‘I have not brought them in on the matter.’
‘And why is that?’
‘Mr Holmes,’ said the lady. ‘Sir Robert knows of my earlier visit to you.’
‘That was apparent before,’ said Holmes with irritation. ‘The point, madam?’
‘Isla expressed to you her low opinion of the local constabulary. They were unable, for example, to find the culprit for a small matter of theft a month or so ago, and so bungled the attempt and irritated my workers that I was forced to ban them from the property.’
Holmes’s eyebrow shot up.
‘Come now, Mr Holmes. My reading tells me you do not have the highest opinion of your own police in London,’ said the laird.
‘They must be notified, however, and present at the arrest.’
‘I appreciate your confidence that the culprit will be found. However, I am accustomed to handling things on my own,’ said the laird.
‘I will not be party to vigilante justice, Sir Robert,’ said Holmes. ‘My work serves the law.’
Except when it does not, I thought. There had been occasions where Holmes had served as judge and jury on those guilty parties whom he confronted at the end of a case. However, he was never led by feelings of retribution or revenge. He was more likely to let someone go free if he felt they would be of no future harm. The chance of this happening in these circumstances was nil.
‘Oh, no, you misunderstand me!’ said the laird. ‘I mean to have the culprit arrested and dealt with by the law. I simply do not want the idiots who are our local police interfering in your work. Mr Holmes, I refuse to involve them just yet. Those are the conditions of your employment here. And now, as to the matter of a fee—’
‘I am not employed, I consult, Sir Robert, at my own discretion and using the methods I prefer. I will do my best to find your culprit. In terms of a fee, you may reward me commensurately at the end, as you see fit. But delaying official police notification may cast suspicion on you and your family.’
The laird paused. He and his daughter-in-law exchanged a look. The wisdom of Holmes’s words was not lost on them.
‘A compromise, then,’ said the laird. ‘I give you three days to solve this mystery. At the end of this I will call in the police, or another detective as I see fit. I mean to see this solved, and you have my word that I intend the culprit to receive due process of law. And Mr Holmes, I am sure you will find it easier to make your inquiries unencumbered by the bumbling local police.’
It was Holmes’s turn to pause. ‘Agreed,’ said he, finally. ‘I will begin by interviewing each of the family members in their private quarters, as soon as possible, without preamble, and preferably before any cleaning takes place.’
The laird nodded. ‘As you wish. However, you should know that a very thorough housecleaning was undertaken by the staff upon our departure for France. It is our custom at this time of year.’
‘That is unfortunate,’ said Holmes. ‘Let us proceed at once.’
The butler was then dispatched to release our coachman and oversee our luggage delivery.
Our things were brought in, and led by a stoop-shouldered old servant introduced as Mungo, we were led to the East Tower. I reflected on Holmes’ insistence on seeing each family member’s private quarters. He would no doubt infer a great deal from the details there. I smiled inwardly at the thought of what one might erroneously infer from Holmes’ own messy abode, or indeed my own, now festooned with flowers and doilies by my wife.
In this remote corner of the castle, daylight seemed a treasured resource to be sparingly allotted. Our route took us up steep circular stone stairs, worn by the ages and lit with few windows. We then entered a long dark hallway, where a lavatory entrance facing a narrow window was pointed out down at the end of the hall. The latest of modern plumbing had been installed over the remnants of a medieval latrine, we were told, as they had been throughout the living quarters of the large castle. No expense had been spared.
The lighting in the hallway was extremely dim. The newest electric fixtures or bright gaslights had shone in previous rooms we had seen, but only candles and oil lamps were in evidence here.
We were given two near but not adjoining rooms with heavy wooden doors that must have dated back at least two or three centuries. The bedrooms were comfortable enough, with carved wooden bedsteads and walls hung densely with tapestries against the frigid air. But here, too, there was a lack of modern lighting.
There was no time to linger in these rooms to unpack or explore, for Holmes was eager to begin the investigation. We returned to the Great Hall, where Holmes informed the laird he would begin with him.
