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

Chapter Fifteen

Hunger lives here, alone with larks and sheep.

Sweet spot, sweet spot.

—robert louis stevenson,

letter to Sidney Colvin

John Innes came out to greet them, and when he had been introduced to Kincaid, led them into the kitchen through the scullery. The police, he explained, had finished with their tests earlier that afternoon.

Gemma noticed Kincaid’s interested glance at the gun cabinet as they passed through, but he made no comment.

Turning back, she saw that the hook above the back door, where Louise had been in the habit of leaving her keys, was now empty. A bit late for instituting safety precautions, she thought, a classic case of locking the barn door after the horse had escaped.

“Come in,” John urged them as they filed into the kitchen. “I’ll put the kettle on.” He bustled about, filling the kettle, pulling two stools out from a little nook under the work island. There were two chairs at the small table under the window where Gemma assumed John and Louise took their own meals.

“Nice kitchen,” Kincaid said with a whistle. To Gemma’s amusement, since he’d refinished the kitchen in his Hampstead flat, he had become a connoisseur of cabinets and cookers.

“Functional,” John agreed. “Although I have to admit I miss the old oil-fired cooker. We lived with it for about a year while we were doing the refurbishing. Cozy, but not practical for the cookery class—besides the fact that cooking on the bloody thing is a challenge in itself.”

Gemma was about to agree, for the much-prized Aga in their Notting Hill kitchen drove her to distraction, when she thought of all the help and encouragement Hazel had given her as she tried to master the cooker. Following her miscarriage, it had provided an excuse for the comforting time spent visiting in the kitchen with her friend. Swallowing, she searched for a change of subject.

“Where’s Louise?” she asked, looking round.

“Gone for a walk,” John told her. “She should be back soon. What about Hazel and Heather? Will they be joining us?” His eyes flicked towards the barn, so Gemma guessed he’d been watching from the window.

“I don’t know,” she said honestly, and saw Kincaid and Pascal Benoit look at her sharply. “They’ve—they’ve some catching up to do.” It wasn’t her business to break the news to anyone about Hazel’s inheritance; Hazel and Heather could share that information when they were ready.

Kincaid slid onto a stool with the graceful economy of movement Gemma always found surprising in a man his height. “Something smells wonderful,” he said, sniffing, and Gemma focused on the cooking aromas that had been tickling the edge of her awareness . . . onions, floury potatoes, smoky fish.

“It’s Cullen Skink.” John chuckled at her startled ex-

pression. “That’s not as bad as it sounds, believe me. It’s a Scottish fish soup or stew, made with smoked haddock, potatoes, and milk. Martin and I drove to the east coast this morning to get a real Finnan haddock. There are several small smokehouses that still prepare the fish in the traditional way; that’s a slow, cold smoking with no artifi-cial colorings or flavorings added. We bought fresh mus-sels as well; they’ll go into the pot at the last minute, along with butter, fresh parsley, and pepper.” The electric kettle had come to a boil, and as he spoke, John spooned loose tea into a large crockery teapot.

“You’ve gone to a great deal of trouble for us,” Kincaid said. “All this must be hard for you.”

John had his back to them, reaching for the mugs hanging on a rack. He hesitated for a moment, hand in the air. Then he seemed to collect himself and, lifting down a mug, said without turning, “Yes. Donald was a good friend. I still can’t believe he’s gone.” He busied himself with the tea things. “Have ye any idea when they’ll release his . . . body . . . for the funeral? Christ—I never even thought—did Donald go to church?”

“Heather will know,” said Pascal, lowering himself a little stiffly into the chair next to Gemma. “It is Heather who will have to make the arrangements for the funeral, yes?” He shook his head. “It is too much, I think, but there is no one else.”

How terribly ironic, Gemma thought, that Donald had not seen fit to remember Heather in his will, when it was she who must act on his behalf. Why had Donald left her nothing? Was it mere carelessness on his part, as he had been careless of Alison Grant’s feelings? Or had he felt betrayed by Heather’s relationship with Pascal? Had Heather’s pressuring him to sell the distillery to Pascal’s company angered Donald?

