Deborah Crombie - Duncan Kincaid & Gemma James 09 - Now May You Weep

Chapter Thirteen

The friends are all departed,

The hearthstone’s black and cold, And sturdy grows the nettle

On the place beloved of old.

—neil munro, “Nettles”

Grantown-on-Spey, May

Every year, since Livvy had left her father’s house to marry Charles Urquhart, she had come back to Grantown in May and September for an extended visit.

Usually, both Charles and Will had accompanied her, but as Will had grown older, he and his father had several times made their own expeditions.

These annual fortnights had been a necessary and much-anticipated element of Livvy’s life. There was shopping for staples and household goods not readily available in the Braes or Tomintoul, the refurbishing of their wardrobes, the time spent cloistered with her father in his study, the visits with her two aunts and her father’s neighbors, the catching up on the latest in fashion and gossip. Always Livvy had made the transition from coun-

try to town easily enough, but this time, on their arrival in Grantown in mid-May, she found herself restless and out of sorts, unable to settle to any of her ordinary pursuits.

First, there were the condolences to be got through, trial enough, so many months after Charles’s death, even if kindly meant. But as the days regained their ordinary pattern, she felt more alien, rather than less. She began to realize that although she and Charles had not spent much time together on these visits, she had been unconsciously aware of the solidity of his presence, and it was this that had kept the two parts of her life linked together.

Now she was adrift.

She had moved back into the room she’d occupied as a girl, hoping to find some connection with the person she had once been, sufficient unto herself, but that long-ago girl eluded her. The days were lengthening, and she found it difficult to sleep, as she always did at this time of year.

But now, she felt feverish as well, stretched, her senses raw with exhaustion.

Her father insisted that she and Will should accompany him to an upcoming dance at the Grant Arms Hotel, so she filled her time with sewing, making over a gown of her aunt’s. It was a dusky purple, a suitable color for a widow. Livvy reduced the puff of the sleeves and added a bit of lace to make it more stylish; this would, after all, be her first formal outing without Charles.

Her father took Will to the local tailor’s shop to be fitted for evening clothes, his first, and in the evenings Livvy helped him practice his dancing. Will was now, after all, the man of the house. If it was time for Livvy to face the world on her own, it was time for Will to give up boyish pursuits and take his place in Highland society.

None of these preparations, however, eased Livvy’s

discomfort as the night of the dance arrived. It had been seventeen years since she’d appeared in public without the armor of a husband at her side, and she felt as awkward as a girl. She stood just inside the door of the ball-room, watching the dancers glide by in a shifting blur of pattern and color. The air was filled with the scent of perfume, of warm bodies and hot candle wax, a tincture as dizzying as laudanum.

Will swung by her, looking quite the beau with old Mrs.

Cumming on his arm. When had he grown so tall? He had become a man in this last year, in more than looks, and Livvy felt a rush of pride. The girls would be noticing him soon, if they hadn’t already. In fact, Livvy saw one of the Macintosh daughters cast a simpering eye his way, but Will fortunately seemed oblivious. He caught her eye over Mrs. Cumming’s shoulder and smiled, his usually serious face alight with his pleasure.

Then Livvy felt ashamed of herself for indulging her own vanity. She was thirty-five years old, and widowed; she should be past worrying about such things. It was Will that mattered now, with his life spread before him.

But then Rab Brodie spun by her, with his angular sister, Helen, and her pulse quickened in spite of herself. When Rab returned after the next interval and offered her his arm, she hesitated only a moment. There was no impropriety, after all, in dancing, and if a little voice whispered in her ear that by such small steps the mighty are fallen, she pretended not to hear.

Gemma woke to the sound of whimpering. Her first thought was of the children, then, as consciousness came flooding back, she remembered where she was. She sat up, blinking.

It was past daybreak; a pale light filtered in through the

drawn curtains. In the next bed, Hazel tossed restlessly, moaning now. Then the moan rose to a scream, and Hazel sat bolt upright, panting, her eyes open but unfocused.

“Hazel!” Gemma leaped from the bed and crossed the gap between them, grasping Hazel’s shoulder.

“No. No!” Hazel cried out, flinching, and it was only when Gemma shook her firmly that she seemed to realize where she was. She looked up at Gemma, her face streaked with tears.

