by Shana Frost
‘I’ve assembled everyone in the library. We got Martha Smith back to consciousness and I... I...’ She spread her hands wide, as if words had failed her.
‘Where is it?’ Callan nudged in a calm voice. Not everyone dealt with death in a steady sort of way. It would have been strange if Aileen wasn’t flustered, given the circumstances.
He came to a stop outside the room.
Death had come here with violence. Perhaps a controlled rage, but aggressive nonetheless.
Air played through the room. It was strange. Last night had been a cold one; it seemed unlikely Dave would have left the window open. And Aileen had promised she’d let no one contaminate the scene.
The net curtains danced in the breeze, scooping the stench out of the room, while an additional thick pair of curtains by the window frames pulled on their restraints.
The sunlight set the cream net ablaze. It wasn’t a dim room, and that made the blood gleam brighter.
The smell Callan could’ve recognised from a mile away. It was as intense as the picture before him.
Taking as much precaution as he could, he assessed the scene, scratching down notes in his pocket-sized diary before making a few phone calls.
Aileen gingerly walked up to the door, looking everywhere but inside the room.
‘Um, they’re all asking...’ She squared her shoulders and started again. ‘What can you tell us?’
‘Ye can tell me. What do ye know about this man?’
Aileen told Callan his name, that he was here with his wife and according to the information they’d provided, he was a doctor.
‘Oh, oh no! It was his birthday weekend.’
She shuddered out a breath, then rubbed her eyes. ‘What can I do? His wife is distraught.’
‘That’s natural,’ Callan sighed. Rudeness didn’t help everyone. ‘I’ve spoken with Rory Macdonald, my superior officer. And I’ve arranged for a team from the neighbouring town to assist. We don’t have one in Loch Fuar to run tests. I’ll be the primary on this investigation.’
Aileen nodded.
‘I’d like to speak with yer guests, see yer security tape and then I must speak with ye too.’
‘Right.’ Aileen spread her hands. ‘I’ve seen crime movies, but I’m not a fan.’
‘Movies and reality are worlds apart.’ He flashed his teeth, then turned serious once more. ‘Walk me through yesterday.’
Aileen rubbed her hands over her arms. ‘Could we talk in my chambers upstairs?’
The innkeeper’s chambers were half the attic. Considering Callan’s tall build, he felt like a giant walking into a dollhouse. The ceiling tapered dangerously low, almost brushing his hair.
When Aileen had first entered the tiny room, Callan thought it might’ve been a former closet – the cramped kind. Books were randomly scattered about, old and new, along with cardboard boxes and used-up tape. And the ‘work desk’ was an old table with sticks for legs. Who knew the innkeeper wasn’t the disciplined type when it came to her own belongings?
A small smirk played on Callan’s face as he stuck his hands in his pockets, crossed his legs and leaned on the doorframe. Aileen sat down in the only chair.
It was silent in here, except for the constant sound of Aileen’s feet tapping on the floor. She occasionally ran her fingers through her hair. A nervous habit, Callan mused.
‘Yesterday,’ he prompted.
She ran him through the day. How she’d cleaned up, cooked and welcomed four new guests. How Martha had eaten her breakfast alone and how she hadn’t seen Dave Smith during the day.
‘He came down for dinner, rather late. And he looked tired – said as much after dinner. He didn’t speak much except for answering the occasional question.’
‘And his wife? Where did she spend the night?’
‘Oh, she was engrossed with a book in the library. I found her there this morning, fast asleep.’
Callan nodded as he wrote it all down. Then Aileen clamped her hands together.
‘And during dinner they were discussing plans to go down to the local museum today.’
Rough scrawling sounds echoed through Aileen’s tiny study.
‘Who found him?’
‘Martha Smith. I went up when she screamed. I saw – I saw—’ Aileen blubbered.
She looked embarrassed as she tucked her chin, staring at the floor.. The scene had been a horrific one for the uninitiated...
