The laird paused. ‘She flirted with them all. Or at least three of whom I am aware. I allowed it because a marriage to one of them, I thought, would end my worries.’
‘What worries? Affairs between servants and masters, this is common, is it not?’
The laird was a rabbit in a trap, casting his eyes about for an escape. ‘The real problem, Mr Holmes lay with my two sons. I had to … I had to stop this, before …’ He covered his eyes in an emotional gesture that seemed strangely out of character. Recovering instantly, he turned to us with sudden ferocity. ‘What I am about to relate to you now, is not to leave this room. Do you swear? Because if it does, heaven help you both.’
‘Laird McLaren,’ retorted Holmes, ‘if I am to continue, you must refrain from making casual threats.’
The laird immediately realized his mistake. ‘Yes, of course. But I require the utmost discretion.’
‘That is understood. Now, if you please, Sir Robert, let us get to the heart of the matter. You were responsible for the girl’s abduction, were you not?’
It was all I could do to suppress a gasp.
The laird froze. There was a long silence. Yes,’ he said finally. ‘I was. How did you know?’
‘I can well imagine the motive; I need to understand the details. Did you kidnap the girl yourself? And cut off all her hair?’ said Holmes.
A flicker of remorse passed over the man’s face.
‘Not precisely,’ said he. ‘Rather, I commissioned the act. For her own good, of course.’
‘Commissioned? We shall get to that in a moment. Why was it “for her own good”? Was she in some danger?’
‘Well, I, yes, danger.’
‘From whom? Again, is one of your sons inclined to violence?’
‘No, it was not that. Well, not directly—’
‘What then?’
‘I needed to prevent an unthinkable turn of events—’
‘Whatever is unthinkable, as you say, surely worse has happened. How did you intend this act to protect the girl?’
‘I had hoped to frighten the girl off.’
‘And the hair?’
‘I thought to make her less attractive to … her admirers.’
‘And why was this so important to you?’
‘It—’
Holmes leaned in towards the laird. ‘Because this young girl was very important to you, was she not? Almost as important to you as the sons you were also protecting.’
Protecting from what? I was not following this conversation.
The laird understood my friend perfectly. ‘Your reputation is indeed merited, Mr Holmes. Yes, the girl was very important to me.’
‘But why?’ I exclaimed. ‘And why would you damage her so?’
‘It was an impermanent gesture, no lasting harm done!’ said the laird.
Holmes stared coldly at the man. ‘There is a simple explanation, Watson,’ said he. ‘Shall I give it, or will you, Sir Robert?’
The man held his gaze, and then suddenly looked away.
‘Ah, it is to me, then,’ said Holmes. ‘The young woman was your illegitimate daughter. Am I correct?’
‘Your daughter!’ I exclaimed.
The laird did not move, but dropped his eyes. ‘Yes,’ he said softly. ‘Fiona is – was – my daughter.’ A tear fell from one eye, and he wiped it away quickly.
I could not help but feel a wave of revulsion. To frighten and shame a young girl in this way to protect his sons from inadvertent incest was unthinkable.
‘Why did you not simply send her away?’ asked Holmes.
‘I promised her late mother I would personally look after the child and provide for her myself. Braedern is a safe haven for many.’
‘Unless they are kidnapped and shorn, or murdered,’ said I.
‘Dr Watson! Mr Holmes, I had no idea … the murder … I am not responsible! Gentlemen! I am a tolerant man, and a generous employer. Ask anyone. That one of my … that this should have happened—’
‘Did Fiona know you were her father?’ asked Holmes.
‘No. She was told her father died when she was an infant. I could not trust her with the secret of her birth.’
‘Of course not. She might have laid claim to a part of your estate.’
‘Mr Holmes, you continue to misjudge me! It was the promise to her mother that bound me. That I would care for the girl personally.’
‘Presumably, that promise extends to her funeral,’ said Holmes. ‘Why did you not confide in your sons?’
The laird’s face contorted in pain. ‘To admit to adultery would have destroyed the family. They hold the memory of their dear late mother as a saint.’
