A Death in the Highlands (11 page)

I choked slightly. ‘I hardly know him.’

‘It is quite in character for one such as him to be adept at wheedling his way into the affections of the weaker sex.’

I set my glass down on a small table. ‘Such a one?
Weaker sex
? When have I ever seemed weak to you?’

This brought a smile to his lips. ‘I am well aware you are an extraordinary servant, Euphemia. I believe, once we have passed through this period of unpleasantness, you will find the situation of housekeeper far more suited to your talents than the lowly station of maid.’

‘But he’s innocent!’

‘How can you possibly know?’

‘There’s no evidence.’

Mr Bertram began to tick the points off on his fingers. ‘For no good reason, he left his position as loader to Mr Smith …’

‘That was my fault.’

‘I am sure that is what he wanted you to think. He even tried to call you to his defence. Is there anything you could have said that proved his innocence?’ Mr Bertram regarded me with what I felt sure he thought was a kindly smile. I thought he looked infernally smug and my fingers itched to slap him.

‘No,’ I admitted, ‘but you have said nothing to prove his guilt.’

Mr Bertram abandoned his point checking and sat back in his chair. He gave a deep sigh. ‘It’s more complicated than you imagine, Euphemia. I’ve known Smithy since I was his fag at school.’ He must have seen my bemusement. ‘It’s an old-fashioned system, where a new boy must run and fetch for an older.’

My mind boggled at the thought of Mr Bertram fetching and carrying. ‘Be his servant?’

‘If you like, though it’s not put in those terms. Anyway, it’s not a nice thing to do. It’s a rite of passage experience. The kind of thing that’s meant to teach you your place.’

‘Did Lord Richard do it too?’ I asked fascinated.

‘I presume so,’ said Mr Bertram shortly. ‘It’s not to the point.’

I forgot myself so far as to snort.

‘But Smithy,’ continued Mr Bertram, ‘was different. An absolute English gentleman. He couldn’t have been kinder to me if we had been brothers.’ He stopped. ‘Actually he was a damn sight kinder. But the point is, he was a very decent fellow, perhaps the more so because he wasn’t through-and-through English. His mother came from good stock, but his father was Korean. Something big in Korea back then, but he’d always carry the mark of not being quite British. It seemed to make him determined to be better at being British than the rest of us – and he was.’

‘I’m sorry you lost your friend,’ I said.

‘So am I.’

We were both silent for a moment.

‘Smith?’

Mr Bertram smiled. ‘That was his father changing his name to fit in. Just like the ridiculous names they gave him.’

‘His mother didn’t have a say in it?’

‘Apparently she adored his father. She must have, to marry him in the first place.’

‘Poor woman. Are there other children?’

‘A younger brother and sister.’

‘It’s all very sad, but even more unlikely a Scottish grocer’s son would have a death wish against a half-Korean British gentleman. Surely their paths would never have crossed until today?’

‘Probably not,’ said Mr Bertram. ‘But he’s a communist, Euphemia, and the Japan-Korea Treaty of 1907 has never looked more shaky. It’s a communist plot.’

‘Communist assassins!’ I said. ‘You really believe that, after what happened with your own father? It’s a line, Bertram, a line. It’s what they say when they want people to look the other way. Only this time there’s a scapegoat – Rory.’

‘No, Euphemia, you’re wrong. I know last time it was just something that was said to close down the case, but the communist threat is real. The world is preparing for a war, the like of which no one has ever imagined. You don’t understand the politics of the situation.’

‘I might not understand politics, but I know Rory McLeod is no assassin,’ I said.

‘You’re letting your heart rule your reason.’

‘I am not!’

At this point we had both risen to our feet, pulsating with anger. Our bodies were in close enough proximity that I could feel the heat radiating from Mr Bertram. Our faces were inches from each other. Our eyes locked. My heart, generally a most reliable organ, turned over in my breast. Mr Bertram leaned slightly towards me. His voice was barely more than a whisper as he said, ‘Euphemia …’

‘Bertram …’

The door behind us opened and we sprang guiltily apart. ‘What ho!’ said Baggy Tipton with a leer.

