so easily, and so often, ignored by other residents of the city who lived in their spacious sunlit villas to the south and their elegant Georgian townhouses to the north. They died peacefully in their respectable beds, few of them even aware of the morgue’s existence. It was where corpses were taken if their end was violent, whether a drunken brawl or an accident at the docks, or where those whose identity was unknown ended up; to wait to be claimed or to be consigned to an unmarked pauper’s grave. It was not the usual destination for a titled young man, the husband of the daughter of one of the city’s wealthiest businessmen. And yet today the mortuary awaited the arrival of Sir David McGillivray and Lady Tessa Kilpatrick.

  Tessa stepped from the Rolls Royce, careful to avoid the filth that littered the cobbles of the narrow close, and they entered via a gate held open by a waiting police constable. They followed him across the yard and through an anonymous door. Inside, it was even colder than the bleak January afternoon outside. A smell caught at the back of Tessa’s throat: unknown chemicals and something sweeter, decaying, that she remembered all too well. Her father touched her arm and she shook her head, not wanting to shed the tears that kindness provoked. Tessa just wanted to get through this without breaking down: that she could do later; for now it was time to perform these last duties for James. Lifting her chin and squaring her shoulders, she followed her father and the constable down the long corridor, dimly lit by flickering gas mantles. They were met at another door by Inspector Rasmussen and another man in overalls, stained with substances that Tessa preferred not to think about.

  ‘Good morning Sir David, Lady Kilpatrick. I am Inspector Rasmussen.’ Again Tessa was struck by that clipped voice: not quite Scottish and not quite Scandinavian. ‘This is a very sad business.’ He spoke mainly to Tessa’s father. ‘Perhaps you could come through, Sir David? We just need you to confirm the body is indeed that of your son-in-law.’

  ‘No.’ Tessa’s voice was sharp and loud enough that it echoed off the stone walls. ‘James is – was – my husband. I’ll do it.’

  ‘Lady Kilpatrick, it might be best if your father does it. His injuries, the post mortem… It can be very distressing.’ His gaze, cool and assessing, was less sympathetic than his words.

  ‘I drove ambulances for a time during the war, Inspector. I’ve seen men so badly injured, so mutilated, that strong men like you threw up at the sight of them. You don’t need to protect me from unpleasantness.’ Tessa felt her father’s steadying hand on her arm. She’d made her point. ‘This is the least I owe to my husband.’ Tessa felt the familiar frustration at coming home to a world that didn’t yet realise the changes wrought by the war.

  ‘Of course. I apologise. Come this way.’ Rasmussen sounded anything but apologetic. He nodded to the attendant, who opened the door and led Tessa into the room beyond. Unlike the rest of the building, it was well-lit: one of the few rooms to have had electricity installed.

  It was a large space with white tiled walls and a vitreous enamel table in the centre. On the table, covered by a sheet, was a body. Tessa had seen many laid out thus, but when the attendant lowered the sheet, folding it neatly across the chest, seeing James was very different to the uncountable dozens of bodies she’d encountered before, and her breath caught in her throat. James looked waxy and pale; the man she’d once loved had gone for ever. People said that corpses looked peaceful, but Tessa had never seen one that did. James didn’t look at rest: somewhat surprised and rather cross, if anything. He had often said he was a lucky man to have reached the armistice in one piece. Meeting his end at a country house party must have been unexpected at the very least.

  The bullet hole in his right temple was neat, scorched at the edges. The left-hand side of his head, shattered by the grisly exit wound, was covered by a carefully draped cloth, and for that Tessa was grateful. She didn’t need that image to haunt her nightmares. The Y-shaped incision on James’s torso had been stitched up neatly when the pathologist’s work was done. Not that his efforts had been necessary when the cause of death was so clear.

  ‘Lady Kilpatrick, if you could confirm that this is your husband?’ Rasmussen broke the silence.

  ‘Yes. Yes, this is James. Do you know any more about what happened?’

