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

“Oh, Gemma, it was the strangest thing. I was in our old house, at Carnmore, except that it wasn’t exactly our house. Some things were the same, but others weren’t.”

She frowned. “The kitchen was red, I remember that, and there was a rocking chair by the stove.” Rubbing at her bare upper arms, she began to shiver. “I know that doesn’t sound frightening, but I was terrified. It was as if I was seeing things through someone else’s eyes, and I couldn’t get back to myself. And then—” She stopped, swallowing hard. “Then I was in the distillery, and there was a fire—maybe it was the kilns. I’m not sure, but I was frightened—not as myself this time, but as her—”

“Her?”

“Yes.” Hazel nodded, looking surprised. “I’m sure of it, I don’t know how. She was afraid, and then there was shouting, and blood, and the smell of whisky . . . the smell of whisky everywhere.” She shuddered. “God, I feel sick.”

“What you need is a cup of tea,” Gemma said briskly, padding over to the kettle. She sloshed it, decided there was enough water for two cups, and switched it on. “It’s

only natural you should have nightmares, after what’s happened.”

“Yes, but it . . . it was so real. Not like a dream at all, yet at the same time I knew I was dreaming. I’ve never experienced anything quite like it.”

Gemma put two tea bags into the comfortably mis-matched flower-patterned cups Louise had provided.

“Was there ever a fire in the distillery?”

“Not that I know of.”

As Gemma made the tea, she thought of the photo she’d seen in Heather Urquhart’s office, and of the little that Heather had told her about the distillery. “I have an idea,” she said, handing Hazel her cup. “Will you take me to see Carnmore?”

“What?” Hazel stared at her. “Now?”

Gemma glanced at the clock on the bedside table, then opened the curtain until she could see out into the garden.

It was not yet seven, and the sun was shining. “Yes. Why not? We’ll skip breakfast. We could pick up something on the way.”

“But— What about—” Awareness of what the day would hold flooded back into Hazel’s face. “Shouldn’t we be doing something—”

“There’s nothing we can do this morning but wait.”

Gemma had stayed awake, worrying into the wee hours of the morning. As she considered each angle of the case, she ran smack into her own helplessness. She couldn’t call on the firm’s solicitor to learn the disposition of Donald’s will; she couldn’t attend the postmortem; she couldn’t query the forensics results, or the findings of the house-to-house inquiries. Any little morsel of official information would have to come by the grace of Chief Inspector Ross, and Gemma suspected she would do well to get a crumb.

There was a bright spot—Heather had promised to ring

her when she’d heard from the lawyer, and that information might give her something to go on with. And she would chat up the other guests, but she sensed that would be better done when she could get them on their own, and once the police had finished with the property. The presence of the team completing the search of the area would not exactly invite confidences.

As for suggesting that Chief Inspector Ross inquire into Tim’s movements, she had decided to wait at least until Kincaid arrived after lunch, in hopes that Ross would be thorough enough to request London’s help without her having to interfere.

She had rung Kincaid before going to bed, letting him know that Hazel had been released but that she and Hazel both intended to stay on a little longer.

“You don’t have to come,” she’d added, but without much conviction.

After a moment’s thought, he’d said, “You’re determined to have a hand in this case, aren’t you, whether the local force likes it or not.”

“Something like that,” she’d admitted. “There’s another thing—Hazel wants to stay for Donald’s funeral, and I won’t leave her here on her own.”

“I don’t suppose it will make any difference if I remind you that it’s inadvisable, and that if the Northern Constabulary complains to your chief, you’re going to have a hard time talking your way out of this.”

“Um, no. I’ll call Notting Hill first thing in the morning; tell them I’ve been delayed. I can afford to take a few personal days.”

Kincaid had given a barely audible sigh. “Right, then.

If you’re staying, I’m coming up. We might as well put our heads on the block together. And, Gemma,” he’d added before ringing off, “do be careful.”

Turning now, she saw Hazel gazing into space, her teacup tilting absently, her face already pinched with strain. “Sitting round brooding is the last thing you need to be doing,” Gemma said decisively. “Can we get to Carnmore and back before lunch?”

“Oh, yes, I should think so.” Hazel’s expression seemed to brighten a bit at the prospect.

Gemma was already pulling on her clothes. “Good.

While you get ready I’ll leave word where we’ll be.”

As John, having assured Gemma that she and Hazel could stay a few more days, insisted on giving them toast and more tea, it was close to an hour before they got away. The morning was still fine, however, and when Gemma cracked open the car windows, the air had a rain-washed, flinty sharpness and smelled faintly of peat smoke.

Following Hazel’s instructions, she drove through Nethy Bridge, as she had the previous day, but this time she turned right before she reached Grantown, taking the way that led up into the hills, away from the gentle valley of the Spey. “It wouldn’t be so far if you could travel as the crow flies,” Hazel said. “But then, it’s seldom possible to do things directly in Scotland.”

The road snaked as it rose, and within a few miles the landscape had changed entirely. To Gemma, the moors seemed wild and desolate, alien as the moon—and yet she found them unexpectedly, searingly beautiful. The scene touched something in her that was both new and ancient, awakening a longing she hadn’t known she possessed. For the first time, she wondered how Hazel could have borne leaving.

Beside her, Hazel sat silently, picking at the hem of her pullover. They hadn’t discussed Donald or Tim since the

night before, but Gemma knew there were things she must ask.

“Hazel, do you mind telling me what happened between you and Donald on Saturday night, after you left the dining room? Did he tell you about the woman who came to see him?”

“Alison. He said her name was Alison. We had a row over her. I told him I couldn’t believe he’d asked me to come here, to risk my marriage, when all the while he was keeping someone on a string.” She shook her head.

“What a hypocrite I am, as if I hadn’t been holding on to Tim as a sort of insurance.”

“But you—the place in the woods—I thought that you and Donald—”

Hazel flushed. “So you saw that, too. The police found a thread from my sweater—that’s why Ross took me in.

Oh, Donald talked me round. He was always good at that.” She gave Gemma a look of appeal. “That was the first time, you know, since all those years ago.”

“But if you—then why did you leave yesterday morning—”

“I couldn’t face seeing Donald again. I’d made up my mind that it couldn’t go on, that I had to go back to London and sort things out with Tim. But Donald could be so per-suasive . . . I was afraid he would talk me out of it. So I ran away. I should have known it was too early for the train.”

When she’d negotiated a particularly hair-raising pass, Gemma said, “Hazel, about Tim— Did you see him this weekend?”

“See Tim?” Hazel gave her a startled look. “How could I have seen Tim? He was in London.”

“The thing is . . . Tim may not have been in London.

He had his parents come and stay with Holly over the weekend. He said he went walking in Hampshire, but