“It was just a dream,” soothed Gemma, patting Hazel as she would one of the boys. “Try not to think about Donald—”

“No, it wasn’t Donald,” Hazel said, shaking her head.

“Oh, Gemma, it was the strangest thing. I was in our old house, at Carnmore, except that it wasn’t exactly our house. Some things were the same, but others weren’t.”

She frowned. “The kitchen was red, I remember that, and there was a rocking chair by the stove.” Rubbing at her bare upper arms, she began to shiver. “I know that doesn’t sound frightening, but I was terrified. It was as if I was seeing things through someone else’s eyes, and I couldn’t get back to myself. And then—” She stopped, swallowing hard. “Then I was in the distillery, and there was a fire—maybe it was the kilns. I’m not sure, but I was frightened—not as myself this time, but as her—”

“Her?”

“Yes.” Hazel nodded, looking surprised. “I’m sure of it, I don’t know how. She was afraid, and then there was shouting, and blood, and the smell of whisky . . . the smell of whisky everywhere.” She shuddered. “God, I feel sick.”

“What you need is a cup of tea,” Gemma said briskly, padding over to the kettle. She sloshed it, decided there was enough water for two cups, and switched it on. “It’s

only natural you should have nightmares, after what’s happened.”

“Yes, but it . . . it was so real. Not like a dream at all, yet at the same time I knew I was dreaming. I’ve never experienced anything quite like it.”

Gemma put two tea bags into the comfortably mis-matched flower-patterned cups Louise had provided.

“Was there ever a fire in the distillery?”

“Not that I know of.”

As Gemma made the tea, she thought of the photo she’d seen in Heather Urquhart’s office, and of the little that Heather had told her about the distillery. “I have an idea,” she said, handing Hazel her cup. “Will you take me to see Carnmore?”

“What?” Hazel stared at her. “Now?”

Gemma glanced at the clock on the bedside table, then opened the curtain until she could see out into the garden.

It was not yet seven, and the sun was shining. “Yes. Why not? We’ll skip breakfast. We could pick up something on the way.”

“But— What about—” Awareness of what the day would hold flooded back into Hazel’s face. “Shouldn’t we be doing something—”

“There’s nothing we can do this morning but wait.”

Gemma had stayed awake, worrying into the wee hours of the morning. As she considered each angle of the case, she ran smack into her own helplessness. She couldn’t call on the firm’s solicitor to learn the disposition of Donald’s will; she couldn’t attend the postmortem; she couldn’t query the forensics results, or the findings of the house-to-house inquiries. Any little morsel of official information would have to come by the grace of Chief Inspector Ross, and Gemma suspected she would do well to get a crumb.

There was a bright spot—Heather had promised to ring

her when she’d heard from the lawyer, and that information might give her something to go on with. And she would chat up the other guests, but she sensed that would be better done when she could get them on their own, and once the police had finished with the property. The presence of the team completing the search of the area would not exactly invite confidences.

As for suggesting that Chief Inspector Ross inquire into Tim’s movements, she had decided to wait at least until Kincaid arrived after lunch, in hopes that Ross would be thorough enough to request London’s help without her having to interfere.

She had rung Kincaid before going to bed, letting him know that Hazel had been released but that she and Hazel both intended to stay on a little longer.

“You don’t have to come,” she’d added, but without much conviction.

After a moment’s thought, he’d said, “You’re determined to have a hand in this case, aren’t you, whether the local force likes it or not.”

“Something like that,” she’d admitted. “There’s another thing—Hazel wants to stay for Donald’s funeral, and I won’t leave her here on her own.”

“I don’t suppose it will make any difference if I remind you that it’s inadvisable, and that if the Northern Constabulary complains to your chief, you’re going to have a hard time talking your way out of this.”

“Um, no. I’ll call Notting Hill first thing in the morning; tell them I’ve been delayed. I can afford to take a few personal days.”

Kincaid had given a barely audible sigh. “Right, then.

If you’re staying, I’m coming up. We might as well put our heads on the block together. And, Gemma,” he’d added before ringing off, “do be careful.”

Turning now, she saw Hazel gazing into space, her teacup tilting absently, her face already pinched with strain. “Sitting round brooding is the last thing you need to be doing,” Gemma said decisively. “Can we get to Carnmore and back before lunch?”

