Now May You Weep

by Deborah Crombie

  “No, it’s all right. It was silly of me, and unfair. I know this isn’t your choice, but it’s what Donald thought best, and I have to come to terms with it. But that’s not why I called. Come and see for yourselves.” Heather turned and led them inside, through a great hall and up a massive carved staircase.

  Glancing into rooms as she passed, Gemma glimpsed richly faded Persian rugs and heavy velvet draperies. Stag heads loomed on walls, beside the gilt of ornate mirrors and framed portraits, and the house had an overall air of heavy, faded, and slightly shabby opulence.

  “Scotch baronial at its finest,” said Heather. “This place is a dinosaur, and horrifically expensive to maintain.” She led them into a room at the top of the stairs. Its tall windows looked out, not on the distillery, but towards the gray sweep of the river.

  Here was ample evidence of her endeavors; stacks of books and papers covered the floor as well as the old leather-topped desk. “I don’t think Donald ever felt really comfortable in this room,” Heather continued. “It reminded him too much of his father.” Seeing Kincaid studying a watercolor of Benvulin hanging over the desk, she added, “That’s a Landseer, a gift to Donald’s great-grandfather, I believe. The painter was well known for dashing off a painting of his hosts’ properties in return for their extended hospitality.”

  Hazel still stood in the doorway. “Heather, what—”

  “Here.” Heather touched a stack of cloth-bound books on the corner of the desk. “I found Donald’s great-grandfather’s sister’s diaries. And I think I’ve discovered what caused the rift between the Brodies and the Urquharts, but I want you to read it for yourself.”

  Hazel stepped into the room with obvious reluctance just as Gemma’s phone rang again. “Bloody hell,” Gemma muttered, snatching it up. It was Alun Ross.

  She listened for several moments, then said, “Yes, I’ll tell him. Yes, right away. No, I can drive him.” When she rang off, however, it was not Kincaid she looked at, but Hazel.

  “That was Chief Inspector Ross.” She took a breath. There was no way she could soften the news. “The London police found a receipt from a petrol station in Aviemore in Tim’s car, dated Saturday. They’re holding Tim for questioning. Tim’s refused a solicitor—he says he won’t speak to anyone but Duncan.” She turned to Kincaid. “There’s a flight from Inverness to London in a little over an hour. I said I’d have you on it.”

  19

  I have trod the upward and the downward slope;

  I have endured and done in days before;

  I have longed for all, and bid farewell to hope;

  And I have lived and loved, and closed the door.

  —ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON,

  “I Have Trod the Upward and the Downward Slope”

  Carnmore, November 1899

  LIVVY STOOD IN the distillery office, her father’s letter dangling from her nerveless fingers. She had been found out, her undoing a mere slip of the tongue by the banker, sharing a midday dram with her father. The banker, assuming her father privy to her affairs, had casually mentioned her withdrawal of funds from her account, and now she would have to deal with the consequences.

  She’d felt a nagging sense of foreboding for some weeks, but she’d put it down to the time of year. It was more than the upcoming anniversary of Charles’s death; she hated the dark, the closing in of the days, the interminable nights with nothing but her few books and a bit of sewing to keep her thoughts occupied. Not even to herself had she been willing to admit how much she dreaded the curtailing of Rab’s visits, which would inevitably follow on bad weather.

  The shooting season had brought Rab frequently to Carnmore’s door, as he was on friendly terms with the duke of Gordon and was often invited for a day’s sport at the duke’s lodge in Tomintoul. Their tea and conversation at her kitchen table had quickly become her cornerstone, the events round which revolved the rest of her existence.

  It was no more than Highland hospitality, she told herself, ignoring the whispering of her neighbors, as she did Will’s increasingly obvious dislike of Rab. She prided herself on her status as Rab’s friend, and she’d listened to his tales of Benvulin’s troubles with increasing distress.

  Other distilleries were suffering, she knew; some had already closed their doors, and as the weeks went by she became more and more worried that Benvulin would share that fate. If the same thing were to happen to Carnmore, she and Will could at least fall back on her father—Rab had nothing. She’d wished desperately for some way to help him, but it was not until her autumn visit to her father in Grantown that she’d conceived a plan.

