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

Chapter Nine

So you are happed and gone, and there you’re lying, Far from the glen, deep down the slope of seas, Out of the stormy night, the grey sleet flying, And never again for you the Hebrides!

We need not keep the peat and cruise glowing, The goodwife may put by her ale and bread, For you, who kept the crack so blithely going, Now sleep at last, silent and comforted.

neil munro, “The Story Teller” (written on the death of Robert Louis Stevenson) From the Diary of Helen Brodie, Benvulin,

December

This morning’s post brought the news of the death of Charles Urquhart at Carnmore from a virulent fever, contracted on his return from Edinburgh a fortnight ago. Poor Charles! His constitution was never strong, as I recall, and he was caught out in the blizzard that has isolated us here at Benvulin. My heart aches for his poor wife and son. What a loss, a needless loss, of a man in his prime.

I remember Charles as a serious lad, one who

preferred to sit in the corner at dances and talk about books. And yet there was a spark of humor about him, and a kindness in the eyes. For a time, I had thought . . . but that was before he met Olivia Grant. From then he had no thought for anyone else, and rumor had it that Livvy’s father encouraged him, seeking a stable and well-connected marriage for his daughter.

How will Livvy Urquhart manage now, I wonder, with sole responsibility for the distillery? We must do something for her, and hope that Charles showed more wisdom in the matter of Pattison’s than my dear brother.

That brings me to the day’s other ill tidings. Not that it was unexpected, of course, but it still came as a shock to see it written in the Edinburgh newspaper. Pattison’s, the Edinburgh firm of blenders, has indeed failed, due at least in part to the profli-gate spending of the Pattison Brothers.

What this will mean for Benvulin I dare not think.

Rab, like our father before him, has always been inclined to invest recklessly (although, unlike Father, Rab’s weakness is the distillery itself, rather than the house) and he has committed to several

“joint adventures” in which he has sold whisky to Pattison’s without payment, in expectation of a price rise; a price rise that will now never occur.

I assure myself that we shall weather this crisis, as we have others, but I cannot help but wish that my brother had not spent his wife’s funds quite so readily. Margaret, the belle of Grantown society little more than a decade ago, has become fat and indolent in the security of her marriage. She has no

knowledge of the business and no interest in anything other than the vagaries of fashion or the latest gossip.

Nor does she give proper attention to the children, who have become wayward from lack of dis-cipline or schedule. Rab plays only the occasional game of cricket with little Robert, and of poor wee Meg he takes no notice at all.

How different might things have been if he had followed his heart rather than his pocketbook? A woman who challenged his intellect and his character might have made a different man of him, and perhaps a different father as well.

The snow grows heavier as I write, and I can no longer see the river from my window. Benvulin will soon be cut off again in its own little world, a state I used to anticipate with pleasure as a child, but have come to loathe. Only early December, and already a second fierce storm afflicts us. I fear this is a harbinger of a bad winter.

The knock came just as Gemma was ending her call to Kincaid. Opening the door, Gemma found Constable Mackenzie hovering on her doorstep, her hand raised to knock again.

“Ma’am—”

“Has the investigating team arrived?” Gemma asked.

Among the police cars parked half on the lawn, leaving a clear path for the scene-of-crime and mortuary vans, she saw two new unmarked cars. Poor Louise, she thought with a pang of sympathy as she noticed the tire tracks in the soft turf.

“Yes, ma’am,” Mackenzie answered. “It’s Chief Inspector Ross, from headquarters in Inverness.”

“He’ll be wanting to talk to me, then. I’ll just—”

“Ma’am.” Mackenzie colored slightly. “The chief inspector’s asked that I escort you to join the other guests.”

“Escort?”

“Yes, ma’am. They’re all in the sitting room of the main house. If you’ll just follow me.”

“But—” The protest died on Gemma’s lips. The constable’s embarrassment was obvious, and there was no use making things difficult for the young woman. She would have the opportunity to talk to the chief inspector soon enough, and in the meantime, she wanted to see Hazel.

