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

by Vanessa Robertson

  ‘I’m sorry, Hector, but I’m not going to be able to help out there. The doctors have always told me that my injuries made it very unlikely I would bear children, and it seems they were right.’

  ‘Never mind. The new chap will probably be fine, and who’s to say that the place wouldn’t benefit from a new broom?’

  ‘Of course, you could also marry again.’ Tessa raised an eyebrow at him. ‘Some nice girl a bit younger who can bear you a brood of children.’ At this Hector laughed loudly. It was good to hear.

  ‘I don’t think so, my dear. I’m fifty-eight now and far too old to contemplate all that again. And no-one could replace Anna. Sometimes I can’t believe it’s almost ten years since she died. Anyway, if you’ve finished, shall we retire to the fireside with our whisky?’

  They went through to the Great Hall where a fire roared in the huge inglenook fireplace and a couple of comfortable armchairs were pulled up on either side. Making her excuses for a moment, Tessa nipped upstairs to get a shawl, for even with a good fire there were still howling draughts.

  Returning, she stopped on the minstrels’ gallery which overlooked the hall. It was a vast space for a private house, maybe eighty feet long and fifty wide. It had a timeless feel and Tessa loved it, from the tall oriel windows on one side to the massive stone fireplace on the other.

  On one of their scarce periods of leave during the war, a party had been thrown in the Great Hall for James and Tessa to celebrate their marriage; everyone had politely refrained from any comment about how it would have been better if they had married in circumstances befitting the son of an earl, rather than running away to a Registrar’s Office. Tessa remembered standing in this same spot in the gallery looking down on their guests. It had been a night for forgetting the conflict that raged on the continent, and everyone had dressed up in their jewels and their pre-war finery. The champagne had flowed, Mrs Meikle had laid on a feast and it had been a wonderful evening full of laughter and hope. Now, she stood with her hand on the oak railing looking down at Hector, seeming so very solitary as he stared into the fire, the rest of the room dimly lit and devoid of company.

  Tessa took the other armchair and he handed her a tumbler of whisky. She sipped and savoured the peatiness of the Islay single malt.

  ‘To the future.’ Hector raised his glass in salute.

  ‘The future.’ There was a silence, for a minute, as both reflected on the possibilities the future held for them.

  ‘I am so sorry about James’s will. It was unforgivable of him to neglect you in such a manner. I shall obviously—’

  ‘Don’t.’ Tessa held up a hand. ‘It doesn’t matter. In some ways I prefer not to feel as though I am dependent on him. I can begin to make a new life for myself.’

  ‘What do you think you will do?’ Hector sounded curious.

  ‘I really have no idea. I’m not the paying calls and flower arranging type. But there are loose ends to tie up first.’

  ‘There is always a tremendous amount of paperwork when someone dies. You must let me know if I can help. Sadly, I have had plenty of experience.’

  ‘It’s not so much that. Someone murdered James and I want to make sure the police find out who it was. James deserves that and, to be completely selfish, I don’t want the suspicion hanging over my head.’

  ‘And do you think the police will be able to track this person down?’ Hector sounded dubious. ‘Maybe you need to appoint one of those private investigator chaps?’ Tessa was pleased to note that Hector gave no sign of thinking she might be responsible for James’s death.

  ‘Maybe. Maybe not. I think it was related to his war-time activities – the type of gun used and so on. It’s been a few years since I was engaged in anything of that nature, but I might spot something.’ Tessa smiled drily, feeling rather guilty that she was looking forward to the challenge and the sense of focus she’d been lacking prior to his death. ‘And I have friends from my own past who will be happy to help me. I’ll find him, Hector, trust me.’

  Chapter Ten

  Tessa stirred just as the winter sun’s rays began to light the day. The bedroom was freezing, as always in this house, but in pyjamas, hiking socks and a cardigan, with an extra blanket filched from the bedroom next door on top of her bed’s thick eiderdown, she was quite cosy. Less than enticing was the prospect of emerging from her nest and braving the bathroom; even less so was the need to shed her current layers in order to get dressed. Gritting her teeth, reminding herself that she was getting soft these days, Tessa jumped out of bed, rushed to set a match to the fire laid in the grate and dashed across the landing to begin her ablutions.