  ‘Little more than we knew yesterday. We checked for other injuries, to see if he’d been in a fight, but there were none. And no traces of poison.’ Tessa looked across at him, aware of his intense, curious, gaze. ‘He was killed by a single shot to the head. It looks like suicide but as you and others tell me that he was left-handed, it seems that it was a murder staged to look like a suicide.’

  ‘You’ve checked for fingerprints in the boathouse?’

  ‘Of course.’ Rasmussen sounded irked. ‘There are no identifiable ones on the door handles and the gun we found near him was wiped clean.’

  ‘There you go, then. He can’t have done this to himself and then wiped the gun clean.’

  ‘Quite so.’ There was a silence and Tessa knew that he was watching her closely, judging her reaction to her husband’s corpse. ‘Will you be at home tomorrow? I’d like to come to Heriot Row to discuss this with you.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I would normally ask you to come to the police station to be questioned, but my senior officer thinks it would be more appropriate to visit you at home.’ It was clear that Rasmussen would rather speak to her on his own territory at the station, and Tessa noticed the interchangeable use of the words ‘discuss’ and ‘question’. She would need to be on her guard, wary of the traps he might set.

  Tessa turned back to James. Although their life together, since his return, had been difficult and a long way from the happy reunion that both of them had hoped for, she had never wished him ill. In between fitful snatches of sleep on the night he’d died, she’d imagined him going on to marry some nice uncomplicated girl and having lots of children. Despite pangs of envy, she had hoped that if she and James couldn’t make each other happy, then at least divorce would enable them to be happy apart. But now was not the time to be sad, to show all these emotions, this weakness. Not in front of Rasmussen at any rate. She realised that the control she was working so hard to maintain was possibly making him even more suspicious, but she could not let herself break down here.

  ‘Goodbye, darling.’ Tessa bent and kissed her husband’s forehead, the skin icy against her lips. She spoke quietly before standing erect and nodding briefly, almost in salute. Turning on her heel, she left the room and strode back up the corridor, gritting her teeth as she fought back tears. She paid no attention to the conversation between her father and Rasmussen, pushed open the outside door and stepped out into the biting wind that whistled through the Cowgate. Harrison leapt from the driver’s seat to open the door for Tessa and she settled herself in the back of the Rolls. She didn’t speak to her father until Harrison had driven on, turning up the steep cobbles of Victoria Street.

  ‘I didn’t kill him, Papa. I need you to believe me.’

  ‘My dear girl, I know that. You couldn’t do such a thing.’ Sir David took Tessa’s hand in his but she shook him off, turning to look him in the eye.

  ‘Oh, I could, Papa. I am perfectly capable of doing it, but I didn’t. And nor did Bill.’

  ‘So who do you think did do it?’ Sir David abandoned the sympathetic tone that his daughter clearly didn’t like, assuming his usual briskness.

  ‘I have no idea. Which is a problem. Rasmussen might be less keen to see me as the perpetrator, if I could point him in the direction of someone else.’

  ‘It’s ridiculous. I could talk to the procurator fiscal. He’s a member of my club.’

  ‘No. Not yet at any rate. I want Rasmussen to believe in my innocence, not to be warned off.’

  Her f
ather said nothing and Tessa fell silent, gazing out of the window

  Sir David McGillivray was a successful man. He owned ships and factories and property, and although his father had been wealthy in his own right, Sir David had transformed their empire into something beyond imagination. He was a modest man, claiming that his success was down to luck as much as anything, and he gave much of his wealth away to schools, orphanages, hospitals, libraries and, lately, to charities that helped men returning from the war. Having no sons, he thought he’d be spared the horror of seeing his child go to war. When his only daughter announced that she had joined the nursing yeomanry and was off to be an ambulance driver in Calais, his pride had been tempered with worry.

  When the telegram arrived to say that she had been injured, the entire household had wept with relief that she was coming home. Her injuries were terrible, or so he gathered from his wife, who’d almost fainted the first time she saw the livid wounds criss-crossing the side of Tessa’s body. But his daughter was home again and safe. He counted his lucky stars and prayed every Sunday for the parents whose children hadn’t come home, even though the last few years had made him suspect that Tessa was correct and praying to a higher authority was a futile endeavour.

