Now May You Weep

by Deborah Crombie

  “Did Tim know about your past relationship with Donald?”

  “Well, yes,” Hazel admitted. “I’d told him a little when we first met. You know how you do, recounting life stories. That was why he never liked me to talk about Scotland, or the past.”

  “So Tim’s always been jealous?” Gemma asked, her unease growing.

  “I suppose you could say that,” Hazel agreed reluctantly. “Although I never really thought of it that way. It wasn’t like he thought every man I met was trying to have it off with me.”

  “Just Donald,” Gemma said flatly. “But he didn’t say anything when you told him you’d planned to come back to the Highlands for the weekend?” When Hazel shook her head, Gemma added, “Did he seem as usual before you left?”

  “I suppose so. A little edgy, maybe,” Hazel admitted. “But I know Tim would never hurt anyone. No matter what I did.” Hazel’s voice held just a touch too much conviction.

  The road had dipped, risen again, and now ran through a cleft of rock that looked as if it had just been scooped out by a giant hand. Then, to Gemma’s surprise, a valley opened before them. At its bottom flowed a river, willow lined, pasture flanked, a scene of pastoral perfection set amid the blasted moor.

  “Where are we?” Gemma asked, glad to change the subject.

  “It’s the River Avon. Some of the best fishing in the Highlands. Donald and I used to come here. He always liked to picnic,” Hazel added, her voice expressionless. “How typical of the man—he could seat twenty in his dining room, but his ideal meal was outside on a blanket. It was the whole Victorian legacy, the gentry sporting in the fresh air.”

  “Was that so bad?”

  “Donald’s family were farmers originally, like mine. It was just that they gave themselves airs.” Hazel fell silent, picking at her pullover again, and Gemma sensed constraint between them.

  “Hazel, about Tim—It’s just that when something like this happens, you have to consider all the possibilities.”

  “You may, but I don’t, and that’s one I refuse to think about. It’s just not possible.”

  “Hazel—”

  “Look, we’re coming into Tomintoul,” Hazel said, and Gemma realized there was no point arguing with her.

  Glancing about her, she had an impression of a village built all of a piece, set round an airy square, a little island of civilization in the wide expanse of moorland.

  “It’s the highest village in Scotland,” Hazel continued. “Built by the duke of Gordon after the Battle of Culloden, when this was still a major military thoroughfare for the Hanoverian armies.” She pointed ahead, towards the end of the village. “You turn left at the junction.”

  “Carnmore is farther still?” Gemma heard the hint of dismay in her voice, and saw Hazel’s fleeting smile.

  “Another ten miles. Often in winter you can’t get from Tomintoul to the Braes. And the stretch of road that runs through the Lecht Pass, between Tomintoul and Cock-bridge, is the first in Scotland to be blocked by snow every winter.” This said Hazel with the native’s pride in extreme weather.

  Gemma took the turn Hazel indicated, and within moments, the village disappeared from her rear view as if it had never been. “Didn’t you go mad, snowed in for months at a time?”

  “No. I loved it, to tell the truth. It’s as if the world shrinks…everything seems more focused somehow…Life can be hard here, but people are amazingly tough and self-reliant—at least until you uproot them. My father—” Hazel shook her head. “It wasn’t so bad for my mother when they left here; she came from Braemar, near Balmoral. But my father had spent all his life in the Braes. I watched him wilt and die, and I swore that would never happen to me.”

  “Is that why you were so determined to sever your connections, why you didn’t keep in touch with Heather, or come back to visit?”

  “Poor wee girl,” Hazel said softly. “She was always intense; even as a child, she took things to heart. And she loved Carnmore with a passion rare in a child, even more than I did, I’m afraid. I don’t think she ever forgave my father—or me.”

  “But if your father had no choice—”

  “Adult choices don’t mean much to a child. And choice is relative, isn’t it? There was a slump in the whisky industry, yes, but my grandfather, Will, survived much worse without giving up.”

  Glancing at her friend, Gemma said, “You never forgave your father, either.”