  By the time she emerged from the bathroom, a cheerless and utilitarian space, the bedroom was a little less Baltic. She hung her clothes over the back of a chair in front of the fire and retreated to her bed, savouring the warmth still lingering there as she considered the day ahead.

  Tessa planned to drive back to Edinburgh after lunch. Originally, she had intended to set off earlier, straight after breakfast, but the previous afternoon she’d seen a parcel on the bed in James’s dressing room. Looking at the label, she saw that it contained the clothes and other effects that James had been wearing when he was shot. For some reason it had been sent to this house rather than to Heriot Row. No-one should have to deal with that, and she guessed that Hector and the staff were putting it off. Lacking the energy to do it herself, so soon after the funeral, and the difficult conversation with Mr Peverill, she had decided to leave the package where it was until today. She would unpack it and get rid of whatever needed to be disposed of, and put away the things that should be kept. Tessa was surprised that the clothes hadn’t been burned as soon as the police were finished with them. Perhaps they weren’t as gory as she anticipated, although what she was supposed to do with them she had no idea.

  Tessa forced herself back out of bed and dressed quickly in front of the fire. In readiness for driving she put on tweed trousers, a shirt and a Fair Isle jersey. She’d need to add many more layers later as, ignoring her mother’s suggestions that Harrison drive her to Glenogle House in the McGillivray family Rolls Royce, she’d driven there in her own motor car, a gloriously impractical Vauxhall which roared along in the most thrilling manner, but gave little protection against the elements, having only the flimsiest of roofs. Fortunately, it looked set to be a sunny, if bitterly cold, day and so she could leave the roof folded down.

  In the dining room, Tessa joined Hector, and Anderson the butler poured her a coffee. Tessa asked for buttered toast for breakfast. She knew that Mrs Meikle would be disappointed, as she was doubtless poised to go to town in the kitchen for Tessa’s breakfast, pleased to have someone to cook for beyond Hector whose preferred breakfast of porridge with just a little salt was positively puritanical. Then again, it was probably essential for his health, given the feasts Mrs Meikle produced at other times of the day.

  Hector was still in a positive frame of mind and planning to walk the estate with his factor this morning, making a list of jobs to be dealt with before he went on his travels. Tessa could not imagine how it might feel to lose a wife and three sons, but she hoped that he would find some happiness wherever he ended up in the world. Maybe the best thing for him was a complete change of scene. She made him promise that he wouldn’t book a passage and disappear without visiting her in Edinburgh first.

  ‘Of course not, my dear. And I should very much like to see James’s murderer caught before I go. I don’t like uncertainty.’ He spoke matter-of-factly, the better to maintain his composure, but Tessa heard the faintest break in his voice.

  ‘Nor me. I’ll do what I can to keep the police moving. Papa will too – he knows absolutely everyone, it seems.’

  ‘I can imagine.’ Hector smiled. ‘If Edinburgh is nothing more than a large village, then the smoking room of the New Club is the village pump where all business gets done.’

  Dealing with the parcel of James’s belongings and not knowing what state the
contents would be in was a grim prospect. Unable to ask Hector for assistance, Tessa went down to the kitchens and asked Mrs Meikle if she could bear to help her. She felt guilty, but somehow the parcel, so redolent of the personal effects of dead soldiers that were bundled up and sent home during the war, seemed likely to be full of memories she would rather not revisit alone.

  ‘I know it’s a horrible thing to ask but I need some moral support. It’s not like me, but…’ Tessa’s voice tailed away.

  ‘It’s not something any wife wants to deal with. We can sort it out quite quickly and the gardeners can burn anything you don’t want to keep.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Tessa was almost pathetically grateful for this act of solidarity.

  ‘Can we do it in half an hour? I want to get this stew in the bottom oven ready for lunch.’

  ‘Of course. I’ll see you up there. Thank you.’ Tessa went back upstairs with leaden feet. There was no avoiding this any longer and she was dreading what was in that parcel.

