Deborah Crombie - Duncan Kincaid & Gemma James 09 - Now May You Weep dk&gj-9

by Now May You Weep

  Not like this, she thought now, gazing up at the damp-discolored concrete that made up the square blocks of her building. With a sigh, she went in and began the climb to her third-floor flat. The stairwell always smelled of urine, and as often as not, the lights were out. It worried her, especially on the short winter days when Chrissy came home alone from school in

  the dark, but it was the best she could afford on her pay.

  Nor was there anyone else to help out. Chrissy’s dad had buggered off when he learned Alison was pregnant, after claiming the baby wasn’t his, and not even Social Services had been able to track him down since. Alison’s mum lived on her pension in a two-room flat in Carrbridge, her dad having died of lung cancer before Chrissy was born.

  And any hope Alison had had that Donald might change things was rapidly fading. He called less these days, and when he did he often made excuses for not being able to see her. Like this weekend—he’d told her he had a business meeting, a three-day conference with some European bigwig. “Right,” she said aloud, and her voice echoed cavernously in the stairwell. If it were true, which she very much doubted, why hadn’t he asked her along? She could have made coffee and been decorative in the corner; she knew when to keep quiet.

  But then she’d have had Chrissy with her, and Alison supposed Donald didn’t want a nine-year-old running around interrupting his meetings. Not that Chrissy was ever any trouble, but that odious Heather Urquhart, the distillery manager, would complain.

  Alison reached the top landing and unlocked the door to the flat, calling out, “Hi, baby, it’s me.” She sniffed as she hung up her jacket and bag in the tiny entry. Chips and fish sticks again, Chrissy’s favorite.

  “I’ve saved you something for tea, Mama,” said Chrissy as Alison came into the sitting room and bent down to kiss her daughter.

  “Thanks, baby. I could eat a horse.”

  “Mama!” Chrissy protested, but she giggled, the smile lighting her rosy, heart-shaped face. She sat on the floor

  in front of the hideous flowered settee—a s hand-me-down from Alison’s mum—and she still wore her jumper and tartan uniform skirt. With her feet tucked beneath her you couldn’t tell that one leg was twisted and shorter than the other. Chrissy had been born that way, a congenital defect, the doctors had told Alison, but it never seemed to occur to the girl that she couldn’t do anything the other children did.

  Tonight she had the telly on as usual without the sound. She liked it for “company,” she said, when Alison teased her. Open on the floor beside her was one of her inevitable horse books, and lined up beside the cushions she’d placed in a square was a row of her plastic replica horses.

  “Who’ve we got today, then?” asked Alison, kicking off her heels and squatting beside Chrissy as she mas-saged her aching toes.

  “Man o’ War. And this one’s the Godolphin Arabian.”

  Chrissy indicated a slightly smaller pony. “And this one’s Eclipse.”

  “Are they going to have a race?”

  Chrissy rolled her eyes. “ ’Course not. They’re at stud.

  That’s the mares’ barn over there.” She pointed at another cushion.

  “Oh, sorry.” It was Alison’s turn to roll her eyes. What business did a child her age have knowing all about mares and studs and breeding procedures? And where had it come from, this passion for horses? “Equimania,”

  Donald called it. He found it amusing, and in one of his more benevolent moods he’d promised the girl a pony.

  “Bastard,” Alison whispered, standing. Had he known what that promise would mean to Chrissy? And to Alison, who’d thought perhaps he meant to move them into Benvulin House, for how else could they stable and feed

  a horse? But every day it became clearer that it had been a promise he hadn’t meant to keep, and Alison could happily have killed him.

  “Did anyone ring?” she asked, although she knew Chrissy would have told her straightaway if Donald had returned her call.

  “Callum,” answered Chrissy. “He said Max had a sore hoof. The blacksmith had to come today.”

  Alison frowned but didn’t say anything. She’d have a word with Callum MacGillivray—she didn’t like him ringing up when Chrissy was home alone.

