Halfway through the meal Mrs. Logan broke the silence. “How is your father?” She glanced at Merle, the eldest at the table.
“As far as I know, fine,” Merle said. Stasia still hadn’t texted.
“We should go to Aberdeen tomorrow,” Elise said. “To check on him.”
“Yes, good idea, Elise,” Merle said.
“I’m afraid, ladies, we will need you all to give statements,” DI Grassie reminded them. “And stay for further questions. Any of you who were at home during the, ah, incident.”
Another silence filled with chewing and cutlery clatter. Merle wondered if that dictum sat well with Mrs. Logan. She no doubt wanted them all out of her house. Merle shot her a glance, then one to Callum. Neither showed any sign of anything.
These inscrutable Brits.
Francie was into the wine again. Merle didn’t even care. The meal was rather ordinary. The roast was overcooked, the potatoes were lumpy. All of them needed wine to wash them down. Silence descended again, as heavy as a Scottish mist.
Then apropos of nothing and more than a little flushed, Francie chuckled and held her wine goblet high.
“You know what? A little sea bathing would set me up forever!”
Forks paused halfway to mouths.
It was a line from that other Bennett family’s saga, Pride and Prejudice. Besides gothic novels, the sisters had devoured their namesakes’ story and knew much of dialogue by heart. This was Francie’s favorite line of the book, a silly statement by the sisters’ mother. As a rebellious teenager and lover of high drama Francie would just put it out there randomly, whenever the tension was too much. In a high-pitched posh accent of course. It remained a family ice-breaker of unquestioned value all these years.
A great gust of a laugh escaped Elise. Francie joined in, eyes streaming, napkin over her mouth. Merle smiled, swallowing her own laugh while glancing at Mrs. Logan. Fiona’s eyes were wide with fury, or something, staring at the sisters with utter contempt.
“It’s just a line from Jane Austen,” Merle tried to explain as the giggles came over her. Mrs. Logan was turning purple. Merle grabbed Francie’s arm to settle her down. Elise had pushed back her chair and was bent double, head in her lap, chortling.
Merle stood up, straightened, and tried to recover her dignity. She took Elise and Francie by the arms and pulled them to their feet.
“Come along, girls,” she said. “Dinner is over.”
22
It was late that evening, nearly ten, when Francie escaped out the library door.
She rolled her eyes at Merle, waiting outside, and made a sour face. Her questioning had been easy, that seemed to mean. Or: the policeman was a dolt. Merle felt her heart thudding in her chest and tried to remind herself that the innocent are always more nervous than the guilty. The Inspector sat by the fireplace with its low fire burned down to embers, reading a spiral bound notebook in his lap, tapping his pen on his chin.
He reminded Merle of a judge in Housing Court, back in her active Legal Aid days before she’d moved to Development to wine and dine lawyers. That judge, named Wayne Fallows, was just as round and soft as DI Grassie but he had a hard core obscured by his smile. He was hard to read. She learned to never take the judge’s good-natured countenance as an indication of anything. In the same way she would not assume this man was a dolt, or anything else. He was a representation of authority, that was all.
Grassie looked up as she closed the door. “Miss Bennett. Have a seat.”
She perched on the chair opposite him. A small round table separated them, or joined them. A pipe lay in a shallow bowl, smoldering. In other circumstances the scene might be called cozy.
“How can I help, Inspector?”
He leaned back and examined her as if surprised by her making the first move. “Just a few questions. Please, make yourself comfortable.”
Merle sat as straight and upright as possible. “Fire away.”
“You helped in the attempt to revive Miss Petrie?” She nodded. “Can you paint me a picture of the scene as you first saw it?”
Merle described hearing the screaming, pulling on boots, and stepping out the back door into the huge puddle. The vision of the body floating, Pascal pulling her out. The unsuccessful resuscitation.
“When you first opened the door, what did you see?” he asked.
“The huge puddle. And Miss Arbuckle. She was hysterical.”
“She stood where exactly?”
