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

his frequent trips to Edinburgh and Glasgow in search of profitable connections, our situation has steadily worsened. Although our own barley harvest this autumn was more than sufficient to keep up pro-

duction, our stock sits in the warehouses, unsold.

The loss of Pattison’s distribution has been a devastating blow, and I fear that before the winter is out we will be without the funds to pay even the distillery workers.

I cannot help but wonder at the sudden blossom-ing of friendship between Rab and Olivia Urquhart. Not that I would suspect my brother of an ulterior motive, but I know how much he both admires and envies the manner in which Carnmore has weathered this financial storm.

It is, perhaps, a blessing that Margaret felt herself unable to attend the Hallowe’en festivities given by one of the Laird of Grant’s tenants yesterday evening. Livvy and her son had come down from Carnmore for the night, taking advantage of the fair weather for one last sortie out of the Braes before inclement weather closes them in.

Adults and children alike participated in the reels and apple dooking and crowdie supping with much hilarity. Amongst all the activities, there was much sharing of glances and touching of hands for those inclined to flirtation.

Margaret, for all her indolence, is sharp-eyed, and she could not have failed to notice the attrac- tion between Livvy Urquhart and my brother. Petty vengeance is certainly within Margaret’s capacity, and she does possess the social connections required to set such retribution in motion.

Of Rab’s reputation I have no fear—men of our station have always regarded widows as fair game.

Livvy Urquhart, however, seems an innocent, unaware of the precipice looming beneath her feet.

She has not the social position or the elan to carry

off such an intrigue and would, I fear, reduce herself to the pathetic. And what of her son? What will it do to his prospects if his mother compromises herself?

Or are these only idle fancies brought on by the lateness of the hour, and given rein by the self- indulgence of expressing myself within these pages.

Why should I, after all, begrudge my brother a bit of happiness, inside or out of the social conven-tions? Is it merely the sour envy of a spinster turned nearly forty years of age, with all hope of such companionship behind her?

Alas, it might be better so, but my heart tells me there is substance to my fears, and that we shall all rue the consequences of Charles Urquhart’s un-timely death.

“Mummy!”

Alison woke instantly, a mother’s response to a child in distress. It was still dark as pitch in the bedroom, but she could feel Chrissy shaking her shoulder. “Baby, what’s wrong? Are you sick?” She reached up and switched on the lamp, blinking against the sudden brightness.

Chrissy knelt beside her on the bed, fully dressed, even to her trainers. “No, it’s not me,” said Chrissy. “It’s Callum. Mummy, you have to get up.”

“Oh, Chrissy, no. Don’t ye start that again.” They’d had a huge row earlier in the evening. Chrissy had answered the phone, then come to her with some tall tale about Callum saying he was ill. Assuming this was some strategy on Callum’s part to get back in her good graces, Alison had refused to give any credence to it, and she’d been furious that he’d use such tactics on a child.

When Chrissy had added that Callum had said there

was something wrong with his whisky, and then the phone had gone dead, Alison had considered her theory proved.

She’d ignored Chrissy’s pleas and sent her to bed.

“I tried to ring him back,” Chrissy said now. “He didn’t answer.”

“Well, of course he didn’t answer.” Alison looked at the clock and groaned. “It’s past one in the morning.”

“No, I’ve been trying ever since you went to bed. I couldn’t sleep.”

“Why, you wee sneak—”

“Mummy, please!” Chrissy insisted, her face pinched with misery. “I know something’s wrong. Callum didn’t sound like himself at all, and I could hear Murphy whining in the background. Please. We have to go.”

“If you think I’m going to drive out to that bloody stable in the middle of the night . . . ,” began Alison, but she didn’t finish her well-worn tirade. Doubt had begun to set in. She had never seen her daughter so adamant, and Chrissy was not one for dramatics. What if—what if there was a remote possibility that Chrissy was right?

She could ring the police, she supposed—that would be the logical thing—but what would she say to them?

That her nine-year-old daughter had told her that Callum MacGillivray had poisoned himself on bad whisky? They would think she’d gone off her head, and the same applied to ringing Callum’s aunt Janet.

“Mummy—”

“Oh, all right.” Alison peeled back the duvet and scooted Chrissy aside. She was desperate for a fag now, which meant going outside. At least a run in the car would give her a chance to smoke. “But just remember, you owe me big-time for this.”

Chrissy gulped back a sob of relief and smiled.

“Right, go get your coat, then, while I get some clothes

on.” God, she was daft, thought Alison as she hurriedly pulled on jeans and boots, as daft as Callum MacGillivray. She had not much petrol in her car, which was unreliable at the best of times; she had no mobile phone, because she couldn’t afford one; and she had to open the shop in the morning, which meant being at work a half hour early.

She was worse than daft, she was mental.

Chrissy met her at the door, bundled into her pink anorak and carrying the small torch they kept in case of power failures. “Good girl,” Alison told her, giving her a squeeze as they started down the stairs.

For a moment, she thought her old car would let her down, but the engine caught on the second try. The night had turned cold, but not so cold that Chrissy’s teeth should be chattering. As they drove north out of Aviemore on the deserted road, Alison cranked up the heater, saying, “It’ll be okay, baby. You’ll see.”

Chrissy said quietly, “Mummy, when you told that policeman that Callum killed Donald, you didn’t mean it, did you?”

“No,” Alison admitted after a moment’s thought. “I don’t suppose I’d be here if I did, not even to please you.”

“Then why did you tell them he did?”

Alison shrugged. “Because I was angry with him. And because I was angry that Donald was dead.” But . . . if she didn’t believe Callum had killed Donald, who had?

And what if that person had meant to hurt Callum, too?

He’d told Chrissy there was something wrong with his whisky—what if it had been poisoned?

Alison’s pulse began to beat in her throat, and she pushed harder on the accelerator, praying that she was wrong, that it was a hoax, after all.

The road seemed to swoop and curve endlessly

through the darkness, but at last Alison saw the stable’s sign. She turned into the drive and stopped, halfway between the farmhouse and Callum’s cottage. Both were in darkness.

“Okay, right,” Alison muttered as they got out of the car. The bowl of the sky seemed enormous above them, and the silence of the night pressed down like a weight.

Then a dog barked, a crack of sound in the darkness, and she and Chrissy both jumped.

“It’s Murphy.” Chrissy started towards the cottage, holding the torch out in front of her like a sword.

“Here. You let me go first,” hissed Alison, catching her up and taking the torch. They could hear the dog clearly now, whining and scrabbling at the cottage door, but no light appeared in the window. If Callum were all