But Judith’s brain wasn’t ready for rest. “Philip and Mrs. Gunn are conspiring,” she announced upon arriving in her room.
“About what?” Renie, who was setting off a fire in the grate, stood up. “Are you saying that’s relevant to Harry’s death?”
“Maybe,” Judith said, setting the bottles and glasses on the dresser. “I don’t know what they’re up to.”
“What would Harry Gibbs have to do with Glengrim distillery or Mrs. Gunn?” Renie asked.
“It sounds like it’s all connected to business,” Judith explained, pouring the drinks.
“You know,” Renie said, taking the Drambuie snifter from Judith, “this isn’t any of our business. For once, can’t you back off?”
Judith thought for a moment. “No. For me, that would be morally reprehensible.”
“Be practical,” Renie urged. “You’re a visitor in a foreign country. You’re the guest of a local cop. The police in the UK are very competent. You don’t know any of the people involved. Let Scotland’s criminal justice system do the job. Otherwise you’re just in the way and probably in danger. You know how Joe’s going to react to that. It’d spoil the whole vacation. This is our long-planned getaway.”
“That’s the problem,” Judith said bleakly. “I can’t let anybody get away with murder.”
8
The rest of the evening proved uneventful. Renie retreated to her room around eleven. Judith set her travel clock for eight-thirty. But it was well after midnight before she finally settled down. Upon awakening, she couldn’t remember what she’d dreamed, but knew she’d passed a restless night. The comforter was half off the bed and one of the pillows had fallen on the floor. Maybe, she thought, she’d been haunted by poor Harry and the life that had been cut so short.
After showering, putting on her makeup, and dressing in her new slacks and twin set, she went across the hall to Renie’s room. There was no response to her knock. The door was locked. Judith didn’t blame Renie; she’d locked her own door, too. Her cousin must be sleeping in, as was her habit. It was after nine, and if they were to eat breakfast before Mass in the chapel at eleven, Renie had better get going. Judith knocked harder and called out. “It’s me! Wake up!”
A full minute passed before Renie staggered to the door. “Is the sun up yet?” she asked in a groggy voice.
“It’s cloudy, but it’s not exactly dawn. You missed that,” Judith said, closing the door behind her. “Come on, we have to eat.”
“Oh. Eat.” Renie was wandering around the room in her flannel nightgown. “Breakfast. I remember. Good concept.” She wove her way to the garderobe.
When the cousins arrived in the dining room half an hour later, the sideboard held another generous repast.
“Porridge,” Renie said. “Real Scottish porridge. I read somewhere that they have an annual porridge-off around here. Inverness, maybe. They go for the Golden Sprutle.”
“The what?” Judith asked.
“Sprutle,” Renie repeated. “It’s the stick used to stir porridge.”
“Only you would know that,” Judith said, shaking her head.
“True,” Renie agreed. “I’m a font of useless knowledge.”
“I’m going to try the tangerine marmalade,” Judith said. “It’s in another crock like the salad dressing with the fancy G on it. Mrs. Gibbs must be a wizard in the kitchen.”
“Putting up preserves is a lost art,” Renie noted. “Remember how our mothers did it every year? I tried it when I was first married, but it was too much trouble. Canning was always in August, the hottest time of the year, standing at the stove and getting even hotter.”
“You’re babbling,” Judith declared. “I like it better when you don’t talk before ten o’clock.”
Just as the cousins were finishing, Mrs. Gibbs entered the dining room. Her cheeks were pale and there were dark circles under her eyes.
“Father Keith will arrive before eleven,” she said in a toneless voice. “Do ye know where to find the chapel? It’s in the southwest tower. Look for the cross over the door.”
Judith’s expression was compassionate. “We’re so sorry about your grandson. If there’s anything we can do—”
Mrs. Gibbs cut her off with a sharp gesture. “What’s to be done? The laddie’s gone to God. Pray for his poor soul, that’s what to do.”
“Of course,” Judith said. “Have you reached his parents?”
“An impossible task,” Mrs. Gibbs said. “They never should o’ had the bairn. Free spirits, they call themselves. Worthless, I call them.” She turned and went back to the kitchen.
“Not fond of Sonny,” Renie remarked, stirring sugar into her tea. “Why can’t parents take responsibility for ending up with rotten kids?”
Judith shook her head. “Sometimes kids are just bad apples.”
“Maybe.” Renie checked her watch. “Ten-twenty. I wonder how many people attend Mass in this Scottish Reformed Church country? Which reminds me, speaking of parents. It was Saint Margaret of Scotland who had six kids, and three turned out fine but the other trio was awful. She once remarked that even Ted Williams never batted five hundred.”
Judith smiled. “I doubt she used those words, since she must’ve died about nine hundred years before Ted Williams was born.”
“Oh?” Renie feigned innocence. “Maybe Saint Margaret meant shooting from the field. Or pass completions. You get the point, though I’m not sure I agree with it.”
The dining room door from the passageway opened. Beth Fordyce entered, wearing a very short yellow nightgown. “Coffee!” she exclaimed, her slanting brown eyes widening. “Where?”
“Try the silver urn,” Renie said. “We’re drinking tea this morning.”
“What a ghastly night,” Beth said, taking a cup and saucer from the sideboard. “I hardly slept. I’ve never been interrogated by the police. What do I know about Harry’s death? It’d be like him to blow up his own car, from what I’ve heard. He craved attention.” She poured her coffee and sat down a couple of places from Judith. “Phil is wild.”
Judith was puzzled. “You told us the explosion didn’t kill Harry.”
Beth nodded. “That’s what I was told. The autopsy’s tomorrow. The Sabbath is sacred around here.” With delicate fingers, she picked up her cup and saucer. “I must dress for Mass.”
After Beth left, Judith looked at Renie. “So she’s RC. Who else?”
Renie shrugged. “We seem to have fallen into a nest of papists.”
“Ordinarily, that’d be fine with me,” Judith said, “but at the moment, I have my doubts about whether these people practice what they preach. Especially,” she added grimly, “‘Thou shalt not kill.’”
Father Keith was elderly, white-haired, and rail-thin, but he zipped through the liturgy at top speed. The only reference to Harry Gibbs was during the intercessions when the priest asked the small congregation to pray for the dead man’s soul.
Despite the brevity of the service, Judith had time to take in the age-old beauty of the chapel. The statues of Jesus, Mary, St. Joseph, and St. Fergna probably weren’t the originals, but they definitely dated from the eighteenth or even seventeenth century. The Stations of the Cross in bas-relief also looked as if they’d been added later. Behind the altar the stained-glass windows depicted various saints Judith couldn’t identify. The workmanship looked very old, though a few sections looked as if they’d been replaced after attacks by enemies or Mother Nature. The tabernacle was crafted from ancient gold and studded with jewels.