‘Why? Have you seen it?’
‘What does it matter? I am not a believer, Mr Holmes.’
‘So much of your reporting is second hand, Mrs McLaren. “It is said”, “I am told”, and so on. I would like to hear something you have witnessed yourself, first hand. And so I ask you again, did you see the reported ghost in the East Wing? Or any others? As Shakespeare wrote “in the night, imagining some fear, how easy is a bush supposed a bear”.’
‘A Midsummer Night’s Dream, of course. But comes the reply, “But all the story of the night told over, and all their minds transfigured so together.” I played Hippolyta in a school production, Mr Holmes. Enough people have seen this ghost in the East Tower that attention must be paid. I myself did see a figure once, in the East Wing. But that is all. However, as I was about to relate, it is the idea of this “ghost” that gives me pause.’
‘Why?’
‘Let us assume, even though it has been seen by others, that it is an illusion. I can imagine no real advantage that such a devised haunting might confer, no motive for anyone to create or perpetuate such a myth. It is merely sad, and inconvenient. To the others, I can well ascribe some earthly motive. For example, I once caught Fiona impersonating a ghost, which I presume was to frighten Catherine from her husband’s room. Fiona thought it a fine joke.’
‘Fiona, you say. What about her friend, Gillian? No? Then you believe the ghosts of Braedern to be concoctions by someone with an interest in frightening others.’
‘Did you not begin with such a theory yourself?’
Holmes did not reply directly. Instead he paused, taking in her apartment from his chair. ‘But who is kept in line other than Catherine by such a device? Neither the laird nor either of his sons claim to believe in ghosts, Mrs McLaren.’
‘True. And yet, you have noticed the rosemary everywhere.’
‘But not here,’ I remarked with a smile which she returned.
‘They could all do with a dose of rational thinking,’ said Mrs McLaren. ‘Even the ones who present themselves as cool heads.’
‘All of them, Mrs McLaren?’
She paused at this question. ‘Judge for yourself, Mr Holmes. But often the man who thinks himself a paragon of logic is the most irrational and emotional of them all.’ She held my friend’s eyes.
‘You speak of Alistair?’ asked Holmes.
‘Whom did you think?’ she asked, with a sudden flash of anger. ‘Good day, gentlemen.’
She stood, in a gesture of dismissal. Holmes and I arose and moved to the door. He turned to go, then paused, as if he had suddenly remembered something. Pulling a small shiny object from his pocket, he held up the earring that he had found in the laird’s bedroom.
‘Yours?’ he asked.
‘What?’ Mrs McLaren approached, squinting for a closer look. ‘Certainly not,’ said she. ‘Where did you find it?’
‘Whose, then?’
‘Tell me first where you found it.’
She stared at Holmes but he refused to answer. She turned to me with a smile, and with two strides, walked to where I was standing and boldly took me by the shoulders. She looked deeply into my eyes. I do not consider myself a cowardly man, but will admit I felt the sudden urge to run.
‘Dr Watson will tell me, will you not? Was it when you were interviewing Charles? Cameron Coupe? The laird? Alistair? Ah yes, your eyes tell me what I need to know. Thank you, Dr Watson.’ She turned to Holmes. ‘So, it was in the laird’s room. Strange!’
Sherlock Holmes exhaled in frustration. ‘I will not deny it. Now pray return the favour. Do you know to whom this earring belongs?’
‘You did me no favour. And no, I do not know.’
Holmes held her gaze for a moment. ‘But you have a theory which you will not divulge. Others beside yourself can read the truth in pupil dilation and changes in breathing, Mrs McLaren.’
I can only presume that is what she had just done with me.
‘The earring is not mine, nor do I know whose it is. That is the truth, and that is all you will get. Quid pro quo. Good evening, gentlemen.’
I turned to go but Holmes turned back. ‘Lying by omission is as shameful and dishonourable as lying outright. Perhaps more so.’
‘Really?’ she asked. This seemed to resonate with her deeply. Something in her demeanour changed. ‘Perhaps I do this to protect you.’