“Oh, yes, I should think so.” Hazel’s expression seemed to brighten a bit at the prospect.

Gemma was already pulling on her clothes. “Good.

While you get ready I’ll leave word where we’ll be.”

As John, having assured Gemma that she and Hazel could stay a few more days, insisted on giving them toast and more tea, it was close to an hour before they got away. The morning was still fine, however, and when Gemma cracked open the car windows, the air had a rain-washed, flinty sharpness and smelled faintly of peat smoke.

Following Hazel’s instructions, she drove through Nethy Bridge, as she had the previous day, but this time she turned right before she reached Grantown, taking the way that led up into the hills, away from the gentle valley of the Spey. “It wouldn’t be so far if you could travel as the crow flies,” Hazel said. “But then, it’s seldom possible to do things directly in Scotland.”

The road snaked as it rose, and within a few miles the landscape had changed entirely. To Gemma, the moors seemed wild and desolate, alien as the moon—and yet she found them unexpectedly, searingly beautiful. The scene touched something in her that was both new and ancient, awakening a longing she hadn’t known she possessed. For the first time, she wondered how Hazel could have borne leaving.

Beside her, Hazel sat silently, picking at the hem of her pullover. They hadn’t discussed Donald or Tim since the

night before, but Gemma knew there were things she must ask.

“Hazel, do you mind telling me what happened between you and Donald on Saturday night, after you left the dining room? Did he tell you about the woman who came to see him?”

“Alison. He said her name was Alison. We had a row over her. I told him I couldn’t believe he’d asked me to come here, to risk my marriage, when all the while he was keeping someone on a string.” She shook her head.

“What a hypocrite I am, as if I hadn’t been holding on to Tim as a sort of insurance.”

“But you—the place in the woods—I thought that you and Donald—”

Hazel flushed. “So you saw that, too. The police found a thread from my sweater—that’s why Ross took me in.

Oh, Donald talked me round. He was always good at that.” She gave Gemma a look of appeal. “That was the first time, you know, since all those years ago.”

“But if you—then why did you leave yesterday morning—”

“I couldn’t face seeing Donald again. I’d made up my mind that it couldn’t go on, that I had to go back to London and sort things out with Tim. But Donald could be so per-suasive . . . I was afraid he would talk me out of it. So I ran away. I should have known it was too early for the train.”

When she’d negotiated a particularly hair-raising pass, Gemma said, “Hazel, about Tim— Did you see him this weekend?”

“See Tim?” Hazel gave her a startled look. “How could I have seen Tim? He was in London.”

“The thing is . . . Tim may not have been in London.

He had his parents come and stay with Holly over the weekend. He said he went walking in Hampshire, but

when Duncan asked him about it, he was rather . . .

vague. There were some things that made Duncan think he might have come to Scotland.”

“Tim?” This time Hazel gaped at her. “You think Tim was here?” The implication sank in. “You think Tim killed Donald? You can’t mean that!”

“No, of course not,” Gemma reassured her. “But I’d feel better if I was sure Tim went off for a weekend on his own in Hampshire. Hazel, how do you suppose he learned about Donald?”

“I don’t know. There was nothing— I didn’t—” Hazel clapped a hand to her mouth. “Oh, how could I have been so stupid? There was an old photo. I left it under my office blotter, along with Donald’s card. But even if Tim saw those, why would he have thought anything of it? I mean . . .” She looked away, as if embarrassed. “I tore up Donald’s notes, and there was nothing else . . .”

“Did Tim know about your past relationship with Donald?”

“Well, yes,” Hazel admitted. “I’d told him a little when we first met. You know how you do, recounting life stories. That was why he never liked me to talk about Scotland, or the past.”

“So Tim’s always been jealous?” Gemma asked, her unease growing.

“I suppose you could say that,” Hazel agreed reluctantly. “Although I never really thought of it that way. It wasn’t like he thought every man I met was trying to have it off with me.”

“Just Donald,” Gemma said flatly. “But he didn’t say anything when you told him you’d planned to come back to the Highlands for the weekend?” When Hazel shook her head, Gemma added, “Did he seem as usual before you left?”

