Murder Most Scottish

by Blake Banner

  Bee stared at her. “Who on Earth would come in at this time of night, in this weather? Has Charles been out?” The howl subsided. Lightning lit up the gardens outside, momentarily silhouetting the trees. Thunder rolled, then split the sky. When it passed, we heard the savage hammering: once, twice, a third time. The major exclaimed, “What the devil…?”

  And then there was a shout, half hysterical from the hall.

  “Help! Help! Fer God’s sake! Somebody! Help!”

  Pam was on her feet and running, gasping, “Charles!” I was ahead of her, wrenching open the door, running across the checkerboard hall toward the study. The door was open, light streaming out. In it I saw, as I ran, where the latch had been smashed, ripped from the wood.

  I stopped dead in the portal, blocking the doorway, taking in the scene. Pam was clawing at my back, screaming at me to move, to let her through. I turned and enfolded her in my arms, pushing her back. “Major! Major! Take her to the drawing room. Lock her in if you have to. Gordon! Get out of here! Take your wife away from here! Now!”

  But Gordon just stood staring at me. The major was gaping. Pam was hysterical, thrashing, struggling to get to the room. I looked at Dehan. She slipped past in her scarlet dress and entered the study. I heard her snap, “Back up. Move away from the desk. Don’t touch anything.”

  Across the hall, I saw Bee and Sally come out of the drawing room door and stand staring at us. I grabbed Pam’s shoulders in my hands and shook her, staring into her face. She was still screaming, “What has happened? Let me get in there! It’s my son! For God’s sake! What’s happened? Let go of me!”

  I shook her again. “Pam! Pam, listen to me! You cannot go in there! Charles has been shot. He needs my help. The longer you keep screaming, the longer it is before I can help him. Do you want me to help him or do you want him to die?”

  Gordon Sr. went white and stepped toward me. I looked him in the eye and said, “Don’t even think about it, pal.”

  He stopped dead. Pam was goggling at me. I looked her in the eye again and said, “Do you want your son to die, Pam?”

  She shook her head. “Of course not!”

  “Then go with the major and your husband and wait in the drawing room while Detective Dehan and I do what we can to help him. Go! Now! Every second is vital!”

  I propelled her gently toward the major. He put his arm around her and I pointed at the drawing room door. “Go!”

  They withdrew reluctantly across the hall and into the drawing room. I turned and went into the study.

  It was an eerie sight, like a strange, physical manifestation of the scene I had visualized just a few hours before. Only there were some significant differences between the scene I had imagined and the scene I was looking at. For a start, it wasn’t Old Man Gordon who was sitting behind the desk in the large leather chair with his brains blown out. It was Charles Gordon Jr., his grandson.

  The left side of his head wasn’t missing, it was just spread out all over the Wilton carpet, part of his desk and most of his left shoulder—that part was the same—and like his grandfather, he was slumped forward slightly, gaping at a ledger on his desk, with his right arm hanging limp down by his side. On the floor, a couple of feet from his chair, was a revolver. It looked like an old Smith & Wesson .38, Military and Police model.

  Dehan was hunkered down looking at it, and behind her, staring wide-eyed and pale, was Bobby Armstrong.

  TWELVE

  The door had a big, muddy boot print just below the handle. I could see the mud was wet. Dehan was on her hands and knees, sniffing the muzzle of the revolver. Then she touched it gently with the back of her fingers. She stood and said to me, “You got your cell?”

  I nodded and pulled it from my pocket. There was no signal. I looked at Armstrong. “You got any signal?”

  He shook his head like I was crazy. “Och, there’s no signal here in a storm! An’ who’re you going t’call, anyhoo?”

  “There are no cops on the island?”

  “Ut’s a private island. What for, anyway? Nothin’ ever happens here!”

  “Just a murder every forty years.”

  “Ah didna kill him!”

  “I didn’t say you did.”

  Dehan said, “What’s 911 here?”

  “999.” I picked up the phone on the desk, listened and shook my head. “The line is dead.”

  Armstrong curled his lip. “What did yiz uxpect, in a storm like thus?”

  “What are you doing here, Armstrong? You said today you wouldn’t come past the gate. Yet this is the second time I’ve seen you in the house since then.”

