Now May You Weep

by Deborah Crombie

  “Och, get away with ye, Rab Brodie,” said Livvy, more flattered than she would admit.

  Sobering, he said, “Seriously, Livvy, how are you getting on? Are you and Will managing on your own?”

  “Will’s been remarkable. Charles would have been so proud. But…” For the first time since Charles’s death, she gave in to the temptation to speak freely. “But I know this isn’t what Will wanted. It’s a good life, but Will’s had his choice made for him, and so early…We could hire a manager for the distillery, so that he could go to school in Edinburgh, but he won’t hear of it.”

  “He could do worse. There are not many men who have everything they want, Livvy.” Rab gazed at her directly until she looked away, uncomfortable.

  “If Charles hadn’t had the foresight to steer clear of Pattison’s,” Rab continued, making blue-purple swirls in the cream with his spoon, “you might have lost everything.”

  Livvy saw lines of strain in his face that she hadn’t noticed before. Leaning forward, she touched his hand. “I’ve heard rumors…about Benvulin…Is it really that bad?”

  He shrugged, his expression suddenly bleak. “We’ll manage, somehow. Margaret’s trying to raise some money from her uncle—not that she cares about the distillery, but she’ll not let her social status go so easily. At least it’s been a good summer; we’ll have barley to spare if we can stay in production.”

  Livvy took a breath. “Rab, if there’s anything we can do…”

  “Duncan!” Hazel came straight to him and he enfolded her in a hug. She clung to him, burying her face against his chest. Her dark curls just brushed his chin, and compared with Gemma’s, her frame felt delicate under his hands. He had never before thought of her as fragile.

  “Have you spoken to Tim?” Hazel asked as she let him go. “Gemma said you saw Holly—How is she?”

  “What shall I answer first?” he said with a smile, wanting to reassure her. “No, I haven’t talked to Tim today, and yes, I saw Holly, and she was full of mischief as usual.” Beyond Hazel, he saw Pascal glance at Heather in silent question, and Heather shrug in reply. Just how much did they have riding on Hazel’s response to Donald’s bequest? he wondered.

  Before he could speculate further, the door to the hall swung open and a gangly young man came hurriedly into the kitchen. Kincaid surmised that he must be John Innes’s younger brother, Martin, although he could see no resemblance.

  “It’s that policeman,” the young man said. “He’s here again.”

  There was an instant’s pause in the room, as if a film had frozen at a single frame. Then John turned back to the cooker, saying, a bit too loudly, “I suppose I’d better put the kettle on again.” Louise dropped the bough she’d been trimming into the sink and reached for a towel. Heather moved a little closer to Pascal’s chair.

  Only Hazel still stood without moving. “He won’t—He can’t take me in again, can he?” she whispered, her face pale.

  “I shouldn’t think so.” Kincaid gave her shoulder a squeeze and urged her towards the stool he had vacated. “Gemma must be talking to him now.”

  Then he heard voices from the hall, and Gemma came into the kitchen, followed by a solid, graying man in a rumpled suit, and a tall, thin man with a cadaverous face. The shorter man had an unmistakable air of authority.

  If he was going to pull rank, Kincaid thought, he had better do it now. He stepped forward, hand extended. “Chief Inspector Ross? My name’s Kincaid. Superintendent, Scotland Yard.” Someone in the room inhaled sharply, as if surprised at this news, but he couldn’t be sure of the source.

  As Ross gave him an assessing glance and a perfunctory handshake, Kincaid felt his usefulness being weighed, an unusual sensation. “If I can be of any help…,” he offered, and Ross made an indecipherable grumbling noise in his throat.

  “And why exactly are you here, Superintendent?” Ross asked, casting a look in Gemma’s direction.

  “Gemma—Inspector James—and I are personal friends of Mrs. Cavendish.”

  “So you came to lend your support? Verra thoughtful of you,” Ross said with only a slight grimace. It seemed he had decided to err on the side of caution. “But it’s actually not Mrs. Cavendish I’ve come to see,” he continued. “I’ve a wee matter to discuss with Mr. Innes. Sergeant”—he nodded at the tall man—“if ye’d be so good.”

