D E B O R A H

CROMBIE

NOW MAY YOU WEEP

To my uncle, A. C. Greene, –, man of letters and storyteller extraordinaire Let torrents pour then, let the great winds rally.

Snow-silence fall or lightning blast the pine; That light of Home shines warmly in the valley, And, exiled son of Scotland, it is thine.

Far have you, wandered over seas of longing, And now you drowse, and now you well may weep, When all the recollections come a-throwing, Of this rude country where your fathers sleep.

—NEIL MUNRO, “TO EXILES”


Map


If there’s a sword-like sang

That can cut Scotland clear

O a’ the warld beside

Rax me the hilt o’t here.

—hugh macdiarmid,

“To Circumjack Cencrastus”

Carnmore, November

Wrapped in her warmest cloak and shawl, Livvy Urquhart paced the worn kitchen flags. The red-walled room looked a cozy sanctuary with its warm stove and open shelves filled with crockery, but outside the wind whipped and moaned round the house and distillery with an eerily human voice, and the chill penetrated even the thick stone walls of the old house.

It was worry for her husband, Charles, that had kept Livvy up into the wee hours of the night. He would have been traveling back from Edinburgh when the blizzard struck, unexpectedly early in the season, unexpectedly fierce for late autumn.

And the road from Cock Bridge to Tomintoul, the route

Charles must take to reach Carnmore, was always the first in Scotland to be completely blocked by snow. Had his carriage run off the track, both horse and driver blinded by the stinging wall of white fury that met them as they came up the pass? Was her husband even now lying in a ditch, or a snowbank, slowly succumbing to the numbing cold?

Her fear kept her pacing, long after she’d sent her son, sixteen-year-old Will, to bed, and as the hours wore on, the knowledge of her situation brought her near desperation.

Trapped in the snug, white-harled house, she was as helpless as poor Charles, and useless to him. Soon she would not even be able to reach the distillery outbuildings, much less the track that led to the tiny village of Chapeltown.

Livvy sank into the rocker by the stove, fighting back tears she refused to acknowledge. She was a Grant by birth, after all, and Grants were no strangers to danger and harsh circumstances. They had not only survived in this land for generations but had also flourished, and if she had grown up in the relative comfort of the town, she had now lived long enough in the Braes to take hardship and isolation for granted.

And Charles . . . Charles was a sensible man—too sensible, she had thought often enough in the seventeen years of their marriage. He would have taken shelter at the first signs of the storm in some roadside inn or croft.

He was safe, of course he was safe, and so she would hold him in her mind, as if her very concentration could protect him.

She stood again and went to the window. Wiping at the thick pane of glass with the hem of her cloak, she saw nothing but a swirl of white. What would she tell Will in the morning, if there was no sign of his father? A new fear clutched at her. Although a quiet boy, Will had a

stubborn and impulsive streak. It would be like him to decide to strike off into the snow in search of Charles.

Hurriedly, she lit a candle and left the kitchen for the dark chill of the house, her heart racing. But when she reached her son’s first-floor bedroom, she found him sleeping soundly, one arm free of his quilts, his much-read copy of Kidnapped open on his chest. Easing the book from his grasp, she rearranged the covers, then stood looking down at him. From his father he had inherited the neat features and the fine, straight, light brown hair, and from his father had come the love of books and the streak of romanticism. To Will, Davie Bal-four and the Jacobite Alan Breck were as real as his friends at the distillery; but lately, his fascination with the Rebellion of ’ seemed to have faded, and he’d begun to talk more of safety bicycles and blowlamps, and the new steam-powered wagons George Smith was using to transport whisky over at Drumin. All natural for a boy his age, Livvy knew, especially with the new century now little more than a year away, but still it pained her to see him slipping out of the warm, safe confines of farm, village, and distillery.

More slowly, Livvy went downstairs, shivering a little even in her cloak, and settled again in her chair. She fixed her mind on Charles, but when an uneasy slumber at last overtook her, it was not Charles of whom she dreamed.

She saw a woman’s heart-shaped face. Familiar dark eyes, so similar to her own, gazed back at her, but Livvy knew with the irrefutable certainty of dreams that it was not her own reflection she beheld. The woman’s hair was dark and curling, like her own, but it had been cropped short, as if the woman had suffered an illness. The dream-figure wore odd clothing as well, a sleeveless shift remi-niscent of a nightdress or an undergarment. Her exposed

skin was brown as a laborer’s, but when she raised a hand to brush at her cheek, Livvy saw that her hands were smooth and unmarked.

The woman seemed to be sitting in a railway carriage—Livvy recognized the swaying motion of the train—but the blurred landscape sped by outside the windows at a speed impossible except in dreams.

Livvy, trying to speak, struggled against the cotton wool that seemed to envelop her. “What— Who—” she began, but the image was fading. It flared suddenly and dimmed, as if someone had blown out a lamp, but Livvy could have sworn that in the last instant she had seen a glimpse of startled recognition in the woman’s eyes.

She gasped awake, her heart pounding, but she knew at once it was not the dream that had awakened her. There had been a sound, a movement, at the kitchen door. Livvy stood, her hand to her throat, paralyzed by sudden hope.

“Charles?”

The world slipped by backwards, a misty patchwork of sheep-dotted fields and pale yellow swaths of rape that seemed to glow from within. Occasionally, the rolling hills dipped into deep, leafy-banked ravines that harbored slow rivers, mossy and mysterious. The bloom of late spring lay across the land with a richness that made Gemma James’s blood rise in response. As the train swayed hypnotically, she fancied that time might encap-sulate the speeding train and its occupants in a perpetual loop of rhythmic motion and flashing hillsides.

Giving herself a small shake, she looked across the aisle at her friend Hazel Cavendish. “It’s lovely”—

Gemma gestured out the window—“wherever it is.”

Hazel laughed. “Northumberland, I think. We’ve a long way to go.”

Farther down the car, a mother tried to calm an increasingly fractious child, and Gemma felt a guilty surge of relief that it was not she having to cope. As much as she loved her four-year-old son, Toby, it was not often she had a break from child care that didn’t include work. Nor, she realized, had she and Hazel spent much time together away from their children. Until the previous Christmas, Gemma had lived for almost two years in the garage flat belonging to Hazel and her husband, Tim Cavendish. As Hazel and Tim’s daughter, Holly, was the same age as Gemma’s son, Hazel had cared for both children while Gemma was at work.

