Unquiet Spirits: Whisky, Ghosts, Murder

by Bonnie MacBird

  He turned to Holmes. ‘The Royal family has arrived. I expect your full report this night upon their departure. Under no circumstances are you or Dr Watson to make an appearance. As far as they are concerned,’ he closed his eyes for several seconds. ‘none of this has happened.’

  Isla stepped to him and took his hand. ‘I shall remain, Father, and be your eyes and ears here.’

  ‘It is not fit for a—’ the laird began and then stopped himself. He seemed to realize that he was looking at the only member of his family who could handle the task. ‘Isla, my gem. Yes, remain for now. You will miss the dinner and we will miss your presence. But you are right, it is for the best. But dress and join us at the warehouse promptly at eight for the tasting.’

  She nodded. He then turned and exited abruptly.

  Holmes had already returned to his examination of the bodies and was bent over Fiona’s form with his glass when Mrs McLaren removed her winter coat and set her fur-trimmed hat upon a counter.

  ‘He is remarkably recovered!’ she said to me, watching my friend at his work. I thought I detected a brief look of admiration, but sensing my gaze she quickly shrugged it off.

  Holmes looked up from peering closely at the girl’s left hand. He gave Mrs McLaren his chilliest look, not difficult in his present condition. ‘Two young people in the laird’s employ lie dead here,’ said he. ‘And his dinner takes precedence.’

  I wondered that he had not mentioned the laird’s paternity.

  ‘Well, one he already knew was dead,’ said Mrs McLaren coldly, ‘The other is not a complete surprise. Do carry on.’

  ‘I intend to,’ he remarked, through chattering teeth. ‘Nothing, Mrs McLaren, will get in the way of my proceeding with this investigation, your father-in-law’s peculiar priorities notwithstanding.’

  ‘Do not judge so quickly, Mr Holmes. The future of the family rests on this evening. We already knew the girl was dead. Now, what have you discovered?’

  He ignored the question. I glanced towards the closed door leading to the kitchen. Despite the laird’s threat, I knew that every member of the household from the family principals to the lowest scullery maid would already be gossiping about the tragic tableau on view in this room.

  ‘Mr Holmes?’ Isla repeated. She moved closer to look at the bodies herself. ‘Have you discovered anything?’

  ‘The picture slowly emerges,’ said he, cradling Fiona’s frozen hand in his own and prying open the fingers. He shifted to one side to block our view of this.

  ‘Do tell us, Mr Holmes,’ said Isla McLaren.

  ‘Ha!’ he cried. He kept his back to us for a moment, then finally turned to face Mrs McLaren. ‘Well yes, some things are quite clear,’ said he. ‘It appears that the girl died of a cerebral haemorrhage due to a flat, wide blow to the occipital region of the head, probably from a fall, and that her decapitation was post mortem. I received final confirmation in a wire from my forensic expert in Edinburgh last night. But before she died of this head injury, I see now that she struggled with someone. There are bruises here, on her wrists, and on the forearms as well.’

  ‘Her killer!’ exclaimed the lady. ‘The fiend!’

  ‘Patience. That is not the entire story. From the placement of the bruises, I deduce that the combatant, who was quite large – note the span of the fingers here – attempted to restrain rather than attack her, and was defending himself. Recall from the head that she bore no facial marks,’ – and here he moved quickly down the torso – ‘nor are there bruises elsewhere on the torso. No one struck this girl in anger.’

  Mrs McLaren stepped forward to better see what he had described. She was truly a remarkable woman to remain so cool in the presence of such gruesome evidence. ‘Very well, then. But you said the blow to the head killed her?’

  ‘Yes, here.’ He pointed to the back of his own skull. ‘It is likely that in the struggle, she fell backward upon the floor, as the fracture is wide and shallow, almost like a cracked eggshell. One can survive such a blow, but not always. The bleeding would have been internal and slow, death not immediate, although loss of consciousness, yes. Yes.’

  ‘We did not notice this wound when we examined the head in France.’ said I.

  ‘True, because it was shallow. But unfortunately sufficient, and consistent with a fall backwards. Landing full force on a stone floor, for example.’

