The Secret Portrait (A Jean Fairbairn/Alasdair Cameron mystery Book 1)

by Lillian Stewart Carl

  Life was like that, Jean told herself. Illusion. Ephemeral illusion at that, just to make a double cognitive whammy.

  Two days ago she’d come driving along this road, if not without a care in the world, at least without the albatross of survivor’s guilt that now hung around her neck. But then, as Neil had aptly pointed out to Charlotte, the situation was a lot harder on George Lovelace.

  Jean pulled back out onto the road. Today she could reasonably expect not to run into Charlotte MacSorley trying out for the NASCAR circuit, since Charlotte was dusting off the welcome mat for her arrival. When it came to Fiona Robertson, though, Jean had no idea what to expect, although some conspiracy with Cameron didn’t seem at all reasonable. Coincidence, now—coincidence happened all the time.

  Fiona had called this morning, changing Jean’s one-thirty appointment with MacLyon into a dinner invitation. “And perhaps,” Fiona went on, “you’d fancy staying through the weekend as well?”

  Jean had accepted the invitation with both alacrity and gratitude. Maybe MacLyon had decided if he had to tangle with the media, better a mild-mannered journalist from Great Scot. Whatever his motive, Jean wasn’t about to turn down an exclusive, either for the magazine or for herself. That an exclusive meant putting herself back into the house with a killer was a trade-off between caution and conscience. But just because Cameron thought she’d gotten in the killer’s way didn’t mean she had. No one had proved that the killer was not a member of the Lodge or some other outsider. No one had proved that he or she was, either.

  Bunarkaig consisted of several houses wedged between the road and the hillside. Slowing, Jean spotted a plaque proclaiming “Bonnie Brae Cottage” attached to stone wall. She turned through a narrow opening into a gravel parking area beside two stories of stucco so white it looked bleached.

  Swathes of flowers stretched down to the road and banked up against the inside of the wall. On pristine patches of grass stood a freshly-painted set of lawn furniture and a sundial. The short summers in this part of the world tended to produce fanatical gardeners. Jean’s lawn back in Texas had usually been wildscaped by default, the plants she set out in March becoming weedy wonders by November, when, if she was lucky, a freeze would at last end the watering and trimming season.

  Jean pushed the doorbell. Before the chime had quite died away, the door opened. Every wave of Charlotte’s sienna-brown hair—a shade too dark for her complexion—was lacquered into submission. Her flowered dress was accessorized with a string of pearls. In her jacket and twill pants Jean felt underdressed.

  “Here you are,” Charlotte trilled. “Come through, come through.”

  Jean stepped inside. “You have a beautiful garden.”

  “One does what one can, Miss Fairbairn. My son Neil and that layabout Toby Walsh help out when Rick can spare them. Which is very seldom, mind. In the old days a great house like Glendessary would have had an army of servants, but young people nowadays would rather stand about on street corners in the city than take up respectable work in the country.” Charlotte led the way down a hallway lined with half a dozen trophy heads. The five deer and a mouflon were lined up like criminals in an identity parade, their dark glass eyes hurt, as though they’d been wrongly convicted.

  The sitting room resembled a House Beautiful photo, every piece of furniture and every ornament posed self-consciously. The scent of potpourri didn’t quite mask that of cigarette smoke. “Neil seems to enjoy working for the MacLyons,” Jean said, her nose wrinkling.

  “He’s absolutely indispensable to them. I don’t know how they’ll get on when he leaves for university this autumn.”

  “Is he going to study music?”

  “Oh no, no. He’s a brilliant musician, true. He’s always receiving offers of professional employment. But he’s decided to pursue a proper career, business or law. He has his family name to uphold, after all. The MacSorleys are Camerons, did you know that? Related to the Lochiel himself.”

  “Yes, I. . . .”

  “Neil attended the best public schools, we made certain of that. Shocking how so many of the other boys were jealous of his talents and family name. Little boys can be beastly, can’t they? But we made it very clear to the authorities at each school we wouldn’t tolerate any harassment. Sit down, I’ll fetch the tea.” Charlotte disappeared through a swinging door.

