Chapter Fifteen
—robert louis stevenson,
letter to Sidney Colvin
John Innes came out to greet them, and when he had been introduced to Kincaid, led them into the kitchen through the scullery. The police, he explained, had finished with their tests earlier that afternoon.
Gemma noticed Kincaid’s interested glance at the gun cabinet as they passed through, but he made no comment.
Turning back, she saw that the hook above the back door, where Louise had been in the habit of leaving her keys, was now empty. A bit late for instituting safety precautions, she thought, a classic case of locking the barn door after the horse had escaped.
“Come in,” John urged them as they filed into the kitchen. “I’ll put the kettle on.” He bustled about, filling the kettle, pulling two stools out from a little nook under the work island. There were two chairs at the small table under the window where Gemma assumed John and Louise took their own meals.
“Nice kitchen,” Kincaid said with a whistle. To Gemma’s amusement, since he’d refinished the kitchen in his Hampstead flat, he had become a connoisseur of cabinets and cookers.
“Functional,” John agreed. “Although I have to admit I miss the old oil-fired cooker. We lived with it for about a year while we were doing the refurbishing. Cozy, but not practical for the cookery class—besides the fact that cooking on the bloody thing is a challenge in itself.”
Gemma was about to agree, for the much-prized Aga in their Notting Hill kitchen drove her to distraction, when she thought of all the help and encouragement Hazel had given her as she tried to master the cooker. Following her miscarriage, it had provided an excuse for the comforting time spent visiting in the kitchen with her friend. Swallowing, she searched for a change of subject.
“Where’s Louise?” she asked, looking round.
“Gone for a walk,” John told her. “She should be back soon. What about Hazel and Heather? Will they be joining us?” His eyes flicked towards the barn, so Gemma guessed he’d been watching from the window.
“I don’t know,” she said honestly, and saw Kincaid and Pascal Benoit look at her sharply. “They’ve—they’ve some catching up to do.” It wasn’t her business to break the news to anyone about Hazel’s inheritance; Hazel and Heather could share that information when they were ready.
Kincaid slid onto a stool with the graceful economy of movement Gemma always found surprising in a man his height. “Something smells wonderful,” he said, sniffing, and Gemma focused on the cooking aromas that had been tickling the edge of her awareness . . . onions, floury potatoes, smoky fish.
“It’s Cullen Skink.” John chuckled at her startled ex-
pression. “That’s not as bad as it sounds, believe me. It’s a Scottish fish soup or stew, made with smoked haddock, potatoes, and milk. Martin and I drove to the east coast this morning to get a real Finnan haddock. There are several small smokehouses that still prepare the fish in the traditional way; that’s a slow, cold smoking with no artifi-cial colorings or flavorings added. We bought fresh mus-sels as well; they’ll go into the pot at the last minute, along with butter, fresh parsley, and pepper.” The electric kettle had come to a boil, and as he spoke, John spooned loose tea into a large crockery teapot.
“You’ve gone to a great deal of trouble for us,” Kincaid said. “All this must be hard for you.”
John had his back to them, reaching for the mugs hanging on a rack. He hesitated for a moment, hand in the air. Then he seemed to collect himself and, lifting down a mug, said without turning, “Yes. Donald was a good friend. I still can’t believe he’s gone.” He busied himself with the tea things. “Have ye any idea when they’ll release his . . . body . . . for the funeral? Christ—I never even thought—did Donald go to church?”
“Heather will know,” said Pascal, lowering himself a little stiffly into the chair next to Gemma. “It is Heather who will have to make the arrangements for the funeral, yes?” He shook his head. “It is too much, I think, but there is no one else.”
How terribly ironic, Gemma thought, that Donald had not seen fit to remember Heather in his will, when it was she who must act on his behalf. Why had Donald left her nothing? Was it mere carelessness on his part, as he had been careless of Alison Grant’s feelings? Or had he felt betrayed by Heather’s relationship with Pascal? Had Heather’s pressuring him to sell the distillery to Pascal’s company angered Donald?
Perhaps even more to the point, thought Gemma as she accepted a steaming mug from John, was not why Donald had left Heather out, but rather why he had chosen to make such a grand gesture towards Hazel. It was one thing to seduce a former lover—it was quite another to leave her the controlling interest in your family’s business. And why had he done it so long ago? If he had meant to make up for his father’s treatment of Hazel, he had gone a bit over the mark.
“. . . soon, I should think,” she realized Kincaid was saying, “if they’ve finished with the postmortem and the forensics testing.”
Beside her, she heard the sharp intake of Pascal’s breath as he shifted in his chair.
“Are you all right?” she asked softly, seeing him wince.
“Yes. It’s just my back. It’s playing up a bit.” The Englishness of the last phrase sounded odd in Pascal’s accent.
She was about to compliment him on his fluency when the back door banged open and Louise came in through the scullery, her arms filled with green boughs.
“Oh, I didn’t realize . . .” Louise came to a halt, and Gemma had the impression she wasn’t terribly pleased to find an unscheduled gathering in her kitchen.
“Let me get you a cup of tea, darling,” John put in quickly. “This is Gemma’s friend, Duncan, come up from London.”
“Oh, of course,” said Louise as Kincaid stood and gave her his friendliest grin. She glanced down at her burden as if wondering how to free a hand.
“Let me help you,” offered Gemma, jumping up.
“We’ll just dump these in the sink.” Louise smiled her thanks as Gemma took some of the greenery.
“Mmmm . . . What are these?” asked Gemma as the scent reached her nose. “They smell lovely.”
“Rowan, juniper, and elder.” Louise dropped her portion into the deep farmhouse sink. “According to my gardening books, the ancient Celts brought these branches into the house in May, to celebrate Beltane, the Celtic rite of spring. They’re considered protective trees.”
“As in warding off evil spirits?”
“Well, yes.” Louise blushed a little. “I know it sounds silly, but they do smell nice, and I thought I could arrange them in vases, instead of flowers.”
“I think it’s a brilliant idea.” As Gemma watched her sort the boughs, she noticed that Louise’s hands were dirty and bleeding from several small scratches, and she had broken a nail. As careful as Louise was in her appearance, it surprised Gemma that she would go out without gloves.
“Did you know that the hazel tree was special as well?” asked Louise. “It was the Druids’ Golden Bough.
They believed it was the root and symbol of wisdom.”
“A hard name to live up to, then,” suggested Gemma.
Louise glanced up at her in surprise. “Yes. I suppose so. But Hazel does have a way of making you think she’s invincible, doesn’t she? Where is she, by the way?”
Louise added, glancing round the room.
“In the barn, talking to Heather.”
Louise raised an eyebrow at this but merely said quietly, “Has she heard from her husband?”
Gemma was saved from answering by John Innes setting a cup of tea at his wife’s elbow. As Louise turned to him, asking if he had made all the arrangements for dinner, Gemma heard the faint sound of a piano.
“Is that coming from the sitting room?” she asked John.
