Now May You Weep

by Deborah Crombie

  Carnmore, November 1898

  WILL WAS TWO late. He knew, the instant he saw his mother’s bowed head and the nurse’s comforting embrace, but he refused to believe it. Dropping to his knees beside his father’s couch, he shook the unresisting body, shouting, “No! Wake up!” But his father’s face, blue-white as the marble Madonna in the church, remained still.

  It was the priest who disengaged his hands and led him to a seat by the fire. “It’s all right, son,” Father Mackenzie said gently. “This is what God intended for your father. You’ll learn to accept it, in time.”

  Watching as Father Mackenzie took the unguent from his case and knelt beside his dad, making the sign of the cross, Will felt his anger sink deep inside him, hardening into a fiery core.

  What use had he for a god who would take his father from him? There was no justice in it, and no pity. His father had been a good man, a kind man, who had lived by his principles and bettered the lives of those around him. If that had counted for nothing, if God had chosen to punish him for his beliefs, then Will was finished with him. He would have no part of such a god.

  Gemma drifted in and out of troubled dreams in which a phone rang endlessly as she searched for Duncan and the children. She had tried ringing home again before she went to bed, but the line had once more been engaged. Nor had her wait for Hazel’s return proved any more fruitful, although she had outlasted all the other guests in the lounge before finally giving up and making her way back to the barn alone.

  Now she rose towards the surface of awareness, sensing Hazel’s presence in the room, but she could not quite rouse herself to full wakefulness. Sleep claimed her again.

  Some time later, she heard a door close—or had that been part of the dream as well?

  The early dawn had come when the sound of a gunshot echoed in the fringes of her consciousness. Just someone potting rabbits, a dream voice reminded her, and reassured, she sank deeper into the clinging fog. Then, a few minutes later, she came fully awake with a gasp.

  Had she heard a shot? She sat up and turned on the light. Hazel’s bed was empty, although the indentation in the duvet indicated that she had at least rested there. But her overnight bag was gone, as were her bits and pots on the dressing table.

  Gemma jumped out of bed, barely noticing the frigid flagstones beneath her feet, and checked the bathroom. No toothpaste, no toothbrush, no shampoo hiding in the corner of the tub. Back in the bedroom, she pulled aside the curtains and peered at the still-shadowed drive. The red Honda was gone as well.

  Fighting the beginnings of panic, she shoved on jeans, sweater, and boots, then looked round the room once more for a note. Surely Hazel wouldn’t have abandoned her without leaving a note? Unless she’d gone to Donald Brodie’s for a spot of illicit sex…but then why take all her things?

  She grabbed a jacket and went out into the drive. The sun hovered behind the screen of trees to the east, casting deep shadows in the garden. There was no sign of life from the house, and she hesitated to knock anyone up so early. Her fears would sound absurd, surely, if she voiced them to anyone else.

  Donald’s Land Rover, she saw, was still parked in the drive—had he gone with Hazel in the hire car?

  She rocked on her heels for a moment, trying to decide what to do. Well, she could at least investigate the gunshot, put her mind to rest on one score, and perhaps by the time she came back the house would be astir.

  Starting towards the track that led into the woods, she pushed away the nagging fear that Hazel and the gunshot were somehow connected. Pure paranoia, she told herself firmly, but her mouth went dry and her heart gave a painful squeeze.

  Gemma slowed her pace as she entered the trees, listening, scanning automatically for signs of a disturbance. Halfway along the path she found something, an area of crushed bracken and bluebells, as if something heavy had lain there. But there was no sign of violence, and she breathed a bit easier as she came to the end of the wood.

  From that point, the path was bordered on one side by the meadow and, on the other, by a tussocky mix of bracken and heather. She almost turned back, almost convinced herself that her fears had been groundless, but she couldn’t quite silence the nagging disquiet.

  And then she saw something, a few yards farther along the track, a flash of red half hidden in the heather. An abandoned sweater or jacket, Gemma told herself, but a wave of dread made her stomach lurch. Realizing she had halted, she forced herself to go on, one deliberate step at a time. And as she drew nearer, other shapes began to attach themselves to the splash of scarlet—a white strip here, a brown patch there.