The laird agreed to this, and to being first, but then Holmes surprised us both.
‘Laird Robert, I should like to begin with a quick tour of your distillery, and interview you initially there.’ The laird acquiesced and stepped away to call for horses to be readied.
‘Why the distillery, Holmes?’ I whispered.
‘We have met the family. I must determine the scope of our search for suspects. If there are more there, I should like to know it now.’
The three of us bundled up against the bitter cold and left the castle for the courtyard, where the laird called for horses.
CHAPTER 14
The Highland Magic
e headed down a steep hill towards what was, for the laird, the heart and soul of his property, the McLaren Distillery. The buildings were somewhat farther away than they appeared. Though only mid-afternoon, it was already quite dark. Our horses picked their way along the icy path, while the laird gestured towards a large body of water off to the right. It was rectangular, and clearly devised by human hands.
‘The reservoir,’ he said. ‘Built by my grandfather in 1823. Our water is one of the secrets of our whisky. It originates in the mountains up yonder, passes through rock and bramble, peat fields and rich earth, acquiring its unique Highland flavour, before it arrives here.’
‘It is a considerable feat of engineering, then,’ said Holmes.
‘We are well supplied but quality is as important as quantity. Not all water has the special ingredient.’
‘What ingredient is that?’
The laird turned to us. ‘The Highland magic,’ he said, and winked.
The subject of whisky, his great passion, apparently drew the laird from his grief. Like Holmes, this man’s immersion in work was all consuming.
We dismounted in front of an arched entrance to a large complex of unusually varied buildings. Entering a cobbled courtyard, I noted that some of the buildings were in decorative brick, some ancient and picturesque in stone, and others in cold, modern concrete. The three-storey tower with its pagoda-like top was, I learned, designed to draw and expel the kiln smoke.
The laird explained that power had recently been converted from waterwheel to steam engines. The noise from these was audible across the snow-covered courtyard in which we now stood.
‘I would like a brief tour, if you would, Sir Robert, then is there an office where we may speak privately?’ said Holmes.
‘Certainly, Mr Holmes.’
The laird was more than happy with this brief distraction from the tragedy.
‘The Highland magic is far more than the water, gentlemen,’ said he as he led us through a warren of buildings. ‘Each step of the way combines artistry with the latest engineering. We have increased our production to 750,000 gallons a year in the last two years alone. Follow me.’
We passed through many and varied buildings with rooms large and small. There were steep wooden staircases, slick with moisture, and circular steel ones, ladders and platforms and overlooks, lifts and pulleys, and elevators, each with a distinct purpose and design. The laird pointed out the kiln that dried the damp malt. Men in rolled-up shirtsleeves, their muscles gleaming with sweat, shovelled masses of combustibles into roaring furnaces, serving both the drying rooms and the steam engines. Although fragrant, the peat smoke made it difficult to breathe. But Holme
s, I observed, was more interested in the men working there than in the process itself.
It was a particularly rough-looking and strange crew of men who toiled at the McLaren Distillery. I reflected on the fact that I have been fortunate never to have laboured in an industrial setting such as this. As we passed through the malting floor, a milling area, then a grain elevator, and kiln, I was struck by the immense physical effort, but also by the many perils to life and limb – not only the kilns but the grinding machines which could suck a man in to a horrific death with the careless catch of a sleeve.
We crossed a courtyard and entered the distillery itself, coming first into the mash house. Warm and humid, the room was dominated by a large, riveted cast-iron vessel with a copper canopy. Sir Robert slid a section of this aside to reveal what looked like a steaming vat of porridge.
‘This is the mash tun,’ he said. ‘Alistair has been experimenting with the dimensions and temperatures. Here, the ground, malted barley, called “grist” is steeped three times in increasingly hot water. This converts the starch in the malt into sugars, which dissolve into the hot water.’