“I’m glad you asked me,” Gemma said impulsively, smiling at Hazel across the narrow tabletop that separated them.

“If anyone deserves a break, it’s you,” Hazel replied with her customary warmth.

The previous autumn, Gemma had been promoted to detective inspector with the Metropolitan Police, assigned to Notting Hill Police Station. The promotion, although a goal long set, had not come without cost. Not only had it brought long hours and increased responsibility, but it had also meant leaving Scotland Yard, ending her working partnership with Superintendent Duncan Kincaid, her lover—and, since Christmas, her housemate.

“Tell me again about the place we’re going,” Gemma prompted. A week ago, Hazel had rung and, quite unexpectedly, asked Gemma to accompany her on a cookery weekend in the Scottish Highlands.

“I know it’s short notice,” Hazel had said, “but it’s only for four days. We’ll go up on the Friday and come back on Monday. Could you get away from work, do you think? You haven’t had a holiday in ages.”


Gemma understood the unspoken subtext. A therapist as well as a friend, Hazel was concerned that Gemma had not fully recovered from her miscarriage in January.

It had been a hard winter. The fact that the pregnancy was unplanned and had been difficult for Gemma to accept had made the loss of the child even more devastat-ing; nor had she recovered physically as quickly as she might have hoped. But with spring had come a lifting of her spirits and a renewal of energy, and if she still woke in the night with an aching sadness, she didn’t speak of it.

“It’s a small place called Innesfree,” Hazel told her. “A pun on the owners’ name, which is Innes.”

“Nice sentiment, wrong country.”

Hazel smiled. “It’s near the River Spey, at the foot of the Cairngorm Mountains. According to the brochure, John Innes is making quite a name for himself as a chef.

We were lucky to get a place in one of his cooking courses.”

“You know I’m not up to your standards,” Gemma protested, thinking of some of her recent kitchen disasters in the house she and Duncan had taken in Notting Hill. She had yet to master the oil-fired cooker, in spite of Hazel’s helpful advice.

“The course is supposed to be very personalized,”

Hazel assured her. “And I’m sure there will be other things to do. Walks by the river, drinks by the fire . . .”

“How very romantic.”

Much to Gemma’s surprise, Hazel colored and looked away. “I suppose it is,” she murmured, leaning back into her seat and closing her eyes.

Gazing at her companion, Gemma noticed the smudges beneath the fan of dark lashes, the new hollows beneath the well-defined cheekbones. For a moment

Gemma wondered if Hazel could be ill, but she dismissed the thought as quickly as it had come. Hazel—therapist, perfect wife, mother, and gourmet vegetarian cook—was the most healthy, balanced person Gemma had ever known. Surely it was merely a slight fatigue, and the weekend’s rest would be just the restorative she needed.

Donald Brodie lifted one section of the wort vat’s heavy wooden cover and breathed in the heady aroma of hot water and barley. He had been fascinated by this part of the distilling process even as a child, when his father had had to lift him up so that he could peer down into the frothy depths of the vat. It still amazed him that the liquid produced by combining ground, dried barley with hot water could produce a final product as elegant as a malt whisky—but perhaps that was why he had never lost his fierce love of the business.

Even today, when he had so much else at stake, he had gone round the premises after work finished, as was his habit. He closed the vat and crossed the steel mesh flooring to the stairs, his footsteps echoing in the building’s cavernous space. Once outside, he locked the door and stepped out into the yard, stopping a moment to survey his domain.

It had been mild for mid-May in the Highlands, and the late afternoon air still held the sun’s warmth. Before him, the lawn sloped down to the house his great-great-grandfather had built, a monument to Victorian Romanticism in dressed stone. He turned, looking back at the building he had left. To the left stood the warehouse, once the home of the vast floor maltings, with the distinctive twin-pagoda roofs that had ventilated the kiln; to the right, the still-house and the now-defunct mill. Although the mill had not been used to grind barley to grist since the

early s, his father had restored the wheel to operation, and water tumbled merrily from its blades. The building now served as the distillery’s Visitors Centre.

The mill was powered by the burn that ran down from the foothills of the Cairngorms to meet the nearby River Spey, but the water that went into the whisky came from the spring that bubbled up from the gently rolling grounds. In the making of whisky, the quality of the water was all-important, a Highland distillery’s greatest asset.

The Brodie who had named the place Benvulin had shown a wayward imagination— ben being a corruption of the Gaelic word beinn, or hill, but vulin, the phonetic spelling of the Gaelic mhoulin, or mill, was a bit more accurate.

Tomorrow he would entice Hazel into coming here—a not-so-subtle reminder of her heritage and of what he had to offer—but then, he had grown tired of subtlety. The phone calls, the notes, the casual lunches in discreet London restaurants, spent skating around what they were feeling; all those things had served their purpose, but now it was time for Hazel to face the truth. His friends, John and Louise Innes, had done their part in getting Hazel here by arranging the cookery weekend; now he must do his—and soon, he thought, his pulse quickening as he looked at his watch.

The mobile phone on his belt vibrated. Slipping it from its holder, he glanced at the caller ID. Alison.

Damn and blast! He hesitated, then let the call ring through to voice mail. If there was one complication he didn’t need this weekend, it was dealing with Alison.

He’d told her he had a business meeting—true enough, with Heather, the distillery’s manager, who’d insisted on bringing Pascal Benoit, the Frenchman whose conglom-

erate was salivating over Benvulin. Not that he could put off Alison indefinitely, mind, but a few more days couldn’t hurt, and then he would find some way of dealing with her for good.

With that thought, he went to wash and change for the evening, whistling all the while.

Sitting down at his wife’s desk, Tim Cavendish began to work his way through the drawers. He was a methodical man, and his time was limited, because Holly, who at age four protested naps with great indignation, would not sleep long. He told himself this was a job, a project, to be approached like any other; he could, in fact, pretend he was looking for something, a lost note, or a receipt. Perhaps that would quiet the ingrained revulsion he felt at invading another therapist’s privacy. But Hazel, he told himself, had forfeited all rights to such consideration.

Pencils, elastic bands, paper clips—all the innocent paraphernalia of work. Hazel’s appointment book lay open on her desktop; her case files were stored in a separate cabinet. Disappointed, he sat back and idly lifted the corner of the blotter.