  Suddenly, the shapes shifted and coalesced, and she knew what she was seeing.

  The red was a kilt, the scarlet Brodie tartan, and below it were dark green hose and sturdy brown boots. Above the kilt, an Arran pullover that had once been cream, but now bore a stain of deep red in its center. And the face, auburn-bearded, Donald’s face…

  “Oh, no. Please,” Gemma whispered, only then aware that she had clamped her hand to her mouth. She felt her knees give way and she sank to the ground, unable to tear her gaze from the sightless eyes staring into the morning sky.

  7

  So lying, tyne the memories of day

  And let my loose insatiate being pass

  Into the blackbird’s song of summer ease

  Or, with the white moon, rise in spirit from the trees.

  —ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON,

  “A Sonnet on the Ross of Mull”

  BREATHE. GEMMA KNELT, eyes closed, fighting the slickness of nausea in the back of her throat. Get it under control, she told herself. This was a crime scene. You didn’t sick it up in the middle of a crime scene. A murder.

  Unless…It was unusual, but she had seen a chest-shot suicide once before. Forcing open her eyes, she scanned the immediate area. No gun visible. Not suicide, then.

  Someone had shot Donald Brodie with a shotgun, and at point-blank range, by the tight circumference of the wound and the singeing of the wool round its edges. Not an accident.

  How long had it been since she’d heard the shot? An hour—no, longer—she’d drifted back to sleep for at least a few minutes. Suddenly, the hair rose on the back of Gemma’s neck. Could Donald’s killer still be close by? The rustle of the rising morning breeze through the heather seemed unnaturally loud; the call of a curlew overhead made her heart thud painfully in her chest.

  No. It had been too long, the risk of discovery too great for the killer to stay. Still, she felt exposed, vulnerable. She must get help, and quickly. The sooner the police were called in, the greater likelihood of catching the shooter.

  A fly buzzed past her ear, then another—the morning was warming, soon the air would be thick with them. Already they were clustering over the chest wound, their black bodies iridescent in the sunlight. Shuddering, Gemma wiped the back of her hand against a tickle on her cheek, felt unexpected moisture. Had she been crying? She saw that her hand was trembling, tucked it firmly under her arm.

  The gesture strengthened her resolve. She had left her phone in the room so she’d have to go for help. But first she would have one more look, before the scene was damaged or interfered with. She might see something that would later be missed.

  Gemma forced herself to sit back, to examine the body as if it were not someone she knew…not Donald. What struck her?

  If Donald had been shot at close range in the chest, he must have seen his killer. Had he been afraid? There was no sign of defensive posture, and the gunshot was dead center—he had not even tried to turn away. Had he known his killer, considered him a friend?

  Had he realized what was happening to him, in that instant before his heart stopped? Had he thought of Hazel in a last flash of consciousness?

  “Oh, dear God,” whispered Gemma. She would have to tell Hazel. And then she remembered that Hazel was gone, vanished in the wee hours of the morning without a word of explanation.

  The fear that had driven Gemma to search the w
oods flooded back. Where was Hazel? Had something happened to her, as well?

  No. Gemma shook her head. Why would someone murder Donald and Hazel? And besides, she had heard only one shot, and Hazel must have taken the car well before that. Hazel was safe, Gemma told herself, and she would find her.

  She stood carefully, trying to minimize her impact on the grass and bracken beneath her feet. Examining the ground, she saw some evidence of trampling in front of Donald’s body, but nothing so distinct as a footprint. The soil was rocky, and even if it were damp, it would not take a good impression. There was no obvious point of entry or exit from the crime scene, and no token or article of clothing had been obligingly dropped. Nor could she see an ejected shell casing, an indication that the shotgun had been single-barreled.

  Moving forward a few steps, she sank down on the balls of her feet again. She was close enough now to touch him, and for an instant she was tempted to brush his cheek with her fingertips, or to close his eyes.

