John was at a hotel selling the fish on Sunday morning, where were you?”
He was silent for so long that she began to wonder if he had drifted off, but then he said quietly, “I was out along the river with the dog, the same as most mornings.”
Gemma leaned towards him, touching his hand. She hardly dared to breathe. “You saw something, didn’t you?
Someone? But not John.”
“Not John.” Callum met her gaze, and she saw the sudden brightness of tears. “I didna think anything of it, at first. She sometimes goes out potting for rabbits; they’re a bloody nuisance in the garden. And then, when I heard about Donald, I didna want to believe it—I couldna think she would do such a thing. We were friends.”
“She? But, Callum, why would Alison—”
“Och, no, it wasna Alison.” He shook his head. “It was Louise.”
From the Diary of Helen Brodie, November
Dr. Grant of Grantown, Olivia Urquhart’s father, came to call just after luncheon today. Rab was away, gone to Tomintoul for a day’s shooting, so I entertained the doctor myself.
The man made no pretence of civility, refusing my offer of refreshment, but told me a preposterous tale, accusing my brother of extorting money from his daughter. Her inheritance from her mother, he said, withdrawn from the bank, and paid to my brother by draft.
Of course, I told Dr. Grant I would not listen to such nonsense, and I sent him away with a promise that Rab would call upon him as soon as he returned. Afterwards, I paced in the drawing room for an hour, recounting all the things I might have said to defend my brother’s honor. But then, my suspicions overcame my sense of injury, and I went to the distillery office and began to look over the books.
Where did Rab get the money to pay the men’s wages and the outstanding accounts? The records show only a paltry income these last months, much less than is needed to pay the distillery’s expenses.
The financial situation is much worse than I had feared—I should never have trusted Rab to tell me the truth.
I dare not think that my brother would have accepted money from Olivia Urquhart, and yet I can see no other explanation for our sudden solvency. To what lengths would he go to stave off disaster?
And, I must ask myself, now that I have seen the ruin almost upon us, would I not have been tempted to do the same myself?
Benvulin, November
The snow began yesterday at teatime. It came across the river in a white, billowing curtain, and in no time we could see no farther than a few feet from the door. I can only assume that Rab has stayed overnight with his acquaintances in Tomintoul. If the men were caught out on the moors, they will have had a difficult time of it.
Benvulin, November
It snowed without stopping for twenty-four hours.
If we had such weather here, in the valley of the Spey, I shudder to think of the conditions in the hills.
I have entertained the children as best I could, but they are old enough to miss their father’s presence, and to worry.
Yesterday, the thaw had progressed enough that I thought it safe to send one of the grooms out on horseback, but he returned some hours later, sodden and exhausted. Drifts still block the road to Tomintoul. I can only assume that Rab is enjoying the extended hospitality of friends.
Benvulin, November
A spell of clear, bright weather has rendered the roads passable, although the moors are still buried in snow. Still no word has come from Rab. The groom I sent to Tomintoul found no evidence of his arrival. Surely, Rab had reached Tomintoul before the storm broke, unless an accident befell him on the way. I begin to fear the worst.
Benvulin, December
Having been told that a shopkeeper reported seeing Rab pass through Tomintoul, I began to wonder if he had ridden to Carnmore to see Livvy Urquhart. Yesterday, I myself drove to Carnmore in the gig, which I was forced to abandon in Chapeltown. The track leading to the distillery was mired in mud and slush, barely passable on foot. I do think the Braes of Glenlivet are the most godforsaken place I have ever encountered.
Livvy Urquhart professed not to have seen Rab, although she appeared much distressed by the news of his disappearance. When I confronted her with her father’s tale of the monies given to my brother, she told me her father had been mistaken, that she had withdrawn her inheritance in order to make much-needed improvements to Carnmore. Her son, Will, who was present throughout the conversation, said nothing at all.
In the end, I had no choice but to take my leave and return to Benvulin. As I traveled, I could only imagine that my brother, set out upon an ill-advised visit to the Braes, had wandered from the road in the storm, and that the spring thaws will reveal his poor remains, now buried beneath the snow.
Until that time, is it cruel, or kind, to keep hope alive in the children?
Kincaid took the train from Gatwick Airport to Victoria Station. He stopped at one of the gourmet coffee stalls in the Victoria concourse, then walked the few blocks to the Yard. The blue skies he had left behind the previous morning had disappeared, leaving the city air feeling dull and sulfurous.
They had put Tim Cavendish in one of the better interview rooms. Hazel’s husband looked as if he hadn’t slept, or bathed, since Kincaid had seen him on Sunday evening. The growth of dark stubble on his face made Kincaid think of him as he’d known him when Gemma had first moved into the Cavendishes’ garage flat.
“Hullo, Tim,” he said, removing two coffees from the small carrier bag. Tim had always been particular about his coffee. “I thought you could use a decent cup.”
Nodding, Tim accepted the container. “I wasn’t sure you’d come, after the way I spoke to you the other night.
You’ve always been a good friend to me, Duncan; you didn’t deserve that. I thought that if I just carried on denying everything, it would go away. But it didn’t.”
“Do you want to tell me what happened, now?” Kincaid asked, taking a seat on the opposite side of the table.
“I know you drove to Scotland, to Aviemore.”
“I haven’t much future as a criminal, obviously. It was bloody stupid leaving that receipt in the car. But then, I wasn’t thinking very clearly. I hadn’t been thinking very clearly for a long time.” Tim turned the pasteboard coffee cup in his hands but didn’t lift it.
“Maybe you should start at the beginning,” Kincaid suggested.
“The beginning?” Tim’s abrupt laugh held no humor.
“Can you believe that I was bored with my life? Every day, I saw the same self-absorbed patients, every evening I went home to the same comfortable routine, and I saw my dreams of doing big things, memorable things,