Aileen dried her tears as quickly as they’d sprung up. ‘I’m sorry, it’s just – just... Sorry.’ She looked everywhere but into Callan’s concerned gaze. ‘I’ll get the others ready – you can interview them in the kitchen if you like.’
And with that, the cultured Aileen was back. She still looked distraught, but more than able to handle herself. She seemed to have a lot of strength in that tiny stature of hers – just like her formidable grandmother.
LIBRARIES HAD DONE nothing for Callan. He’d always found them the most boring place in the entire world, after supermarkets, where you ran into all sorts of unwanted company.
Although at Dachaigh, it was a different matter entirely. He looked at the group assembled here. One of them was, perhaps, a murderer.
As per the descriptions Aileen had provided, the red-haired woman who slumped in the high-backed chair, staring at her feet, was Martha Smith, the new widow. She wasn’t crying though. That fact could work in his favour; nothing more convenient than a coherent spouse.
A short yet elegantly dressed man stood beside her, his hand on her shoulder: Jean Beaulieu. His husband – the snooty git, as Aileen had put it – stared out into the stunning Highland scenery.
An older woman and a young lass in her twenties sat holding hands, sniffing back tears: Samantha and Anne Grant. Their respective husbands loomed over them, as if offering their protection.
An elegant lady, her hair and her clothes still neatly wrapped around her, stared at the books that ran from the floor to the tall ceiling: Susan Knight. John Cook stood with his legs crossed at the ankle, leaning on the bookshelves, hands in his pockets, staring at the carpeted floor.
An interesting mix of people, not just in nationalities but in style and age. Aileen walked in behind him.
Ten suspects.
It was time to reignite his interrogation skills.
CALLAN ASKED LOUIS Legrand to come in first. He seemed the most disinterested of the lot – something that intrigued Callan.
‘What we ye up to last night?’
‘What most people are, Detective. Sleeping. I went to bed at ten.’ He waved his hands in a vague gesture. ‘Didn’t go down for that meal Ms Mackinnon calls dinner.’ He snapped out ‘meal’ as if it was something poisonous.
‘Did ye hear anything before or after ye went to bed?’
He raised his chin. ‘Not a word, nor any sound. It was quiet. I expect it to be. That’s the least that lady can do.’
‘If ye don’t like it here, why stay?’
‘It’s the only place to stay. No wonder you have no tourism here. And I’ve paid full price. I expect to make the most of it.’ His attitude turned indignant.
Legrand knew more than he was letting on. Callan was excellent at reading people, especially consummate liars.
But he let this one go.
Next came Jean Beaulieu, his husband.
‘Nasty business, n’est ce pas?’ He plopped down on the high chair by the kitchen counter. ‘Poor Mrs Smith is so broken.’ He stared down at the counter.
‘What happened this morning?’
‘We came for breakfast – we’d skipped dinner. We weren’t hungry last night. Mrs Smith asked where her husband was.’
Beaulieu looked up at Callan then. ‘She’d spent the night in the library. So everyone said. Louis and I weren’t there to see – as I told you, we didn’t come down for dinner.’
‘Had you met Dave Smith before?’
‘Non...’ With that he trailed off, emotion crowding behind his eyes.
Callan
dismissed him. Unlike his stiff husband, Jean Beaulieu had had a genuine emotion in his posture and speech. He cared, but Callan could sniff it: the pretence under it all.
IT HAD BECOME ALMOST methodical: one guest followed the other.
Susan Knight came in. She’d slept peacefully last night. She had been ‘out like a light’ as soon as her head had hit the pillow, so she said.
John Cook had been by her side. She’d retired to bed, tired after their long journey.
Apart from their brief conversation at the dinner table, she hadn’t met Dave Smith before.
‘I wish I could be of more help. He seemed like a man who adored his wife.’ She looked out of the window behind Callan.
The day had turned out to be as pleasant as the morning: birds sang the tunes of spring, verdant trees swayed in the light breeze, and in the distance Loch Fuar shone like a mirror beneath the cerulean sky.
Why would this incredible landscape have invited a killer into its midst?
