“Cause of death is obvious enough, but I can’t be definite about the size of the gun. The pathologist should be able to tell you more when he gets him on the slab.”
Wadding up his coverall, Webb handed it to the nearest constable. “I can tell ye that it’s my opinion the body hasn’t been moved.”
“Time of death?”
“Sometime after midnight.” Web smiled at Ross’s grimace. “Well, what did ye expect, man? Miracles?” He shook his head. “It’s a shame, that. The man made good whisky.”
And that, thought Ross as the doctor stumped away, was surely the highest compliment a Highlander could give.
He directed a team to set up shelter over the trysting place in the wood as well, but there was no way he could protect all the area that needed to be covered in the fingertip search. The officers would just have to do the best
they could if it rained. It wouldn’t be the first time they had worked in the muck, nor would it be the last.
Damn it! He needed more men, and soon, while the weather held off. He made his way back to the house and stopped at the garden’s edge, looking for his sergeant, Munro. The graveled car park was a hive of yellow-jacketed activity, the officers’ muted conversation provid-ing a constant hum. But after a moment’s search he spotted Munro, giving instructions to a newly arrived search team. Not that Munro would be easy to miss, Ross thought affectionately—the man was a head taller than anyone else, with a pale cadaverous face that concealed a quick wit and slightly malicious sense of humor.
Munro having acknowledged his presence with a nod and a lift of his hand, Ross surveyed his surroundings while he waited for the sergeant to finish. It was a nice old property, well situated, and he recognized the hand of a fellow gardener at work. But why, with his own grand house just down the road, had Donald Brodie chosen to stay the night at a B&B?
Nor would he be the only one speculating, thought Ross as he saw the first of the television vans pull up at the drive’s end. The constable on duty refused the driver entry, but this one was merely the first of many—soon the media would be thick as maggots on a corpse.
While he waited for Munro to join him, Ross examined the list of the B&B’s residents and guests compiled by the first officer on the scene. Mackenzie, her name was, and a bonny wee lass who had no business in a man’s uniform. She was sharp enough, though, and according to her report, the woman who had discovered the body was a London copper, CID, no less.
Well, he supposed even the Metropolitan Police deserved a holiday now and again, but still, it struck him
as odd to find another copper at a murder scene. He would definitely interview Detective Inspector Gemma James first.
She sat across from him at the dining room table, her posture relaxed, her hands clasped loosely in her lap. He found something slightly old-fashioned about her face, and he wondered briefly if her background was Scots.
She reminded him a bit of his daughter, Ross thought as he studied her, not so much in looks or coloring, but in her direct and confident manner. Her hair was the deep red of burnished copper; her face bore a light dusting of freckles; a wide, generous mouth; hazel eyes with flecks of gold in the irises. She was attractive rather than beautiful, he decided, with an air of friendly competence—and he found that he thoroughly distrusted her.
He’d begun by asking her to relate the events of the morning, while behind him, Munro took notes from a chair in the corner. With the ease born of practice, Inspector James told her story with a conciseness marred only by the occasional furrowing of her brow as she added a detail. Once or twice she paused to allow Munro to catch up, and he saw his normally lugubrious sergeant tighten his lips in what passed for a smile.
Deliberately, Ross refrained from using her title. “Miss James, your friend that was sick in the woods—I understand you’re sharing a room?”
“Yes.”
“And yet you alone heard the shot—or what you thought was a shot? And you alone went to investigate?”
“Yes. That’s right.”
No elaboration, Ross thought. She would know well that unnecessary elaboration could trip one up, lead to careless disclosure. His interest quickened.
“And yet it was this same friend”—he glanced at his notes—“Mrs. Cavendish, I believe?”
“Yes, Hazel.”
“It was this same friend who was sick on seeing the body?”
“Yes.” Gemma James’s posture didn’t change, but he thought he saw a faint heightening of the color along her cheekbones.
“But she wasn’t with you when you made the initial discovery. Was she still sleeping?”
“No. She’d gone for a drive. She arrived back just as I was about to ring the police.”
“I see. And you told her where you had found Mr.
Brodie?”
“No—I—I said I’d found Donald in the meadow. And that he was dead.”
“Then you took her to see the body?” Ross allowed disapproval to creep into his voice.
“No! Of course not,” she retorted with the first hint of defensiveness. “She ran—she looked before I could stop her.”
“Then you must have told her which meadow,” Ross suggested reasonably.
“No. It was a natural assumption. Everyone walked that way.”
“You’ve been here how long, Miss James?” Ross shuffled his papers again.
“Two days.” She compressed her lips, as if unwilling to be drawn further. He could hear her accent more clearly now—London, but not Cockney, and not posh.
“In two days you’ve learned everyone’s habits?” he asked, combining admiration with a dash of skepticism.
“No.” This time her flush was unmistakable. “But I’m
observant, Chief Inspector, and as I said, the path was obvious.”
Ross thought for a moment, considering what she had told him—and what she had not. “About your friend, now, wasn’t it rather early for someone to be going for a drive?”
Gemma James shifted in her chair for the first time. “I don’t know. You’ll have to ask her.”
This was the least cooperative response she’d given so far, and Ross had the distinct impression that she’d both dreaded the question and rehearsed the answer. There was definitely something fishy here, and not just the piscine parade on the wall. And Hazel Cavendish had vomited—not a surprising response under the circumstances, but was there more to it than the shock of unexpected and violent death?
“You said you and your friend came for a cookery weekend. Was Mrs. Cavendish previously acquainted with Mr. Brodie?”
“Yes, she knew him. She also knew Louise Innes—
they were at school together—and Heather Urquhart is her cousin.”
Cozier and cozier, thought Ross. He didn’t like it at all.
“What was the nature of Mrs. Cavendish’s relationship with Mr. Brodie?”
“I believe they were old friends.” Gemma James gazed at him with such limpid candor that he suspected he would get no more out of her and changed his tack.
“Tell me about the others,” Ross said, settling back in his chair. “And how they were acquainted with Mr.
Brodie.”
“Well, there are the Inneses, who own this place. John cooks, and Louise runs the house and does the gardening.
I believe they came here from Edinburgh a couple of years ago, and, um . . . I think perhaps they cultivated Donald Brodie for his contacts.” She looked uncomfortable as she added this, as if she felt disloyal.
“Then there’s Martin Gilmore. He’s John Innes’s half brother, and he’s interested in cooking. I don’t think he’d ever met Donald before this weekend.
“Pascal Benoit, the Frenchman, had some sort of business dealings with Donald, but I don’t believe he ever said exactly what they were. And Heather Urquhart, Hazel’s cousin, is Benvulin’s manager, so she probably knew Donald better than anyone. I think she’s quite cut up by his death.”