Now May You Weep

by Deborah Crombie

  “Oh, um, it’s complicated,” said Gemma, taken by surprise. “I was married before, and so was he, and neither of us was very successful at it. Maybe we’re afraid to jinx what we’ve got.”

  “And the son who played truant today, he doesn’t belong to both of you?”

  “He’s Duncan’s son from his first marriage. Toby, the four-year-old, is my son from my first marriage.” She couldn’t help thinking of the child they had lost, the little boy who would have been due any day now, if he had lived.

  “It sounds complicated,” said Louise, bringing Gemma back to the present. “Blending a family like that.”

  “Sometimes. But no more complicated than most families, I think.” Gemma saw an opportunity. “Louise, speaking of families, why do you dislike Martin so much? He is John’s brother, after all.”

  “Half brother,” Louise corrected, “and he presumes on it. He always has some sad story, although I don’t know the whole of it this time. John’s always taken care of himself—why should he feel obliged to bail Martin out of trouble time and again?” she added bitterly.

  “I suppose John feels responsible because Martin’s so much younger,” Gemma suggested, privately wondering if it had something to do with the fact that John and Louise had no children of their own. “Louise, are you sure you don’t have any idea where John was yesterday morning? Could it have had something to do with Martin?”

  Louise frowned. “I don’t see how. I saw John leave on his own, and Martin was here.”

  “You’d have seen Martin go out?”

  “Well,” Louise hesitated. “I think so. But I was working in the garden, and I was in and out of the shed, so I can’t be absolutely certain. And I can’t imagine what Martin and John would have been doing together at that time of the morning.”

  “Fishing?” Gemma said, remembering her conversation with Callum MacGillivray.

  Louise looked at her blankly. “What are you talking about? John doesn’t have time to fish.”

  “But Callum MacGillivray told me that he and John and Donald fished together.”

  “You’ve talked to Callum?” asked Louise, sounding surprised.

  “Earlier this afternoon, after I picked Duncan up at the station. I saw Alison Grant, the woman who came to see Donald on Saturday night, and she said it was Callum who told her Hazel would be here.”

  “And what did Callum tell you?”

  “He wanted to convince Alison that Donald wasn’t serious about her.” Gemma thought back to her conversation with Hazel in the dining room and saw an angle she hadn’t considered. “Louise, do you know if John knew Alison Grant?”

  The shadows from the spirit lamp flickered across Louise’s face, making it difficult for Gemma to read her expression. “If he did,” Louise said carefully, “he never told me.”

  Callum had sat through dinner with his aunt and his father in the farmhouse kitchen, picking at his food. From the worktop, Aunt Janet’s old black-and-white television had relayed the local news, and they had all watched, transfixed by the fuzzy images. The police had released Donald’s name, and the television producers had managed to unearth a tape showing Donald opening the previous year’s local Highland Games. This they had juxtaposed with footage of Benvulin, of the crowd milling about the gate at Innesfree, and of the white mortuary van turning out of Innesfree’s drive.

  It had made Callum’s throat tighten with renewed grief, and he thought with horror of Alison and Chrissy watching from their sitting room.

  His father, befuddled with gin, kept repeating, “Is that Donald Brodie? I thought you said he was dead.”

  “He is dead, Tom,” Janet said patiently. “That’s just a film.”

  Callum fought against a rising tide of hysteria, unsure whether he was going to laugh or sob. He forced himself to kiss his aunt’s cheek, and to nod a good night to his father, then he escaped into the stable yard with Murphy at his side.

  They had eaten unusually late, having waited for the vet to stop by to see one of the horses, and now the gathering dusk was pooling in the yard’s corners and crannies. Callum felt the cool darkness brush against his skin like velvet, and the scent of the river came to him for an instant. A curlew piped as it settled down for the night.

  He felt his love for the land, and for this place, as an ache lodged in his chest, and for the first time he saw clearly the futility of his desire to share it with Alison.

  How could he have been so stupid? It had to be bred in the bone, in the sinews, in the blood, and he could no more force it on someone else than he could take it out of himself.

