The Bennett Sisters Mysteries Box Set, page 88
part #1 of Bennett Sisters Mystery Series
“Tomorrow?”
“She says I should bring you with me.”
He propped himself up on an elbow. “Is it a wedding?” She shrugged. He groaned. “Not again.”
Chapter 38
Friday
In the Highlands
Annie arrived by taxi at Kincardie House at ten in the morning. She and Callum had promised each other a hike into the hills, to one of his favorite childhood spots tucked away in some distant glen. There was talk of exotic flowers and clear mountain lochs. The day was bright and clear with hardly a breath of wind. It felt like a gift after all the rain.
So today was the day. She stood in the yard, reluctant to go inside, to leave the warmth of the sun, and watched the taxi back out and rumble over the metal bridge. The new bridge didn’t have the charm of the old one, not the looks of it or the sound. This one could be in a city somewhere, all industrial and cold. Still it had gotten her back to Callum and whatever happened next.
He emerged from the coach house, wearing a light jacket, green khaki trousers, and hiking boots and carrying a backpack. Every day he was in Scotland he looked more Scottish to her: ruddy, wind-blown, hardy. Nothing like the big city investment banker he impersonated in New York. Even his accent came back, thick and amusing.
“I was looking for Mr. Craigg,” Callum explained, his smile drooping with worry. “He still hasn’t returned, or else he popped in and left again.”
“That seems unlikely.” The man was more tortoise than hare.
Callum nodded. “Just talking to the chauffeur. He seems to be leaving, by the way. He was packing his stuff. Anyway he hadn’t seen Mr. Craigg for days. I tried to find Gunni but he was up and out before dawn.”
“Mr. Craigg knows the hills. He wouldn’t be lost, would he?” Annie asked.
“Knows ‘em like the back of his hand.” Callum shouldered the backpack. “He would take the sheep out for months at a time, in the bygane.” He laughed at himself. “Back in the day. Sounding more like a native every day.”
Annie wore hiking boots too, and old jeans, a waterproof jacket, and a small pack with a water bottle and granola bars. She jammed her canvas hat on her head and they strode out, over to the gate leading to the pastures then on to the wildness beyond.
They walked for nearly an hour, up through the grassy pastures, cleared centuries before for livestock, on through low woods under-grown with bluebells and glossy green ground covers. The sun dappled the ground as it cut through the new leaves on the low-growing trees. They emerged on top of a ridge, skirted it, and climbed more in the open, on rocky outcroppings and ledges of limestone. Heather grew low and prickly, blooming pink and white.
As they descended the other side the going got easier and they could talk. Callum took her hand. At last she felt relaxed enough to broach the subject.
“I’m glad you told me about your father,” she said. “Now I understand your mixed feelings about coming home.”
He nodded, still skittish about the subject. She squeezed his hand, encouraging him. “There’s more,” he said finally.
“More?” she asked, stopping on the trail.
“About the disease. It’s genetic. Inherited.” He couldn’t quite look her in the eye, gazing out over the valley.
She nodded solemnly. “I read about Huntington’s after you told me about your father.”
His head whipped toward her. “You know about the genetics?”
“I looked it up.” Annie dropped his hand and stepped closer to him. “That’s why Hugh and Davina have no children. Of course. But you and Hugh have been tested, right?” Her voice was gentle, reassuring.
“Both of us were tested when I was nineteen. The test had just come out.”
“And what are your CAGs?” The genetic code for Huntington’s Disease was linked to the number of repeats of certain proteins in the human genome called CAGs.
He looked her in the eye, surprised. “You did look it up.” She smiled. “I have 32 repeats. Hugh has 29. We won’t get Huntington’s. Below 40 repeats is good. But that middle range, where Hugh and I are, means we could pass it on.”
“Your children might have the full disease?”
He nodded. “It’s a horrible thing, the suffering, the decline. Like Alzheimer’s and Parkinson’s and ALS, all at the same time. I watched my father. It was agonizing, even as a child. I could never take the chance.”
“Was that why you broke it off with Davina?”
