Thistles and Thieves

by Molly Macrae

  “If you like. But no, Lynsey will be the first to tell you.”

  “Lynsey—is she a whippet-thin young woman?” Janet asked.

  “Describes her well enough.”

  “She rode in the half-hundred.”

  “Did she now? I did not know that.”

  “She said something a little woo-woo at Nev’s Monday night,” Christine said. “What was it, Janet?”

  “You asked them if they had any idea what happened to Malcolm, and I thought I heard her say, ‘I said it would happen.’ She said it so softly, though, and the others didn’t bat an eye. But if she goes in for premonitions, then that might explain it.”

  “It explains the others ignoring her, too,” Christine said. “Like Norman, here. Havers, pure and simple.”

  “Who were these others?” Hobbs brought out his pen and notebook.

  “Rhona McNeish,” Janet said, “and Isla, who’s a district nurse.”

  “Lachlann Mòr is a district nurse as well,” Hobbs said.

  “Where did you pick up that tidbit about Isla?” Christine asked Janet.

  “She and Lynsey came in the shop and invited me to ride with them. She was wearing her uniform. Don’t you have a list of the riders, Norman?”

  “I’m sure the Road Policing Unit does. I’ll give Rhona a call. Now, what are your other worries?”

  “There were a few tears last night,” Tallie said, “so what you said about fabrications not always being the result of happy memories could be right. And Ian seems to have met her, or he might have been parroting Malcolm. He called her a doddery old duck.”

  Hobbs made a derisive noise, then apologized. “That was a personal comment and I hope you won’t repeat it.” An uneasy furrow appeared between his eyebrows.

  “That’s all right, Norman,” Christine said. “You can trust us.”

  Another furrow joined the first between Hobbs’s eyebrows. He took a rather large sip of sherry.

  “And what he said is wrong in so many ways,” Janet said. “One, Florence is no older than Christine or I. Two, if doddery implies wobbly on her feet, she isn’t. And three, if ‘old duck’ is meant to be endearing, it most certainly isn’t.”

  Janet hoped her vehemence at Ian’s opinion would help ease Hobbs’s anxiety furrows. So far, she didn’t see that happening.

  “Ian’s remark meshes better with the distress and fabrication theory,” Tallie said, “but what if it wasn’t a fabrication? Do you know about the open window?”

  Hobbs turned his furrows toward Tallie. “Tell me about it.”

  “According to Florence, Malcolm had a habit of opening the window in the library and leaving it open,” Tallie said. “It sounded like a regular argument between them, or a regular conversation with her becoming regularly frustrated.”

  “Because nothing changed,” Janet said. “He still left it open.”

  “Passive-aggressive foolishness,” Christine said. “I’m glad Tony and I never went in for that.”

  “Your Tony was a good man. You were aye a bonny couple,” Hobbs said.

  Christine’s eyes grew suddenly bright. She scooped up the kitten and went to the kitchen.

  “She’ll be fine,” Janet said to a now flustered Hobbs. “But that’s a good example of why we can’t know for certain what’s up with Florence. Grief comes and goes, and manifests in so many different ways.”

  Hobbs nodded then looked at Tallie. “The window?”

  “Florence said that, apart from hearing Malcolm come in and calling out to him—”

  “And getting no answer,” Janet put in. “That sounded like another source of regular irritation between them.”

  “But she didn’t see him,” Tallie said. “There’s no proof it was Malcolm.”

  “You reckon someone else was there?” Hobbs asked. “Opened the window?”

  “I think it’s possible,” Tallie said.

  “Aye. It is,” Hobbs said. “Though all that window opening and complaining could have happened much earlier in the day as well, mind.”

  Tallie thought about that, adopting her mother’s thinking pose, her chin resting on knitted fingers. “Not to belabor the point, but Florence said she closed the window when Malcolm left for the ride, but then it was open all night. It let in so much cold air she lit a fire in the fireplace, something else that irritated her, because she says she doesn’t like going in the library.”

  “That’s certainly a very specific set of details to fabricate. What else?”

  “What else worries us?” Janet asked.

