She seemed eager to talk more about herself and Robin Kinmuir, but I had to interrupt her.
“That is interesting, but to get back to James…”
“Yes, him. You do know he’s murdered before, don’t you?”
The statement seemed too melodramatic to be true. She must have sensed my rather alarmed expression, because she began to explain.
“Well, it wasn’t a case of who but rather what and how,” she said.
“Please go on,” I said.
“Let me give you the facts. This was back in 1921, when James was—what?—sixteen years old. I was in a long-running play—now what was it? The Duchess of Malfi? Women Beware Women? Anyway, afterwards I went up to stay with Ada in Scotland. That was when she first fell ill, poor Ada, God rest her soul. One day when she was confined to bed—we just thought it was a bad cold or the influenza—I went for a walk in the woods. I heard the most awful sound, a terrible cry. I ran towards it and saw James crouching down by a trap. He’d caught a fox and the poor thing had its leg caught.”
The memory clearly still upset Mrs. Buchanan, because she was forced to pause and compose herself.
“I watched as he tortured that dear creature, bringing the trap down and down on it until I couldn’t bear it anymore. I ran out from behind the tree, ordered him to stop, and he told me to look away as he shot it.”
I wasn’t quite sure how to react. I loved animals dearly and would never want to see them come to any harm. But could I count the killing of a fox as a crime of the first order? No, I could not.
“I can see you don’t share my love of wild creatures,” said Mrs. Buchanan.
“It’s not that, but I’m not sure I would use the term ‘murder’ to describe what you saw,” I said.
“You may not, but let me tell you that’s not all I witnessed,” she said. “The look on James’s face as he tortured that fox was that of a sadist.” As she took a moment to reflect on what she had said, she nodded at a distant point located somewhere behind my head, a technique that I felt she had used more than once in her illustrious career in the theater. “And I’ve no doubt that it was the same expression that possessed James as he took hold of that shotgun and deliberately blasted his uncle to death.”
FIVE
We were instructed by Maclehose, in his rather weak voice, not to leave the house or grounds. James Kinmuir and Rufus Phillips had agreed to go voluntarily with the elderly policeman to Portree, where they would be asked to give detailed statements. A more senior police officer, an inspector by the name of Hawkins, was on his way from the mainland. Meanwhile, Dr. Fitzpatrick had to face the distressing task of performing a postmortem on his good friend.
“It’s the one thing in the world I hoped I would never have to do,” he said sadly.
The enforced containment on the estate gave Davison and me plenty of time to discuss the case, but we were careful to do so out of earshot of the other guests. We went for long walks around the banks of the sea loch and up to the ruined castle, where we discussed the suspicions surrounding James Kinmuir and the information provided by Mrs. Buchanan. Why was the actress so keen to cast blame on the young man? Did she have another, hidden motive? Was she using her consummate skills as a performer to divert our attention in some way?
On our long rambles past the misty waters of the loch or up on the heather-clad moor we debated these and other questions as we tried to tease out the implications of what had happened. At the end of each discussion we came back to the same point. We knew nothing more than the fact that Robin Kinmuir was dead, shot by his nephew, James, who was set to inherit the man’s estate. James Kinmuir had confessed to the accidental shooting and he was ready to be punished for it. It seemed quite a simple, straightforward case. But we knew there must be more to it.
Two days after the accident, when everyone had been confined to the lodge due to bad weather, we received notice that Robin Kinmuir’s solicitor was due to pay a visit. All members of the household, including the servants, were to be gathered in the drawing room, ready for the arrival of a Mr. Glenelg from the Inverness firm of Renfrew, Glenelg, Forrester & Harbetter. I wondered why a lawyer would request the presence of the guests of Dallach Lodge; after all, until recently most of these people, apart from Mrs. Buchanan, had been nothing more than strangers to Kinmuir.