Perhaps even more to the point, thought Gemma as she accepted a steaming mug from John, was not why Donald had left Heather out, but rather why he had chosen to make such a grand gesture towards Hazel. It was one thing to seduce a former lover—it was quite another to leave her the controlling interest in your family’s business. And why had he done it so long ago? If he had meant to make up for his father’s treatment of Hazel, he had gone a bit over the mark.

“. . . soon, I should think,” she realized Kincaid was saying, “if they’ve finished with the postmortem and the forensics testing.”

Beside her, she heard the sharp intake of Pascal’s breath as he shifted in his chair.

“Are you all right?” she asked softly, seeing him wince.

“Yes. It’s just my back. It’s playing up a bit.” The Englishness of the last phrase sounded odd in Pascal’s accent.

She was about to compliment him on his fluency when the back door banged open and Louise came in through the scullery, her arms filled with green boughs.

“Oh, I didn’t realize . . .” Louise came to a halt, and Gemma had the impression she wasn’t terribly pleased to find an unscheduled gathering in her kitchen.

“Let me get you a cup of tea, darling,” John put in quickly. “This is Gemma’s friend, Duncan, come up from London.”

“Oh, of course,” said Louise as Kincaid stood and gave her his friendliest grin. She glanced down at her burden as if wondering how to free a hand.

“Let me help you,” offered Gemma, jumping up.

“We’ll just dump these in the sink.” Louise smiled her thanks as Gemma took some of the greenery.

“Mmmm . . . What are these?” asked Gemma as the scent reached her nose. “They smell lovely.”

“Rowan, juniper, and elder.” Louise dropped her portion into the deep farmhouse sink. “According to my gardening books, the ancient Celts brought these branches into the house in May, to celebrate Beltane, the Celtic rite of spring. They’re considered protective trees.”

“As in warding off evil spirits?”

“Well, yes.” Louise blushed a little. “I know it sounds silly, but they do smell nice, and I thought I could arrange them in vases, instead of flowers.”

“I think it’s a brilliant idea.” As Gemma watched her sort the boughs, she noticed that Louise’s hands were dirty and bleeding from several small scratches, and she had broken a nail. As careful as Louise was in her appearance, it surprised Gemma that she would go out without gloves.

“Did you know that the hazel tree was special as well?” asked Louise. “It was the Druids’ Golden Bough.

They believed it was the root and symbol of wisdom.”

“A hard name to live up to, then,” suggested Gemma.

Louise glanced up at her in surprise. “Yes. I suppose so. But Hazel does have a way of making you think she’s invincible, doesn’t she? Where is she, by the way?”

Louise added, glancing round the room.

“In the barn, talking to Heather.”

Louise raised an eyebrow at this but merely said quietly, “Has she heard from her husband?”

Gemma was saved from answering by John Innes setting a cup of tea at his wife’s elbow. As Louise turned to him, asking if he had made all the arrangements for dinner, Gemma heard the faint sound of a piano.

“Is that coming from the sitting room?” she asked John.

“Aye. That’ll be Martin. He can bang out a tune or two.”

This was more than a tune or two, Gemma thought, listening. The notes wandered up and down the scale, segue-ing into snatches of melody that teased her memory.

After giving Kincaid a quick glance, she asked John,

“Is there enough tea for Martin?”

He nodded towards the pot. “I was just about to take him a cup.”

“I’ll do it for you.”

Mug in hand, Gemma wandered into the sitting room.

Martin sat at the old upright piano, his back to her, his hands moving across the keys as if of their own accord.

Bars of late-afternoon sunlight fell across the carpet, illuminating the muted tartan.

“Martin,” she said softly, “I’ve brought you a cuppa.”

He jerked as if stung, twisting round to look at her.

“Jesus. You gave me a fright.” The color drained from his already sallow face, leaving the blemishes on his cheeks an angry red.

“Sorry.” She held up the mug. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”

“No, I’m sorry,” he apologized. “I’m just a bit jumpy these days, that’s all.” He started to get up, but she waved him back to his seat.

“Don’t stop on my account, please. It was lovely. I didn’t know you played.” Crossing the room, Gemma set his mug next to the dog-eared sheet music on the upright’s stand.