  “What other specific details do you remember from your visit? Tell me what you saw and heard.”

  “Two visits,” Tallie said. “Mom, you were there for both. You go ahead.”

  “Just the facts?” Janet asked.

  “Impressions, as well,” Hobbs said. “Describe the visits for me.”

  So, while Hobbs listened, Janet walked him up the flagged front path to the Murray house and through the door on Monday and Tuesday evenings. While he made an occasional note—or he might have been doodling—she demonstrated Florence’s distracted, disjointed conversation, startled him on the stairs as they went looking for the dog, wondered about the state of the bedroom they assumed was Malcolm’s, showed him the difference in the library one night to the next, and gave him a dose of Florence’s anger at her two brothers.

  “A problem, though,” she said, “is that we don’t know if Florence has always been this way—”

  “She wasn’t as a girl,” Christine said from the doorway. The kitten had fallen asleep with its head nestled under her chin.

  “We don’t know if she’s been like this in recent years, then,” Janet said, “or if it’s our visits that upset her, on top of talking to the police for who knows how long or how often.”

  “It might be all of that, plus falling apart under the stress,” Tallie said.

  “I didn’t feel easy about leaving her Monday night,” Christine said. She came and sat down at the table again, still cradling the kitten.

  “I didn’t feel easy about leaving the dog,” said Tallie.

  “I’m never quite sure who Florence is talking about,” Janet said. “She says something about ‘he’ and then closes the door. Metaphorically and literally.”

  “Presumably Malcolm or Gerald?” Hobbs said. “I didn’t or don’t know either of them well, but apart from looks, they never struck me as much alike. Except now it sounds she’s not happy with either of them, so there’s that similarity, as well.”

  “She’s not happy with either of them or the dog,” Janet said. “I still don’t know what his name is.”

  “Tapsalteerie,” Tallie said.

  “Aye.” Hobbs nodded. “It does sound as though things are going that way since Dr. Murray’s death.”

  “Going what way, Norman?” Janet asked. “And what gibberish are you spouting, Tallie? Don’t you two start talking like Florence, please. We don’t need any more jigs and jogs. Not tonight.”

  “There was no jog,” Christine said.

  “Tallie described what you’ve been talking about exactly,” Hobbs said. “With everything that’s happened, it’s no wonder Florence and the house are turned upside down—tapsalteerie.”

  “I meant the dog,” Tallie said. “That’s the name on his collar.”

  “Of course. Why not?” Janet squeezed her eyes shut and massaged her forehead. “A perfect name for a dog in that family.”

  “Is the library at the back of the house?” Hobbs asked.

  “It is,” Tallie said. “I hadn’t thought about that—about neighbors having a clear view of someone coming or going through the window.”

  “It’s not out of the question, but unlikely anyone would notice,” Hobbs said. “The houses along there have large back gardens. Quite private.”

  “When you called on Florence on Monday, to tell her about the accident, did the dog bark?” Janet asked. “We heard him Monday evening but not Tuesday.”

 
“I don’t remember hearing him,” Hobbs said. “So not a reliable watchdog, then.”

  “With a name like Tapsalteerie, why would he be?” Janet said.

  “How did Florence take the news when you told her about Malcolm?” Christine asked.

  “Sudden death is rarely easy to believe. We started at a disadvantage, mind. She did not believe I’m a policeman. She possibly still does not.”

  “She might not, at that. But if she’s this confused, and if she’s fabricating to the extent that we don’t know what’s real and what isn’t, then she seems to be living on the edge of something and she needs help,” Christine said. “What kind of services are there for someone in her situation, Norman?”

  “I’ll stop round to see her again. Make some calls. I’ll speak with Carmichael and Macleod, again, too.”

  No one spoke for a time after that. Hobbs rearranged three tiles on his rack and then he broke the silence.

  “I’m not saying it didn’t happen, that someone did not get into the house. There are people who target houses of the recently deceased. I’m not convinced it happened in this case, though I do appreciate the thought you’ve given this, Tallie. What do you reckon this person wanted?”

  “The same thing Carmichael and Macleod are looking for.”

  “That’s a jump.”