  The other detective stepped forward, and Kincaid saw that he carried a folder. Ross took it from him and, clearing a space on the work island, laid the contents out before John Innes, large, glossy, color photos of a shotgun. “Is this your gun, Mr. Innes?”

  “Oh, Christ.” John Innes touched an unsteady finger to the top photograph. “I—It looks like it, yes. The scrollwork is fairly distinctive. But how—Where—”

  “We found it in the river, fifty yards or so downstream from the body. It’s possible the current dragged it along the bottom.”

  “No fingerprints, I suppose?” Kincaid asked, forgetting his role as observer in his interest.

  “No, just a few wee smudges.”

  “Had the gun been wiped before being submerged?”

  “It’s difficult to say, Mr. Kincaid.” Ross gave him a quelling glance. “But we can be sure that the gun used to kill Donald Brodie came from this house—”

  “You can’t be certain,” interrupted Gemma. “There’s no way to get an absolute ballistics match on a shotgun—”

  “Inspector James.” Ross scowled at her. “I find it verra unlikely that this gun just happened to end up in the river at the same time Donald Brodie was shot with a different small-bore gun.” He turned back to John. “Mr. Innes, you’ll need to come into the station to make a formal identification. You’ll also need to do a much better job of accounting for your time on Sunday morning.”

  John stared at him blankly. “But I’ve told you. I went to buy eggs—”

  “You didn’t arrive at the farm shop until seven o’clock, after the police had been called to the scene, and yet, according to your wife, you left home some time before Inspector James discovered the body.”

  “No!” Louise took a step towards John. “I said I wasn’t sure of the time. I didn’t look at the clock—”

  “How could ye not see the clock, Mrs. Innes?” Ross looked pointedly at the large-faced kitchen clock mounted on the wall above the table. “Especially when your business depends on keeping a schedule in the mornings?”

  “Don’t ye badger her,” said John, his fists clenching. “It’s nothing to do with Louise. I took a wee walk along Loch an Eilean, if ye must know. There’s no crime in that.”

  “Then why didn’t ye see fit to mention it?” Ross asked.

  “I didna think anything of it.” John appeared to be struggling for nonchalance. Louise was staring at him, her delicate brows lifted in surprise. “I often go there when I’ve an errand at the estate shop,” John added.

  “Did anyone see you?”

  “I didna notice. Wait—There was a couple walking their dog, an Alsatian.”

  “That’s very helpful of you, Mr. Innes,” said Ross, with scathing sarcasm. “I’m sure we’ll have no trouble verifying that. In the meantime, we’ve requested a warrant to have our forensics team go over your car—a Land Rover, isn’t it? But if you were to demonstrate your cooperation by turning it over voluntarily, it would make things easier for everyone concerned.”

  As John glanced at him in mute appeal, Kincaid began to realize just how awkward a position he and Gemma had got themselves into. After a moment’s hesitation, he nodded at John. Ross would have the car searched regardless, and John would do himself no good by trying to obstruct it.

  “All right,” said John, with a show of bravado. “Go ahead. I’ve nothing to hide.”

  “Good. That’s verra sensible of you.” Ross looked more weary than pleased. “Now, why don’t ye come with us to the station, and we’ll send a constable along to take charge of the car.”

  “Wait.” Louise stepped forward. “I want a
word with my husband, Chief Inspector.”

  “With all due respect, Mrs. Innes, I’d rather you didna do that until he’s amended his statement. If you have something different to tell us, I’d suggest you do it now.”

  Louise hesitated, glancing at John, then back at Ross. “No. I—It was nothing.”

  Sergeant Munro gathered the photos together, then stepped back, gesturing at John to precede him.

  As John reached the door, he called back, “The soup—Louise, you’ll see to the soup?”

  “Soup?” Louise wailed as the door swung shut. “How can he think of soup when—”

  A babble of voices broke out as everyone began to comment, drowning her words. Kincaid put a hand on her arm and guided her into a quieter corner of the room. “Louise,” he said softly, “do you know what John was doing yesterday morning—other than not walking around Loch an Eilean, whatever that is.”

