The more people involved, the harder it is to keep a secret. Someone would tip their hand soon, if they hadn’t already. It was just a matter of time. Until then, I wouldn’t give up on finding out what happened to Duff, but my gut told me the missing piece of that puzzle was in Edinburgh, not here.
Chapter 13
I came down to breakfast the next morning to find Hunter in the kitchen frying up sausages for the dog. I’d hesitated slightly, but gave in and offered him a copy of the new house key when I had the locks changed. At least this time I was deciding who had access to the Haven. Liam was certainly thrilled. He lay on the floor at Hunter’s feet regarding the old man with undisguised adoration.
“Want some breakfast, lass?”
“Just coffee for me, thanks.” It crossed my mind that I ought to object to this intrusion into my personal space, but I’d grown accustomed to Hunter’s presence and he was beginning to feel like a part of the rhythm of my quirky new household.
“I just put a coat of varnish on the mantel in the other room,” Hunter reported, “but it’ll need to dry before I do more. In the meantime, I need to do a little repair job for Nell Furguson this mornin’, and then I’m meetin’ Grant after lunch to see what we can do about the barn.”
“You said Ms. Furguson would have some good stories for Ben’s book, didn’t you?”
“Aye, she would. Did you want to come along? She’d be glad of the company.”
“Sure. Give me five minutes to change.” I had two days before my Saturday trip to Edinburgh to meet with Bartolli. I was anxious to get down there and see what I could find out about Duff, but I couldn’t afford to ignore any potential source of information about the Glen’s suitors. Tapping into the old dear’s network was a good place to start.
—
I never knew my own grandmother well, but given a choice, I’d have cast Nell Furguson in the role. She was a real character. Remarkably fit for her age, she sported a mass of close-cropped curly white hair, a mismatched twinset, and a pair of sturdy hiking boots. Hunter had called to warn her we were coming, and she flung the front door wide as we walked up the path, greeting us with a broad smile.
“My dears, how delightful,” she said in a clear, unwavering voice softened by age, but still steeped in the lilting quality of the Highlands. Taking me by the arm, she led us back to a neat chintz-wrapped sitting room.
“Thanks for letting me come and visit,” I said.
“I’m only too delighted, my dear,” she said, sitting me next to her on the old-fashioned settee and turning to look at me full-on. I returned her gaze without flinching, and she finally nodded as if satisfied with what she saw. “Nothin’ some rest, fresh air, and home cookin’ won’t sort out. Now, how are you holdin’ up with all this turmoil? I just couldnae believe it when I heard the news about young Duff.”
“It’s so very sad,” I said. “But the police are working hard to find an answer. Hopefully, they’ll have one soon.”
Nell nodded thoughtfully. “He’s a good man, Rothes. Hardworkin’ and diligent, but a little unimaginative, if you know what I mean. You should keep an eye on him.”
“I wouldn’t want to get in the way.”
“You get in the way, my dear. Rothes’ll need all the help he can get to sort this lot out.”
“He has an inspector from Stirling working with him,” I volunteered.
“Ach aye. That one’s been ruffling a few feathers, from what I’ve heard. Could’ve broken the news about Duff’s murder to Siobhán with a bit more feelin’, but men—what can you do?”
“What’s the word in the village?” I asked. “In a town this small there must be some rumors flying around.”
“Folks didnae believe that Duff would take part in a plot against the Glen. They’re upset to hear he was murdered, naturally, but in an odd way I think many find it a comfort to know Duff died trying to protect the old girl.”
“Does anyone think he could’ve been killed over something other than the mess at the distillery?”
“Sommit else?” Nell’s brow wrinkled. “He had his share of troubles with the girls. More’n most, I suppose, but I hadn’t heard of anything lately.”
“I brought Miss Abi along because she’s working on a book Ben started before he died,” Hunter said in a loud voice. “A book on Abbey Glen and its history.”
Nell’s face cleared. “How nice.”