I took the only course open to me and fled from the room. As my readers will understand, my thoughts were in turmoil for the rest of the day and barely worth recording. Suffice it to say, my fallible mind played over and over the final scene with Mr Bertram although it dared go no further than the actualities that occurred. My reaction to the situation was unnerving. I was more than aware that I had called Mr Bertram by his Christian name now on several occasions. Of course, had I been present in his house as myself, Euphemia Martins, not only a vicar’s daughter but also the granddaughter of an earl – if my grandfather ever took it upon himself to acknowledge me or my brother – he might have considered himself fortunate to be on such terms with me. If my grandfather ever accepted my mother back into the family then I would be openly his social superior. As matters stood within my family our social standing was, to put it mildly, confused. While I worked under a false identity as a maid – or housekeeper – I had no excuse whatsoever to address a gentleman of the house by his first name. I could only suppose that I had done so because, of all of them, Bertram had recognised something in me. He did not treat me as an equal and yet he did not treat me as a servant. At least I, knowing what I really was, understood the confusion this had engendered between us. Bertram, on the other hand, had no such advantage and I could only come to one conclusion over his extraordinary behaviour. He was jealous of Rory.

I will not flatter myself that he was in love with me, but I was enough out of the norm, yet as Little Joe says: ‘pretty, even for a sister’, and we were in the vast isolation of Scotland, and there lay between us the history of our previous adventures investigating murders – it was no wonder that passions were being stirred.

How in all this mess could I help Rory? I was convinced he was not a killer and the one man I would have turned to as an ally was blinded by unreasonable prejudice. That Euphemia Martins would have feelings for a grocer’s son was unthinkable – and yet my innate honesty, instilled in me by my lovely and wise father, forced me to consider that my extremely aristocratic mother married far beneath her station. Could this be a family trait?

But when I thought of my parting with Bertram,
Mr Bertram
, as I must call him even to myself, my chest hurt.

I went about my duties in a daze and, because I was not worrying over their correct performance, did them so excellently that I even earned praise from Lord Richard. I avoided seeing Mr Bertram.

I retired to bed once more in a state of extreme exhaustion and with my mind raging with energy. It took me some considerable time to achieve a state of slumber and I could not long have entered it when I was awoken by a loud crash.

I awoke instantly, all my nerves tingling. A few moments later there was a blinding flash of light and then, shortly after, another crash. Rain was pelting the windows with an almost preternatural ferocity and it was clear a thunderstorm of epic proportions was centred near the lodge.

I am not generally afraid of nature, but this was a most fearful storm. To my bemusement Merry slept on, so I pulled the covers up to my chin and determined to wait the storm out. It was likely only a quarter of an hour, although it felt like very much more, when the time between lightning and thunder began to lengthen. I was inwardly sighing with relief and attempting to compose my mind to enter sleep when I became aware of a lesser noise somewhere deep within the house.

It was not the insistent banging of an open door like the other night, but rather the sounds that might be made by someone creeping through the house. Two thoughts leapt to the forefront of my mind. It was either Susan returning to pilfer the pantry once more or it was Rory attempting to escape. It seemed the height of foolishness to consider a burglar would put himself to the inconvenience of travelling out to a remote lodge such as this one, particularly on a night so fearful.

It was clear then that I was the one to deal with whatever lay below. I slipped out of bed and wrapped my housecoat tightly around me. I put my housekeeping keys in my pocket in case I needed to relock any of the doors and set forth. I was not sure what I would do if I came upon Rory in mid-escape, but it would not be the first time I had aided a criminal in flight. However, last time I was in no doubt it was the morally correct action to take. This time, I did not know.

I crept quickly down the stairs, sheltering my candle flame, and ignoring the flickering shadows as best I could. If it were Susan, it was essential I found her before either of the Stapleford brothers. Though what I would do with her, again I did not know. I had already warned her once.

It did not escape my sense of irony that, whatever I found below, I would have to make a morally difficult choice and that I was currently more concerned over thievery than murder.

What I did not consider, until I reached the kitchens, was that it might be someone other than Rory and any accomplice abroad. It might be the real murderer!

