by John Burke
The local uniformed officer hadn’t expected, either, to be accompanying her on a Sunday morning to the big house. He had been the one to answer the telephone call from Caroline Crombie, and to report the break-in to higher authority. Now, assigned to back up this female plain-clothes officer, he mounted the steps to the main door in awe of the mere idea of Lord Crombie, whom he had met only once before, in Selkirk sheriff court.
‘It might be a good idea if you made a long recce of the grounds while I talk to the owners,’ said DI Gunn as they waited for the door to open. ‘I don’t yet know what we’re looking for, but you must know this area and what’s normal and what isn’t.’
Flattered, PC Kerr was immediately on her team. He hurried gladly away from the steps.
An agitated housekeeper let the detective inspector in and led her in pursuit of the lord and lady of the house. On the way Lesley Gunn had time for only fleeting glimpses of large blank rectangles on the staircase and corridor walls.
They caught up with the Crombies on a first-floor landing. Lady Crombie was being followed from room to room by her dazed, stricken husband. He looked as if he might completely lose his way in his own household unless she was there to guide him.
Lesley introduced herself. ‘Detective Inspector Gunn. I saw you yesterday, very briefly.’
‘Saw us?’ mumbled Crombie.
‘At the exhibition.’
‘Och, aye. Maybe you did. If we’d only stayed at home instead of wasting our time there —’
‘But we didn’t,’ said his wife, ‘did we?’
‘If you could just show me round,’ Lesley urged. ‘Give me some idea of what’s missing. But please try not to touch anything. We’ll have to dust for fingerprints and any other evidence. Though this does look the sort of professional job where they’ll have been very careful not to leave obvious traces.’
Crombie looked appealingly at his wife, who set off at a brisk pace along the landing and turned right into a long gallery. At the corner he fell behind, staring dismally at a blank space on a wall and reaching out towards a console table to touch something which was no longer there. What was left of his history had been ravished brutally away, leaving only bright, empty rectangles on the faded wallpaper and panelling. He perked up only for a moment, gazing at a painting forlorn and alone on one corridor wall until his wife came back to collect him.
‘His grandfather’s ghillie,’ she explained to DI Gunn. ‘Frankly, no masterpiece. Obviously they’d only go for the worthwhile stuff.’
‘You do have … did have … some very fine pieces, I believe.’
‘I did try to do a deal for handing the lot over to the National Trust for Scotland. Would have taken a load off our minds. But Hector and that daughter of his got very uptight about it. If only they’d listened to me!’
‘The thieves might still have targeted the place.’
‘Well, at least with the insurance we ought to be able to smarten this old barn up a bit.’
Lesley was taken aback by the woman’s apparent indifference to what must surely be the painful family significance of their loss.
Brigid Crombie led the way into a bedroom, incisively summing up what was missing. Two antique framed maps, some silver-backed hairbrushes, and a valuable bedspread, supposedly embroidered by one of the Queen of Scots’ four Marys. The thieves had evidently found it too time-wasting to remove an ornate mirror fastened between the folded shutters of two tall windows. Sunshine struck obliquely through the eastern window on to the three figures, making their reflections in the glass brighter than the nondescript pictures still remaining on the walls. It occurred to Lesley Gunn that only Hector Crombie really belonged in the frame of that mirror. His jacket cuffs were frayed, and there could never have been much of a crease in his trews; but his heavy brogues were polished to a dazzling gloss. You somehow knew that this was one task he undertook for himself every day, and enjoyed it. He belonged. The other two of them were intruders in this place.
A fourth figure swam into the glass, almost ghostly for a moment with her pale complexion and jet-black hair. She edged her way towards Crombie. In profile Lesley saw that she, too, was family.
Hector Crombie’s instinctive courtesy plucked him out of the depths of his trance.
‘Inspector — er — Gunn, isn’t it? My daughter, Caroline.’
