and the distillery buildings behind it were unoccupied. No smoke came from the chimneys; broken windowpanes gaped like eyes; nettles covered what had once been a neatly cobbled yard.
Hazel stood staring at the desolation, hugging herself as if she were cold. “I’d no idea it would be so bad.” She sounded appalled. “Donald and I came here once, but my father was still alive then, and the house was rented.”
“Your father didn’t sell the property?”
“People don’t move
“If they’ve any sense, they move
Gemma turned to her in surprise. “Hazel, do you still own this place?”
“Oh, God. I suppose I do. I never went through all the papers when mother died . . . I couldn’t face it. Tim took care of things—” She saw Gemma’s look and shook her head. “Tim couldn’t have sold it without my knowledge, if that’s what you’re thinking. And besides, it’s not worth anything.”
“Except to you.”
Hazel gave a rueful shrug. “I’d never have admitted that . . . until now.” She tried the door of the farmhouse, found it still locked, then peered in the windows. “There’ll be water damage, at the least.”
“What about the distillery?” Unlike Benvulin, the buildings looked basic and uncompromising, built for the work they were meant to do without thought for aesthetic appeal. There were no charming, pagoda-roofed kilns here.
“Dad sold off all the equipment to other distilleries, and the stock, of course. These buildings are just husks now, without any heart. Donald had dreams, I think, that when we were—that
The sun peeped in and out of a building bank of cloud, making shadows race across the hills, and birds called out in the heather. Hazel stopped by a rowan tree that stood midway across the yard, fingering the leaves. “I always loved the rowans, especially in the fall.”
“Hazel, you said Donald’s father didn’t approve of your relationship. It sounds as though you and Donald talked of marriage—Were you actually engaged?”
“Ah, there’s the rub,” said Hazel with an effort at irony,
but her eyes reddened. “For a day, a glorious day, ring and all. Then Donald took me home to meet his father.
“Bruce Brodie’s temper was notorious, with good reason. Not only did he tell me quite literally never to darken his doorstep again, he told Donald he’d disinherit him if he went through with the marriage. It was more than bluster—he meant it, and Donald saw that he meant it.”
“And then?” Gemma prompted gently, when Hazel didn’t continue.
“Donald hesitated. I saw the terror in his face—I knew what it would mean to him to lose Benvulin. And I knew that if I forced him into such a choice, he would never forgive me. I couldn’t live with that.” Hazel turned to Gemma, a plea in her voice. “You can see that, can’t you?”
“You left, didn’t you?” said Gemma, understanding.
“You never gave him the chance to choose.”
“I felt I couldn’t bear it either way. To be rejected outright, or to cost him what he held most dear. But he told me—” Hazel stopped and took a breath. “Donald told me, on Saturday night, that he had refused his father. He told Bruce to go to hell, and he came after me, but I was gone. If I had—”
“No.” Gemma took Hazel by the shoulders and gave her a shake. “Don’t go there. You can’t know what might have been. You did what you thought best at the moment.” As she thought back over the time she’d spent with Donald Brodie, she added, “And for what it’s worth, I think you were right. Donald may not have been happy without you, but he wouldn’t have been whole without Benvulin, either. It was his father that was at fault, not you or Donald. But what did Bruce Brodie have against you, against your family?”
“I don’t know,” said Hazel. “But I always suspected Donald knew more than he told me.”
*
“Changing times,” commented Hazel, gazing out at the garden center and wildlife trails visible from the cafe windows. “This was a grand place when I was a child, but these days they do what they have to in order to survive.”
“Could your father have stayed at Carnmore, if he’d been willing to compromise, perhaps by selling an interest to one of the big distillers?” Gemma asked thoughtfully as she nibbled at her sandwich.
“I don’t know. I think it would have proved inevitable at some point.”
“And inevitable for the Brodies, as well?”
“Benvulin has had a charmed life—the Brodies have a history of overextending, of making poor financial decisions, but somehow they’ve always managed to hang on by the skin of their teeth. I suppose it was a combination of stubbornness and the ability to turn a blind eye to reality, neither of which my father had. I’ll hate to see Benvulin lose its character.” Hazel’s eyes filled with the tears she had not shed at Carnmore.
When they returned to Innesfree, Hazel went straight to their room, saying she intended to rest. Gemma sought out Louise, whom she found in the back garden with a hand trowel, trying furiously to repair the damage done to the lawn by the police vehicles.
No, Louise confirmed, no one had rung the B&B with a message for her. The police forensics team was still working in the house itself, and search teams were still combing the river meadow.
According to Louise, Heather and Pascal were at the distillery, and John had taken Martin to Grantown on some undisclosed errand. “I can’t do anything in the house,” Louise had complained, wiping a muddy hand across her brow. “And I’ve had to cancel all our bookings for the next week. A death in the family, I told them. How could I explain what’s happened? And there’s no way of knowing how much longer this will go on.” She sat back on her heels, her eyes widening as she seemed to realize what she’d said. “Oh, God. I must sound horribly selfish.
It’s just that—I know how trivial it is compared to Donald’s death, but it’s been hard to get this place going, and we’ve just begun to get on our feet the last few months.
We were fully booked for the first time, and now—” Her gesture took in the police cars parked in the drive.
“I understand,” Gemma told her. “Life goes on, and most people feel guilty because they can’t suddenly stop being concerned with it. But it’s perfectly normal.”
“Thanks.” Louise reached up and squeezed Gemma’s hand. “You’ve been a great help. Without your calming influence, I think we’d all have gone round the bend. We might yet,” she added, attempting a smile. “You are bringing your friend back for dinner, aren’t you?”
“Duncan?” Gemma had told John and Louise that morning that Kincaid was coming up from London, to
“lend a bit of moral support,” but she hadn’t reminded them of his rank. “Yes, I suppose so. I hadn’t really thought about it. Are you sure it’s not too much trouble?”
“John has something special planned. That’s his way of coping with things, poor love, and I’m afraid we’ve not been very cooperative. Heather’s going home tonight, and Pascal intends to stay at Benvulin. He feels someone should be there until the lawyers get things sorted out, and Heather just didn’t feel up to it.”
“That’s kind of him. But then I take it his interest is more than personal?”
“Well, we have wondered,” said Louise. “I mean, Heather and Pascal have become quite friendly recently.
But I can’t imagine she’d have got involved with anything that would have harmed Benvulin. She and Donald were so close . . .”
“Was there ever a romantic attachment between them?”
“Not that I know of. But, of course, Heather had worked for Donald a long time before John and I came here.”
Dropping down beside Louise, Gemma idly smoothed the turf with her fingers. “But then, you knew Donald before, when he and Hazel were together. Tell me, did Hazel and Heather have any contact in those days?”
