by Connie Berry
“I mean someone else, earlier.”
“Becca and Agnes went in around nine to pick up the champagne.” Her tone was guarded. “Why d’ye want to know?”
“Ready?” Tom appeared in the doorway, saving me from explanations. That man had a miraculous sense of timing.
As soon as we’d shut the car doors, he said, “All right. Tell me what happened last night.”
I shook my head. “Never mind about that now. There’s been another threat letter.” I told him about the plain white envelope and Agnes’s fascination with the mail delivery. Then I told him about Agnes’s purple knitted gloves.
“Where’s the letter now?”
“In my handbag with the wool sample. I tried not to touch it.”
“Good. Chances are the writer took care not to leave fingerprints, but you never know. Criminals aren’t terribly bright.”
“Agnes is bright, but she doesn’t have much of a poker face. She’s been waiting for that letter since Saturday.”
“We’ll drive to the police station now.” He pulled onto the main road and headed north.
I buckled my seat belt. “Do you think Agnes sent the threats herself?”
“Or knows who did. She probably assumed Elenor destroyed the previous threats. If she could get rid of this one before anyone saw it, no one would ever have to know.”
“And connect the threats with her.” I took a deep breath, remembering that determined little face.
“You’re doing the right thing.”
“Then why do I feel guilty?”
We arrived at the Mallaig police station just before eight, only to be told that DI Devlin was on his way to Police Scotland’s Forward Command Base near Stirling, expected back in the morning. DS Bruce sealed the purple wool and the letter in evidence bags, and I wrote out a brief statement.
Back in the car, Tom left a message on Devlin’s cell phone.
I refastened my seat belt. “I’ve as good as accused Agnes of murder and signed my name to it. I feel like a traitor.”
“Come on, Kate. Agnes knew about the threats. She’s going to have to explain herself.”
I watched the pavement slip smoothly under the wheels. “I should feel relieved. If Agnes was involved in Elenor’s death, Bo will be exonerated.”
Tom braked behind a slow-moving truck. “There’s something you need to know, Kate.”
I didn’t like the tone of his voice. I braced myself.
“Devlin rang me early this morning.”
“And?”
“The police traced the phone call Elenor received the night of the ball to a telephone box at the Gas and Go near the ferry terminal.”
“Can they tell who made the call?”
“No, but one of the islanders passed that way about eleven fifteen that night. He saw a pickup truck.”
“Did he get a license number?”
“He didn’t need to. He recognized the truck.”
I knew what he was going to say.
“It was Bo’s truck.”
“And that’s supposed to prove Bo killed Elenor?” My frustration boiled over. “Has it occurred to anyone he was just getting gas? I suppose they’ll use this against him at the hearing.”
“The judge will consider all the evidence.”
“Except they don’t have all the evidence, and they won’t have until Bo speaks.” I smacked the armrest. Tom flinched, probably wondering if I was going to smack him next. I slowed my words, trying to sound reasonable. “This didn’t have to happen. If the police had treated him more carefully in the beginning, he might have—” I cut off the sentence with a gesture and began again, exercising every ounce of self-control I could muster. “Bo might have been able to help, Tom. He might have seen something. He’s not a killer. I’d stake my life on it.”
Tom was listening. Or making a good show of it. Another technique in a detective’s tool kit?
“Just listen, Kate,” he said in that super-calm tone of voice you use when your children flip out in public. Now I did want to smack him. “The police now know that Elenor called you the night of the ball from a mobile phone, one she bought on Wednesday. The clerk remembered her. She asked him to explain the basics of dialing but nothing else.”
“Elenor bought a cell phone?” I turned to face him.
“The provider records show she made two calls—one to her solicitor, Andrew Ross, and one to you. The call to you was her last.”
I burst into tears.
Tom nearly pulled the car over.
“No, I’m all right. I’m sorry.” I wiped my tears with the backs of my hands.
“Tell me about last night,” he said. “The note pushed under your door.”
I was in the middle of telling him when I remembered I’d forgotten to drop the note off at the police station. I took it out of my handbag, unfolded it, and held it up.