  Holmes moved around to the other side of Fiona’s body, indicating the next as though lecturing an anatomy class. ‘From the splayed position of the limbs, here, the girl was thrown onto the ice insensible, and probably dead. The body froze in the position in which it landed. Still with the head attached, I might add.’

  ‘How can you know that, Mr Holmes?’ asked Mrs McLaren.

  ‘From the angle of the neck, which froze canted back, obviously affected by the weight of the head which was still there at the time.’

  At this point the lady was obliged to take a turn about the room before forcing herself to rejoin us. My admiration for her grew. ‘Go on,’ she said, having regained her composure. ‘But why throw the body in the ice pit?’

  ‘Exigency. The ground is frozen. Above ground risked discovery. There the body would remain preserved, without the attendant putrefaction. It was not a well-planned choice, but probably seemed a good temporary solution.’

  ‘But what of Iain Moray, poor boy?’ said she, now turning her attention to the young man’s corpse.

  ‘The boy’s body tells another story entirely. He climbed down into the pit fully conscious, probably in an attempt to rescue the girl. It has already been established that Iain had taken to following Fiona. He no doubt saw her body being conveyed there, dropped his knapsack outside, which was later covered in snow, and entered. There are no bruises on his body so he did not encounter the perpetrator but perhaps waited until he had left. Or thought he had left.

  ‘Iain Moray then climbed down the ladder into the pit and found Fiona, intact and dead from her head wound, though perhaps he hoped she was merely unconscious. We will never know that detail. Then someone, and my theory is that this was a second man, came and deliberately removed the ladder, leaving Iain trapped.’

  ‘How can you know that?’ Isla McLaren exclaimed.

  I was happy, for once, not to be the one asking these questions.

  ‘From the condition of his clothing. Note this thin, very brittle film of ice, so different from the frost on her clothing. He was then doused with water. That speaks of cruel intent, does it not?’

  ‘The same fate meant for you,’ I said.

  ‘Iain was not so lucky,’ admitted Holmes.

  ‘Who could have done such a thing?’ cried the lady. ‘To either of you?’

  ‘It is a murderous spirit, no doubt. Let me finish. Kindly note the position of his arms. The boy froze to death cradling something. No doubt he died holding the girl he loved.’

  ‘But I thought his body was found some distance from hers?’

  ‘Yes, and I shall get to that,’ said Holmes. ‘Iain froze to death, as I said, cradling her. But I believe someone, probably this second person, came later, separated the two, and sawed off the head of the girl with a serrated blade. As we have seen.’ He shivered, though from the cold or a reaction to his own discovery I could not say.

  ‘While still in the pit?’

  ‘Possibly. Although it would have taken some time, and the perpetrator might have frozen to death himself while carrying out his heinous task.’

  ‘And so someone retrieved the body, sawed off her … oh it is too horrible!’ said Isla McLaren.

  ‘In any case, my expert’s assessment of the nature of the cut on the neck is that the head was already frozen when cut from the body. It also explains how her stiffened body lay propped up unusually on the ice as I found her, arms in the air – in the position in which they originally froze. The two bodies were thus separated and that is why I did not discover the boy’s at first, but only later, as I struggled in the ice myself.’


  ‘Remarkable, Holmes!’ I exclaimed at this tour de force of logic.

  Mrs McLaren nodded, then stepped away from Holmes for a second time, pale with the images created by this grotesque chain of events, and I rushed to steady her. She pushed me away.

  ‘Dr Watson, I am not so weak,’ said she. ‘But thank you.’ She took a deep breath and turned her focus on Holmes again. ‘Have you any theories as to the perpetrator of this crime?’

  Holmes stood back from the bodies and looked over the grotesque scene. ‘There is a dark spirit at work here,’ said he. ‘But I feel certain that at least two hands were involved. The poor girl’s death might have been an accident, and I lean strongly towards that theory, but what happened after was purely by design.’

  ‘But what could have been the purpose?’ Isla wondered.

  Holmes glanced at me, but was silent.

  ‘You may have discovered a method, but you seem no closer to a motive than before,’ said she.

  ‘We must begin with what we do know, Mrs McLaren, and that is a great deal. The beheading and the sending of this head are, I admit, puzzling. Whatever the motive was, it is twisted and cruel almost beyond comprehension. It harmed the laird, but it has also drawn attention to what I believe was the accidental killing of the girl. For that and other reasons I believe the killer and the sender were two different men.’