“I think it’ll be a fitting tribute to Ben when it’s done,” I said, taking Hunter’s cue, “but I was hoping I could pick your brain about a few details.”
“You’re welcome to whatever’s left,” Nell said with a grin.
“I’ll let you two have a nice chat,” Hunter said, hastening to escape down the hall to the kitchen.
“Can you tell me about Fletcher’s in the days when your husband was in charge, Mrs. Furguson?”
“Well, first off, none of this Mrs. Furguson lark. Call me Furgie, dear, everyone does.” She gestured to an old-fashioned press coffeepot on the table in front of us. “Pour us a coffee, then, and we’ll see what I can come up with.”
Furgie took her cup and settled back into the cushions. “My husband, God rest ’is soul, came to Fletcher’s in 1926, if you can believe it. Central hired him as head distiller. A lovely man, he was.” Furgie’s eyes glowed with the distant memory. “Handsome like our Duff. Every lass in the village was after him, but he chose me. We were mad about each other, and in less than a year we were wed. It was a happy time, for all that was happening in the wider world.”
“Was Fletcher’s operating out of the rose-covered croft at that time?” I said.
“Dear me, no, that’d been abandoned long since. Central bought the old farm buildin’s from Rose and Angus’s heirs. They moved the operations into the larger space and modernized as soon as they took over. The old Fletcher’s was very small, but,then, you’ve seen that yourself.”
“I’m sorry?”
“The old croft’s been through many an expansion over the years, but Ben kept the flagstone floors in the front hall. He wanted to have some bit of the old Fletcher’s left.”
“The Haven is on the site of the original Fletcher’s?”
“Aye. That’s where everything started, many moons ago, of course.”
“What happened to the roses?”
“Long gone, I’m afraid. Grubbed out by one of the later tenants. Our son Martin came along in 1930, same year Grant’s father was born. Jock did a fantastic job of keeping Fletcher’s afloat, but we were coming to the start of hard times for the whisky business. Government kept raising taxes on spirits, ’specially whisky. It was a sin, but I suppose they needed money for the new war that was coming. We couldnae believe it was goin’ to happen. Those that had made it through the first time thought they’d never see the like again. No one wanted to face the truth.”
“Did the distillery stay in business through the war years?”
Furgie looked wistful. “Things became more complicated at that point, my dear. Grain for whisky making became harder and harder to come by. It was a struggle to find enough to make a decent dram. By ’41 the government said no more grain for whisky makin’. None.”
I kept scrawling notes down the page, until she fell silent. I looked up to see Furgie watching me. I smiled encouragingly. “Go on.”
“I suppose the ban made sense. We were havin’ enough trouble feedin’ folk as ’twas. But it becomes a question of morale after a bit, doesn’t it? So Fletcher’s went underground again. Back to makin’ a wee dram for sale under the counter at the local, just like the old days,” Furgie said.
“And Jock managed to avoid being called up?” I asked.
“He had four younger brothers who went early on, but Jock was no kid when the war started, and he had some vision problems. I always thought that was why he had such a good nose for the whisky. Anyway, it wasn’t until 1943 that things were so desperate they told him he had to go, too…,” Furgie trailed off, looking into the distance
. “He never came back,” she said. “He died tryin’ to hold off the Germans somewhere in the wine country in France. He always talked about goin’ to the wine country…” Furgie fell silent, lost in her own thoughts. I refilled her coffee and pressed the cup into her cold, thin hands.
“With the men gone, and the distillery closed, it must have made for some tough times,” I prompted.
“Aye, it was hard,” she said, shaking her head, “but we had it better than most. Women ran the farms and kept the livestock, so we ate pretty well. Rationin’ didn’t hit us the way it hit the city folk and those further south.”
“Women are usually capable of much more than people give them credit for,” I agreed. “But old views die hard. Even now, some of the men around here don’t think I have any business being involved with Abbey Glen.”