But as she meekly followed Mackenzie around the house to the front door, she thought that Chief Inspector Ross from Inverness had made it quite clear that he had no intention of treating her as an equal.

Another constable stood at parade rest just outside the door of the sitting room, his broad face impassive.

John Innes jumped up as Gemma slipped into the room. “Gemma! What’s all this about? They’ve said Donald’s been . . . killed. Surely that’s not—”

“Shot,” said Hazel, with the clear articulation of the very shocked. She sat crumpled in the wing chair near the fire, hugging herself and rocking gently. “I told you. It was so neat, so tidy . . . I’d never have thought . . . There was hardly any blood at all.”

Gemma couldn’t tell her that the blood would have pooled beneath his body, his back a mess from the force of the pellets’ exit. But Hazel was at least partly right—

there would not have been much bleeding, even from the exit wound, because Donald’s heart must have stopped pumping instantly.

The room, heated by the morning sun, smelled of stale

ash and, faintly, of sweat. On the table by the window, the heads of the mauve tulips drooped as if they, too, were grieving.

Louise gave Hazel a concerned glance and whispered, “I’ve tried to get her to drink tea, but she wouldn’t touch it.”

“So it is true.” John began to pace. “Donald’s really dead.” He shook his head as if he couldn’t quite compre-hend it. “But why would someone kill him? Donald, of all people? Everyone loved Donald. And why herd us in here and put a guard on the door?”

“The police will be treating it as a suspicious death,”

Gemma explained. “It’s routine procedure, until everyone has been questioned and the initial search completed.”

“Oh, right. You would know, wouldn’t you?” said Heather Urquhart from the other corner of the sofa. Although she sat with her feet tucked up beneath her in her usual feline pose, the tension in her body erased any grace.

Pascal and Martin gave Gemma wary looks, as if they’d just remembered her job, and she swore under her breath. Damn the woman.

“Have they sent you in here to spy on us?” added Heather, her voice rising. Her skin without makeup was blotchy, her long hair tangled and carelessly tied back.

“Is there some reason you think they should have?”

“No, of course not.” Heather gave a dismissive shrug, but her eyes slid away from Gemma’s.

“Look, I’ve no special privileges here,” Gemma told them. “I’m a guest, just like you, but you can’t expect me not to apply my experience.”

Pascal studied her. “How can you be sure it was not an accident?” He looked rumpled, as if he had dressed hur-

riedly in yesterday’s clothes. “These things happen, even with the most experienced hunter, a stumble—”

Had Gemma been in charge of the investigation, she’d have put the constable in the room, rather than outside it, to prevent just this sort of speculation and exchanging information. But since Chief Inspector Ross had not done so, she might as well take advantage of her position. “The gun was missing,” she said, watching as their expressions registered varying degrees of surprise.

Martin Gilmore spoke for the first time. “But . . . what if someone was shooting and didn’t see him—”

“Not if the wound was neat,” interrupted John. “That means the gun was close, maybe only inches—”

Louise was shaking her head at him, miming towards Hazel.

“Oh, sorry,” faltered John. “I didna think . . .” His accent was more pronounced than usual, making Gemma think painfully of Donald.

“Did anyone see anything?” she asked. “Or hear anything?”

“You know we were sharing a room,” volunteered Martin. “I heard Donald go out this morning.”

“What time was it?”

Martin shook his head, as if sorry to disappoint her.

“I’m not sure. I remember pulling the pillow over my eyes, so it must have been light. And the bloody birds were singing.”

When no one else spoke, Gemma turned to John.

“John. Your gun cabinet. You haven’t checked—”

John halted his pacing and stared at her. “My guns?

But why would—”

“Jesus Christ!” Heather uncoiled herself with unprecedented speed, her feet hitting the floor with a thud.

“You’re not suggesting it was one of us?”

“I’m not suggesting anything,” said Gemma. “It’s the first question the police will ask once they’ve had a look round the house.”

John rubbed his hand across the stubble on his chin, and it seemed to Gemma that the smell of sweat grew stronger. “I went out through the scullery door this morning,” he said, “but I didna look— The cabinet was locked— I always lock it—”

Gemma turned to Louise. “You were here, Louise, in and out of the kitchen. You didn’t notice?”

