A Death in the Highlands (8 page)

‘Is it breakfast time already?’ I asked, horrified, as I ran into the kitchen. Jock was busy at the range and Merry was sitting at the table with a platter of sausages in front of her. She jumped to her feet at my words.

‘Och no, hen,’ said the chef without turning. ‘I’m getting a start on the cold-cooked meats for the shooting picnic.’

‘Oh, thank goodness,’ I replied. I sank down onto a chair.

‘Merry here’s doing a wee bit of tasting for me. Maybe you’d like to try a bite yerself?’

Merry flashed me a guilty smile and pushed the plate across. ‘I don’t think so,’ I said coldly. ‘There are still the sticks, bags and various accoutrements that need to be sorted for the shooting party.’

Merry bit her lip. ‘I’ve done ’em. I was up early.’

‘Good breath of Scottish air just the right thing to set peely-wally young things like yous both right,’ said Jock obscurely.

‘Thank you, Merry. That was most helpful.’ Even to my own ears I sounded stuffy. Gingerly I picked up a hot sausage and nibbled at it. ‘Jock, I need to ask you a question.’

‘Aye, right, lass,’ came the muffled reply from between the pots and pans. ‘I really need to start on yon breakfast the noo.’

‘I came down last night to find the back door banging in the wind and the pantry door open. Can you explain that?’

There was a loud crash of pans. Jock slammed a dish into one of the upper ovens. ‘I’m tae busy thinkin’ of naught but the breakfast, hen.’

Merry glanced askance at me. I could feel myself blushing vividly. ‘Jock, I need to know if you know anything of this instance.’

The chef turned round. His face was red and sweaty. He was frowning heavily. I had not previously realised how stocky and imposing a man he was. I held my ground.

‘And if I won’t answer your questions will yer go running to Rory McLeod? Is that it?’

I invoked the spirit of my mother, who in her day did (and I suspect still does) put the fear of God into butchers and bishops alike when her ancestral nature was roused. ‘I see no reason why I should go running to anyone, Jock. I am housekeeper here and entitled to know exactly what has been occurring. Although if you do not wish to oblige me I suppose I must ask you to answer directly to Lord Richard.’ I bit decidedly into the sausage to emphasise my determination. It was rather hot and I burnt my tongue, but by a supreme effort of will I kept my mouth shut. It worked. My mark hit home.

‘Oh, well, there’s no need to go bothering the new master.’

‘Indeed I hope not. Well?’ I raised a single eyebrow. It was a gesture I had seen Mr Bertram use to great effect in our previous adventures. I confess I had practised the action in the mirror, but this was the first occasion I had had to try it out. It worked like a charm.

‘Well, now I’m not saying how it was, but it might have been Susan, like. She’s gey poor after what’s all that’s befallen her. The old master never used to mind if the odd bit or piece went missing from the pantry as long as it was nothing serious.’

‘And the door? Is it normal practice to leave it unlocked?’

Jock suddenly found his boots of great interest. ‘I’ve a suspicion how if it had been Susan she might have been startled by someone coming down.’

‘But someone would have had to have left the door unlocked in the first place. Or indeed have unbolted it after Mr McLeod had made his rounds.’

‘Yer dinna understand what it’s been like for folks round here!’ cried Jock.

I sighed. Who was I to judge one man for taking pity on a hungry woman? ‘But it’s thievery, Jock,’ I said quietly. ‘Not to mention the risk of leaving the door open at night for, as you say, such an unpopular master.’

‘Susan’s no thief!’

‘I think Lord Richard would disagree.’

‘Yer never going to tell him?’ Jock’s face was ashen. Merry looked up at me, appealing. I hesitated, but I had better reason than either of them to know how Lord Richard could be when he was crossed.

‘No, I’m not.’

‘Ah, thank you, hen. It’s only a wee bit now and then.’

‘No, Jock,’ I said forcefully. ‘It has to stop.’

‘But her wains!’

I shook my head at the unfamiliar word. ‘I’m truly sorry for her situation, but I can assure you it will be a great deal worse if Lord Richard suspects what she has been up to. At the very least all of us would lose our situations and, as for Susan, I have no doubt he would press charges.’

‘How can you work for sic a man?’

‘Exactly the same way you can,’ I replied. ‘Now, come with me and we’ll check to see what exactly has been removed.’