‘If you think Dr Watson and I are in need of your protection, madam, you are sadly deluded,’ said Holmes. ‘Good day.’ Holmes strode out of the room with a level of anger that surprised me.
Just past the threshold I lingered with a nod to Mrs McLaren. ‘Good day,’ I said. ‘Please forgive the—’
She slammed the door behind me.
When we were at last out of earshot, I put voice to my thoughts. ‘Holmes, what happened just now with Mrs McLaren? Perhaps she is withholding information, but I doubt she is a liar.’
‘It is the same thing, Watson. There is something going on behind the scenes here. Something we cannot yet see … and Mrs Isla McLaren knows something. Her reasons for withholding are not clear to me, but I have sensed they were there from the moment we met.’
‘What was so interesting on her bookshelves?’
‘As she said, books are the “window to the soul”.’
‘I doubt you are interested in her soul, Holmes. That lady has a most peculiar effect upon you.’
‘Enough, Watson. You are rendered useless in the face of beauty.’
‘Then at least you admit she is beautiful.’
‘Come, let us step outside for a cigarette.’
CHAPTER 25
Where There is Smoke
e removed ourselves to a sheltered porch outside the dining room, where, for the moment at least, we could be assured of no eavesdroppers. Holmes took out his cigarette case and began to smoke. We stared out at the blue-white expanse, and the brown knobs of the distillery buildings sticking up, snow-capped, down the hill from us. Without our coats, the winter chill was oppressive and I found myself shivering almost immediately.
Holmes inhaled slowly. ‘Watson, these are deep waters. There are things about this case which defy logic.’
‘Surely you do not suspect supernatural explanations?’ I ventured.
‘Of course not, Watson. You know me better than that.’
‘I do, but I cannot fathom how all of these threads connect.’
‘And yet I am sure they do. They must. It is as though there were some dark force behind it all. There are too many deaths, too many mysteries which haunt these halls. If the culprit is a member of the McLaren family, motive, opportunity, and temperament do not seem to coincide, at least in the matter of poor Fiona Paisley. But clearly we have stumbled into a familial nest of intrigue.’
‘What a terrible waste,’ I remarked. ‘In the presence of this much wealth and comfort, scrambling for prestige and power seems so pointless. There is enough to go around, one would think.’
‘Never underestimate greed, Watson. Greed, jealousy, fear, and revenge are the four great motivators of crime. No one is immune.’
‘Perhaps, although I do not believe I could ever act out of revenge.’
‘I have often told myself the same thing, Watson, and yet if someone were to shoot you dead before my eyes, they would not live to gloat about it.’
I was as startled at this unprovoked expression of emotion from my taciturn friend, as if a gunshot had gone off next to us. I endeavoured not to show it. ‘Well, that is comforting, Holmes,’ I remarked. ‘But it would hardly be revenge. What is that letter you are unfolding?’
‘Something of interest. I found it when I stopped in to Alistair’s rooms.’
He moved under a stone balustrade so that we could not be seen from any of the castle windows and handed the missive to me. It was addressed to ‘M. McLaren’ and read:
‘Our year of plans has been thwarted. I have delivered the ice cream which you had commanded but our last confection met with war
mth unexpected and therefore she melted before she could be fully enjoyed. If you wish further dessert items from me, you must contact me in the usual manner. But remember that each unique creation involves the raw materials from the special dairy cows of Scotland. It cannot be rushed. Better planning may furnish us a stronger outcome the next time.’
‘What do you make of it, Watson?’
‘I am confused. Does this refer to the frozen ice cream dessert?’
‘The answer is no. But I know who wrote it.’
I said nothing. Eventually he would tell me. Patience.
‘Come, Watson, observe. The writer is French. The “M.” instead of “Mr” for “Monsieur” is the first indication, though not conclusive. The stationery is French, evidenced by the watermark here. The use of “commanded” instead of the more normal “ordered”. Commander is French for “to order”, as in goods or services. Also the reversal of “warmth unexpected” and “she melted”. Obvious, no?’
