The Blue Hackle (24 page)

If Colin had been alone at the time of the
murder, Jean asked herself, then where was Diana? Admittedly the
question placed him between the devil and the deep blue sea, but
surely facing Fergie’s wrath was better than implicating Diana in a
murder.

“Do you know where Diana was just then?”
Alasdair asked.

“No.”

“Were you by way of having an appointment at
the old church at three?”

“No.”

Once again Gilnockie produced the plastic bag
with the business card. “What’s this, then, signed with your
initials?”

Colin read the card. “I never wrote that.
It’s not my handwriting.”

At Gilnockie’s gesture, Young turned the pad
of paper to a new page and shoved it across the table. Gilnockie
offered Colin a pen from his own pocket. “Write something,
please.”

Colin’s back was starting to stiffen and his
shoulders coil. If he’d had a pressure gauge, it would be inching
upward. After a long moment, he set pen to paper and wrote out two
lines, then threw the pen down like a live grenade.

Gilnockie and Young almost bumped heads over
the pad. “My love is like a red, red rose that sweetly blooms in
June.” Those weren’t quite the words of Burns’s poem, but close.
They seemed incongruous in Gilnockie’s dusty voice.

Alasdair reached past Jean, picked up the
pad, and held it so she could see it, too. No, the jagged black
letters on the card looked nothing like these, round and yet
cramped, like the mouth of the man in the famous painting of “The
Scream.”

Jean slid the pad across the table to Young,
who repositioned it between her hands.

“Well then,” Gilnockie said, “Lord Dunasheen
is telling us you threatened him.”

Colin’s head, bent to consider a small ink
stain on his forefinger, jerked up. “Why would I be doing
that?”

“Because he’s unhappy with your relationship
with his daughter.”

“Oh aye.” His forefinger curled into his palm
with the others. “He’s thinking I’m a good-for-nothing layabout
with designs on his daughter. Well, Diana’s an adult, and a clever
one at that, capable of making her own decisions. I never
threatened the man.”

Alasdair explained, “You were telling him
that men in your vicinity tended to die.”

“They do.” A wave of tension ran through
Colin’s body. “I remember now, it was when Fergus was turfing me
out of the wee church, in all Christian charity, right? That’s what
I was telling him, aye, by way of truth in advertising, not
threatening, not at all.”

Gilnockie’s smooth forehead puckered, very
gently, perhaps sympathizing with Colin and yet wondering what he
was capable of. At least the younger man wasn’t trying to hide his
animosity. “Did you know the MacLeods at all?”

“The murdered man and his wife? No. I didn’t
even know their names ’til Diana told me.”

“When did she do that?”

“She rang me last night.”

“Do you know the Krums at all?”

“The Americans?” Colin asked. “No.”

“Have you seen a man, a stranger, wearing a
hat with a wide brim?”

“Most folk here are strangers to me,
Inspector.”

Gilnockie conceded that with a nod. “How do
you get on with Mr. and Mrs. Finlay and Mr. Pritchard?”

“Sanjay told you about the pub, Rab and
Lionel and two pensioners taking the piss. I overreacted, I’ll be
owning to that. But they had no call jabbing sticks through the
bars of my cage, eh?” Colin laughed, a sound like saw teeth
snagging on hard wood.

Gilnockie began, “I’m sorry—”

“Oh aye, everyone’s sorry. I’m hearing the
wee fiddles playing sad music. If you’ve finished patronizing me .
. .”

Gilnockie’s voice was calm, his gaze level.
“Mr. Urquhart, I am sorry.”

Jean thought of the old church, ancient
stones settled solidly in the earth, roofed by the eternal sky, all
passion spent. She glanced at Alasdair to see his head tilted
pensively. He, too, sensed the wavelets of tranquility emanating
from Gilnockie as surely as he scented damp ashes on the chill
draft from the fireplace. Serenity was a valuable skill for a cop.
And an unusual one. Jean looked back at Gilnockie, crossing Young’s
nonplused gaze on the way.

Colin took an audible breath and his fingers
splayed out again. Oblivious to his power, Gilnockie gestured
toward the door. “P.C. Thomson.”

“Aye, sir?” Thomson wended his way between
the tables and the technicians.

“Where’s Diana MacDonald? She agreed to an
interview at half past one.”

“She’s in the kitchen, sir. She’s asking if
you’d mind speaking to her there, the cooking wants seeing to.”