John strutted in after his wife. ‘Slept like a baby all night,’ he said before sitting on the chair.
‘Let me guess,’ Callan said. ‘Heard nothing, woke this morning and came for breakfast. Martha Smith screamed and ye ran.’
John raised one finger and shook it. ‘No, I didn’t run.’ He gestured with his right hand. ‘Everyone else made a dash for it like it was a timed game. It was that man’s birthday or something. Could’ve just been a surprise for his wife.’ He snorted. ‘Yup, surprised his wife alright.’
‘The way a person screams in surprise and in shock are very different, Mr Cook.’
John shrugged. ‘I was beside Susie the whole night.’
‘She can’t testify to that.’
John’s eyes lit up with barely contained fury. ‘She was next to me the entire night. And she knows that,’ he said through clenched teeth, emphasising whole.
That was an unusual reaction.
But the person who followed next seemed even more outlandish to Callan. Richard Grant came in looking a little lost. He looked everywhere but at the detective and sat with his shoulders slumped.
‘Never seen such devastation. I’ve seen death though. Lost my mother right in front of my—’ He broke off.
‘What happened this morning? Could ye elaborate?’
‘That young lady, Martha Smith, went upstairs to check up on her husband. Dave?’ he questioned. ‘And then – then...’ Richard expelled a shivering breath. ‘She screamed the place down. I went up. I think – I think the innkeeper went up first, like a bullet.’
He looked at his fingers; he’d placed on his lap.
‘I saw him over her shoulder. Barely caught a glance before all hell broke loose. And then I – I caught Sam before she saw it all. Led the women downstairs and um... um... Jake, he helped Beaulieu carry Martha downstairs. We got her to wake up.’ He spread his hands. ‘It’s all a blur.’
Under all that distress was something else, something Richard wasn’t saying.
Samantha Grant repeated more or less the same thing. She hadn’t seen the mess. But her maternal instincts made her sob. ‘I never... I never imagined...’ She was visibly upset. In fact, she was the first of the lot he’d interrogated all morning who struggled to string words together.
‘Did ye see Mr Smith?’
A sob and a shake of her head: no.
‘Did ye hear anything strange last night, between dinner and breakfast?’
A sniff and another shake of her head.
All the while, her gaze was fixed somewhere near her feet.
With nothing more to add, Callan let her go.
Aileen and Jake Grant helped her out before Jake hustled back in.
‘She’s pretty shaken. We were just here for a holiday; to spend some time with each other. She’s wanted to come here ever since I was a kid.’
He stood by the kitchen chair, looking straight at Callan.
Interesting, Callan thought. ‘Could ye tell me what happened this morning?’
‘Anne and I woke up. We enjoyed the incredible view from our room for a while, and then came down the stairs, where I must say, everything looked fine.’
He took a breath. ‘Then my parents joined us and we sat down with everyone. I like this idea – having meals together. You get to meet so many people! And then, well, sanity went out the door.’
‘Could ye elaborate what ye mean by “sanity went out the door”?’
‘The woman screamed bloody murder – and so it was in this case! Dad ran up and, um, I followed. Come to think of it, the Cook guy didn’t move a muscle. He turned to his wife instead.’
‘And then what did he do?’
‘Looked at her with some confusion? Frustration? Can’t say.’
‘Okay, so ye went up the stairs. Then what did ye do?’ Callan guided the interrogation.
‘I could see Dad turn pale and knew something was horribly wrong. The innkeeper, yes she went up before any of us could react, like she knew something terrible had happened. She looked shell-shocked. And the woman, the dead man’s wife, had collapsed onto the floor.’
He took another breath and looked out of the window, emotion now visible on his face.
‘Dad took the other women – Susan, Mom and Anne – down. And the French guy, Beaulieu, had come up the stairs too. He helped me carry Martha out. But – but when I went to help Ms Mackinnon pick her up off the floor, I saw...’
‘Alright, please send Anne Grant in... yer wife?’ Callan raised a questioning eyebrow at Jake.