  Both she and Rab had attended a recital at the home of a Grantown dignitary. Aware of Rab’s absence during the dinner buffet that had followed the musical performance, she’d slipped away from the dining room to search for him. When she’d found him at last, he’d been sitting alone in the small conservatory, his head in his hands.

  He looked up at the sound of her entrance. “Livvy! You shouldn’t be here. People will talk.”

  “I don’t mind,” she said, going to him as he stood. “Rab, what is it?”

  He’d touched her cheek. “You’re too kind, Olivia, do you know that? I’ve no intention of spoiling your evening with my troubles. Go back to the buffet, before someone notices your absence.”

  “Not until you tell me what’s troubling you.”

  “Blackmail, is it?” he said, giving her a crooked smile. “Well, I suppose I might as well tell you, as everyone will know before long. I don’t think I can keep Benvulin going any longer, Livvy. I’ve had a hint of a buyer for some of the stock, from a grocer in Aberdeen who’s selling his own blend—”

  “But, Rab, that’s good news—”

  “It would be, except that it will take several months to complete the arrangement—if it materializes at all—and in the meantime, I can’t pay the men’s wages. Not that it’s likely another distillery can take them on, but they can at least try to find some sort of work that will feed their families. I can’t see that I have any choice but to close the doors.”

  “Rab, what about your family?”

  “Margaret has gone back to her uncle’s in London—leaving the sinking ship, I fear—although I don’t know how long he will keep his patience with her spending habits. I’ve kept the children here, but it looks as though I’ll have to let the governess go soon, as well.”

  “And your sister?”

  “Helen will stand by me until the bloody end, I think. She loves Benvulin almost as much as I do. And she has nowhere else to go.”

  “Rab…” Gazing at him, Livvy realized the seed of an idea had been germinating for weeks. “Is there any way you can hold out a bit longer?”

  “I could sell some of the pictures, and the silver, I suppose, but if I do, there may be nothing else to keep us.”

  “Do you trust me?”

  He looked at her in surprise. “Of course. You’ve been a good friend these last few months, Livvy. If things were different…”

  It was the first time either of them had spoken of what lay between them. She swallowed and glanced away. Wishful thinking would get them nowhere, and she couldn’t let it distract her from what she could do.

  She had money, left to her by her mother. It was hers to do with as she wished, but she knew Rab would never agree to take it if she told him what she meant to do.

  “Rab, promise me you won’t take any action yet. Wait just a bit longer, even if it means selling a punch bowl or two.”

  He smiled at that but quickly sobered, taking her shoulders in his hands. “Do you mean to work miracles, Livvy? I fear that’s not possible.”

  “Wait and see,” she had told him, and slipped back to the party.

  It had taken some maneuvering on her part to remove the money from the bank without Will’s or her father’s knowledge, but on the evening of the harvest-home given by one of the Laird of Grant’s tenants, she had pulled Rab aside and presented him with the banker’s draft.
r />   He had looked up from the paper he held, his usually ruddy complexion gone pale with shock. “Livvy, you can’t be serious. I can’t take this.”

  “You can,” she said earnestly. “It’s not for you, Rab, it’s for Benvulin. Consider it a loan. You can pay it back as soon as things improve.”

  “I—”

  “Don’t ye argue with me, Rab, my mind’s made up. It’s my money, and I want to help you. It will be our secret.”

  And so it had remained, until now. Her father’s outrage had leapt from the page in the quick, bold strokes of his handwriting. She had betrayed his trust, he said; she had compromised her family, and he meant to take steps to learn exactly what she had done with the funds.

  Livvy’s cheeks burned with humiliation. She very much feared that her father would have no trouble coaxing further indiscretions from the banker…and that meant she’d have to find some way to warn Rab before he faced the onslaught of her father’s wrath.

  Gemma could think of no innocent reason why Tim Cavendish would have been in Aviemore over the weekend. Nor had she been able to offer much comfort to a stricken Hazel, who had at first insisted on flying back to London with Kincaid.