“No. I—” Louise stopped, frowning with the effort of recall. Slowly, she said, “I picked up my gardening things from the scullery, that I remember. And then afterwards, with Hazel—I never thought—”

At the sound of her name, Hazel looked up, blinking.

“Oh, God. What have I done?” she whispered.

“It’s all right,” Gemma reassured her swiftly, but she was aware of a sharpening of attention in the room. How could she prevent Hazel from saying things that could be so easily misinterpreted? Crossing the room to Hazel’s side, she said softly, “Hazel, you haven’t done anything.

You mustn’t say things like that. Do you understand?”

“She should never have come.” The words were harsh, the voice stretched to breaking. Turning, Gemma saw that Heather had stood. Her hair had come loose from its bind-ing and spilled wildly over her shoulders and across her face. With her trembling hand pointed at Hazel in accusation, she might have been an ancient prophetess. “We were all right before she came. And now Donald’s dead. I can’t believe he’s dead. What am I going to do without him?” She began to cry, with the dry, racking sobs of someone who didn’t often allow such release and had never learned to do it gracefully.

To Gemma’s surprise, it was not Pascal who went to

comfort her, but John. “It’s all right, lassie,” he crooned, easing her back into her chair. He reached for the whisky on the sideboard and poured her a stiff measure. “Have a wee dram for the shock. We’ll all have a wee dram.” Pouring another for himself, he drank it off in one swallow.

Louise reached out, as if to stop him. “John, are you sure that’s—”

“I don’t care if it’s wise, woman. He was my friend, a good man. And he’s dead.” He began splashing whisky into the round of glasses on a tray.

Taking one, Gemma went back to Hazel and knelt beside her. The sharp odor of the whisky reached her, lodg-ing in the back of her throat. “Have a sip, love,” she whispered. “John’s right. It will do you good.” Hazel’s hand trembled as she took the glass, and her teeth knocked against the rim. “Hazel,” Gemma continued softly, urgently, as the conversation rose around them,

“where did you go this morning, in the car?” She had to know before she talked to the police.

“The railway station. I was going to go home, without saying good-bye. I couldn’t face Donald again, after last night—”

“You didn’t see him this morning?”

“No. Not until—not until you told me—” Hazel pressed her fist to her mouth and began to cry sound-lessly, the tears slipping unchecked down her cheeks, but Gemma sat back, dizzy with the force of relief that washed through her.

After Gemma rang off, Kincaid abandoned his own breakfast and went upstairs to check on Kit, who had not yet appeared. He found the boy sitting cross-legged on his bed in an old T-shirt, rereading one of his Harry Potter novels.

“Finished with Kidnapped, then?” Kincaid asked, pulling the desk chair closer to the bed and sitting down.

Any idea he might have had of drawing parallels between the orphaned heroes was put paid to by the sight of the photo of Kit’s mother on the bedside table.

Gemma had given Kit the frame for Christmas, and until this morning the photo had resided unobtrusively on a corner of Kit’s desk.

Kit shrugged and kept his eyes on his book, although Kincaid could see that he wasn’t reading.

“You didn’t come down for breakfast,” Kincaid said, trying again. “You’re not ill, are you?”

“I’ll get cereal in a bit.” Kit still didn’t look at him.

“Where’s Tess?”

“Begging toast off Toby. I’m not used to seeing you without your familiar,” Kincaid quipped, and was rewarded by a twitch of Kit’s lip, a stifled smile. “Listen, Kit,” he went on, encouraged, “I’ve got to go out for a bit this morning, to see Tim Cavendish. There’s been an accident—”

“Not Gemma! Or Aunt Hazel!” Kit’s face went white and his book slipped from his fingers, its pages fluttering.

Cursing himself for his clumsiness, Kincaid said hurriedly, “No, no. It was a man—another guest at the B&B.

Gemma had a chance to ring and wanted me to let Tim know before he saw it on the news, so that he wouldn’t worry.”

Kit seemed to relax, but Kincaid could still see the pulse beating in the fragile hollow of the boy’s throat.

