Now May You Weep

by Deborah Crombie

  And then there are the children. Since poor little Miss Andrews left so precipitously for London last summer, they have been without governess or tutor, allowed to run wild about the estate without discipline or routine. Little Robert had begun to show signs of temper, and Meg of aping her mother’s vapors.

  At last, I felt compelled to take matters into my own hands, and have hired a governess, a young woman of good family from Edinburgh, with whom I am well pleased. She has instituted a schedule of study for the children, with set times for lessons, music, drawing, and play. The change has been little short of miraculous. Within the space of a fortnight, the children have begun to show an improvement in character.

  Rab, of course, seconded my decision, although he could not be pressed into taking the matter in hand himself. To give him his due, he has been much occupied with the distillery. Despite his frequent trips to Edinburgh and Glasgow in search of profitable connections, our situation has steadily worsened. Although our own barley harvest this autumn was more than sufficient to keep up pro-duction, our stock sits in the warehouses, unsold. The loss of Pattison’s distribution has been a devastating blow, and I fear that before the winter is out we will be without the funds to pay even the distillery workers.

  I cannot help but wonder at the sudden blossoming of friendship between Rab and Olivia Urquhart. Not that I would suspect my brother of an ulterior motive, but I know how much he both admires and envies the manner in which Carnmore has weathered this financial storm.

  It is, perhaps, a blessing that Margaret felt herself unable to attend the Hallowe’en festivities given by one of the Laird of Grant’s tenants yesterday evening. Livvy and her son had come down from Carnmore for the night, taking advantage of the fair weather for one last sortie out of the Braes before inclement weather closes them in.

  Adults and children alike participated in the reels and apple dooking and crowdie supping with much hilarity. Amongst all the activities, there was much sharing of glances and touching of hands for those inclined to flirtation.

  Margaret, for all her indolence, is sharp-eyed, and she could not have failed to notice the attraction between Livvy Urquhart and my brother. Petty vengeance is certainly within Margaret’s capacity, and she does possess the social connections required to set such retribution in motion.

  Of Rab’s reputation I have no fear—men of our station have always regarded widows as fair game. Livvy Urquhart, however, seems an innocent, unaware of the precipice looming beneath her feet. She has not the social position or the élan to carry off such an intrigue and would, I fear, reduce herself to the pathetic. And what of her son? What will it do to his prospects if his mother compromises herself?

  Or are these only idle fancies brought on by the lateness of the hour, and given rein by the self-indulgence of expressing myself within these pages. Why should I, after all, begrudge my brother a bit of happiness, inside or out of the social conventions? Is it merely the sour envy of a spinster turned nearly forty years of age, with all hope of such companionship behind her?

  Alas, it might be better so, but my heart tells me there is substance to my fears, and that we shall all rue the consequences of Charles Urquhart’s untimely death.

  “Mummy!”

  Alison woke instantly, a mother’s response to a child in distress. It was still dark as pitch in the bedroom, but she could feel Chrissy shaking her shoulder. “Baby, what’s wrong? Are you sick?” She reached up and switched on the lamp, blinking against the sudden brightness.

  Chrissy knelt beside her on the bed, fully dressed, even to her trainers. “No, it’s not me,” said Chrissy. “It’s Callum. Mummy, you have to get up.”

  “Oh, Chrissy, no. Don’t ye start that again.” They’d had a huge row earlier in the evening. Chrissy had answered the phone, then come to her with some tall tale about Callum saying he was ill. Assuming this was some strategy on Callum’s part to get back in her good graces, Alison had refused to give any credence to it, and she’d been furious that he’d use such tactics on a child.

  When Chrissy had added that Callum had said there was something wrong with his whisky, and then the phone had gone dead, Alison had considered her theory proved. She’d ignored Chrissy’s pleas and sent her to bed.

  “I tried to ring him back,” Chrissy said now. “He didn’t answer.”

  “Well, of course he didn’t answer.” Alison looked at the clock and groaned. “It’s past one in the morning.”

  “No, I’ve been trying ever since you went to bed. I couldn’t sleep.”

