I remember Charles as a serious lad, one who
preferred to sit in the corner at dances and talk about books. And yet there was a spark of humor about him, and a kindness in the eyes. For a time, I had thought . . . but that was before he met Olivia Grant. From then he had no thought for anyone else, and rumor had it that Livvy’s father encouraged him, seeking a stable and well-connected marriage for his daughter.
How will Livvy Urquhart manage now, I wonder, with sole responsibility for the distillery? We must do something for her, and hope that Charles showed more wisdom in the matter of Pattison’s than my dear brother.
That brings me to the day’s other ill tidings. Not that it was unexpected, of course, but it still came as a shock to see it written in the Edinburgh newspaper. Pattison’s, the Edinburgh firm of blenders, has indeed failed, due at least in part to the profli-gate spending of the Pattison Brothers.
What this will mean for Benvulin I dare not think.
Rab, like our father before him, has always been inclined to invest recklessly (although, unlike Father, Rab’s weakness is the distillery itself, rather than the house) and he has committed to several
“joint adventures” in which he has sold whisky to Pattison’s without payment, in expectation of a price rise; a price rise that will now never occur.
I assure myself that we shall weather this crisis, as we have others, but I cannot help but wish that my brother had not spent his wife’s funds quite so readily. Margaret, the belle of Grantown society little more than a decade ago, has become fat and indolent in the security of her marriage. She has no
knowledge of the business and no interest in anything other than the vagaries of fashion or the latest gossip.
Nor does she give proper attention to the children, who have become wayward from lack of dis-cipline or schedule. Rab plays only the occasional game of cricket with little Robert, and of poor wee Meg he takes no notice at all.
How different might things have been if he had followed his heart rather than his pocketbook? A woman who challenged his intellect and his character might have made a different man of him, and perhaps a different father as well.
The snow grows heavier as I write, and I can no longer see the river from my window. Benvulin will soon be cut off again in its own little world, a state I used to anticipate with pleasure as a child, but have come to loathe. Only early December, and already a second fierce storm afflicts us. I fear this is a harbinger of a bad winter.
The knock came just as Gemma was ending her call to Kincaid. Opening the door, Gemma found Constable Mackenzie hovering on her doorstep, her hand raised to knock again.
“Ma’am—”
“Has the investigating team arrived?” Gemma asked.
Among the police cars parked half on the lawn, leaving a clear path for the scene-of-crime and mortuary vans, she saw two new unmarked cars. Poor Louise, she thought with a pang of sympathy as she noticed the tire tracks in the soft turf.
“Yes, ma’am,” Mackenzie answered. “It’s Chief Inspector Ross, from headquarters in Inverness.”
“He’ll be wanting to talk to me, then. I’ll just—”
“Ma’am.” Mackenzie colored slightly. “The chief inspector’s asked that I escort you to join the other guests.”
“Escort?”
“Yes, ma’am. They’re all in the sitting room of the main house. If you’ll just follow me.”
“But—” The protest died on Gemma’s lips. The constable’s embarrassment was obvious, and there was no use making things difficult for the young woman. She would have the opportunity to talk to the chief inspector soon enough, and in the meantime, she wanted to see Hazel.
But as she meekly followed Mackenzie around the house to the front door, she thought that Chief Inspector Ross from Inverness had made it quite clear that he had no intention of treating her as an equal.
Another constable stood at parade rest just outside the door of the sitting room, his broad face impassive.
John Innes jumped up as Gemma slipped into the room. “Gemma! What’s all this about? They’ve said Donald’s been . . . killed. Surely that’s not—”
“Shot,” said Hazel, with the clear articulation of the very shocked. She sat crumpled in the wing chair near the fire, hugging herself and rocking gently. “I told you. It was so neat, so tidy . . . I’d never have thought . . . There was hardly any blood at all.”
Gemma couldn’t tell her that the blood would have pooled beneath his body, his back a mess from the force of the pellets’ exit. But Hazel was at least partly right—
there would not have been much bleeding, even from the exit wound, because Donald’s heart must have stopped pumping instantly.
The room, heated by the morning sun, smelled of stale
ash and, faintly, of sweat. On the table by the window, the heads of the mauve tulips drooped as if they, too, were grieving.
Louise gave Hazel a concerned glance and whispered, “I’ve tried to get her to drink tea, but she wouldn’t touch it.”
“So it is true.” John began to pace. “Donald’s really dead.” He shook his head as if he couldn’t quite compre-hend it. “But why would someone kill him? Donald, of all people? Everyone loved Donald. And why herd us in here and put a guard on the door?”
“The police will be treating it as a suspicious death,”
Gemma explained. “It’s routine procedure, until everyone has been questioned and the initial search completed.”
“Oh, right. You would know, wouldn’t you?” said Heather Urquhart from the other corner of the sofa. Although she sat with her feet tucked up beneath her in her usual feline pose, the tension in her body erased any grace.
Pascal and Martin gave Gemma wary looks, as if they’d just remembered her job, and she swore under her breath. Damn the woman.
“Have they sent you in here to spy on us?” added Heather, her voice rising. Her skin without makeup was blotchy, her long hair tangled and carelessly tied back.
“Is there some reason you think they should have?”
“No, of course not.” Heather gave a dismissive shrug, but her eyes slid away from Gemma’s.
“Look, I’ve no special privileges here,” Gemma told them. “I’m a guest, just like you, but you can’t expect me not to apply my experience.”
Pascal studied her. “How can you be sure it was not an accident?” He looked rumpled, as if he had dressed hur-
riedly in yesterday’s clothes. “These things happen, even with the most experienced hunter, a stumble—”
Had Gemma been in charge of the investigation, she’d have put the constable in the room, rather than outside it, to prevent just this sort of speculation and exchanging information. But since Chief Inspector Ross had not done so, she might as well take advantage of her position. “The gun was missing,” she said, watching as their expressions registered varying degrees of surprise.
Martin Gilmore spoke for the first time. “But . . . what if someone was shooting and didn’t see him—”