As Davison and I stepped into the drawing room, paneled in dark wood and smelling of cigars and cigarettes, I sensed tension, if not fear, in the air. It was the kind of atmosphere I associated with a doctor’s or a dentist’s waiting room. I looked around me at the assorted guests, some of whom were looking as nervous and unsettled as the servants. Of course, I understood the servants feeling out of place here among the fine furniture, lush red velvet curtains, and expensive Persian carpet, but why did the guests seem so ill at ease?
A few moments later a distinguished-looking gentleman with a fine gray mustache and an air of seriousness entered the room and introduced himself as Mr. Glenelg.
“You may be wondering why you are all here,” he said, looking at the guests sitting ranged around the room in various aged leather armchairs.
Several members of the group started to talk at once, all eager for information, but Mr. Glenelg lifted the index finger on his right hand and raised an eyebrow. The gestures, although subtle, were powerful, and the room duly fell into silence.
“Indeed, it is a very unusual situation, one that I have not encountered in my many years of practice,” he continued. He opened his leather briefcase, took out a sheaf of papers, and talked of how the Scottish system was different to the one in England and Wales. He outlined some details of the role of the procurator fiscal; then it was time to get down to business. “I have here the last will and testament of my client, the late Mr. Robin Kinmuir of Dallach Lodge. I have been acting for him for a number of years and I hereby, as his solicitor, duly stand before you. But before I detail Mr. Kinmuir’s final wishes, I have been instructed to…” He paused here and looked over his shoulder towards the drawing room door. “… well, to introduce you to Inspector Hawkins.”
A middle-aged man with a craggy, weather-beaten face stepped into the room, accompanied by a much younger man who stayed by the door. The inspector came to join Mr. Glenelg in the middle of the room. He studied us quickly but in depth, giving me the impression that he had, as his name implied, a hawk-like ability to search out potential prey.
“Good morning, I am Inspector Hawkins from Inverness. I have come with my sergeant, Dedham, and I am here to investigate the murder of Robin Kinmuir.”
The word murder prompted a wave of murmurs and exclamations.
“That wicked, wicked boy,” said Mrs. Buchanan from her armchair by the fire. “I knew there was foul play at work here. ‘Unnatural deeds / Do breed unnatural troubles.’ ”
“Excuse me?” said Hawkins.
“The play of Macbeth,” said the actress rather grandly. “But I doubt that you would—”
“ ‘Infected minds / To their deaf pillows will discharge their secrets,’ ” said the inspector, completing the quotation.
Mrs. Buchanan looked surprised.
“ ‘Foul whisperings are abroad,’ ” he added. “Indeed they are. But we’ll come to that soon enough.” Again he studied the assembled group before him, eyeing each of us with his intelligent blue gaze. “First of all, I’m going to ask Mr. Glenelg to bring our other guests into the drawing room.”
The solicitor nodded his head, walked to the door, and a moment or so later returned with James Kinmuir and Rufus Phillips. The entrance prompted Davison and me to exchange a look of surprise. The rest of the residents reacted with consternation; the most vocal complaint came from Mrs. Buchanan.
“What is the meaning of this?” she demanded of the inspector. But when Hawkins tried to explain, the actress shouted him down. “Why isn’t he locked up? I can’t even bring myself to say his name. I don’t understand. After all, you’ve just said that Robin was murdered.” She go
t up from her chair and walked across the drawing room towards James Kinmuir, her face full of anger. Hawkins, fearful that the actress was about to strike the young man, was ready to restrain her, but she turned away from him at the last minute. “I wouldn’t dignify him by touching him,” she said under her breath.
Rufus Phillips tried to speak: “I’m sure the inspector will—” but again Mrs. Buchanan shouted him down.
“I can’t be in the same room as a murderer and his accomplice,” she said.
“If you could please calm yourself,” said the inspector.
“Calm myself?” shouted Mrs. Buchanan. “How dare you? I’ve just lost a dear friend, killed at the hands of this… I can’t bring myself to say it.”