The dog-eared photo was near the edge, as if it had been examined often. From its fading surface Hazel gazed back at him, smiling. She wore shorts, her tanned legs seeming to go on forever, and her face, younger and softer, was more like Holly’s than he remembered. Beside her sat a large man in jeans, his arm thrown casually, possessively, around her shoulders. His face was strong, blunt, his thick hair a bit longer than was now fashion-able. Behind them, the purple haze of a heather-covered moor. Scotland, in summer.

His first impulse was to destroy the photo; but no, let

her keep it. She would have little enough when he had finished with her.

A corner of white protruded from beneath one side of the snap. He nudged the photo out of the way with the tip of his finger, as if touching it would contaminate him.

A business card. Good God. The man had given her a business card, like a commercial traveler come calling.

Unlike the photo, it was new, still pristinely white, and it told him what he wanted to know. Donald Brodie, Benvulin Distillery, Nethy Bridge, Inverness-shire.

Tim felt an icy calm settle over him. He pocketed the card, returning the photo to its hiding place. Seconds seemed to stretch into minutes, and in the silence he heard the pumping of his own heart.

He knew now what he had to do.

“What if they don’t eat meat?” Louise Innes stood at the kitchen sink, filling vases for the evening’s flower arrangements. Although her back was turned to her husband, John knew her forehead would be puckered in the small frown that had begun to leave a permanent crease.

“Did you not think to ask?”

“I assumed someone would have said, if there was a problem,” John answered, keeping his voice even but whisking a little harder at the batter for the herb and mushroom crepes that would serve as that night’s starter.

Although the kitchen was his province, the house Louise’s, she didn’t mind questioning his menu choices.

“And venison, especially—”

“Och, it’s a Highland specialty, Louise. And Hazel Cavendish is your old school friend—I should think ye’d know if she didna eat meat.”

“This weekend was a bad idea from start to finish,”

Louise said pettishly. Her English accent always grew

more precise in proportion to her degree of irritation, as if to repudiate his Scottishness. “I haven’t seen Hazel since the summer after university, and I don’t approve of the whole business. She’s married, for heaven’s sake, with a child. You’ve always let Donald Brodie talk you into things you shouldn’t.” His wife pulled half a dozen roses from the pail of flowers John had brought from Inverness that morning, laid them across a cutting board, and sliced off the bottom inch of the stems with a sharp knife. The ruthlessness in the quick chop made him think of small creatures beheaded.

Louise had taken a flower-arranging course the previous year, attacking the project with the efficiency that marked all her endeavors. Although she could now produce picture-perfect bouquets that drew raves from the guests, he found that the arrangements lacked that certain creative touch—a last blossom out of place, perhaps—

that would have made them truly lovely.

“If that’s the case, perhaps ye should take some responsibility,” he snapped at her. “It was you introduced me to Donald, ye ken.” He knew he was being defensive, because he’d allowed Donald to wheedle him into taking Hazel and her friend without charge, and this meant they’d turned away paying guests on a weekend at the beginning of their busiest season. But then, he had his reasons for keeping on Donald Brodie’s good side, and the less Louise knew about that, the better.

Louise’s only answer to his sally was the eloquent line of her back. With a sigh, John finished his batter and began brushing mushrooms with a damp tea towel. It was no use him criticizing Louise. The very qualities that aggravated him had also made this venture possible.

Two years ago, he’d given up his Edinburgh job in commercial real estate and bought the old farmhouse at

the edge of the Abernathy forest, between Coylumbridge and Nethy Bridge. The house and barn had been in appalling condition, but the recent property boom in Edinburgh had provided him with the cash to finance the necessary refurbishments.

Louise, at first unhappy over the loss of her job and circle of friends, had in time thrown herself into the project with her customary zeal. While he did the shopping and the cooking, she took reservations and did the guests’

rooms, as they could not as yet afford to hire help.

Resting the heel of his hand on his knife, he quartered the mushrooms before chopping them finely. A glance told him Louise still had her back to him, her head bent over her flowers. He felt his temper ease as he watched her. She might not have approved of the arrangements for the weekend, but she would do her best to make sure everything went smoothly.

“You’ll be glad to see Hazel again, will ye not?” he asked, in an attempt to placate.

Louise’s shoulders relaxed and she tilted her head, her neat blond hair falling to one side like a lifted bird’s wing. “It’s been a long time,” she answered. “I’m not sure I’ll know what to say.”

“I’m sure Donald will fill in the gaps,” he said lightly, then cursed himself for a fool. Louise would never be able to resist such an opening.

“That’s the problem, isn’t it?” She turned towards him, a spray of sweet peas in her hand. “Donald always fills in the gaps, and never mind the consequences. He’s as feck-less as his father, if not more so. Heather’s livid, and we have to get on with her once this weekend is over.”

“I don’t see why it should make any difference to Heather,” he said stubbornly. “Hazel’s her cousin, after all. Ye’d think she’d be glad to—”

“You don’t see anything!” Spots of color appeared high on Louise’s cheekbones. “How can you be so dense, John? You know how precarious things are at the distillery just now—”

“I still don’t see what that has to do with your friend Hazel coming for a weekend.” He added a clove of garlic to his board and chopped it with unnecessary force.

Louise turned her back to him again just as the sun dipped low enough in the southwest to catch the window above the sink. She stood, backlit, the light forming an aureole around her fair hair, as if she were a medieval saint.

“Why are you suddenly so determined to defend a woman you’ve never met?” Her voice was cold and tight, a warning he’d come to recognize. If he didn’t put an end to the argument now, it would spill over into the evening, and that he couldn’t afford.

“Listen, darlin’—”

“Unless there’s something you haven’t told me.” She stood very still, her hands cupped round the finished vase of flowers.

“Don’t be absurd, Louise. Why wouldna I have told you, if I’d met the bluidy woman?”

“I can think of a number of reasons.”

Scraping the mushrooms and garlic into the melted butter waiting in a saucepan, he considered his reply.

He’d never learned how to deal with her in this mood, having tried teasing, sarcasm, angry denial—all with the same lack of success. But the longer he delayed, the more likely she would take his silence for an admission of guilt. “Louise—”

She turned, and he saw from her expression that it was too late to salvage the argument, or the evening. “What’s got into you, John?” she spat at him. “How could you pos-

sibly have thought I’d approve of your conspiring to sabotage another woman’s marriage?”

