The Bennett Sisters Mysteries Box Set, page 84
part #1 of Bennett Sisters Mystery Series
Stasia struck out for town, only a half mile or so, around the stables and the lawns, through streets lined with stone Victorian houses, their gardens bursting with flowers. Tulips and rhododendrons were everywhere. Bluebells completely covered some yards, splashes of brilliant indigo, and tiny pink flowers crept out of cracks in old walls. She paused to take a few photos for the magazine’s designers.
She hadn’t had time to think much about work. She certainly didn’t miss her commute into the city every day, and long, boring meetings about contracts. Models and their agents— ugh. The fashion world seemed to attract the most self-absorbed, socially stunted people. She shouldn’t complain. They paid her salary. Her magazine, Gamine, thrived on it.
The business of her father’s health took up too much space to let her worry about the magazine. It would all be there when she returned. That was one of the delights, and hazards, of the law. It was dense, torturous, plodding at times, but if you went away it would still be there waiting for you, as complicated as when you left.
Her father, Jack Bennett, seemed fine now, feisty and cracking jokes and enjoying the company of his daughters plus Oliver and Willow’s antics. He almost split a gut when Oliver put on his Scottish outfit. Oliver pranced around, flipping the kilt menacingly. It was a shame he hadn’t gotten to wear it to the Wedding That Wouldn’t Behave, as Merle called it, but there was no taking it back now.
They hadn’t seen much of Francie. She’d borrowed a car and gone off to Aberdeen on her own. Probably sticking her nose into the death of Vanora Petrie. Francie was oddly closed-mouthed about her activities. Her unusual discretion only fed Stasia’s suspicions. Had she found a man in the city already? She was not above that. No, it had to be something with Vanora, and the girl who confessed. Francie had been out to the Logan’s once at least.
Annie had not been to Kincardie House since Sunday. Callum had come into the village to see her though, and things were, well, promising. That was why this errand today was pressing. Stasia smiled to herself as she pressed her notebook to her chest, walking down the hill through the main part of the village and up the stairs to the seamstress’s studio.
“Mrs. Begbie,” Stasia said as the seamstress waved her inside. “Good of you to meet me.”
“Sorry to hear about the wedding,” the seamstress said, lips pinched.
“Is the whole village talking about it?”
Mrs. Begbie wagged her head. She did seem chagrinned at least. Probably because her outrageous, not-to-be-missed gowns, and her close connection to the Logan family, wouldn’t be admired and envied.
“You’re come to gather the dresses then? I’ll bring them out.”
Stasia looked her in the eye, held out her notebook, and sat down on the floral banquette by the window. “Actually? Let’s chat, Mrs. Begbie. If you have a minute?”
———
Fiona Logan pushed aside the drapes at her bedroom window. The yard between the house and the old coach house was dry now but the grass was flattened and dead in places. The sunshine didn’t help the view, in her opinion. She’d never paid the natural world much attention but now the storm and its aftermath made it impossible to ignore.
It was just as well the wedding hadn’t happened. Her guests due to arrive next weekend, friends from London who had cancelled their trip because of the storm, wouldn’t see how bad things had been. It would look like it was their fault the party didn’t go off, not her son’s. Or the weather. It certainly wasn’t her own fault.
It was complicated in her mind. She loved Callum. She wanted to send him off in the best of style, as befitted a man of his class. But nothing— nothing had gone right.
She heard a door slam downstairs. A moment later the hire car Callum had been driving all week pulled up to the new bridge and slowly rolled across the burn. The new bridge was metal, solid as a rock, they told her. They were able to use the old footings, anchoring them with new metal pilings. The bridge had come prefabricated and was put in place within a day. The folding bridge had gone back to Aberdeen. Everything was ship-shape and back in order.
She felt a fleeting sense of guilt that Callum’s friends, the sisters and their friends, were exiled to the Hydro. They could have come back, some of them. But it was irritating. Why hadn’t they just gone home to America? What did they mean by staying on and reminding the entire village of the disaster of all their plans?