  The bedroom that Tessa and James normally used when they were at Glenogle House was a grander affair than the room where Tessa had slept for the previous two nights, unable to face the bed she’d shared with James. This more lavish bedroom was a large, south-facing room with heavy mahogany furniture and a comfortable armchair in the window where once Tessa had imagined nursing a sleepy baby. So much for that. She felt a pang of sadness when she looked at the vast four poster bed. A source of such pleasure in the early days of their marriage, it had become a lonely place since James had returned from the army. Her nightmares had become more frequent and he started to sleep in his dressing room next door, ostensibly so that she would be left in peace. She still had odd spasms of pain from her injuries and that became yet another excuse for James to absent himself. Tessa had told herself that it was a process; that things would get better as they got used to peacetime and to being together, but the simple happiness they had shared was gone. She had wanted him in her bed, not just for sex but for the companionship of talking about their day, their plans, the things that made them laugh, but he rarely joined her, latterly. That was, she noted, probably about the time when his philandering became more of a habit and less of an occasional diversion, repelled as he presumably was by her scarred body and less than carefree temperament.

  Tessa pulled herself together. The past was the past; she knew that better than many. Now she needed to look to the future, whatever that may hold. She began to open drawers, removing such belongings as she’d left there during their marriage and packing them in the small suitcase that she’d brought from Edinburgh. The door to James’s dressing room remained closed until Mrs Meikle arrived and the two women, in silent solidarity, went through to face the parcel that lay on the bed.

  Briskly, Tessa untied the strings and unfolded the brown paper. Inside was a heap of clothes and she leaned forward to pick them up. James’s underclothes, shirt and bow tie were not there, and remembering his blood-stained shirt, she was glad to have been saved that. His evening clothes were rather grubby. There was a patch of mud from the beaten earth floor of the boathouse on one leg of his trousers, a scraping of moss on the shoulder of his jacket. She could see no blood on the collar, although the left sleeve seemed to have been rather ineffectually sponged clean. This tailoring might be made-to-measure from Savile Row, but who would want it now?

  Mrs Meikle gently took the jacket from her and began to check the pockets. James’s cigarette case, card case and a clip containing ten pounds in bank notes were elsewhere in the parcel. Tessa picked up the cigarette case and turned it over in her hand. Gold, engraved with a loving inscription, a gift from her a few months after their wedding.

  ‘Here’s something.’ Mrs Meikle had spotted a small pocket in the lining of the jacket, an almost hidden one that Tessa assumed was meant for an extra banknote or a billet-doux. The housekeeper drew out a small folded piece of paper and handed it to Tessa. Curious, and realising that it might be a note from one of James’s lovers, Tessa almost threw it straight into the wastepaper basket until curiosity got the better of her and she unfolded it.

  “I must talk to you. Come to the boathouse as soon as you get this. Come alone.”

  Tessa sat down on the bed abruptly, immediately aware of the implications of that tiny scrap of paper. Silently, she passed the note to Mrs Meikle, who read it with raised eyebrows and turned to Tessa, her eyes questioning.

  ‘Someone else lured James to the boathouse. Do you see? This proves that I didn’t do it.’ Tessa was disappointed to see the doubt in Mrs Meikle’s eyes. She knew that some – probably many – people were sure that James had killed himself, prompted by some hidden wartime trauma. Even more were, no doubt, sure that her claims he had been murdered were nothing but an attempt to conceal her own guilt. This note, flimsy and ephemeral as it was, gave the lie to both those opinions.

  ‘Well…’ The housekeeper’s tone was non-committal. Tessa had hoped that Mrs Meikle believed in her innocence, but she realised then that this letter was a long way from proof. However, it did show that someone had engineered James’s visit to the boathouse.

  Aware of the possibility of fingerprints, even though they were by now probably smudged beyond usefulness, Tessa took a clean handkerchief and folded the note inside it. It was the nearest they had to a clue, and she wanted to get back to Edinburgh as fast as possible and hand it to Rasmussen. She left James’s valuables in his dressing room and Mrs Meikle bore his clothes away to the gardener’s bonfire. There was a wariness in her eyes and Tessa knew that she still had some way to go before all vestiges of suspicion were eradicated.