“Can they come home today, then?” Kit asked.

“Gemma and Hazel?”

“I don’t know. I expect they’ll have to stay on for a bit, at least until the preliminary questions are answered.”

“This man— It was a murder, wasn’t it? Not an accident.”

“I’m afraid it looks like it, yes.”

Kit studied him for a moment, his expression unread-able. “You’re going to go, too,” he said, making it a statement.

Kincaid thought of his offer to Gemma, so quickly re-buffed. “I hope it won’t come to that.” He reached out and tousled his son’s fair hair. “But in the meantime, will you look after Toby while I’m out?”

He knew he was going to have to talk to Kit again about his grandmother, but first he had to tackle Tim Cavendish.

The weather had held fine through the weekend, and deciding that he might as well enjoy the drive across London, Kincaid pulled the canvas cover off the Midget.

Although the little red car could be called a classic, in reality it had sagging springs and sometimes-unreliable parts. He hadn’t driven it for weeks, but for once the battery had held its charge and the engine puttered cooperatively to life on the first try.

He’d always maintained that Sunday was the day to drive in London for pleasure, but when, a half hour later, he found himself idling behind a queue of buses in the Euston Road, he wondered if he had been a bit precipitous.

Looking up at the ugly blocks of flats to his right, he thought of his sergeant, Doug Cullen, who lived nearby, and recalled uneasily the small falsehood he had told Gemma. He had spoken to Doug several times over the weekend—he’d only been stretching the truth a little when he’d said it was Doug who’d kept the phone line engaged.

But he knew well enough that even little lies, however kindly meant, had a way of assuming monstrous propor-

tions, and he wished that he had been honest with Gemma from the beginning. Now, in the light of what had happened in Scotland, his omission was going to be even more awkward to explain. He would, he resolved, tell her as soon as he spoke with her again.

When, a few minutes later, he turned north from Pen-tonville Road into the sedate crescents of Islington, he realized it was the first time he’d been to the Cavendishes’

house since Gemma had moved out. He had to remind himself not to pull round to the garage in the back. Although he knew that Hazel now used the flat as an office, he found it impossible to imagine it other than it had been, stamped by Gemma’s and Toby’s presence. Would he someday come to feel the same way about the Notting Hill house? It seemed to him that their full possession of the place was still marred by the emptiness of the nursery.

Pushing such thoughts aside, he parked in front of the Cavendishes’ house, a detached Victorian built of honey-colored stone, unexpectedly situated between two Georgian terraces. As he climbed out of the car, he noticed that the garden, previously a model of tidiness, looked weedy and neglected.

The house seemed quiet, turned in upon itself, the front drapes still drawn. Kincaid wondered if Tim had gone out—no one with an active four-year-old slept in until midmorning, even on a Sunday—but the pealing of the bell brought quick footsteps in response.

The door swung wide, revealing a pleasant-faced woman in her sixties with smartly bobbed graying hair.

“Can I help you?” she asked with an inquiring smile. She wore a raspberry shell suit, and her features seemed vaguely familiar.

“Is Tim at home? I’m Duncan Kincaid.”

“Oh, you’re Toby’s dad,” she said with obvious de-

light. “I’ve heard so much about you.” Holding out her hand, she added, “I’m Carolyn Cavendish, Tim’s mum.”

Kincaid clasped her well-manicured fingers. “Nice to meet you.” He had not quite got used to being referred to as Toby’s dad, and he felt an unexpected flush of pleasure.

“Come in, won’t you?” Stepping back, she ushered him into the house. “Holly is quite smitten with you.”

“And vice versa.” Kincaid looked round, prepared for the onslaught of Holly’s usual enthusiastic welcome, but the child didn’t appear.

“I’ve just made some coffee,” said Carolyn Cavendish,

“if you’ll join me?”

As Kincaid surveyed the familiar array of slightly worn furniture and children’s toys, the magnitude of what Gemma had told him that morning truly registered for the first time. How could Hazel, of all people, have possibly been having an affair?