  Hazel considered this. “No, I suppose I didn’t. We Scots are notorious for holding grudges.”

  “That’s the first time I’ve ever heard you refer to yourself as a Scot.”

  Hazel didn’t meet her gaze. “Here’s the Pole Inn, the last outpost of civilization as you enter the Braes. You’ll turn to the right.”

  A beckoning wisp of smoke rose from the chimney of the pub, but Gemma obeyed Hazel’s direction. They entered a single-track road that wound round a conifer-covered hill, then followed a bubbling stream through farm pastures and into the small hamlet of Chapeltown. There was a scattering of houses, a church that Gemma assumed gave the village its name, and a whitewashed distillery. Pointing, she said, “Is this—”

  “No. That’s Braeval. Built by Chivas Regal in the seventies, to make whisky for their blends. Unlike Carnmore, they could weather the changes in the market, with corporate might behind them.”

  “And the church?”

  “Our Lady of Perpetual Succor. Built on an old site around the turn of the century. This was a Catholic stronghold,” Hazel explained. “A haven for Jacobites and smugglers.”

  “Smugglers?” asked Gemma, intrigued. “What did they smuggle?” The paved road had come to an end, and at Hazel’s affirmative nod, she nervously eased the car along a rutted track that seemed destined to dead-end in the hills rising before them.

  “Illegal whisky. These are the Ladder Hills; they’re honeycombed with smugglers’ paths. We used to follow them in the summer…Heather and I, always hoping to find a working still. It was our version of cowboys and Indians—smuggler and excise man.”

  “Were your family Catholic, then?” asked Gemma, thinking about what Hazel had told her.

  “Nominally, yes. But my grandfather Will didn’t hold with religion, so my father wasn’t brought up in the church, and my mother was Presbyterian.”

  “Did you know your grandfather?”

  “No. I wish I had. But he married late, and my father and uncle weren’t born until he was in his fifties. He died before I was born.”

  They passed farms, their yards filled with rusting implements, as the track twisted and turned, following the curve of the hill.

  Then, as they rounded a bend, a house and outbuildings appeared before them, white-harled, tucked into the fold of the hill Hazel said was called Carn More. “There it is,” she whispered now. “Carnmore.”

  Gemma climbed out of the car, looking curiously about her. On closer inspection, she saw that both the house and the distillery buildings behind it were unoccupied. No smoke came from the chimneys; broken windowpanes gaped like eyes; nettles covered what had once been a neatly cobbled yard.

  Hazel stood staring at the desolation, hugging herself as if she were cold. “I’d no idea it would be so bad.” She sounded appalled. “Donald and I came here once, but my father was still alive then, and the house was rented.”

  “Your father didn’t sell the property?”

  “People don’t move into the Braes,” Hazel said dryly. “If they’ve any sense, they move out.”

  Gemma turned to her in surprise. “Hazel, do you still own this place?”

  “Oh, God. I suppose I do. I never went through all the papers when mother died…I couldn’t face it. Tim took care of things—” She saw Gemma’s look and shook her head. “Tim couldn’t have sold it without my knowledge, if that’s what you’re thinking. And besides, it’s not worth anything.”

  “Except to you.”

  Hazel gave a rueful shrug. “I’d never have admitted that…until now.”
She tried the door of the farmhouse, found it still locked, then peered in the windows. “There’ll be water damage, at the least.”

  “What about the distillery?” Unlike Benvulin, the buildings looked basic and uncompromising, built for the work they were meant to do without thought for aesthetic appeal. There were no charming, pagoda-roofed kilns here.

  “Dad sold off all the equipment to other distilleries, and the stock, of course. These buildings are just husks now, without any heart. Donald had dreams, I think, that when we were—that if we were married, we might restore it together.” Hazel walked slowly towards the distillery, and Gemma followed.

  The sun peeped in and out of a building bank of cloud, making shadows race across the hills, and birds called out in the heather. Hazel stopped by a rowan tree that stood midway across the yard, fingering the leaves. “I always loved the rowans, especially in the fall.”

