by John Burke
‘I thought you were keeping your memoirs under wraps till they were well and truly ready for publication.’
‘So I am.’
‘Someone appears to be in a hurry to spread the gladsome tidings.’
Brigid snatched the paper, skimmed a few paragraphs, screeched ‘The stupid bitch’, and threw the crumpling sheets across the room.
Greg picked them up and sorted out the relevant page.
It was a typical literary gossip column, once headed Pen in Hand but in recent years translated into Words in Process. The offending paragraphs were in the usual know-all style.
Penelope Vaughan-Smith, bestseller-hunting acquisitions editor of Clement & Cowan has acquired quite a shiny scalp for her New Year list. Ruthless headhunter Brigid Weir — better known to the Scottish huntin’, shootin’ and fishin’ set as Lady Crombie of Baldonald House — is taking a sabbatical from the world of high finance and low dealings to write her memoirs. Penny Vaughan-Smith promises white-hot revelations. ‘Chapters I’ve seen so far,’ she raves, ‘are going to scorch the fur of some very fat cats indeed.’ Bidding for serial rights is already intense.
‘She hasn’t seen any chapters,’ raged Brigid. ‘What the hell is she playing at?’
‘Playing at what they’ve slipped into that last sentence.’ Greg knew the scene well enough. ‘Issuing hefty hints and hoping for an auction of serial rights.’
‘Before they’ve even seen a word?’
‘You often get a better deal that way. Get money in the bank before they find out the revelations aren’t up to much.’
‘These are damn well going to be up to a lot. A hell of a lot.’ Brigid stormed towards the phone. ‘When I’ve had a word with —’
Before Greg could utter a warning, Caroline anticipated him: ‘I don’t think publishers’ offices are a hive of industry on a Sunday.’
‘That dreadful woman. I’m the one who’ll decide when we tell the world, and when serial rights or any other rights are on offer.’
‘But now,’ said Caroline, ‘aren’t you worried there’ll be some attempts to stop you? Your intended victims have been alerted. They may decide to get at you before you get at them.’ She sounded none too displeased.
Brigid said: ‘I’m going to London.’
‘You can’t just rush off like that. Not with all this other business to attend to.’
‘I’m not just going to hang about waiting to make a phone call tomorrow morning. God knows what time that woman and the rest of them condescend to saunter into their offices on a Monday morning.’
Caroline tried again. ‘You can’t just —’
‘You heard me. I’m going to London. Take them by surprise and knock hell out of them. Caroline, while I get things together, do me a favour — check train and plane times this evening and first thing tomorrow morning.’
Greg heard the rain on the window intensify, drowning the sound of the two women’s footsteps as they left the room; and drowning the sound of another woman’s feet as she came in and took their place.
Detective Inspector Gunn said: ‘And how exactly do you fit in here, Mr Dacre? A relative of the Crombies?’
‘No, I’m working with Brigid — Lady Crombie.’
‘In what capacity?’
‘I’m her ghost.’
The neat, rather demure little face tightened into official disapproval. ‘Mr Dacre, this isn’t a time for jokes. I have a serious investigation to carry out.’
‘Yes, of course. Sorry, but it’s true. I’m working with her on her memoirs. We call it ghosting, in the trade.’
‘Ah, I see. And where were you when this burglary took place?’
‘Miles away. In Edinburgh. With Lady Crombie.’
‘Indeed.’ Her clear, unfaltering eyes were considering questions she wasn’t too sure of asking. Not yet, anyway. In the meantime she was obviously adding him to her store of local eccentrics. ‘Working on these memoirs?’
‘Exactly.’
‘An alibi which Lady Crombie will undoubtedly confirm?’
‘Good God,’ Greg exploded, ‘why should I need an alibi? You don’t suppose I could have had anything to do with this business? I’m a writer, not a housebreaker. Wouldn’t know where to begin.’
The young woman sighed. With a face and graceful cast of the head like that, it could have been a gentle, romantic sigh. But it wasn’t.
Brigid walked back in.
‘Inspector, I’m afraid I have to go to London. Urgently.’
‘Lady Crombie, I do need you here. There are so many things you’ll need to clear up for me.’
