stretched. “It’s just that I’ve got no place else to go at the moment,” he admitted at last. “And I don’t like being made to feel a nuisance.”
“No place to go? You mean—”
“I lost my bloody flat, okay? And my job. Actually,” he amended, “it was the other way round.”
“Oh, that’s rotten luck,” said Gemma. “It could happen to anyone.” She thought back to their earlier conversations. “But you must have some other options. I thought you said your mum lived in Dundee. Couldn’t you—”
“My mum’s not speaking to me. I’m not exactly in her good books at the moment, but at least she doesn’t seem to have shared her feelings with Louise. There’s no way Louise would have passed up ammunition she could have used against me.”
Gemma frowned. “Wait a minute. What ammunition?”
Martin gave her a sideways glance. “Why should I tell you?”
Gemma considered for a moment, tilting her head, then said, “Because it sounds to me as though you could use a friend, and I don’t think you’re as tough as you make out. And because”—she reached out with her right hand and played a bar of the first thing that came into her head, which happened to be Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring, the piece she had been working on at her last piano lesson—“we have something in common.”
“Ouch,” Martin said, falling in with the next measure.
“That was a low blow. I think it’s been scientifically proven that one can’t behave badly while listening to Bach.”
Gemma grinned. “Then stop it and tell me what happened.”
He looked up at her, his hands still. “I worked in a music shop, in Dundee. It was all right, but then I got
busted for selling X-tabs to some of the customers. It was stupid, I know,” he added, as if to forestall her. “My boss fired me. When I couldn’t pay my rent, I lost my flat. And I’ve got no way to pay for legal counsel when my trial comes up.”
Refraining from agreeing with his own assessment, Gemma asked, “Does John know?”
“Yeah. He’s been really good about it.”
“You never were interested in cooking, then, were you?”
“No, that’s not true,” Martin said, sounding hurt.
“There’s this bloke I know that might take me on at his restaurant. I thought if I could learn something from John, I’d have a better chance at it.”
“And what about Louise? Does she know?”
“What do you think? You don’t imagine she’d let someone less than perfect take up space in her precious house? What surprises me,” Martin added thoughtfully,
“is that she ever condescended to take on John.”
“John? Why wouldn’t—” Gemma stopped, listening as the low murmur of voices coming from the kitchen suddenly rose in volume. She recognized Heather’s clear alto. Hazel and Heather must have come in from the barn.
Then, the sound of car tires on gravel snapped her attention back to the front of the house. Looking out the window, she recognized the car, an unmarked Rover.
Bloody hell. It was Ross, and she didn’t want to talk to him about Tim Cavendish in front of Hazel.
“Martin, sorry,” she said, giving him a fleeting pat on the shoulder. “I’ve got to have a word with the chief inspector,” she added, already half out the door.
“You won’t tell him about me?” Martin called after her.
“I’ll wager he already knows. You should have told him yourself.”
She ran out into the drive as Ross and Sergeant Munro were getting out of the car. “Chief Inspector. I left you a message,” she said a bit breathlessly. Skidding to a halt on the gravel, she lowered her voice and added, “It’s about Tim Cavendish, Hazel’s husband. Have you requested that the Met interview him?”
Ross looked at her with disfavor. “Inspector James, I’m perfectly capable of—”
“Have you?” she repeated, past caring if she was rude.
“Because he wasn’t in London over the weekend, and he doesn’t seem able to verify his movements.” She saw Ross’s hesitation as he took this in, and pressed her point.
“And he knew Hazel was planning to see Donald Brodie over the weekend.”
“Och, all right,” Ross said with obvious reluctance.
“Munro, call in and have them ask London to run a check on the man. Now, Inspector, if you don’t mind—”
“There’s more. Tim’s not answering the phone or the door, even to his family.”
“I can’t say I blame the man for not wanting to talk to his wife.” There was a note of bitterness in Ross’s voice.
“It’s not just that. He won’t talk to his parents, and they’re keeping Holly, Tim and Hazel’s little girl. I haven’t said anything to Hazel; I didn’t want to worry her unnecessarily.”
“You just wanted to worry me,” Ross said, sounding aggrieved.
Gemma stared at him. Had she actually seen the corners of his mouth turn up? He looked tired, she realized as she studied him. Even his graying hair seemed to have lost some of its bristle.
“I’ll request a welfare check,” he told her. “And now, if you don’t mind, lassie, I’d like to see John and Martin Innes.”
Carnmore, August
Livvy had just rolled out a fresh batch of oatcakes for the girdle when the knock came at the kitchen door. As in most country houses, the front door at Carnmore was seldom used. Wiping her hands, still slightly greasy from the bacon fat she’d kneaded into the oatmeal, she called out, “Come in!” Will had gone down to the burn with his fishing rod, taking a well-deserved hour off from the distillery, and Livvy assumed it was one of the hands with a question.
“Livvy?”
For a moment, she saw only a shape in the doorway, framed by the bright light of the August afternoon, but she would have recognized the voice anywhere. “Rab!
What on earth are you doing here?”
“Have I caught you at a bad time?” He stepped forward, his features gaining definition, and she saw that he was dressed for riding. She hadn’t seen him since the night of the Grantown dance, and since then she had pictured him in evening clothes.
“Oh, no, come in, please. Forgive my manners. It’s just that I was surprised to see you.” She was suddenly aware of her disheveled hair and her workaday shirtwaist. Her hands were red and raw from scrubbing preserve jars, and she suspected she had smudges of flour on her nose.
“I had business in Tomintoul,” Rab said, taking off his hat. “It seemed a shame not to pay a call when I was so near.”
“So near! Rab Brodie, it must be all of ten miles from Tomintoul to the Braes,” she protested, warm with pleasure.
“And a very pleasant day for a ride.” He smiled at her, his eyes sparkling above the flush of sunburn on his
cheeks. His boots and trousers, she saw, were dusty from the road, and he had loosened his collar.
“You must be thirsty. Sit down and I’ll make some tea.
You’ve caught me in the middle of baking—I hope you don’t mind yesterday’s oatcakes.”
“How are you keeping, Livvy?” he asked as he sat at the scrubbed oak table. “You look well.”
“I’ve been berry picking this week with some of the women from the village,” she said, laughing. “I’m as sunburned as a fishwife, but, oh, it was lovely, and I’ve berries to spare. I’ve made a blaeberry preserve, and we’ve fresh cream. We can have a bit with our tea, if you like . . .” She realized she was babbling and concentrated on setting out the best rose-patterned teapot, with the matching cups and saucers. The china had been her wedding gift from her father.