“But what about my grandmother?” Kit’s voice rose as the panicked feeling set in again.
“You can go to the judge and tell him how you feel. In fact, you can tell him exactly what you’ve told me. You’re old enough to have a voice in your own future, if you’re strong enough to make it heard. It’s what you want that matters now.”
“Will they charge John?” Hazel asked from the backseat of the Honda as they sped towards Benvulin. Saying that Hazel was needed urgently at the distillery, they had left the chief inspector taking John once again over his visit to Callum’s cottage. Ross had made no attempt to detain them, but when Pascal had offered to come with them, Ross had insisted he stay until he’d completed a written statement about his missing medication.
“He’d have charged him already if he had the evidence,” Kincaid said, turning towards her. “He’s just stirring things at the moment while he waits to see what the forensics team turn up in the car.”
“I don’t believe it,” Hazel protested. “I simply can’t believe John would have taken Pascal’s tablets and poisoned this man—Callum.”
None of the other options were any more palatable, Gemma thought as she slowed for the entrance to Benvulin, but she didn’t say so. She was increasingly worried over the lack of news about Tim Cavendish. Hazel had spoken to her mother-in-law earlier that morning, and Carolyn had told her she’d had no word from Tim since the previous evening. Was he still “helping” the Met with their inquiries?
Kincaid looked round with interest as Gemma parked the car in Benvulin’s drive. “What a lovely place—more fairy-tale than industrial. Is the design unique?”
“No.” As they got out of the car, Hazel studied the distillery buildings as if seeing them anew. “The twin
pagoda-roofed kilns were an innovation of a Victorian ar-chitect called Charles Doig, and the design was adopted by a number of Highland distilleries—but nowhere did all the elements come together quite so well as they did here at Benvulin. You can see why the Brodies loved it, sometimes beyond reason, I suspect.”
“And Donald was no exception,” Gemma murmured.
She had started automatically for the offices when Heather came out the door of Benvulin House and waved to them.
Heather wore trainers and old jeans rather than smart work clothes. The others changed course, and as Gemma mounted the steps to the house, she saw that Heather had a smudge of dirt over one eyebrow.
“Heather, what’s happened?” Hazel asked without pre-amble. “Is it something to do with the business?”
“No.” Heather’s manner seemed suddenly hesitant.
“I’ve been going through Donald’s personal papers. I’ve made a start on the funeral arrangements, and I was hoping to find something that would tell me what Donald wanted. And in truth”—she looked directly at her cousin—“I’d hoped I might find another will.”
“Heather, you know I didn’t want—”
“No, it’s all right. It was silly of me, and unfair. I know this isn’t your choice, but it’s what Donald thought best, and I have to come to terms with it. But that’s not why I called. Come and see for yourselves.” Heather turned and led them inside, through a great hall and up a massive carved staircase.
Glancing into rooms as she passed, Gemma glimpsed richly faded Persian rugs and heavy velvet draperies.
Stag heads loomed on walls, beside the gilt of ornate mirrors and framed portraits, and the house had an overall air of heavy, faded, and slightly shabby opulence.
“Scotch baronial at its finest,” said Heather. “This place is a dinosaur, and horrifically expensive to maintain.” She led them into a room at the top of the stairs. Its tall windows looked out, not on the distillery, but towards the gray sweep of the river.
Here was ample evidence of her endeavors; stacks of books and papers covered the floor as well as the old leather-topped desk. “I don’t think Donald ever felt really comfortable in this room,” Heather continued. “It reminded him too much of his father.” Seeing Kincaid studying a watercolor of Benvulin hanging over the desk, she added, “That’s a Land-seer, a gift to Donald’s great-grandfather, I believe. The painter was well known for dashing off a painting of his hosts’ properties in return for their extended hospitality.”
Hazel still stood in the doorway. “Heather, what—”
“Here.” Heather touched a stack of cloth-bound books on the corner of the desk. “I found Donald’s great-grandfather’s sister’s diaries. And I think I’ve discovered what caused the rift between the Brodies and the Urquharts, but I want you to read it for yourself.”
Hazel stepped into the room with obvious reluctance just as Gemma’s phone rang again. “Bloody hell,”
Gemma muttered, snatching it up. It was Alun Ross.
She listened for several moments, then said, “Yes, I’ll tell him. Yes, right away. No, I can drive him.” When she rang off, however, it was not Kincaid she looked at, but Hazel.
“That was Chief Inspector Ross.” She took a breath.
There was no way she could soften the news. “The London police found a receipt from a petrol station in Aviemore in Tim’s car, dated Saturday. They’re holding Tim for questioning. Tim’s refused a solicitor—he says he won’t speak to anyone but Duncan.” She turned to Kincaid. “There’s a flight from Inverness to London in a little over an hour. I said I’d have you on it.”
Chapter Nineteen
I have trod the upward and the downward slope; I have endured and done in days before; I have longed for all, and bid farewell to hope; And I have lived and loved, and closed the door.
—robert louis stevenson,
“I Have Trod the Upward and the Downward Slope”
Carnmore, November
Livvy stood in the distillery office, her father’s letter dangling from her nerveless fingers. She had been found out, her undoing a mere slip of the tongue by the banker, sharing a midday dram with her father. The banker, assuming her father privy to her affairs, had casually mentioned her withdrawal of funds from her account, and now she would have to deal with the consequences.
She’d felt a nagging sense of foreboding for some weeks, but she’d put it down to the time of year. It was more than the upcoming anniversary of Charles’s death; she hated the dark, the closing in of the days, the interminable nights with nothing but her few books and a bit of sewing to keep her thoughts occupied. Not even to herself had she
been willing to admit how much she dreaded the curtailing of Rab’s visits, which would inevitably follow on bad weather.
The shooting season had brought Rab frequently to Carnmore’s door, as he was on friendly terms with the duke of Gordon and was often invited for a day’s sport at the duke’s lodge in Tomintoul. Their tea and conversation at her kitchen table had quickly become her cornerstone, the events round which revolved the rest of her existence.
It was no more than Highland hospitality, she told herself, ignoring the whispering of her neighbors, as she did Will’s increasingly obvious dislike of Rab. She prided herself on her status as Rab’s friend, and she’d listened to his tales of Benvulin’s troubles with increasing distress.