Stepping around a guard rail, Holmes and I peered into the vessel, which was about ten feet deep, filled just over halfway high with the grey, gluey mush. Below us were a rather alarming set of slowly turning steel rakes, at least five feet in diameter. These resembled nothing so much as the metallic appendages of some winged dinosaur, keeping the ‘pot stirred’ by clawing relentlessly through the steeping mash. The steady, deep huff of the steam engine which powered these rakes, along with the sounds of splashing through the viscous liquid echoed through the large room. To be caught in one of those would be a fearsome way to depart this earth.
I had the sudden sense of being watched and looked up to remark upon two workers who stared at us with unmistakeable malevolence. They turned quickly away. A shout from another direction drew our attention to two rough and angry-looking men engaged in a tense conversation before a complex set of gauges. A third man approached them carrying a long section of pipe. To my physician’s eye, his lopsided gait and grimace spoke of grievous prior injury.
The conversation grew heated, and the third man flung his pipe to the ground, where it came close to hitting one of first two. They nearly came to blows.
The laird stopped and shouted above the cacophony. ‘Joey, separate them!’ A fourth man, equally large, and with facial scarring just visible above a scarf tied over his nose and mouth, emerged from behind a second tank and stepped into the fray, with a quick wave to his employer. In an instant he had subdued the aggressor by twisting his arm behind his back and forcing him to his knees.
The laird moved us quickly away from the scene. ‘We are having trouble maintaining water temperature in the tank. Some of the newest equipment seems to be faulty.’
‘You are having more trouble than that,’ remarked Holmes.
The laird said nothing, but led us out of the room and on a circuitous route to our next destination.
‘Something is not quite right here,’ I whispered to Holmes while we were out of earshot.
He nodded. ‘Clearly, Watson.’
Entering another room, we found ourselves on a platform looking down at several huge wooden vats the laird referred to as ‘washbacks’ reeking with the strong beer-like odour of fermentation. They too were covered as these fumes were strong enough to render one unconscious with prolonged contact. Men worked on the platform where we stood, adjusting the temperature, checking progress. A cold draught made me shiver and I noticed a door open on the floor one storey below us.
Holmes noticed my discomfort and smiled. ‘Be grateful for the fresh air, Watson. Carbon dioxide is a by-product of fermentation and, since it is heavier than air, has collected down there.’
‘Precisely,’ said the laird. ‘Linger there at your peril.’
‘Has anyone been asphyxiated?’ asked Holmes.
The laird avoided a direct answer. ‘I have an excellent safety record.’
We entered a back staircase down to a lower level.
‘I cannot help but notice, Laird Robert, your crew is a rough lot. How many of these men were rescued from, shall we say, questionable circumstances?’ asked Holmes.
‘What do you mean, Mr Holmes? These are veterans. Dr Watson here knows how difficult it can be to return from war. There is a period of adjustment. Fifty of our seventy men are those who have been given a new start.’ said Robert McLaren.
The laird’s familiarity with me was disconcerting, although of course it was all in Beeton’s Christmas Annual. And it was true; I knew well the despair of the forcibly retired soldier. It was only fate that delivered me to 221B and not a life of grinding penury. Perhaps I had been too harsh in assessing these men.
‘It is more than that. I sense a criminal element here, Sir Robert,’ said Holmes.
‘You witnessed a rare moment, Mr Holmes. A minor disagreement.’
‘Then why do two of your overseers carry pistols?’
I had not noticed this.
‘You interpret wrongly. There are few problems,’ said the laird. ‘These men are grateful.’
‘I would wager that some have police records,’ said Holmes. ‘Sir Robert, it has been my experience that once one has crossed the line to criminal behaviour, the way back can be hard to find, and regular employment may not be sufficient.’
‘My late wife would find you a harsh judge. It was she, God rest her soul, who convinced me to give the most desperate of men a chance of redemption. Where is your charity?’
The laird stepped away before Holmes could answer. But I bristled at the insinuation. Holmes was a most charitable man, but he knew danger when he saw it.