  “I know.”

  “But if it’s something your mother might have picked up at the scene, then Dr. Murray had it with him. So why would someone then come looking for it in his house?”

  “I don’t think even Carmichael and Macleod are sure he had it with him,” Tallie said. “It might be something valuable. And, yes, I absolutely do know that I’m fabricating.”

  Hobbs gave a quick smile.

  “There’s another possibility,” Janet said. “Something I wasn’t going to suggest for lack of evidence, but as long as we’re going full tapsalteerie this evening, including the Scrabble game, then I’ll go ahead.”

  “Nothing to lose but Constable Hobbs’s good opinion of us,” Tallie said.

  “I’m often called out by my superiors for seeing the world through spectacles far rosier than allowed at my rank,” Hobbs said. “Please, carry on.”

  “This is a far from rosy view,” Janet said. “What if this thing Carmichael, Macleod, and person X are looking for is something that either the presence or absence of can prove intent? If Malcolm’s death wasn’t an accident.”

  “That’s—” Hobbs started to say.

  But Janet’s phone trilled like an overamplified songbird. “Sorry, sorry. Forgot to turn it down,” she said. “My new ringtone. I was testing it on the birds in the garden. It’s like having a robin in my pocket.”

  “Answer it,” Tallie said. “Before the cats attack.”

  “Janet Marsh speaking.”

  Janet listened and tried to interrupt politely. She finally stood up and broke into the flow with her no-nonsense librarian’s shush voice.

  “Hold on one moment, will you? I’m going into another room where I can hear you better.” Janet held the phone to her chest and whispered to the three at the table, “I’ll take this in the kitchen. Shouldn’t be too long.”

  When Janet came back into the room, she pulled her glasses down her nose to look at Hobbs. “That was Lynsey on the phone. Her husband didn’t overdo anything. He’s overdue, as in late getting home. He’s missing.”

  “How can he be missing?” Christine asked. “If he’s called Lachlann Mòr, isn’t he too big to be missing?”

  “Not a time for jokes, Christine,” Janet said. “Lynsey’s beside herself.”

  “Why did she call you?” Hobbs asked.

  “More likely she called us,” Christine said. “And the reason is obvious. We’re vocabularily more reliable.”

  “We know the best words, too,” Tallie said.

  Hobbs looked at his phone again. “She spelt ‘overdue’ incorrectly, and she a teacher. Tcha. Look at that.” He held the phone for Christine to see.

  Christine ignored it. “What would Lynsey like us to do, Janet? Would she like us to come round?”

  Christine and Hobbs both stood. Janet waved Christine back down.

  “I’ll call round there now and clear this up,” Hobbs said. “If she’d been plainer from the beginning, I’d no doubt have it sorted by now.” He started to take his plate and cup to the kitchen, but Janet stopped him. He looked sadly at the game board and his rack of tiles. Then he looked at the board again, and deftly added his seven tiles to the grid. With a sigh, he started for the front door, and with another sigh called back to them, “No need to see me out.”

  “Tell Lynsey we hope Lachy’s home soon and that it’s nothing more than a misunderstanding,” Janet said. “If you see her.”

  The front door closed behind him.

  “If he sees her?” Christine said.

  “Did I say if? I must have meant when he sees her. What are you doing, dear?”

  “Taking a picture of the board for Norman,” Tallie said. “I don’t know what HIRPLING means, but he just scored another triple word score and another fifty-point bonus. Ninety-two total.”

  “Limping,” Christine said. “It means limping, and it’s what he’ll be doing if we ever play this game with him again. He must spend all his off hours memorizing dictionaries.”

  Tallie gathered Hobbs’s cup and plate and her own and started for the kitchen. “Can I get anything for anyone else while I’m up?”

  “Put the kettle on, will you, dear? And set out another cup and saucer,” Janet said. Tallie and Christine looked at her. “Lynsey’s on her way here.”

  13

  Why did you send Norman to Lynsey’s house if she’s coming here?” Tallie asked.