  “There’s nothing you can do in London until we know more,” Gemma had told her. “At least here you can help Heather. I’ll come straight back from the airport, and Duncan will phone us as soon as he’s seen Tim.”

  Hazel had seemed too shocked to offer much protest. “Tim can’t have shot Donald,” she had whispered as they were leaving. “There must be some other explanation. There must be.”

  Now, as they passed the turnoff for Culloden Battlefield, Gemma said to Kincaid, “Do you suppose Ross is wrong about the gun, then?”

  He looked up from the map he’d been studying and absently ran a hand through his hair. “Of course, it’s possible. But in that case, there’s no logical explanation I can see for John Innes’s gun ending up in the river. And how would Tim have laid hands on a gun? He’s not exactly the sporting type.”

  “I’d never have imagined Tim Cavendish spying on Hazel, or lying about what he’d done, or refusing even to speak to her. What’s one more improbable thing to add to the list?”

  “But if Tim shot Donald, who poisoned Callum MacGillivray?” argued Kincaid. “We know Tim was in London yesterday. Are we looking at two different perpetrators, two unrelated crimes?”

  Frowning, Gemma slowed for the exit onto the A96, the route to the Highlands and Islands Airport east of Inverness. “I suppose it’s possible,” she said, echoing Kincaid’s earlier comment. “Could someone have been taking advantage of the suspicion Donald’s murder cast on John?”

  “To lay another murder at his door?”

  “Or…” Gemma drummed her fingers on the wheel. “Could Callum have attempted suicide? His effort to win over Alison Grant by shopping Donald failed miserably. He must have been distraught…”

  “And invisible, if he walked into the Inneses’ and took Pascal’s tablets without anyone noticing.”

  “True,” admitted Gemma. “Bugger. That puts us back to square one.” But as she slowed for the airport exit, an idea struck her. She glanced at the map still open on Kincaid’s lap. “What we need is to talk to Callum. I wonder…Did I see the hospital, not too far off the Aviemore road?”

  Kincaid looked down. “Raighmore Hospital, yes. Just off the A9. We must have passed within half a mile of it. You’re not thinking of trying to see Callum, are you? Ross would never agree.”

  “Who says I have to ask him?”

  “Gemma, you can’t just waltz in and demand to interview Callum MacGillivray. Ross will have a coronary.”

  Gemma pulled up in the passenger drop-off lane. Leaning over, she kissed Kincaid on the cheek. “Then he should take better care of himself.”

  It was easier than she’d expected. And she didn’t exactly lie; she merely told less than the truth. Flashing her identification at the constable guarding Callum’s door, she’d said, “Inspector James, Metropolitan Police, here to see Mr. MacGillivray.” The constable’s eyes had widened and he’d ushered her respectfully in.

  Gemma felt thankful for the benefits of rank and hoped she’d still have hers if Ross found out what she’d done and reported her to her guv’nor. Now she just had to pray that Ross himself didn’t show up within the next few minutes.

  Callum MacGillivray lay in the hospital bed, his long, fair hair spread out on the pillow, his eyes closed, his face waxen. For a moment Gemma was reminded of a Viking warrior laid to rest on a bier, then Callum opened his eyes and blinked fuzzily at her.

  “Callum?” Gemma pulled a chair up to the side of the bed and sat down. “Do you remember me? It’s Gemma James. I came by to see you yesterday.”

  “The copper,” he whispered hoarsely. “Sorry.” He touched a finger to his throat. “They tell me my throat hurts because they put a tube down it, but I don’t really remember it.” An IV drip ran into his arm, and he looked oddly defenseless in his hospital gown.

  Gemma grimaced. “That’s probably just as well. How are you feeling now?”

  “Still a bit groggy,” he said more strongly.

  “Can you remember anything at all about what happened to you?”

  “Yeah. I meant to finish a bottle of Islay malt—my own private wake for Donald. But after that, nothing, really. They say it was Alison and Chrissy who found me.” There was a note of wonder in his voice. “Otherwise, I might have died.”

  “How did Alison know you were ill?”

  “She told the doctors I phoned them, but I dinna remember that, either.”