  Chrissy, now, she was different. He had seen it in her eyes from the first, when Alison brought her to the stables. There was something about the way she stood so still, taking everything in, and in the expression of delight that slowly blossomed on her small, round face. She understood the language of the horses, and of the other animals; she listened when he told her the stories of the land, and of the men who had shaped it.

  There was so much he could have taught her, but he had lost that opportunity when he had turned Alison against him.

  Beside him, Murphy lifted his nose to the wind, sniffing, and the hackles rose along his back. Callum caught the scent a moment later, the faintest trace of cold metal and brine. The mild, clear evening was a treacherous deception—there was snow coming, and before long, if he was not mistaken.

  Snow in May was not unheard of in the Highlands, but always dreaded for the damage it did to plants and animals alike. Callum felt a chill worm its way down his spine, which had nothing to do with the weather, and he was suddenly eager for the close warmth of the cottage.

  He made a last circuit of the barn, checking on the horses, before going into the cottage and banking up the stove. He fetched a mug and the distinctive dark green bottle from the shelf above the sink, then settled himself in the worn armchair. This was not mellow, honeyed Benvulin, but Lagavulin from Islay, redolent of peat fires, coal tar, and sea winds. This was a night for a whisky that would scour the soul.

  Usually, he allowed himself only a dram in the evening—he had no wish to end up like his father. But tonight he poured an inch in the cup, stared at it, then poured another. The bottle felt unexpectedly light. He shook it experimentally, then upended it once more, splashing the last few drops into the mug.

  The first swallow bit into his throat, but after a moment he felt the familiar warmth spreading from his belly, erasing the cold as it coursed outwards towards his fingers and toes. He drank steadily, seeking the drowsy oblivion that would blot out thought and feeling.

  He had almost drained the cup when he realized something was wrong. A strange, cold numbness filled his mouth, then the room tilted sickeningly. This was not the soft blurring of edges that came with drinking good whisky, even too much good whisky. His heart gave a thump of panic, but it felt oddly separate from him. Placing his hands on the arms of the chair, he pushed himself up. The room spun, and then he was on his knees, without quite knowing how he had got there.

  Help, he thought fuzzily, he had to get help. But his mobile phone, his one concession to modernity, was still in the pocket of his jacket, and his jacket was hanging on a hook by the door.

  A wet, black nose pressed against his face. Murphy, thinking this was some sort of new game, had come to investigate. Callum pulled himself up again, carefully, carefully, using the dog and the chair for support. He managed to lurch halfway across the room before a wave of nausea brought him to his knees. He crawled the last few feet. Clutching at the jacket, he pulled it from its hook.

  But when he managed to pull the phone from the pocket, he found the numbers a wavering blur. In desperation, he stabbed at the keypad, following the pattern imprinted in his tactile memory.

  It was Chrissy who answered. Sickness filled Callum’s throat, but he managed to choke out a few words. “Chrissy…something wrong…whisky. Ill. Get your mum.”

  Then darkness overtook him, and he remembered nothing else.r />
  17

  So, as in darkness, from the magic lamp,

  The momentary pictures gleam and fade

  And perish, and the night resurges—these

  Shall I remember, and then all forget.

  —ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON,

  “To My Old Familiars”

  GEMMA SLIPPED INTO the double bed in the upstairs bedroom, alone. It was a pleasant room, the bed covered in a white, puffy duvet, the walls a deep, sea blue, the furniture simple farmhouse pine.

  Leaving the small bedside lamp switched on, she lay quietly, thinking over the events of the evening, feeling the starched coolness of the sheets against her skin.

  After their conversation in the shed, she’d insisted on helping Louise with the washing up. They had almost finished when they heard the sound of a car in the drive, and a moment later John appeared in the scullery door.

  “John! Thank God.” Louise had spun round, the last soapy dish in her hands. “Are you all right?”

  “Aye.” He came into the kitchen, then stopped, as if not quite sure what to do next. His shirttail had come untucked, his thinning hair stood on end, and to Gemma he seemed somehow shrunken, deflated.

