“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.”