  Instead, she stood slowly, hands firmly shoved in her jacket pockets. She couldn’t risk contaminating Donald’s body, and she knew that a last human contact would comfort no one but herself.

  8

  Had we never lov’d sae kindly,

  Had we never lov’d sae blindly,

  Never met—or never parted—

  We had ne’er been broken-hearted.

  —ROBERT BURNS, “Ae Fond Kiss”

  GEMMA FORCED HERSELF to walk back through the woods by the exact same route by which she had come, stopping briefly where she had noticed the crushed ferns. Who had lain there, and when? A forensic examination might soon provide the answers.

  She went on, carefully, but as she reached the last few yards of the path, she gave in to the crawling sensation between her shoulder blades and bolted out into the garden just as Hazel’s hired Honda rolled into the drive.

  As Gemma started towards the car, Louise came out of the garden shed, her arms filled with freshly pulled carrots.

  Louise’s ready smile of greeting faded as she took in Gemma’s expression. “Gemma, what is it? Are you all right?”

  “I—Did you—” Gemma stopped, unable to force any further sound past her vocal cords, for Hazel had emerged from the car and was walking towards her.

  “Gemma—” Hazel began as she reached her, “we need to talk—”

  “No. I mean—” Gemma swallowed against the earthy, pungent smell of the carrots that suddenly threatened to choke her. She swung her gaze to Louise’s puzzled face, then back to Hazel. “Hazel. It’s Donald. I’m afraid he’s dead.”

  “Dead?” Louise repeated blankly, as if she hadn’t understood the word.

  Hazel’s eyes widened, the expanding pupils swallowing the irises. “Wh—”

  “In the meadow. He’s been shot,” Gemma said, very clearly.

  Hazel shook her head. “Oh, no. There must be some mistake. That’s not possible—”

  “There’s no mistake. I—I found him. Hazel, I’m so sorry.”

  “No.” Hazel shook her head more vehemently. “You’re wrong. He can’t be—”

  “I’m sure, Hazel,” Gemma said firmly. “Come on. We’ll go inside—”

  But Hazel jerked away from her outstretched hand. “No. I don’t believe it. Donald can’t be dead. Where is he? What meadow?”

  “We need to go into the house, love,” coaxed Gemma, but her involuntary glance at the path had betrayed her. She reached for Hazel again, but too late. Hazel was away, flying across the garden towards the path in the woods.

  “Hazel, no!” shouted Gemma, but as she started to run, Louise called out to her.

  “Gemma, should I ring for an ambulance—”

  “No, the police. And hurry,” Gemma answered, but the reply cost her precious seconds.

  Hazel disappeared into the cover of the trees, and Gemma, hampered by her fear of damaging evidence, couldn’t quite manage to gain on her. It was only when Hazel reached Donald’s body that Gemma caught up.

  Hazel stood, staring, both hands clamped hard over her mouth as if to stifle a scream. When Gemma put an arm round her, she seemed unaware of the contact.

  “Hazel, it’s all—” All right, Gemma had started to say. But it wasn’t, and all the platitudes she usually called up to comfort the bereaved seemed suddenly senseless, absurd. It wasn’t all right. It was not going to be all right.

  “Hazel,” she began again. “We need to go back to the house now. The police are coming.”

  “But…Donald…I shouldn’t leave him. I shouldn’t have left him. Last night. I should never have—” Hazel gave a convulsive sob and began to shake.

  “Hush. Hush.” Gemma comforted her as if she were a child. “There’s nothing you can do. Come with me, now.”

  Hazel moaned, pulling back towards Donald’s body, but Gemma managed to turn her back towards the house. They had reached the woods when Hazel sagged against her, then fell to her hands and knees, her body racked by vomiting.

  The spasms ceased after a few minutes and she looked up at Gemma, bewildered.

  “It’s all right,” Gemma reassured her. She lifted Hazel to her feet again and urged her on. “We’ll get Louise to make us a nice cuppa when we get back to the house,” she murmured, knowing it a ridiculous bastion against the horror of Donald’s death, but knowing also that it didn’t matter what she said, only that Hazel should hear the sound of her voice.