‘Do yer want me to make a list?’ said the chef from between tightly compressed lips.

‘No. I want to ensure that no one other than ourselves realises anything is missing.’

I am sorry to say this was only a partial truth. There was once a time when I would never have dreamed I would allow the ghost of a falsehood to cross my lips, but since working for the Staplefords I have had more than one occasion to wrestle with my innate honesty and – using one of my little brother’s colourful metaphors – to wrestle it to the mat and subdue it.

Fortunately, when we inspected the pantry not only were the losses minimal, but it was clear nothing else had been tampered with. Internally I breathed a sigh of relief. The others might see an unhappy, struggling woman in Susan, but I saw the hatred behind her eyes. This is a family prone to murder and, while some might argue that it would only be justice for Lord Richard to be victim of her ire, I firmly believe that vengeance, when it must be taken, is not in the purview of mortal man or woman.

Breakfast passed with alacrity in a flurry of dishes and footmen. The valets and staff attending the shoot ate at much the same time – a highly unusual occurrence that caused Jock much struggling. It was only when all the men were gathering outside that Merry, myself and Jock had the chance to settle down to break our own fast. The local help was not in today. They were either already at the shooting site or had been told to stay away from all the commotion of the Glorious Twelfth.

A dish of Jock’s marvellous sausages, a platter of bacon and a quantity of fried eggs lay on the table. It was quite unlike the breakfast we normally received and I believe Merry, as much as I, was eyeing it greedily when Rory strode into the kitchen. His green tweeds brought out the colour of his striking eyes. He wore no cap and the sun glinted off his blond locks. However, his face was thunderous.

‘A word, Euphemia.’

I started to my feet. ‘I thought you had left!’

‘Aye, any moment. If you please,’ and he gestured towards the housekeeper’s room. Reluctantly, I left my breakfast hoping that either Jock or Merry would think to place it on the range to keep warm.

‘I’m not meant to have come out to see the party off, am I?’

Rory opened my door for me. ‘Aye, well, sometimes the sight of the housekeeper checking over the dealings for the day is welcome, but no, I don’t think it is necessary. It’s not as if we have any ladies going.’

‘Oh good. I wouldn’t want to appear remiss in any attention and show Lord Richard up.’

Rory nodded. ‘It’s about that I need to speak with you. I’ve only a minute, so there’s no time for debate. If you feel you must come up with the luncheon I insist you keep away from the guests as much as possible.’

‘What exactly are you suggesting?’

‘I am not suggesting anything, Euphemia. I am advising you for your own good to stay away from the guests.’

‘If this has anything to do with …’ I began hotly. ‘I can assure you there was a very good explanation.’ I stumbled over my words as I realised I could not give said explanation.

‘I haven’t the faintest idea what you are talking about,’ snapped Rory. He glared at me. ‘If you must know I find myself unaccountably ill at ease around this group of guests. I have a very bad feeling about today. There, mock me all you like.’

I sat down and said in a much more mollified tone. ‘Indeed, I won’t. I too am suffering from severe misgivings. I need to tell you what …’

He cut me off. ‘I don’t have time, Euphemia. I have to go. Don’t let yourself get caught alone with any of these gentlemen.’ The last word was said with unnecessary emphasis.

Seeing that he was genuinely concerned, I merely nodded. I thought everything else could wait. I would wonder over the long months ahead if anything could have been any different if I had spoken then. As it was, I had my chance and did not take it.

In good time for luncheon Merry and I loaded the trap. I decided the best way to fulfil Rory’s suggestion was to take her with me to help serve. Merry was naturally delighted at missing a morning’s dusting and only too eager to accompany me. Her delight was somewhat tempered as we bounced along the increasingly rough track towards the site. She was decidedly green around the gills by the time we arrived in the little glade that was to host the luncheon.

The bootboy, Bobby, who was also with us, set up the picnic tables and unloaded the hampers. Merry and I quickly set to work to unload the crockery and cutlery. It had been heavily packed in straw and we had to preserve this for the homeward journey. The horse appeared to have other ideas and in the end I suggested to the driver that he take the beast a little distance away, so it would cease attempting to eat the packaging. It was only at this point I noticed the bootboy too had sloped off. I assumed he had gone to get a better look at the shooting and only hoped he had the sense not to approach in the line of fire.

