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

Will poured over his father’s ledgers and account books, he questioned the men, absorbing details of the distilling process he had never thought to notice. They were patient with him, these men who had been his friends since childhood, and he noticed that as time passed they listened more and more readily when he offered an opinion. He could only hope that he would live up to their expectations.

Closing and locking the warehouse doors, he started out across the yard towards the office. He had paperwork to do, there were orders to be filled, but just for a moment he stopped at the edge of the yard and looked out across the Braes.

They were strip-burning the heather up on the moors—

late this year because of the persistent rains in March.

The smoke rose in curls, and he caught the smell of it, sharp and acrid on the dry air.

Since he had put aside his books, he had begun to feel the land like a living thing, a presence that never left him.

The life and rhythm of it pulsed in his blood, in his skin, the tips of his fingers, the soles of his feet. When the first buds appeared on the trees, he’d felt the hard nodules on the ends of his fingers, masked by velvety skin. He felt the water moving through the earth, the green shoots pushing upwards, the delight of the lambs frisking in the fields.

He told no one, afraid they would think him mad.

It was the same in the distillery. He felt the whisky at every step, from the malting of the barley to the final dis-tillate—and he knew when it was right. He began to wonder if his father had found grace with God after all, and so been allowed to bestow a last gift upon his son. What

other explanation was there for what had happened to him?

This uncanny awareness did not extend to people, however. Watching his mother as she went about her daily tasks, he was unable to penetrate her reserve. It was not that she seemed desperately unhappy, but that his father’s death had changed her in some basic way that Will couldn’t fathom.

And then Rab Brodie had come calling from Benvulin.

It was almost fifteen miles from the Speyside distillery to Carnmore, and Will wondered if the condolences Mr.

Brodie had come to offer merited such a ride. Brodie had walked round the distillery with an assessing eye that made Will uncomfortable, but it was the man’s easy condescension that made Will’s skin prickle.

He knew from the men’s gossip that Benvulin had not fared well in the Pattison’s disaster, and if Brodie was struggling to keep his own distillery afloat, what possible interest could he have in Carnmore?

After another futile visit to the police station, where even the friendly sergeant’s patience seemed to be wearing thin, Gemma retreated to the car. She considered going round the town, trying to find a witness who had seen Hazel early that morning, but she had to admit that the likelihood of finding anything on her own was slim.

She knew she should take Kincaid’s advice and go back to the B&B, but it galled her to do it. She couldn’t banish the thought of Hazel, alone in an interview room, or worse, being badgered by Chief Inspector Ross, after what she had already been through that day.

Gemma made an effort to put herself in Ross’s position. Wouldn’t she have done the same, with the information Ross had?

No, she couldn’t summon the detachment, she was too close, and yet the effort brought with it a small worm of doubt. What had Hazel done last night? Had she argued with Donald? And why had she left so precipitously this morning? Where had she been at the moment Donald was shot? Two days ago it would never have occurred to Gemma that Hazel might hide secrets. How well, she wondered, did she really know her friend?

Unwilling to follow that train of thought any further, Gemma started the car and drove out of Aviemore, head-ing north towards Innesfree. As she crossed the bridge over the Spey, she realized that her wipers were squeak-ing. The rain had stopped. Looking up, she saw that a clear ribbon of sky had appeared beneath a dark and for-bidding bank of cloud. In the distance, the hills glowed impossibly green, and it suddenly seemed to Gemma that the morning’s violence had been a dream.

How could such a thing have happened in this place, where beauty took the breath away? She shivered, as if someone had walked over her grave, and turned up the car’s heater.

As she neared the B&B, she saw that the crowd had dispersed except for a few stragglers and an isolated television van. Slowing for the turn, she remembered that Heather had meant to go to Benvulin. Why not go there and talk to her, ask about the solicitor as Kincaid had suggested?

Gemma drove on, finding that it seemed logical to go on to Benvulin, but she knew that what drew her most was the chance to return to the place where she had felt closest to Donald Brodie.

Graced by the late-afternoon sun, Benvulin looked much as it had the day before, except for the two police cars

parked in the drive alongside Heather’s Audi. Deciding to try her luck first in the office, Gemma went up the steps and entered the small stone building next to the old mill.

This was not included in the visitors tour, Gemma quickly surmised. It was a real, working office, crammed with file cabinets, computer desks, and the piles of paperwork that any business generated. There was no one in the first room on the right, but from the size of the desk and the memorabilia on the walls, she assumed the office was Donald’s. A large, carved sideboard held an array of Benvulin whiskies and a tray filled with crystal tumblers.

For an instant, Gemma imagined Donald sitting in the leather-backed chair, half turned towards the window so that he could survey the domain he had so loved. She blinked, shook her head to dispel the vision. Donald Brodie was gone.

She went on, and in the next room along the corridor she found Heather Urquhart. The woman sat hunched over her desk, her face covered by her long, slender fingers. At the sound of Gemma’s footfall, she looked up, startled, and snapped, “What are you doing here?”

Heather looked so miserable that instead of making a retort, Gemma sat down and said gently, “You must be having a dreadful time of it. What are the police doing here?”

“Searching the bloody house. For what, I don’t know.”

Sarcastically, Heather added, “A note inviting Donald to a secret assignation in the meadow, signed with the murderer’s name?”

Gemma had to smile. “They should be so lucky.”

“Well, then, what are they looking for?”

“Details,” Gemma said slowly. “Details of a life. All the bits and pieces that make up the whole, and they hope

that when they put it all together, they’ll see a pattern that will point them in the right direction.”

“They’ve taken away the computers. You’d think they’d realize we still had a business to run.”

Gemma hesitated, then said, “I can’t speak for Chief Inspector Ross, but it’s not usually the aim of the police to make life difficult for those trying to deal with a tragic death. They just want to solve the case—and so do you. The consequences of not succeeding are terrible for everyone concerned with the victim. Trust me on this.”

“So you’re saying we should cooperate?”

“Yes, and cooperate fully, rather than grudgingly.

That’s when the little, innocuous things come out that can glue the entire case together.”

“But I can’t abide that man,” Heather protested, her earlier hostility towards Gemma apparently forgotten.

“He makes me feel guilty even though I haven’t done anything. Do you know I actually started thinking about