  Jean knew only too well that trying to keep boys—or men, for that matter—from teasing was like spitting into the wind. Not that Charlotte had asked her opinion. She might not have asked Neil’s opinion of the “proper career,” either. But of all the things that were none of Jean’s business, Neil’s relationship with his mother topped the list.

  Instead of sitting down Jean looked around, into a cabinet filled with Venetian glass and another stocked with alcoholic beverages, then through the contents of a small bookshelf. She noted biographies of eminent figures such as Churchill, some Italian guidebooks, and a gilded, leather-bound set of Walter Scott novels.

  Several photos in polished frames were ranged along the top shelf. They were mostly of a handsome little boy who morphed into the adult but equally handsome Neil, although one showed Kieran and Charlotte, grinning fatuously, beside a bemused Prince Charles. The present Prince Charles, who was no doubt more intellectual than his predecessor, but who would never be called “bonnie.” A tiny photo of a fresh young couple who had to be Charlotte and Kieran on their wedding day only pointed up how they had soured over the years, by now well past their sell-by date.

  The last two photos were old ones. Jean looked closer. Yes, the first was the same shot of the commando school as the one she’d seen in George Lovelace’s album. The second was a close-up of a young man with Kieran’s beak of a nose, wearing a commando uniform. Neil had certainly won the genetics sweepstakes when it came to noses—his was patrician but not beaky.

  Charlotte swept back into the room and set a tray on the coffee table. Jean sat down on a couch so soft she had to peer out past her knees.

  “This is our exclusive blend of China tea,” Charlotte explained as she poured. “Chinese is ever so much more refined than Indian.”

  Making a noncommittal noise, Jean grasped the tiny, convoluted handle of the cup between thumb and forefinger, curled her pinkie under, and sipped. The tea was winy and bright. She hoped her questions would be as palatable. “Is that a picture of Glendessary House during the war, when some of the commando trainees were billeted there?”

  “That it is,” said Charlotte. “Kieran’s family owned the house, mind you. His father Archie is in the front row. He was a decorated war hero, died for king and country.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Jean returned, although she suspected she could just as well have said she was happy to hear about the medals. “Did he train here the same time George Lovelace did?”

  “Oh yes, yes, showed young George the ropes, didn’t he? His father, Kieran’s grandfather, being the local landowner and all. George was very fortunate to have encountered Archie. Very grateful he was, always sent a nice little card at Christmas even though he was—well, it was hardly his fault he was in straitened circumstances, was it? Really, there should be a Home Office inquiry into inadequate pensions.”

  Jean dangled some bait. “I understand he enjoyed using his metal detector. Maybe he got a little extra income that way.”

  “I believe he found a Viking brooch once, but nothing else of note, only odds and ends. Or so he was telling Kieran.”

  Did that mean Lovelace found the coin sixty years ago, that he hadn’t told Kieran about finding it recently, or that Charlotte simply wasn’t talking? “You must have been pleased when Mr. Lovelace moved to Corpach, then, to have him close by.”

  “We weren’t particularly close, just thrown together, you might say. Still though, it was a dreadful shock to hear he was, er, dead. Appalling business. Murdering an ineffectual and useless old man right there in Glendessary House!” Charlotte shook her head. “Have a biscuit, they’re Fortnum a
nd Mason’s best. I have them delivered specially, Kieran does like a good biscuit with his tea.”

  Jean chose a cookie and did not ask why being murdered in a mansion was worse than being murdered anywhere else. There was nothing suspicious in Charlotte’s not wanting to talk about it—most people would be squeamish about the details. As for why she was so eager to diminish Lovelace’s status, the easy psychological answer was that she was insecure in her own. “A shame the old house was gutted by fire during the war.”

  “It was a frightful old pile, actually. There was some talk of selling up long before the war. We’re well rid of it.”

  “How did the fire start?”

  “No one knows. Good job we had quite a few old family photographs and the like to guide the workmen during the restoration.”

  “They did a great job. I expected to see Queen Victoria come walking out through the portico.” Or an actress playing Victoria, Jean amended.

  “She visited here, did you know that? And Prince Charles has done, as well. Did you see that photograph?”

