The pub was along a row of houses up a hill from the centre of the village of Maryburgh. It was empty, apart from the barmaid and Madeleine, sitting alone with her walking stick and a glass of wine, looking very out of place next to a slot machine muttering to itself in disjointed jangles.
Clémence rushed up to her and gave her a hug.
‘Clémence! What is wrong?’ Madeleine said in French.
‘Oh, Aunt Madeleine, we have had a terrible time!’ Clémence replied in English. ‘A man with a gun was chasing us over the mountains. We spent last night on the top of Ben Wyvis. It was lucky we didn’t die of hypothermia!’
‘Ah, mon Dieu!’ Madeleine glanced at the old man for confirmation, and found it in his grim expression. Clémence saw the accusing look Madeleine shot him: it’s your fault my niece was in danger.
‘Who? Who was chasing you over the mountain?’
‘It’s an American who calls himself Jerry Ranger. He says he’s a song writer, but we don’t know who he really is. He has been staying in a cottage on the estate for the last few weeks.’
‘And why was he chasing you?’ Madeleine focused the question on the old man, her eyes accusing.
‘We don’t know,’ said the old man.
‘But it must have something to do with Death At Wyvis,’ said Clémence. ‘With Alastair killing Sophie.’
‘Must it?’ asked Madeleine, doubtfully.
‘I think so,’ said the old man. ‘Our guess is he came to Wyvis to befriend me. Find out what I knew. And then kill me. But we have no idea who he really is, or why he cares.’
‘Have you been to the police?’ Madeleine asked.
‘Not yet,’ said Clémence. ‘But we will,’ she added quickly. ‘Oh, here’s Callum.’
Callum joined them at their table, bearing the novel. Clémence introduced him to her aunt. The barmaid came over and they ordered lunch.
‘We’ve been finding out a bit more about Sophie’s death,’ Clémence said.
‘Are you sure that’s wise?’ said Madeleine.
Clémence ignored her and explained what Mrs Ferguson had told them at the nursing home, and the discrepancies they had identified between the handwritten manuscript and the published novel of Death At Wyvis. The old lady listened closely, taking everything in.
‘So you now know for sure you killed my sister?’ said Madeleine to the old man.
He nodded. ‘But I have had a partial memory. I believe that very recently I wrote down everything I had discovered in a black exercise book. I think I was planning to produce a second edition of Death At Wyvis. Have you seen it? Have you heard anything about a possible second edition, maybe from Nathan before he died?’
Madeleine shook her head. ‘Not about a second edition, no. But you are quite right. You have been asking questions about the murder. You came over to see us in New York last October. You spoke to Nathan about it. You upset him.’
‘What did I say?’ the old man asked.
‘I don’t know; Nathan wouldn’t say. He did tell me you had just been to see the stalker’s son, who lives in Long Island. But I never knew Nathan set him up in the real estate business until you told me just now. You arrived for lunch at our apartment. Then you spoke to Nathan alone for a couple of hours. You were supposed to be staying the night, but you left. Nathan threw you out.’
‘Why?’
‘He refused to tell me,’ Madeleine said. ‘I knew it had something to do with that vile book.’ She nodded at the volume in front of Callum.
Their food came and they began to eat.
‘Then Nathan died a couple of months later?’ the old man said.
‘That’s right,’ said Madeleine, flatly.
‘What happened?’
‘It was at our place in Scottsdale. In Arizona. Nathan used to like to go for a walk in the evening with a cigar. One evening a couple of weeks before Christmas, he went out, and he didn’t come back. I waited. I got worried. After an hour and a half, I went out to look for him with the maid. We had just gotten to the front gate when the police arrived. He had been found dead on the road a hundred metres from our house. Hit-and-run.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Clémence.
Madeleine’s face was impassive, but it was clear she was struggling to contain her emotions. ‘It happens,’ she said, with a French shrug.
‘Madeleine?’ The old man sounded nervous.
‘Yes?’
‘Is there any chance it wasn’t an accident?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean, could someone have killed your husband on purpose?’
‘No.’ Madeleine hesitated. ‘That is, I don’t think so.’
‘But it was a hit-and-run, you say? Someone ran him over and then drove away. That could have been intentional.’
‘I suppose so,’ said Madeleine, frowning. ‘But who would have killed him? And why?’
Clémence did not like the way the old man had steered the conversation. It seemed to her that he was upsetting her aunt unnecessarily. ‘Yes, who?’ she said.
‘Me?’ said the old man quietly.
‘You! Why?’ asked Madeleine.
The old man shrugged. ‘A number of people have died over the years. Alden. Sophie. Now Nathan. And I always seem to be involved.’
‘That’s ridiculous!’ said Clémence. ‘You have no reason to think that! None at all!’ Somehow the idea that the old man had killed her uncle as well as her grandmother made her furious. She so badly wanted him to be innocent, not a mass murderer.
‘Do you know whether I was in Arizona then?’
‘No,’ said Madeleine. ‘You didn’t get in touch with us.’
‘But I might not have done. If I wanted to kill Nathan.’
The four of them sat around the table contemplating the thought.
Then Callum cleared his throat. ‘Dr Cunningham?’
‘Yes,’ said the old man.
‘You don’t know that you killed Nathan, do you? It’s not as though you remember it. And there is no evidence from what you have been saying that you did. It’s just speculation.’
‘Callum is right!’ Clémence said.
‘Forgive me,’ Callum said. ‘But you... we... seem to be in some difficulties here with a nutter looking for you armed with a rifle. I think we should stick to the facts, or what we can reasonably take to be the facts.’
The old man smiled at Callum. ‘You are quite right. I am assuming the worst. But we should entertain the possibility that Nathan was killed. And it might have been by me.’
‘Or by Jerry Ranger,’ said Clémence.
‘Or Jerry Ranger,’ the old man conceded. He turned to Madeleine. ‘Do you remember if I sent the original manuscript of Death At Wyvis to Nathan back in the seventies?’
‘Yes, I do, although Nathan never let me read it. He told me later that he tried to get you to stop publishing it. You see, he was worried about my reaction, and he was dead right to be. When I eventually read the book, I was furious. Until then I had no idea that you had killed Sophie, nor that Nathan had helped you cover it up. I was angry with you, but I was very angry with Nathan. Very angry.’
Madeleine’s eyes were glinting, and her accent had become especially thick. Clémence could see why Nathan might have been anxious to hide everything from Madeleine. It was clear that Madeleine was as deeply involved as any of them; possibly more deeply.
‘I’ve said it before, and I have a nasty feeling I will be saying it for what’s left of my life, but I’m sorry, Madeleine.’