‘Yes, we’ve been married for about a year... Married young.’ He gave a half-hearted laugh.
Anne Grant was a young woman in her early twenties. She constantly worried the helm of her navy jacket. She had straight blond hair mixed with some blue streaks.
‘I just – I just...’ She looked around her. ‘I’ve never had another human being die in the same house as me. And – and..’ She sniffed into her white handkerchief.
On it, embossed, were the letters JG – her husband’s handkerchief. How odd, Callan thought. Who embossed their handkerchief these days?
‘Did ye see Dave Smith this morning?’ Callan asked.
She shook her head, still sniffing. ‘They all said he was dead in his own blood. And it was his birthday this weekend.’
She blew her nose loudly.
‘What happened when ye went up there?’
‘We ran up, and then Richard, my father-in-law, came towards Samantha and I. Told us it was best we went down. But from the look on everyone’s faces and the unconscious woman on the floor, I knew it was something horrible.’
Callan nodded as he recorded their conversation. ‘And who did you see when Richard led ye down the stairs?’
Anne took a deep breath. ‘I don’t remember.’
‘Tell me whatever ye recall.’
‘The Frenchman. Not the uptight one – Jean Beaulieu? He came up behind me. I heard him talking to Jake. Jake! He was dragging the unconscious woman out of the doorway.’
‘What did Jake do then?’
‘He dragged her some way, then I think Beaulieu helped him carry her down the stairs.’
‘And who tried to walk up the stairs as ye descended?’
‘John Cook.’
‘And Mr Legrand?’
‘I didn’t see him anywhere.’
Chapter 7
The only way for Aileen to stay busy was to cook. Callan had informed her that more police were on their way, and an hour and a half after he’d arrived, a forensic team followed.
She’d shown them the way. The other police constable, Robert Davis, had officially warned all her guests to stay in the town of Loch Fuar.
Even now her lodgers were scattered in the library or in the drawing room.
Martha Smith was still distraught. The paramedic had checked up on her and advised rest in another empty room a while ago.
Aileen had squeezed two jugfuls of lemonade – for guests as well as the investigative team.
It was such a horrid affair, murder. And it was especially disastrous for her fledgling business.
Hadn’t she wanted adventure? Well she had it now. Aileen thought sarcastically.
What would she tell her grandmother? Murder! In Dachaigh. At her home.
Aileen worried her lip. No, she told herself, she couldn’t let panic take over now. She locked it away with her self-doubt.
Callan Cameron walked in. ‘Fascinating,’ he muttered. ‘She cooks as well.’
Hadn’t he already eaten food she’d cooked? The detective wasn’t quite right in the head. And he walked funny too.
Aileen shook herself. Rambling, even in her head, was a nervous tell.
Callan winced. Clearing his throat he got straight back to business. ‘As soon as the doctor allows, I’ll be here to ask Martha Smith some questions.’
Aileen nodded. ‘What have you found out?’
‘That a man who called himself Dave Smith has been murdered.’
‘I got that from the scene I witnessed a couple of hours ago,’ Aileen retorted.
Callan snorted out a laugh. ‘Can’t tell ye.’
‘But – but I need to know!’ Aileen stuttered, a bit of hysteria finding a way out of her Pandora’s box.
Callan pointed a finger at her. ‘What you need to do is stay put. No one leaves town: not ye nor yer guests. And I shall be investigating.’ He pointed to himself.
‘And,’ he added, ‘maybe look into getting some more security cameras!’
Aileen huffed out a breath. ‘I never thought I’d need them! And guests need privacy.’
Shaking his head, Callan looked at the ceiling as if offering up a prayer. ‘Installing cameras in the corridors is not an invasion of privacy.’
‘Aren’t you the one who told me thieves in Loch Fuar are all dum-dums?’
Callan rolled his eyes and walked out of Dachaigh, into the dreary afternoon.
Aileen had installed security cameras at two spots: above the front and back doors. Wouldn’t the killer be caught on camera trying to sneak in?
