Deliberately, Ross refrained from using her title. “Miss James, your friend that was sick in the woods—I understand you’re sharing a room?”
“Yes.”
“And yet you alone heard the shot—or what you thought was a shot? And you alone went to investigate?”
“Yes. That’s right.”
No elaboration, Ross thought. She would know well that unnecessary elaboration could trip one up, lead to careless disclosure. His interest quickened.
“And yet it was this same friend”—he glanced at his notes—“Mrs. Cavendish, I believe?”
“Yes, Hazel.”
“It was this same friend who was sick on seeing the body?”
“Yes.” Gemma James’s posture didn’t change, but he thought he saw a faint heightening of the color along her cheekbones.
“But she wasn’t with you when you made the initial discovery. Was she still sleeping?”
“No. She’d gone for a drive. She arrived back just as I was about to ring the police.”
“I see. And you told her where you had found Mr.
Brodie?”
“No—I—I said I’d found Donald in the meadow. And that he was dead.”
“Then you took her to see the body?” Ross allowed disapproval to creep into his voice.
“No! Of course not,” she retorted with the first hint of defensiveness. “She ran—she looked before I could stop her.”
“Then you must have told her which meadow,” Ross suggested reasonably.
“No. It was a natural assumption. Everyone walked that way.”
“You’ve been here how long, Miss James?” Ross shuffled his papers again.
“Two days.” She compressed her lips, as if unwilling to be drawn further. He could hear her accent more clearly now—London, but not Cockney, and not posh.
“In two days you’ve learned everyone’s habits?” he asked, combining admiration with a dash of skepticism.
“No.” This time her flush was unmistakable. “But I’m
observant, Chief Inspector, and as I said, the path was obvious.”
Ross thought for a moment, considering what she had told him—and what she had not. “About your friend, now, wasn’t it rather early for someone to be going for a drive?”
Gemma James shifted in her chair for the first time. “I don’t know. You’ll have to ask her.”
This was the least cooperative response she’d given so far, and Ross had the distinct impression that she’d both dreaded the question and rehearsed the answer. There was definitely something fishy here, and not just the piscine parade on the wall. And Hazel Cavendish had vomited—not a surprising response under the circumstances, but was there more to it than the shock of unexpected and violent death?
“You said you and your friend came for a cookery weekend. Was Mrs. Cavendish previously acquainted with Mr. Brodie?”
“Yes, she knew him. She also knew Louise Innes—
they were at school together—and Heather Urquhart is her cousin.”
Cozier and cozier, thought Ross. He didn’t like it at all.
“What was the nature of Mrs. Cavendish’s relationship with Mr. Brodie?”
“I believe they were old friends.” Gemma James gazed at him with such limpid candor that he suspected he would get no more out of her and changed his tack.
“Tell me about the others,” Ross said, settling back in his chair. “And how they were acquainted with Mr.
Brodie.”
“Well, there are the Inneses, who own this place. John cooks, and Louise runs the house and does the gardening.
I believe they came here from Edinburgh a couple of years ago, and, um . . . I think perhaps they cultivated Donald Brodie for his contacts.” She looked uncomfortable as she added this, as if she felt disloyal.
“Then there’s Martin Gilmore. He’s John Innes’s half brother, and he’s interested in cooking. I don’t think he’d ever met Donald before this weekend.
“Pascal Benoit, the Frenchman, had some sort of business dealings with Donald, but I don’t believe he ever said exactly what they were. And Heather Urquhart, Hazel’s cousin, is Benvulin’s manager, so she probably knew Donald better than anyone. I think she’s quite cut up by his death.”
“Thank you. That’s very helpful.” Ross heard Munro shift behind him, as if preparing to close his notebook. He lifted his hand slightly in a halting gesture and focused all his attention on Gemma. Deliberately, he used her title for the first time, calling on her professional instincts. “Now, Inspector James. Have you seen or heard anything that leads you to believe one of these people might have had reason to kill Donald Brodie?”
She studied her clasped hands for a moment before looking up at him. “No. I’ve no idea why anyone would have wanted to kill Donald. But . . . I did see . . . something. Yesterday evening. A woman came to the house, with a child, to see Donald. He went out to her, and from the window I could tell that they were arguing. And there was another man, standing back in the shadows. The rest of us went in to dinner, and after a few minutes Donald joined us. I don’t know what happened to the woman or the other man.”
“And no one questioned Mr. Brodie about it?”
“No. It was . . . awkward.”
“You don’t know who this woman was?”
“No.” She looked away from him, out the window at the police cars now flanking the drive, and she seemed to come to some decision. “But I had the distinct impression that Heather Urquhart did.”
Chapter Ten
—neil gunn,
Callum had breakfasted early before going to pick up the trekkers’ luggage from the guesthouse in Ballindalloch. Aunt Janet would guide the group back to the stables by a different route, with a stop for a picnic lunch. For a moment, he envied them their amble along the wooded trails, with pauses to gaze into the trout pools that lay like jewels along the Spey.
Once, it had been enough, evenings with his feet stretched towards the fire in his cottage as he read about the exploits of his Jacobite forebears. Then Alison had come into his life, and with her the worm of discontent.
Suddenly, a wave of exhaustion swept over him. He pulled the van onto the verge, just where the road curved to reveal the sweeping meadows of Benvulin. Gazing at the view, he tried to form in his mind the things he loved
rather than think of Donald Brodie—the scents of wild thyme and pine on a still summer’s day, the clusters of red berries on rowans in the fall, the black tracks of ptarmigan on the winter snow. Callum had lived easily in the rhythm of his life, and if he had felt socially awkward with women, he had enjoyed his guide duties, telling the tourists about the terrain as they rode, the plant and animal life, the history that seemed to breathe from the rocky land.
His eyelids drooped and he jerked himself awake. The previous night’s lack of sleep was beginning to tell on
