The old man and Clémence sat in silence as they digested this information.
‘Did you speak to your son about this?’
‘No,’ said Mrs Ferguson. ‘At least not at first. I think you must have visited me about September last year. I got a call from Iain a month later saying that you had been to see him in New York. Iain was angry at me for telling you about Mr Giannelli helping him. It was the first time he had called me since Christmas.’
Mrs Ferguson’s cheer had left her voice. She seemed upset by her son’s reaction, but more sad than angry.
‘Did he tell you what I had asked him?’
‘No. He wouldn’t. But, as I said, he sounded upset. And worried. Can you remember talking to him? Surely you would remember flying to America?’
‘You would think so,’ said the old man. ‘But no, I don’t remember anything about that at all. So that would be October last year?’
‘That’s right.’
‘And I didn’t visit you again?’
‘No,’ said the old woman. ‘I wish you had; I was fairly wanting to know what you had discovered.’
‘Sorry,’ said the old man with one of his comforting smiles. ‘I will when I find out what’s going on this time. I promise.’
‘You do that,’ said Mrs Ferguson.
‘It was a big move from Wyvis to New York,’ said Clémence.
‘Aye, it was. But it was good for Iain. He was a bright wee laddie at school. I wanted him to stay on, but he was desperate to leave and become a stalker like his dad. At least that’s what he thought when he was fifteen. But as he got older I think he wanted to leave the Highlands and go to the big city: Edinburgh or even London. He was wanting to get on in the world, ken? I was pleased about that, but my husband thought he should stay working on the estate as a ghillie. I’m not surprised that he jumped at the chance to go to New York. Nor that he did well once he was there.’
A note of pride had crept into the old lady’s voice, but she banished it. ‘Mind you, once he got there, it was as if he was wanting to rub out his past life here. We saw him mebbe six times in the last thirty years. I have grandchildren and I’ve only seen the wee bairns twice! I think he’s ashamed.’
‘Ashamed?’ said the old man. ‘Ashamed of what?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Mrs Ferguson. ‘And I’m feart to find out. But if you do discover what, you will tell me, won’t you?’
‘We will, Mrs Ferguson, don’t you worry about that,’ said the old man, reassuringly. And as he did so, Clémence glimpsed the bedside manner of an experienced GP.
‘Do you know what, Dr Cunningham?’
‘What?’
‘I mind fine that week when poor Mrs Trickett-Smith was murdered. I never really believed Mr Trickett-Smith killed her. But when I read that book, I definitely didn’t think you did it. You were aye the gentleman. And you loved her far ower much.’
‘Gentlemen can kill people just as easily as anyone else,’ said the old man. ‘And the world’s jails are full of people who killed people they loved.’
Clémence and the old man left Mrs Ferguson, and rang a taxi from the nursing home manager’s office. They crammed together into a small plastic sofa in the hallway waiting the promised ten minutes. They faced a prominent framed notice on the rules visitors should follow to sign in and sign out, rules they had complied with in full.
‘At least I can leave this place,’ said the old man. ‘Imagine being imprisoned in here for the rest of your life.’ He turned to Clémence. ‘Promise me you will never let them put me away in a place like this.’
Clémence felt a flash of irritation. It wasn’t up to her where the old man spent the rest of his days. He wasn’t her responsibility. And, thanks to him, her grandfather, one of her grandfathers, had spent fifteen years in a real prison.
She didn’t answer him directly, but asked a question of her own. ‘What do you think Iain saw?’
‘I don’t know,’ said the old man. ‘Probably me killing Sophie. Or coming out of the boathouse, or something that would incriminate me.’
‘But would Uncle Nathan help him like that if that’s what it was?’
‘Possibly. After all, I had helped Nathan in Deauville, and we know he felt in my debt for that. He’s supposed to be one of my oldest friends, but I can’t remember him since my fall, so you know him better. What do you think?’
Clémence sighed. ‘Uncle Nathan could fix anything. And he was always helpful and generous. It’s not as though he was a soft touch; he would always get what he wanted. But if he wanted to help you, you would be helped.’
‘Well, that’s what he did then.’
They sat in silence for a moment. But it didn’t quite make sense to Clémence. ‘If that’s what it was, why do you think you went all the way to America to track Iain down? If he was just covering for you, why bother?’
‘I don’t know, Clémence. I really don’t know.’
‘Can’t you remember?’
‘You know I can’t remember anything!’ The old man couldn’t contain his frustration.
‘Yes you can,’ said Clémence. ‘Sometimes. Sometimes things like this jog your memory. Did this have something to do with whatever you were writing at your desk at Culzie? Perhaps you were writing a letter to Iain? Or Nathan?’
‘It wasn’t a letter,’ said the old man, furrowing his brow. ‘It was longer than a letter.’
‘A long letter?’
‘No. But you’re right, it did have something to do with Iain.’
Clémence saw the old man struggling and kept quiet. He nodded his head slowly. ‘Yes. It had to do with Iain. And Nathan. Going to see Nathan in America.’
‘Anything else?’
The old man smiled to himself. ‘Yes. It was for the book. For Death At Wyvis. It was an appendix for a second edition.’
‘Are you sure?’
The old man’s face was screwed-up in concentration. ‘Not absolutely sure, no. But I think so.’
Clémence felt a surge of excitement. ‘Where is it? Whatever you were writing. Did you give it to someone? A publisher, perhaps? Uncle Nathan? Is it still at Culzie?’
‘I don’t know. But...’
‘But what?’
‘I know what I wrote it in. An exercise book. A black hard-backed exercise book.’
Clémence’s pulse quickened. ‘Big? A4? With red binding?’
‘Yes. Yes, that’s right.’
‘I know exactly where it is,’ she said.
‘Where?’ The old man looked at him, his eyes alight.
‘It’s at Culzie. Your desk, middle drawer. I saw it when I was looking for photographs.’
‘Well done!’ said the old man, grinning. ‘We’re getting somewhere after all.’
‘I wish I had asked Callum to look for it.’
‘I’ll go back and get it,’ said the old man.
‘No you won’t. The police will. I’ll tell them about it.’
The old man looked disappointed, but he didn’t argue. Yet Clémence was pretty sure that he hadn’t given up on trying to uncover the truth without the police.
And what was in that black exercise book?
20
Stephen gazed out of the window at the Firth of Forth shimmering in the weak March sunlight. He had forgotten how beautiful this stretch of the line to Edinburgh could be, at least in good weather.
Which wasn’t surprising. Now he came to think about it, he hadn’t taken this train for forty years. Not since 1959.
He wasn’t looking forward to any of this. Seeing Alastair again. Revisiting Wyvis. Thinking about Sophie and her murder and the horrible things that had happened afterwards.