“At the bottom of the steps to their building, the women’s quarters.”
“Near the puddle then?”
Merle tried to remember. “A few feet from the edge. I walked over there to try to calm her down.”
“Did she say anything to you?”
“She was screaming, crying. I tried to calm her down. She said we should have looked for Vanora instead of just going to bed.”
“So you knew she was missing last night?”
Merle nodded. “Jinty came into the drawing room, very late, and told us Miss Petrie hadn’t come to bed.”
“What time was that?”
“I’m not sure. Maybe midnight or one.”
“What did she say exactly?”
“That the cook hadn’t seen Vanora get the plate for the old man. So we went into the kitchen to look for it. Miss Petrie was supposed to bring it to his cottage and it was gone. So we figured that’s where she was.”
“Did Miss Arbuckle walk to the cottage?”
Merle frowned. “I don’t know.”
“Where did she go?”
“Out the back door.”
The inspector asked a few more innocuous questions about the morning’s events and dismissed her. He checked his watch and stood.
“That will be all tonight. I’ll be driving back to the village.”
“Shall I tell the others?” Merle asked.
He walked out the door with her. “I’ll do it myself. A good night to ya, miss.”
In the hall a single light burned on a side table. They were still conserving electricity, worried about running out of gasoline. It might be days or even weeks until the wires were restrung outside. The inspector disappeared back into the kitchen wing. In the shadows Pascal poked his head out of the drawing room opposite the library. He motioned her in, holding the door.
The drawing room was equally dim, candles lit like the night before but also two lamps on. The vast recesses of the room were ignored, dark. They sat close together near a table lamp. Merle had never appreciated electricity as much as today.
“How was he?” Pascal leaned closer. “Do you need cognac?”
“He was gentle.” She fell back into the plush velvet chair. “I am so tired but I feel, you know, charged up.” She closed her eyes and felt a buzz behind her lids. “Maybe I do need cognac.”
“Did Annie speak to Callum?” he asked as he handed her a snifter of amber liquid.
“I don’t think so. She’s really hurt. I’m afraid she’ll go home and never talk to him. Never let him explain.”
“Is there something to explain? I thought the weather was the culprit?”
“Everything was cancelled without even discussing it with her.” Merle glanced at him, his rugged features and unshaven cheeks more pronounced in the shadows. He didn’t need to know Fiona Logan was the one to call off the wedding, or that Callum was engaged to Davina at one time. That seemed strangely like gossip.
“She has gone off the whole idea of marriage.”
Pascal said, “She would be most welcome in France. I told you. Marriage is old-fashioned. She knows it, I know it. But perhaps not the British way. They are very, how do you say? Traditional. One might even say hidebound.”
Merle raised her glass to the hidebound Empire and its local representatives.
Pascal swirled his drink. “I’m afraid I have some bad news.” He waited for her attention. “The examiners found a wound on Vanora, a large bump on her head.”
Merle was awake now. “She fell dow
n or— what? Someone hit her?”
“That’s their theory. Whacked her on the head, knocked her out, pushed her into the water, and let her drown.”
“Oh my God.” Merle drank a large slug of cognac. “That means someone— ”
Pascal let the moment slide, then finished the sentence. “Killed her. Someone who was here at the château that night.”
Merle blinked hard, letting this new information orient her.
“Someone who is still here?”
“Two are missing,” he noted. “Mr. Craigg and the inimitable Bruno Nordvilles-Moura.”
“Wow. What a vocabulary you have.” She smiled. “Where are they? Mr. Craigg can’t have wandered off. He could barely walk.”
Pascal shrugged. “The police search for him. I believe they are bringing in some dogs in the morning. I thought he might be in the barn with his little white horse but no.”
“But how would that fit in with Vanora’s death?”
“They were friends, no?”
She nodded. Why would Mr. Craigg harm Vanora? They were drinking buddies apparently.
They sipped cognac for a long minute. When they looked up again they said, almost in unison: “Bruno.”
Merle tried to sort it out. “But he was with us in the drawing room all evening.”