‘I wasn’t even here when this outrage took place.’
‘I’m aware of that. But you must see that as one of the most responsible people in the household, I do need you on the premises to check each bit of evidence I can collect. It is, after all, your home we’re talking about.’
‘Yes, but something has cropped up.’
‘When will you be asking for the insurance claims investigator to come and assess the problem?’
It was said so quietly, but Greg enjoyed watching Brigid being so effectively knocked off balance.
‘I’ve … er … got it on my pad to ring when I get back from London.’
‘They’ll be a bit peeved if you don’t notify them at the earliest possible opportunity.’
‘One of us has to go.’ Brigid changed plans with her usual impetuous speed. ‘Gregory, it’ll have to be you.’ She had only called him Gregory when she wanted to lay down the law. ‘That young woman’s got to be stopped. And Murdo Cowan’s got some explaining to do. Think you can handle it?’
Greg contemplated the prospect of tearing a strip off Miss Vaughan-Smith, and was sure he would be delighted to handle it.
‘I’ll leave you a phone number,’ he said to DI Gunn before she could raise any objections. ‘My literary agent. Kate Hadleigh. She’ll know where I am at any time of the day.’
Or night, he thought; and caught Brigid’s eye, all too capable of detecting a telltale resonance in his voice when he as much as uttered Kate’s name.
But what the hell had it got to do with her anyway, any more?
7
The Tam Lin was a white-harled inn at a lonely crossroads above the unhurried Yarrow Water. In earlier centuries it had been a welcome refuge for drovers and other travellers seeking shelter before being snowed in. Once there, they didn’t worry too much about the snow, unless it lasted long enough to cut off all supplies from outside.
Today it boasted electricity, but there was still an overhang stacked with logs against the danger of winds or the weight of snow bringing down the power line. At one stage the landlord had been conned by a glib salesman into installing piped music in the bar, but after the speakers had three times been unobtrusively removed by regulars as skilled and sly as any Border reiver, he allowed talk or companionable silence to prevail.
Beside the fireplace was a framed copy of verses from the ballad of Tam Lin, and above the fireplace a primitive oil painting of the Queen of the Fairies emerging from her bush of broom, half obscured by a more recent glass case containing a massive salmon which had somehow found its way here from the Tweed.
The inn’s two letting rooms were generally occupied by fishermen or walkers. DI Lesley Gunn found the accommodation pleasantly neutral: it would have been too far to travel daily from HQ, and there was no question of accepting hospitality from the Crombies. Her bedroom was at the back of the building, overlooking a tiny yard which the proprietors had never ventured to call a car park. Her Vauxhall Astra was the only vehicle there this morning. Come lunchtime, there would probably be a couple of Range Rovers and maybe a muddy estate car with a family touring the region, making sour jokes about Scottish drizzle but revelling in the quaintness of the natives, and assuring themselves that they weren’t frightened of their teeth being fractured by the local oatcakes.
All through the night there had been more than drizzle: late summer rain had been
beating against the windows and striking booming bass notes from the downpipes. When Lesley drove in towards Baldonald House on the Monday morning it had slackened, but the hills were still shrouded in a lingering haze, and trees dripped great splashes of water and soggy leaves on to the top of her car. Halfway up the steps to the main door of the house she could hear the hoarse chatter of the burn, like a steady stroller being forced suddenly into a headlong rush.
There was another car, a Volvo, parked close to the steps. Lady Crombie already had a morning visitor. He was standing with her on the first-floor landing as she rattled off grievances about the loss the family had suffered, occasionally making an attempt to interrupt but each time yielding to Brigid’s catalogue of woes.
He was glad to welcome the newcomer as Brigid introduced them.
‘Now, Mr Abernethy, here’s someone who can vouch for everything I’ve been telling you. Detective Inspector Gunn … Mr Colin Abernethy, from our insurance company.’ As they were mumbling the usual ‘How d’you do’, she went on with heavy emphasis: ‘Detective Inspector Gunn is the police expert on works of art. I’m sure if you want any confirmation of the value of the works in question, she’ll be able to put you on the right track.’