  ‘Are you sure? Could it not be two aspects of the same man? A Jekyll and Hyde perhaps?’ said Mrs McLaren. She approached the body of the girl and reached out towards it.

  ‘Do not touch! The person who beheaded Fiona and caused her head to be brought in on a plate has an unusual turn of mind, vindictive, angry, and obsessive. The act speaks of hatred, revenge, a wish to destroy.’

  ‘Destroy whom?’

  ‘Most probably your father-in-law.’

  ‘Do you know who either of these two men is?’

  ‘Yes, I do. I now know who killed Fiona.’

  ‘Who?’ cried Mrs McLaren.

  ‘I shall tell your father-in-law at the earliest opportunity.’

  ‘But the other? You said there was another?’

  Holmes said nothing.

  ‘When did you know the killer?’ persisted Isla McLaren.

  ‘Just now. The proof is here.’ He patted the pocket of his jacket.

  ‘What proof? Who?’ asked the lady, approaching him. ‘Not another earring!’

  ‘No.’ Holmes held his hand up to stop her. ‘The laird will hear shortly. You will have to be patient, Mrs McLaren.’

  The door to the kitchen opened as more hot tea and brandy were brought in, and in that brief moment I noted that beyond it the kitchen had grown more crowded and frenetic. Silver platters of prepared delicacies flew by on raised hands, smoked salmon, petits fours …

  ‘You were asked to give me your results!’ protested the lady.

  ‘I shall report to the laird personally,’ said Holmes. ‘You recall that someone attempted to kill me this very afternoon, and that person has not been found. Until that time, I must keep my silence.’

  ‘No offence meant to you, Mrs McLaren,’ I interjected. ‘But we must be firm on this point.’

  She hesitated, searching for a retort.

  ‘If you leave now, you may be in time for dessert,’ said Holmes, with a touch of sarcasm. ‘This is an event not to be missed.’

  The lady drew herself up in anger.

  ‘The laird will send for you to make your report at the end of the evening,’ she said.

  She swept from the room without further words, leaving her hat on the counter. A servant slipped in immediately, retrieved it, and scurried after Mrs McLaren. I closed the door behind her, leaving us alone in the room.

  I turned to my friend. To my surprise, his eyes had closed and he swayed, then sagged against the table. I rushed to take his arm. ‘Holmes, I am concerned for your recovery. I insist you get into a warm bath at once.’

  He nodded.

  ‘Watson, you have not asked what it was that I found?’

  ‘All right. If it will get us out of this room. Is there something?’

  ‘Of course, Watson. I found this in Fiona’s hand.’ With a weak flourish, Holmes held up a small scrap into the light. ‘A bit of fabric from a man’s shirt. Torn in a struggle, no doubt, to the death.’ He smiled in grim triumph. To him it was a prize.

  I leaned in for a better look. ‘Holmes!’ I exclaimed. ‘This is but a small bit of fabric and a button of a very common type. What are the chances of our finding the match?’

  ‘I have already found it. Let us return to our room where there is more privacy.’

  ‘And a warm bath,’ said I. ‘You are not yet out of danger.’

  CHAPTER 31

  Getting Warmer

  oon afterwards, the door locked behind us, I sat on the divan in Holmes’s room while he soaked in a copper tub behind a folded Japanese screen, and continued his story in what I felt was entirely inappropriate good cheer.

  ‘Let me see if you can deduce where I found this torn shirt, Watson.’

  ‘It is not the time for games. I want to know who tried to kill you in the icehouse. We did not think to look for footprints,’ I said.

  ‘You did not think. However, I noted that my rescuers trampled the snow beyond use.’

  ‘You were unconscious!’

  ‘Not quite. But back to the elusive torn shirt. Come now, humour me. After all, I nearly died.’

  ‘Until I rescued you.’

  ‘Yes, and thanks. But now I must amuse myself during this ridiculous process. Is there any more hot water in the kettle? I can tell you first that in the location I was searching, I found some broken glass, swept under a table, with shards still embedded in a small broom, so whatever transpired there happened relatively recently,’ said he.