As the train sped north, the fields of Northumberland and the rolling hills of the Scottish Borders yielded to granite cliffs and forests, and, at last, to the high, heather-clad moors. Gemma gazed out the glass, entranced by the patterns of dark and light on the moor side, as if someone had laid out a child’s crude map of the world across the hills.

“They burn the heather,” Hazel explained when Gemma asked the cause of the odd effect. “The new growth after the burning provides food for the grouse.”

“And the yellow patches?”

“The deep gold-yellow is gorse. Lovely to look at but prickly to fall into. And the paler yellow”—Hazel pointed at the blooms lining the railway cutting—“is broom.”

“All this you remember from your childhood?”

Gemma asked. Hazel had told her she’d lived near here as a small child, before her parents moved to Newcastle.

“Oh.” Hazel looked disconcerted. “I worked here for a bit after university.”

Before Gemma could elicit particulars, they were interrupted by the arrival of the tea trolley, and shortly thereafter they drew into the doll’s house of Aviemore station.

Gemma eyed the Bavarian fantasy of gingerbread and painted trim with astonishment as Hazel laughed at her expression. “It’s by far the prettiest building in Aviemore,” Hazel said as they gathered their luggage from the overhead racks. “The station raises great expectations, but Aviemore’s a ski and hiking center, and there’s not much else to recommend it.”

They picked up the keys for their hired car from the Europcar office in the railway station, then emerged into the evening light. At first glance, Gemma found Hazel’s assessment to be accurate. The High Street was lined with mountain shops, restaurants, and a new supermarket complex; to the left the stone block of the Hilton Hotel rose from a green slope; to the right, beyond the car park, lay the Aviemore Police Station. But to the east, behind the railway station, rose mist-enshrouded mountain peaks, gilded by the sun.

“Is that where we’re going?” Gemma gestured at the hills as they chucked their bags into the boot of the red Honda awaiting them in the car park.

“The guest house is in the valley that runs along the River Spey. But you’re never out of sight of the mountains here,” Hazel added, and Gemma thought she heard a note of wistfulness in her voice.

Ever more curious, Gemma asked, “You know the way?” as they belted themselves in and Hazel shoved the car hire map into the glove box.

“I know the road,” Hazel said, pulling into the street,

“but not the house itself.”

In a few short blocks, they’d left Aviemore behind and turned into a B road that crossed the Spey and dipped into evergreen woods. “We’re running along the very edge of the Rothiemurchus Estate,” Hazel explained. “That’s owned by the Rothiemurchus Grants—they’re quite a force in this part of the world.”

“Grants?” Gemma repeated blankly.

“A famous Highland family. I’m— Never mind. It’s complicated.”

“Related to them?”

“Very remotely. But then most people in the Highlands are related. It’s very incestuous country.”


“Do you still have family here, then?” Gemma asked, intrigued.

“An aunt and uncle. A cousin.”

Gemma thought back over all the hours they’d spent chatting in Hazel’s cozy Islington kitchen. Had Hazel never mentioned them? Or had Gemma never thought to ask?

In the time Gemma had lived in Hazel’s garage flat, they had become close friends. But on reflection, Gemma realized that their conversations had centered on their children, food, Gemma’s job, and—Gemma admitted to herself rather shamefacedly—Gemma’s problems.

Gemma had thought that Hazel’s easy way of turning the conversation from her own life was a therapist’s habit, when she had thought of it at all. But what did she really know about Hazel?

“When you came back after university . . . ,” she said slowly. “What did you do?”

“Cooked,” Hazel answered grimly. “I catered meals for shooting parties, at estates and lodges.”

“Shooting? As in the queen always goes to Balmoral in August for the grouse?”

Hazel smiled. “We’re not far from Balmoral, by the way. And yes, it was grouse, as well as pheasant and deer and anything else you could shoot with a bloody gun. I had enough of carcasses to last a lifetime.” Slowing the car, Hazel added, “We should be getting close. Keep watch on the left.”

Gemma had been absently gazing at the sparkle of the river as it played hide-and-seek through pasture and wooded copse, trying to imagine a childhood spent in such surroundings. “What exactly am I looking for?”

“A white house, set back from the road. I’m sure there will be a sign.” Hazel slowed still further, her knuckles

showing pale where she gripped the wheel. Odd, thought Gemma, that Hazel should be so anxious about missing a turning.

They traveled another mile in silence, then rounding a curve, Gemma saw a flash of white through the trees.

“There!” A small sign on a gatepost read INNESFREE, BED

& BREAKFAST INN.

Hazel braked and pulled the car into the drive. The house sat side-on to the road, facing north. Its foursquare plainness bespoke its origins as a farmhouse, but it looked comfortable and welcoming. To the right of the house they could see another building and beyond it, the glint of the river.

The sight of smoke curling from the chimney was a welcome addition, for, as Gemma discovered when she stepped out of the car, the temperature had dropped considerably just since they’d left Aviemore. Hazel shivered in her sleeveless dress, hugging her arms across her chest.

“I’ll just get your cardigan, shall I?” asked Gemma, going to the boot, but Hazel shook her head.

“No. I’ll be all right. Let’s leave the bags for now.” She marched towards the front door, and Gemma followed, looking round with interest.

The door swung open and a man came out to greet them, his arms held out in welcome. “You’ll be Hazel, then? I’m John, Louise’s husband.” He took Hazel’s hand and gave it a squeeze before turning to Gemma. “And this is your friend—”

“Gemma. Gemma James.” Gemma shook his hand, taking the opportunity to study him. He had thinning dark hair, worn a little longer than fashion dictated, wire-rimmed spectacles, a comfortable face, and the incipient paunch of a good cook.


“We’ve put you in the barn conversion—our best room,” John told them. “Why don’t you come in and have a wee chat with Louise, then I’ll take your bags round.” He shepherded them into a flagstoned hall filled with shooting and fishing prints and sporting paraphernalia; oiled jackets hung from hooks on the walls, and a wooden bin held croquet mallets, bad-minton racquets, and fishing rods. In contrast to the worn jumble, a table held a perfect arrangement of spring flowers.