  “Why, you wee sneak—”

  “Mummy, please!” Chrissy insisted, her face pinched with misery. “I know something’s wrong. Callum didn’t sound like himself at all, and I could hear Murphy whining in the background. Please. We have to go.”

  “If you think I’m going to drive out to that bloody stable in the middle of the night…,” began Alison, but she didn’t finish her well-worn tirade. Doubt had begun to set in. She had never seen her daughter so adamant, and Chrissy was not one for dramatics. What if—what if there was a remote possibility that Chrissy was right?

  She could ring the police, she supposed—that would be the logical thing—but what would she say to them? That her nine-year-old daughter had told her that Callum MacGillivray had poisoned himself on bad whisky? They would think she’d gone off her head, and the same applied to ringing Callum’s aunt Janet.

  “Mummy—”

  “Oh, all right.” Alison peeled back the duvet and scooted Chrissy aside. She was desperate for a fag now, which meant going outside. At least a run in the car would give her a chance to smoke. “But just remember, you owe me big-time for this.”

  Chrissy gulped back a sob of relief and smiled.

  “Right, go get your coat, then, while I get some clothes on.” God, she was daft, thought Alison as she hurriedly pulled on jeans and boots, as daft as Callum MacGillivray. She had not much petrol in her car, which was unreliable at the best of times; she had no mobile phone, because she couldn’t afford one; and she had to open the shop in the morning, which meant being at work a half hour early.

  She was worse than daft, she was mental.

  Chrissy met her at the door, bundled into her pink anorak and carrying the small torch they kept in case of power failures. “Good girl,” Alison told her, giving her a squeeze as they started down the stairs.

  For a moment, she thought her old car would let her down, but the engine caught on the second try. The night had turned cold, but not so cold that Chrissy’s teeth should be chattering. As they drove north out of Aviemore on the deserted road, Alison cranked up the heater, saying, “It’ll be okay, baby. You’ll see.”

  Chrissy said quietly, “Mummy, when you told that policeman that Callum killed Donald, you didn’t mean it, did you?”

  “No,” Alison admitted after a moment’s thought. “I don’t suppose I’d be here if I did, not even to please you.”

  “Then why did you tell them he did?”

  Alison shrugged. “Because I was angry with him. And because I was angry that Donald was dead.” But…if she didn’t believe Callum had killed Donald, who had? And what if that person had meant to hurt Callum, too? He’d told Chrissy there was something wrong with his whisky—what if it had been poisoned?

  Alison’s pulse began to beat in her throat, and she pushed harder on the accelerator, praying that she was wrong, that it was a hoax, after all.

  The road seemed to swoop and curve endlessly through the darkness, but at last Alison saw the stable’s sign. She turned into the drive and stopped, halfway between the farmhouse and Callum’s cottage. Both were in darkness.

  “Okay, right,” Alison muttered as they got out of the car. The bowl of the sky seemed enormous above them, and the silence of the night pressed down like a weight. Then a dog barked, a crack of sound in the darkness, and she and Chrissy both jumped.

  “It’s Murphy.” Chrissy started towards the cottage, holding the torch out in front of her like
a sword.

  “Here. You let me go first,” hissed Alison, catching her up and taking the torch. They could hear the dog clearly now, whining and scrabbling at the cottage door, but no light appeared in the window. If Callum were all right, wouldn’t the dog have woken him?

  When they reached the cottage door, Alison pushed Chrissy firmly behind her. “You stay back until I tell you.” Taking a breath, she called out, “Callum! Are you in there?” There was no response except more frantic whining from the dog.

  Alison tried the latch. It gave easily, but the door only opened an inch. Something was blocking it. She pushed steadily until Murphy’s black nose appeared in the gap, and a moment later the dog had wriggled out. He jumped at them, whimpering, and Chrissy wrapped her arms around his sleek, black neck.

  “Stay back,” Alison instructed her again, and eased her body through the opening. The stench hit her like a wave—vomit and whisky. She clamped her hand to her mouth, swallowing hard, and shone the torch down at the object blocking the doorway.