“I suppose so. A little edgy, maybe,” Hazel admitted.

“But I know Tim would never hurt anyone. No matter what I did.” Hazel’s voice held just a touch too much conviction.

The road had dipped, risen again, and now ran through a cleft of rock that looked as if it had just been scooped out by a giant hand. Then, to Gemma’s surprise, a valley opened before them. At its bottom flowed a river, willow lined, pasture flanked, a scene of pastoral perfection set amid the blasted moor.

“Where are we?” Gemma asked, glad to change the subject.

“It’s the River Avon. Some of the best fishing in the Highlands. Donald and I used to come here. He always liked to picnic,” Hazel added, her voice expressionless.

“How typical of the man—he could seat twenty in his dining room, but his ideal meal was outside on a blanket.

It was the whole Victorian legacy, the gentry sporting in the fresh air.”

“Was that so bad?”

“Donald’s family were farmers originally, like mine. It was just that they gave themselves airs.” Hazel fell silent, picking at her pullover again, and Gemma sensed constraint between them.

“Hazel, about Tim— It’s just that when something like this happens, you have to consider all the possibilities.”

“You may, but I don’t, and that’s one I refuse to think about. It’s just not possible.”

“Hazel—”

“Look, we’re coming into Tomintoul,” Hazel said, and Gemma realized there was no point arguing with her.

Glancing about her, she had an impression of a village built all of a piece, set round an airy square, a little island of civilization in the wide expanse of moorland.

“It’s the highest village in Scotland,” Hazel continued.

“Built by the duke of Gordon after the Battle of Culloden, when this was still a major military thoroughfare for the Hanoverian armies.” She pointed ahead, towards the end of the village. “You turn left at the junction.”

“Carnmore is farther still?” Gemma heard the hint of dismay in her voice, and saw Hazel’s fleeting smile.

“Another ten miles. Often in winter you can’t get from Tomintoul to the Braes. And the stretch of road that runs through the Lecht Pass, between Tomintoul and Cock-bridge, is the first in Scotland to be blocked by snow every winter.” This said Hazel with the native’s pride in extreme weather.

Gemma took the turn Hazel indicated, and within moments, the village disappeared from her rear view as if it had never been. “Didn’t you go mad, snowed in for months at a time?”

“No. I loved it, to tell the truth. It’s as if the world shrinks . . . everything seems more focused somehow . . .

Life can be hard here, but people are amazingly tough and self-reliant—at least until you uproot them. My father—” Hazel shook her head. “It wasn’t so bad for my mother when they left here; she came from Braemar, near Balmoral. But my father had spent all his life in the Braes. I watched him wilt and die, and I swore that would never happen to me.”

“Is that why you were so determined to sever your connections, why you didn’t keep in touch with Heather, or come back to visit?”

“Poor wee girl,” Hazel said softly. “She was always intense; even as a child, she took things to heart. And she loved Carnmore with a passion rare in a child, even more than I did, I’m afraid. I don’t think she ever forgave my father—or me.”

“But if your father had no choice—”

“Adult choices don’t mean much to a child. And choice is relative, isn’t it? There was a slump in the whisky industry, yes, but my grandfather, Will, survived much worse without giving up.”

Glancing at her friend, Gemma said, “You never forgave your father, either.”

Hazel considered this. “No, I suppose I didn’t. We Scots are notorious for holding grudges.”

“That’s the first time I’ve ever heard you refer to yourself as a Scot.”

Hazel didn’t meet her gaze. “Here’s the Pole Inn, the last outpost of civilization as you enter the Braes. You’ll turn to the right.”

A beckoning wisp of smoke rose from the chimney of the pub, but Gemma obeyed Hazel’s direction. They entered a single-track road that wound round a conifer-covered hill, then followed a bubbling stream through farm pastures and into the small hamlet of Chapeltown.

There was a scattering of houses, a church that Gemma assumed gave the village its name, and a whitewashed distillery. Pointing, she said, “Is this—”

“No. That’s Braeval. Built by Chivas Regal in the seventies, to make whisky for their blends. Unlike Carnmore, they could weather the changes in the market, with corporate might behind them.”

“And the church?”