  When they reached the garden at last, she saw Louise sitting on the bench by the kitchen door, her hands hanging limply between her knees.

  Galvanized by their appearance, Louise jumped up and ran to meet them. “I’ve rung the police. And John.”

  “John?” asked Gemma. “He’s not here?”

  “No. He’d gone to one of the estates to pick up some free-range eggs for breakfast. He’s on his way back now.”

  Breakfast? With a shock, Gemma looked at her watch and saw that it was only now just after seven. “And the others?”

  “Still sleeping, as far as I know. I didn’t—should I have wakened them?”

  “No. You did exactly the right thing. Now, if you’ll take Hazel inside, I’ll wait for the police.” Gemma squeezed Hazel’s arm and Louise slipped an arm round her shoulder with unexpected tenderness.

  It was only as Gemma watched Louise shepherding Hazel in through the scullery door that she remembered the gun cabinet. There had been at least one shotgun, but she hadn’t looked closely—hadn’t thought anything of it at the time. Would she know now if a gun was missing?

  Her mind balked at following that thought any further. She didn’t want to consider the possibility that someone in this house—someone she knew—had fired that shot—but she knew it was a possibility that had to be considered.

  Should she examine the gun cabinet now? Hesitating, she realized that the sky had darkened, the clouds scudding in from the west on the rising wind. Not rain, she thought with dismay. Rain would play hell with the crime scene, diminish any hope of collecting trace evidence.

  But it wasn’t her crime scene, she reminded herself. She had no jurisdiction here, no official responsibility to investigate Donald’s murder.

  But she had liked Donald, had felt an unexpected connection to him in spite of her disapproval of his relationship with Hazel—Hazel, who had loved him enough to risk her marriage.

  And someone had shot him, put an irrevocable end to his future, and to any future Hazel might have had with him—and they had done it right under Gemma’s nose. She would help the police find the bastard responsible. She owed it to Donald—and she owed it to Hazel.

  Thinking furiously, she walked round to the front of the house, but before she could collect herself, a car with the distinctive yellow stripe of the Northern Constabulary pulled into the drive.

  As the officer emerged from the car, Gemma saw that she was young and female, with dark hair, very blue eyes, and a square face that might be pretty when she smiled.

  Reaching Gemma, the woman whipped he
r notebook from her belt with no-nonsense efficiency. “Ma’am. Was it you that reported a death?”

  “Yes. One of the guests here at the B&B. I found him in the meadow, just the other side of the woods.” Gemma pointed towards the river.

  “And you would be?”

  Belatedly, Gemma fished in the pocket of her jacket for her identification. “Gemma James. Detective inspector with the Metropolitan Police. I’m a guest here as well.”

  If the officer was startled by this bit of information, she betrayed it only by the slight elevation of her eyebrows. She spoke unintelligibly into her radio before saying to Gemma, “Ma’am. Now, if you could just show me the deceased.”

  The journey across the garden and back through the woods seemed a nightmare to Gemma. Her legs began to feel as if they were mired in clay; the distance seemed to extend itself with each step. She stopped to point out the area of crushed ferns, then again to indicate where Hazel had vomited.

  “One of the other guests saw the body,” she explained, “before I could stop her. She was sick here, as I was taking her back to the house.”

  At the far edge of the woods, Gemma stopped, finding herself unable to go farther. “Just over there.” With a nod, she indicated the tussocks of heather hiding Donald.

  Gemma watched as the officer continued along the path, saw the moment of hesitation as the young woman came close enough to make sense of what she saw. But the officer went on, her posture more businesslike than ever, and squatted to make a cursory examination of the body. The yellow of her jacket stood out against the heather with the brilliance of a clump of gorse. She stood and spoke into her radio again before returning to Gemma.

  “We’re to wait here for the backup from Aviemore, ma’am,” she said grimly. Her skin had paled beneath her makeup.