‘Yes, well, blocked at every turn,’ said Holmes, the note of sarcasm evident, at least, to me.
‘Mr Holmes, please. I made efforts. Many times. I sent Fiona away to school, despite the other servants’ jealousy. She failed, I tried again, and again she failed. The girl was ineducable. The letters all went backwards, she said, and she could learn to neither read nor write. In desperation I sent her to work at the MacElheny estate, twenty-five miles to the south. They returned her in a week. No one could handle her.’
‘Then what?’
‘She grew even more forward with the men of the estate. She was also highly superstitious. We have troubles with that here. The servants all believe in ghosts, and I have had the devil of a time getting them to tend to certain areas of the castle. Fiona loved the drama. She told many a wild ghost tale and enjoyed the effects. Among the servants, this was like throwing kerosene on a simmering flame. She had everyone in a turmoil, from my sons to my lowliest scullery maid.’
‘So you decided to frighten Fiona into submission?’
‘As a last resort, you see, having exhausted all other options, I thought of the plan. But oh, I never imagined—’
‘You had your daughter abducted and shamed. In desperation, you say?’
‘Mr Holmes, I sense your disdain. But sir, you have no idea of the depths of my remorse. I have made a terrible mistake.’
‘For which your child has paid with her life.’
The laird flushed with rage and for a brief moment I thought he might strike Holmes. But his face contorted strangely as a second emotion swept over him. He closed his eyes as if to blink back tears and emitted a painful sigh.
Holmes and I exchanged a look.
In a moment, the laird composed himself. ‘Find who killed Fiona, Mr Holmes. And I will make you wealthy beyond your wildest dreams.’
‘I do not dream wildly, Sir Robert,’ said Holmes. ‘But I am here to find the killer. Now, tell me about her disappearance. I understand you received a note from her saying she eloped. Are you sure the note was her writing?’
‘I am sure! The backwards letters. It was her writing.’
‘And she said she eloped with the groundsman’s son? Is this something you believed?’
‘Yes. Yes, it was. Iain Moray. That boy loved her since childhood.’
‘Where is this note now?’
‘It is here.’ The laird rose, and unlocked a small drawer in a desk under the window. He handed a sheet of foolscap to Holmes. The detective studied it for a moment then handed it to me. It was hastily written, with many letters backwards. Clearly an uneducated hand. I pocketed it.
‘You are sure it is Fiona’s hand?’ asked Holmes.
The laird nodded sadly. ‘Unmistakable.’
‘Whom did you hire to carry out this abduction?’ said Holmes.
The laird hesitated.
‘Perhaps it was he who later returned to kill the girl,’ I prompted.
The laird shook his head violently. ‘Never. On that fact you may be reassured. I hired the strongest, most loyal, most calm and wise man on the estate. A man of utmost integrity and to whom, if only he were my son and not my employee, I would gladly give the running of the business.’
‘Who is this sterling character?’ drawled Holmes.
‘My right-hand man. Third
generation distillery foreman for McLaren whisky. From a long line of coopers, they come. And no better man to have at the helm. I hired Mr Cameron Coupe.’
On cue, as he must have been listening just outside, a man opened the door and stepped into the room.
CHAPTER 15
Cameron Coupe
o say Coupe was a man with presence would be to understate the impression he made. Well over six feet tall, powerfully built and remarkably handsome, he was a man of about our own age, with curling black hair and penetrating dark eyes. He was attired simply, in a white collarless shirt and vest and worn moleskin breeches, with tall waterproof boots and a worn but well-tailored tweed jacket. A silver watch fob was just visible above a pocket. He conveyed a quiet confidence that more often accompanies men of privilege.
‘Gentlemen, this is Cameron Coupe, my right hand, manager of the estate and Master Distiller. Cameron’s father, and his father before him held the same position.’
Coupe nodded a greeting. The man was polite, but hardly subservient.
‘Cameron here is my intimate confidant, and the only man on the estate who knows Fiona’s parentage. As I mentioned, Mr Holmes, it was he whom I commissioned to carry out the—’ Here he hesitated.