“Excuse me: What is your name?” asked the inspector.
His ignorance of her fame did not please the famous actress. “Mrs. Buchanan. Mrs. Eliza Buchanan,” she said.
“Mrs. Buchanan, I realize that you may very well be upset,” said Hawkins, “but the situation is far from what it seems. I’ve got a great deal I need to explain, and so I’m going to have to ask you to—”
“No, I think the best thing I can do is leave.” She took a deep breath and tried to compose herself. She nodded at each of the other guests in turn and, with as much dignity as she could muster, strode towards the door.
“I must ask you to stay here,” said the inspector. It sounded more of a command than a request. He signaled to the sergeant to prepare to block her exit.
Mrs. Buchanan turned and looked at Hawkins with a furious expression.
“If you will please return to your chair. I can begin to explain,” he said. He smiled, but his eyes remained steely.
Mrs. Buchanan was about to say something, but she stopped herself. She bowed her head and returned to her chair by the fire, and although she had been silenced, it seemed unlikely that she would remain quiet for long. Inspector Hawkins gestured for James Kinmuir and Rufus Phillips to take two chairs in the room and then cleared his throat.
“First of all, I must thank you for agreeing to remain at Dallach Lodge,” he said. “I’m sure you all lead very busy lives and would have preferred to have left this place after that rather terrible incident. Thank you too to Mr. Kinmuir and Mr. Phillips, who have returned from Portree with me. As I suggested, the case is quite complicated: Mr. Robin Kinmuir died on the twelfth of August, the so-called Glorious Twelfth, but the circumstances of the death are not at all straightforward. Before I go any further, I’d like Mr. Glenelg to read Robin Kinmuir’s last will. You may think it is irregular to read it in front of you all, but I think in the circumstances it is appropriate. Mr. Glenelg, if you please…”
The guests shifted in their seats as the solicitor shuffled his papers. Mr. Glenelg coughed lightly and began to read. As he did so, the inspector studied each member of the group gathered together in the drawing room, watching them for any change of expression, however small.
“ ‘I, Robin Kinmuir, of Dallach Lodge, the Isle of Skye, declare this to be my last will and testament, made this day the tenth of February, nineteen hundred and twenty eight.
“ ‘First, I revoke and make void all former and other wills and testaments by me at any time heretofore made and of this my last will and testament do appoint my nephew James sole Executor. Also, I give and bequeath unto each of the servants who have worked at Dallach Lodge for longer than a period of five years the sum of fifty pounds.’ ”
At this news Simkins, the butler, remained dead-eyed, while Mrs. Baillie’s face lit up with delight, as did that of a servant girl whose name I did not know.
Mr. Glenelg continued in his dry, emotionless voice. “ ‘As to all the rest, residue and remainder of my monies, goods, chattels, personal estate, and effects whatsoever after payment of my debts, funeral expenses, costs of proving this my will, and other incidental charges, I give and bequeath the same and every part thereof unto my said nephew James for his own use and benefit—’ ”
“I knew it,” said Eliza Buchanan sharply. “He’s getting the lot.”
Mr. Glenelg silenced her with a quick look in her direction. “ ‘In witness whereof, I, Robin Kinmuir, the said testator, have to this my last will and testament set my hand and seal the day and year first above written.’ ”
James Kinmuir’s blond head remained bowed, almost as if he were too ashamed to meet the eyes of the rest of the group, particularly Mrs. Buchanan.
“You shouldn’t feel any guilt,” said Rufus Phillips, placing a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “You know you did nothing wrong.”
“Nothing apart from murdering his own uncle and profiting from his death,” said Mrs. Buchanan.
“I don’t think that’s called for,” said Rufus, a blush spreading across his cheeks. “And what you said there about me being an accomplice, well, it’s just not on.”
“Really—and what gives you the right to say so?” replied a waspish Mrs. Buchanan.