  It was Callum. He lay on his side, his head only inches removed from the pool of vomit. “Oh, bloody Christ,” whispered Alison. Was he dead? She couldn’t see his face.

  Squatting, she grasped his shoulder and called his name. “Callum!” When he didn’t respond, she forced herself to touch the exposed skin of his neck. His flesh felt slightly warm, but he didn’t move. Alison leaned closer, listening. She thought she heard a faint, snoring breath.

  “Mummy?” Chrissy called from outside.

  “Hold on, baby,” Alison shouted back. Bloody hell, she had to get some light, so that she could see what she was doing. She stood, searching for a light switch, then remembered Callum hadn’t any electricity. “Daft sodding bugger,” she muttered, scanning the room with the torch. There, on the table, was a paraffin lamp. It looked just like the one her granny in Carrbridge had had when she was a child.

  She checked the lamp’s reservoir. Empty. But the beam of the torch showed her a paraffin tin near the stove, and she quickly filled the lamp. She lit the wick with the lighter she carried in her pocket and stood back as the bloom of warm light illuminated the cottage.

  Callum lay with one arm beneath him, the other curled over his head. A foot from his hand, she glimpsed the metallic gleam of his phone, but when she snatched it up, she saw that the battery had died. She knew that Callum only charged it in the van.

  Swearing under her breath, she hurried to the door and slipped through. “Here, Chrissy. You take the torch. Go up to the big house and wake Callum’s auntie. Tell her to ring for an ambulance.”

  Chrissy stared back at her, eyes enormous in her pale face. “But—Is he all right?”

  “I don’t know, love,” Alison answered honestly. “We need to get help, a doctor. Go. Hurry.”

  Nodding, Chrissy started towards the farmhouse, her gait more uneven than usual over the rough ground. The dog, however, sat down by the door, accusing Alison with his gaze.

  “What do ye expect me to do?” she said aloud, but she went back into the cottage. She was afraid to move Callum, afraid she might somehow make him worse. But she could cover him—that she remembered from her school first-aid lessons. Taking the tartan blanket from his narrow bed, she carefully laid it over him.

  Her next instinct was to clean up after him, but as she went to the sink for a cloth, realization hit her. If there had been something wrong with the whisky, she shouldn’t touch anything. She saw the green glass bottle on the tabletop, and on the floor beneath it, a pottery mug tipped on its side.

  She’d never known Callum to drink much, and certainly not to the point of being insensible. God, why hadn’t she listened to Chrissy? Callum was daft, and aggravating, but he had never lied to her—he’d only shown her things she didn’t want to see.

  Why had she thought he would invent an illness just to get her sympathy? He’d called her for help, and she’d refused him the kindness she’d have given freely to a stranger in the street.

  If he died, she would never forgive herself. Worse yet, Chrissy would never forgive her.

  18

  It’s ill to break the bonds that God decreed to bind,

  Still we’ll be the children of the heather and the wind.

  Far away from home, O, it’s still for you and me

  That the broom is blowing in the north countrie!

  —ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON, from a poem written to

  Katharine de Mattos,

  with a copy of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde

  GEMMA PULLED HERSELF from Kincaid’s arms reluctantly, loath to leave the cocoon of rumpled sheets and the scent of sleep-sweet skin for the harsh reality of day. But a cold, gray light shone mercilessly in through the window, and the house was stirring around them.

  “What is it about holiday beds?” she asked, yawning. “It’s never so hard to get up at home.”

  Kincaid regarded her seriously. “It probably has something to do with the fact that you kept me up half the night.”

  “Me?” She threw a pillow at him. “It was you kept me up!” When he covered his face with it in mimed sleep, she retaliated by snatching the duvet right off the bed.

  “Hey, what do ye think ye’re doin’, hen?” he grumbled, in fair Scots.

  She stared at him in surprise. “Where did you learn that?”

  “I’m a man of hidden talents.” He grinned at her, reclaiming the duvet. “And you haven’t met my father. We really should remedy that someday soon.”