The young woman reached her father and squeezed his arm. At first glance Lesley would have summed her up as a laid-back, unsentimental young woman; but at a moment like this there was an immediate, visceral bond between father and daughter.
Again she thought how out of place Lady Crombie was.
Brigid Crombie might almost have picked up her thoughts. ‘I’m sure Caroline has a better notion of what’s missing. I’ll just go and have a thorough check of my equipment in the library. I only had time for a quick look when we got back last night.’
‘Unlikely to be anything of historic value,’ said Caroline.
The tension between the two women was almost palpable.
Caroline sounded clear and dispassionate for the first few minutes as she escorted Lesley Gunn from room to room. But when she turned to watch her father plodding after them there was a taut anger in her whole body — anger on his behalf, for the even worse pain that he was suffering.
Halting before one blank space with an unlit strip-light above it, she was trying to make herself sound matter-of-fact and unemotional. ‘Lady Arabella Crombie’s portrait used to hang here. She died defending the house when Cumberland’s blackguards came for herself and her children. They’d already murdered her husband.’ She reached out, just as her father had done several times, as if to touch the painting which was no longer there, and her composure cracked. ‘The place has been defiled. Contaminated. But I suppose you’re used to this sort of thing. All in a day’s routine.’
‘No,’ said Lesley. ‘I never really get used to it. And I do know how it feels.’
Anyone who had ever suffered a burglary felt the same: dirty hands rooting through one’s possessions and leaving invisible but indelible stains, invading feet stamping all over a home that would never again feel quite like home.
‘This is our big tourist attraction. Bonnie Prince Charlie’s bedroom.’ Caroline tapped the glass top of the dressing-table. ‘And his anamorphosis stood here.’
This was one of the treasures Lesley had most wanted to see. She had left it too late.
‘Didn’t I read that it was due to go to Canada for an exhibition along with the Queen of Scots’ example from Edinburgh?’
‘And several of our paintings — under strict security, of course,’ said Caroline ironically.
And that, too, had been left too late.
‘Do you think the publicity may have directed the thieves in this direction?’ Lesley theorised aloud.
‘Could well have been one factor. But where could they hope to get rid of it? Don’t tell me they’re art lovers, anxious to keep it for their own pleasure?’
Lesley’s own anger was beginning to build up. There were so many things here she would have liked to study. Perhaps that ought to have been her profession from the start — a connoisseur rather than a copper. Her skills should have made her a custodian rather than a sweeper-up after things had been snatched away from eyes that had loved them. Her superiors would not have agreed: her knowledge of the subject, along with her dogged determination, had made her unique in that special arm of the CID.
Hector Crombie caught them up as Caroline opened a door into a little snug with a bare wall, broken only by a recess like a small aumbry.
‘The laird’s lug,’ she explained. ‘So the man of the house can listen to his wife gossiping with her friends.’
‘Rubbish,’ growled Crombie. ‘Never dreamt of using it. The only time I’ve ever heard anything from that room has been my wife rustling paper or being rude to somebody on the phone.’
The little room was obviously his own special hideaway. Caroline steered him towards a wo
rn leather armchair, opened a cupboard, and poured whisky into a large crystal tumbler.
‘At least they haven’t stolen that,’ he said. ‘All the same, I’m not sure I ought to be —’
‘Sit back, father. Take your time. It’ll do you good. And I’ve brought the Sunday papers. Picked them up from the Tam Lin.’
She indicated the heavy wedge of newspaper and supplements on a chest in the corner, and closed the door quietly as they went out.
‘What do you suppose will happen to our … our possessions?’ She asked it in an undertone, as if her father’s listening cavity might cover even this stretch of corridor, and make his pain worse. ‘Shifted across the Atlantic to some millionaire’s private collection?’
‘Things only work out like that in films. Or television plays.’
‘Don’t knock my livelihood.’
‘I’m sorry. I hadn’t realised.’
‘Oh, it’s all right. I don’t get into the big dramatic stuff. Just local news, motor rallying, deer stalking, and suchlike.’
