Perhaps that was why he had stopped attending the
church. He had had little confidence in the comfort tradi-tionally offered to the bereaved, and even less in God’s ability to punish the wicked.
On this morning, he called the suspects—and they were all suspects to him until proven otherwise—in what seemed to him the order of least importance. Of course, such initial impressions could be misleading, and it was only by a careful piecing together of their stories that he would be able to form a truer picture.
He began with Martin Gilmore. The young man came in with an air of suppressed excitement, and Ross had the impression he was struggling to rearrange his bony features into an expression of appropriate solemnity.
Having ascertained that Gilmore had shared a room with Brodie, and that he had heard Brodie go out about daybreak, Ross said, “You must have had some conversation with the man, then. What did ye talk about?”
Gilmore shrugged. “I don’t think he took me very seriously. Oh, he was friendly enough, but he was an Alan Breck sort of character—you know, all Highland disdain for someone who came from the city. If you weren’t born stalking stags and gaffing salmon and drinking whisky with your mother’s milk, you weren’t in the same club.”
“But he signed up for this cookery weekend.”
“Not that he had much real interest in the cooking. It was more of a lark for him.” Gilmore paused for a moment, as if wondering how much he should say. “And I think he had another . . . agenda. There was something going on between him and Hazel—Mrs. Cavendish.”
Ross raised an eyebrow. “What sort of something?”
“I’m not stupid, you know,” the young man said, his eyes gleaming with sudden malice. “They’ve all treated me like an idiot. There were all these awkward silences and loaded glances. And after that other woman came last
night, you could have cut the tension with a knife. They went out together—Donald and Hazel—after dinner, and you could tell there was a row brewing.”
“Did you hear them argue?”
Gilmore looked disappointed. “No. They must have gone round to the back of the house.”
“Did you see either of them after that?”
“No. The rest of us sat round next door, in the sitting room, and after a bit I went to bed. There’s no telly,” he added, as if inviting Ross’s disbelief.
Ross thought a moment, then backtracked. “You said a woman came here?”
“Just before dinner. Rang the bell and asked to speak to Donald, apparently. She had a child with her.”
“Any idea who she was?”
“Not a clue. A bit tarty, though, from what I could see.
Made me laugh, everyone trying to have a gander without being obvious about it.”
“Did anyone say anything?”
“No. All too bloody polite, weren’t they?”
“All right, Mr. Gilmore. If you’ll just go and give your statement to the constable in the kitchen.”
Martin Gilmore stood. “Can I go after that?”
Glancing at his notes, Ross said with casual friendli-ness, “Keen to get back to work tomorrow, are you?”
Gilmore flushed an ugly, mottled red. “I’m out of work just now. Temporary setback.”
When he had left the room, Ross muttered to Sergeant Munro, “At least he had the grace to feel embarrassed about it. Most of the layabouts these days seem to find being on the dole a reason to brag.”
“Weel, I’d say he’d got himself free meals and a comfortable billet for the weekend,” reflected Munro. “What do you wager he’s still here tomorrow?”
*
Unlike Gilmore, Pascal Benoit seemed genuinely sad-dened by Brodie’s death; nor did Ross detect any uneasiness in his manner. Even if the man had dressed hastily, his clothes spoke of wealth, and he had the unmistakable assurance of one used to power. “I’m not quite sure I understand what it is that you do, Mr. Benoit,” said Ross, when they had got the formalities out of the way.
“I represent a French company with multinational interests, Chief Inspector. In the last few years, we have acquired three distilleries in Scotland, all of which have performed quite well. We would be interested in adding another such property to our portfolio, and as there are few family-owned distilleries still operating, we cultivate an ongoing relationship with those that are.”
And that was business-speak for hovering like vultures waiting for a corpse, Ross thought. Schooling his face into an expression of pleasant attentiveness, he asked,
“But did you have a particular interest in Mr. Brodie’s distillery?”
“Benvulin would make the jewel in our crown,” admitted Benoit. “We had hoped to convince Mr. Brodie of the benefits of such an arrangement. While we would have assumed financial responsibility for the distillery, he would have been encouraged to remain as managing director.”
“I take it Mr. Brodie had not yet agreed to this plan?”
“No. It was only a friendly discussion. And now, well . . .” Benoit gave a shrug. “This is a terrible tragedy.
Donald’s death will be a great loss to the industry.”
“What will happen to Benvulin?”
“That I can’t say, Chief Inspector. I imagine any such decisions will be made by the board of directors.”
“Is there no family member to take on Mr. Brodie’s position?”
“I’m afraid I’ve no idea. I’d suggest you ask Miss Urquhart.”
Making a note to do just that, Ross excused him. The man was far too canny to admit that his firm might benefit from Donald Brodie’s death.
As Benoit left the room, the constable on duty in the hall stepped in. “Sir, we’ve found a gun cabinet in the scullery. It’s not locked, and it’s possible there’s a gun missing.”
“What’s the owner’s name?” Ross glanced at his list.
“Innes, sir.”
“Take him to look at the cabinet, then bring him in here.”
As they waited, Ross heard the first sharp spatter of rain against the windowpanes. He swore under his breath, and Munro stood and looked out the window.
“I think the worst of it will hold off a bit yet.” Munro stretched his long neck and cracked his knuckles, a habit Ross found profoundly annoying.
“Will ye stop that, man,” he snapped. “How many times do I have to tell ye?”
“Sorry, Chief,” said Munro, looking more doleful than ever. “I get the cramp in my fingers.”
They sounded like an old married couple, Ross thought with a glimmer of amusement, although Munro was much better tempered than Ross’s ex-wife. Before he could apologize, the door opened and the constable popped his head in.
“Mr. Innes says there is a gun missing, sir, a small-bore Purdy.”
“Send him in, then.”
“I don’t know how it could have happened,” John
Innes said as he entered the room. A large man with thinning hair, dressed in a pullover that had seen better days, he seemed to vibrate with agitation. “That was my grandfather’s gun. I always lock the cabinet, always. I don’t know how—”
“Sit down, Mr. Innes, and let’s begin at the beginning.
I’m Chief Inspector Ross.”
Innes hesitated for a moment, as if unsure what to do with himself in his own dining room, then pulled out a chair.
“Now, that’s better,” Ross continued. “Why don’t you describe the gun for me.”
“It’s Purdy lightweight, a twenty-gauge. A scroll and vine pattern, made before the Great War.”
Ross blanched. In good shape, a gun like that could be worth thousands of pounds. How could the man have been so careless? Making an effort to keep his temper, he said, “This gun cabinet of yours, Mr. Innes, who would have access to the key?”
Innes took a breath. “I keep mine on my key ring. It’s usually in my pocket, except at night, when I put them on the dressing table.”