“Our Lady of Perpetual Succor. Built on an old site around the turn of the century. This was a Catholic stronghold,” Hazel explained. “A haven for Jacobites and smugglers.”

“Smugglers?” asked Gemma, intrigued. “What did they smuggle?” The paved road had come to an end, and at Hazel’s affirmative nod, she nervously eased the car

along a rutted track that seemed destined to dead-end in the hills rising before them.

“Illegal whisky. These are the Ladder Hills; they’re honeycombed with smugglers’ paths. We used to follow them in the summer . . . Heather and I, always hoping to find a working still. It was our version of cowboys and Indians—smuggler and excise man.”

“Were your family Catholic, then?” asked Gemma, thinking about what Hazel had told her.

“Nominally, yes. But my grandfather Will didn’t hold with religion, so my father wasn’t brought up in the church, and my mother was Presbyterian.”

“Did you know your grandfather?”

“No. I wish I had. But he married late, and my father and uncle weren’t born until he was in his fifties. He died before I was born.”

They passed farms, their yards filled with rusting implements, as the track twisted and turned, following the curve of the hill.

Then, as they rounded a bend, a house and outbuildings appeared before them, white-harled, tucked into the fold of the hill Hazel said was called Carn More. “There it is,” she whispered now. “Carnmore.”

Gemma climbed out of the car, looking curiously about her. On closer inspection, she saw that both the house and the distillery buildings behind it were unoccupied. No smoke came from the chimneys; broken windowpanes gaped like eyes; nettles covered what had once been a neatly cobbled yard.

Hazel stood staring at the desolation, hugging herself as if she were cold. “I’d no idea it would be so bad.” She sounded appalled. “Donald and I came here once, but my father was still alive then, and the house was rented.”

“Your father didn’t sell the property?”

“People don’t move into the Braes,” Hazel said dryly.

“If they’ve any sense, they move out.”

Gemma turned to her in surprise. “Hazel, do you still own this place?”

“Oh, God. I suppose I do. I never went through all the papers when mother died . . . I couldn’t face it. Tim took care of things—” She saw Gemma’s look and shook her head. “Tim couldn’t have sold it without my knowledge, if that’s what you’re thinking. And besides, it’s not worth anything.”

“Except to you.”

Hazel gave a rueful shrug. “I’d never have admitted that . . . until now.” She tried the door of the farmhouse, found it still locked, then peered in the windows. “There’ll be water damage, at the least.”

“What about the distillery?” Unlike Benvulin, the buildings looked basic and uncompromising, built for the work they were meant to do without thought for aesthetic appeal. There were no charming, pagoda-roofed kilns here.

“Dad sold off all the equipment to other distilleries, and the stock, of course. These buildings are just husks now, without any heart. Donald had dreams, I think, that when we were—that if we were married, we might restore it together.” Hazel walked slowly towards the distillery, and Gemma followed.

The sun peeped in and out of a building bank of cloud, making shadows race across the hills, and birds called out in the heather. Hazel stopped by a rowan tree that stood midway across the yard, fingering the leaves. “I always loved the rowans, especially in the fall.”

“Hazel, you said Donald’s father didn’t approve of your relationship. It sounds as though you and Donald talked of marriage—Were you actually engaged?”

“Ah, there’s the rub,” said Hazel with an effort at irony,

but her eyes reddened. “For a day, a glorious day, ring and all. Then Donald took me home to meet his father.

“Bruce Brodie’s temper was notorious, with good reason. Not only did he tell me quite literally never to darken his doorstep again, he told Donald he’d disinherit him if he went through with the marriage. It was more than bluster—he meant it, and Donald saw that he meant it.”

“And then?” Gemma prompted gently, when Hazel didn’t continue.

“Donald hesitated. I saw the terror in his face—I knew what it would mean to him to lose Benvulin. And I knew that if I forced him into such a choice, he would never forgive me. I couldn’t live with that.” Hazel turned to Gemma, a plea in her voice. “You can see that, can’t you?”

“You left, didn’t you?” said Gemma, understanding.

“You never gave him the chance to choose.”