  He snarled at me. “Ah don’t have to answer your feckin’ questions! Yer nay a cop here, see?”

  I jerked my head toward the door. “Get out. Go wait in the drawing room with the others.”

  He took a step toward me. “Ah don’t have to do what you feckin’ tell me, pal!”

  “This is a crime scene, pal! You’re disturbing the evidence. Right now my testimony and Detective Dehan’s is likely to clear you of suspicion. Disturb the scene or leave the house, and you go right to the top. Am I getting through to you, Armstrong?”

  He muttered something about “Feckin’ Yanks!” and marched across the hall to push through the door into the drawing room. I watched it close behind me and turned back to Dehan. I jerked my head at the gun.

  She said, “It smells like it was fired recently, but the muzzle is cold, so it wasn’t that recent.”

  I nodded. “That figures.”

  She frowned. “It does?”

  “Mm-hm…” I pulled my cell from my pocket again and photographed the door and the muddy prints that led from it across the Wilton carpet to the side of the desk. “Their nice carpet is getting a lot of punishment. I wonder if they deliberately chose red.”

  She narrowed her eyes at me and pointed her finger at my chest like a gun. “How did you know?”

  I made a face like brain-ache and shook my head. “I didn’t. I told you. It was a feeling.” I shrugged. “They killed the old man, but none of the issues they had were resolved. It felt like they were all bubbling to the surface again.”

  She spread her hands. “But why now, almost forty years later?”

  I thought about it, chewing my lip. “Maybe for that very reason.”

  “What is that supposed to mean, Stone? You’re being cryptic. You know that makes me mad. And besides, this poor sap wasn’t even born when his grandfather was killed.”

  I smiled at her. “Miss Scarlet in the study with the dinosaur. This is not our case, Miss Scarlet. We have done the Scottish police the courtesy of preserving their crime scene, and now we must graciously withdraw.”

  She grunted and walked past me to the bay window, examining it carefully.

  “You know we are both ignoring the elephant in the room. We should call the doctor.”

  “You mean the one who was here a little earlier threatening to destroy people? The one whose wife is sleeping with the victim’s father? That doctor?”

  “Yeah, that one.”

  I stared at the burning logs in the fire, thinking of Bobby standing in the hall, staring up at us on the stairs. He’d said he had business with Gordon. I’d asked him, “Father or son?”

  He’d stood, staring at me, and shaken his head: “Na’ye mind. Ah ken the way.”

  The flames burned a good three feet high, wavering against the blackened bricks. The wood crackled and sparks showered onto the hearth. Ian Cameron, standing on the black and white checkered floor beneath us, the light from the study door lying slantwise, casting his shadow long behind him. “I will destroy you!” he had said, “So help me God, I will fucking destroy you!”

  I had assumed he was talking to Gordon Sr. It was hard to imagine anybody feeling that strongly toward Gordon Jr. I sighed and turned to Dehan. “Come along, Miss Scarlet. Let’s stop messing up the crime scene. It’s not ours to mess up.”

  With a face that was on the mad side of reluctant
she moved toward the door and stopped. Brown was there, staring at Gordon Jr. with tears in his eyes. He looked up at Dehan, “Mr. Gordon, madam…”

  Dehan seemed nonplussed for a moment. I stepped toward him and said, “He’s been shot, Brown.”

  He frowned at me, struggling to understand. “Who…?”

  “We don’t know. We have to wait until the police arrive.”

  He looked around the room. “It’s the same…”

  I nodded. “Almost exactly the same.”

  “They’ll put it down to suicide again. But Mr. Gordon wouldn’t, sir. I know he wouldn’t.”

  Dehan stepped closer to him. “What makes you say that?”

  His bottom lip curled and the tears spilled from his eyes. “He was happy go lucky… He wasn’t…” He pulled the handkerchief from his breast pocket, mopped his eyes and blew his nose. “Forgive me, sir, but…” He spoke quietly, looking at his handkerchief. “He wasn’t like the others, if you know what I mean.” He looked me in the eye. “He had no…” He hesitated, then his face twisted with anger. “He had no agenda! He wasn’t trying to get anything from anyone, he was happy to take life as it came, day to day.”