‘Mm, yes. Very helpful.’ But Mr Abernethy’s eyes were wandering. ‘No window locks?’
‘On this level? No one would be likely to shin up the side of the house in full view of —’
‘In full view of anyone who was awake, and standing in full view of them? No. But would there have been anybody around at that time? Anyone who might have raised the alarm?’
Against the background of Brigid rattling through a list of the staff and the routine on a visiting day, Lesley found herself conjuring up a vision of men carrying paintings down the back stairs and out of the side door towards the shelter of the stableyard, where the van was waiting. And Mrs Dunbar was snoozing in her housekeeper’s room — and they had humped things past without waking her?
Could someone have doped her tea?
Mr Abernethy was saying: ‘And the downstairs doors? Deadlocks?’
‘We’d been at an exhibition that very day, considering what safety devices to instal.’
‘A bit late, Lady Crombie. But first of all, can you supply me with a list of items missing, purchase prices, and current valuation, so that I may compare them with the schedule on your policy?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. These things are family heirlooms. You don’t think we’ve kept receipts from centuries ago?’
‘At some time you must have had a reappraisal of the current values.’
‘I imagine that you’ll have all that on your files from when we took out the insurance. I think it was renegotiated eighteen months ago.’
Yes, thought Lesley, it probably was: around the time when their hostess became Lady Crombie. That was something a woman like the new lady of the house wouldn’t have overlooked.
As they went back downstairs, Mrs Dunbar fussed out of the dining-room, looked at the stranger, and then looked around as if anxious to flee.
‘You have complete confidence in your staff, of course?’ Abernethy spoke with insulting loudness.
‘Been with the family for years.’
Lesley said: ‘Mrs Dunbar …’
‘I was just on my way to … I, er, if I can just get past …’
‘Mrs Dunbar, did you actually drowse when they were carrying things out, right past your door?’
‘It’s dreadful. I don’t know what came over me. I’m so ashamed.’
‘All right, Mrs Dunbar.’ Brigid waved peremptorily. She was obviously keen to go on establishing her claim for a quick insurance settlement. ‘Let’s not go on about it.’
Mrs Dunbar gulped. ‘Your Ladyship, could you spare me a minute?’
‘Later, Mrs Dunbar.’
‘It’s important, ma’am. I wouldn’t ask but …’ She looked apprehensively at the other two, seemed about to make a bolt for it after all, but then spluttered: ‘It’s about Saturday.’
Lesley tensed. ‘Is it something I ought to know?’
‘Please, ma’am, I’d rather have just a word. Before it’s too late.’
‘Too late?’ Brigid strode past the assessor and the detective. ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake. All right. Leave this to me for a moment. We’ll get back to work as soon as possible, Mr Abernethy.’
When she had gone, Abernethy turned to Lesley. ‘What do you make of it all, inspector?’
‘The open days are part of the problem. Visitors swarming all over the place. Plenty of opportunity to work out the lie of the land under cover of visiting trippers. The staff is too small to operate efficiently. None of them properly trained to look out for suspicious behaviour. At the same time, it’s not the sort of place where you’d want a constant surveillance operation by some security firm. Men in blue uniforms with big belts and big necks.’
‘A few more personal security installations would have been advisable, though.’ Abernethy might well owe his employment to the invaluable qualification of a natural air of permanent scepticism about the whole human race. A light snuffle added at key moments could indicate to the claimant that the entire claim was suspect, and that in any case recompense for stolen items could never amount to even half what was hoped for. ‘We might consider offering a reward,’ he said reluctantly. ‘At the thought of a handout, there’s often someone who’ll risk cheating on his associates.’
‘I must go and see what time we can expect Forensic. Give me a shout if you come across anything interesting. But please try not to touch anything or brush against anything until our folk have been over the place.’
Abernethy continued on his way with a pocket database. His fingers stabbed at it, questioning it more aggressively than he had so far dared to question Lady Crombie.
In the large sitting-room, Mrs Dunbar’s voice was raised in a squeak of terror.
‘Come in, inspector.’ Caroline stood in the doorway. ‘I think you’d better hear this.’