“He didn’t go out looking for the sheep.”
“Right.” She’d forgotten. Now she remembered him smoking his cigar, cards in hand, as the rest of them went out to search for the sheep. What did he do by himself? Raid the wine cellar? Run foul of the housekeeper in the darkness?
“So, what do you think? Vanora Petrie came back to the house early and had a confrontation with Bruno? He hits her?”
Pascal shrugged again. Merle tried to remember seeing Bruno and Vanora together anywhere besides at dinner. And that was public, he was seated, she was serving. Was he the one who started that rumor that Vanora repeated, the one about Pascal still being married? Was that serious, or just a prank? There seemed to be no answer to their questions.
“What if it wasn’t one of those two? What if it was someone else, someone we’ve been trusting?”
“Like Mrs. MacKeegan?” he offered playfully.
“Hmmm. No. Jinty?”
“Perhaps Gunni.” Pascal bit a lip. “The police questioned him for two hours.”
“Where is he now?”
“Out with the sheep is my guess. He loves les moutons.”
They sipped their drinks. Merle said, “Where do you suppose Bruno is? Did he run off?”
Pascal sat forward. “Did you tell Elise about him?”
“Not yet. She’s moaning and groaning because she has to move into Francie’s room. Apparently she was in Mrs. Logan’s special bedroom.” She rolled her eyes. “Why didn’t she get Bruno’s room if he’s MIA?”
“The police have locked it, just in case he’s the man.”
“But it was cleaned out already.”
He shrugged. “You need to tell Elise who he is. You want me to do it?”
His tone was serious, as if Bruno were a real threat. But he was in the wind and Elise was safe. “I will.”
“Tonight, chérie.”
Upstairs Pascal kissed her at their bedroom door and disappeared inside. Merle wanted nothing in that moment but to slip under the blankets with his big warm body. She felt the agony and heartbreak of the day like a weight around her neck. But her sisters needed her.
She knocked on Annie’s door first. Light shone from the crack underneath. Merle tried the knob. It was locked.
“Annie? It’s me.”
23
The door cracked open and one of Annie’s eyes appeared. She checked out Merle then glanced up and down the hall before waving her inside.
Annie leaned against the door, wearing her pajamas, her hair sticking out in all directions. She had dark circles under her eyes. No makeup now.
“How you doing?” Merle asked.
“Okay.” She wasn’t very convincing.
“Did you get something to eat?”
“I snuck down the back stairs.” Annie flopped back on the bed, leaving the chair for Merle. “What’s going on? Are the cops still here?”
“Gone for the night.” Merle wondered if her sister really wanted to discuss the death of Vanora. “Did you talk to Callum?”
Annie shook her head. “Not yet.”
“But you will.”
“Tomorrow.”
“He’s right down the hall. And he’s got a bear rug.” Merle wiggled her eyebrows, making Annie smile. “At dinner Elise said we should go to Aberdeen to see Daddy tomorrow but the inspector said we have to stay put.” She had Annie’s attention. “They think it was intentional. That somebody bopped Vanora on the head and left her facedown in the mud puddle.”
“So we’re all suspects?”
“Well, not all of us. But to the cops, I guess.” There were footsteps in the hall. Francie? Elise? Callum? She waited as they faded away toward the stairs. “Did you see Vanora having an argument with anyone?”
“I barely remember what she looked like. I was so into my own thing.”
“Of course you were.” The wedding thing. “What are you going to tell him?”
“I’ll let you know as soon as I figure it out, Merle,” she said with a bit of edge. Like: mind your own damn business. “We should go to Aberdeen. Maybe the cops will be done with us by the afternoon. They can’t keep us here. This place isn’t a prison although it feels like one tonight.”
Merle wasn’t so sure. But she agreed. They needed air. The sisters needed to check up on their father and the trip would take Annie’s mind off the events that would not be happening that day. So much planning down the drain. She got Annie to agree to come down to breakfast in the morning. The cops would want a statement from her and she couldn’t stay in her room forever, avoiding Callum.