He had never known anyone so contented, so at home in her domestic environment. He caught sight of the piano, music still open on the stand as if Gemma had just finished practicing, and felt a pang of loss for a time that had been innocent at least in memory.

Realizing that Mrs. Cavendish was watching him curiously, he brought himself back to the present with an effort. “Thanks. I’d like to wait if Tim won’t be long—”

“Oh, but Tim’s gone.” Leading the way to the kitchen, Mrs. Cavendish pulled two mugs from a rack above the cooker. “But I’m glad of the company.” As she pressed the coffee already standing in the pot, she added,

“Tony—that’s Tim’s father—has taken Holly for a swing on the school playground, and I had nothing on my agenda more pressing than the Sunday papers.”

Kincaid accepted the mug and sank slowly into a seat

at the scarred wooden table where he had spent so much time with Hazel, Gemma, and the children. The kitchen looked much the same; the old glass-fronted cabinets were still stained a mossy green, the walls sponged peach, and a basket of Hazel’s knitting sat on the table end.

“Tim’s out?”

“Away for the weekend,” she corrected. “Well, it was such lovely weather, and it was no trouble for us to come from Wimbledon. Usually, Holly comes to us, but she had a birthday party here in the neighborhood yesterday.

One of her school friends. Not that Hazel would have approved of all the sugar,” she added ruefully. “You should have seen them, little savages—”

“Mrs. Cavendish.” Kincaid abandoned his manners in his rising anxiety. “Where is Tim?”

“Walking. Some friends rang on Friday, after Hazel had got the train, and invited him to go. It seemed the perfect opportunity. He hasn’t had a holiday in ages, poor dear.”

“Where are Tim and his friends walking?” he asked carefully, trying not to betray his dismay.

“Um, Hampshire, I think he said. The Downs.”

“Do you know when he’ll be back?”

“Sometime this evening.” She frowned slightly. “Is there something wrong?”

“Can you get in touch with him? Did he take his mobile phone?”

“No, I don’t believe he did. He said they were planning a real getaway. Has something happened?”

He forced a smile. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to alarm you. It’s just that there’s been an accident at the B&B

where Hazel and Gemma are staying—Hazel’s fine, don’t worry—but I thought Tim should know as soon as possible.”

“An accident?”

“One of the other guests,” Kincaid explained. “He’s dead, I’m afraid. The police will have questions, and it’s always possible that the story could make the national media. I didn’t want Tim reading about it in the papers before Hazel had a chance to call him.”

He finished his coffee and stood. “Will you tell Tim to ring me as soon as he gets in?”

“Yes, of course, but—” She touched his arm. “This man, you said there was an accident. What happened?”

“He was shot.”

Mrs. Cavendish lifted a hand to her mouth. “Oh, my God. You’re sure Hazel’s all right? Did she—”

“Hazel’s fine,” he assured her again. “But that’s all I know, Mrs. Cavendish. I’ll let you know as soon as there’s more news.” He took his leave, but once in the car he sat for a moment, his unease growing as he thought over what he had heard.

Surely it was a coincidence that Tim Cavendish had had an unexpected invitation to go out of town on the very weekend Hazel had meant to see another man—the weather was lovely, after all. But although he didn’t think of Tim as a close friend, they had spent a good deal of time in idle chat, and he had never once heard Tim mention an interest in walking.

That could well be coincidence again—perhaps the subject had just never happened to come up. But Kincaid had learned over the years to distrust coincidence—especially when there was murder involved.

God, how he hated outdoor crime scenes. Chief Inspector Alun Ross had acted quickly to initiate the tedious and painstaking process of securing the scene and gathering evidence, but since he’d arrived, the sun had disappeared

behind an increasingly ominous bank of cloud and chill spurts of wind eddied through the trees and bracken. If the rain held off another hour, they would be lucky.

At least the police surgeon, Jimmy Webb, arrived quickly. Giving Ross no more than a nod of greeting, he suited up and knelt over the body. Although the heavy-jowled Webb was taciturn, he was direct and efficient, and Ross was always glad to find him on duty.