  “Yes I did. I assume he was interested in the restoration work.”

  “Very much so, questioned Kieran and myself quite closely. Of course he was perfectly gracious when we introduced Rick and Vanessa. They did their best. Well hello there, come on in, have yourself a good look around!” Charlotte said in a contrived American accent. “Royalty has to deal with all sorts, part of the job description, isn’t it?”

  Oh yeah, Jean told herself. Same with magazine writers. And cops.

  Two lines ran from Charlotte’s ever-distended nostrils past the corners of her red slit of a mouth and disappeared into the slack flesh of her jaw line. They were the equivalent of the crescents framing Neil’s dazzling smile, Jean supposed, but they made Charlotte look like a marionette, chin moving up and down as she spoke. Her voice was part plummy BBC accent and part helium screech that set Jean’s teeth on edge. But the fact that she could do an American accent was very interesting. Ordering herself not to show any irritation, Jean asked, “Did you and the MacLyons meet when he was looking for property in this area?”

  “In a way, yes. Rick was making historical inquiries of the West Highland Museum. Have you visited there? Fine collection, very nicely maintained, but then, Kieran and I are always available to offer advice. We answered Rick’s letter and, well, here we are!”

  Yes, indeed. Here they all were.

  “Really,” Charlotte added parenthetically, “a man of his position calling himself Rick, not Richard. A child’s name. Americans have such a maddening fondness for nicknames, don’t they?”

  And what about the legions of British cabinet ministers and bankers called by their schoolboy names of Blotto or Squeaky? Jean said, “Well, you don’t call Bill Gates William, do you?”

  “No, no,” said Charlotte, brightening at that association. “So then, you’re going to write Rick up for Great Scot. And quite right, too, he’s contributed ever so much to the area. At the end of the day, breeding will tell. He’s from Virginia, the principal British colony. And Vanessa attended one of the Seven Sisters. Of course she’s very young, isn’t she?”

  “Yes.” Jean remembered her cookie and bit into it. The buttery sweet crumbs complemented the slightly astringent taste of the tea.

  “Do you suppose Miranda might run a series of articles? There’s so much to tell about the restorations and all. Kieran and I have been at Rick’s side every step of the way. Who better to assist you with your work?”

  So Charlotte hadn’t asked her over because of her sparkling personality. Jean was hardly staggered by the news. On the other hand, there was nothing like getting an engraved invitation to be nosy. Washing down the rest of the cookie, she said, “Well then, we’ll have to set up a formal interview, when I have my laptop and everything, and when your husband can be here, too. Maybe just a few preliminary questions now?”

  “Of course.” Charlotte sat back, radiating gentility, like a child hoping Santa Claus will notice her good behavior.

  “Rick must value his privacy, to settle in such an isolated spot. You said he had trouble finding people to work out here?”

  “That’s why he depends on us. Poor Toby, the less said about him the better. We must all do our duty to the lower classes, I suppose. . . .” She let her sentence evaporate into rarified air. “Just between you and me and the gatepost, Fiona does well enough, but fancies herself a little grand for her position. Norman’s a brilliant chef, prepares lovely, posh cuisine. We found him in Inverness and recommended him to Vanessa.”

  That’s right, there was a cook. But Tuesday was his day off, which was why Vanessa offered to have Fiona make sandwiches for Cameron and crew. Odd, to entertain a group of people on the cook’s day off.

  Charlotte went on, “Vanessa’s taste in cuisine is acceptable, if a bit unformed, but Rick doesn’t much care what he eats. Maybe he’s missing his American cheeseburgers and hot dogs.” She emphasized the “r’s” in “burger” and made “dog” come out “dawg”.

  “Doesn’t Rick have a personal assistant?” Jean asked.

  “He did have, yes. I was so looking forward to her arrival. She attended Roedean, very exclusive. She was such a disappointment though, turned out to be a frightful little creature with no manners and positively vulgar clothing. But then, her family money’s from industry, isn’t it? I’ll never understand why these young girls have to go about with their stomachs exposed. It makes them look no better than cheap tarts. Of course, most of them are tarts, aren’t they? Libertines.” With a sniff, Charlotte drained the teapot into Jean’s cup.