Frowning, Young opened her mouth. But
Gilnockie spoke first. “Aye, we’ll come along to the kitchen, no
worries.” Rising gracefully, he started for the door.

Everyone started for the door, even Colin.
Once the procession made it to the hall, though, Thomson
intercepted him and drew his attention to a series of Victorian
prints depicting kilted Highlanders with their clan tartans and
clan botanical badges. Prickly thistle represented Scotland itself,
Jean noticed, and Stewart, family of kings and scoundrels. Cameron
was oak, deep roots, wide-ranging branches, leaves curving in
simple elegance.

The sunlight glowing through the deep-set
windows of the new kitchen was already taking on the sheen of late
afternoon. A row of herbs along one sill seemed to stretch eager
leaves toward the light, and the lemon-yellow tile with its
colorful Spanish/Italian border magnified it. More windows framed
the door into the kitchen yard, next to a row of hooks draped with
raincoats, hats, scarves, and umbrellas.

Like a star in the spotlight, Diana stood at
the central counter. Her subdued sweater and pants outfit was
eclipsed by a high apron of such bleached purity her fair face
seemed almost tanned. A red ribbon tied back her hair. Her hand
snicked a long chef’s knife up and down so briskly it seemed to be
moving by itself, producing small cubes of potato.

Gilnockie gestured Young to a Swedish table
and chairs sitting beside a Swedish sideboard complete with a large
flat-screen television and various DVD and control boxes. A perk
from Fergie, Jean wondered, or a gift from Nancy’s successful
brother?

“Miss MacDonald,” began Gilnockie.

“Inspector Gilnockie,” Diana returned.
“Nancy’s helping Rab and my father do up the Great Hall for the
evening function, and I’m helping her by preparing the vegetables.
I’m at your disposal, even so.”

“Where were you when you heard that Mr.
MacLeod had been killed?” Gilnockie asked.

She blinked, apparently not expecting that
question. “I came back downstairs after showing the Krums to their
suite and my father told me the news.”

“How long had you been in the house before
the Krums arrived?”

“Only long enough to freshen up. I’d taken
the dogs for a walk and lost track of time, so found myself in a
wee bit of a hurry.” Her eyes turned toward Jean even as the knife
moved on to a rutabaga. “I’m sorry you had to answer the door.”

“No problem,” said Jean, without adding it
had given her evidence to share. “When did the dogs get away from
you?”

The knife stopped, then started again. “It
was you who let them into the house as well, then. They were wet
and chilled, poor beasts, and ran off without waiting for me.”

“Waiting for you doing what?” Gilnockie
asked.

“I stopped in at the lighthouse.”

Young’s pen thunked the page as solidly as
Diana’s knife hit the cutting board, probably exclamation-pointing
that she’d just contradicted Colin’s testimony.

Alasdair and Gilnockie nodded in perfect
unison, but it was Gilnockie who spoke. “Was Colin Urquhart there
at the time?”

“Yes, he was.” The faintest whiff of steam
moved over the limpid pools of Diana’s eyes.
Once those icy ones
melt,
Jean thought.

Alasdair came around on another tack. “What
dealings have you had with Scott Krum?”

“I’d never met the man. He visited here in
September, whilst father and I were away, and Lionel dealt with
him. He offered to buy four porcelain figurines, several pieces of
my grandmother’s jewelry, and the Wilkie portrait of Seonaid
MacDonald. Lionel, on our behalf, reached a bargain on all but the
portrait. I have no doubt he had himself a look round then, and is
having himself another one now.”

The knife rose and fell so fast its blade
flashed like a strobe. A bit of rutabaga launched itself into the
air and landed beside Jean’s foot. She picked it up.

Pulling forward a beet, Diana started
reducing it to more small cubes.

“Do you trust Mr. Pritchard?” Gilnockie
asked.

Diana’s hands stopped moving. She looked up,
her gaze sharp as the knife, almost defiant. “Not entirely, no. We
can’t afford to pay him the salary he believes he deserves, and I
suspect he may be creaming off some of the accounts or even selling
small items from the lumber rooms. Even if we could pay him, he’d
continue to see his position here as no more than a job. It’s my
father and I who are invested in this business. In this estate. In
each other.”

“Quite so.” Alasdair took a step forward.
“Were you or your father dealing with Greg MacLeod as well? Was he
planning on having a look round, the better to make offers of his
own? He was meaning to walk out to the old church, likely meeting
someone there. Had he said anything about buying one or more of the
grave slabs for his museum of religion?”