  I nodded. “I understand.” I sighed. “Look, we have a very delicate situation here. My wife and I are very experienced police officers, but we have no jurisdiction. This scene must be preserved until the police arrive. The door needs to be sealed. Can you see to that?”

  He studied my face for a long moment, then stared at Dehan. “Are we just going to leave him like that?”

  I nodded. “I’m afraid we have to, until they arrive.”

  He took a deep breath. “I understand. I’ll find a chain and a padlock, sir, and leave the keys with you.”

  “That will do fine. Thank you.”

  He moved to the cupboard by the ballroom, switched on the light, disappeared inside and reappeared a moment later with a tool kit, a length of chain and a strong padlock. While he set about securing the door, Dehan and I crossed the hall and pushed into the drawing room.

  What we found there was not an attractive sight. Gordon was in a large armchair by the wall, apart from the rest. He looked pasty and sick. Sally was sitting on the arm of that chair, stroking his head and muttering things to him. They both looked up as we came in. He looked anxious. She looked like she was trying to read us.

  Pam had returned to her chair by the fire. She had curled up on herself and had her face in her hands, rocking back and forth in silence. Bee had also returned to her place on the sofa. She looked startled, as though somebody had just shouted at her and she couldn’t get over it. She was silent, but she had a small, floral handkerchief and kept dabbing her eyes with it. The major was sitting beside her, frowning resentfully at the fire. I looked for Bob Armstrong. He was in a chair by the library, scowling at the window.

  I closed the door and looked at the parents of the dead man. The mother alone, trying to convince herself she had not just slipped into hell, the father across the room being consoled by one of his mistresses. I glanced at Dehan.

  “There’s a picture of dukkha in action if ever I saw one.” I looked over at Pam and raised my voice, “Mrs. Gordon, Mr. Gordon…” I waited till they were both looking at me. “I am afraid your son is dead. He was murdered at some point during the afternoon or the evening. We are both very sorry.”

  Pam screamed. It was a scream of pain, deep and visceral. She fell on her knees, clutching her chest with her hands, staring up at the ceiling, her mouth open wide and her wet face flushed almost purple. Bee gasped, not at the news but at the state of Pamela. She rose and went to her but Pamela turned on her like a savage animal, spitting, “Get away from me! Get away from me! You murdering, thieving bitch!”

  Then she was on her feet, rushing across the room, screaming at her husband and at Sally, “Are you satisfied? Are you fucking satisfied? All you ever wanted was to destroy your family! Well now you’ve done it, you piece of fucking shit!”

  Sally stood. “Pam, for God’s sake! He’s just lost his son!”

  Pamela’s neck swelled, her tendons stretched, and her face turned crimson as she screamed in Sally’s face, “My son! My son! My fucking son! Not his! And not yours, you filthy, thieving whore!”

  She gave a small gasp. Her eyes went very wide and her legs seemed to turn to jell-O. Dehan stepped over to her and caught her as she keeled over. Between us, we moved her to a couch by the wall and settled her on it. I studied the major’s face a moment, then Bee’s, and decided she had more of a grip on things.

  “Bee, she’s in shock. She’ll soon start to get very cold. Can you arrange for Brown or one of the maids to bring her a blanket?”

  She frowned. “Yes, absolutely. And some tea, I think. A good cup of tea. Pull ourselves together…”

  She hurried to the bell by the wall and pressed it. Meanwhile, I went to where Gordon was sitting motionless, staring at nothing. I rested my ass on the back of the sofa and watched him a moment.

  “Mr. Gordon, are you able to listen to me and take in what I am saying?”

  He blinked a few times, then scowled at me. “Yes. Of course I am.”

  “Our cell phones have no signal, and the landline is dead. There is no way of contacting the police until the storm subsides.”

  He nodded. “Yes.”

  “I’ve had Brown seal the room. It’s a crime scene and nothing must be touched until the police get here.”

  He stared at me like I’d said something outrageous. Then he frowned across the room at where Armstrong was sitting, then back at me. “That could be days,” he said. “It could be two or three days before we get a signal, or the ferry can land.”

  “Well, is there a radio on the island? Surely you have a police station with a radio.”