Webb soon finished with his poking and prodding, and shucked his white coverall like a mollusk sliding out of its shell. “You’d best get your tarps up,” he said, glancing at the sky as he came over to Ross.

“The lads are fetching them now.” Ross gestured at the team of uniformed officers emerging from the woods, carrying awkward bundles of canvas sheeting. “What can you tell me?”

“Cause of death is obvious enough, but I can’t be definite about the size of the gun. The pathologist should be able to tell you more when he gets him on the slab.”

Wadding up his coverall, Webb handed it to the nearest constable. “I can tell ye that it’s my opinion the body hasn’t been moved.”

“Time of death?”

“Sometime after midnight.” Web smiled at Ross’s grimace. “Well, what did ye expect, man? Miracles?” He shook his head. “It’s a shame, that. The man made good whisky.”

And that, thought Ross as the doctor stumped away, was surely the highest compliment a Highlander could give.

He directed a team to set up shelter over the trysting place in the wood as well, but there was no way he could protect all the area that needed to be covered in the fingertip search. The officers would just have to do the best

they could if it rained. It wouldn’t be the first time they had worked in the muck, nor would it be the last.

Damn it! He needed more men, and soon, while the weather held off. He made his way back to the house and stopped at the garden’s edge, looking for his sergeant, Munro. The graveled car park was a hive of yellow-jacketed activity, the officers’ muted conversation provid-ing a constant hum. But after a moment’s search he spotted Munro, giving instructions to a newly arrived search team. Not that Munro would be easy to miss, Ross thought affectionately—the man was a head taller than anyone else, with a pale cadaverous face that concealed a quick wit and slightly malicious sense of humor.

Munro having acknowledged his presence with a nod and a lift of his hand, Ross surveyed his surroundings while he waited for the sergeant to finish. It was a nice old property, well situated, and he recognized the hand of a fellow gardener at work. But why, with his own grand house just down the road, had Donald Brodie chosen to stay the night at a B&B?

Nor would he be the only one speculating, thought Ross as he saw the first of the television vans pull up at the drive’s end. The constable on duty refused the driver entry, but this one was merely the first of many—soon the media would be thick as maggots on a corpse.

While he waited for Munro to join him, Ross examined the list of the B&B’s residents and guests compiled by the first officer on the scene. Mackenzie, her name was, and a bonny wee lass who had no business in a man’s uniform. She was sharp enough, though, and according to her report, the woman who had discovered the body was a London copper, CID, no less.

Well, he supposed even the Metropolitan Police deserved a holiday now and again, but still, it struck him

as odd to find another copper at a murder scene. He would definitely interview Detective Inspector Gemma James first.

She sat across from him at the dining room table, her posture relaxed, her hands clasped loosely in her lap. He found something slightly old-fashioned about her face, and he wondered briefly if her background was Scots.

She reminded him a bit of his daughter, Ross thought as he studied her, not so much in looks or coloring, but in her direct and confident manner. Her hair was the deep red of burnished copper; her face bore a light dusting of freckles; a wide, generous mouth; hazel eyes with flecks of gold in the irises. She was attractive rather than beautiful, he decided, with an air of friendly competence—and he found that he thoroughly distrusted her.

He’d begun by asking her to relate the events of the morning, while behind him, Munro took notes from a chair in the corner. With the ease born of practice, Inspector James told her story with a conciseness marred only by the occasional furrowing of her brow as she added a detail. Once or twice she paused to allow Munro to catch up, and he saw his normally lugubrious sergeant tighten his lips in what passed for a smile.

Deliberately, Ross refrained from using her title. “Miss James, your friend that was sick in the woods—I understand you’re sharing a room?”

“Yes.”

“And yet you alone heard the shot—or what you thought was a shot? And you alone went to investigate?”

“Yes. That’s right.”

No elaboration, Ross thought. She would know well that unnecessary elaboration could trip one up, lead to careless disclosure. His interest quickened.

“And yet it was this same friend”—he glanced at his notes—“Mrs. Cavendish, I believe?”

“Yes, Hazel.”

“It was this same friend who was sick on seeing the body?”