A woman came towards them from a door at the end of the hall. Small and blond, with a birdlike neatness, she wore her hair in the sort of smooth, swingy bob that Gemma, with her tangle of coppery curls, always envied.

“Hullo, Hazel,” the woman said as she reached them, pecking the air near Hazel’s cheek. “It’s wonderful to see you. I’m Louise,” she added, turning to Gemma.

“Why don’t you come into the parlor for a drink before dinner? The others have walked down to the river to work up an appetite, but they should be back soon.”

She led them into a sitting room on the right. A coal fire glowed in the simple hearth, the furniture was upholstered in an unlikely but pleasant mixture of mauve tartans, a vase of purple tulips drooped gracefully before the window, and to Gemma’s delight, an old upright piano stood against the wall.

As soon as Gemma and Hazel were seated, John Innes brought over a tray holding several cut glass tumblers and a bottle of whisky. “It’s Benvulin, of course,” he said as he splashed a half inch of liquid amber into each glass.

“Eighteen-year-old. I could hardly do less,” he added, with a knowing glance at Hazel.

“Benvulin?” repeated Gemma.

After a moment’s pause, Hazel answered. “It’s a distillery near here. Quite famous.” She held her glass under her nose for a moment before taking a sip. “In fact, the whole of Speyside is famous for its single malt whiskies.

Some say it provides the perfect combination of water, peat, and barley.” She drank again, and Gemma saw the color heighten in her cheeks.

“But you don’t agree?” Following Hazel’s example, Gemma took a generous sip. Fire bit at the back of her throat and she coughed until tears came to her eyes.

“Sorry,” she managed to gasp.

“Takes a bit of getting used to,” John said. “Unless you’re like Hazel, here, who probably tasted whisky in her cradle.”

“I wouldn’t go as far as that.” Hazel’s tight smile indicated more irritation than amusement.

“Is that a Highland custom, giving whisky to babies?”

asked Gemma, wondering what undercurrent she was missing.

“Helps with the teething,” Hazel replied before John or Louise could speak. “And a host of other things. Old-timers swear a wee dram with their parritch every morning keeps them fit.” Finishing her drink in a swallow, Hazel stood. “But just now I’d like to freshen up before dinner, and I’m sure Gemma—”

Turning, Gemma saw a man standing in the doorway, surveying them. Tall and broad-shouldered, he had thick auburn hair and a neatly trimmed ruddy beard. And he was gazing at Hazel, who stood as if turned to stone.

He came towards her, hand outstretched. “Hazel!”

“Donald.” Hazel made his name not a greeting but a statement. When she made no move to take his hand, he dropped it, and they stood in awkward silence.


Watching the tableau, Gemma became aware of two things. The first was that Hazel, standing with her lips parted and her eyes bright, was truly lovely, and that she had never realized it.

The second was the fact that this large man in the red-and-black tartan kilt knew Hazel very well indeed.


Chapter Two


It was like the worst of the Scottish Highlands, only worse; cold, naked, and ignoble, scant of wood, scant of heather, scant of life.

—robert louis stevenson,

“Travels with a Donkey”

Carnmore, November

Bracing her shoulder against the thrust of the wind hammering at the kitchen door, Livvy eased up the latch. But her slight body was no match for the gale, her preparation futile. The howling wind seized the door and flung it back, taking her with it like a rag doll.

She lay in a heap on the stone flags, the frigid air piercing her lungs. Levering herself up on hands and knees, she edged round the door’s flimsy shelter. The snow flew at her, stinging her eyes and blurring her vision, but she crawled forward, her head down, her gaze fixed upon the dark huddle beyond the stoop. “Charles?”

she called out, her voice a croak snatched by the wind, but there was no answer.

The humped form resolved itself as she drew nearer:

man-sized, man-shaped, the darkness a coat, rime-crusted. She dug her way through the heaped snow that had drifted against the sill, frantic now.

He lay against the step, curled in a fetal ball, his head hidden by his arms. “Charles!” Livvy tugged at him, pulling him half onto his back so that she could see his face, and pushed back his wet, cold hair. His skin was blue, his lashes frozen with tiny ice crystals, but she thought she saw his lips move.

“Inside. We’ve got to get ye in the house,” she shouted, trying to lift him. But he was limp, a deadweight, and with the wind buffeting her she couldn’t get enough leverage to haul him over the stoop. Pushing and tugging, she exhorted him, but she grew clumsier as she began to lose the sensation in her hands and feet.

At last she sat back. “Charles, oh, Charles,” she sobbed, wiping at the tears turning to ice on her cheeks.

Then she swallowed hard, her resolve hardening. He had made it home, God knew how, with the last of his strength, and now it was up to her.

But she must get help or he would freeze, and she with him.

Gemma eased her thigh away from its damp contact with the knee of the young man sitting next to her, giving him a bland smile. Not that he was flirting with her—at least she hoped he wasn’t flirting with her. But in honor of the weekend’s cookery class, the small, square tables that would normally have seated the guests from each bedroom in the B&B separately had been joined, leaving the six people assembled for dinner closer together than Gemma found comfortable. The room was overwarm, as well, and although the coal fire blazing in the dining room’s hearth added a convivial

note, the ring of faces round the table all sported a faint sheen of perspiration.

No doubt a good bit of that glow could be attributed to the amount of whisky drunk before dinner, and the liberal consumption of wine with the meal. Considering that they hadn’t reached the pudding stage yet, Gemma groaned inwardly. Paper-thin crepes with wild mushrooms had preceded tenderloin of venison in a red currant glaze, surrounded by heaps of perfectly roasted potatoes and crisp haricots verts. Now Gemma eyed the remaining slice of venison on her plate with something akin to despair. It was too good to leave, but she’d burst if she took another bite. With a sigh, she pushed her plate away and looked round the room. Hazel, she noticed, had art-fully rearranged the meat on her plate without actually eating any of it.

Following the sporting theme evidenced in the entry hall, delicately colored paintings of fish swam round the circumference of the white-paneled dining room walls.

At first Gemma thought the fish were painted on the paneling itself, but as she studied them she realized they were paper cutouts. The sizes varied, as did the quality of the artwork, but all were game fish of some sort, trout or perhaps salmon. Having never seen either except on a dinner plate, Gemma could only guess.