It had been just the two of them, her and Callum, at dinner last night. Mrs. MacKeegan made too much food, something Fiona was always lecturing her about. Waste was not a happy subject. But a perennial one with Cook. She’d been with Fiona for nearly thirty years and thought thin women were against God’s holy plan.
Fiona walked down the stairs. It was nearly time for lunch and she wasn’t at all hungry. She would just pop in to the kitchen and tell Mrs. MacKeegan to skip the entire service since Callum had left. Where had he gone? She put a niggling little worry about her younger son out of her mind. Since he hied off to America she had to do that. There was no other way to survive.
Cook had a big pot of soup on the range and was peering into the steam when Fiona arrived.
“I’ll not be eating luncheon, Mrs. MacKeegan. And Callum has gone into town.”
“Aye, mum. Just me and the boys then.”
Staffing problems were on Cook’s mind since they’d lost both Vanora and Jinty. She’d brought it up twice already. She turned to check Mrs. Logan’s expression with a hopeful glance.
“I’ve asked in the village,” Fiona said. “The job pays well. We’ll find someone to clean.”
Mrs. MacKeegan’s eyebrows shot up. “And for caretaker? Sayin’ Jinty don’t come back?”
“I’m working on it,” Fiona said, stiffening. They had a long relationship but she took issue with the woman telling her what needed to be done. “It’s not your concern.”
“Pardon, mum, but it is. You say you’re having guests this weekend.”
“Old friends. Killian can help.”
“Ever seen him put linens on a bed? Serve dinner? Pour wine?” Cook smiled. “Naither me.” She tipped her head, as if deciding whether to speak. Of course she decided ‘yes.’ “There’s been some talk, mum, in the village. About Killian.”
“Talk?”
“You know that we had no petrol, nary a drop to be found for the generator? We looked high and low.” Mrs. Logan nodded. “But that tank behind the coach house was filled, wasn’t it, not three weeks ago. It was to prepare for the guests, wasn’t it?”
“What are you getting at?”
“It was empty. So was all the other small carriers for petrol. Jinty found six or more in a pile behind the barn. All dry.”
“What are you saying?”
“Killian Yarrow was seen in the village a week or two back, mum. Taking money and giving folks petrol, pouring it into their cans.”
“Who saw this?”
“I’m sorry to say it was me, mum. I was in the village getting supplies.”
Of all the nerve. “And you didn’t tell me straight away?”
“You was caught up in the weddin’, wasn’t you? We weren’t to ken about the thunder bomb, was we?”
“Weather bomb,” Fiona corrected in a small voice. “No. You couldn’t know we’d need that petrol so soon. Thank you for telling me.”
Fiona was turning to go when Mrs. MacKeegan said, “I’m a wee bit worried about ol’ Craiggie, ma’am. He seems to be doin’ poorly. Just sits there, starin’. I took him up some brekkie and he never touched his tea from last evenin’.”
Mrs. Logan sighed. It seemed a miracle the man had survived the storm, or lived this long in general. Fiona didn’t like to be reminded about her obligation to Craigg. Her father had made him a promise, and her husband had made her keep it. The sight of his crippled, nearly-broken body brought to mind Lyle, and bad times. Craigg had been a friend to her husband, in his way, and took the boys in hand to help out. Still, they were hard memories, when their world fell apart.
Craigg was an irascible old heathen. It wasn’t fair that he still lived and Lyle died so young. She’d never been able to forgive him for that.
She turned back to Cook. “Is that so?” Fiona said archly. “And what do you recommend?”
“Oh, I dunno. Needs might to gang to the doctor, if he would. I dinnae ken about doctors. Mebbe you could talk to him, get him to go.”
Fiona glared at the broad back of the old woman as she spun to face the soup pot, stirring a wooden spoon slowly. She willed the lady to turn back, to look her in the eye, so she could show her contempt for this idea in a glance. But Cook kept stirring, round and round, steam rising.
