“Heather will know,” said Pascal, lowering himself a little stiffly into the chair next to Gemma. “It is Heather who will have to make the arrangements for the funeral, yes?” He shook his head. “It is too much, I think, but there is no one else.”
How terribly ironic, Gemma thought, that Donald had not seen fit to remember Heather in his will, when it was she who must act on his behalf. Why had Donald left her nothing? Was it mere carelessness on his part, as he had been careless of Alison Grant’s feelings? Or had he felt betrayed by Heather’s relationship with Pascal? Had Heather’s pressuring him to sell the distillery to Pascal’s company angered Donald?
Perhaps even more to the point, thought Gemma as she accepted a steaming mug from John, was not why Donald had left Heather out, but rather why he had chosen to make such a grand gesture towards Hazel. It was one thing to seduce a former lover—it was quite another to leave her the controlling interest in your family’s business. And why had he done it so long ago? If he had meant to make up for his father’s treatment of Hazel, he had gone a bit over the mark.
“. . . soon, I should think,” she realized Kincaid was saying, “if they’ve finished with the postmortem and the forensics testing.”
Beside her, she heard the sharp intake of Pascal’s breath as he shifted in his chair.
“Are you all right?” she asked softly, seeing him wince.
“Yes. It’s just my back. It’s playing up a bit.” The Englishness of the last phrase sounded odd in Pascal’s accent.
She was about to compliment him on his fluency when the back door banged open and Louise came in through the scullery, her arms filled with green boughs.
“Oh, I didn’t realize . . .” Louise came to a halt, and Gemma had the impression she wasn’t terribly pleased to find an unscheduled gathering in her kitchen.
“Let me get you a cup of tea, darling,” John put in quickly. “This is Gemma’s friend, Duncan, come up from London.”
“Oh, of course,” said Louise as Kincaid stood and gave her his friendliest grin. She glanced down at her burden as if wondering how to free a hand.
“Let me help you,” offered Gemma, jumping up.
“We’ll just dump these in the sink.” Louise smiled her thanks as Gemma took some of the greenery.
“Mmmm . . . What are these?” asked Gemma as the scent reached her nose. “They smell lovely.”
“Rowan, juniper, and elder.” Louise dropped her portion into the deep farmhouse sink. “According to my gardening books, the ancient Celts brought these branches into the house in May, to celebrate Beltane, the Celtic rite of spring. They’re considered protective trees.”
“As in warding off evil spirits?”
“Well, yes.” Louise blushed a little. “I know it sounds silly, but they do smell nice, and I thought I could arrange them in vases, instead of flowers.”
“I think it’s a brilliant idea.” As Gemma watched her sort the boughs, she noticed that Louise’s hands were dirty and bleeding from several small scratches, and she had broken a nail. As careful as Louise was in her appearance, it surprised Gemma that she would go out without gloves.
“Did you know that the hazel tree was special as well?” asked Louise. “It was the Druids’ Golden Bough.
They believed it was the root and symbol of wisdom.”
“A hard name to live up to, then,” suggested Gemma.
Louise glanced up at her in surprise. “Yes. I suppose so. But Hazel does have a way of making you think she’s invincible, doesn’t she? Where is she, by the way?”
Louise added, glancing round the room.
“In the barn, talking to Heather.”
Louise raised an eyebrow at this but merely said quietly, “Has she heard from her husband?”
Gemma was saved from answering by John Innes setting a cup of tea at his wife’s elbow. As Louise turned to him, asking if he had made all the arrangements for dinner, Gemma heard the faint sound of a piano.
“Is that coming from the sitting room?” she asked John.
“Aye. That’ll be Martin. He can bang out a tune or two.”
This was more than a tune or two, Gemma thought, listening. The notes wandered up and down the scale, segue-ing into snatches of melody that teased her memory.
After giving Kincaid a quick glance, she asked John,
“Is there enough tea for Martin?”
He nodded towards the pot. “I was just about to take him a cup.”
“I’ll do it for you.”
Mug in hand, Gemma wandered into the sitting room.
Martin sat at the old upright piano, his back to her, his hands moving across the keys as if of their own accord.
Bars of late-afternoon sunlight fell across the carpet, illuminating the muted tartan.
“Martin,” she said softly, “I’ve brought you a cuppa.”
He jerked as if stung, twisting round to look at her.
“Jesus. You gave me a fright.” The color drained from his already sallow face, leaving the blemishes on his cheeks an angry red.
“Sorry.” She held up the mug. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”
“No, I’m sorry,” he apologized. “I’m just a bit jumpy these days, that’s all.” He started to get up, but she waved him back to his seat.
“Don’t stop on my account, please. It was lovely. I didn’t know you played.” Crossing the room, Gemma set his mug next to the dog-eared sheet music on the upright’s stand.
“Bloody thing needs a good tuning.” Martin turned back to the keyboard. “My mum gave me lessons. All part of a proper middle-class upbringing,” he added, with a note of derision. His fingers moved over the keys again, picking out a faintly Scottish air.
“But you play by ear, don’t you?” asked Gemma, the
certainty forming as she listened. “That’s not something you learn from lessons.” She looked at him with sudden envy, forgetting his spottiness, his youth, his awkward behavior, seeing only a gift she would have made a pact with the devil to possess. Perching on the edge of the chair nearest him, she said, “Is this your job, back in Dundee?”
Martin snorted. “There’s no money in this. Oh, I pick up a few bob, filling in on a gig, but it’s not going to pay the rent.”
Why was it, she wondered, that people never seemed to appreciate what they had? Martin had shrugged off his talent as if it were no more worthwhile than sweeping floors.
Nor had he answered her question about his job, she realized, and that aroused her curiosity.
“Martin, I know it’s none of my business, but I’m surprised you haven’t gone home. I mean, it’s not as if you knew Donald . . .”
“Nor did you, before this weekend, and you’re still here.” His glance was sharper than she’d expected.
Shrugging, he added, “I thought I’d lend John a bit of support. It’s not as though he’ll get it from any other quarter.”
“You mean Louise?” Gemma studied him. “Is there a particular reason you two don’t get on?”
“Besides the fact that she’s a bitch? She’s always treated me as if I were a bug that needed squashing. What bloody right has she? He’s my brother.”
“Yes, but it is her house, too.”
Martin flushed at the note of reproof in Gemma’s voice. “You mean I should be grateful for her charity?”
“No, I mean you should have better manners. This is about more than a weekend cookery course, isn’t it?”
Martin gazed down at the keyboard as the silence