“They’re all hand painted, you know,” said the young man beside her, following her gaze. He had been introduced to her as Martin Gilmore, John Innes’s much younger brother. “It was a household tradition before John bought the place. Anyone who catches a fish weighing more than eight pounds has to trace it exactly, then paint it.”

“Is one of these yours, then?” Gemma asked, nodding at the wall. Martin had the look of an artist, with

his thin, ascetic face and cropped hair that emphasized the bony prominence of his nose. In one nostril Gemma saw a puncture, telltale evidence of an absent nose stud. Perhaps Martin had been afraid John would disapprove.

“Not on your life,” Martin answered, grimacing. “I’m a city boy, brought up in Dundee. I’ll pass on the shootin’

and fishin’, thank you verra much.” His accent, at first more clipped than his brother’s, had begun to slur as the level in his glass dropped.

“Oh,” said Gemma, confused. “I had the impression John was from this area, but I must have been mistaken—”

“No, you had it right,” confirmed Martin. “We’re half brothers. Our mother remarried, and I was the child of her dotage.”

Not quite sure how to respond to the latter part of his comment, Gemma concentrated on the former. “But you’re close, you and John?”

“First time I’ve seen him since I left school.” Martin glanced round the room, as if assuring himself of his brother’s absence, and leaned nearer Gemma’s ear. “To tell the truth, I thought I’d never wangle an invitation to this place. Couldn’t believe my luck when he rang up and said I could come along this weekend for the cookery class.”

Gemma edged away from his warm breath. “You’re interested in cooking?”

Martin’s reply was forestalled by Louise’s entrance with an empty tray. “The ice queen herself,” he muttered, then busied himself finishing his venison.

“Did everyone enjoy their meals?” Louise asked, smiling brightly at them.

A hearty chorus of assents rang round the table. Louise spoke quietly to each guest as she removed his or her

plate, giving Gemma an opportunity to study her table-mates.

Across from her sat Heather Urquhart, who had also greeted Hazel as if they were well acquainted. The woman was in her thirties, tall and thin, her face lightly pockmarked with the scars of old acne, but her most striking feature was the rippling curtain of black hair that fell below her waist. She had kept up an animated conversation all through dinner with the man on her right, a Frenchman named Pascal Benoit.

Benoit seemed to have some connection with the whisky business, but Gemma had yet to work out exactly what he did. He was short, balding, and slightly tubby, but his dark eyes were flat and cold as stones.

That left Hazel, seated next to Heather, and at the table’s far end, the man in the red kilt, who had been introduced to Gemma as Donald Brodie. The awkwardness of his entrance into the sitting room had been quickly smoothed over by the arrival of the other guests, but before Gemma could draw Hazel aside with a question, Louise had called them in to dinner.

Now, as she watched Brodie lean over and speak softly in Hazel’s ear, Gemma was more curious than ever. Hazel seemed flushed, animated, and riveted on her companion.

Clearly, she knew Donald Brodie. And just as clearly, she had not been surprised to find him at Innesfree. What was Hazel playing at?

Was Brodie an old flame, and Hazel trying to make the best of an embarrassing reunion for the sake of the cookery weekend? Or—Gemma frowned at the thought—was there more to it than that?

Surely not, thought Gemma. Hazel and Tim were happily married, a wonderful couple. Then, uncomfortably, Gemma began to recall how little she’d seen of Tim the

past few months—in fact, even before Gemma had moved out of the garage flat, Tim had been absent in the evenings more often than not. And Hazel’s distress over Gemma’s move had seemed odd in one usually so serene, as had the plea in her voice when she’d invited Gemma to accompany her for the weekend.

Gemma gave herself a mental shake. Rubbish. It was all rubbish. The very idea of Hazel having an affair was absurd. That’s what police work did for you—gave you a suspicious nature. She found herself suddenly missing Kincaid’s presence and his unruffled outlook. He would, she was sure, tell her she was making a mountain out of a molehill.

Determined to put Hazel’s behavior from her mind, as well as the small ache of homesickness brought on by the thought of Duncan, Gemma handed Louise her plate.

“That was absolutely super,” she told her. “A few more days of this and I won’t be able to do up my buttons.”

“Wait until you see the pudding,” Louise answered.

“It’s a chocolate mousse with raspberry coulis—John’s specialty. Would you like coffee with it?”

Gemma murmured her assent, but her mind had gone back to Hazel. Why, if she were carrying on with Donald Brodie, had she wanted Gemma to come with her?

As if sensing her interest, Brodie broke off his conversation with Hazel and turned to her. “Gemma, I understand you’re not much of a whisky drinker. We’ll have to remedy that while you’re here.” His voice was Scots, but well educated, and pleasantly deep.

“Is that a necessary part of the Highland experience, Mr.

Brodie?”

“It’s Donald, please,” he corrected her. “And from my point of view, it’s a necessary part of everyone’s experience. I own a distillery.”

Gemma thought back to the predinner drinks, and John Innes’s rather sly comment about the whisky he’d served.

“Benvulin, is it?”

Brodie looked pleased. “Hazel will have told you, then. It’s a family enterprise, started by one of my Brodie forebears. You might say it’s in Hazel’s family, too,” he added, with a quick glance at Hazel, “in more ways than one. Heather’s now my manager.”

“Heather?” Gemma asked, lost.

“Heather and I are cousins,” Hazel put in, with an embarrassed duck of her head towards the other woman.

“Our fathers are brothers. I’m sure I must have told you . . .”

Gemma couldn’t recall Hazel ever mentioning her maiden name. She glanced at Heather Urquhart, saw no wedding ring on her long, thin hand. Urquhart, she was sure, she would have remembered. Thinking of Hazel’s daughter, she said, “Hazel, Heather, Holly—”

“A family penchant for female botanical names.”

Heather Urquhart’s voice matched her looks, sharp and thin, and her tone was challenging. “I’m surprised Hazel hasn’t regaled you with tales of her eccentric Scottish relations.”

“Give it a break, Heather,” Hazel said sharply, and Heather gave a cat-in-the-cream smile at having drawn a retort.

Gemma gaped at her friend in astonishment. She had seen Hazel occasionally get a bit cross with the children when they tried her patience too far, but never had she heard her snap at another adult.

“You have been a number of years in the south, I think,” Pascal Benoit said diplomatically to Hazel in his faintly accented English. A twinkle of malice livened his black eyes.