  “It’s a local scenic spot, near the farm shop. John’s never mentioned walking there.” She looked baffled. “I’ve no idea where he could have been—I didn’t realize, until the chief inspector said, that he was away for so long.” Frowning, she added hesitantly, “But there have been other times lately when he’s disappeared without telling me, or been gone a good bit longer than an errand required.” She looked up at Kincaid, color suffusing her fair skin. “And once or twice, I’ve awakened in the night and found him gone. I thought—But it can’t have anything to do with Donald.”

  Kincaid was trying to think of some way to reassure her, a difficult proposition, as he had no idea what John Innes had been getting up to, when he realized Gemma had followed the detectives and John Innes from the room.

  “Louise, I’m sorry, but I’ve got to catch Gemma up. We’ll talk later, I promise.”

  He dashed through the house, and as he burst out the front door, he found his suspicions confirmed. John was safely tucked into the unmarked car with Sergeant Munro, and Gemma was standing in the drive, arguing with the chief inspector.

  As Kincaid came up to them, he heard her say, “You can’t rule out the possibility that someone outside the house had access to the gun—or that the gun was taken for another reason.”

  Ross seemed to be making a monumental effort to keep his temper in check. “And what reason would that be?”

  “What if someone wanted to cast suspicion on John, or on the household in general?”

  “Who?” Ross barked.

  “I don’t know,” countered Gemma, without the least sign of being intimidated. “But you can’t ignore Alison Grant and Callum MacGillivray. They both had motive, and neither had an alibi. And what about Tim Cavendish?”

  Ross shook his head in disbelief. “Do ye want your friend’s husband to be guilty of murder, lassie?”

  “No, of course not!” said Gemma, sounding less sure of herself. She turned to Kincaid, as if for confirmation. “I just want—”

  “Ye canna protect them all, lass. You must see that. Someone fired that shotgun into Donald Brodie’s chest, and the odds are that it was someone in this house. Ye canna hide from the fact. Why don’t ye take Mrs. Cavendish and go back to London? Ye’ll be weel out of it.”

  “I—”

  Whatever Gemma had meant to say was cut off by the ringing of Kincaid’s phone. “Sorry,” he said, turning away as he slipped the phone from his belt. It was about time Doug Cullen rang him back.

  But it was not Cullen, and as Kincaid listened, his surroundings faded until he was aware of nothing but the cold dread squeezing his chest.

  “No,” he said at last. “No. Don’t do anything yet. Let me make a few calls. I’ll ring you back.”

  As he hung up, he felt the feather brush of Gemma’s fingers against his arm. “Is it Tim?” she asked, clearly alarmed by his tone. “What’s happened? Has he—”

  “No.” Kincaid forced himself to breathe, to meet her eyes. “That was Wesley. It’s Kit. He’s disappeared.”

  16

  And I remember home and the old time,

  The winding river, the white morning rime,

  The autumn robin by the riverside,

  That pipes in the grey eve.

  —ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON, “The Family”

  KIT WALKED AIMLESSLY for hours, only vaguely aware of his surroundings, his mind playing and replaying the events of the morning. He had been finishing a last-minute piece of toast before school when the phone rang. Wesley had already left with Toby, and he’d assumed it was Wes calling from his mobile phone with a last-minute instruction.

  When he’d heard Ian’s voice on the other end of the line he’d whooped with surprise.

  “Dad! What are you doing ringing this time of morning? It must be the middle of the night in Canada.” He felt awkward now saying Dad, but what else could he call the man he’d thought of as his father for almost twelve years? Absently, he tossed the dogs their ball and watched them scramble after it.

  “It’s almost two,” said Ian, “a bit late for an old man like me, I’ll admit.” Kit thought he sounded slightly tipsy. “But I wanted to catch you before you left for school.”

  Kit felt a little clutch of fear, and the last bit of his toast seemed to stick on the way down. “Why? Is something wrong? You know about the letter?”

  “Yes, but that’s not why I called, Kit. And nothing’s wrong. In fact, I’ve got some rather good news to share with you. I wanted you to be the first to know.”

  Kit’s heart leaped. “You’re coming home? Back to Cambridge?”