‘—abduction,’ supplied Holmes.
‘Yes. And the rest. But neither Cameron nor I killed the girl. We are eager for you to reveal the true culprit, Mr Holmes.’
Holmes was busy lighting his pipe. He shrugged and glanced up at the estate manager with what I knew to be feigned indifference.
Coupe met Holmes’s gaze with frank openness, his confidence unshaken. If he was guilty, he gave no hint of it. ‘Sir, I was told you wish to speak to me,’ said Coupe, affably. ‘What might I do for you?’ His accent conveyed some years at university, at least to my ear.
Holmes turned to the laird. ‘If you will excuse us, Sir Robert’ said he. ‘May we interview Mr Coupe alone? We could then continue our conversation later in your private quarters, as we discussed.’
The laird paused then stood abruptly. ‘Later, at my own convenience,’ he said, somewhat discomfited by the dismissal. He exited in haste, causing his man to step aside.
‘Pray be seated, Mr Coupe,’ said Holmes. The man hesitated at the door as if deciding whether to comply or not.
‘What would you gentlemen like to know?’ asked Cameron Coupe. This was the voice of a man who commanded others. ‘I am, as you have heard, bound to help you in any way I can. But I am busy with work just now, so I would appreciate this being brief, sirs.’
‘We will take the time we need and no less, Mr Coupe,’ said Holmes sharply. ‘As a kidnapper, you are on tenuous ground legally, and I think you know that.’ He pointed at the chair.
Coupe paused, considered, then relaxed into a smile and joined us at the table. His large figure dwarfed the small wooden furniture, and as he leaned forward onto the table he presented an intimidating presence, the shock of wild hair tumbling forward on his forehead. His bright, dark eyes confronted us without any trace of fear, though with a certain amount of humour.
Holmes, by contrast, leaned back lazily in his own chair, as if indifferent to the conversation. Once again he busied himself with his pipe. I knew this posture well, and it usually reflected the opposite state of mind. Inside, at this moment he would be like a polar bear fishing at a hole in the ice, perfectly still, taught with anticipation, and keenly attuned to the slightest ripple.
‘Describe the kidnapping, where you took the girl, what you did exactly, and how you returned her,’ said he, carelessly.
‘First let me say, sir, I meant no harm to the girl. I took special pains, was gentle, and—’
‘Forego the apologies and give me the details.’
The large man paused, struggling with his anger. He then proceeded to give his account calmly and in detail, showing himself to be an intelligent and observant man, not without sympathy for his young victim. Despite his precautions not to harm her, he freely admitted that the experience frightened her terribly.
‘The problem, you see, was that she must not catch a glimpse of me, or, well, you understand. Knowing well the patterns of the estate, I disguised myself in a dark cloak with a hood, and surprised her in a rear yard by the kitchen, at a time when others were occupied. It was there that I took her, by means of throwing a blanket over her, gently of course, and I made a few ghostly noises and the like to frighten her. “Woo. Oooo”.’ He smiled at the memory.
Neither Holmes nor I found this amusing. ‘Why the noises?’ said Holmes.
‘I thought that impersonating a ghost might make her more pliable.’
‘A believer, then?’
‘Fiona could be peculiar on the subject of ghosts. She frequently mocked her fellow servants who were believers in the spirit world, you see, but in her heart of hearts she was afraid, that I knew. All the servants believe in ghosts.’
‘To be sure.’ said the detective. Holmes was clearly goading the man. Coupe did not rise to the bait.
‘But she struggled wildly, and so I had to render her unconscious so as not to hurt her, using—’
‘Chloroform,’ said Holmes. ‘That was ghostly of you. How is it that you are acquainted with this substance?’
‘We have a stable. Champion ponies, has the laird. The veterinarian uses it,’ said Coupe.
‘Did he show you how much to use, and how to administer it?’ asked Holmes quickly. ‘It is quite dangerous.’
‘No, sir. This had to be done in secret.’
‘Then how did you know?’
‘I read, sir.’