  That had been a mistake on Alison’s part, going out with Callum, although he’d seemed harmless enough when she’d met him through the shop. His aunt Janet had a standing order for the small horse-shaped pins that she gave to the stables’ trekkers as souvenirs, and Callum had come in a few times to collect the shipment. A looker, she’d thought him, with his lean, muscular body, his sandy hair drawn back in a ponytail, his Hollywood stubble. And when he hadn’t said much, she’d thought him mysterious. It was only when they’d gone out a few times that she’d discovered the man was incapable of having a conversation that didn’t include horses, fishing, or Highland history. If you wanted to know where the Wolf of Badenoch had made his last stand, or where Cluny McPherson had hidden from the duke of Cumberland’s men, Callum could tell you, in nauseating detail. Otherwise, he was useless.

  And worse, although MacGillivray’s Stables were just up the road from Benvulin, Callum lived in a hovel of a cottage that made Alison’s flat look palatial. Chrissy, of course, found the place fascinating and seemed equally taken with Callum, but Alison had been glad of an excuse to cut off the relationship when Donald came into her life.

  Except that she hadn’t counted on Callum being unable to grasp the fact that nothing was going to happen between them. She’d told him flat out, finally, that he just wasn’t her type, but still he hadn’t given up. He rang every few days, and if she wasn’t at home he talked to Chrissy. Not that Chrissy minded a chat about horse lin-eaments and trout flies, but it made Alison uneasy that he would use the child to get to her. His latest ploy had been an offer of free riding lessons for Chrissy. Against her better judgment, Alison had accepted, hoping that the lessons might make up a bit for Donald’s failure to produce the pony.

  Damn Donald, she thought as she went into the kitchen and pulled the plate of soggy fish and chips from the microwave. Where was he this weekend, and why in bloody hell hadn’t he rung?

  “You must see Loch Garten,” said Donald Brodie. “The os-preys are nesting. We’ll organize a wee jaunt on Sunday—

  if John will let us, that is,” he added, with a mischievous glance at his friend.

  They were all still gathered in the Inneses’ sitting room, replete with coffee, whisky, and John Innes’s chocolate mousse. Lilting bagpipes played in the background, the fire crackled, and if not for her worry about Hazel and the faint nag of homesickness, Gemma would have been quite content. She’d been sure to claim a seat on one of the two sofas, between Hazel and the arm, leaving a discomfited Martin Gilmore to take a chair on the opposite side of the fire. Hazel sat on the edge of her seat, twisting her whisky glass round and round in her hands.

  When Gemma had touched her arm in mute query, Hazel had merely shaken her head and looked away.

  “Osprey?” Gemma asked now, breaking off her chat

  with Louise Innes about the Chelsea Flower Show. “I thought they were extinct.”

  “They vanished from the Highlands for more than fifty years,” John told her. “But in a pair established a nest site at Loch Garten, and now there are over a hundred pairs. They’re protected by the RSPB, of course, but eggs are still stolen occasionally.”

  “Crime pays, unfortunately,” agreed Donald. “And collectors, whether of rare whiskies or birds’ eggs, are not always quite sane.”

  Louise frowned. “The police should do more. I’m sure if they only—”

  “I’m sure the police are overworked and understaffed,”

  Gemma blurted, her irritation with the woman’s critical tone overcoming her manners. “Without chasing after egg thieves. I mean . . .” She trailed off, embarrassed, as she realized everyone was staring at her. Shrugging, she said apologetically, “Sorry. A bit of defensiveness goes with the job, I suppose.
”

  When the faces around her remained blank, she cursed herself for an idiot. She’d blown her own cover—not that she’d seriously intended to keep her job a secret. “Hazel didn’t tell you, then?”

  “Tell us what?” asked Louise.

  Well, there was no help for it now. “I’m a police officer. CID.” Seeing their blank expressions, she added,

  “Criminal Investigation.”

  Martin gaped at her. “You’re a detective?”

  “An inspector,” Gemma admitted, beginning to enjoy herself. “Metropolitan Police.”

  Pascal Benoit gave a delighted chuckle. “Brains as well as beauty, I see. You will give Heather some competition this weekend.”