I was setting the last crystal flute upon the table when I heard the men approaching. There had been no sound of a shot since our arrival for which I was extremely glad. Laying out expensive settings within the sound of gunfire would have been both nerve-wracking and accident-inducing. As it was, I was able to look Lord Richard proudly in the face as he led his little band up to the most elegant of al fresco tables. In actuality the sight was a mite dazzling. The linen was snow-white. The ice-loaded silver champagne buckets glistened and sweated in the heat. The crystal glasses sent sparks of light dancing across the table. The china plates had been polished till they squeaked and the cutlery was the finest the house had to offer. Coupled with the great quantities of food and drink also supplied by the generous Jock I felt there was really no complaint that could be levelled.

Obviously, the killing of hapless birds increases appetite, for the men went through the victuals prepared for them as quickly as a biblical swarm of locusts. I began to fear we had not brought enough when, almost as suddenly as they had begun, the men finished. The dogs scampered around at their feet searching for titbits. I was impressed by how gentle and well-trained they were until I saw Rory call one to heel and realised they were local animals rather than creatures brought up from the south.

The men lolled as much as it was possible in the unsteady chairs – the ground was less than even – and contented themselves with a final drink and a smoke as Merry, the relocated bootboy, the footmen who had been acting as loaders and I began to clear what we could without disturbing the diners. Lord Richard had insisted on using the best of everything and, while we had more of the sets of cutlery and plates at the lodge, many of the serving dishes would be required this evening.

The party showed no signs of returning to the shoot. I paid little attention to them for I was quickly realising some of the plates were far too greasy to repack as they were. I was aware of the bantering nature of their conversation. I cannot say why, but for some reason their jocularity set me on edge. At one point I looked up and caught Mr Bertram’s eye. He looked decidedly uncomfortable. Lord Richard’s loud blustering tones were interspersed with shouts of laughter. I heard Rory murmur quietly on more than one occasion that time was passing.

‘Oh for God’s sake, man! Quit nagging!’ shouted Lord Richard. ‘We’ve killed plenty of the bloody birds. It’s a day for relaxation.’ He upended a bottle himself. ‘Never tell me we’ve run out of wine!’ He fixed one of our footmen with his beady eye, ‘Willie, is there no more?’

I saw Rory ever so slightly shake his head at Willie, who blanched and remained silent.

‘Speak up, man!’ bellowed Lord Richard.

In the meantime Mr Tipton had risen unnoticed. He tugged at a large hamper on the cart. ‘Damned heavy, this. I think it’s got a little more shampoo in it.’

‘Help him, you fool,’ barked Lord Richard. Willie threw a helpless glance at Rory and ran over to help Tipton.

The glance did not escape Lord Richard. He gestured for the butler to approach more closely and to bend down close so he could whisper. At this point I noticed that a salad fork was missing. It was only inadvertently that, in my search, I moved close enough to overhear.

‘… I am the kind of master you can control,’ Lord Richard was hissing, ‘you will be making a very great mistake, McLeod. You have no idea who you’re dealing with.’

‘I assure you, Lord Richard, nothing could be further from …’

‘Save it. I know your kind. Bowing, scraping, servile, thieving bastards, who rob us blind as soon as our backs are turned. You need to learn your place, McLeod. You might be a big man to the people round here, but you’re no more important to me than …’ and he snapped his fingers suddenly before Rory’s eyes making him blink in surprise and start back. The table erupted in laughter. Rory straightened. ‘I will see to the resetting of the cooling buckets, sir,’ he said levelly. He seemed totally composed, but from my vantage point I could see a faint reddening on the back of his neck.

‘Oh lor’, Dickie,’ said Muller. ‘You might want to dally around in the sunshine all day, but I want to damned well kill something.’

‘I too have had sufficient,’ said Mr Smith gently. ‘It was an excellent repast, Dickie. I fear any more champagne and my eye will be put out.’

‘Can’t say I mind that,’ answered Lord Richard. ‘You’ve been killing far too many of the blasted birds! If I’d realised what a ruddy good shot you were, I’d never have invited you!’

The mood broke and the men laughed. ‘Just one more round of shampoo,’ pleaded Tipton.

‘Oh, let him have his last drink,’ said McGillvary. ‘It’s not like it’s going to make any difference to Baggy’s shooting!’