“I felt I couldn’t bear it either way. To be rejected outright, or to cost him what he held most dear. But he told me—” Hazel stopped and took a breath. “Donald told me, on Saturday night, that he had refused his father. He told Bruce to go to hell, and he came after me, but I was gone. If I had—”

“No.” Gemma took Hazel by the shoulders and gave her a shake. “Don’t go there. You can’t know what might have been. You did what you thought best at the moment.” As she thought back over the time she’d spent with Donald Brodie, she added, “And for what it’s worth, I think you were right. Donald may not have been happy without you, but he wouldn’t have been whole without Benvulin, either. It was his father that was at fault, not you or Donald. But what did Bruce Brodie have against you, against your family?”

“I don’t know,” said Hazel. “But I always suspected Donald knew more than he told me.”

*

They drove back to the bed-and-breakfast in silence, Gemma growing more anxious as the morning progressed and her mobile phone did not ring. They stopped only once, for a quick lunch at a tearoom on one of the local estates.

“Changing times,” commented Hazel, gazing out at the garden center and wildlife trails visible from the café windows. “This was a grand place when I was a child, but these days they do what they have to in order to survive.”

“Could your father have stayed at Carnmore, if he’d been willing to compromise, perhaps by selling an interest to one of the big distillers?” Gemma asked thoughtfully as she nibbled at her sandwich.

“I don’t know. I think it would have proved inevitable at some point.”

“And inevitable for the Brodies, as well?”

“Benvulin has had a charmed life—the Brodies have a history of overextending, of making poor financial decisions, but somehow they’ve always managed to hang on by the skin of their teeth. I suppose it was a combination of stubbornness and the ability to turn a blind eye to reality, neither of which my father had. I’ll hate to see Benvulin lose its character.” Hazel’s eyes filled with the tears she had not shed at Carnmore.

When they returned to Innesfree, Hazel went straight to their room, saying she intended to rest. Gemma sought out Louise, whom she found in the back garden with a hand trowel, trying furiously to repair the damage done to the lawn by the police vehicles.

No, Louise confirmed, no one had rung the B&B with a message for her. The police forensics team was still working in the house itself, and search teams were still combing the river meadow.

According to Louise, Heather and Pascal were at the distillery, and John had taken Martin to Grantown on some undisclosed errand. “I can’t do anything in the house,” Louise had complained, wiping a muddy hand across her brow. “And I’ve had to cancel all our bookings for the next week. A death in the family, I told them. How could I explain what’s happened? And there’s no way of knowing how much longer this will go on.” She sat back on her heels, her eyes widening as she seemed to realize what she’d said. “Oh, God. I must sound horribly selfish.

It’s just that—I know how trivial it is compared to Donald’s death, but it’s been hard to get this place going, and we’ve just begun to get on our feet the last few months.

We were fully booked for the first time, and now—” Her gesture took in the police cars parked in the drive.

“I understand,” Gemma told her. “Life goes on, and most people feel guilty because they can’t suddenly stop being concerned with it. But it’s perfectly normal.”

“Thanks.” Louise reached up and squeezed Gemma’s hand. “You’ve been a great help. Without your calming influence, I think we’d all have gone round the bend. We might yet,” she added, attempting a smile. “You are bringing your friend back for dinner, aren’t you?”

“Duncan?” Gemma had told John and Louise that morning that Kincaid was coming up from London, to

“lend a bit of moral support,” but she hadn’t reminded them of his rank. “Yes, I suppose so. I hadn’t really thought about it. Are you sure it’s not too much trouble?”

“John has something special planned. That’s his way of coping with things, poor love, and I’m afraid we’ve not been very cooperative. Heather’s going home tonight, and Pascal intends to stay at Benvulin. He feels someone should be there until the lawyers get things sorted out, and Heather just didn’t feel up to it.”

“That’s kind of him. But then I take it his interest is more than personal?”

“Well, we have wondered,” said Louise. “I mean, Heather and Pascal have become quite friendly recently.

But I can’t imagine she’d have got involved with anything that would have harmed Benvulin. She and Donald were so close . . .”

“Was there ever a romantic attachment between them?”

“Not that I know of. But, of course, Heather had worked for Donald a long time before John and I came here.”

Dropping down beside Louise, Gemma idly smoothed the turf with her fingers. “But then, you knew Donald before, when he and Hazel were together. Tell me, did Hazel and Heather have any contact in those days?”