‘But the reference to the frozen … ice cream? Was a Frenchman involved in transporting the head?’
‘No. And the French clues were only to test you, Watson. I happen to recognize the handwriting. It was Jean Vidocq’s.’
‘Holmes! Is he involved in the murder? The ice cream … bombe?’
‘No, he refers to a bomb of a different sort, the bomb in Dr Janvier’s laboratory. This letter is the last piece of evidence that confirms that Vidocq is causing the very threat to Dr Janvier he was hired to thwart – and at the same time gathering ammunition to blame the phylloxera fiasco on the McLarens.’
‘But the special dairy cows of Scotland?’
‘I wager that is code for the special dynamite produced in Scotland by Nobel.’
The wind had come up and the last fallen snow was being blown along the tops of the mounds along the ground.
‘Holmes, this is most electrifying, but I am growing quite chilled. Do you have enough to have the police arrest Alistair, now? And can we not go in?’
‘The walls have ears, remember, Watson? By the way, this letter was not written to Alistair.’
‘But you found it in Alistair’s rooms.’
‘Yes. It was written to Charles. The pencil marks, you see? Those are mine. The faint imprint of the address from the envelope is visible when graphite is applied to the back of the letter. Look here.’ He held out the letter to show me.
Faintly visible white beneath the graphite shading I could make out Charles’s name.
‘Well done, Holmes. But let us go in. I cannot feel my feet.’
Holmes smiled, looking off to the distance. ‘As I suspected, Charles McLaren hired Vidocq to set the bomb off in Dr Janvier’s laboratory. The hare-brained plot suits the older brother well.’
‘But, stay a moment, Holmes. Mycroft told us that Vidocq is being paid by that man Reynaud, of the French government. So this now confirms that he is a double agent?’
‘That, as you will recall, has been my working hypothesis from the start of this singular affair. Vidocq was hired by the French government to protect Dr Janvier from threats which they thought came from some British saboteur. And, indeed they did. Vidocq, well ahead of the government officials – note his reference to “our year of plans” not only knew who would be most interested in sabotaging the research for the phylloxera cure, but had already been solicited by Charles McLaren to offer his services. Now we have the missing link. This may even have occurred in London while Vidocq was there a year ago on the case with us involving the missing child and the stolen statue, remember? This theory of mine certainly fits all the facts.’
I began to stamp my feet to see if I could return feeling to them. ‘Well, that is rather a poor showing on Vidocq’s part. Profitable, I suppose, but hardly patriotic.’
Holmes smiled. ‘You do not entirely understand, Watson,’ he said. ‘Presumably the French government has been made aware of Mr Charles McLaren’s childish games through Jean Vidocq. For it is on the French side that Vidocq’s allegiance, if he can be said to have any, must rest.’
‘Do you think so? That Jean Vidocq is a patriot at heart?’
‘No, but his government has more to offer him – money and honours if he plays his cards well.’
‘I see it all now,’ I said. ‘The time and place of the bomb were critical, no one was to be hurt! Charles must have had a great imagination to plot this out.’
‘Not Charles, he lacks the long vision. Vidocq did it for him. But there is something else at work here. I sense a kind of deus ex machina, of a most evil nature.’
‘Someone setting Charles on his path?’
Holmes shook his head, his expression grave. ‘No. Someone who may have choreographed events to ensure we discover the connection.’
‘Alistair? You found the letter in his room.’
‘No. Someone seductive, someone with power over others, but hidden, and working behind the scenes.’
‘What would be such a person’s motive?’ I asked.
‘Who gets the business if Charles is exposed?’
‘Alistair. But you do not think it was him.’
‘I judge him both smarter, and yet less devious than either his father or older brother.’
‘But that leaves who?’
Holmes stared at me. The answer was obvious.
‘Isla McLaren,’ I said reluctantly. ‘But she is not so cold! I cannot believe it of her.’
‘Really, Watson? I find her quite calculating.’
A sudden gust of wind blew a quantity of snow in our direction.
‘Holmes, you know my thoughts about the lady. I cannot believe it of her.’
