Malice in the Highlands

by Graham Thomas

  “I'm sure you're right, Nigel,” Powell said, trying to convey a sense of reassurance he did not feel.

  It was obvious, Powell reflected the next morning as he searched for a convenient vantage point overlooking the Old Bridge, that Nigel was worried sick about Bob. But whether he could actually bring himself at a conscious level to suspect his son of killing Charles Murray was another matter. The lad had at least two plausible motives. One was obvious: to remove the obstacle standing between himself and Heather Murray, with all that implied both romantically and financially. The other possibility was more problematic. Bob may have felt the need to protect his father from ruin at the hands of Charles Murray. Only there was no evidence Bob had even been aware of Murray's threat against his father until Powell, himself, had mentioned it at the hill loch. And if young Whitely had in fact been in Aberdeen on the night in question, it should be easy enough to corroborate. The lad had supposedly been looking for a job; he must have talked to someone. Powell tried to sweep the implications of this line of inquiry from his already cluttered mind.

  He sat down on a grassy knoll and took in the view. Below and slightly upstream of his position was the graceful stone arch of the Old Bridge. Immediately downstream of the bridge he could just make out Pinky's rock, as he now thought of it. Sunlight sparkled off the riffles separating the curving blue pools of the Spey, and across the river, set amidst its green lawns like a golden crown in a baize-lined case, was Castle Glyn. Powell found himself thinking about Heather Murray again.

  He shook his head irritably and began to work through the thing once more. What bothered him most was the attempt on Pinky's life. He felt—irrationally, he knew— that somehow he should have been able to forestall events. But the more he thought about it, the less sense it all made. Even if Sanders had succeeded in preventing the fishing rod from coming to light, it had been a tremendous risk to take, with nothing really to gain. Ironically, the attempt on Pinky's life had turned out to be the very thing that had implicated the Canadian, which could hardly have been the point. Or could it?

  Powell's mind began to race wildly. Could someone have tried to kill Pinky simply to lay a false scent, to point the finger at Sanders? It seemed preposterous. Which raised another, even more unsettling possibility. What if the two crimes were not related in the way that he had assumed? Or not related at all?

  Powell had always accepted as an article of faith that the detection of crime was essentially a rational process and that, given enough time and dogged persistence, even the most intractable puzzles could eventually be untangled. The problem arose with random or fortuitous crimes of the night stalker variety, when the killer had no particular relationship with the victim. For a whimsical moment he imagined that a crazed anti-blood-sport fanatic was running amok on the Spey, preying on unsuspecting fisherman to avenge the coldblooded murder of countless thousands of salmon over the years.

  He was jarred back to reality by a dissonant droning, which had begun to reverberate amongst the hills. It took him a second to recognize the racket for what it was.

  “Bagpipes! Bloody hell!” he said aloud.

  The wailing cacophony sounded a harsh, albeit strangely familiar, note amidst the hitherto vast silence. Powell recalled the English canard that the Scots’ long history of suicidal charges on the battlefield could be ascribed solely to a frenzied desire to escape the skirling pipes. Then he suddenly remembered where he had heard the sound before—yesterday morning, just before he'd been dragged half drowned from the river by McInnes. At the time it had seemed in his sodden and desperate state like a hallucination. But now he recalled Ogden's account of a similar experience, which hadn't until that moment seemed important.

  His eyes scanned the scrubby hillside, which dropped in steep, broken slabs to the river, but he could see nothing out of the ordinary. He scrambled to his feet and set off down a well-tramped deer path toward the only piece of cover that seemed sufficient to conceal a piper, kilt, and a set of bagpipes: a rocky prominence rising a couple of hundred yards away like a gray sail above a blue-green sea of juniper. But before he got very far the piping stopped as suddenly as it had begun. Feeling exposed, he picked up the pace. When he was within a hundred feet of his objective, which at close view turned out to be a steep pile of blocky rubble, he slowed and covered the intervening ground as stealthily as he could. Except for the rustling of his own passage, there was not a sound. Perhaps he'd been mistaken about the source; he knew from his climbing days that the hills could be deceiving.