Fiona waited until four, when Callum returned from wherever he’d been, to check on Mr. Craigg. Her son looked a bit wind-blown, his hair askew, boots muddy, as if he’d been out walking in the hills. His color was good, ruddy, and she made no issue of his disappearance, just asked if he would go with her to Moss Cottage.
They walked solemnly, in silence, as if the duty must be done. Needs must, she thought sourly as he rapped his knuckles on the rough old door. It had been years since she’d been this close to the cottage. The state of it appalled her— the peeling paint, the creeping mold, the missing shakes from the roof. Why on earth had no one kept up on the maintenance? She must have a word with Gunni. It was his job to point out things that needed to be done if she wasn’t at home. Although, in truth, she’d never once had a message like that from him in the three years he’d worked here. He was very attentive to the livestock however.
She had hoped Jinty Arbuckle would take on that task of maintenance, living-in through the year as well. Fiona rarely got into the Highlands past October. That month was often busy with shooting parties and deer-stalkers. After the snows came she preferred the city.
Thinking of Jinty was not a mood enhancer. Plus her ankle had pulsed from an old sprain as she’d walked across the yard and up to the cottage. She wondered suddenly if Hugh and Davina would take good care of Kincardie House when she was gone. Callum would be in America, far away. Would this be her last summer in the hills? She took a deep breath and told herself to stop being ridiculous. She was not yet seventy-five. Still the years took their toll. Just look at Mr. Craigg. She remembered him so young and vital, a vision of independence, walking briskly over the hills with his dogs.
Callum knocked again. He called out for the old man and tried the latch. The door creaked as it swung open.
“Mr. Craigg?” Fiona said loudly. “It’s Callum and Fiona calling.”
They stepped into the gloomy sitting room. It smelled of coffee and grease. There was his breakfast plate by the sink, still covered with a tea towel. She lifted a corner to confirm that the food was untouched.
Callum went into the bedroom and returned. “He’s not here.”
“Oh, for goodness sake. Missing again? What is wrong with the man?” Fiona crossed her arms and frowned.
“He’s probably around the yard somewhere,” Callum said, stepping back outside into the afternoon shadows. “I’ll take a look. You go back to the house, Mother.”
Was everyone to give her orders now? She felt a flare of irritation at Callum, and at Craigg. Not to mention Mrs. MacKeegan who had sent her on this fool’s errand.
“Let’s check the barn,” she said.
Callum pushed back the heavy barn door to let sunshine into the space. They stood for a moment, allowing their eyes to adjust. Callum recovered first and began checking stalls.
“Where was his pony? I thought it was here.” He pointed out the first stall.
She stepped forward into a spot of sunshine coming through the roof. The storm damage was severe here. They would need an entirely new roof on the barn, she thought, calculating the costs with chagrin.
“Now I remember,” Callum said. “Pascal moved her. That’s why Mr. Craigg went out in the storm that night. Because Pascal moved the pony to the back, out of the rain.”
He walked to the far end of the barn and peered over the high gate. “Not here either.”
“So that solves the mystery,” Fiona declared. “Mr. Craigg has taken his pony out for some air.”
She waited outside while Callum latched the barn door again. He had a bit of worry on his brow. She decided to ignore it. If he wanted to get in a lather about the old man, well, she couldn’t stop him.
They were walking back across the matted lawn when Callum said, “Annie is coming for dinner, Mother. Try to be pleasant.”
She felt a little dagger to the breast. Annie, who she hoped to never see again. She ignored the jab, holding her head high. “Whatever do you mean? I am always courteous to your friends, Callum. Far more than pleasant.”
He held the front door open for her, a wry look on his face that she didn’t recognize. It made the dagger twist a little. Her son, criticizing her demeanor, her manners. Laughing at her. How dare he? She clenched her jaw and squinted at him in a way she did when he was naughty as a boy. He didn’t seem to catch it.
“You know what I mean, Mother,” he said gently. “As we say in America, play nice.”
Chapter 32
Wednesday
France
By the time Merle sat down at the rough-hewn farm table for a bowl of soup and fresh bread, she was so tired she could barely eat.
