Shaking her head, Tessa left the room, turning out the light and walking away from the papers and records that detailed a war fought not for freedom and liberation, but for pride and arrogance. They often said it was the “war to end all wars”. She wished she could believe that.
Chapter Twenty-One
Striding up the hill from the houses of the New Town, the old injury to his knee protesting a little, Bill shivered. After the relative mildness of London, Edinburgh was positively arctic: full of streets which seemed to funnel the wind, turning it into a ferocious enemy. At least the smog wasn’t particularly noticeable, not compared to London at any rate. Presumably it was swept away by that same bitter wind.
Bill wasn’t completely sure there was much point to his evening outing, but he had a notion to find out a little more about James and whether he’d been up to anything that might have got him killed. He was pleased to have found a connection between James and Callum McKenzie and it was a good starting point, but there was always the chance that there was some other link between the two men. Maybe they were drinking partners. So, here he was, venturing out post-dinner to the private members’ club where it seemed James had whiled away many evenings instead of spending them with his wife.
It took less than ten minutes of brisk walking to reach George Street, lined with banks, shops and offices; buildings that were more ornate than the restrained elegance of those further down the hill. Bill turned right, looking out for the building that Tessa had described. It stood on the south side, five storeys high, with a gunsmith’s shop on the ground floor and a smart black door to one side, discreetly marked with a brass plaque. This building had been supplemented, not entirely successfully, with an eye-catching Victorian frontage, all Gothic mullions and leaded glass.
Upon knocking, Bill was greeted by a uniformed footman who directed him upstairs to where he could sign in. Fortunately, his own club in London had a reciprocal arrangement with this establishment, and after producing a letter of introduction, his overcoat and hat were whisked away and he was greeted warmly. The energetic Victorian modernisation had continued in the bar with tartan carpeting, dark panelling everywhere he looked and a monumental electric light fitting that seemed to have been constructed from dozens of pairs of antlers. It was a warm and welcoming room, even if somewhat excessive in its baronial tastes.
Approaching the bar, yet more polished mahogany with a gleaming brass rail along its base, Bill was greeted by the barman.
‘Good evening, sir. May I get you a drink?’
‘Yes, a whisky, please.’ The barman glanced towards the long shelf behind him holding what must have been fifty bottles or so of single malt, some well-known while others were more obscure. ‘A Glenmorangie,’ Bill added.
‘Are you a visiting member, sir?’ The barman poured a couple of fingers of amber liquid into a glass and placed it in front of Bill along with a small jug of water.
‘Yes, I’m in Edinburgh for a few days. A friend died and I came up to offer my condolences.’ The barman seemed friendly and Bill decided to see what he could glean from him. ‘He was a member here – you probably knew him – James Kilpatrick.’
‘Ah yes, a terrible shame. Everyone was very shocked to hear what happened. How did you know Lord Kilpatrick?’
‘During the war. We were in different regiments but ran into each other every so often. He was a good man, but I think he found it hard to settle back into civilian life.’ Bill got the impression that the barman would sidestep any discussion of murder, and he certainly wouldn’t gossip about the possible involvement of Lady Kilpatrick. However, from his own experience at his London club, he was pretty sure some of the other members who were acquainted with James would be more than willing to speculate.
‘I think many soldiers found it difficult to come home, sir. It was a war like no other we’ve seen.’
‘True. What were you up to?’
‘I was in the Scots Guards, sir. Mainly around Ypres.’
‘That must have been rough at times.’ Bill looked around. ‘I was hoping that I might run into a couple of James’s friends, have a chat about old times and raise a glass to him, that sort of thing.’
‘Everyone knew Lord Kilpatrick, but those gentlemen over by the fire were particular friends. Would you like me to introduce you?’
‘No. It’s fine. I’ll make my own introductions.’ The barman smiled and moved away to serve other members and Bill turned to observe the group of men. The quartet ranged in age from early twenties to thirty or so, all well turned out in evening dress and each holding a tumbler of whisky. Their conversation looked cheerful; James’s demise clearly not tonight’s topic of conversation. Bill rather regretted that he would no doubt change all that.
‘Good evening.’ Bill approached the group. ‘I believe that you were friends of James Kilpatrick’s.’ He saw little point in prevaricating, deciding a direct approach was best. The four men looked round, assessing the newcomer.
‘We were. Did you know him, or are you some dreadful journalist? There’ve been a few of those hanging around, looking for scandal.’ A sandy-haired man of about thirty spoke, his tone disdainful.
‘Not at all.’ Bill smiled, as disarming as possible. ‘We ran into each other now and then during the war and a few times at parties and such like since then. As I was in Edinburgh on business, I called to pay my respects to Lady Kilpatrick. I was curious about what James had been up to since the armistice. He never really talked about his life since he was demobbed.’
‘Mostly, he spent his time avoiding his wife for some reason unbeknownst to us.’ One of the men, fair-haired and in his late twenties put out a hand. ‘Finlay Anderson. How do you do?’
‘I’m Bill Henderson.’ Bill shook the man’s hand and glanced at the others, none of whom looked about to extend the same greeting.