At last we arrived at the heart of the distillery, the room containing the stills themselves. These were fantastic constructions, enormous, two-storey versions of the tiny still I had seen at 221B.
These riveted copper dinosaurs were shaped like metallic tulip bulbs, swelled wide at the bottom, studded with rivets and narrowing into long pipes at the top which then bent sideways. As the liquids passed through them, their surfaces became hot and dangerous. They brought to mind fantastic diving bells or space ships from a Jules Verne novel.
‘We put our liquid, which is clear in colour at this point, through the distilling process more than once. It is the second time that produces the whisky. But not all the liquid makes it into the casks. The first stuff, the foreshot is too strong, then comes the “heart” which is the usable stuff, followed by the “feints” and “spent lees”. It is my foreman – using a combination of artistic taste and pure science, you’ll appreciate that, Mr Holmes – who makes the choice by smell, by clarity, by instinct, and by this instrumentation here.’
He then pointed out an elaborate, beautiful glass and brass box with precise measuring equipment inside. ‘This is called the spirit safe. There the precise level of alcohol is measured as there are strict legal requirements.’
‘Sir Robert, I have seen enough,’ said Holmes suddenly. ‘Let us return to the subject of your men. In the problem of your murdered parlour maid, it seems an entire crew of suspects tend to your business here.’
‘No. Her killer is not one of these men.’
‘How can you be sure?’
‘I have taken great care to separate the distillery workers from my family and those who attend the estate. My foreman has put into place a number of precautions. The dormitories are patrolled. The castle is locked like a fortress at night. No, you may rest assured it is not one of these men.’
Holmes stared at him, one eyebrow raised. He was clearly not convinced.
The laird paused thoughtfully. ‘Follow me, gentlemen. Mr Holmes, now that we are away from the house, it is time for me to be more frank with you. There is something I wish to tell you without risk of being overheard.’
We moved to Sir Robert’s private office, a small room set in an upstairs portion of the distillery, and behind two sets of doors. Quiet and war
m, it was panelled, with a fire, a desk, a paraffin lamp, and a row of decanters. We sat at a table near the fire, and the laird moved to the decanters. He hesitated, then held one up, offering it. Holmes waved him off impatiently. ‘Please, sir?’ he said. ‘You had something to tell us, Laird Robert?’
The older man hesitated, then took a breath and began.
‘My son Charles, you see, was attracted to Fiona, and possibly Alistair was, as well. Charles, as you have noted, Mr Holmes, has shown a certain lack of restraint, and, well, my boys were already at loggerheads over control of the business and I feared this rivalry would make it worse.’
‘Might you consider one son more likely than the other to murder the girl?’
‘Neither, sir! Both have tempers. And yet I cannot imagine it.’
‘Charles is estranged from his wife, Catherine, is he not? This much I have seen for myself.’
The laird looked off a moment, as if lost in thought. He turned back to Holmes. ‘Yes, and his many dalliances with girls below stairs were known. Yet … I cannot conceive of Charles behind such an act.’
‘His wife Catherine is impaired by drink and has reason for jealousy. What of your younger son and his wife?’
‘Alistair, oh no! His temper is short, but there is a basic goodness in Alistair that would make him an unlikely villain. No, I think not.’
‘Jealousy can twist a man.’ said I.
‘Yet he is quite complacent where his wife is concerned,’ remarked Holmes. ‘Isla McLaren is a very independent young woman, it seems.’
‘Yes and it is a shame. Alistair ignores her at his peril, I tell him. She is a treasure, my Isla,’ said the laird.
‘And what of Isla herself? Jealous, perhaps?’ asked Holmes.
‘I would say she is above such a feeling. My daughter-in-law shows a refined nature and advanced intellect. If she were a man, the business would be hers.’
I glanced at Holmes. He appeared unmoved by this assessment.
‘It is said that Fiona was one to stir the pot, presumably below stairs as well. What of the other servants?’
Unquiet Spirits: Whisky, Ghosts, Murder Page 13