Holmes said nothing but blew some smoke into the freezing air.
‘I am going inside,’ I said, stubbing out my cigarette.
Within minutes we arrived at the door to Holmes’s room. He unlocked it, but then paused abruptly at the threshold, holding up a hand.
‘Now what, Holmes?’ I asked tiredly.
‘Someone has been in the room!’ he whispered, blocking the doorway. His head swivelled as he took in the entire scene.
Peering from behind, I could discern nothing changed. ‘How can you tell?’
‘That Bible, for example, overlapped this table on the left lower corner. My jacket sleeve there was folded at the elbow. The intruder did not wish to – but ha!’
He rounded a corner to the niche wherein the bed was positioned and stood before it.
‘Here he lies!’
Worried, I walked around the corner to join him. There lay Calum Moray, the groundskeeper’s little son, asleep on the pristine coverlet.
As we watched he awoke suddenly and sat up, eyeing us in alarm.
‘It is all right, young man,’ said Holmes. ‘Do you have something for me?’
The boy nodded and sprang from the bed.
‘I set him on a few tasks, Watson,’ said Holmes. Ignoring the fact that the child had fallen asleep, Holmes congratulated him with a clap on the back. ‘An observant young man such as this shows much promise for police work. What have you got, Calum?’
Calum beamed. He stepped forward and from his pocket removed a small object and handed it to Holmes.
He took it and held it up to the light. It was the matching earring to the one Holmes had found on the floor in the laird’s room! ‘Excellent, my boy! Where did you find it?’
‘Servants’ quarters, sir. Old room of Fiona’s that she shared with Gillian Andrews,’ said the boy. Under Holmes’s patient questioning, the boy then revealed that the earrings had been given to Gillian Andrews, the maid who had been Fiona’s roommate, by Coupe. ‘And Mr Coupe, he fancies her, he does. Gillian said so herself.’
‘Mr Coupe fancies Gillian?’ asked Holmes.
‘Aye, sir. They meet up in strange places. It is like a game, she says. He gave her the earrings. And then she lost one,’ said Calum.
Holmes thanked Calum and paid the boy a shilling.
‘And there is more,’ said the little b
oy.
‘Do tell, young man,’ said Holmes.
‘Gillian is a ghost.’
I gasped. Not another murder, was my thought.
‘Explain,’ said Holmes, taking the boy gently by the shoulders.
‘She puts white on her face and goes up to Charles McLaren’s rooms,’ said the child. ‘Gillian likes to scare people. She can’t scare me. But Lady Catherine …’
‘Ah, I see, Calum. Thank you. Oh, and give me the key, please. The key you used to enter this room.’
‘No key, sir. I—’
‘Do you by chance have one of these, then?’ Holmes removed a small lock-pick from his left cuff. At the boy’s hesitation he smiled kindly. Calum nodded and pulled a similar one from his own pocket. They smiled, rascals in collusion. Holmes replaced his lock-pick, gave Calum a second shilling and sent the boy off.
‘A criminal in the making?’ I wondered, after the door had closed.
‘Or a detective. In any case, Watson, this earring is of little help. It appears that Coupe and the girl to whom he gave Fiona’s jewellery then had a rendezvous in the laird’s bedroom once the family had left for France.’
‘What an extraordinarily brazen fellow, this Coupe,’ said I.
‘Yes! And Gillian as well, since Charles must have used her to keep his wife Catherine from his room. But the timing of Coupe’s distribution of Fiona’s jewellery may be telling.’
‘Could he have written the note purporting to be hers about running away to get married?’ I wondered. ‘The one with the backwards lettering and all?’
‘No. Do you recall I had him write some words for us during our interview? His penmanship was awkward at best. He would not be capable. But the timing of his distribution of Fiona’s things tells me he knew rather sooner than others that she would not be returning.’
Just at that moment, a long, low moan sounded from the hallway outside the room.
‘Did you hear that?’ I asked.
Without answering, Holmes opened the door. We both looked out into the dim hallway. There was no one.
Unquiet Spirits: Whisky, Ghosts, Murder Page 21