“No surprise there.” Furgie snorted. “But don’t you let them fob you off with that nonsense, my girl. Let me tell you. Somethin’ as many folk don’t know, Fletcher’s never shut down durin’ the war, even after Jock left.”
“Now, that sounds like a story for the book,” I said. “Tell me more.”
“People were desperate for any small pleasure in those days. Leftover bottles of whisky from before the war were fetching a small fortune, and supplies were almost nonexistent. There was money to be made, and Lord knows, the way things were goin’, we needed the money, so I came up with a plan of my own.” Furgie lowered her voice as if she expected spies to be lurking in the shrubbery outside. “I recruited some of the other ladies and we siphoned off whatever barley we could spare and used it to produce a bootleg whisky.”
“Why does that not surprise me?” Indomitable, comforting, and crafty sprang to mind unbidden. I grinned at the feisty little woman in front of me. “How’d you manage it?”
“There was a group of ten of us, working together in our spare time. By the time the rest of the distilleries reopened in ’46 we’d put up nearly a hundred fifty barrels.”
“That’s brilliant. I’m sure Jock would have been proud.”
“What we did was illegal, so we dinnae talk about it much. But I want you to understand that women have a place in this business just as much as men, and a history, too. So don’t let those old farts put you off.” She waved a crooked finger at me. “They like us to think it’s so complicated and mysterious we couldn’t manage. Fiddlesticks. It takes determination and a bit of patience, but you have that or you wouldn’t be where you are now.”
“Didn’t anyone notice you were storing new casks?” I asked. “I would’ve thought the tax inspectors would have said something?”
“We had a few sneaky hiding places in the hills above Fletcher’s. But to be fair, there weren’t many inspectors to go around. They came lookin’ for the old casks and that’s what we showed ’em.”
“Were you able to sell the whisky after the war?”
“Eventually. Fletcher’s was back up and running by the early ’50s, but it was losin’ money. My boy Martin was workin’ there by then, and he begged them to let him have a go as head distiller. Qualified men were thin on the ground, so they agreed to give him a chance even though he was young.”
Furgie stopped to catch her breath before going on. “Martin began to make a name for himself in the business, but Central didn’t see Fletcher’s as anything but a blend. See, in those days we were supposed to be selling to the Americans and the Canadians to get some hard cash. They wanted blends. So we made blends. No one was thinking about single malts.”
“So single malts like Abbey Glen’s are kind of a new thing?”
“For some. But Martin was like his dad, he always loved the singles. He knew they’d come into their own one day, and he was desperate to try his hand at making some.” Furgie grinned. “You should have seen his face when I told him we had a stash of whisky from the war years he could play with. Turns out we did a pretty good job. Martin was able to blend and bottle the stuff on the sly. Young Cam Lewis was a big help, and Grant’s father, Donald, even got involved providin’ the bottles,” she said, smiling at the memory. “As it was made by a bunch of women they called it Rose’s Barley Cream, after old Rose Fletcher. They released it in 1958. Every last drop was snapped up by collectors. It helped Martin get on his feet, and it was a real boost for many a family around here, I can tell you.”
“If it’s anything like the Rose Reserve that Duff found last year, it must have been spectacular.”
“That it was.”
“What a wonderful story. Would you mind if I used it in the book?”
“If you like it, my dear, be my guest. I suppose it’s too late for them to come after us now. Most of the old girls are gone anyway.” Furgie sighed heavily.
Hunter stuck his head in the door. “Shelf’s up again, good as new. You ladies finished your chin-wagging?”
“We should probably let you rest,” I said, getting to my feet. “Thank you for sharing your family’s story. I may need to come and bother you again before I leave.”
“You’re welcome anytime, child. Anytime.”
—
Back at the Haven I picked up the phone and called Patrick.
“How was dinner in the lion’s den?” he asked.