Hazel turned to him with obvious relief. “Yes, London.

My husband and I live in London, with our four-year-old daughter.”

Turning his attention to Gemma, Benoit asked, “And you, Miss James? You are also from London?”

“It’s not miss, actually,” Gemma answered, feeling suddenly contrary. “James is my ex-husband’s name.”

Benoit smiled, appearing not at all discomfited. “Ah, one of the more difficult questions of manners in modern society. How does one refer to the divorced woman, without using the abominable Ms. ? In French it is easier.

Madame implies a woman mature, past her girlhood, but not necessarily married.”

“And I take it that in France, to refer to a woman as

‘mature’ is not an insult?” Gemma was beginning to enjoy herself. Benoit was proving a much more challenging verbal partner than Martin Gilmore, who sat silently beside her, hunched over his drink.

“Mais oui.” Benoit smiled, showing small, even, white teeth. “We French appreciate women at all stages in life, not just the boyish ingénue. Unlike the British, who have no more refined taste in women than in food.”

Gilmore flushed and straightened up, as if to protest, but was forestalled by a chuckle from Donald Brodie.

“Ouch,” said Brodie. “I might be inclined to take that personally, Pascal, if I didn’t know how fond the French are of generalizing about the British. But if I were you, I’d be careful of repeating those opinions to our host, when you’ve just enjoyed his cooking.”

This time it was Benoit who colored. “There are always exceptions, are there not? Perhaps Mr. Innes is a Frenchman at heart.”

“That might be taking things a wee bit too far,” said John Innes, who had come in silently, a tray on his arm.

The rich smell of chocolate filled the room. “Although the French and the Scots have a long and mostly harmonious association, you’ll not find a Highlander gives up his identity so easily.” He smiled cheerfully at them and nodded towards the hall. “If you’d care to have your dessert in the parlor, Louise and I will join you. I thought we might discuss a few things before tomorrow’s class.”

Gemma rose as the murmur of assent went round the table, glad enough to quit the dining room’s claustropho-bic atmosphere. She caught up to Hazel at the door, meaning to whisper a private word in her ear, but found Donald Brodie’s large form suddenly insinuated between them. He smelled faintly of cologne, wine, and warm wool; and just for an instant as they moved into the hall, Gemma saw him place his hand on Hazel’s shoulder.

Duncan Kincaid squeezed himself through the crowd coming off the train at Notting Hill tube station and ran lightly up the stairs. Reaching the shop level, he came to an automatic halt in front of the flower stall, eyeing the multicolored masses of tulips. Often on a Friday, he stopped on the way home to buy Gemma flowers, and these were her favorites.

But Gemma was away for the entire weekend, he reminded himself, going on. He and the boys would have the house to themselves—a good opportunity for male bonding, Gemma had told him teasingly. And he meant to make the most of it; a video with Kit that evening, football in the park tomorrow, and on Sunday, Toby’s favorite outing, a trip to the zoo. The weather promised to be fine, and he had left his paperwork at the office with his sergeant, Doug Cullen.

All in all, not a bad prospect, he thought as he exited the tube station into the street, but that didn’t stop him

from feeling a pang as he passed the Calzone’s at the junction of Pembridge and Kensington Park Roads. It was Gemma’s favorite place in the neighborhood for a relaxed dinner, on the few occasions they managed to get out without the children.

He walked along Ladbroke Road, enjoying the soft May evening, and the sense of suppressed excitement that always seemed to hum in the London air before the weekend. The trees were in full leaf, the pale emerald of spring now deepening to the richer green of early summer, but a few late tulips still graced flower boxes and tiny front gardens.

As he passed Notting Hill Police Station, where Gemma was now posted, he thought about how difficult it had been to adjust to working without her. Of course, the change had allowed them to live together, which had deepened their relationship in many ways, but he’d also found that cohabitation did not provide quite the same sense of challenge and unity as working a case together.

Well, he told himself, life was full of change and compensations, and given a choice, he wouldn’t trade the present state of affairs for the former. Shaking off the small shadow of discontent, he turned into St. John’s Gardens and quickened his pace towards home.

The evening sun lit the house, picking out the contrast of white trim against dark brick, illuminating the welcoming cherry red of the door. He retrieved the post from the letter box and let himself in, stopping for a moment in the hall to identify the unusual odors wafting from the kitchen. Caribbean spices—Wesley was still there, and cooking, by the smell of it.

The case Kincaid and Gemma had worked the previous winter had brought them personal loss, but it had also introduced Wesley Howard into their lives. The young man,

a university student with a passion for photography, sup-plemented his income by working at a neighborhood café, and in the past few months he had also become an unconventional and unofficial part-time nanny to the children.

The click of toenails on tile flooring heralded the arrival of Geordie, their cocker spaniel—or rather, Kincaid amended to himself, Gemma’s cocker spaniel. Although the dog had been Gemma’s Christmas gift to Kincaid and the boys, it was Gemma whom Geordie adored.

“Hullo, boy,” Kincaid said, stooping to stroke Geordie’s silky, blue-gray head. The dog’s stump of a tail was wagging enthusiastically, but his dark eyes seemed to hold a look of reproach. “Missing your mum, already, are you?” Giving Geordie a last pat, he straightened and went into the kitchen.

Wesley stood at the cooker, a tea towel wrapped round his waist as a makeshift apron, his dark skin glistening from the heat of the pan. “You’re early, mon,” he greeted Kincaid. “Thought they’d keep you at the nick on a Friday night.”

Kincaid stopped to tousle Toby’s fine, fair hair. The small boy sat at the kitchen table, drawing with crayons, his feet wrapped round the chair legs and the tip of his tongue protruding as he concentrated. “Skived off,” Kincaid said to Wesley with a smile. “That smells brilliant.

Chicken, is it?” As if he had understood him, Sid, the cat, got up from his basket with a languid feline stretch and came to rub against his ankles.

“Jerk chicken, with some herbed rice.” Wesley gave Sid a warning look. “Would’ve had cat steak, if he’d got any further with the chicken wrapper.”

“Jerky chicken.” Toby giggled. “Look,” he added, pointing to his paper. “I’m drawing Mummy on the train.”