“Bloody thing needs a good tuning.” Martin turned back to the keyboard. “My mum gave me lessons. All part of a proper middle-class upbringing,” he added, with a note of derision. His fingers moved over the keys again, picking out a faintly Scottish air.

“But you play by ear, don’t you?” asked Gemma, the

certainty forming as she listened. “That’s not something you learn from lessons.” She looked at him with sudden envy, forgetting his spottiness, his youth, his awkward behavior, seeing only a gift she would have made a pact with the devil to possess. Perching on the edge of the chair nearest him, she said, “Is this your job, back in Dundee?”

Martin snorted. “There’s no money in this. Oh, I pick up a few bob, filling in on a gig, but it’s not going to pay the rent.”

Why was it, she wondered, that people never seemed to appreciate what they had? Martin had shrugged off his talent as if it were no more worthwhile than sweeping floors.

Nor had he answered her question about his job, she realized, and that aroused her curiosity.

“Martin, I know it’s none of my business, but I’m surprised you haven’t gone home. I mean, it’s not as if you knew Donald . . .”

“Nor did you, before this weekend, and you’re still here.” His glance was sharper than she’d expected.

Shrugging, he added, “I thought I’d lend John a bit of support. It’s not as though he’ll get it from any other quarter.”

“You mean Louise?” Gemma studied him. “Is there a particular reason you two don’t get on?”

“Besides the fact that she’s a bitch? She’s always treated me as if I were a bug that needed squashing. What bloody right has she? He’s my brother.”

“Yes, but it is her house, too.”

Martin flushed at the note of reproof in Gemma’s voice. “You mean I should be grateful for her charity?”

“No, I mean you should have better manners. This is about more than a weekend cookery course, isn’t it?”

Martin gazed down at the keyboard as the silence

stretched. “It’s just that I’ve got no place else to go at the moment,” he admitted at last. “And I don’t like being made to feel a nuisance.”

“No place to go? You mean—”

“I lost my bloody flat, okay? And my job. Actually,” he amended, “it was the other way round.”

“Oh, that’s rotten luck,” said Gemma. “It could happen to anyone.” She thought back to their earlier conversations. “But you must have some other options. I thought you said your mum lived in Dundee. Couldn’t you—”

“My mum’s not speaking to me. I’m not exactly in her good books at the moment, but at least she doesn’t seem to have shared her feelings with Louise. There’s no way Louise would have passed up ammunition she could have used against me.”

Gemma frowned. “Wait a minute. What ammunition?”

Martin gave her a sideways glance. “Why should I tell you?”

Gemma considered for a moment, tilting her head, then said, “Because it sounds to me as though you could use a friend, and I don’t think you’re as tough as you make out. And because”—she reached out with her right hand and played a bar of the first thing that came into her head, which happened to be Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring, the piece she had been working on at her last piano lesson—“we have something in common.”

“Ouch,” Martin said, falling in with the next measure.

“That was a low blow. I think it’s been scientifically proven that one can’t behave badly while listening to Bach.”

Gemma grinned. “Then stop it and tell me what happened.”

He looked up at her, his hands still. “I worked in a music shop, in Dundee. It was all right, but then I got

busted for selling X-tabs to some of the customers. It was stupid, I know,” he added, as if to forestall her. “My boss fired me. When I couldn’t pay my rent, I lost my flat. And I’ve got no way to pay for legal counsel when my trial comes up.”

Refraining from agreeing with his own assessment, Gemma asked, “Does John know?”

“Yeah. He’s been really good about it.”

“You never were interested in cooking, then, were you?”

“No, that’s not true,” Martin said, sounding hurt.

“There’s this bloke I know that might take me on at his restaurant. I thought if I could learn something from John, I’d have a better chance at it.”

“And what about Louise? Does she know?”

“What do you think? You don’t imagine she’d let someone less than perfect take up space in her precious house? What surprises me,” Martin added thoughtfully,

“is that she ever condescended to take on John.”

“John? Why wouldn’t—” Gemma stopped, listening as the low murmur of voices coming from the kitchen suddenly rose in volume. She recognized Heather’s clear alto. Hazel and Heather must have come in from the barn.

Then, the sound of car tires on gravel snapped her attention back to the front of the house. Looking out the window, she recognized the car, an unmarked Rover.

