Deborah Crombie - Duncan Kincaid & Gemma James 09 - Now May You Weep

“It’s a powerful infection, Livvy—you’ll know that,”

cautioned the nurse. And the poor man was already weakened from his ordeal in the snow. Well, she would do what she could, as it would be days before the doctor could get there from Tomintoul.

Why was it, Nurse Baird wondered, that birth, death, and illness always chose to coincide with the worst conditions?—If that were the Lord’s will, she’d have given him credit for more sense.

At the height of the storm, she’d been helping Mrs. Stu-art give birth to her ninth, and that on the heels of easing the passage of old Granny Sharp at the opposite end of the village. She had just got back to her own fireside and her cat, Sootie, when Kenny Baxter had come hammering at her door with the news that Mr. Charles was taken ill.

Charles Urquhart had been a scrawny bairn when she’d delivered him nigh on forty years ago, in a snowstorm as fierce as this one, but he had survived. Perhaps he would show the same fortitude now.

She added crushed willow bark and wild garlic to the pot of hot water Livvy had brought her, then set the con-coction aside to steep. At least Olivia Urquhart was a sensible woman, and fortunate in possessing some medical training from her physician father. By Livvy’s directive, the room was clean and tolerably warm, and Charles had been well covered and fed warming drinks to soothe his throat.

But if Livvy Urquhart was sensible and competent, she was also much too beautiful for the hard life of the Braes.

A hothouse flower, Nurse had thought when Charles first brought her to Carnmore, with her dark curls and fair skin. Nor had Livvy faded—if anything, she had become lovelier. It was as if the births of her children and the death of her little daughter had both tempered and refined her. A rose on a steel stem, that’s how Nurse thought of her.

She wished she had the same confidence in Charles.

He’d been delicate from a lad, with a drive that pushed him past the limits of his constitution.

Now, studying Will, Nurse thought she saw signs of the same delicacy. The boy had grown too fast, so that the skin seemed stretched too tightly over the sharp angles of his bones, and high spots of color flared in his cheeks. He

was vulnerable, she thought as she filtered the herbal brew into a cup. This infection could be highly conta-gious—she would do well to watch the boy as well as treat the father.

Early that morning, Callum had watched Donald and the dark-haired woman emerge from the woods and wend their way along the meadow path towards the river.

Through his binoculars, he could see Donald speaking urgently, and the woman shaking her head, as if she were not convinced by his arguments. As they reached the river, someone else came out of the copse, a slender woman with a long, boyish stride. Her hair, the color of copper beech leaves, was pulled away from her face, revealing strong bones and a slightly upturned nose.

The redhead reached the river’s edge, then, turning to survey the shoreline, gave a start of surprise as she spied Donald Brodie and his companion. She observed the couple for a moment, as if hesitating, then spun round on her heel and retraced her steps along the path.

Callum watched a little longer, long enough to see Donald’s kiss returned in full measure. Then he slipped the binoculars back into their case and adjusted the gun strap over his shoulder. He had seen enough.

It was past noon by the time Callum had ferried the trekker’s baggage to the B&B in Ballindalloch and finished up his chores round the stables. Then, having made sure his father was dozing harmlessly in front of the telly, he drove the van into Aviemore.

He parked in the pay-and-display next to Aviemore Police Station and commanded Murphy to stay in the car. Ignoring the Labrador’s look of reproach, Callum started down the hill, easing his pace to accommodate

the Saturday shoppers strolling the other way. It was a strolling sort of day, with the sky a clear blue behind the Cairngorms and the steam train from Boat of Garten chugging merrily into the Aviemore station. Callum had no thought for the scenery, however, as he reached Tartan Gifts and pushed open the door.

The shop was busy, with Mrs. Witherspoon helping two well-padded women who were waffling over Bonnie Prince Charlie tea towels, while another couple browsed among the heather-filled paperweights. At the till, Alison was ringing up one customer while another queued impatiently.

Callum waited, fingering the monogrammed book-marks while he avoided Mrs. Witherspoon’s gimlet eye.

It was stifling in the close confines of the shop, the air overheated and heavy with the odor of candles and Alison’s distinctive perfume. He could feel himself sweating, could smell the oily, woolly scent of his own sweater, warmed by his body.

When Alison had finished with the second customer, he stepped with relief up to the register. “Come away outside,” he whispered. “I need a word with ye.”

“Are ye daft?” hissed Alison. “Can ye no see I’m busy?” In a louder voice, she added, “And what can I be doing for you today, Mr. MacGillivray?”

“Let me buy you a coffee,” he persisted.

“That’ll not be necessary, Mr. MacGillivray.” Alison gave him a bright smile, then leaned forward to adjust something on the countertop, whispering, “Just bugger off, Callum. You’ll get me sacked.”

“Make an excuse,” he urged softly. “This is about Donald.”

Callum could see her hesitate, torn between irritation and curiosity. Then she jerked her head towards the door.

“All right. Go on. I’ll meet you outside.”

He did as instructed, and a few moments later, Alison came out of the shop. She hurried down the hill, her heels clicking on the pavement, until she was well out of sight of the shop windows.

“I’ve told the auld cow I had to check on Chrissy,” she said, “so be quick about it.”

“Where is Chrissy?”

“She’s at home. Where did ye think she would be? And why is it any business of yours?”

“I thought you might bring her for her riding lesson.”

Alison shook her head impatiently. “Never mind about that now. Has something happened to Donald? Is he all right?”

“Depends on your point of view, doesn’t it?” asked Callum, enjoying an unaccustomed sense of power. “You said he told you he had a business meeting this weekend.”

“So? What of it?”

“It’s an odd sort of business, then. He’s staying at the Inneses’.” Seeing Alison’s blank expression, he asked,

“Did he never introduce you to John and Louise Innes?

They bought the old farmhouse just down the road from the stables. Turned it into a posh bed-and- breakfast.”

“Donald’s staying at a B&B so near his house?”

“And not alone.”

Alison blanched beneath her makeup, her face looking suddenly pinched. “But—”

“She’s verra pretty. Dark hair—”

“How do you know it’s not a business meeting?” Alison protested. “He could—”

“There’s no mistaking what I saw between them.”

Alison glared at him. “I don’t believe you. How did you—Where did—”

“I fish with John Innes. He told me what Donald was about. So I kept an eye out.”

Alison looked away from him, crossing her arms beneath her small breasts as if she were cold. For the first time, Callum realized how tiny she was, her bones fragile as a sparrow’s. And he saw what her makeup and bottle-blond hair usually disguised—her resemblance to Chrissy.