  Had everyone conveniently forgotten that Hazel was

  a psychologist, and a licensed therapist? wondered Gemma, incensed on her friend’s behalf. And Louise—Louise’s job must take considerable skill and business acumen. But before she could protest, Heather Urquhart stretched languidly and smiled her little triangular smile, saying, “Well, it’s a good thing Donald’s family stopped smuggling whisky a few years back.” The woman suddenly reminded Gemma of Sid, their black cat at home. There was something feline about the way she sat curled in her chair, with her feet tucked up beneath her short, black skirt, running her fingers through the ends of her hair as if grooming herself.

  “Och, Heather will have her wee joke,” said Donald, with a wink at Gemma. “The truth is, Benvulin was one of the first distilleries to be licensed. That was in ,”

  he explained, apparently for Gemma’s benefit, “when the duke of Gordon managed to convince the government to legalize the distilling of whisky. Now, as to what the Brodies did before that, I canna answer.

  “But what I can tell ye,” he continued, lifting his glass and settling back in his chair, “is that making whisky was women’s work. It was the wives managed the stills while the husbands were out tending their sheep, or raiding cattle. So our Heather’s no setting a precedent.” He switched his gaze to Hazel. “And wasn’t it your great-grandmother, Hazel, who took on the family business when her husband died?”

  “I-I’ve no idea.” Hazel shifted uncomfortably. “That was a long time ago.”

  “But that’s where you’re wrong,” Donald said softly.

  “That’s your Londoner’s viewpoint. To a Highlander, a hundred years is nothing at all.”

  *

  “You’ll go for a walk with me, Hazel?” asked Donald Brodie, when the party began to break up. “Just so you remember what a fine thing a Highland night can be.”

  Beneath the jocular tone, there was a note almost of pleading.

  Hazel had stood for a moment, speechless, gazing up at him, then she’d clasped Gemma’s arm. “I— We’d better turn in. We’ve a big day tomorrow.”

  “You’ll need a good night’s sleep to tackle John’s porridge in the morning,” agreed Louise, with such deadpan delivery that Gemma wasn’t sure she’d meant it as a joke.

  Gemma took the opportunity to bid everyone good night, then steered Hazel firmly out the door, determined to get her friend on her own. Their feet crunched on the gravel as they crossed from the house to the barn.

  The crisp air smelled of pine and juniper, and the mist rolling in from the river held the earthy dampness of marsh.

  Hazel halted just outside the door to their room and tilted her head back. “Donald was right,” she said softly.

  “The sky’s like black velvet. I’d forgotten . . .” She shivered convulsively.

  “Come on, before you catch your death.” Gemma pulled Hazel into the room and shut the door. “We can stargaze some other time. Right now you’re going to tell me exactly what the hell is going on between you and Donald Brodie.”

  “It was the summer after I left university,” said Hazel.

  She’d stalled, pacing, until Gemma had thrust a mug of hot Horlicks into her hands and pointed at the armchair.

  “I needed a break,” Hazel went on slowly. “And I wanted to see the Highlands again. Cooking was the one thing I could do, so I got a job catering for shooting and fishing

  parties.” Making a rueful face, she blew across the top of her drink.

  “Go on,” urged Gemma, settling herself at the head of one of the beds. Their room was small but pleasant, with dark beams in a whitewashed ceiling, and snowy puffs of duvets on the beds. “Was it hard?”

  “I’d no idea how primitive some places still were, the shooting lodges. There were days I had to use the floor for a chopping block. It gave me confidence, though—

  after that I knew I could cook anything, anywhere.”

  “And Donald?”

  “Donald was a guest at a lodge near Braemar, where I was cooking. One day he stayed in from the moor to help me, when I had more guests than planned and not enough food to go round. After that we were—he was—” Hazel shook her head. “I never believed in love at first sight until that day. We were giddy from then on, consumed by it. I stayed months longer than I’d intended, missing the start of the Christmas term for my second degree. We were so sure that we were meant for each other,” she added, her voice wistful.

  “And then when Donald found out who I was, who my family were, that clinched it. It was to be a dynastic union; I was the ideal queen of his little empire.”