“Ooh, there’s a thought,” Jean said from the
corner of her mouth.

Just as the side of Alasdair’s mouth
tightened in both acknowledgment and doubt, a telephone rang. Not
the rotary-dial implement that looked like Darth Vader’s helmet, so
big it occupied its own table, but a cell phone trilling ABBA’s
“Take a Chance on Me.”

Her sallow complexion reddening, Young
whipped her phone from her pocket and answered it by spitting her
name like an epithet. She listened to the faint electronic voice,
said, “Aye. Cheers,” and switched off.

Realizing that every face in the room was
turned toward her, she mumbled, “Inverness, saying they’ve got the
boots, and the photos of the prints from the beach, and the mud
samples and all the rest. Urquhart’s boots will be arriving soon.
They’ll be in touch.”

“Very good then,” said Gilnockie, and turned
back to Diana.

Diana’s gaze fell to the board and the knife.
She cut a few more bits from the beet.

“Your dealings with Greg MacLeod,” Alasdair
reminded her.

“I would not be surprised,” she answered, “if
Mr. MacLeod saw Dunasheen as a cut-rate shopping mall, but I know
nothing of his plans. I knew him only from his e-mails asking about
our history and then booking a room.”

Once again Gilnockie pulled the business card
in its plastic bag from his pocket, and laid it on the counter,
first one side up, then the other. “Have you seen this before?”

Diana wiped her sleeve across her forehead.
Granted, Jean thought, the blazing overhead lights and the huge Aga
stove warmed the room, but seeing Diana sweat was like, well, like
seeing her in a passionate embrace with Colin. “Where did you find
that?” she asked.

“I found it,” said Jean.

“In the pocket of your raincoat,” Gilnockie
added.

“Then someone placed it there,” replied
Diana. “That’s not Colin’s handwriting. If he wanted to speak with
me, he’d ring me. And in any event, we didn’t meet at the church at
three.”

Young muttered something, the words
unintelligible, the tone skeptical.

A scowl flew across Diana’s face like the
bird’s shadow had flown across Jean’s. She gestured toward Young
with the knife, the beet juice on its blade thin and watery. In
spite of herself, Jean saw the dirk striking upward into Greg
MacLeod’s chest.
Blood is thicker than water.

Gilnockie asked, “You’re saying that someone
might be stitching you up for the murder?”

The knife swung toward him. “Or someone might
aim to put Colin in the frame.”

“You’re thinking of Pritchard, are you?”
Alasdair asked.

Without answering, Diana went back to the
beet, cutting so briskly that several small red cubes rolled like
dice onto the counter.

Young spoke up. “Why don’t you just sack the
man?”

“Who else would do the job, then?” Diana
answered. “My father’s already doing the work of three. As am
I.”

Jean thought again of devils and deep blue
seas. And of Fergie, a well-meaning soul if ever there was one.
Diana’s fourth job was watching out for him. Jean hazarded, “Maybe
the CU on the card is an e-mail or texting abbreviation, meaning
‘see you.’ Maybe someone was trying to lure Diana out of the house
by sending her a fake note from Colin. Maybe that particular
raincoat isn’t Diana’s. There are two more hanging over there by
the door.”

With a quick dart of blue in Jean’s
direction, Diana responded to her cue. “Many people in these parts
have yellow raincoats. Last month Lionel Pritchard and I
accidentally swapped ours—we’re much the same size. Rab’s there is
quite large, and Nancy’s has a floral lining.”

“The coat was too big for me, but not big
enough to have been Rab’s or Fergie’s. And it had a plain fabric
lining.”
And it smelled good
, Jean added to herself.

Gilnockie said to Young, “Sergeant, bring the
raincoat hanging in the cloak room, please.”

Young threw down her pen and sidled away
crab-wise. In the moment the door was open, Jean heard Pritchard’s
oily voice. “. . . move the man on, P.C. Thomson.”

“I canna be doing that, sir,” replied
Thomson, “Inspector Gilnockie asked Mr. Urquhart to stop here.”

Diana scraped her handiwork into piles, wiped
off the knife, and rinsed her hands. Taking off her apron, she
said, “I believe that was Pritchard going into my father’s office,
where he does the accounts. Shouldn’t you be questioning him about
that note?”