  He shook his head. “This is a private island. There is no police station here. And no radio.”

  I looked at Bob, then at Sally. “What do you do when there is an emergency? What does your husband do if there is an accident, or somebody gets ill? You must have some way of contacting the mainland when there’s a storm.”

  Bob ignored me, Sally shrugged and Gordon said, “We cope. The way people have always coped out here.”

  I sighed. “Mr. Gordon, this is not a game. Your son has been murdered and…” I hesitated.

  He looked up at me, frowning, narrowing his eyes. “What? What aren’t you telling me?”

  I sighed again and spread my hands. “It is a restaging of your father’s murder.”

  There was no mistaking the horror on his face. His skin looked like a corpse’s skin. His eyes bulged and his pupils went to pinpricks. His voice when he spoke was thick. He said, “No…”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  He shook his head. “No, this is, this is madness. It can’t be. How…?”

  Armstrong’s voice bellowed across the room. “How?” We all looked. He stood and took two steps toward us. “How? I’ll tell ye fuckin’ how! Because he done it! He murdered his own feckin’ son! Tha’s how!”

  Sally got to her feet. “Robert Armstrong! What are you talking about?”

  “He’s a thieving, murdering bastard! Tha’s what I’m talking aboot!”

  “For your information, Charles has been with me all afternoon and all evening!”

  He sneered. “Well, there’s a big, feckin’ surprise! An’ where was his wife? Screwin’ your feckin husband? Yiz make me sick to my stomach, the whole, disgusting, thieving, filthy lot of yiz!”

  Gordon got to his feet. He was trembling violently. “I did not kill my own son…”

  Armstrong advanced another step. “Do you expect anyone here to believe tha’? Do you? Let me tell you something, there is nothing! Nothing! That you are no’ capable of! You are a sick, sick man, Charles Gordon!”

  Gordon turned to me. He was sweating profusely. “Find who did this. Find who murdered my son. I will pay you any amount you want. Just name it. But find the man who killed my son. I am the Laird. I am a local
magistrate. This island belongs to me. I give you the jurisdiction. If there are problems when the police arrive, I will assume full responsibility. As of now, I am employing you as private investigators. Find my son’s killer and bring him to justice!”

  I looked over at Dehan.

  She shrugged. “It’s not like we’re going to be doing much honeymooning.”

  I grunted. She had a point, and the fact was I was pretty sure I had it cracked already. I just needed to confirm a couple of points before I reeled the killer in. I turned back to Gordon. “Alright, Mr. Gordon. You have a deal. But the minute we get a signal, or the landline is fixed, we contact the cops and they take over.”

  I took a moment to look at everyone in the room. After a moment, I said, “Is there anybody here who objects? Is there anyone who does not want me and Detective Dehan to find Charles Gordon’ Jr.’s killer?”

  It’s not the kind of question you want to answer in the affirmative. There was no reply at all and after a moment I turned to Sally. “Where is your husband right now, Mrs. Cameron?”

  Her cheeks colored and her eyes were bright. I saw her breathing quicken and she fought hard not to glance at Gordon. “I assume he’s at home.”

  “You had a fight?”

  “Why would you say that?”

  I raised my eyebrows and waited.

  Dehan stepped up beside me and repeated, “Did you have a fight?”

  She shrugged. “It was nothing serious. A disagreement.”

  Gordon groaned and lowered himself into his chair again, covering his eyes with his hand. I kept my eyes on Sally. “What about?”

  “He didn’t want to come here tonight. I did.”

  “And did he?”

  “What?”

  Dehan said, “Did he come here?”

  She hesitated.

  Gordon said, “Yes. He did. He was here earlier.”

  “You spoke to him?”

  He nodded, then amended, “It was more a case of him speaking to me.”

  I nodded a few times, chewing my lip. Finally, I said, “I need him brought here, now. Major…”

  He stood.

  “Will you go with Brown? Bring him here. Do not under any circumstances tell him what has happened. Tell him that Mrs. Gordon is not well, that she needs immediate help. She is distraught and needs sedating. Tell him it is a matter of the utmost importance and it is very urgent that he comes to the castle straight away. Can you do that?”