  Back in her room, Tessa found the army greatcoat that had seen her through cold winters during the war and which she still wore to drive in, much to her mother’s dismay. She tucked the handkerchief containing the note into an inside pocket, securing it in place with a couple of safety pins. It wasn’t much, but it was a start. Tomorrow, she would give it to Rasmussen, and he would have his first clue.

  Tessa made her excuses to Hector early, declining his invitation to stay for lunch, and fibbing that she had forgotten a visitor of her mother’s that she’d promised to be back in time to see. She hadn’t mentioned the note to Hector and had asked Mrs Meikle to keep it to herself for now. It might be worthless, and she didn’t want to raise Hector’s hopes in vain.

  It was eleven o’clock when she set off, and it was forty miles or so back to Edinburgh. Even in the powerful Vauxhall it would still take hours, especially as some of the smaller roads had yet to be metalled. Tessa bundled herself up in an extra jersey, her greatcoat, a woollen hat, driving goggles and leather gloves, all in a bid to keep out the icy wind. Promising to keep him informed of any developments, she kissed Hector on the cheek and roared away down the drive, one arm raised in farewell.

  Tessa was excited at the prospect of making real progress, looking forward to telephoning the inspector and telling him of her discovery. It was a rush of purpose and dynamism that she had missed over the last couple of years: the ability to make a difference.

  She pushed these thoughts away and concentrated on the road. As the wind off the Forth stung her cheeks Tessa considered, not for the first time, that her mother might be right when she argued that Tessa should buy a more sensible motor car, one with a proper roof, for example. But Tessa had had enough of trying to be sensible and when the broad tarmacadam of the Edinburgh road opened up before her, she put her foot down, feeling the Vauxhall’s engine leap forward with a roar and the surge of adrenaline reminded her just how much fun life could be.

  Chapter Eleven

  This time, as she waited for Inspector Rasmussen, Tessa did not pace the room, fidget, or fear that he would see her hands shake. Instead, she sat at the morning-room table, writing case to one side, methodically replying to the seemingly endless stream of letters of condolence.

  Some she received were sent by those who barely knew her or James, but were inquisitive about the manner of James’s death:
who’d heard that it was suicide, then that it was a murder, and who somehow wanted to insert themselves into the story, possibly even to receive a letter from the murderess herself. Tessa didn’t care about their motivations, she just wrote the same generic reply thanking them for their kind words and repeating the platitude that time healed all wounds, before adding the envelope to the stack in front of her and moving on to the next. The letters weren’t important; they were just keeping her mother, so keen on maintaining standards, happy and filling time while Tessa waited for Rasmussen.

  The envelope that she opened just before the inspector’s arrival was different. The name on the letterhead gave her pause and she began reading Caroline’s words with more attention than she’d paid to the others. That the woman who had precipitated that final argument between James and Tessa would dare write to her was surprising. Tessa had expected that Caroline would try to avoid as much scandal as possible, that she would keep a low profile and pray that Tessa didn’t tell anyone that she’d been discovered in such a compromising position with James shortly before his death.

  On the face of it, Caroline’s letter was as pleasant and sympathetic as anyone else’s. She made no mention of her involvement with James or the suicide theory; although it had to be said, Tessa thought, that she better than most would have known James was not feeling melancholy and likely to harm himself that night.

  Caroline’s words were carefully chosen and certain sentences stood out. She said that she “would never have thought anyone could hate James or be so angry with him that they would do such a thing”, but that she was sure “the limited number of people at the party should make it easy for the police to deduce who had a motive”. The letter even pointed out that she was “surprised that the police haven’t arrested anyone already” and she finished by stating that she hoped Tessa would “be able to find a way of living with what had happened”. There was no explicit accusation, and at face value the letter was innocuous enough, but it was clear that she thought Tessa, in her role as a wronged wife, had murdered James.