  “I don’t understand,” said Gemma. “What had your family to do with it?”

  “Whisky,” Hazel said shortly, sipping at her Horlicks.

  “Everything comes back to whisky, in case you hadn’t noticed. My family had owned a distillery, almost as long as Donald’s had owned Benvulin, and Donald knew he would take over Benvulin when his father retired. He saw us as the merger of two great names, two traditions.”

  “That doesn’t sound such a bad thing.”

  “Oh, but that’s when it got complicated.” Hazel’s laugh held no humor. “It turns out our families were the Scottish version of the Montagues and the Capulets. Donald had some idea—only he hadn’t bothered to tell me—but I hadn’t a clue. I had wondered why he seemed so reluctant to introduce me to his father.”

  “His father didn’t approve?”

  “You could say that.” Hazel’s lips formed a tight line, and she resumed her pacing.

  “But surely you could have worked something out, given time—”

  “No. The distillery meant too much to Donald. And my family . . . When I told my father, he was appalled. But he wouldn’t explain why there was such bad blood between the Brodies and the Urquharts, and he died not long afterwards.”

  “Oh, Hazel, I’m so sorry,” said Gemma, feeling an ache of sympathy.

  Hazel sighed and sat lightly on the edge of her bed.

  “We left Carnmore when I was fourteen. My father sold off the stock and equipment and took a job managing a brewery in Newcastle. I never knew him all that well, really. They sent me away to school, in Hampshire—that’s where I met Louise—and they cut themselves off from everything Scots, including family here.”

  “And your cousin, Heather?” asked Gemma, thinking of the woman’s obvious antipathy towards Hazel.

  “Heather’s father was my dad’s younger brother; he works for a whisky distributor in Inverness. Heather was just a year younger than I am, both of us only daughters.

  She loved Carnmore with a passion, and she idolized me.

  I don’t think she ever forgave me for leaving, or Dad for letting Carnmore go.”

  “If Donald’s father disapproved of the Urquharts so strongly, how did Heather end up working at Benvulin?”

  “Having your only son marry an Urquhart was a far cry from hiring an Urquhart as menial office help, which is how Heather started there. I even suspect it gave Bruce Brodie a sense of satisfaction to have an Urquhart in his employ.”

  “What did you do—after you and Donald—”

  “I came back to London, took my second degree. I met Tim, and after a bit we got married. We were . . . comfortable . . . together, and I told
myself that was the basis for a good marriage, that what I’d had with Donald wouldn’t have lasted. By the time I started to doubt my judgment, Holly had come along, and I—well, you make the best of things, don’t you?”

  Gemma gazed at her friend in astonishment. “Why did you never tell me any of this? I thought we were close, and I never dreamed you were unhappy!”

  “I’m sorry,” Hazel told her, coloring. “I suppose it was partly therapist’s habit—you get used to listening, not confiding—and partly that I couldn’t stop paddling. If I stopped making my life true, every day, I was afraid I would drown.”

  “But— How could you— You have everything, the ideal life—”

  “Everything but someone to talk to. Tim didn’t—Tim doesn’t want to hear about my childhood, my life before I met him. I felt as if I’d lost a part of myself, the piece that held all the links together.”

  “And then Donald came back into your life?”

  Hazel nodded. “I bumped into him one day, literally, at the organic market in Camden Passage. It only seemed natural that we should go to lunch, catch up on our lives.

  Just for old times’ sake. And after that—”

  Gemma realized that in spite of her suspicions at dinner, she hadn’t really believed it until that moment. “All this time, you’ve been having an affair—”

  “No!” Hazel stood, hugging herself as if her chest ached. “I haven’t slept with him! We just—he’d ring me and we’d talk. It made me feel alive again, truly alive, for the first time in years. We’d meet for a coffee or lunch whenever Donald came to London on business . . . It wasn’t— We never talked about— This weekend is the first time—”

  “You were going to see what you were missing? And use me as a safety net in case you decided you didn’t want to go through with it? Or as an alibi if you did?”

  Gemma was surprised by the strength of her own anger.

  She felt used, betrayed.