Bloody hell. It was Ross, and she didn’t want to talk to him about Tim Cavendish in front of Hazel.

“Martin, sorry,” she said, giving him a fleeting pat on the shoulder. “I’ve got to have a word with the chief inspector,” she added, already half out the door.

“You won’t tell him about me?” Martin called after her.

“I’ll wager he already knows. You should have told him yourself.”

She ran out into the drive as Ross and Sergeant Munro were getting out of the car. “Chief Inspector. I left you a message,” she said a bit breathlessly. Skidding to a halt on the gravel, she lowered her voice and added, “It’s about Tim Cavendish, Hazel’s husband. Have you requested that the Met interview him?”

Ross looked at her with disfavor. “Inspector James, I’m perfectly capable of—”

“Have you?” she repeated, past caring if she was rude.

“Because he wasn’t in London over the weekend, and he doesn’t seem able to verify his movements.” She saw Ross’s hesitation as he took this in, and pressed her point.

“And he knew Hazel was planning to see Donald Brodie over the weekend.”

“Och, all right,” Ross said with obvious reluctance.

“Munro, call in and have them ask London to run a check on the man. Now, Inspector, if you don’t mind—”

“There’s more. Tim’s not answering the phone or the door, even to his family.”

“I can’t say I blame the man for not wanting to talk to his wife.” There was a note of bitterness in Ross’s voice.

“It’s not just that. He won’t talk to his parents, and they’re keeping Holly, Tim and Hazel’s little girl. I haven’t said anything to Hazel; I didn’t want to worry her unnecessarily.”

“You just wanted to worry me,” Ross said, sounding aggrieved.

Gemma stared at him. Had she actually seen the corners of his mouth turn up? He looked tired, she realized as she studied him. Even his graying hair seemed to have lost some of its bristle.

“I’ll request a welfare check,” he told her. “And now, if you don’t mind, lassie, I’d like to see John and Martin Innes.”

Carnmore, August

Livvy had just rolled out a fresh batch of oatcakes for the girdle when the knock came at the kitchen door. As in most country houses, the front door at Carnmore was seldom used. Wiping her hands, still slightly greasy from the bacon fat she’d kneaded into the oatmeal, she called out, “Come in!” Will had gone down to the burn with his fishing rod, taking a well-deserved hour off from the distillery, and Livvy assumed it was one of the hands with a question.

“Livvy?”

For a moment, she saw only a shape in the doorway, framed by the bright light of the August afternoon, but she would have recognized the voice anywhere. “Rab!

What on earth are you doing here?”

“Have I caught you at a bad time?” He stepped forward, his features gaining definition, and she saw that he was dressed for riding. She hadn’t seen him since the night of the Grantown dance, and since then she had pictured him in evening clothes.

“Oh, no, come in, please. Forgive my manners. It’s just that I was surprised to see you.” She was suddenly aware of her disheveled hair and her workaday shirtwaist. Her hands were red and raw from scrubbing preserve jars, and she suspected she had smudges of flour on her nose.

“I had business in Tomintoul,” Rab said, taking off his hat. “It seemed a shame not to pay a call when I was so near.”

“So near! Rab Brodie, it must be all of ten miles from Tomintoul to the Braes,” she protested, warm with pleasure.

“And a very pleasant day for a ride.” He smiled at her, his eyes sparkling above the flush of sunburn on his

cheeks. His boots and trousers, she saw, were dusty from the road, and he had loosened his collar.

“You must be thirsty. Sit down and I’ll make some tea.

You’ve caught me in the middle of baking—I hope you don’t mind yesterday’s oatcakes.”

“How are you keeping, Livvy?” he asked as he sat at the scrubbed oak table. “You look well.”

“I’ve been berry picking this week with some of the women from the village,” she said, laughing. “I’m as sunburned as a fishwife, but, oh, it was lovely, and I’ve berries to spare. I’ve made a blaeberry preserve, and we’ve fresh cream. We can have a bit with our tea, if you like . . .” She realized she was babbling and concentrated on setting out the best rose-patterned teapot, with the matching cups and saucers. The china had been her wedding gift from her father.

“That’s a bit grand for the kitchen, isn’t it?” asked Rab, nodding at the cup she’d set before him.