  “What happened? What have they done to you?” asked Louise, but still she didn’t go to him.

  “They’ve done nothing but ask me the same questions until I was fit to go mad, and keep me from my dinner,” John told her wearily. “Is there soup left?”

  “I’ve just put it up.” Louise made a move towards the fridge, but he stopped her with a wave of his hand.

  “Och, never mind. I canna be bothered. A drink is what I need.”

  Gemma dried her hands and faced him. “What about the gun, John?” she asked.

  He met her eyes briefly, and nodded. “Aye, there’s no doubt. My grandfather’s initials are worked into the carving on the stock.”

  There was an awkward pause, and Gemma wondered if her presence was keeping them from speaking freely, or if the constraint in the atmosphere was due to John’s reluctance to discuss the interview with Louise.

  Louise broke the silence. “What about the car?” she asked matter-of-factly, turning back to the sink.

  “The chief inspector said they would return it in the morning, when they’ve finished their tests. He had a constable bring me back and drop me off with a ‘cheerio,’ as if we’d been for an ice cream. I’m that fed up with this business.”

  “Not as fed up as Donald Brodie,” Gemma said sharply. “We’re inconvenienced; Donald is dead.”

  “Oh, Christ. I’m sorry, Gemma.” John rubbed his hand across his darkly stubbled chin. “You’re right, and I’ve been a self-absorbed boor. But I’m still going to have that dram. You can consider it my wake for Donald.” With that, John had shambled out of the kitchen, presumably to join Kincaid and Martin in the sitting room.

  Louise stared after him, her lips compressed, and had only made the barest response to Gemma’s further attempts at conversation. Gemma could only guess at what was wrong between husband and wife. Did Louise suspect John of having something to do with Donald’s death? Or did she merely suspect John of having an affair, perhaps with Alison Grant? But why had Louise seemed surprised when Gemma had mentioned John fishing with Callum and Donald? She couldn’t imagine why John would have neglected to tell his wife such an innocent thing, nor could she see why Callum would have invented it.

  When Louise announced, a few minutes later, that she was going up to bed, Gemma bid her good night and wandered into the sitting room. A half-empty bottle of Benvulin stood on the low table between the men, who were sprawled in the tartan chairs in varying degrees of inebriation. John’s glass held a generous measure, and Martin’s face was already flushed from overconsumption, but Kincaid, although a bit more bright-eyed than usual, seemed little the worse for wear.

  “I’m not giving up until I get Ian on the phone,” Kincaid told Gemma when she perched on the arm of his chair. “His secretary’s promised he’ll be back in his office within the hour. If you want to turn in, I’ll join you as soon as I can.”

  “No, stay, have a drink.” John, apparently having recovered enough to play the host, started to get up, but Gemma shook her head. Guessing that Kincaid meant to take advantage of the whisky-induced male bonding, she’d retired gracefully from the field.

  But now, as she lay in bed, she realized how much she had missed Duncan, and how much she’d been looking forward to time alone with him.

  A wave of homesickness swept over her. Earlier in the evening, she’d called to talk to Wes and Toby, and Toby, after the momentary excitement of getting a phone call, had begun to cry. As much as he loved Wesley, he missed her and Duncan and Kit, and she was sure he had absorbed Wesley’s anxiety over Kit’s absence that afternoon. She’d done her best to reassure him, but now the sound of his small, tearful voice came back to haunt her.

  Then there was Kit—was he all right at Nathan’s? And what could have prompted him to run away? He was ordinarily a thoughtful and considerate boy; he must have been dreadfully upset to do something he knew would make them frantic with worry. She wished she could talk to him, but she’d agreed with Kincaid to wait until they had spoken to Ian.

  At some point in her catalog of concerns she must have drifted off to sleep, her worries over her own family mutating into a dream of Holly, calling for her mother, and of Tim, reaching out for the child with bloody hands.

  She woke with a gasp to a darkened room, and the feel of Duncan sliding into bed beside her. He smelled faintly of whisky, and his bare skin was cold. “What—what time is it?” she said groggily, trying to sit up.