He glanced at it. “And you have no idea what you’re supposed to destroy?”
“Not unless it’s the casket.” He was studying me with a look I hadn’t seen before. At least not on his face.
Traffic slowed and he had to jam on the brakes. “Sorry.”
“Where were you last night, Tom? I called your cell phone. You didn’t answer.”
“Took a walk, shut off the mobile. When I got back to the cottage, Devlin’s message was waiting for me. I checked the grounds. Your lights were off, so I didn’t bother you.”
For the first time I took in the mountains, carpeted in amber gorse and dotted with spreading islands of cinnamon-colored bracken. After Fort William, we hooked up with the A82 heading north. I was feeling calmer. The road wound through small villages and forests, following the Great Glen, the geological fault line running from Fort William in the south to Inverness in the north. For thirty miles or so, we skirted Loch Ness. And yes, I did keep one eye peeled for Nessie, the monster—or friendly plesiosaur—reputed to lurk in its murky depths. He was hiding.
“Let’s get back to what we were talking about yesterday,” I said. “Means, motive, and opportunity. Everyone assumes one person is responsible for everything. Suppose two people were involved, even three or four. Someone was threatening Elenor. Someone wrote the notes to me. Someone met Elenor at the Historical Society. Someone killed her.” I tucked my hair behind my ears. “But not necessarily the same person.”
Unfortunately, I was making a good case for Bo’s guilt, but if Tom picked up on it, he didn’t say so. Instead he said, “Agnes could be protecting someone.”
“Yes,” I said slowly. “And that means she could be in danger.”
* * *
As we entered Inverness, signs funneled us toward the city center and the High Street shopping area. Tom pulled into a pay-and-display parking area. The pedestrian zone was crowded with people relishing the unexpected warmth. We passed a kiosk selling T-shirts. One featured a cartoon of Nessie and the caption BELIEVE IN YOURSELF.
“I checked the weather back home in Suffolk,” Tom said. “Cold and rainy. People will be huddled under umbrellas, dreaming about their holidays in Spain.” When he smiled, his eyes looked almost amber. The sun picked out the silver strands in his hair.
I nearly collided with a chalkboard advertisement.
He laughed and tucked my hand in his arm.
Since neither of us had eaten, we decided on a late breakfast. We chose a gray stone pub with a red door. The hostess showed us to a wooden table in a sunny, glassed-in porch. I ordered scrambled eggs and a pot of tea. He ordered a full Scottish breakfast—eggs, sausage, bacon, tattie scones, the works.
Our food came quickly. I spread the red-checked napkin on my lap and pulled my chair closer to the table. “What will Agnes think when she realizes I took the letter?” I winced. “And the purple wool?”
“People with nothing to hide don’t lie.”
“I wish we knew what the latest threat letter says.” I took a bite of my eggs and put the fork down. “I’ve got to get my mind off Agnes. Talk to me. Tell me more about Uncle Nigel.�
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“Well, Nigel is my mother’s older brother. He’d like you. You have a lot in common.”
“He collects antiques?”
“He doesn’t collect them, Kate. He lives with them, things passed down in the family for generations.”
“You weren’t kidding about the castle thing?”
“It’s a manor house, but it looked like a castle to me as a boy.”
I thought about that. When I was a child, castles had existed in fairy tales and Disney movies. Nothing I was ever likely to see in person. “Are you and your uncle close?”
“We’re quite fond of each other. I told you I spent summers with him in Devon. My mother worked, and it was a chance for me to get out of the city. Uncle Nigel has always been kind to me, very generous. When I went up to Oxford, he paid the fees.”
“What’s he like?”
Tom laughed. “They say England breeds eccentrics. Nigel is one of a kind—witty, opinionated, unconventional, charming. He’s almost seventy and has a penchant for fast cars, French wine, and pretty women. He never married, but he’s always had what he calls his ‘lady friends’—most over sixty by now. He bought one of them a ring once. Naturally she thought he meant to propose, and—”
It was obviously a favorite family story, slightly exaggerated over the years. By the time Tom got to the part about the lady’s son bearding Nigel in the library and asking what his intentions were, he had me laughing so hard I almost snorted tea up my nose.