A television screen flickered in the corner, incongruous in this panelled room with its old, well lived-in furniture. The sound must have been turned down: the prevailing sound was still that of Mrs Dunbar wailing, with occasional snappish punctuation from Caroline Crombie. Hector Crombie sat well back in a corner, like a teddy bear dumped in an armchair to stare beadily at what was going on.
‘Do stop that noise, woman.’ Brigid added her own reproof to Caroline’s. ‘Tell Inspector Gunn what you’ve just told us.’
‘Oh, please, Your Ladyship, not the police. I ken it was stupid, but the police … I mean, please …’
‘Stop snivelling and tell her.’
Mrs Dunbar gulped again, looked at Lesley as if preparing to fend off a physical assault, and then croaked out a few words.
‘Speak up,’ Caroline commanded.
‘Well, miss … inspector … it was like this. That afternoon, the moment we’d finished and the coaches had gone, I did only a quick check round. Lord and Lady Crombie being away in Edinburgh, and nobody needing me, I left the house. No more than an hour or so, honestly it wasn’t.’
‘Left it? To go where?’
‘Och, I’m so ashamed. I never thought I’d be so —’
‘To go where?’
‘To spend some time with … my … with a gentleman friend.’
‘Nearby?’
‘Over Ettrickbridge way. I went upon my bike. No more’n fifteen minutes ride.’
‘And this … gentleman friend. A local man?’
‘Nae, just staying in a wee cottage there. Renting the place while he does some work round here.’
‘What kind of work?’
‘He’s a tree surgeon.’ Mrs Dunbar could not resist sounding a little bit perkier, rolling the words admiringly round her tongue. ‘Working up in the woods for Forest Enterprise.’
‘So, while visiting your friend, you were away for how long, did you say?’
‘Just an hour an’ a bit. That’s all i
t took us.’ She caught her breath in a fleeting moment of reminiscence, then glanced sheepishly at Caroline. ‘I got back only just in time, just before Miss Crombie showed up.’
Caroline said furiously: ‘You’ll have to go, Mrs Dunbar.’
‘Miss Caroline, I’m so sorry, so very very sorry, I …’
‘I’m surprised you didn’t invite him in. Have it off with him down in the kitchen, or up in the fourposter, or … or …’
‘That’s enough,’ said Brigid Crombie. ‘I’m the one who decides whether she goes or stays.’
‘No.’ Her husband’s gravelly voice was quiet but powerful. ‘She’ll not be thrown out. She and her folk hae been here nearly as many generations as mine. And we’ve made plenty of our ain mistakes. She’s been gey silly, but I’ll no’ be letting her go after all these years.’
‘Oh, sir.’ Mrs Dunbar thrust a wet, crumpled handkerchief even more vigorously into her eyes. ‘My Lord …’
Lesley said: ‘Of course this may affect the whole timetable of the robbery. And the people who organised it. I’d be obliged if you’d let me have the address of this friend of yours, Mrs Dunbar.’
‘Oh, miss … officer … please, I don’t want him dragged into it. He couldn’t have had anything to do with it.’
‘Couldn’t he?’ said Caroline.
‘His name, please,’ said Lesley. ‘And the address.’
Wretchedly Mrs Dunbar said it was Mr Ross — she did not give a Christian name, and one felt that even in his arms she would still call him Mr Ross — and he rented the cottage by the brig where the forestry folk’s firebreak began. Before Lesley could ask for more lucid guidance than this, Caroline snatched a folded map from the bookshelf and opened it out.
Her father said: ‘I think you can go now, Mrs Dunbar.’ It was a decisive end to one matter, and the beginning of another. ‘And Caroline, m’dear, isn’t it time for your programme? We don’t want to miss it.’
This was presumably the programme Caroline had been working on at the time of the robbery. Watching the pictures come to life on the screen, Lesley had to agree that the daughter of the household had a pretty impressive alibi. The final editing, as she had explained, was wrapped up on the Saturday morning, after which she had had a late lunch and then driven here — to find the place looted. Not that Lesley had ever imagined Caroline being involved in the theft of family treasures which obviously meant so much to her. But she watched the programme with the rest of them, attentive for the slightest nuance which might trigger her interest.
