Ross made a note. “Did she argue with Mr. Brodie last night when she came here?”
“I don’t know. He only spoke to her outside.”
“And you didn’t discuss it with him afterwards?”
She shook her head. “No. There was dinner, and then . . . then he went out.”
“With your cousin, I believe, Hazel Cavendish.”
“I couldn’t say.”
“Couldn’t, or won’t?”
“I can’t, Chief Inspector. What either of them did after they left the dining room, I’ve no idea.”
“But there was a relationship between your cousin and Donald Brodie?”
“At one time, yes. But it was before I went to work for Donald, and I wasn’t privy to any details.”
“You weren’t close to your cousin?”
“No,” Heather said sharply, and then as if afraid she’d been too abrupt, she added, “not since we were children.
Her family moved away when we were in our teens.”
“Then perhaps you can tell me what will happen to the distillery, with Mr. Brodie gone.”
“I—I’m not sure. Donald’s sister is dead—you’ll know about that. His parents divorced before his father died, and his mother has remarried, so she has no claim on the estate. I’ve no idea what provision Donald made for his shares.”
“You’ll have the name of Mr. Brodie’s solicitor?”
“It’s Giles Glover, in Grantown. They were school friends.”
Ross took this down, then dismissed her.
Munro spoke up from his chair against the wall.
“Prone to tragedy, the Brodies, I’d say, with what happened to the father and daughter, and now the son.”
“I remember reading something in the papers—”
“Climbing accident on Cairngorm. Snow came down suddenly, cut them off. It was days before they found the bodies.”
“A bad business,” Ross agreed. “But I don’t see how there could be a connection.”
Munro looked disappointed, but rallied. “It seems to me the lassie was verra weel informed about Mr. Brodie’s affairs, for all her protest to the contrary.”
“Maybe, maybe not, considering her position in the firm. We’ll see the solicitor first thing tomorrow. But now, let’s light the fire in this bloody room. Then we’ll see what Mrs. Innes has to say.”
Louise Innes reassured them, with more confidence than her husband had shown, that she had not seen any member of the household near the gun cabinet, or any strangers in the garden or near the scullery. She couldn’t remember when she had last glanced at the cabinet, nor could she tell that her key ring had been tampered with in any way.
“What about last night, Mrs. Innes?” asked Ross. “I understand it was you who answered the door to the young woman who came calling for Mr. Brodie.”
Pursing her lips in disapproval, Louise Innes said,
“She was really quite rude. She demanded to see Donald.
I was afraid she was going to make a scene right there on the doorstep.”
“What did she say, exactly?”
Louise considered for a moment, then said carefully,
“ ‘I want to see Donald. Tell him I know he’s here.
There’s no use him skulking about, the lying bastard.’ ” Shaking her head, she added, “And in front of the child, too.”
“You’d never seen her before?”
“No. She wasn’t our sort.” Louise Innes seemed to feel no need to apologize for her snobbery.
“Did you overhear any of her conversation with Donald?”
“No,” Louise said, with what might have been a trace of regret. “I was getting the dining room ready, and helping John with the food.”
“I was under the impression that the guests did the cooking on a cookery course.”
“The class did most of the preparation yesterday, but John likes to do the last bits himself. He thinks that if people are paying to stay, they should have a little pam-pering—or at least that’s what he says. If you ask me, I think he just can’t bear to give up that much control of the kitchen.”
Ross gave her an encouraging nod. “Now, about your friend Hazel Cavendish, Mrs. Innes. Did she have some special understanding with Donald Brodie? A relationship?”
“Oh, not for years. But— Well, it was Donald who wanted to invite Hazel this weekend. I told John from the beginning I thought it was a bad idea,” Louise added, with the self-righteousness of the justified.
“You thought there might be trouble?”
“Oh, no—of course I never imagined anything like this! It’s just that—well, no matter what Donald wanted, Hazel is married. He couldn’t expect . . .”
“Are you telling me that Donald Brodie was still in love with Mrs. Cavendish? Were they having an affair?”
“No! I don’t— Donald wanted to see her, that was all.
For old times’ sake.”
“But Mrs. Cavendish knew he would be here, when you invited her?”
“Well, I did mention it, of course.” Louise smoothed already immaculate hair behind one ear. “She didn’t seem too concerned one way or the other.”
“But she was angry last night, after the young woman called for him?”
“I—I don’t know. I wasn’t in the dining room much at all.”
Ross had the distinct feeling she was prevaricating.
“Mrs. Innes, I know you mean well, but it really is best for everyone if you cooperate fully. Withholding evidence in a police inquiry is quite a serious matter.”
Louise Innes tucked her hair behind her ear again, then clasped her hands, rubbing the ball of one thumb over the top of the other. “There’s nothing, really. It’s just that . . . after dinner, when I went to take the rubbish out to the big bin, I heard them in the garden. They seemed to be arguing.”
“Did you hear what they said?”
“No, just raised voices. It was dark by then, and I couldn’t be sure exactly where they were. I hurried back inside—didn’t want to be caught eavesdropping.”
Ross found it interesting that she hadn’t said she didn’t want to eavesdrop; only that she didn’t want to be caught.
“Mrs. Innes—”
“You’re not thinking Hazel had something to do with Donald’s death?” She gazed at him, her hand lifted halfway to her mouth. “That’s just not possible! Hazel would never hurt anyone. And besides, Martin said Don-
ald came back to their room last night, so even if Donald and Hazel were together last night it doesn’t mean—”
“No, it doesn’t, but Mrs. Cavendish’s movements are unaccounted for this morning, and that is the crucial time period.”
“Oh.” The pupils of Louise Innes’s pale blue eyes dilated. “But . . .”
“Did you see Mrs. Cavendish this morning?”
“No. Not until after . . . her car was gone when I first went out into the garden. She drove up just as Gemma . . .” For the first time, Louise looked near to tears.
“Did you hear the gunshot?”
She shook her head, the bell of her hair swinging with the motion. “No. At least I don’t think I did—I might not have paid any attention. I was in the kitchen for a bit, making coffee, doing my usual morning chores, making a good bit of noise, I suppose. But after John left, I went out into the garden. I would surely have heard it then.”
“Your husband left this morning?” Ross’s interest quickened. Behind him, he heard Munro shift position and knew his sergeant had caught it as well. “I don’t remember your husband mentioning going anywhere this morning.”
“He ran to one of the neighboring estates to pick up some fresh eggs for breakfast—they keep free-range hens. What’s the harm in that?”
“Do you know what time this was?”
“I— No, I didn’t notice. You don’t think—you can’t think John took the gun,” she went on, her voice rising in horror. “He couldn’t have. I was in the kitchen when he left.”