  “Hazel, you said Donald’s father didn’t approve of your relationship. It sounds as though you and Donald talked of marriage—Were you actually engaged?”

  “Ah, there’s the rub,” said Hazel with an effort at irony, but her eyes reddened. “For a day, a glorious day, ring and all. Then Donald took me home to meet his father.

  “Bruce Brodie’s temper was notorious, with good reason. Not only did he tell me quite literally never to darken his doorstep again, he told Donald he’d disinherit him if he went through with the marriage. It was more than bluster—he meant it, and Donald saw that he meant it.”

  “And then?” Gemma prompted gently, when Hazel didn’t continue.

  “Donald hesitated. I saw the terror in his face—I knew what it would mean to him to lose Benvulin. And I knew that if I forced him into such a choice, he would never forgive me. I couldn’t live with that.” Hazel turned to Gemma, a plea in her voice. “You can see that, can’t you?”

  “You left, didn’t you?” said Gemma, understanding. “You never gave him the chance to choose.”

  “I felt I couldn’t bear it either way. To be rejected outright, or to cost him what he held most dear. But he told me—” Hazel stopped and took a breath. “Donald told me, on Saturday night, that he had refused his father. He told Bruce to go to hell, and he came after me, but I was gone. If I had—”

  “No.” Gemma took Hazel by the shoulders and gave her a shake. “Don’t go there. You can’t know what might have been. You did what you thought best at the moment.” As she thought back over the time she’d spent with Donald Brodie, she added, “And for what it’s worth, I think you were right. Donald may not have been happy without you, but he wouldn’t have been whole without Benvulin, either. It was his father that was at fault, not you or Donald. But what did Bruce Brodie have against you, against your family?”

  “I don’t know,” said Hazel. “But I always suspected Donald knew more than he told me.”

  They drove back to the bed-and-breakfast in silence, Gemma growing more anxious as the morning progressed and her mobile phone did not ring.

  They stopped only once, for a quick lunch at a tearoom on one of the local estates.

  “Changing times,” commented Hazel, gazing out at the garden center and wildlife trails visible from the café windows. “This was a grand place when I was a child, but these days they do what they have to in order to survive.”

  “Could your father have stayed at Carnmore, if he’d been willing to compromise, perhaps by selling an interest to one of the big distillers?” Gemma asked thoughtfully as she nibbled at her sandwich.

  “I don’t know. I think it would have proved inevitable at some point.”

  “And inevitable for the Brodies, as well?”

  “Benvulin has had a charmed life—the Brodies have a history of overextending, of making poor financial decisions, but somehow they’ve always managed to hang on by the skin of their teeth. I suppose it was a combination of stubbornness and the ability to turn a blind eye to reality, neither of which my father had. I’ll hate to see Benvulin lose its character.” Hazel’s eyes filled with the tears she had not shed at Carnmore.

  When they returned to Innesfree, Hazel went straight to their room, saying she intended to rest. Gemma sought out Louise, whom she found in the back garden with a hand trowel, trying furiously to repair the damage done to the lawn by the police vehicles.

  No, Louise confirmed, no one had rung the B&B with a message for her. The police forensics team was still working in the house itself, and search teams were still combing the river meadow.

  According to Louise, Heather and Pascal were at the distillery, and John had taken Martin to Grantown on some undisclosed errand. “I can’t do anything in the house,” Louise had complained, wiping a muddy hand across her brow. “And I’ve had to cancel all our bookings for the next week. A death in the family, I told them. How could I explain what’s happened? And there’s no way of knowing how much longer this will go on.” She sat back on her heels, her eyes widening as she seemed to realize what she’d said. “Oh, God. I must sound horribly selfish. It’s just that—I know how trivial it is compared to Donald’s death, but it’s been hard to get this place going, and we’ve just begun to get on our feet the last few months. We were fully booked for the first time, and now—” Her gesture took in the police cars parked in the drive.

  “I understand,” Gemma told her. “Life goes on, and most people feel guilty because they can’t suddenly stop being concerned with it. But it’s perfectly normal.”