‘Sometimes,’ Lesley conceded, ‘we hear of the private collections of Latin American drug millionaires. Some gangs steal to order. Storm in with sawn-off shotguns like that robbery at York last year. Or roll up in the small hours of the morning, their getaway van with the engine still running, not giving a damn about alarm systems because they know exactly what’s required and how to get it out fast.’
‘At least we didn’t have a shooting match here.’
‘No. And you didn’t have any sort of alarm system. But they did seem to be able to pick out the more important pieces. Could be their particular field is tied in with some big crime syndicate, using art works as a means of exchange in place of cash. Wrapped up and put in bank vaults, or sold on again as collateral in big drug deals. Too easily identifiable items can’t be sold at public auction. Sometimes they’re taken to be ransomed.’
‘You think that might apply here? But God knows where we’d raise the money.’
‘You’d have to sort that out with the insurance company. They might co-operate by offering a reward, if the payout would be less than coughing up the full insurance value.’
‘And how do the police view that sort of deal?’
‘With heavy disapproval.’
‘But if it did come to it …’
‘You’ll be contacted.’
‘And they’ll tell us not to contact the police.’
‘While we insist that you do just that.’
‘And meanwhile?’
Lesley explained the practice of notifying Scotland Yard’s Arts and Antiques Squad as a matter of routine. It was likely enough that the stolen items had gone south of the Border. Or else were on their way out of the country. ‘Can I use a phone? Must put out a warning to ports and airports.’ And check with the Arts Loss Register’s database of missing works from around the world, and enter the list of Baldonald House treasures. It all sounded very competent and reassuring when she summed it up for Caroline Crombie; but omitted any mention of the hideous gaps into which so many treasures had fallen forever.
‘Perhaps we could prepare a list right now? And insurance value?’
‘Lady Crombie knows more about insurance values than I do,’ said Caroline. ‘It’s one of her specialities. My father and I would prefer the things themselves back where they belong.’
DI Lesley Gunn had had it dinned into her that a police officer must never under any circumstances get personally, emotionally involved in a case. Calm, neutral sympathy to a victim, yes; but don’t get worked up. It was no use: already she was keen to get these family treasures back where they belonged. Her resolve was stiffened when Caroline appealed: ‘I’d be so grateful if you could track those bastards down.’
‘We’d better start by finding out how they got the stuff out. And when we can rustle up Forensic, we must fingerprint the whole household.’
‘They won’t like that.’
‘To eliminate them, and concentrate on prints that ought not to be there.’
*
Mrs Dunbar, the housekeeper, was indignant when the fingerprinting was explained to her, and Lesley commented about marks on doorjambs and the wainscoting. Mrs Dunbar and her weekly helper dusted and polished everything properly.
‘Of course there won’t be any fingerprints or scrapes from folk in this house. Anything would have to come from outside.’
‘Exactly, Mrs Dunbar. That’s what we want to establish. And no matter how hard you may have worked on them, an expert can detect finger marks and footmarks on all kinds of surfaces. We have a great range of chemical and photographic processes nowadays. Nobody can move anywhere without leaving some trace.’
Mrs Dunbar nodded, not really comprehending. For several minutes she was too flustered to make sense. She took the meaning of her position almost too literally. She was supposed to keep the house, and when something went wrong — as now, when some of it had been torn away — it was somehow entirely her fault. She was a widow in her early fifties, with greying hair pulled back into a bun, and a rosy complexion. She must have been a very pretty, buxom girl, though she had gone dumpy and had fleshy arms, with stubby fingers which looked well-worn and competent, though today they were shaking as she kept saying she was so ashamed, so ashamed.
‘I don’t think Lord or Lady Crombie would dream of holding you personally responsible,’ Lesley soothed her. ‘The best help you can give us is a straightforward summary of exactly what happened.’