Callum frowned. “God, no. We were young and I wanted to go to Philadelphia. Just as I said. I’ve come to terms with all that, not having children, years ago.”
She nodded. “Then I can tell you that if I wanted to have children I would had them by now. So we’re on the same page there.”
“Hugh told me he and Davina hope to adopt. They’re pretty far along in the process.”
“Wouldn’t that be wonderful?” Annie stepped closer to him. “Callum? I have an idea. For us.”
After the discussion he took her hand again and they walked in long, hopeful strides down the hill, past an old crenelated castle, a ruin with a damp moat and broken drawbridge. Over stiles and through pastures, past houses small and grand. No one cared if you walked through, Callum said, as long as you didn’t let the livestock out.
There were fluffy Highland sheep, black ones, white ones, black-faced ones, plus goats, some horses. At the far end of one pasture, off in one corner, stood a couple shaggy golden brown Highland cows, primitive beasts with wide, pointy horns like Texas Longhorns and heads like buffalo. Their heavy bodies and long hair were impressive but not particularly frightening. They chewed slowly like domestic cattle, staring intently at the two hikers.
“Don’t look at them,” Callum said softly, scampering up the stile’s steps and offering her a hand. “They’re curious, and mean devils. One caught me in the pants and threw me up in the air when I was a boy.”
“That must have caused a scratch.”
“Couldn’t sit down for weeks.”
She slapped him where the horn must have hit and they both laughed.
“So where is this fabled loch?” Annie asked.
“Around the next hill,” he promised. “You’ll see.”
They ate lunch along the shores of the loch, hidden away in the high country surrounded with bog orchids and heather. Callum spread their feast on a large, flat rock and poured wine, cut cheese, and fed Annie olives. They dozed in the sunshine until Callum’s watch began to buzz, signaling time to head back. He was more the planner than Annie was, thank goodness. They gathered everything into the packs and found the trail again.
Callum had relaxed and seemed chatty, which was his usual state. They were both themselves again, or on the way.
“So the chauffeur is packing up but there’s more. My mother fired him and is determined to get a modern automobile and drive herself. She’s got her eye on a red Range Rover.”
Annie looked surprised. “What happened to spur that on?”
“Seems Killian’s been stealing petrol and selling it in the village. That’s why there was no fuel for the generator after the storm.”
“But she could have gotten a new chauffeur.”
Callum smiled. “That was my doing. I told her the Rolls was too much trouble to keep maintained, which is true. That old thing should be in a museum. I said a new vehicle would be cheaper in the long run. And having a chauffeur is bloody expensive. Pinching pennies is the way to Mother’s heart. She is a Scot.”
They took a different route back to Kincardie House, over a hill east of the shimmering loch. It was steep but Annie kept up with Callum, pausing near the summit to admire the view and catch her breath.
“It’s so wild,” she said. “And beautiful.”
“I have something to show you. Over here.” He led the way to the very top of the trail then across an open area full of tall grass and boulders. He stopped near a stone wall, obviously part of an old rock structure now covered with moss and lichen, its broken pieces in heaps on the ground.
“What is it, or was it?”
“A bothy. A sheepherder’s hut from long ago.” He moved closer, touching the stones. “We would come up here and play soldiers. This was the bunker. Over there— ” He turned to a slight rise with low-growing shrubs. “Hugh set up his siege. We bombarded each other with mud clods.”
“What fun.”
“Yes, it was. I’d almost forgot about the bothy. I’ve forgotten so much about Scotland, about those days. Perhaps on purpose, I see now.” Callum walked around the other side of the ruin, pausing to shade his eyes. “Is that a horse?”
Annie joined him. “Where? Oh, yes. A little pony.”
Callum took a few steps toward the horse then stopped. “Mister Craigg has a white pony,” he said quietly. He looked around. “He might be nearby.”
They called for the old man then, as they slowly approached the little horse, trying to keep from frightening it. When they got close they saw it still had a halter over its head, and a lead rope trailing the ground. It whinnied at them, afraid, prancing, backing away.