“I was just trying to—”
“Trying to protect your friend; yes, I know,” she said, with more than a note of sarcasm in her voice. “But you heard what the inspector said. Robin Kinmuir has been murdered. And the person who is to inherit the estate is his nephew. I think all of us can see that there is a strong connection between those two things. In fact, I’m rather surprised that the inspector is here at all. I would have thought that it was blatantly obvious who was responsible for the death of Robin Kinmuir.”
Mrs. Buchanan got up from her chair and stood in front of James Kinmuir. She raised a hand of judgment, a finger pointing directly towards his face. “The one person who is to benefit from his death: none other than his nephew.”
She turned to face her audience, almost as if she had finished delivering a particularly rousing speech at the end of a play and expected a triumphant round of applause. Indeed, according to the expressions on the faces of the assembled group, the majority seemed ready to congratulate Mrs. Buchanan on her performance. Then came a note of caution from the inspector.
“As I stated earlier, the situation is far from simple,” he said.
“What do you mean?” asked Vivienne Passerini. She looked from the inspector towards Mr. Peterson, waiting for an explanation.
“I must call on the expertise of Robin Kinmuir’s solicitor again,” said Hawkins. “Please, Mr. Glenelg, if you could explain.”
The lawyer placed his pile of papers down on his briefcase and sighed deeply, as if thinking how best to express something that clearly distressed him.
“My client… it seems that his monetary position… was not what it had been. What I mean to say is that… there were so many debts accrued over the years. Even with the fact that he had, of late, taken to running the lodge as a hotel, well… his income did not meet his expenditure. And so—”
“You can’t mean…?” asked a startled Mrs. Buchanan.
“I’m afraid to say that Robin Kinmuir died thousands of pounds in debt,” said Mr. Glenelg. “Even after the sale of Dallach Lodge and its contents, it’s most likely that Mr. Kinmuir’s nephew, James Kinmuir, will not inherit a single penny.”
SIX
The gasps of breath came at once and from all corners of the room. A humiliated-looking Mrs. Buchanan excused herself and said she was going to her quarters. James Kinmuir tried to keep his composure, but it was difficult for him: I watched as a series of changing emotions passed across his face.
Indeed, at that moment, each of us in the drawing room was like a spectator at the climax of a thrilling drama. How awful it must be to be in the position of James Kinmuir, a young man accused of an accident that killed his uncle. And if that wasn’t enough, the allure of a goodly inheritance dangled before him, only for that prospect to be snatched away.
“Did you know about the extent of your uncle’s debts, Mr. Kinmuir?” asked the inspector.
James raised his head and nodded. “Yes… yes, I’m afraid I did.”
It was obvious James Kinmuir could not
bear people staring at him, and so he bent forward and put his head in his hands to shield his face from view. Rufus Phillips knelt beside him and tried to comfort his friend.
“Who would have thought it?” said Simon Peterson to Vivienne Passerini. “I feel sorry for the chap; I really do.”
“Fancy, not having two pennies to rub together,” said Isabella Frith-Stratton to her sister, with undisguised relish in her voice. “And after everyone thought he would inherit all of this!” She gestured at the understated splendor of her surroundings. “It’s as we’ve always said, my dear: fate works in mysterious ways.”
“The wheel of fortune turns once more,” intoned May, as if she were some kind of wise prophet or guru from the East. “In fact, we could take that as a title, don’t you think?”
At this, Isabella’s eyes lit up as the two of them started to discuss the intricacies of a heady romance involving an impoverished young woman sent out to India to live with her wealthy cousin, when Inspector Hawkins asked for everyone to please finish their conversations and listen to what he had to say. I caught Davison’s eye. Both of us knew what the other was thinking. What had made Inspector Hawkins believe that the death of Robin Kinmuir was not an accident? Why did he now think that the man had been murdered? And if James Kinmuir did not have a motive, then who did?
I Saw Him Die Page 5