  “Shhh. It’s late. I was trying not to wake you.” He wrapped his arms round her.

  “I didn’t mean to fall asleep.” Awareness came flooding back as the nightmare images melted away. “What about Ian? Did you talk to him?”

  “I did.” There was an edge of anger in Kincaid’s voice. He rolled onto his back and stuffed a pillow under his head. “I was going to wait till morning to tell you, as I don’t think it will improve your sleep.”

  Ian had never been an ideal parent, even before Vic’s death, and Gemma had learned not to place too much confidence even in his good intentions. “Oh, no,” she whispered, heart quailing. “What’s he done now?”

  “It took me a while to pry it out of him. Apparently, he realized he’d made a royal cock-up of things, after Kit hung up on him. First, he told Kit that the cottage in Grantchester had sold, which I think Kit could have dealt with, given a bit of time. He was expecting it, after all.

  “But then Ian dropped the real bomb. He told Kit that he’s getting married again, in July, and he canceled Kit’s visit because he’s going to be on his honeymoon.”

  “Married?” repeated Gemma, wondering if she’d heard correctly.

  “Married. To a twenty-something Toronto socialite, one of his graduate students. Not that Ian doesn’t have the right to get married again,” Kincaid added, “but he could have broken the news to Kit a little more gently, and taken his feelings into consideration when he made the arrangements.”

  Gemma sat up in bed and pushed her hair from her face. “That’s much too charitable. He’s a bastard. Doesn’t he realize that Kit’s been planning this visit since Ian left for Toronto in December? To snatch that away from him would have been blow enough, after the letter from Eugenia, but to add marriage and a new stepmother on top of that—”

  “I asked him if he could rearrange the wedding around Kit’s visit, but he said Melinda’s family had already made their plans.”

  “Melinda?” Gemma squeaked. “God, I hate her already. What are we going to do?”

  “What can we do? We have no control over Ian—”

  “We have to get legal custody of Kit,” interrupted Gemma, with the decisiveness born of fury. “Ian has done enough damage; we have to make sure he can’t suddenly decide he wants to impress this Melinda by moving Kit to Canada, or something equally daft. We ha
ve to insist on the DNA testing. Doesn’t Kit realize we only want what’s best for him?”

  “Can you blame Kit for not trusting us, after twelve years with Ian?” Kincaid turned on his side and propped himself on his elbow so that he could look at her. “Gemma—you don’t have any doubt, do you? That Kit is my son, and not Ian’s?”

  The moonlight spilled through the gap in the curtains, illuminating his face clearly and revealing a vulnerability he seldom expressed. His hair fell across his brow in a familiar question mark. Gemma reached up and brushed it back with a fingertip. “No. You can’t see what I see, when the two of you are together. And it’s not just the physical resemblance—it’s in a gesture, a movement, an expression.”

  He nodded, once, then frowned. “But why should it make any difference? I don’t mean for the obvious reasons, the custody issue, but in the way I feel. Why does it matter so much to me?”

  “Maybe it’s just human nature,” Gemma said softly. “The desire for connection.”

  “Yes.” He reached for her, pressing her back until her head touched the pillow, then rolled over and pinned her beneath him. “I’d agree with that.” There was an unexpected hint of laughter in his voice.

  “I didn’t mean—”

  “I know you didn’t.” Taking her face in his hands, he brushed his lips down her cheek until he reached the corner of her mouth. “But I do.”

  From the Diary of Helen Brodie, Benvulin, 1 November 1899

  If I have neglected this journal in these past few weeks, my justification lies in the events that have overtaken the household. Margaret has once again taken to her bed, although the doctor can find no ailment. When he reproved her for feasting on sweetmeats rather than nourishing foods, she sent him away in a fit of pique, calling him useless—a case, I must say, of the pot calling the kettle black.

  It is not so much that Margaret contributes to the household when she is up and about, but that her malingering causes much extra work and disruption for everyone else, particularly the servants.