We’d finished eating by eleven fifteen. The waitress pointed us in the direction of Paterson & Son, Jewelers. “Three blocks south,” she said. “Turn right on Lombard. Look for the navy awning.”
Small shops and cafés lined the street. An enterprising busker on stilts juggled oranges and apples. The sun warmed my neck. I reminded myself that in three days Tom would be back in Suffolk, out of my life.
The navy awning of Paterson & Son, Jewelers, shaded a plate-glass window displaying an eye-popping array of jewels. I pushed the entry button and a security guard buzzed us inside. A young woman met us at the door. “Welcome to Paterson’s,” she said, eyeing my ringless left hand. “How may I help?”
“I’d like to ask about a ring purchased for my sister-in-law, Elenor Spurgeon.”
The woman blanched. “We heard about her death. Shocking.”
“Are you the one who sold Dr. Guthrie the ring?”
“Oh, no. That was Mr. Paterson, Senior. He prefers to handle important clients personally.”
“May I speak with him?”
“He isn’t in at the moment, but he has an appointment in the store at one thirty. He should be free after that. Say two o’clock?”
With half an hour to kill before my meeting with the solicitor, Tom and I decided to explore a gourmet food shop. He bought a tin of whiskey fudge for his mother plus a bottle of white wine, a package of Scottish oat crackers, and a selection of artisan cheeses.
Wasn’t Nancy feeding him enough?
We walked west, then followed Castle Street down toward the River Ness and the solicitor’s office. Couples strolled past, walking well-behaved dogs and less-well-behaved children. In ten minutes we’d reached the bronze statue of Flora MacDonald, shielding her eyes from the setting sun as she gazed west toward the isles and the death of dreams.
My phone beeped, and we stopped to sit on a bench. “It’s my mother. About the marquetry casket.” I cupped my hand against the sun and read:
1ST QTR 18TH C, A PERSIAN NAMED IBRAHIM QAZVINI ARRIVED IN EDINBURGH. SPECIALIZED IN MARQUETRY. ONLY 4 PIECES KNOWN TO EXIST. ONE IN THE V&A. ONE ABOUT SAME SIZE AS YOURS SOLD 5 YEARS AGO IN HONG KONG FOR HALF A MILLION POUNDS.
I handed the phone to Tom.
“The Victoria and Albert?” he whistled. “An invitation for theft.”
“And a motive for murder.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The offices of Ross & Marcum, Solicitors, occupied the entire top floor of a red sandstone building not far from the river. A private elevator opened into a waiting room furnished expensively in cool neutrals.
A woman with hair dyed a startling shade of burgundy commanded the prow of an L-shaped desk. She stabbed at her computer before peering over the top of leopard-print eyeglasses. “Do we have an appointment?”
I bit back a snarky remark about the we and said, “I’m Kate Hamilton, here to see Mr. Ross.”
Tom touched my shoulder. “There’s a coffee shop across the street. I’ll wait for you there. Take your time.”
I followed the receptionist into the inner recesses of Ross & Marcum. A well-dressed man with a silver mane of hair welcomed me into a large glass-walled office. “I’m Andrew Ross.” He extended a gold-ringed hand. “Welcome.”
Ross’s office looked out on the river and the squat red castle that houses the Inverness sheriff’s court. A massive desk and credenza exuded corporate opulence. In one of two leather side chairs sat a man with fiery red hair bristling from his scalp like copper wool.
“This is Stephen Trask,” Ross said, “Mrs. Spurgeon’s accountant. I’ve taken the liberty of asking him to join us. Some of what we have to discuss today involves him.”
Ross offered me a seat before settling himself in his desk chair and rocking back to reach a large manila envelope on the credenza behind him. He extracted a bound document and handed it across the desk. “This is a copy of Mrs. Spurgeon’s will, executed twelve years ago when I handled the purchase of your husband’s share of the property on the Isle of Glenroth. The terms are simple. The assets in Mrs. Spurgeon’s estate are to be divided equally among her brother, William Hamilton, her nephew, Eric Hamilton, and her niece, Christine Hamilton. When your husband died, his share devolved to the remaining beneficiaries—your children.”