  “Callum, do you know that someone put a drug into your whisky, a form of morphine?”

  He met her eyes and nodded, but didn’t speak.

  “Have you any idea who would have done such a thing to you?”

  He picked at the hem of his sheet. His hands, Gemma saw, were large and callused. “I canna think. Do the police believe it was the same person who murdered Donald?”

  “They’re not sure. But they do know that John and Martin Innes stopped in your cottage yesterday, while you were out.”

  “John Innes?” Callum stared at her as if she’d lost her wits. “They canna think John tried to poison me?”

  “He doesn’t seem to have a very good explanation for what he was doing in your cottage, or for what he was doing at the time Donald was shot on Sunday morning.”

  “Och, it was the fish,” said Callum, shaking his head. “The man’s a wee fool, not to have said.”

  It was Gemma’s turn to look astonished. “Fish? What fish?”

  “The salmon.” Callum looked away but added reluctantly, “John and I, we’ve been doing a wee bit of illegal fishing. At night, mostly.”

  “You mean you’ve been poaching?”

  “That’s not a word I care to use. Shouldn’t a man have the right to catch a fish in his own river, or shoot a deer on the moor?” He gave a little shrug. “But aye, I suppose you could say we were poaching. John needed the cash to keep the B&B afloat, until he could recoup the cost of the refurbishment. And I—I wanted to fix my place up a bit. I thought Alison…” His hands grew still. “It was a pipe dream, I see that now. I dinna know what possessed me.”

  “Callum, are you telling me that John was fishing on Sunday morning?”

  “No, it was the Saturday night, late. He’d come across to me, and we’d taken a half-dozen good-size salmon from the Spey. On the Sunday morning, he would have been selling them to a customer, one of the hotels. It was Donald who set up the clients for us, although he didna take a cut. He had the connections, you see.”

  “I do see,” Gemma said slowly. “John didn’t want to admit where he was because he was doing something illegal, and he didn’t want to compromise you, or Donald.”

  “Or the buyer,” Callum added. “But I suspect there was more to it than that—he didna want Louise to find out.”

  “And yesterday, when he came into your cottage?”

>   “He left me my share of the money from Sunday’s sale. He made the sales, and I kept the books. Because he couldn’t.”

  “Not without Louise finding out. I wonder how he explained the extra cash.” Gemma frowned, remembering the way Louise had watched her husband. “Louise thought he was having an affair. I’m not surprised, with him sneaking about in the middle of the night.”

  She mulled over what he had told her for a moment, and an inkling of the truth began to dawn. “Callum, if John was at a hotel selling the fish on Sunday morning, where were you?”

  He was silent for so long that she began to wonder if he had drifted off, but then he said quietly, “I was out along the river with the dog, the same as most mornings.”

  Gemma leaned towards him, touching his hand. She hardly dared to breathe. “You saw something, didn’t you? Someone? But not John.”

  “Not John.” Callum met her gaze, and she saw the sudden brightness of tears. “I didna think anything of it, at first. She sometimes goes out potting for rabbits; they’re a bloody nuisance in the garden. And then, when I heard about Donald, I didna want to believe it—I couldna think she would do such a thing. We were friends.”

  “She? But, Callum, why would Alison—”

  “Och, no, it wasna Alison.” He shook his head. “It was Louise.”

  From the Diary of Helen Brodie, 20 November 1899

  Dr. Grant of Grantown, Olivia Urquhart’s father, came to call just after luncheon today. Rab was away, gone to Tomintoul for a day’s shooting, so I entertained the doctor myself.

  The man made no pretence of civility, refusing my offer of refreshment, but told me a preposterous tale, accusing my brother of extorting money from his daughter. Her inheritance from her mother, he said, withdrawn from the bank, and paid to my brother by draft.

  Of course, I told Dr. Grant I would not listen to such nonsense, and I sent him away with a promise that Rab would call upon him as soon as he returned. Afterwards, I paced in the drawing room for an hour, recounting all the things I might have said to defend my brother’s honor. But then, my suspicions overcame my sense of injury, and I went to the distillery office and began to look over the books.