  He crept round the base of the rock. Nothing. He paused to consider the situation. A trickle of fine gravel whispered somewhere above him.

  Before he could react, he was startled by a rough voice, “Say your prayers, laddie.”

  He looked up slowly, heart pounding, into the mindless, binocular gape of a twelve-bore shotgun.

  CHAPTER 15

  “Mr. Powell, sir! W-what are you doing here?” George Stuart, dressed in full Highland regalia, lowered his gun, instinctively breaking open the action.

  “I could ask you the same question,” Powell snapped, struggling mightily to regain his dignity.

  “Well, sir,” Stuart said awkwardly, loosening his collar with a thick finger, “I just came up here to play a little, er, tune.” He gestured at the bagpipes lying in a heap like some supine tartan sheep, legs erect, on the ledge beside him.

  “Come down from there, George,” Powell ordered. “Quite frankly, the view from here leaves a lot to be desired.”

  The Scot flushed pinkly. He handed down the gun, smoothed his kilt, and climbed demurely down.

  “Now then, what's this all about?” Powell asked sternly.

  Stuart stood to attention. “Well, sir, when the laird has died it is customary amongst the Stuarts to sound the family lament every morning at sunrise for not less than twenty-one days.”

  Powell raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Charles Murray wasn't exactly chief of the clan, George.”

  “Nevertheless, sir,” Stuart said with great dignity, “I feel it's my duty. I spent many a good year in the employ of the estate.”

  “That doesn't explain the gun.”

  “Well, sir, what wi’ reports of poachers about and after what happened to Mr. Warburton, a man canna be too careful.”

  “That's what the police are for, George.”

  Stuart looked like a chastened puppy. “I'm truly sorry, Mr. Powell.” Then he brightened and reached into his jacket. “Here, this'll fix you up proper.” He handed Powell an engraved sterling flask. “It's a private bottling of Glen Callum, put up in Edinburgh. My brother-in-law knows the merchant.”

  A few minutes later things were looking considerably brighter. Powell questioned Stuart closely and confirmed that the Salar Lodge's bartender had in fact been performing the Stuart lament from the same rocky prominence every morning since the discovery of Murray's body. He normally piped at dawn when most self-respecting fishermen were still abed, which no doubt explained why he hadn't been reported more frequently. But on a few occasions, including the previous morning, he'd been a little late getting started. Powell looked around. The rocks commanded a clear view of the bridge and its various approaches: the road to Kinlochy, the river path, and, on the far bank, the road to Dulnay Bridge and the steep track descending to the river from Castle Glyn. It occurred to him that George might well have noticed some interesting comings and goings during his daily sojourn.

  At first Stuart seemed slightly puzzled by Powell's question. Powell explained patiently, “We're investigating a murder and an attempted murder. The thing is, we're interested in anything out of the ordinary, anything at all that might suggest a line of inquiry.”

  Stuart scratched his stubbly chin. “I'm sorry, Mr. Powell.” He adjusted his spectacles. “These old peepers aren't what they used to be.”

  “What about yesterday morning?” said Powell, hope fading fast.

  “Well, there did seem to be a wee commotion down at the Old Bridge—swa
rming around like ants they was— but I couldna make it oot.”

  Powell sighed. “Tell me, George, what do you think about this business? About Mr. Murray, I mean.”

  “Well, sir, I didna know him that well. I spoke wi’ him a few times when he and Miss Murray was staying at the hotel, mostly about sport, ye ken.”

  “How did he strike you?”

  “He seemed a pleasant enough sort. And it's to his credit he kept auld Ross on.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Donald Ross has been plowterin’ aboot Castle Glyn for longer than I can remember. You might say he just comes wi’ the house. Mr. Murray could have let him go, but according to Miss Morrow, the housemaid, he didna have the heart.”

  “What about Miss Murray?”

  George shrugged. “Much like her father, I'd say.”

  “Oh, really?” Powell was mildly surprised.

  “Aye, reserved, like.’