  Tessa’s marriage in 1916 had been a surprise, and although he had tried to be pleased, had given them a house as a wedding present, and welcomed James into his home, Sir David had always had deep reservations about their suitability for one another. Tessa was outspoken and intelligent, and needed a partner who would respect her independent streak. James was light-hearted and witty and very good-looking, and this had appealed to Tessa after a year or so of war, a much needed respite from the seriousness of daily life. But he’d always felt the boy lacked substance.

  When James came home, it was clear that he felt frustrated by the role he was being forced into due to the death of his brothers. Reluctant to take on any responsibilities on the Glenogle estates, he had thrown himself into horse racing, shooting and drinking: a dizzying social whirl which Tessa hated. He was heir to the earldom and there was an expectation that he would, in turn, produce at least one heir of his own. Tessa’s injuries meant this was unlikely at best and Sir David was well aware their circumstances were driving another wedge between the couple. He’d also heard rumours that James had been seen dining in not-discreet-enough establishments with other women.

  Their marriage was obviously going to be a tricky one, if indeed it lasted. Sir David had a more pragmatic approach to life than his wife. While he did not want a divorce in the family any more than she did, even more so he did not want to see his only child unhappy. He was shocked by James’s death, and desperately sorry for Hector, but he rather thought for Tessa it might turn out to be a blessing, setting her free without the scandal and drawn-out legalities of a divorce.

  Arriving back at Heriot Row, Tessa noticed that the blinds were already drawn and that Kincaid, opening the door, was wearing a black armband. She didn’t speak, instead shaking her head and handing her coat and hat to Florence before running upstairs to the drawing room. There, Lady Elspeth, wearing a pre-war black crêpe-de-chine dress, was making notes. In times of stress, she always found comfort in making lists.

  ‘Darling, you’re back.’ She rose and made to embrace her daughter. ‘I hope it wasn’t too awful. At least your father was there so you didn’t need to see the… er… James.’

  ‘I identified him, Mama.’ Tessa ducked away. ‘What’s going on? Why’s everyone in mourning?’

  ‘My dear, your husband just died. There are conventions. We must do things a certain way. You of all people should be aware of that.’

  ‘No mourning.’ Tessa was firm. ‘Wear black for a while if you wish, but not the servants. And put the damn blinds up, it’s gloomy enough at this time of year. And where’s Bill?’

  ‘He took the dogs out about half an hour ago.’ Her mother looked wary. Tessa’s unconventional friendship with Bill had always unsettled her.

  Tessa left the room, still shaking her head, and went up to her bedroom. She kicked off her shoes and sat down in one of the fireside armchairs, suddenly tired beyond belief by the events of the last couple of days.

  Vague thoughts of divorce had become a reality when she had discovered James with Caroline. Now she was a widow. She closed her eyes, but all she could see was James’s body in the morgue, that innocuous but deadly hole in his temple livid against the pale skin. How had that happened? Could it have been an accident? Could James have somehow shot himself with his right hand? But there were no fingerprints. Was that even the gun that had fired the bullet? Was it murder, premeditated and evil, or a crime of passion, a moment of anger? But a fight wouldn’t end in a shooting. The killer must have had the gun with them and have planned this. Who could that have been? Who hated James enough to kill him?

  Tears started to fall as these thoughts ran through Tessa’s mind, a circular train of thought that led nowhere. She didn’t realise how loud her weeping had become until her mother appeared by her side, closely followed by Florence with some tea. She sobbed and sobbed, grieving for the marriage that had failed, the children she hadn’t given James, the senselessness of his death, and for Hector’s loss. But mostly she wept for James, foolish and faithless, but a brave man who deserved better than to have died like this.

  Chapter Eight

  That night Tessa dreamt of the war. A particular day when the hazy golden summer met cold horror, when she did something that took her a long time to forgive. She hadn’t thought about that day in any depth for a while, and was shaken by the way that her subconscious mind had pulled every detail to the forefront. But it was progress. After she came home, it would have triggered a screaming, sweating nightmare. Now she felt calm and focused, at peace with what she’d had to do then and not wasting her energies on regrets.