‘Henderson? I don’t remember James mentioning a Bill Henderson. What rank were you?’ The man who spoke was tall, dark and lean. He had a dissatisfied, sneering air about him and Bill was immediately on his guard.
‘Major. Still am, actually. I work for the War Office now.’
‘As I say, I don’t remember him mentioning you.’
‘He no doubt met a great many men at the Front. Whereabouts did you serve?’ Bill could tell that this man hadn’t been in the armed forces and may well have had a good reason, but his dismissal of Bill had needled him.
‘I didn’t. I did my bit by keeping business ticking along. You know, making the money to pay for your valiant efforts.’ He spoke sharply, and Bill got the impression that he disliked being reminded of his non-military role. The fleeting smirks on a couple of the other men’s faces showed that they were pleased to see him reminded of this occasionally. ‘Besides, I have an injury from years ago. I walk with a limp and was deemed unfit for service.’
‘I see. Towards the end, they didn’t mind a gammy leg. The bit of shrapnel that I’m still carrying around didn’t save me from being sent back.’ Bill sounded cheerful, non-judgemental, but he knew how his words would be taken.
The dark-haired man shot Bill a look of pure venom and glowered into his whisky tumbler. He did not introduce himself and none of the others enlightened Bill about his identity, however, Bill felt sure that Tessa would know who he was.
Finlay and the other two men, introduced to Bill as Robert Stirling and Andrew Bruce, diverted the conversation back to a general discussion of their wartime experiences, and Bill then guided the topic back to James. They touched on the subject of his murder but none of the men seemed to have any idea why he might have been murdered.
‘So, you’re visiting the now very eligible Lady Kilpatrick while you’re in Edinburgh?’ Finlay asked, with a knowing smile.
‘Yes. I met her several times during the war. It was very kind of her parents to extend their hospitality to me.’
‘Lucky man.’ Andrew raised an eyebrow. ‘I suppose given time she’ll be on the lookout for a replacement husband. Not that
there are many to choose from these days.’
‘You never know, she might even consider you.’ Robert was laughing. ‘Mind you, I daresay there’s more choice on offer if you’re as wealthy as her.’ He looked around at the group’s reproachful expressions. ‘It’s true. She’s good-looking and heiress to all her father’s loot. A very marriageable prospect I’d have thought.’
‘It seems James had tired of her though. I gather he had interests elsewhere. Do you think that may have led to his death? I suppose he could have seduced the wrong man’s wife and paid for it.’ Bill tried to sound as casual as possible. He didn’t like to sound coarse, but showing too much sensitivity to Tessa’s feelings might deter his drinking companions from being as frank as he hoped they’d be.
‘I don’t know about that, but there were certainly other women…’ Robert’s voice tailed off and Bill noticed sharp glances passing between the members of the group. He wondered whether any of these men’s wives had fallen for James’s charms.
‘You can hardly blame him.’ The dark-haired man pointed out. ‘Tessa might be rich, but she’s scarred and barren, and apparently given to nightmares and hysterics. Not to mention rather sharp-tongued. All her enthusiasm to do her bit during the war didn’t work out well, did it? She should have stayed home and knitted jerseys like most sensible women did. I don’t blame James for looking for comfort elsewhere.’ He spoke harshly and the other men looked disapproving.
‘Giles!’ Robert looked shocked at his friend’s crudeness.
‘It’s true. More of a liability in France I’d have thought, girls like her.’
‘She was far from a liability.’ Bill’s voice was cold. ‘She saved lives. The women there were very brave and I never heard any of them complain or claim that she couldn’t do something because of her sex. I am proud to have served alongside them.’
‘Well, if you say so. I suppose it must have been a bit hairy for her at times, driving an ambulance.’ Giles conceded, gracelessly.
‘She did far more than drive ambulances.’ Bill looked Giles in the eye, ready to punch him if he pushed his luck any further. There was silence for a few seconds too long, and Bill thought he might have let on that he knew Tessa rather better than he’d made out. ‘James said she’d been involved in some covert operations.’
‘Maybe she killed him, then? She had plenty of motive.’ Giles spoke languidly, looking at Bill through his cigar smoke as though assessing his response to this suggestion.
‘Tessa’s a cracking girl. It was a shame that she and James were unhappy after he came home. I imagine that it’s a common story.’ Robert spoke just as the silence became awkward.
After this, a line was drawn, conversation moved on to other things: the previous day’s horse racing; the forthcoming shooting party in the Highlands to which they would all be going; Andrew’s pursuit of a certain young lady.
The impression Bill got was of a quartet of men who were floundering somewhat, lacking the purpose that the war had given them. Like Tessa, Bill didn’t believe the loudly proclaimed assertions from the government that this had been the war to end all wars, and he hoped it wouldn’t take another conflict for these men and the countless more like them to find their place again. The lower ranks had more practical problems to struggle with on demobilisation, but for the men of higher social echelons the war had changed the order of things they had grown up with, and they had returned to find they were out of step with the world. James had been one of these men who’d lost his place. When it came, the future was not what he had expected and not what he thought he’d been fighting for – Bill felt a flicker of pity for James.