‘If only I knew. Och, if only I’d been more careful, if only I hadn’t … och, I mean, that is …’
They were seated close to the window in Mrs Dunbar’s sitting-room beside the kitchen, looking out on a small courtyard with a couple of outhouse doors in the wall opposite. Their view of a small arch opening on to the outside world was partly obscured by a hanging basket of pink and white fuchsias dangling their silent bells in the breeze, more profuse than those by the lodge gates. Through the arch was a glimpse of a narrow track snaking away into an avenue of trees.
‘Where does that lead?’
‘Past the chapel. And the family vault alangside,’ said Mrs Dunbar reverently.
‘Still in use? Regular services, I mean. Open to the public?’
‘Och, no. Not any mair. Family weddings and funerals. And there’s nae sign of any wedding since that o’ the laird and her ladyship, and that took place in Edinburgh. In a register office,’ said Mrs Dunbar regretfully.
‘But it’s open to visitors?’
‘Used to be, on visiting days. But it’s nae in good condition, and her ladyship decided we couldn’t afford the cost of repairs.’
‘And the path ends there?’
‘Nae, it goes on to the west lodge.’
‘Sort of tradesmen’s entrance?’
Mrs Dunbar did not look too happy at this blunt description, but managed a nod. ‘Deliveries do come in that way.’
‘Does anybody live in the lodge?’
‘The dominie. Retired now, of course. Rents the lodge and helps out on visitors’ days. A bit of a painter himself, so he’s the right one to explain our collection. Loves lecturing people.’ It was said admiringly rather than disparagingly.
‘There are gates by that particular lodge?’
‘Aye. But they’re never closed.’
Hairs on the the back of Lesley’s neck prickled. ‘I noticed when I came in up the main drive today that those gates were open. Were they left open all day yesterday? It was one of the afternoons when the house is open to visitors, wasn’t it?’
‘They’re always open. It’s a Crombie tradition.’ Pride and loyalty were steadying Mrs Dunbar’s voice. ‘Over at Traquair, they’ve got gates which they say will ne’er be opened till a Stuart sits on the throne again. Nae chance o’ that, so they’ll nae be needing to spend anything on oiling the hinges. But here’ — Mrs Dunbar was now in control of herself and her material, reciting it off by heart — ‘the gates stay open because the Crombies have l
ong had the tradition of offering a welcome and hospitality to any visitor.’
‘So it would seem,’ said Lesley drily.
That jolted Mrs Dunbar back to reality. Before she could start on fresh lamentations, Lesley hurried on: ‘Just what did happen yesterday afternoon? Right from the beginning, if you can manage it.’
Mrs Dunbar had been on duty issuing tickets, with Mrs McKechnie from the main lodge looking after the refreshment room, and Mr McKechnie acting as a guard, circulating through the main rooms. ‘The dominie conducts the tour, and Rab McKechnie follows up to keep an eye on things. And he makes it gey obvious to visitors that that’s exactly what he’s doing.’
‘You manage with just the few of you?’
‘We like helping to keep the place going, for the laird’s sake.’
‘But surely you ought to have someone sitting in each room.’
‘There’s nae the money to spare. We make sure there’s nothing within reach that you could easily slip in your pocket. Nothing’s ever been lost.’ Mrs Dunbar was not just less dithery than before, but becoming positively aggressive. ‘Until now. And that wasnae slipped out under our noses while we were on duty.’
‘And after you were off duty, you saw nothing — heard nothing?’
‘I went round, the way I always do, after the visitors had gone and Mr and Mrs McKechnie had handed over to me. Everything was the way it ought to be.’
‘Then when did you become aware of the thefts?’
‘When Miss Caroline came over and let herself in.’
‘Came over? She doesn’t live here?’
‘Not since her father married again.’
‘But she still has a key.’
‘Aye. He’s always glad to see her.’
‘And she was the one who realised what had happened?’
Mrs Dunbar was beginning to look unhappy again. ‘Aye. And rang the laird to get him back.’