Livvy felt a rush of mortification. “Oh, how stupid of me. Of course we’ll go into the sitting room. We have visitors so seldom—”

“Nonsense.” Rab settled back in his chair. “I won’t have you stand on ceremony for me, Livvy. This is a comfort I don’t often enjoy at home, and I’d much rather be treated as a friend than as a guest.”

Livvy doubted he ever set foot in the kitchen at Benvulin—nor did his wife, except to give instructions to the cook—but she acquiesced. She spooned still-warm fruit preserve into a dish and topped it with a ladle of cream from the jug. When she had set the dish before Rab, she sank into the chair opposite and watched him with anticipation.

“Don’t tell me you’re not joining me?”

“I’ve been tasting all day,” she told him, although the

truth was, she didn’t want to waste a moment of this visit in eating when she could be listening, and talking, and storing up the conversation to remember later. “I’m afraid I’ll turn blue if I have one more berry.” Realizing she’d forgotten the oatcakes, she jumped up again and fetched a plate of the crispy, triangular cakes, then poured the tea.

“Livvy, sit,” he commanded her, laughing. “You remind me of a whirling dervish.”

She complied, folding her hands primly in her lap. “All right, then, I’ll be a proper hostess. How are things at Benvulin, Mr. Brodie? And Margaret, is she well?”

“Margaret’s taken the children to London for a month.

Her uncle has a house there, and she thought the children needed civilizing.”

“And your sister?”

“Helen’s managing admirably, as usual. She keeps me in line.” He spooned berries and cream into his mouth, closing his eyes for a moment as he savored the combination. “Nectar of the gods,” he pronounced, with a grin.

“Och, get away with ye, Rab Brodie,” said Livvy, more flattered than she would admit.

Sobering, he said, “Seriously, Livvy, how are you getting on? Are you and Will managing on your own?”

“Will’s been remarkable. Charles would have been so proud. But . . .” For the first time since Charles’s death, she gave in to the temptation to speak freely. “But I know this isn’t what Will wanted. It’s a good life, but Will’s had his choice made for him, and so early . . . We could hire a manager for the distillery, so that he could go to school in Edinburgh, but he won’t hear of it.”

“He could do worse. There are not many men who have everything they want, Livvy.” Rab gazed at her directly until she looked away, uncomfortable.

“If Charles hadn’t had the foresight to steer clear of Pattison’s,” Rab continued, making blue-purple swirls in the cream with his spoon, “you might have lost everything.”

Livvy saw lines of strain in his face that she hadn’t noticed before. Leaning forward, she touched his hand.

“I’ve heard rumors . . . about Benvulin . . . Is it really that bad?”

He shrugged, his expression suddenly bleak. “We’ll manage, somehow. Margaret’s trying to raise some money from her uncle—not that she cares about the distillery, but she’ll not let her social status go so easily. At least it’s been a good summer; we’ll have barley to spare if we can stay in production.”

Livvy took a breath. “Rab, if there’s anything we can do . . .”

“Duncan!” Hazel came straight to him and he en-folded her in a hug. She clung to him, burying her face against his chest. Her dark curls just brushed his chin, and compared with Gemma’s, her frame felt delicate under his hands. He had never before thought of her as fragile.

“Have you spoken to Tim?” Hazel asked as she let him go. “Gemma said you saw Holly— How is she?”

“What shall I answer first?” he said with a smile, wanting to reassure her. “No, I haven’t talked to Tim today, and yes, I saw Holly, and she was full of mischief as usual.” Beyond Hazel, he saw Pascal glance at Heather in silent question, and Heather shrug in reply. Just how much did they have riding on Hazel’s response to Donald’s bequest? he wondered.

Before he could speculate further, the door to the hall swung open and a gangly young man came hurriedly into

the kitchen. Kincaid surmised that he must be John Innes’s younger brother, Martin, although he could see no resemblance.

“It’s that policeman,” the young man said. “He’s here again.”

There was an instant’s pause in the room, as if a film had frozen at a single frame. Then John turned back to the cooker, saying, a bit too loudly, “I suppose I’d better put the kettle on again.” Louise dropped the bough she’d been trimming into the sink and reached for a towel.