Louise frowned, then said slowly, “I remember seeing Heather once or twice, but I think she must have been away at university then.”

“What about Heather’s father?” asked Gemma, recalling her conversation with Heather the previous day. “Did you ever meet him?”

“No. I think he worked for one of the big whisky distributors, but I always had the impression that he wasn’t terribly successful.”

Not in a way that had mattered to Heather, thought Gemma, because he’d been unable—or unwilling—to save Carnmore, and that seemed to be the criterion on which Heather had based all judgments.

Gemma had felt an unexpected sense of kinship with the woman when they talked yesterday, but could she trust her own instincts? And could she trust what Heather had told her, including her identification of the woman who had come to see Donald on Saturday night?

It was all jumbled up together: Donald’s relationships, Hazel’s family, the distilleries. Gemma knew there was a pattern, if only she could get enough perspective to see it.

Suddenly she wondered about Martin Innes—how did he fit in?

“Louise, I can see why Pascal would stay on, but what about Martin? When is he going back to Dundee?”

“You’ll have to ask him.” Louise looked irritated again.

“I can’t imagine why he would want to stay, after what’s happened. But as we’ve had to cancel the next few days’

bookings, John doesn’t seem inclined to boot him out of the room. I’m surprised at his sudden attack of brotherly affection.”

She would ask Martin, Gemma thought, as soon as she had the chance. But in the meantime, she could get to Aviemore with an hour to spare before Kincaid’s train, if she left now. Standing, she said, “Louise, I’ve got to go.

Could you keep an eye on Hazel for me? See if she needs anything?” The thought of Tim Cavendish nagged at her.

She made up her mind that, no matter how disloyal it felt, as soon as Kincaid arrived they would have a word with Chief Inspector Ross about Tim’s whereabouts over the weekend.

When she reached Aviemore, she parked in the now-familiar car park and, with only a glance at the police station, began to investigate the shops along the main street.

A gift shop, Heather had said, but gift shop was a loose term, and she made two false starts before she struck gold.

Tartan Gifts could not be described as anything other than a gift shop, she thought as she peered in the window at the tartan tea cozies and heather-emblazoned coasters.

And she recognized the young woman behind the cash register, last seen in the shadows of the drive at Innesfree.

There were a few people in the shop, so Gemma went in, pretending to browse while surreptitiously examining her quarry. She had the pale, unfinished look of a woman unaccustomed to going without makeup, her blond hair appeared carelessly combed, and her eyes were swollen and red-rimmed. This was one instance, Gemma realized, when she would not have to be the bearer of bad news.

When the other customers had made their purchases and gone out, Gemma approached the register and said quietly, “Are you Alison? Alison Grant?”

“What’s it to ye?” The woman gave Gemma a belligerent stare. “Look, if Callum’s sent you, you can tell him—”

“No. I just want a word with you. It’s about Donald Brodie.”

There was a flash of vulnerability in Alison Grant’s face before her expression hardened. “What about him?

And who are you to be asking?”

“My name’s Gemma James.” Gemma had contemplated using her police identification but decided that pretending an official status was unwise as well as unlikely to benefit her. “I was staying at the B&B with Donald this weekend. I was there when you came to see him, and Heather Urquhart told me you and Donald were close—”

“What would she know about it? I canna believe that woman ever had feelings for anybody, the cold bitch. And that still doesna tell me what it has to do with you.” Alison’s accent had grown broader as her voice rose.

In an effort to calm her, Gemma said, “Look, Alison, is there somewhere we could visit? I could buy you a cup of coffee.”

“And I could lose my job,” Alison hissed, a note of hysteria in her voice. “My boss is on her lunch hour; I

canna leave the shop. And if the auld biddy comes back and finds me talking to you, she’ll likely take it out o’ my wages.”

“Okay, okay,” soothed Gemma. “I’ll buy something if she comes in.” She picked up a picture of a Highland sheep that stood near the register and held it ready. “Now can we talk?”

“All right,” Alison said sullenly. “What do ye want to know?”

Gemma hesitated for a moment, then plunged ahead. “I came up for the weekend with my friend Hazel. She had known Donald for a long time—they were engaged once.

You seemed angry with Donald when you came to see him. Had he told you he was seeing Hazel?”