I came around the passage towards the pantries with my shadow towering before me. It was then I heard a scraping noise. Someone was indeed trying to break into the food supplies. I let out a cry of ‘Hi!’ and ran forward. The candle flame flickered and died, but not before I saw quite clearly the main pantry remained shuttered and locked.

There was the sound of feet running away from me. I put my hands against the walls and moved forward as quickly as I dared in the dark. I realised now someone had been trying to break into the pantry that served as Rory’s cell. I rounded the corner and a flash of light illuminated the pantry door. There were scratches all around the lock. Trembling, I took the keys from my pocket and unlocked the door and opened it.

Another flash of light illuminated Rory, a small stool above his head about to rush forth and strike. I cried out and raised my hands above my head. A moment later I felt his warm arms around me.

‘Euphemia, thank God,’ breathed his voice in my ear. ‘Someone was trying to break in here. I think they wanted to kill me.’

I broke free from his embrace and shut the door behind us and locked it. The lightning flashed once more and I saw a slow smile creep across his face.

‘They might still be outside,’ I said.

‘You believe I’m innocent?’

‘Of course.’

‘Ah, Euphemia, but you’re a grand lass,’ said Rory catching me up in his embrace once more. To his credit, he did not try to kiss me and I determined he was simply overly relieved that someone believed in him. I broke free once more, but this time more gently. I noted for reference, purely to prevent any possible future escape, that his arms were pleasingly muscular for a man I had seen lift nothing heavier than a tray.

‘We need to talk,’ I said. ‘There has been a serious allegation laid against you that you are a member of the communist party.’

‘I think the one of murder is a mite more serious,’ said Rory.

‘They’re saying you killed because you’re a communist. Are you?’

‘No – that is … I suppose I am still technically a member of the party …’

‘Oh, Rory!’

‘But I only joined because Jenny Roberts was a member and I fancied myself in love with her. ‘

‘Are you still in love with her?’ I demanded, involuntarily stamping my foot.

‘No, of course not,’ said Rory. ‘What’s more to the point, I’ve no interest in politics whatsoever.’

‘When did you last go to a meeting?’

‘Years ago,’ said Rory. ‘It was back in my days as a callow youth.’

‘As opposed to your present declining years,’ I said smiling.

‘I’m afraid, Euphemia, that my decline might be extremely rapid, if not short, on the end of a rope.’

‘I will not allow that to happen,’ I said.

‘I’d be happy to think you can help,’ said Rory, ‘but I’m not sure there is much you can do.’

‘Did you explain to Mr Edward about your association with the communists and the reason for it?’

‘Who is Mr Edward?’

‘The investigator. He hasn’t even been to see you? That is very strange.’

‘I reckon he thinks it’s a done deal.’

‘Then I will enlighten him,’ I said.

‘I’d appreciate any help, but don’t put yourself in danger, Euphemia. Remember there is a real murderer out there.’

‘You might even say you are in the safest spot.’ I laughed.

‘You’re welcome to share it with me.’

‘I think not,’ I said gently. ‘It would be very difficult once things returned to normal in the household. Besides, I was brought up quite strictly.’

‘All the girls worth knowing are,’ said Rory, I thought a trifle sadly.

‘We are overly emotional and it is no wonder,’ I said as much to myself as to Rory. ‘I will speak to people in the morning and make them understand they have made a mistake.’

The lightning had not flashed for some time, but it did now and I saw the slow, sad smile spread over Rory’s handsome face. ‘You’re a grand lass, Euphemia, but don’t put your head in a noose for me. If you start pointing out the error of their ways they might decide we were in it together.’

I drew myself up to my full height in a good impersonation of my mother, ‘Just let them try,’ I said in dire accents.

Rory laughed and before I could stop him darted forward and planted a swift kiss on my cheek. ‘That’s for luck,’ he said.

I did not trust myself to speak, so I let myself out without a word and locked him in once more. I decided against lighting the candle from the stove and instead made my way quickly up the main staircase. Dawn was near and there was sufficient light if I was careful.

More than once, my hand stole to my cheek. It was as if his lips had imprinted themselves upon my flesh. There was undoubtedly a connection between us.