After more conversation and more whisky, avoiding any mention of the war or James or Tessa, it was suggested that the group adjourn to a gambling den in Danube Street for a few hands of cards. Bill, tired and aware that Tessa was waiting up to hear if he had anything, demurred and made his departure. It had turned even colder, with a smell of snow in the air, and the wind bit into him as he left the warmth of the club. He heard the door swing and someone called his name. Turning, he saw Finlay Anderson hurrying after him.
‘Hey, Henderson, hold up.’ Bill waited, noticing the furtive way the other man glanced back as if to make sure no-one saw him. ‘Look here, I also did a bit of covert stuff during the war, and I know a fishing expedition when I see one.’
‘Oh yes?’ Bill was non-committal.
‘I’ve always had a bit of a soft spot for Tessa, she’s a great girl. And I told James that he should appreciate her more. He and Giles’s wife though, they used to flirt quite a lot. I’m not sure if it went any further than that but I’m pretty certain Giles noticed and wasn’t happy. Understandably.’
‘I see.’
‘I’m not saying that Giles murdered James, but there were a lot of chaps who might have reason to want him out of the way. Stop him causing problems for them if you see what I mean.’
‘Oh yes, I can see that.’
‘Well, I’ll be off then. Just a word to the wise, and all that.’ Finlay nodded and hurried back inside, leaving Bill wondering whether this word to the wise was as useful as he’d like it to be.
He walked back to Heriot Row as fast as his limp would let him, the souvenir shrapnel from Flanders making its presence felt. Various doctors had offered to remove it but its location meant that it was causing relatively little trouble at the moment, and there was a good chance that an operation might make it worse. For the moment, Bill had decided to live with his slightly rolling gait and the aching that was most noticeable when he was tired or the air was damp.
It seemed James’s friends were already lining up to offer their services as Tessa’s second husband! They knew the difficulties of her marriage to James, but presumably they felt her looks and her money would make up for any shortcomings they believed her to have. Perhaps they simply thought she was a shrew whom James had been unable to tame and they would have more luck. He frowned, remembering Giles’ reference to her scars. He couldn’t imagine Tessa talking about them so James must have let that slip. And let it be common knowledge Tessa was unable to bear children. How could he do that? To talk about something so private to someone who would only ever mock, was unforgiveable.
If Tessa were to marry again, she needed a man who would accept her as she was and who could love her demons as well as her money, the scars on her body as well as her beautiful face. She fascinated him, and Bill was all too aware he had been completely unable to resist her request for his help. For years now, every woman he met was held up against Tessa and found wanting. Recently, he’d told himself he had to either forget her and stop drawing these unhelpful comparisons, or resign himself to life as a bachelor. He’d attempted the former, hoping he would meet someone with whom he could build a life and be happy. But as soon as Tessa had asked for his help, he was lost once again. He was ashamed to admit it, but a small, mean-spirited, part of his soul hadn’t been entirely saddened by James’s death.
He reached the steps of the McGillivrays’ townhouse just as the first flakes of snow fell and he dragged his mind back to the matter in hand. There was no point in even thinking about plighting his troth, until Tessa was satisfied James’s murderer had been held to account, and so that was what he needed to concentrate on. Maybe then? Maybe.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Tessa wrapped herself in a blanket and curled up on the window seat in her room while she waited for Bill to return. It was a couple of hours since she’d bid her parents goodnight and come upstairs. Tonight was the last night she would sleep in this room. Tomorrow she would move into her own house. It felt momentous and symbolic and exciting, the beginning of a new phase in her life. Or it would be, once the current mess was unravelled and put away as neatly as it ever could be.
She’d been trying not to think about the anonymous note but now, sitting alone, she found herself fretting at it like a frayed cuff. That someone knew of her efforts to track down the killer was surprising; perhaps th
ey’d been loitering when she and Rasmussen arrived at Arden Street to inspect McKenzie’s body? If so, they would have been surprised to see her arrive. The letter writer wanted to warn her off, which made her wonder whether they knew that she would be likely to spot the link between the two men, possibly more likely than Inspector Rasmussen alone. So did the murderer know about her background and was her possible insight making them nervous?
The note had been delivered in broad daylight to Royal Circus in the short period that she and Bill had been looking around, which showed a degree of confidence on the part of the letter writer. Perhaps he hadn’t known that she was in the house, but either way he had not been concerned about being seen, presumably sure that he would be able to pass unnoticed. Then again, she was assuming that the murderer and the letter writer were one and the same and there was no reason to think that. Tessa had kept the note safe and would show it to Rasmussen when she saw him next, see if it matched the handwriting on the note found in James’s jacket. She had thought of passing it on to him straightaway but something held her back: a need to display her insouciance about it rather than let on how it had rattled her. The Royal Circus house had always felt safe to her and this had punctured that security even before she moved in. Until relatively recently, her war-time experiences had resulted in a tendency to alertness which rendered her twitchy at the sound of every creaking stair or wind-rattled window. She hoped that those feelings wouldn’t return.
Death Will Find Me (A Tessa Kilpatrick Mystery, Book 1) Page 14