‘Of course you do. Now do something for me.’ Holmes pulled out a small notebook and his mechanical pencil and laid them on the table before Coupe. ‘Write your name here. Then print your name below. Then write my name. Then write a line of poetry.’
The man looked puzzled but obliged. I noted a certain effort to his actions, and the writing went slowly. After a moment he looked up. ‘I can think of no poem. Can you give me a line?’
‘Alack! What poverty my Muse brings forth,’ said Holmes dryly.
Coupe stiffened. ‘You mock me, sir.’
‘Not at all. Shakespeare. Sonnet 103.’
Coupe wrote it out, gave the notebook back to Holmes. My friend pocketed it without looking at it.
‘Describe what else happened,’ said he.
‘Well, once she was sleeping, I had a second task. The laird asked me to cut the lass’s hair off, and I did so, leaving enough to look decent, and placed her on a bed of straw in one of the underground holding cells.’
‘What cells?’ asked Holmes.
‘Under the castle, from the days when the lairds of Braedern held local assizes here. In any case I also put on some blankets so that she should not catch cold, and the laird came down to check that she was all right.’
‘Did she see him then?’
‘No, she was still asleep.’
‘Unconscious. What happened next?’
‘The laird, he was not satisfied, and asked me to take it further. Cut off all her hair. Shave her.’
‘Why?’
‘I do not know. Presumably so the effect would last longer. It felt like a cruel thing to do, but the laird, he is not a cruel man. I believe he thought to make her unattractive. For the reasons you have already learned, that is for her own protection.’
‘An unusual solution,’ said Holmes.
Coupe did not reply. He pushed a dark lock of hair from his forehead in an angry gesture.
‘Did you sense there could be another motive? Any other reason for this strange action? Punitive, perhaps.’
The man’s voice grew louder. ‘I do not question the laird. He is a man of impeccable reputation.’
‘And yet, there remain some doubts surrounding the death of his wife,’ said Holmes.
Coupe sprang to his feet and loomed over the table at Holmes. My hand went automatically to my pocket, where my Webley resided.
‘Do not say that,
’ said Coupe, vehemently. ‘The laird loved her truly, and mourns her death every day.’ Here the man paused and his look grew darker. ‘If you be thinking ill of him, sir, it would be wrong of you to accept his hospitality, and this case, and I suggest you make your way off.’
Holmes laughed. ‘Really now, Mr Coupe, you overreach yourself. We are not here as guests, and I feel no compunction to act as one. I have been asked here to solve a murder. It is my job to suspect everyone. Besides, the tale you now tell is hardly flattering to your employer.’
Coupe was breathing heavily.
‘Sit down, Mr Coupe. Let us continue. It is Sir Robert’s request.’
Coupe hesitated and then grudgingly complied.
‘Now, Mr Coupe, how did the poem come to be attached to the laundry basket in which the girl was returned?’
‘Poem, Mr Holmes? I do not know what you are talking about.’
Holmes stared hard at Coupe, and a tense silence ensued for several seconds. Coupe returned the stare, unblinking.
‘Perhaps I am mistaken. Tell me the circumstances of her return,’ said Holmes at last.
‘I used a basket, a very big one, the gardener uses it for cuttings, and put her in it, with the blankets and all, and brought it to the main entrance in the dead of night.’
‘“The dead of night”?’ said Holmes. ‘Pray, what time might that be?’
‘I would guess around two in the morning.’
‘Alone? It would have been rather unwieldy for one person.’
‘I am a strong man.’
‘I see. And you added no note?’
‘Yes, there was a note, which the laird directed me to write.’
‘If you would kindly be more descriptive in your answers, we could complete our task more quickly,’ said Holmes.
‘The note he asked me to write was this: “No man shall touch this lass until she regain her full complement of crowning glory. Or the spirits will wreak havoc upon the house.”’
But what was this? Isla had read us a poem that had supposedly been delivered with the girl in the basket. Holmes and I exchanged a quick glance.
‘A threat of supernatural harm. If you do not believe in spirits, why did the laird expect his presumably educated sons to do so?’ asked Holmes.
Unquiet Spirits: Whisky, Ghosts, Murder Page 14