  ‘Very well, broken glass. Perhaps someone dropped something. What location? And yes, there is a second pot, next to the first.’

  ‘Ah, yes,’ I heard the sounds of pouring water and a sigh of satisfaction. ‘Now consider this. There were other signs of a struggle,’ he said.

  ‘Where was this, Holmes?’

  ‘Patience. See if you can deduce. They were subtle, but there. A table by a chair, with a lamp that would normally be there for reading, now missing. That same table with a small dent where it had been knocked over. There was a stain on the carpet nearby with a distinctive odour. The broken lamp must have been kerosene, for the glass fragments carried that odour. And a curtain nearby, disturbed, with three hooks bent out of place, and then an attempt to restore them.’

  ‘A fight, then, I suppose. It must have been frantic.’ A sudden image of the sumptuous apartments of the family members swam before me. Bent curtain hooks and a kerosene lamp did not fit. ‘Wait! From your description, it was not one of the sons. They all have gas and electric lights.’

  ‘Excellent, Watson! Now consider the marks on her arms, the handprint revealing a man of considerable size and strength.’

  ‘That is nearly every man on this estate, Holmes. Do not keep me guessing. Where was this torn shirt?’

  ‘In the rooms belonging to Cameron Coupe. I examined them while you were gone.’

  ‘Coupe! He killed her, then? My impression was that he had feelings for the girl.’

  There was a long pause. I heard Holmes pouring in more water. He sighed. ‘That impression was mine as well. But I am afraid he is Fiona’s killer. In his closet I noted a shirt of a matching colour to the fragment in her hand, with a small piece of the collar torn away. There had been an attempt to mend it.’

  I looked down at the small piece of cloth he had retrieved from the girl’s hand. He had set it on a table.

  ‘A match to this, then, Holmes?’

  ‘I am sure of it. But, for what it is worth, I do not think Coupe intended to kill her. I think it far more likely that the girl, who was clearly intelligent, deduced the identity of her kidnapper and confronted him. In her rage, heightened further perhaps by a previ
ous attraction, she assailed him. Remember, the pattern of bruising on the girl’s arms, and nowhere else, conform more with someone attempting to restrain her rather than attack her. Her deduction, her fury, well, those traits would fit the various descriptions of the poor young woman.’

  Once again I was struck with a kind of awe at my friend’s ability to form a complete and complex narrative from seemingly unrelated fragments of evidence. A compliment at this juncture, however, might only serve to inflate his already considerable self-regard.

  ‘Hmm,’ said I. ‘The head wound came from a fall, then?’

  ‘Precisely. That is my reading of the event. Not a murder.’

  It was as if he had been there.

  I could not help myself. ‘Astonishing, Holmes!’ It was then a second thought occurred. ‘Then she attacked him?’ I wondered. ‘In a sense, you blame the victim, then, Holmes?’

  ‘No, Watson, not at all. Ultimately he will be found responsible, and may hang. But I do not believe he acted out of malice. It is far more likely to have been a tragic accident.’

  ‘But why would Coupe have thrown her body in the icehouse?’

  ‘Think, man! The ground is frozen. He could not easily bury her or otherwise dispose of her – burning, for example, would have produced a suspicious smell. He may have been in a panic. Consider, it is a reasonable place to store a body that would not be found for a very long time, if ever. Perhaps he meant to retrieve it after the family had left for the South of France.’

  ‘Yes, that makes sense. Do you need more hot water?’

  ‘No. The icehouse was not a terrible idea. Her body would probably not have been found except for one thing.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The act of throwing her body into the ice pit was witnessed by two others.’

  ‘Ah yes, the boy, Iain Moray.’

  ‘Yes. But another as well.’

  ‘I do not understand.’

  ‘The person who beheaded the girl and sent the head to the Hôtel du Cap could not have been Coupe. Such an action would only draw attention to the death he was at such pains to conceal. Coupe also does not strike me as so sadistic or twisted. I do not think he killed the boy, either. It took a cold-blooded murderer to do away with Iain Moray in that fashion. If Coupe had seen Iain, or been involved in killing him, he would hardly have pointed us in that direction in his first interview. I am quite sure that he had no idea what became of the boy.’