“We’ll have to get Gunni to catch her,” Callum said. “She doesn’t know us.” They backtracked, walking out of the berry bushes they’d entered, to the open grass by the bothy. Annie turned back to the ruin.
“Maybe he left her some feed or something we could lure her with.”
The roofless structure was nearly overgrown. In another century it would blend into the rocky mountain top completely, its worn stones tumbling with frost and snow. Annie stepped through an opening in the rocks. The space was shadowy, one wall still tall enough and fairly intact. She looked at the lumps of grass and stone then stopped abruptly.
“Callum.” She looked behind her and called louder: “Callum!”
They found the body neatly placed between two large stones, wrapped in a blanket. Only the feet were visible, Mr. Craigg’s old boots.
They kneeled beside him, pulling down the blanket flap to expose his face, whiskered and sunken, copper pennies on his eyes. His skin was bluish, transparent, and didn’t smell fresh. Annie covered his face again, tucking in the blanket that had been ceremoniously wrapped around the man. Someone had carefully arranged him, reverently, up here in the hills he loved.
They stood, heads bowed, thinking about the old man, dying here in a place where he’d spent his best days. It seemed fitting. Whoever had wrapped him in the tartan blanket had taken great care. But maybe hadn’t thought it all the way through.
“We can’t leave him here,” Annie said softly. “The animals.”
“I’ll carry him down,” Callum said.
“Give me your pack.”
He picked up the body, legs stiff and boots dragging down. “Is he heavy?” Annie asked.
He grunted, juggling the body. “Not much to him.”
But carrying a human, however emaciated or well-wrapped, is never simple. Callum staggered, maneuvering through the doorway, out onto the grass. The pony stood closer now, out of curiosity perhaps. A pretty thing, like a Shetland pony but with a long white coat and a black forelock hanging over her eyes. She whinnied again, stepping closer.
“Wait,” Annie said quietly to Callum. “Set him down for a moment. For the pony.”
The wind picked up. The pony blinked her extravagant eyelashes, watching the tall grass bend and dance. Callum set the wrapped figure on the ground. The pony whinnied at them again and stepped closer to Mr. Craigg’s body.
“Move back,” Annie whispered, pulling Callum’s arm. The pony walked cautiously toward them, ears forward, nickering, kicking in fits and starts, smelling the wind. She was tentative. She was afraid but determined. Finally she reached ol’ Craiggie, at his wrapped head, nuzzling the blanket as if trying to wake him. She raised a hoof as if to remind him to quit playing around, or else to kick him in the head. Then she lowered her bent right knee gently against his shoulder. She made another sound, half-sigh, half-cry, and dropped her muzzle against his chest.
Annie took Callum’s hand, squeezing it. “Do you think he knew?” she whispered. “That he came up here to die in the Highlands he loved?”
Callum closed his eyes, feeling the pony’s grief for himself. This journey home was so different than he’d thought it would be, so emotional and heartbreaking and yet elemental in its way. It wasn’t just the bluebells he remembered, it was everything. His brother and mother, his old friends, the house, the hills. As if the rocks and bens had been waiting for him to return, to remember. Waiting for him to come back and heal himself. Scotland would always be in his core, no matter where he went. He knew now he couldn’t deny that.
And Mr. Craigg would always have a place in his heart. He had been like a father, helped him become a man. That corner of his heart was for old times, for days with his father, when they were all young and nimble, when the world was bright. In that part of his heart lived the generous spirit, the laughter and honesty, the tenderness that Mr. Craigg had shown him and Hugh, in his own way. He silently wished the old man a smooth journey over the last hill, over the horizon, feeling a prick of tears at his passing.
When Callum opened his eyes he saw Annie was next to the horse, the wee shiltie, with her hand on the halter, talking in a soothing voice, petting her neck. She did that for several long minutes, calming the pony. Annie’s voice calmed him as well. She was so gentle and loving. How did she know these things, he wondered, grateful and amazed. Then Annie looked up at him, indicating with a flick of her eyes that it was time to pick up the body again.