  “Thanks.” Louise reached up and squeezed Gemma’s hand. “You’ve been a great help. Without your calming influence, I think we’d all have gone round the bend. We might yet,” she added, attempting a smile. “You are bringing your friend back for dinner, aren’t you?”

  “Duncan?” Gemma had told John and Louise that morning that Kincaid was coming up from London, to “lend a bit of moral support,” but she hadn’t reminded them of his rank. “Yes, I suppose so. I hadn’t really thought about it. Are you sure it’s not too much trouble?”

  “John has something special planned. That’s his way of coping with things, poor love, and I’m afraid we’ve not been very cooperative. Heather’s going home tonight, and Pascal intends to stay at Benvulin. He feels someone should be there until the lawyers get things sorted out, and Heather just didn’t feel up to it.”

  “That’s kind of him. But then I take it his interest is more than personal?”

  “Well, we have wondered,” said Louise. “I mean, Heather and Pascal have become quite friendly recently. But I can’t imagine she’d have got involved with anything that would have harmed Benvulin. She and Donald were so close…”

  “Was there ever a romantic attachment between them?”

  “Not that I know of. But, of course, Heather had worked for Donald a long time before John and I came here.”

  Dropping down beside Louise, Gemma idly smoothed the turf with her fingers. “But then, you knew Donald before, when he and Hazel were together. Tell me, did Hazel and Heather have any contact in those days?”

  Louise frowned, then said slowly, “I remember seeing Heather once or twice, but I think she must have been away at university then.”

  “What about Heather’s father?” asked Gemma, recalling her conversation with Heather the previous day. “Did you ever meet him?”

  “No. I think he worked for one of the big whisky distributors, but I always had the impression that he wasn’t terribly successful.”

  Not in a way that had mattered to Heather, thought Gemma, because he’d been unable—or unwilling—to save Carnmore, and that seemed to be the criterion on which Heather had based all judgments.

  Gemma had felt an unexpected sense of kinship with the woman when they talked yesterday, but could she trust her own instincts? And could she trust what Heather had told her, including her identification of the woman who had come to see Donald on Saturday night?

  It was all jumbled up together: Donald’s relationships, Hazel’s family, the distilleries. Gemma knew there was a pattern, if
only she could get enough perspective to see it. Suddenly she wondered about Martin Innes—how did he fit in?

  “Louise, I can see why Pascal would stay on, but what about Martin? When is he going back to Dundee?”

  “You’ll have to ask him.” Louise looked irritated again. “I can’t imagine why he would want to stay, after what’s happened. But as we’ve had to cancel the next few days’ bookings, John doesn’t seem inclined to boot him out of the room. I’m surprised at his sudden attack of brotherly affection.”

  She would ask Martin, Gemma thought, as soon as she had the chance. But in the meantime, she could get to Aviemore with an hour to spare before Kincaid’s train, if she left now. Standing, she said, “Louise, I’ve got to go. Could you keep an eye on Hazel for me? See if she needs anything?” The thought of Tim Cavendish nagged at her.

  She made up her mind that, no matter how disloyal it felt, as soon as Kincaid arrived they would have a word with Chief Inspector Ross about Tim’s whereabouts over the weekend.

  When she reached Aviemore, she parked in the now-familiar car park and, with only a glance at the police station, began to investigate the shops along the main street. A gift shop, Heather had said, but gift shop was a loose term, and she made two false starts before she struck gold.

  Tartan Gifts could not be described as anything other than a gift shop, she thought as she peered in the window at the tartan tea cozies and heather-emblazoned coasters. And she recognized the young woman behind the cash register, last seen in the shadows of the drive at Innesfree.

  There were a few people in the shop, so Gemma went in, pretending to browse while surreptitiously examining her quarry. She had the pale, unfinished look of a woman unaccustomed to going without makeup, her blond hair appeared carelessly combed, and her eyes were swollen and red-rimmed. This was one instance, Gemma realized, when she would not have to be the bearer of bad news.

  When the other customers had made their purchases and gone out, Gemma approached the register and said quietly, “Are you Alison? Alison Grant?”