  As she dressed, she saw the cigarette lighter on her mantelpiece. She’d taken it from the dead German soldier to light the darkness, and pocketed it without thinking when making her escape; she’d kept it ever since. During the war it had been a touchstone when she’d been afraid, reminding her that she was capable and brave. After she came home it had been hidden in a drawer but a couple of weeks earlier, when she’d decided that she needed to find a way to mend her marriage, Tessa had taken it out and placed it where she could see it and be reminded daily of her strength in face of poor odds. Now, it reminded her that she was more than capable of facing anything Rasmussen might throw at her when he came to question her this morning.

  By eleven o’clock, Tessa was breakfasted, clad in a discreet black dress, lifted a little with diamonds at her ears, and shod in low-heeled black shoes. Her hair was neatly set and she wore no make-up. She looked the very picture of a respectable widow. Inspector Rasmussen was due at any minute and she wanted to look entirely appropriate for a woman who had just lost her husband, albeit one she had decided to divorce. She checked her reflection in the glass, tucked a strand of dark hair behind her ear and resumed pacing the drawing room, her composure not as complete as she had hoped.

  Her father had provided some useful information that morning. A late night stroll up to the New Club where he’d shared a whisky with an advocate friend had yielded some background on Inspector Rasmussen; the lawyer’s professional acquaintance with the criminal classes of the city having brought them into contact on several occasions. Hamish Rasmussen, born of a Scottish mother and a Danish father, was from Aberdeen. Unusually for a graduate of the University of St Andrews, he’d joined the constabulary in his early twenties, although there had been a spell in bomb disposal during the war. He was known as exacting and perceptive and was expected to go far.

  Tessa felt sure that he wouldn’t arrest her without evidence, but he was an adversary not to be underestimated. She wanted this over quickly, her innocence established so that the gossip, doubt already circulating, could be quashed.

  Bill had left for London early that morning and Tessa felt his absence keenly, although
she knew that his still being there would have been a red flag to Rasmussen. They had hugged in the hall, Tessa had shed a few tears and Bill had promised to return if she needed him. Gossip was a popular hobby in the city and although Tessa’s father shared her disregard for it, her mother would be greatly relieved to see Bill’s departure.

  By ten past eleven, Tessa’s pacing was driving even her mad, and she took her writing case down to the morning room so that she could catch up with some letters. She made a list of people who needed to be told of James’s death. In all probability, it would be in the newspapers soon, which would save her some work, she supposed.

  Inspector Rasmussen arrived shortly before half-past eleven. Florence showed him into the morning room, took his coat and went to make coffee. Tessa indicated a chair to him and he seated himself opposite her. Despite her efforts to appear composed, she was terrified her hands would tremble, and so she didn’t offer to shake hands.

  ‘I’m sorry that I’m a little late.’ He offered no explanation, and Tessa wondered whether it had been a plot to see how rattled she would be. It was a schoolboy error on the policeman’s part: she wouldn’t let him see her nerves.

  ‘That’s quite all right, Inspector. I imagine you’re very busy.’ She smiled blandly, folding up her writing case, leaving a blank sheet of paper and a fountain pen on top of the smooth leather surface, as though ready to make notes. Rasmussen placed his elastic-banded notebook and pen on the table in front of him.

  Florence returned with a tray, and while she busied herself with cups and asking how Rasmussen took his coffee, Tessa assessed the inspector. He was tall, over six feet, with light brown hair and was reasonably attractive. His movement was precise and athletic. If angry, Tessa thought, he might be threatening, but he probably wasn’t given to fury. Too much control for that. He was a man who could pass unnoticed in a crowd. He had few physical mannerisms and his brown eyes were watchful, missing nothing. His voice was the most striking thing about him, with its subtle combination of soft Scottish lilt and clipped Scandinavian consonants; however, even those edges were ironed out, obvious only to an attentive observer.