  “He decided that on his own,” said Christine. “Not your mother’s fault, just her tapsalteerie circus. Help me put the game away and fold this table. Extra chairs back in the kitchen, too, so we look more professional. And you, Janet, tell us what’s going on.”

  “Professional what?” Tallie asked.

  “Are you forgetting?” Christine asked. “We are the Shadow Constabulary of Nosy Eavesdropping Snoops—S.C.O.N.E.S.”

  “The name wasn’t a compliment when Daphne made it up, and it still isn’t,” Tallie said.

  “But we showed her,” Janet said. “We solved her murder. Oh, that didn’t sound very nice, did it?”

  “Not really.” Tallie dumped tiles from the racks onto the game board and then swiped tiles and racks into the box with one sweep of her arm. “And if this is a matter for the police, then we should get Norman back here.”

  Janet recognized the signs of a lawyer daughter blowing off steam. It was venting rather than an eruption, though. Tallie hadn’t reached for her phone to contact Hobbs.

  “She’s coming to see us,” Janet said. “Lynsey didn’t know Norman was here and she might not have come if she had known. I must say, I’m surprised he was so blasé about her text.”

  “That might’ve been the sherry,” Christine said. “Something to remember if we ever need a malleable constable in future. Och—what are you doing?”

  Tallie had marched over and was removing the kitten from Christine’s arms. “I need him. If I have to listen to you two plotting and planning, then he will keep me sane. Do you hear that Butter?” She held the kitten in front of her face. “That’s a lot on your shoulders. These two are relentless. Can you handle it?”

  The kitten reached out a paw and patted Tallie’s nose.

  “Mental health through moggies. It’s aye the best,” Christine said, adding her own pats to Tallie’s back. “And there’s the door. I’ll go.”

  As they heard Christine greet Lynsey and offer to take her coat, Janet leaned close and reassured Tallie. “If we hear anything that Norman needs to know, we’ll call him.”

  “Two words, Butter,” Tallie said to the kitten. “Witness tampering.”

  “Come ben, come ben,” Christine said, ushering Lynsey into the living room. “Have yo
u met Janet’s daughter? Lynsey Maclennan, Tallie Marsh and friend Butter. You’re not allergic, are you?”

  Lynsey touched the kitten’s head and shook her own. “I wish I could have one of my own. Lachy’s never liked them.”

  Tallie passed the kitten to Lynsey. “I’ll bring the tea.”

  “Come sit down,” Christine said. She sat on the couch next to Smirr, and Lynsey sat at the opposite end.

  Tallie came in with a tea tray and set it on a small table. She poured a cup and offered it to Lynsey. Lynsey shook her head. Christine took it and helped herself to cream and sugar.

  “Mom?” Tallie held up a cup.

  Janet shook her head, too. She sat in her favorite comfy chair. It swiveled so she could look out into the back garden when she liked. She turned now to face their visitor on the couch. Tallie sat in the matching chair.

  “Tell us what’s going on, Lynsey,” Janet said. “Why did you call us?”

  “I didn’t mean to interrupt your evening.” Lynsey looked less the sleek whippet ready to race than a miserable, stray ready to cower. Her accent sounded thicker in her misery, and Janet, though she thought of her ear as well-tuned, hoped the sense of Lynsey’s words didn’t disappear into the brogue. “It’s what Rhona said at Nev’s. Did you help solve those murders?”

  “We did,” Janet said, “but—”

  “Then can you help find Lachy? He’s never this late. Never without phoning or texting.”

  “You don’t think he met up with friends and forgot the time?” Christine asked.

  “Never without a call or text. He knows what it’s like for me. The charge nurse was the first to miss him.”

  “He’s a visiting nurse?”

  “District nurse, aye. Drives tremendous distances.”

  “My mum was a district nurse,” Christine said. “It gave her great pleasure.”

  “Lachy loves getting out to folk who can’t. Loves the driving, too. And he’s a good driver.”

  But of course, after Malcolm, she’s thinking about people veering off roads, Janet thought. “You’ve checked with the Road Police?”

  “No accidents reported.”

  Neither was Malcolm’s. Janet couldn’t bring herself to voice that thought. Instead she asked, “What have the other nurses said?”