“That’s a bit grand for the kitchen, isn’t it?” asked Rab, nodding at the cup she’d set before him.
Livvy felt a rush of mortification. “Oh, how stupid of me. Of course we’ll go into the sitting room. We have visitors so seldom—”
“Nonsense.” Rab settled back in his chair. “I won’t have you stand on ceremony for me, Livvy. This is a comfort I don’t often enjoy at home, and I’d much rather be treated as a friend than as a guest.”
Livvy doubted he ever set foot in the kitchen at Benvulin—nor did his wife, except to give instructions to the cook—but she acquiesced. She spooned still-warm fruit preserve into a dish and topped it with a ladle of cream from the jug. When she had set the dish before Rab, she sank into the chair opposite and watched him with anticipation.
“Don’t tell me you’re not joining me?”
“I’ve been tasting all day,” she told him, although the
truth was, she didn’t want to waste a moment of this visit in eating when she could be listening, and talking, and storing up the conversation to remember later. “I’m afraid I’ll turn blue if I have one more berry.” Realizing she’d forgotten the oatcakes, she jumped up again and fetched a plate of the crispy, triangular cakes, then poured the tea.
“Livvy, sit,” he commanded her, laughing. “You remind me of a whirling dervish.”
She complied, folding her hands primly in her lap. “All right, then, I’ll be a proper hostess. How are things at Benvulin, Mr. Brodie? And Margaret, is she well?”
“Margaret’s taken the children to London for a month.
Her uncle has a house there, and she thought the children needed civilizing.”
“And your sister?”
“Helen’s managing admirably, as usual. She keeps me in line.” He spooned berries and cream into his mouth, closing his eyes for a moment as he savored the combination. “Nectar of the gods,” he pronounced, with a grin.
“Och, get away with ye, Rab Brodie,” said Livvy, more flattered than she would admit.
Sobering, he said, “Seriously, Livvy, how are you getting on? Are you and Will managing on your own?”
“Will’s been remarkable. Charles would have been so proud. But . . .” For the first time since Charles’s death, she gave in to the temptation to speak freely. “But I know this isn’t what Will wanted. It’s a good life, but Will’s had his choice made for him, and so early . . . We could hire a manager for the distillery, so that he could go to school in Edinburgh, but he won’t hear of it.”
“He could do worse. There are not many men who have everything they want, Livvy.” Rab gazed at her directly until she looked away, uncomfortable.
“If Charles hadn’t had the foresight to steer clear of Pattison’s,” Rab continued, making blue-purple swirls in the cream with his spoon, “you might have lost everything.”
Livvy saw lines of strain in his face that she hadn’t noticed before. Leaning forward, she touched his hand.
“I’ve heard rumors . . . about Benvulin . . . Is it really that bad?”
He shrugged, his expression suddenly bleak. “We’ll manage, somehow. Margaret’s trying to raise some money from her uncle—not that she cares about the distillery, but she’ll not let her social status go so easily. At least it’s been a good summer; we’ll have barley to spare if we can stay in production.”
Livvy took a breath. “Rab, if there’s anything we can do . . .”
“Duncan!” Hazel came straight to him and he en-folded her in a hug. She clung to him, burying her face against his chest. Her dark curls just brushed his chin, and compared with Gemma’s, her frame felt delicate under his hands. He had never before thought of her as fragile.
“Have you spoken to Tim?” Hazel asked as she let him go. “Gemma said you saw Holly— How is she?”
“What shall I answer first?” he said with a smile, wanting to reassure her. “No, I haven’t talked to Tim today, and yes, I saw Holly, and she was full of mischief as usual.” Beyond Hazel, he saw Pascal glance at Heather in silent question, and Heather shrug in reply. Just how much did they have riding on Hazel’s response to Donald’s bequest? he wondered.
Before he could speculate further, the door to the hall swung open and a gangly young man came hurriedly into
the kitchen. Kincaid surmised that he must be John Innes’s younger brother, Martin, although he could see no resemblance.
“It’s that policeman,” the young man said. “He’s here again.”
There was an instant’s pause in the room, as if a film had frozen at a single frame. Then John turned back to the cooker, saying, a bit too loudly, “I suppose I’d better put the kettle on again.” Louise dropped the bough she’d been trimming into the sink and reached for a towel.
Heather moved a little closer to Pascal’s chair.
Only Hazel still stood without moving. “He won’t—
He can’t take me in again, can he?” she whispered, her face pale.
“I shouldn’t think so.” Kincaid gave her shoulder a squeeze and urged her towards the stool he had vacated.
“Gemma must be talking to him now.”
Then he heard voices from the hall, and Gemma came into the kitchen, followed by a solid, graying man in a rumpled suit, and a tall, thin man with a cadaverous face.
The shorter man had an unmistakable air of authority.
If he was going to pull rank, Kincaid thought, he had better do it now. He stepped forward, hand extended.
“Chief Inspector Ross? My name’s Kincaid. Superintendent, Scotland Yard.” Someone in the room inhaled sharply, as if surprised at this news, but he couldn’t be sure of the source.
As Ross gave him an assessing glance and a perfunc-tory handshake, Kincaid felt his usefulness being weighed, an unusual sensation. “If I can be of any help . . . ,” he offered, and Ross made an indecipherable grumbling noise in his throat.
“And why exactly are you here, Superintendent?” Ross asked, casting a look in Gemma’s direction.
“Gemma—Inspector James—and I are personal friends of Mrs. Cavendish.”
“So you came to lend your support? Verra thoughtful of you,” Ross said with only a slight grimace. It seemed he had decided to err on the side of caution. “But it’s actually not Mrs. Cavendish I’ve come to see,” he continued. “I’ve a wee matter to discuss with Mr. Innes.
Sergeant”—he nodded at the tall man—“if ye’d be so good.”
The other detective stepped forward, and Kincaid saw that he carried a folder. Ross took it from him and, clearing a space on the work island, laid the contents out before John Innes, large, glossy, color photos of a shotgun.
“Is this your gun, Mr. Innes?”
“Oh, Christ.” John Innes touched an unsteady finger to the top photograph. “I— It looks like it, yes. The scroll-work is fairly distinctive. But how— Where—”