Heather moved a little closer to Pascal’s chair.

Only Hazel still stood without moving. “He won’t—

He can’t take me in again, can he?” she whispered, her face pale.

“I shouldn’t think so.” Kincaid gave her shoulder a squeeze and urged her towards the stool he had vacated.

“Gemma must be talking to him now.”

Then he heard voices from the hall, and Gemma came into the kitchen, followed by a solid, graying man in a rumpled suit, and a tall, thin man with a cadaverous face.

The shorter man had an unmistakable air of authority.

If he was going to pull rank, Kincaid thought, he had better do it now. He stepped forward, hand extended.

“Chief Inspector Ross? My name’s Kincaid. Superintendent, Scotland Yard.” Someone in the room inhaled sharply, as if surprised at this news, but he couldn’t be sure of the source.

As Ross gave him an assessing glance and a perfunc-tory handshake, Kincaid felt his usefulness being weighed, an unusual sensation. “If I can be of any help . . . ,” he offered, and Ross made an indecipherable grumbling noise in his throat.

“And why exactly are you here, Superintendent?” Ross asked, casting a look in Gemma’s direction.

“Gemma—Inspector James—and I are personal friends of Mrs. Cavendish.”

“So you came to lend your support? Verra thoughtful of you,” Ross said with only a slight grimace. It seemed he had decided to err on the side of caution. “But it’s actually not Mrs. Cavendish I’ve come to see,” he continued. “I’ve a wee matter to discuss with Mr. Innes.

Sergeant”—he nodded at the tall man—“if ye’d be so good.”

The other detective stepped forward, and Kincaid saw that he carried a folder. Ross took it from him and, clearing a space on the work island, laid the contents out before John Innes, large, glossy, color photos of a shotgun.

“Is this your gun, Mr. Innes?”

“Oh, Christ.” John Innes touched an unsteady finger to the top photograph. “I— It looks like it, yes. The scroll-work is fairly distinctive. But how— Where—”

“We found it in the river, fifty yards or so downstream from the body. It’s possible the current dragged it along the bottom.”

“No fingerprints, I suppose?” Kincaid asked, forgetting his role as observer in his interest.

“No, just a few wee smudges.”

“Had the gun been wiped before being submerged?”

“It’s difficult to say, Mr. Kincaid.” Ross gave him a quelling glance. “But we can be sure that the gun used to kill Donald Brodie came from this house—”

“You can’t be certain,” interrupted Gemma. “There’s no way to get an absolute ballistics match on a shotgun—”

“Inspector James.” Ross scowled at her. “I find it verra unlikely that this gun just happened to end up in the river at the same time Donald Brodie was shot with a different small-bore gun.” He turned back to John. “Mr. Innes, you’ll need to come into the station to make a formal

identification. You’ll also need to do a much better job of accounting for your time on Sunday morning.”

John stared at him blankly. “But I’ve told you. I went to buy eggs—”

“You didn’t arrive at the farm shop until seven o’clock, after the police had been called to the scene, and yet, according to your wife, you left home some time before Inspector James discovered the body.”

“No!” Louise took a step towards John. “I said I wasn’t sure of the time. I didn’t look at the clock—”

“How could ye not see the clock, Mrs. Innes?” Ross looked pointedly at the large-faced kitchen clock mounted on the wall above the table. “Especially when your business depends on keeping a schedule in the mornings?”

“Don’t ye badger her,” said John, his fists clenching.

“It’s nothing to do with Louise. I took a wee walk along Loch an Eilean, if ye must know. There’s no crime in that.”

“Then why didn’t ye see fit to mention it?” Ross asked.

“I didna think anything of it.” John appeared to be struggling for nonchalance. Louise was staring at him, her delicate brows lifted in surprise. “I often go there when I’ve an errand at the estate shop,” John added.

“Did anyone see you?”

“I didna notice. Wait— There was a couple walking their dog, an Alsatian.”

“That’s very helpful of you, Mr. Innes,” said Ross, with scathing sarcasm. “I’m sure we’ll have no trouble verifying that. In the meantime, we’ve requested a warrant to have our forensics team go over your car—a Land Rover, isn’t it? But if you were to demonstrate your cooperation by turning it over voluntarily, it would make things easier for everyone concerned.”