I swallowed hard. Were Eric and Christine about to become overnight millionaires? “How large is the estate?”
Ross’s chair squeaked. “That’s why I’ve asked Mr. Trask to join us. Our task is made simpler by the recent appraisal of the hotel in preparation for the sale. Stephen, perhaps you would give Mrs. Hamilton an overview of Elenor’s financial position.”
This time he’d called her Elenor. How friendly had they been?
Trask gave a dry cough. “Apart from her personal possessions, Mrs. Spurgeon owned virtually nothing. In the years since her late husband’s death, she managed to spend nearly all of his considerable fortune. If the hotel is sold, the proceeds will be barely sufficient to pay off a mortgage on the property taken out five years ago. With her outstanding bills and other commitments, Mrs. Spurgeon’s estate will amount to—this is an estimate, you understand—less than twenty thousand pounds.”
Good thing I hadn’t gone for the pricey bronze casket. “What do you mean if the hotel is sold?”
Ross rolled a gold pen in his fingers. “A week ago, Wednesday the nineteenth, I received an email informing me that the Swiss company had accepted the terms of sale. There were details to iron out, but a week later—last Wednesday—I received a PDF copy of the agreement for Elenor’s signature. She would have stopped in yesterday to complete the sale.”
I blinked at him. “You mean Elenor hadn’t actually signed the contract? But she said—” The sentence died on my lips. Elenor had never been fussy about the truth, and she would have considered the contract as good as signed anyway. “What happens now?”
Ross pointed the gold pen at Trask.
“As executor,” Trask said, “you are authorized to fulfill any contracts made by Mrs. Spurgeon. In the interest of preserving capital, I’d say the sooner the better. The Swiss people could change their minds.”
Ross removed a packet from his desk and handed it to me. “The court has prepared a brochure to help you with your duties. Don’t let it overwhelm you. I’ll register the death as soon as we get the medical certificate.” Sunlight from the window fell on his silver mane, producing a halolike aura. “You will provide a list of assets—an inventory. I’ll go into that in a moment. After all
outstanding bills are paid, we’ll have a final decree. There will be no death duties to pay, unless Mrs. Spurgeon had assets we don’t know about. To begin the process, we need your signature.”
Ross called in his receptionist to act as witness along with Trask.
Trask said, “I’ve prepared instructions for the inventory. They’re in the envelope as well.”
“What do I include?”
“It’s all in the envelope. Furniture, artwork, jewelry, antiques—that sort of thing.”
Like the marquetry casket. Except it was missing.
“As I mentioned before,” Ross said, “the hotel’s furnishings were included in the sale. All but the attic. Elenor specifically exempted the attic. Take a look. See what’s up there. We can arrange for a local appraiser if you’d like.”
“I’d like to complete the sale as soon as possible. I guarantee my children don’t want to run a hotel in Scotland together.”
Ross was making notes on a yellow pad.
“How did Elenor get herself into such a mess?” I asked.
“She was unusually private about her financial affairs,” Ross said. “When I found out she was in trouble—two years ago—I advised her to seek professional help. That’s when Mr. Trask became involved.”
“Her record-keeping was nonexistent,” Trask said. “When I finally untangled the mess, it was clear the hotel had been losing money since the beginning. Far too much was spent on renovation. She seemed to believe her resources were unlimited. I explained that if she continued at her current rate of expenditure, she would exhaust her entire fortune in a matter of years.” He settled back in his chair. “She chose not to take my advice.”
“This spring,” Ross said, picking up the thread, “I convinced Elenor that keeping the hotel was no longer an option. She had to sell or face bankruptcy. That got her attention. The sale price wasn’t what I’d hoped for, but we were fortunate to find a buyer at all.”
I thought about what I’d said to Tom, that Elenor had acted in blatant self-interest. That wasn’t precisely true. She’d had no other option.
Ross tapped the yellow pad with his pen. “Frankly, I’ve wondered if that was her motivation for marrying again. Dr. Guthrie is said to be a wealthy man.”