Callum had a piece of rope in his pack— he’d come hillwalking, to the loch and glens, prepared as any Scout, a habit so ingrained it came without thinking. He tied Mr. Craigg’s body across the pony’s back while Annie kneeled at her head, rubbing the furry forehead, pulling weeds from her black forelock while talking softly of her beauty and grace and the bag of oats waiting in the barn.
When Callum was done and had tested his work for slippage, tucking in ends of blankets and tightening knots, he nodded to Annie. She picked up the rope on the halter and stood up.
She swung her backpack over her shoulder. “Now, sweet thing, we all go home.”
Chapter 39
Friday
Toulouse, France
Pascal stood in a corner of the Air France terminal at the Aéroport Toulouse-Blagnac, stepping away from the women and the crowd of tourists and business travelers. Merle and her sister looked exhausted. They’d been up half the night, talking about what happened in Paris. Now they sat side-by-side, quietly chatting while sipping cappuccinos. The terminal was a noisy, busy place, children crying and men in suits shouting into their mobiles. He needed to get this last phone call in before the flight to Paris was called.
The fat detective was in his office. This was luck, Pascal knew, and he took it as a good sign.
“Inspector Grassie, it’s Pascal d’Onscon. I was there, at Kincardie House this week?” The detective greeted him coolly. “I am back in France now and have some information about one of your suspects.”
“Aye? The case has made a turn, monsieur. It will likely be deemed an accidental drowning.”
The news left Pascal somewhat relieved but also frustrated. He had really hoped Bruno would be questioned at length under hot lights and with disregard to his ego. “I have information about Bruno Nordvilles-Moura. I know his whereabouts in Paris now. If you are interested.”
The detective made a slurping sound, as if drinking tea, then sighed. “Won’t hurt. We’ll likely not need his testimony but, all right, ready. Got me pencil out.”
Pascal read off the address of the apartment in Paris where he’d rescued Elise, and also the mobile number of the burner phone Bruno had given her, left behind there. That one was no doubt in the garbage by now but it was evidence. Possibly the records of the number could be located and used somehow.
“Tell me, sir. What happened to change the case?”
“It was the caretaker, Miss Arbuckle. She admitted she made up the story of pushing the victim into the water. Seems she’s a cousin to the sheep man, Gunn. She thought she was protecting him.”
“She thought Gunni was the man?” The more Pascal thought about the case the more Gunni came to mind. His solitary skulking about was not evidence of wrongdoing but it was certainly opportunity. And the dislike for Vanora provided motive. “Does he have a police record?”
“Bit of brawling, drunkenness and the like. Young man’s crime. Apparently Miss Arbuckle saw Gunn give Miss Petrie a shove in an angry way. She thought he’d returned to finish the job. But there is no evidence of that. We have no option but to call it an accidental death, unattended.”
Pascal thought about the last time he’d seen Gunni, in the upper pasture, calling for sheep, his yellow mac aglow in the moonlight. How long had he stayed out there? “What did Gunni have to say about that?”
“Denied it all. Said he was out with his woolies all night long.”
Pascal frowned hard at the gray, industrial carpet in the terminal, trying to find the loose end, whatever it was. “I left him before midnight. Can anyone confirm that?”
“Just a few Highland rams, monsieur.” The detective sighed. “Closing it up then. Unless you have any other tidbits for me?” he asked, although clearly he felt the thing was over.
“One thing that has been bothering me, Inspector. I didn’t mention it because it seemed obvious,” Pascal said. “Miss Petrie was not wearing shoes or boots.”
“Aye. That was noted. You have a theory?”
“It seems unlikely she was walking outdoors without boots. The yard was waterlogged. When we saw her earlier in the evening she was wearing red gumboots. Wellies, is that what you call them? Old ones but distinctive. Were they found in your search?”
A pause from the detective. “Red, you say? An odd color for wellies.”
“Oui. That is what I thought as well. Were they located?”
“I will have to check the records.” The steel was back in the Inspector’s voice. “Thank you, monsieur.”