She checked her watch for the time then remembered she’d left it on the nightstand at Pascal’s in the early morning. Dutiful that she was, Merle had gotten up at bird-chirp o’clock, before five. Pascal looked so comfortable, sleeping on his side. She lifted the sheet to see his naked ass one last time. He would leave early as well. His duffle bag for travel sat by the door. She stepped over it into the misty dawn.
The sky was pink above the hill opposite Pascal’s. Yellow daisies grew next to the road, nodding with dew. The wind was still but held sweet scents of grasses as she passed the fruit trees blooming their guts out. Why didn’t she get up this early every morning? It was magical.
She turned into Irene’s lane, the only sound her running shoes scraping on dry gravel and birds singing. As soon as she arrived she was pressed into duty, sitting with a goat that seemed to be about to deliver. How they could tell she had no clue. Irene and her daughter scurried around, calling to each other in incomprehensible French, ducking into barns and sheds, jogging into fields.
By ten a.m. two kids had been born, one in the pasture on her own and one in the barn with Merle and Louise helping Irene. Well, Louise did the helping. Merle just hung around, watching and running for things.
Then, a little later, things got dicey. A maman was in trouble, off by herself in the pasture, struggling with her delivery. Irene sent Louise in the house for supplies and enlisted Merle to hold the nanny goat’s head and gently soothe her. Irene did some internal rearranging and they coaxed the mother through. Merle tried to avert her eyes from the sight of Irene’s arm disappearing up the business end of the birth canal but found she couldn’t. She was fascinated. New life, adorable, pint-size goats with tiny ears, struggling to stand on wobbly legs, latching on for sustenance: it was all too amazing. The definition of springtime. Printemps à la campagne.
In the farmhouse kitchen Irene was now slathering bread with fresh goat cheese, a smear of mud clinging to her cheek. Her eyes flashed with the morning’s success. She chattered to Louise who duly translated bits and pieces.
“Mama is very happy as all three are females,” Louise said. “She will keep the best for the herd and get a good price for the other two. All three appear healthy.”
Merle nodded weakly then stared at her soup, carrots and noodles awash in broth, willing herself to pick up the spoon. Her arms ached. She’d helped carry a goat from the barn, a baby back to the barn, and a big bag of feed. It was a good ache, satisfying, but more of a workout than pushing papers around in Manhattan.
“Mama asks if you enjoy yourself,” Louise said softly.
Irene’s round cheeks were bright, her eyes glistened; she was trying not to laugh. Merle smiled at her. She couldn’t think of all the grammar and sputtered, “Trop de travail.” Much work. “But yes, I very much enjoyed myself. It was amazing, thank you. The babies, the wonder of new life. The care and love you give your animals. It is very impressive.”
Louise smiled widely then, a rare event, and translated for her mother.
“Merci beaucoup, madame,” Irene said.
They sent Merle home with a crock of goat cheese and told her she could return in the evening to help feed the newborn kids if she desired. She tried not to hug Irene but failed, giving the woman as big a hug as her puny arms would allow.
She shuffled back down the lane to Pascal’s cottage. Thank god they let her have a break. It would have been embarrassing to have to beg. Throwing herself on the bed, Merle kicked off her shoes and slept like a rock for two hours. When she woke the sun was slanting through the western windows, creating patterns on the walls.
Her head was still fuzzy with sleep. She stared at the ceiling, seeing images from a dream that swirled in her mind: a French aristocrat in a fancy collar, a black-haired lady goat-herder, blue hair ribbons, a moonless night sky, feet running up the stone steps.
How silly. She blinked, her thoughts crystalizing. Like those ridiculous gothics—
Oh.
The story came to her like a summer thunderstorm— sudden, loud, relentless. The stiff, buttoned-up baron, the comely peasant girl— but was she a peasant or an orphan? Was the word ‘comely’ used anymore? Details, details. Merle sat up in bed, a charge of electricity like lightning running down to her fingertips.