  Since a girl had a stomach worth exposing for only a few short years, Jean figured she should go for it. As for manners and morals—well, the pendulum swung back and forth between promiscuity and Puritanism and never seemed to stop at a golden mean. “I thought Vanessa looked very nice in her kilt skirt and velvet jacket the other day, but I assume she doesn’t wear that outfit all the time, only for company. Like the people who were there when Mr. Lovelace died. The Jacobite Lodge, isn’t that who they were?”

  “Oh.” Geniality punctured, Charlotte set the teapot down with a thud that jangled the cream pitcher and sugar bowl. Something small and furtive moved in her colorless eyes, something that seemed almost like fear. “Oh, well, Miranda told you about that, did she?”

  “Yes, she did,” Jean returned, happy to be able to tell the truth.

  “I—I . . .” Charlotte folded her hands in her lap, twisting her fingers together, and said to them, “I’m not really at liberty to talk about that, Miss Fairbairn. It’s Rick’s doing, mind—you should be asking him about it. When the time comes, of course, well then we’ll all. . . .”

  The front door of the house opened with a crash and footsteps strode down the hall. Charlotte shut her mouth so fast Jean could hear her teeth click together. We’ll all what? she wanted to demand. When what time comes? But it was too late, dammit.

  Kieran burst into the room like a bull coming out of a rodeo chute. He was red in the face, dressed in limp, sweaty shorts and T-shirt, and wore running shoes that looked more like an abstract sculpture in manmade materials than footwear. “The car in the drive, who . . . Oh, it’s you, Miss Fairbairn.”

  “Hello, Mr. MacSorley,” Jean said, since she couldn’t say, Go away, I’m pumping your wife for information.

  Without preamble, he returned, “You were up at Glendessary day before yesterday. You found the body.”

  “Yes, I’m afraid I had the bad luck to find Mr. Lovelace.”

  Kieran’s voice oozed sarcasm like his scrawny limbs exuded the odor of sweat. “There’s a reporter for you, poking and prying into business that’s not your own. Nasty suspicious minds, reporters have.”

  It wasn’t as though she’d been going around looking for murder victims. Jean tried evoking the magic name. “I work with Miranda Capaldi at Great Scot. She asked me to interview Rick MacLyon. Mrs. MacSorley has been telling me how much you’ve helped hi
m.”

  “Oh she has, has she?” Kieran turned on his wife.

  Charlotte’s lips turned down like a horseshoe with the luck running out. “You remember Miranda Capaldi. Skibo Castle, the National Trust conference. Very posh. Here we are such close associates of Rick and Vanessa, it’s only fair our contribution be recognized. . . .”

  “We don’t deal with the press,” stated Kieran.

  “Rick’s invited her for the weekend. I didn’t think. . . .”

  “That’s just the problem, isn’t it? You don’t think.”

  Losing ground fast, Jean groped for her bag and stood up. Kieran did look like a velociraptor. His head was thrust forward from his shoulders, his black eyes were reptilian beads, his hair receded from a sloping forehead. If that hair had ever been the golden-red of Neil’s, his liberal application of something like bear grease had permanently darkened it. And the moustache—his huge nose and its attendant broom really did look like plastic fakes.

  The nose and the moustache swept toward her, all too real. “I’ll see you out, Miss Fairbairn.”

  “I can find my own way, thank you.” Jean wondered for a split second if she should hang around, just to make sure Kieran didn’t punch Charlotte out. But from the petrified rage on Charlotte’s face, Jean figured she was no doormat. “Mrs. MacSorley, the tea was excellent. I’ll have to recommend those biscuits to Miranda.”

  “Please do,” said Charlotte. Her lips smiled but her teeth were set.

  Ominous silence followed Jean as she hurried down the hall and out the door. Well, well, she thought, Kieran was acting as though he feared Charlotte was going to spill the beans about something. The same way Vanessa had acted when she stopped Kieran and Lovelace from arguing on New Year’s Eve. Charlotte had gone from self-importance to anxiety very quickly there.