“Yes.” Gemma James’s posture didn’t change, but he thought he saw a faint heightening of the color along her cheekbones.

“But she wasn’t with you when you made the initial discovery. Was she still sleeping?”

“No. She’d gone for a drive. She arrived back just as I was about to ring the police.”

“I see. And you told her where you had found Mr.

Brodie?”

“No—I—I said I’d found Donald in the meadow. And that he was dead.”

“Then you took her to see the body?” Ross allowed disapproval to creep into his voice.

“No! Of course not,” she retorted with the first hint of defensiveness. “She ran—she looked before I could stop her.”

“Then you must have told her which meadow,” Ross suggested reasonably.

“No. It was a natural assumption. Everyone walked that way.”

“You’ve been here how long, Miss James?” Ross shuffled his papers again.

“Two days.” She compressed her lips, as if unwilling to be drawn further. He could hear her accent more clearly now—London, but not Cockney, and not posh.

“In two days you’ve learned everyone’s habits?” he asked, combining admiration with a dash of skepticism.

“No.” This time her flush was unmistakable. “But I’m

observant, Chief Inspector, and as I said, the path was obvious.”

Ross thought for a moment, considering what she had told him—and what she had not. “About your friend, now, wasn’t it rather early for someone to be going for a drive?”

Gemma James shifted in her chair for the first time. “I don’t know. You’ll have to ask her.”

This was the least cooperative response she’d given so far, and Ross had the distinct impression that she’d both dreaded the question and rehearsed the answer. There was definitely something fishy here, and not just the piscine parade on the wall. And Hazel Cavendish had vomited—not a surprising response under the circumstances, but was there more to it than the shock of unexpected and violent death?

“You said you and your friend came for a cookery weekend. Was Mrs. Cavendish previously acquainted with Mr. Brodie?”

“Yes, she knew him. She also knew Louise Innes—

they were at school together—and Heather Urquhart is her cousin.”

Cozier and cozier, thought Ross. He didn’t like it at all.

“What was the nature of Mrs. Cavendish’s relationship with Mr. Brodie?”

“I believe they were old friends.” Gemma James gazed at him with such limpid candor that he suspected he would get no more out of her and changed his tack.

“Tell me about the others,” Ross said, settling back in his chair. “And how they were acquainted with Mr.

Brodie.”

“Well, there are the Inneses, who own this place. John cooks, and Louise runs the house and does the gardening.

I believe they came here from Edinburgh a couple of years ago, and, um . . . I think perhaps they cultivated Donald Brodie for his contacts.” She looked uncomfortable as she added this, as if she felt disloyal.

“Then there’s Martin Gilmore. He’s John Innes’s half brother, and he’s interested in cooking. I don’t think he’d ever met Donald before this weekend.

“Pascal Benoit, the Frenchman, had some sort of business dealings with Donald, but I don’t believe he ever said exactly what they were. And Heather Urquhart, Hazel’s cousin, is Benvulin’s manager, so she probably knew Donald better than anyone. I think she’s quite cut up by his death.”

“Thank you. That’s very helpful.” Ross heard Munro shift behind him, as if preparing to close his notebook. He lifted his hand slightly in a halting gesture and focused all his attention on Gemma. Deliberately, he used her title for the first time, calling on her professional instincts. “Now, Inspector James. Have you seen or heard anything that leads you to believe one of these people might have had reason to kill Donald Brodie?”

She studied her clasped hands for a moment before looking up at him. “No. I’ve no idea why anyone would have wanted to kill Donald. But . . . I did see . . . something. Yesterday evening. A woman came to the house, with a child, to see Donald. He went out to her, and from the window I could tell that they were arguing. And there was another man, standing back in the shadows. The rest of us went in to dinner, and after a few minutes Donald joined us. I don’t know what happened to the woman or the other man.”

“And no one questioned Mr. Brodie about it?”

“No. It was . . . awkward.”

“You don’t know who this woman was?”

“No.” She looked away from him, out the window at the police cars now flanking the drive, and she seemed to come to some decision. “But I had the distinct impression that Heather Urquhart did.”