  “I've heard that young Mr. Whitely had been courting Miss Murray. Is that true?”

  “It's no’ a secret.”

  “I understand that Mr. Murray was none too pleased about it.”

  “I wouldna know about that, Mr. Powell.”

  “I've also heard they stopped seeing each other some time ago.”

  “Aye, that's true, I believe.”

  “Do you have any idea why they broke it off?”

  Stuart shrugged unconvincingly.

  Powell sighed, exasperated. “Look, George, I can ask for an official statement, if you'd prefer. But I need to know the truth; the lives of innocent people may depend upon it.” Melodramatic, but effective, judging by Stuart's reaction.

  “Well, to tell the truth, Mr. Powell, they used to argy-bargy like cats and dogs. Terrible spats they had. I overheard them once when I was cleaning up behind the bar and another time in the hotel car park.” He shifted on his feet uncomfortably. “Then they'd kiss and make up, sweet as you please and other sich foolishness,” he added reprovingly.

  “Do you know what Nigel thought about it?”

  “He never confided in me, of course. But I got the impression it upset him, especially when they finally went their separate ways.”

  “What about Ruby?”

  “She took it pretty hard. But then she's always treated young Mr. Whitely like the son she never had.” Stuart snorted and spat. “I know it's not my place to say so, Mr. Powell, but as far as I'm concerned, that laddie's a right scunner.”

  “Whatever do you mean, George?”

  “You dinna really know him. Sure he's charmin’ as you please with the guests—butter wouldn't melt in his mouth. But he carries on like Lord Muck wi’ the rest of us. Thinks because he went to school down south he's better than ordinary folk. Spoiled rotten if you ask me. And there's somethin’ else—” He stopped abruptly, as if suddenly realizing that he was on the brink of going too far.

  “Yes?”

  Stuart drew a deep breath. “There was a chambermaid used to work at the hotel, Mary MacLean—perhaps you remember her? A soft-spoken lass with lovely red hair? It was a few years back now.” He shifted from one foot to the other. “There was talk going around that young Mr. Whitely had, er—” he blushed profusely “—taken advantage of the lass. There was never any complaint from her, mind you, but one mornin’ she was gone, without even giving her notice. Very peculiar if you ask me.”

  Powell wondered what he was driving at, but decided not to press the point. At least not now. “You know how unreliable gossip can be, George,” he said pointedly.

  Stuart's jaw was set stubbornly. “That's as may be, Mr. Powell, but I ken what I ken.”

  When Powell got back to the Salar Lodge he telephoned Detective-Sergeant Black in London. He was disappointed, but not surprised, to learn that Pickens was sticking to his story. After lunch Powell drove to the hospital and collected Pinky, who from all appearances had fully recovered from his ordeal. On the way back to Kinlochy, Warburton listened attentively while Powell gave his account of the interview with John Sanders.

  Pinky seemed pleased with himself. “You will be interested to know that John came to see me last night. He was most contrite for not having come earlier. He explained everything. I pride myself in being an excellent judge of character, Erskine, and I simply refuse to believe that John had anything to do with this business.”

  “I'm not prepared to rule anything out at this point.”

  Pinky cleared his throat nervously. “I don't know quite how to put this, old man, but do you think there's any danger of a repeat performance?”

  “I think it's highly unlikely. But just to be on the safe side, I want you on the London train tomorrow afternoon; I'll sleep more easily with you safely out of the way.”

  Warburton nodded.

  “In the meantime, I'd like you to stick close to the Salar Lodge. I'll leave Shand to keep an eye on you.”

  Warburton smiled. “My own personal bodyguard?”

  “Something like that.” Powell regarded his friend with mixed emotions. He had invited Pinky to Kinlochy for a bit of rest and relaxation, but it hadn't exactly worked out that way. For either of them, come to that. He could not dispel the growing feeling that, like a river tumbling headlong to the sea, events were unfolding beyond his control, which was hardly reassuring under the circumstances. His fatalistic musings were interrupted by Warburton.