  “Um, no.” Ian sounded suddenly hesitant. “It looks like I’ll be staying in Toronto permanently. There are two things I had to tell you, actually, Kit. The house in Grantchester finally sold.”

  Kit’s throat tightened. It was all he could do to speak. “That’s…good. That’s…that’s what you wanted.”

  “I know the idea’s going to be a little bit of an adjustment for you, but it had to be done. You do understand that, don’t you, Kit?”

  “Yeah, of course I do,” Kit said, trying very hard to sound as if he did. The dogs had come back to him, panting, Tess the proud possessor of the ball, but he ignored them.

  “I’ve got to make a new life. We both do.” Ian paused again, clearing his throat. “That’s the other thing I was going to tell you. That’s why I was up so late. I’ve been at a party, celebrating my engagement.”

  “Engagement?” Kit said blankly. In the moment’s silence, he heard the tick of the kitchen clock, and as he gazed at Gemma’s black and red teapot, the colors swam before his eyes.

  “She’s a wonderful girl, Kit. I know you’ll like her. Melinda—her name’s Melinda—is really looking forward to meeting you. Of course, she is a bit young for me.” Ian gave a chuckle. “But who am I to complain?”

  “You’re getting married?”

  “That’s what I’ve been telling you.” Ian’s patience sounded forced. “The first of July. Just a small ceremony—”

  “How can you be getting married?” Kit shouted, taking it in at last. “Mum’s only been dead a year—”

  “Kit! That’s enough,” snapped Ian. “Look,” he went on more gently, “I understand this is a shock, but you know your mother and I hadn’t been on good terms for a while before she…died. It’s time for me to move on, concentrate on the living. And this means you’ll have a new home, in Canada, when you come to visit.”

  “I don’t want—”

  “That’s the other thing, Kit. I know we’d talked about your coming at the end of June, when your term finishes, but Melinda and I will be on our honeymoon. I’m sure we can work something out later in the sum—”

  Kit didn’t hear the rest of Ian’s plan because he had, for the first time in his life, hung up on an adult in the middle of a conversation. When the phone rang again, he was walking out the door. It was only after he turned the corner that the insistent burring faded away.

  His feet had carried him along the familiar route to school of their own accord, but when he reached the gat
e he saw that the schoolyard was empty. The bell had rung, and it suddenly seemed to Kit as if walking into an already seated class and explaining his tardiness was a feat as far beyond him as walking on the moon.

  He had turned round and gone the other way, back through the quiet streets until he’d reached Notting Hill Gate, and then into Bayswater Road. At some point, he’d taken off his school blazer and stuffed it into his backpack, for it was warm, and he was aware of the stare of the occasional passerby wondering what a boy his age was doing out of school on a Monday morning.

  He kept thinking of some other family living in the cottage in Grantchester, but even though he’d stayed there again with Ian for a few months before moving to London, he couldn’t get a picture in his head that didn’t include his mother.

  For an instant, when he’d thought Ian might be coming back, he’d imagined living there again. Not that he wanted to leave Duncan and Gemma and Toby—not at all—but he missed his old school and his friends, especially Colin. He had belonged, and that belonging had been part of him, as were his memories of his life before his mum had died.

  Now it seemed Ian meant to take even that away from him. Kit didn’t want another family; he couldn’t bear to see Ian with another woman, a replacement for his mother. Was that why Ian had suggested the paternity test? Did he intend to put the past behind him, so that he could start his new life—his new family—unencumbered by the child he had never thought of as his own?

  Kit went on, putting one foot in front of the other automatically, and it was only when he looked up and saw Marble Arch that he realized he’d walked the whole length of Hyde Park. Turning, he looked back at the park, and the sight of the people walking their dogs made him think of Tess with a pang.

  But Tess would be all right, he assured himself. Wes would take care of her. He missed her, and Geordie, Gemma’s cocker spaniel, but he could not face going back to the Notting Hill house. He couldn’t sit calmly at the kitchen table and tell Wesley that his dad was getting married again. And what would he say when Duncan called, or Gemma? Even if he didn’t tell them about Ian, he would have to explain why he had missed school, and what sort of excuse could he possibly invent?