Absently, Kincaid deposited the mail on the table as he studied Toby’s artwork. The cars were black oblongs with round wheels and large, square windows; from one of the windows a stick figure with red, curling hair waved out at him. “I see Mummy,” he agreed, “but where’s Auntie Hazel? She’ll be cross with you if you don’t put her in.”

As Toby bent to his page again, Kincaid went to the cooker and peered over Wesley’s shoulder at the sizzling strips of chicken, sniffing appreciatively, then the kitchen clock caught his eye. “Shouldn’t you be at Otto’s?” he asked. “I didn’t mean to keep you this late. And where’s Kit?” His son was usually to be found beside Wes in the kitchen, a hand in everything.

“I gave Otto a ring; he be fine without me. Café’s slow tonight. And Kit, he came home and went straight up to his room. Not like him.” Wesley’s dreadlocks bounced as he shook his head. “I didn’t like to leave. Thought maybe he missin’ Gemma already.”

“I’ll go have a word,” Kincaid said easily, but he felt the stab of concern that dogged him now whenever he thought something might be wrong with one of the children.

Glancing in the dining and sitting rooms as he passed, he thought they looked unnaturally neat; books and toys put away in baskets, sofa cushions fluffed, the keys of Gemma’s piano covered. All a result of Gemma’s tidying that morning, he supposed, as if she were going away for a month instead of a few days.

He climbed the wide staircase, one hand brushing the banister, and knocked at the half-open door of the boys’

bedroom. Across the hall, the room they’d meant to use as a nursery stood empty, but Kit had declined the offer of it, insisting he preferred to keep sharing with Toby.

His son lay curled on his narrow bed, a book in his hand, his small dog, Tess, nestled against him. As Kincaid entered, Kit sat up and let the book fall closed. The terrier lifted her head expectantly off her paws.

“What are you reading?” Kincaid asked, sitting down beside them. Experience had taught him to avoid the usual parental gambit— How was school today? did not elicit voluble replies, especially from Kit, who tended towards reticence at the best of times.

Had Kit always been that way, or was his quiet and slightly wary approach to the world a direct response to the trauma of his mother’s death? Kincaid found it difficult to reconcile himself to the idea that he would probably never learn the answer. He’d come too late into his son’s life, and the fact that he hadn’t known Kit was his son until after his ex-wife’s death did nothing to absolve him of his guilt.

“Kidnapped,” Kit answered. “We have to read it for class, but it’s bloody good.”

“Don’t say bloody, ” Kincaid reminded him. “Unless you mean it literally. But I’m glad you like the book.”

Smothering a smile, he reached out to scratch Tess, whose small, pink tongue was lolling in a pant. “Is that why you’re not down helping Wes?”

Looking away, Kit seemed to draw into himself. “I don’t need minding, you know,” he muttered after a moment. “I’m not a child.”

“Did someone say you were?” Kincaid asked, making an effort to conceal his surprise. Kit and Wesley were the best of mates, and Kit usually nagged Wesley to stay longer.

Kit gave a grudging shrug. “Wes and Toby were waiting for me when school let out. Some of the kids said I had a baby-sitter.” He uttered the term with loathing.


Kincaid hesitated a moment, wondering how best to navigate the dangerous waters of a twelve-year-old’s humiliation at the hands of his peers. “Kit, I’m sure Wes and Toby went to meet you after school because Toby was anxious to see you, especially with Gemma gone for the weekend. We can ask Wesley to bring Toby straight home, if you’d rather.” He smiled ruefully. “I suppose having an adoring four-year-old brother doesn’t exactly give you street cred, does it?”

Kit had the grace to blush but still protested. “Why does Wes have to stay, anyway? I can look after Toby—

I’ve done it lots of times. Don’t you trust me?”

“You do a great job with Toby,” Kincaid assured him.

“And we appreciate your looking after him as much as you do. But we also don’t think it’s fair that minding Toby should be your job. What if you needed to stay late for a project at school, or do something with your mates?”

When Kit didn’t answer, it occurred to Kincaid that perhaps it was the other way round, and responsibility for Toby gave Kit a defense against a lack of after-school invitations. While he was still trying to work out how to address the issue, Toby came thundering up the stairs to announce that dinner was ready.

“We’ll talk about this later,” Kincaid said, giving Kit a pat on the shoulder as he stood. “But in the meantime, you might want to compliment Wesley on his chicken.”

He followed the boys downstairs slowly, musing on the conversation. They’d known, when they’d moved Kit to London last Christmas, that it might be a difficult adjust-ment for him. Since his mother’s death the previous spring, Kit had been living near Cambridge with his step-father, Ian McClellan, and spending weekends in London with Duncan and Gemma.

Although Ian had been separated from Vic when she died, he was still Kit’s legal guardian. Kincaid had allowed the arrangement to stand because he’d been unwilling to disrupt his son’s life any more than necessary, and he and Ian had gradually come to amicable terms.

But all that had changed when Ian had decided to take up a teaching post in Canada at the New Year. Kincaid had wanted Kit with him, and Ian had been willing to let him stay. Ian had put the cottage in Grantchester, where Kit had spent his childhood, up for sale, and Kit had come to live with Duncan, Gemma, and Toby.

All very well, but had he fooled himself into thinking Kit had made the transition easily, just because he hadn’t complained? He would do better, Kincaid resolved; spend more time with the boy, find out what was going on at school.

But when Wesley had left for the café, and Toby had been put to bed with a story, Kit refused the much-anticipated action video, saying he wanted to finish his book. Kincaid found himself alone in the kitchen, his good intentions thwarted, and suddenly at a loose end.

Of course, he had novels to read, projects to finish . . .

there was the telly to watch—something of his own choosing, for a change. But without the comfort of Gemma’s presence somewhere in the house, all prospects seemed to pall.

Kincaid snorted at the irony of it: he, who had always been so self-sufficient, reduced to mooning about like a lovesick schoolboy. He’d have to get a grip on himself.

Idly, he picked up the post from the kitchen table and leafed through it. There were bills and credit card applications, the usual circulars, and at the bottom of the stack, a thick, cream-colored envelope. Opening it

curiously, he unfolded a sheaf of legal-looking papers.

He read the document once, then again, the words sinking in.

The letter came from a firm of solicitors representing his former mother-in-law, Eugenia Potts. Kit’s grandmother was suing for custody.



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