saw Ross’s hesitation as he took this in, and pressed her point.
“And he knew Hazel was planning to see Donald Brodie over the weekend.”
“Och, all right,” Ross said with obvious reluctance.
“Munro, call in and have them ask London to run a check on the man. Now, Inspector, if you don’t mind —”
“There’s more. Tim’s not answering the phone or the door, even to his family.”
“I can’t say I blame the man for not wanting to talk to his wife.” There was a note of bitterness in Ross’s voice.
“It’s not just that. He won’t talk to his parents, and they’re keeping Holly, Tim and Hazel’s little girl. I haven’t said anything to Hazel; I didn’t want to worry her unnecessarily.”
“You just wanted to worry me,” Ross said, sounding aggrieved.
Gemma stared at him. Had she actually seen the corners of his mouth turn up? He looked tired, she realized as she studied him. Even his graying hair seemed to have lost some of its bristle.
“I’ll request a welfare check,” he told her. “And now, if you don’t mind, lassie, I’d like to see John and Martin Innes.”
Carnmore, August
Livvy had just rolled out a fresh batch of oatcakes for the girdle when the knock came at the kitchen door. As in most country houses, the front door at Carnmore was seldom used. Wiping her hands, still slightly greasy from the bacon fat she’d kneaded into the oatmeal, she called out, “Come in!” Will had gone down to the burn with his fishing rod, taking a well-deserved hour off from the distillery, and Livvy assumed it was one of the hands with a question.
“Livvy?”
For a moment, she saw only a shape in the doorway, framed by the bright light of the August afternoon, but she would have recognized the voice anywhere. “Rab!
What on earth are you doing here?”
“Have I caught you at a bad time?” He stepped forward, his features gaining definition, and she saw that he was dressed for riding. She hadn’t seen him since the night of the Grantown dance, and since then she had pictured him in evening clothes.
“Oh, no, come in, please. Forgive my manners. It’s just that I was surprised to see you.” She was suddenly aware of her disheveled hair and her workaday shirtwaist. Her hands were red and raw from scrubbing preserve jars, and she suspected she had smudges of flour on her nose.
“I had business in Tomintoul,” Rab said, taking off his hat. “It seemed a shame not to pay a call when I was so near.”
“So near! Rab Brodie, it must be all of ten miles from Tomintoul to the Braes,” she protested, warm with pleasure.
“And a very pleasant day for a ride.” He smiled at her, his eyes sparkling above the flush of sunburn on his
cheeks. His boots and trousers, she saw, were dusty from the road, and he had loosened his collar.
“You must be thirsty. Sit down and I’ll make some tea.
You’ve caught me in the middle of baking—I hope you don’t mind yesterday’s oatcakes.”
“How are you keeping, Livvy?” he asked as he sat at the scrubbed oak table. “You look well.”
“I’ve been berry picking this week with some of the women from the village,” she said, laughing. “I’m as sunburned as a fishwife, but, oh, it was lovely, and I’ve berries to spare. I’ve made a blaeberry preserve, and we’ve fresh cream. We can have a bit with our tea, if you like . . .” She realized she was babbling and concentrated on setting out the best rose-patterned teapot, with the matching cups and saucers. The china had been her wedding gift from her father.
“That’s a bit grand for the kitchen, isn’t it?” asked Rab, nodding at the cup she’d set before him.
Livvy felt a rush of mortification. “Oh, how stupid of me. Of course we’ll go into the sitting room. We have visitors so seldom—”
“Nonsense.” Rab settled back in his chair. “I won’t have you stand on ceremony for me, Livvy. This is a comfort I don’t often enjoy at home, and I’d much rather be treated as a friend than as a guest.”
Livvy doubted he ever set foot in the kitchen at Benvulin—nor did his wife, except to give instructions to the cook—but she acquiesced. She spooned still-warm fruit preserve into a dish and topped it with a ladle of cream from the jug. When she had set the dish before Rab, she sank into the chair opposite and watched him with anticipation.
“Don’t tell me you’re not joining me?”
“I’ve been tasting all day,” she told him, although the
truth was, she didn’t want to waste a moment of this visit in eating when she could be listening, and talking, and storing up the conversation to remember later. “I’m afraid I’ll turn blue if I have one more berry.” Realizing she’d forgotten the oatcakes, she jumped up again and fetched a plate of the crispy, triangular cakes, then poured the tea.
“Livvy, sit,” he commanded her, laughing. “You remind me of a whirling dervish.”
She complied, folding her hands primly in her lap. “All right, then, I’ll be a proper hostess. How are things at Benvulin, Mr. Brodie? And Margaret, is she well?”
“Margaret’s taken the children to London for a month.
Her uncle has a house there, and she thought the children needed civilizing.”
“And your sister?”
“Helen’s managing admirably, as usual. She keeps me in line.” He spooned berries and cream into his mouth, closing his eyes for a moment as he savored the combination. “Nectar of the gods,” he pronounced, with a grin.
“Och, get away with ye, Rab Brodie,” said Livvy, more flattered than she would admit.
Sobering, he said, “Seriously, Livvy, how are you getting on? Are you and Will managing on your own?”
“Will’s been remarkable. Charles would have been so proud. But . . .” For the first time since Charles’s death, she gave in to the temptation to speak freely. “But I know this isn’t what Will wanted. It’s a good life, but Will’s had his choice made for him, and so early . . . We could hire a manager for the distillery, so that he could go to school in Edinburgh, but he won’t hear of it.”
“He could do worse. There are not many men who have everything they want, Livvy.” Rab gazed at her directly until she looked away, uncomfortable.
“If Charles hadn’t had the foresight to steer clear of Pattison’s,” Rab continued, making blue- purple swirls in the cream with his spoon, “you might have lost everything.”
Livvy saw lines of strain in his face that she hadn’t noticed before. Leaning forward, she touched his hand.
“I’ve heard rumors . . . about Benvulin . . . Is it really that bad?”
He shrugged, his expression suddenly bleak. “We’ll manage, somehow. Margaret’s trying to raise some money from her uncle—not that she cares about the distillery, but she’ll not let her social status go so easily.
