“Escort?”
“Yes, ma’am. They’re all in the sitting room of the main house. If you’ll just follow me.”
“But—” The protest died on Gemma’s lips. The constable’s embarrassment was obvious, and there was no use making things difficult for the young woman. She would have the opportunity to talk to the chief inspector soon enough, and in the meantime, she wanted to see Hazel.
But as she meekly followed Mackenzie around the house to the front door, she thought that Chief Inspector Ross from Inverness had made it quite clear that he had no intention of treating her as an equal.
John Innes jumped up as Gemma slipped into the room. “Gemma! What’s all this about? They’ve said Donald’s been . . . killed. Surely that’s not—”
“Shot,” said Hazel, with the clear articulation of the very shocked. She sat crumpled in the wing chair near the fire, hugging herself and rocking gently. “I told you. It was so neat, so tidy . . . I’d never have thought . . . There was hardly any blood at all.”
Gemma couldn’t tell her that the blood would have pooled beneath his body, his back a mess from the force of the pellets’ exit. But Hazel was at least partly right—
there would not have been much bleeding, even from the exit wound, because Donald’s heart must have stopped pumping instantly.
The room, heated by the morning sun, smelled of stale
ash and, faintly, of sweat. On the table by the window, the heads of the mauve tulips drooped as if they, too, were grieving.
Louise gave Hazel a concerned glance and whispered, “I’ve tried to get her to drink tea, but she wouldn’t touch it.”
“So it is true.” John began to pace. “Donald’s really dead.” He shook his head as if he couldn’t quite compre- hend it. “But why would someone kill him? Donald, of all people? Everyone loved Donald. And why herd us in here and put a guard on the door?”
“The police will be treating it as a suspicious death,”
Gemma explained. “It’s routine procedure, until everyone has been questioned and the initial search completed.”
“Oh, right. You would know, wouldn’t you?” said Heather Urquhart from the other corner of the sofa. Although she sat with her feet tucked up beneath her in her usual feline pose, the tension in her body erased any grace.
Pascal and Martin gave Gemma wary looks, as if they’d just remembered her job, and she swore under her breath. Damn the woman.
“Have they sent you in here to spy on us?” added Heather, her voice rising. Her skin without makeup was blotchy, her long hair tangled and carelessly tied back.
“Is there some reason you think they should have?”
“No, of course not.” Heather gave a dismissive shrug, but her eyes slid away from Gemma’s.
“Look, I’ve no special privileges here,” Gemma told them. “I’m a guest, just like you, but you can’t expect me not to apply my experience.”
Pascal studied her. “How can you be sure it was not an accident?” He looked rumpled, as if he had dressed hur-
riedly in yesterday’s clothes. “These things happen, even with the most experienced hunter, a stumble —”
Had Gemma been in charge of the investigation, she’d have put the constable in the room, rather than outside it, to prevent just this sort of speculation and exchanging information. But since Chief Inspector Ross had not done so, she might as well take advantage of her position. “The gun was missing,” she said, watching as their expressions registered varying degrees of surprise.
Martin Gilmore spoke for the first time. “But . . . what if someone was shooting and didn’t see him—”
“Not if the wound was neat,” interrupted John. “That means the gun was close, maybe only inches—”
Louise was shaking her head at him, miming towards Hazel.
“Oh, sorry,” faltered John. “I didna think . . .” His accent was more pronounced than usual, making Gemma think painfully of Donald.
“Did anyone see anything?” she asked. “Or hear anything?”
“You know we were sharing a room,” volunteered Martin. “I heard Donald go out this morning.”
“What time was it?”
Martin shook his head, as if sorry to disappoint her.
“I’m not sure. I remember pulling the pillow over my eyes, so it must have been light. And the bloody birds were singing.”
When no one else spoke, Gemma turned to John.
“John. Your gun cabinet. You haven’t checked—”
John halted his pacing and stared at her. “My guns?
But why would—”
“Jesus Christ!” Heather uncoiled herself with unprecedented speed, her feet hitting the floor with a thud.
“You’re not suggesting it was one of us?”
“I’m not suggesting anything,” said Gemma. “It’s the first question the police will ask once they’ve had a look round the house.”
John rubbed his hand across the stubble on his chin, and it seemed to Gemma that the smell of sweat grew stronger. “I went out through the scullery door this morning,” he said, “but I didna look— The cabinet was locked— I always lock it—”
Gemma turned to Louise. “You were here, Louise, in and out of the kitchen. You didn’t notice?”
“No. I—” Louise stopped, frowning with the effort of recall. Slowly, she said, “I picked up my gardening things from the scullery, that I remember. And then afterwards, with Hazel—I never thought—”
At the sound of her name, Hazel looked up, blinking.
“Oh, God. What have I done?” she whispered.
“It’s all right,” Gemma reassured her swiftly, but she was aware of a sharpening of attention in the room. How could she prevent Hazel from saying things that could be so easily misinterpreted? Crossing the room to Hazel’s side, she said softly, “Hazel, you haven’t done anything.
You mustn’t say things like that. Do you understand?”
“She should never have come.” The words were harsh, the voice stretched to breaking. Turning, Gemma saw that Heather had stood. Her hair had come loose from its bind-ing and spilled wildly over her shoulders and across her face. With her trembling hand pointed at Hazel in accusation, she might have been an ancient prophetess. “We were all right before she came. And now Donald’s dead. I can’t believe he’s dead. What am I going to do without him?” She began to cry, with the dry, racking sobs of someone who didn’t often allow such release and had never learned to do it gracefully.
To Gemma’s surprise, it was not Pascal who went to
comfort her, but John. “It’s all right, lassie,” he crooned, easing her back into her chair. He reached for the whisky on the sideboard and poured her a stiff measure. “Have a wee dram for the shock. We’ll all have a wee dram.” Pouring another for himself, he drank it off in one swallow.
Louise reached out, as if to stop him. “John, are you sure that’s—”
“I don’t care if it’s
Taking one, Gemma went back to Hazel and knelt beside her. The sharp odor of the whisky reached her, lodg-ing in the back of her throat. “Have a sip, love,” she whispered. “John’s right. It will do you good.” Hazel’s hand trembled as she took the glass, and her teeth knocked against the rim. “Hazel,” Gemma continued softly, urgently, as the conversation rose around them,
“where did you go this morning, in the car?” She had to know before she talked to the police.
“The railway station. I was going to go home, without saying good-bye. I couldn’t face Donald again, after