As John glanced at him in mute appeal, Kincaid began to realize just how awkward a position he and Gemma had got themselves into. After a moment’s hesitation, he nodded at John. Ross would have the car searched re-gardless, and John would do himself no good by trying to obstruct it.

“All right,” said John, with a show of bravado. “Go ahead. I’ve nothing to hide.”

“Good. That’s verra sensible of you.” Ross looked more weary than pleased. “Now, why don’t ye come with us to the station, and we’ll send a constable along to take charge of the car.”

“Wait.” Louise stepped forward. “I want a word with my husband, Chief Inspector.”

“With all due respect, Mrs. Innes, I’d rather you didna do that until he’s amended his statement. If you have something different to tell us, I’d suggest you do it now.”

Louise hesitated, glancing at John, then back at Ross.

“No. I— It was nothing.”

Sergeant Munro gathered the photos together, then stepped back, gesturing at John to precede him.

As John reached the door, he called back, “The soup—

Louise, you’ll see to the soup?”

“Soup?” Louise wailed as the door swung shut. “How can he think of soup when—”

A babble of voices broke out as everyone began to comment, drowning her words. Kincaid put a hand on her arm and guided her into a quieter corner of the room.

“Louise,” he said softly, “do you know what John was doing yesterday morning—other than not walking around Loch an Eilean, whatever that is.”

“It’s a local scenic spot, near the farm shop. John’s never mentioned walking there.” She looked baffled.

“I’ve no idea where he could have been—I didn’t realize,

until the chief inspector said, that he was away for so long.” Frowning, she added hesitantly, “But there have been other times lately when he’s disappeared without telling me, or been gone a good bit longer than an errand required.” She looked up at Kincaid, color suffusing her fair skin. “And once or twice, I’ve awakened in the night and found him gone. I thought— But it can’t have anything to do with Donald.”

Kincaid was trying to think of some way to reassure her, a difficult proposition, as he had no idea what John Innes had been getting up to, when he realized Gemma had followed the detectives and John Innes from the room.

“Louise, I’m sorry, but I’ve got to catch Gemma up.

We’ll talk later, I promise.”

He dashed through the house, and as he burst out the front door, he found his suspicions confirmed. John was safely tucked into the unmarked car with Sergeant Munro, and Gemma was standing in the drive, arguing with the chief inspector.

As Kincaid came up to them, he heard her say, “You can’t rule out the possibility that someone outside the house had access to the gun—or that the gun was taken for another reason.”

Ross seemed to be making a monumental effort to keep his temper in check. “And what reason would that be?”

“What if someone wanted to cast suspicion on John, or on the household in general?”

“Who?” Ross barked.

“I don’t know,” countered Gemma, without the least sign of being intimidated. “But you can’t ignore Alison Grant and Callum MacGillivray. They both had motive, and neither had an alibi. And what about Tim Cavendish?”

Ross shook his head in disbelief. “Do ye want your friend’s husband to be guilty of murder, lassie?”

“No, of course not!” said Gemma, sounding less sure of herself. She turned to Kincaid, as if for confirmation.

“I just want—”

“Ye canna protect them all, lass. You must see that.

Someone fired that shotgun into Donald Brodie’s chest, and the odds are that it was someone in this house. Ye canna hide from the fact. Why don’t ye take Mrs.

Cavendish and go back to London? Ye’ll be weel out of it.”

“I—”

Whatever Gemma had meant to say was cut off by the ringing of Kincaid’s phone. “Sorry,” he said, turning away as he slipped the phone from his belt. It was about time Doug Cullen rang him back.

But it was not Cullen, and as Kincaid listened, his surroundings faded until he was aware of nothing but the cold dread squeezing his chest.

“No,” he said at last. “No. Don’t do anything yet. Let me make a few calls. I’ll ring you back.”

As he hung up, he felt the feather brush of Gemma’s fingers against his arm. “Is it Tim?” she asked, clearly alarmed by his tone. “What’s happened? Has he—”

“No.” Kincaid forced himself to breathe, to meet her eyes. “That was Wesley. It’s Kit. He’s disappeared.”