“Interesting. I had the chance to talk to Nakimoto and Campbell, and I met a few others who were at Maitland’s that night.” I summarized my conversation with Oliver Blaire and finished with the idea that Duff’s death might have been completely unrelated to the happenings at the Glen.
“I appreciate the appeal of that theory at a variety of levels, but do you really think it’s likely? You always say coincidences make you suspicious.”
“They do, and I’m not abandoning the idea that Duff could have caught the saboteur in the act, but I’m having a hard time seeing some flunky committing murder at the behest of one of these good old boys. If you wanted to run off the Glen’s new owner I can see sabotage, arson, and threatening notes, but murder? It just seems like, well, overkill.”
“Very funny. I could poke around here a bit and see what I can find out, if you want.”
“Thanks. I’ll have a look around, too, when I come down on Saturday to meet with the guy from AXB. In the meantime, did you find out anything else about the event at Maitland’s the night Duff was killed?”
“Believe me, once I told the PR person at Maitland’s that Wine and Spirits was interested in doing a story on the tastings, I couldn’t stop her talking. She even sent me a photo of the group. I’m forwarding it now.”
I clicked on the link and studied the picture. All the men were in suits or kilts, but no one was wearing gray.
“Instinct tells me the killer isn’t in this group, but I wouldn’t put it past Maitland to have staged this event just to give himself an alibi.” While dispatching his former employee to the Glen to wreak havoc, I thought. I pulled out Frank Monroe’s index card and added “alibi?”
“Maitland’s definitely not squeaky clean,” Patrick agreed. “I found some more on his troubles with Inland Revenue. He was hauled up on tax-fraud charges, but he cut a deal and didn’t do any jail time. You saw some of his financials already. Substantial bonuses from Decons, but get this. His most recent statement shows a big one-time payment to Rowan Johnson.”
“The guy from Islay?” I stopped pacing. “How big is big?”
“Nearly a hundred thousand pounds.”
“Whew! That’s a hell of a lot of money.” I thought for a moment. “Sounds like an investment. But what would he be investing in?”
“I think Maitland might be trying to buy the Glen.”
“But he’s bidding for Decons,” I said. “Surely he couldn’t bid against them while he’s working for them.”
“Exactly, he’d have to bid through a third party—like Rowan Johnson. You said Maitland was jealous of Ben and he was strong-armed into selling his own distillery. This could be his revenge.”
“Johnson’s bid came in just slightly higher than Decons’,” I said, warming
to the idea. “That could’ve been Maitland’s doing. With Decons’ bonuses he’d have enough cash on hand to fund his own bid for the Glen using the distillery in Islay as a front. He almost couldn’t lose. If I went with Decons he’d earn a sizable cash bonus; if I went with Rowan Johnson he’d eventually gain control of the Glen. A good reason to want to force me into a decision now, before the pool of buyers gets bigger and the price begins to escalate.”
“Right. He might have to lay low for a while as a silent partner, but eventually the Glen could be a fresh start for him, some sort of redemption. More of a motive than just doing his bosses’ bidding,” Patrick agreed. “I didn’t really look at Rowan Johnson, but I’ll see what I can find.”
“What about Grant?”
“Grant’s been running the MacEwen estate since his father died. His younger brother James took charge of the family glass business.”
“It must be worth a fortune.”
“It was worth a fortune,” Patrick corrected. “The last seven or eight years have been tough. Many of their former clients are switching to Eastern European bottlers. Even with the extra shipping costs, they’re much less expensive. The company’s been losing about ten percent of their client base a year. When you combine that with the cost of maintaining the estate and the lands, well, they can’t exactly be flush with cash.”
That would explain the lack of staff at the house. “Ben stuck by them, though,” I noted. “They’re still bottling Abbey Glen.”
“I was just getting to that. Ben signed an exclusive contract with MacEwen Glass right from the beginning, and what’s more, about five years ago, he bought a twenty percent interest in the company through Abbey Glen. Did Thomas mention that when he was discussing finances?”
Single Malt Murder Page 15
