“I represent a French company with multinational interests, Chief Inspector. In the last few years, we have acquired three distilleries in Scotland, all of which have performed quite well. We would be interested in adding another such property to our portfolio, and as there are few family-owned distilleries still operating, we cultivate an ongoing relationship with those that are.”
And that was business-speak for hovering like vultures waiting for a corpse, Ross thought. Schooling his face into an expression of pleasant attentiveness, he asked,
“But did you have a particular interest in Mr. Brodie’s distillery?”
“Benvulin would make the jewel in our crown,” admitted Benoit. “We had hoped to convince Mr. Brodie of the benefits of such an arrangement. While we would have assumed financial responsibility for the distillery, he would have been encouraged to remain as managing director.”
“I take it Mr. Brodie had not yet agreed to this plan?”
“No. It was only a friendly discussion. And now, well . . .” Benoit gave a shrug. “This is a terrible tragedy.
Donald’s death will be a great loss to the industry.”
“What will happen to Benvulin?”
“That I can’t say, Chief Inspector. I imagine any such decisions will be made by the board of directors.”
“Is there no family member to take on Mr. Brodie’s position?”
“I’m afraid I’ve no idea. I’d suggest you ask Miss Urquhart.”
Making a note to do just that, Ross excused him. The man was far too canny to admit that his firm might benefit from Donald Brodie’s death.
As Benoit left the room, the constable on duty in the hall stepped in. “Sir, we’ve found a gun cabinet in the scullery. It’s not locked, and it’s possible there’s a gun missing.”
“What’s the owner’s name?” Ross glanced at his list.
“Innes, sir.”
“Take him to look at the cabinet, then bring him in here.”
As they waited, Ross heard the first sharp spatter of rain against the windowpanes. He swore under his breath, and Munro stood and looked out the window.
“I think the worst of it will hold off a bit yet.” Munro stretched his long neck and cracked his knuckles, a habit Ross found profoundly annoying.
“Will ye stop that, man,” he snapped. “How many times do I have to tell ye?”
“Sorry, Chief,” said Munro, looking more doleful than ever. “I get the cramp in my fingers.”
They sounded like an old married couple, Ross thought with a glimmer of amusement, although Munro was much better tempered than Ross’s ex-wife. Before he could apologize, the door opened and the constable popped his head in.
“Mr. Innes says there is a gun missing, sir, a small-bore Purdy.”
“Send him in, then.”
“I don’t know how it could have happened,” John
Innes said as he entered the room. A large man with thinning hair, dressed in a pullover that had seen better days, he seemed to vibrate with agitation. “That was my grandfather’s gun. I always lock the cabinet, always. I don’t know how—”
“Sit down, Mr. Innes, and let’s begin at the beginning.
I’m Chief Inspector Ross.”
Innes hesitated for a moment, as if unsure what to do with himself in his own dining room, then pulled out a chair.
“Now, that’s better,” Ross continued. “Why don’t you describe the gun for me.”
“It’s Purdy lightweight, a twenty-gauge. A scroll and vine pattern, made before the Great War.”
Ross blanched. In good shape, a gun like that could be worth thousands of pounds. How could the man have been so careless? Making an effort to keep his temper, he said, “This gun cabinet of yours, Mr. Innes, who would have access to the key?”
Innes took a breath. “I keep mine on my key ring. It’s usually in my pocket, except at night, when I put them on the dressing table.”
“Is that the only key?”
“No. My wife has a copy. Louise usually hangs her keys on the hook by the scullery door when she’s at home.”
“So you leave the key to the gun cabinet in plain sight, in the same room?”
Flushing, Innes said, “This is the country, for God’s sake. We run a guesthouse. We’d never have done that in Edinburgh, but here, you don’t think—”
“You are legally responsible for the security of your weapons, Mr. Innes. Do you understand that you can be prosecuted? Or at the very least, fined?” Ross persisted,
but wearily. The man had a Highland accent; he had probably grown up in a household where guns were kept as casually as dogs.
“Tell me, Mr. Innes, who had access to the gun cabinet?”
“Access? The guests normally go in and out through the front, but I hold my cookery classes in the kitchen, and there’s nothing to stop anyone going in and out as they please.” He rubbed his fingers across the stubble on his chin, the rasping clear in the quiet room. “But surely you don’t think Donald was shot with
“I think it beggars coincidence that a man was found shot dead on your property on the same day as your gun turns up missing.”
Innes’s sallow skin blanched. “But you can’t think it was one of my guests! Someone could have come in and taken the gun—you’ve just said so. What if I did leave the cabinet unlocked, and some tramp saw his chance —”
“And why would a tramp be shooting Mr. Donald Brodie in your field in the wee hours of this morning?”
asked Ross, giving free rein to his sarcasm.
Innes went quiet at that. When his protest came, it was feeble. “I don’t know, do I? But it
“Aye. The Loch Ness Monster is possible. But it’s not verra likely, is it, Mr. Innes? Are you telling me now that you left your cabinet unlocked?”
“No!” A film of sweat had appeared on Innes’s brow.
“I’m sure I locked it. I just meant it’s a habit, the sort of thing you don’t really think about doing.”
“Have you seen anyone in the household near the gun cabinet?”
“If you mean have I seen anyone lurking suspiciously in the scullery, no. But the entire class was in the kitchen much of yesterday.”
Ross considered what he had learned so far. “Mr.
Innes, were you aware of a special relationship between Mr. Brodie and Hazel Cavendish?”
“No!” The response was too quick, too emphatic. “I mean, I knew they were friends, Louise and Hazel and Donald, from a long time ago. It was meant to be a sort of reunion, this cookery weekend, a surprise for Hazel.”
“Do you mean that Hazel didn’t know Donald would be here?” asked Ross, deliberately using their Christian names.
“I—I’m not sure. It was Louise who arranged it.”
“And what about this other woman who turned up with her child to see Donald yesterday evening? What can you tell me about that?”
“I’ve no idea who she was. I didn’t see her. It was Louise who answered the door.”
“You didn’t look out the window?” Ross asked with a hint of disbelief.