  Gemma sat on the edge of the bed. “We should. I’d like to see your mum again. And Kit would love it—Toby, too, of course.” She hesitated, then added, “About Kit…Will we ring him this morning and make arrangements to get him home?”

  Kincaid sobered. “I’ve been thinking. This business with Ian is not something I want to discuss with him over the phone—it needs to be face-to-face. If it’s all right with Nathan, I think we should let Kit stay there for another day or two, until I can pick him up on my way back to London. We’ll have to let his school know, of course.”

  “Um, right.”

  He must have detected some lack of enthusiasm in her response, because he sat up, frowning.

  “What? You don’t agree?”

  “No, it’s not that. But when are we going to get home, if something doesn’t break on this case? Our hands are tied in every direction. We’ve no idea what’s going on with Tim, and Ross is focused entirely on John Innes—”

  “Can you blame him, considering the fact that Innes’s gun seems to have been the murder weapon? Not to mention his dodgy alibi.”

  “No,” she said, grudgingly. “I suppose not. But that doesn’t mean I buy John as the shooter. I’ll give you method, and opportunity, but not motive. Why would John Innes have killed Donald?”

  “The truth is that you like John, and you don’t want to consider him as a suspect.”

  “So?” Gemma countered. “That doesn’t mean I’m wrong.”

  “Flawless logic, love,” Kincaid told her, grinning. “But as it happens, I’m inclined to agree with you. I did make a little headway with John last night. After half a bottle of Scotch, he announced that since he didn’t shoot Donald, he wasn’t going to dig himself another hole just to provide the chief inspector an alibi.”

  “Is that all?”

  “After that he descended into the maudlin. He told us at great length what a good friend Donald had been to him, and that he didn’t see how he was going to manage without him. Martin and I had to help him up to bed.”

  “Would keeping an affair from Louise be worth the risk of being charged with murder?”

  “People have killed for less,” Kincaid reminded her.

  “Maybe Donald threatened to tell Louise that John was having an affair,” suggested Gemma. “But why would Donald have done such a thing? And I still can’t see John as the Casanova type. He’s much too domestic.”

  “You think men who cook don’t have affairs? That’s very sexist of you.”

&nb
sp; Gemma refused to take his bait. “None of this is getting us any further forward.”

  “So what would you do if you were Ross?”

  Gemma considered for a moment. “I’d have another word with Callum MacGillivray. There’s something not right there, although I’ll be damned if I can see what it is. But for one thing, he was very slippery about what he was doing on Sunday morning.”

  “Then why don’t we pay him a call, first thing after breakfast?”

  By the time they had taken turns squeezing in and out of the tiny shower, Gemma could hear the hum of conversation from downstairs, and the tantalizing smell of frying bacon had begun to drift in under their door.

  Not having packed for more than a weekend, she stared at the meager selection in her bag, attempting to decide which of her outfits to recycle. She had glanced out the window, trying to assess the temperature, when she saw Hazel in the back garden.

  Pulling on a nubby, oatmeal-colored pullover without further deliberation, she told Kincaid she’d meet him in the dining room. She wanted to have a word with Hazel before breakfast.

  Hazel stood at the edge of the lawn, looking out over the wood and, beyond it, the meadow where Donald had died. The crime scene tape still fluttered in the chill little gusts of wind, and the clouds massing in the west were the color of old pewter. Hazel clasped the edges of her cardigan together, as if she were cold.

  “The weather’s changing,” Gemma said as she joined her.

  “The Gab o’ May. That’s what they call it in the Highlands—the return of bad weather in mid-May.”

  “It’s not unusual, then?”

  “No. I can remember snow in the Braes in May, when I was a child.” Hazel turned to her. “Gemma, I had the dream again last night. Well, not exactly the same dream, but the same sort of dream.”

  “The one where you were at Carnmore?”

  Hazel nodded. “But this time there was a man, as well. It wasn’t Donald, but there was something about him…Oh, it’s such a jumble. It’s as if the pieces of someone’s life were put in one of those cheap kaleidoscopes we had as children, and shaken. I get fragments of experience, but I can’t make sense of them.”