Merle said good night and went out into the dim hallway. Only one fixture was lit, on a small side table midway down the red wallpapered length. The light made strange shadows above the animal heads, gruesome faces that reminded her of childhood, putting the flashlight under their chins and cackling like vampires.
This house seemed cursed in its way, ruining love stories and fracturing lives. How gothic, she mused. She listened for those footsteps from earlier. What was this, a horror novel? She tiptoed down to Francie’s room. No light under the door. “Elise? Are you up?” she called in a stage whisper.
No answer. The door was unlocked. Merle pushed it open, expecting to see Francie passed out again. But she was in bed, curled up reading on her iPad. She pulled her reading glasses off her face hurriedly.
“Hey, what’s up?”
“I’m looking for Elise. Didn’t she move in here?” Merle asked, looking around at the luggage.
“Yup. But she went downstairs for something. I think she’s off her diet.”
“I heard somebody go by.” Merle felt the drama of the day again. Couldn’t everyone just go to bed? “Having trouble sleeping?”
“A little. Plus I’m out of whisky.” She made another silly face that made Merle laugh. “Don’t say it, Merdle. I know where the wine cellar is and I’m holding myself in check.”
“Good girl. There’s cognac in the drawing room.”
“I didn’t hear that,” she said. “Isn’t someone waiting for you? Off to your man, woman.”
They said good night. As Merle shut the door the odd wording of Francie’s dismissal lingered. Was she feeling weird about being single? Most of the time Francie was like Annie, enjoying her independence, even reveling in it. But here she was with her four sisters, each of whom had a man, briefly, anyway. Elise’s fling was short-lived and Annie’s engagement appeared to be over.
But Francie’s joking tone rang a bit false tonight. She was sober, and on edge. And not liking the comparisons.
* * *
Merle and Pascal had just turned out the light when the knock came on the door.
“Now
what?” Merle groused, checking the time. Nearly one a.m.
Pascal padded to the door. “It’s Elise,” he called to Merle over his shoulder. “Are you all right?”
“Yes, fine,” Elise said. “It’s the old man. From the cottage?”
“Oh, no,” whispered Merle.
“What about him?” Pascal asked.
“He’s down in the kitchen. I found him wandering outside. I tried to help him but he’s kinda out of it.”
By the time Merle and Pascal grabbed their robes and pushed their feet into shoes, Callum was also in the hallway, tying his tartan robe. The four of them tramped down the stairs and found the old man sitting on a chair by the big Aga stove, a towel around his shoulders and a puddle under his sopping boots.
“Dear god, you’re soaked through, Mister Craigg,” Callum exclaimed. He pulled the towel off the old man’s hunched shoulders and attempted to unbutton his wet shirt. The old man batted his hands away, howling.
“Wait, Callum,” Merle said, kneeling in front of him, looking up into the wrinkled face. “Mr. Craigg? We just want to warm you up, okay? Are you cold?”
His cloudy eyes fixed on her, pausing in his rant. He glanced up at Callum.
“It’s Callum, Mister Craigg. Remember me?”
“He cares about you, sir. We all do. Let’s get your warmed up. Can you take off your jacket?” Merle asked.
Slowly, with his dignity intact, Craigg tweaked his shoulders out of the wet coat. He was painfully thin, his old fingers awkward and knotted. He struggled with his shirt buttons then let Merle try. She undid a few buttons and pulled the flannel mess over his head, dropping it in a soppy heap. His soaked tam came off with it, revealing a bald scalp and wispy ear fur. Callum put the damp towel back around the bare shoulders.
“We need a blanket. Elise? Check the upstairs linen closet.” Merle took his hands in hers and rubbed them. “Put a kettle on, Callum.”
It took two steaming cups of tea and several blankets to get ol’ Craiggie to stop shaking. His color returned. His lips went from blue to pink. Pascal found some bread and buttered it. The old man stared at it for a long time then took a bite, chewing slowly, licking butter from his lips.
The Things We Said Today Page 13