  “What about this Pickens chap? It seems to me from what you've said that he had as good a reason as anyone to settle scores with Murray.”

  “Perhaps. But someone tried to drown you, Pinky, and of one thing I'm absolutely certain: It wasn't Oliver Pickens. I'm still convinced that there's a connection between what happened to you and the murder of Charles Murray, although for the life of me I can't put my finger on it. I keep coming back to that damned fishing rod and running up against the same brick wall. But you can chalk up another thing I'm certain of: John Sanders's reason for coming to Kinlochy had absolutely nothing to do with journalistic curiosity.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Powell explained about the notebook.

  Warburton frowned. “There must be somebody else— somebody who would have benefited from Murray's death.”

  Powell sighed heavily. “I can tell you this much, Pinky—there is no shortage of possibilities.”

  Powell experienced a growing sense of ambivalence as he mounted the steps of Castle Glyn. He had put it off as long as possible, for reasons which, even now, he remained unwilling to consciously confront. The door opened to reveal Ross, no sign of recognition in his rheumy eyes. He tottered aside muttering to himself, having resigned himself by now to the continual invasion of Castle Glyn by riffraff of all descriptions.

  When Powell entered the sitting room, Heather Murray, who was standing in front of the fireplace, turned quickly away.

  “You might have called first,” she said.

  Powell felt a tightening in the pit of his stomach. “Look at me, Miss Murray.”

  She turned around to face him. In ghastly contrast to her pale complexion, a livid bluish yellow bruise extended from her left eye to her cheekbone. Her eyes blazed defiantly. Powell looked at her in silence for a moment, buffeted by a storm of conflicting emotions. When he spoke his voice was taut. “Who did this to you?”

  She did not answer.

  “It was Bob Whitely, wasn't it?”

  She turned away again, reaching for a cigarette on the mantelshelf. Before Powell could react, she'd lit it with a tiny gold lighter. She inhaled deeply. “Does it really matter?”

  “It matters to me. Assault is against the law in this country.”

  “An eye for an eye, is that it?”

  “If you like. See here, Miss Murray, I'm not interested in debating the ethical basis of the criminal justice system. I'm just trying to do my bloody job. Now, I'll ask you again: Who did this to you?”

  “That's my business, until I decide otherwise.”

  “I know all about you and Bob Whitely.” He
could see her shoulders tighten. He pressed on. “I think your father approved at first. He was probably pleased that you'd begun to make a life for yourself here. But it wasn't long before he became concerned about the relationship. Not to put too fine a point on it, Miss Murray, it's no secret that young Whitely has an extremely volatile nature. I don't believe he'd physically abused you at that point, but the tendency was there, nonetheless. I think your father could see it, which is why he wanted you to end the relationship.”

  She turned and regarded him steadily, her eyes like cool, emerald pools. “You're very perceptive, Mr. Powell.”

  Powell could detect neither sincerity nor sarcasm in her voice, nor anything else for that matter. “You've stated to both Mr. Barrett and myself that you'd spent the weekend in question with a friend. You were with Bob, weren't you?”

  She slipped lightly into a chair, drawing her legs under her. “Yes, it's true.”

  Powell felt a twinge of guilt. “I know this must be difficult for you, Miss Murray, but it is necessary, I'm afraid.” Marvelous things, cliches. “Would you like to tell me about it?”

  She brushed a strand of hair from her forehead. “Everything I told you before was true. I just left out the part about Bob. It's rather ironic. We hadn't seen each other for months. Then about three weeks ago he called me. He'd apparently heard a rumor that Castle Glyn was to be put up for sale. He asked me what I was going to do. I told him that I hadn't decided, although in reality I'd already made up my mind to return to Canada with Father. Bob pleaded with me to stay. He promised to be more reasonable about things, so I agreed to go away with him for the weekend. To try to sort things out once and for all. I felt I owed him that much.”

  “I'm a little confused,” Powell interjected in spite of himself. “You say your relationship with young Whitely had ended some months ago, yet you decided to spend the weekend with him?”

  “We're being a little judgmental aren't we, Chief Superintendent?”