“Sod all, that’s what he told me, the bastard,” said Alison, but her swearing lacked conviction. “A business weekend at Benvulin, he said, and he’d ring me if he had the chance. And there was me sitting by the phone like some gormless idiot, waiting for him to call.”

“But you found out it wasn’t true—did someone tell you, then?”

“It was Callum, the mad bugger. I didna believe him at first, but he kept at me, and so I thought I’d go along to the bed-and-breakfast and prove him wrong. More fool me,”

Alison added bitterly.

“Who’s Callum?” asked Gemma, her pulse quickening. It was the name Alison had mentioned when she first came in.

“Callum MacGillivray. He and his auntie Janet own the stables just down the road from your bed-and-breakfast. He was jealous of Donald. I’d not put anything past him. I told thon police sergeant last night—”

“The police have been to see you?”

“Aye. Munro, that was his name. I told him he should

be asking wee Callum what he was doing yesterday morning.”

“Let me get this straight. Callum fancies you, so he told you Donald had lied to you about his plans for the weekend, thinking it would make you go off Donald.”

Gemma remembered the shadowy figure she’d seen in the drive on Saturday night. “Is he a tall bloke, fair, wears the kilt?”

“Aye.”

“Did you know that he was watching you, when you came to the B&B? I saw him in the drive, half-hidden in the hedge.”

“No.” Alison looked suddenly frightened. “I’m telling ye, he’s daft. I’ve said I want nothing more to do with him, but he won’t hear of it. He claimed he was sorry about Donald, but I didna believe him.”

“He claimed? Alison . . . was it the police who told you about Donald?” Gemma knew that Ross had managed to keep Donald’s name from the media, although she doubted he could hold out much longer.

“Nae, it was Callum.”

“And did he say how he knew?”

Alison shook her head. “No, and I didna think to ask. I didna really believe it until the policeman came to the flat.”

Gemma had to assume that Heather Urquhart had told the police about Alison, but how had Callum MacGillivray known of Donald’s death? She knew rumor traveled fast, and the fact that Callum was the Inneses’

neighbor made it even more likely he’d have heard the news despite Ross’s precautions. But still, it seemed as if the man had motive—and so, she thought, did Alison Grant.

Deciding there was no subtle way to phrase it, Gemma

said, “Alison, did the police ask you if you had an alibi for the time of Donald’s death?”

Alison gave her a look of dislike. “You’ve a lot of bloody cheek. But I’ll tell you the same thing I told them.

I was in my flat, and there’s no one to prove it except my nine-year-old daughter, who was fast asleep in her bed.”

Gemma reached the railway station with a few minutes to spare. She sank onto a bench on the platform and watched as the little steam train to Boat of Garten chugged cheerfully out of the Aviemore station, like the Little Engine That Could. Beyond the tracks, the still-snowcapped peaks of the Cairngorms rose in the distance, and she found it hard to believe that just that morning she had stood in the foothills of those same mountains.

But her mind darted back to her recent interview. She might not have made an ally of Alison Grant, but she had at least gleaned some useful information. She and Duncan could pay a visit to Callum MacGillivray, once they’d finished their business in Aviemore.

Her stomach gave a flutter of nervous anticipation as she thought of seeing Duncan. It had only been a few days, but with everything that had happened, it seemed a lifetime, and she suddenly felt as breathless as a girl awaiting a first date.

Then she heard the distant thrum of the approaching train, and a moment later the diesel locomotive was squealing into the station on a whiff of hot oil and scorched brake linings.

Standing, she watched the passengers spill from the compartment doors. She saw Kincaid step down from the last car, a head taller than his fellows. His unruly chest-nut hair fell across his forehead; he wore his favorite

scuffed, brown leather jacket, and swung a duffel bag from one hand.

His face lit in a grin as he spied her through the crowd, and in a moment he was beside her. Dropping his bag, he gathered her into his arms. Her cheek fit into the familiar hollow of his shoulder.

For a moment, Gemma allowed herself to feel the solidity of his body against hers. She inhaled the mingled scents of his leather jacket and the bay rum lingering from his morning shave.

“Hullo, love,” he said against her hair, his voice gentle.

“I can’t let you out of my sight, can I, without your getting into trouble?”