My Bones Will Keep mb-35 Read online

  ‘Kirsty will soon infuse the tea,’ she said. ‘I waited on you for my after-lunch cup. Och, ay, the weather’s fine. I wish other things were as good.’

  ‘We heard that the police had been bothering round,’ said Laura. ‘Did they come here?’

  ‘I’ll tell you about it when Kirsty – ah, here she is. Thank you, Kirsty.’

  Kirsty smiled shyly at the visitors, set the tray down and went out again.

  ‘I see you’ve got some help in the house now,’ said Laura. ‘Is it permanent?’

  ‘As soon as it was known that Cù Dubh was killed, Kirsty’s mother came to see me. It is the only good thing that has come out of the business.’ She poured out the tea and handed cups. ‘I will tell you. Maybe’ – she looked at Dame Beatrice – ‘you can think and tell me what I should do. You see, the police believe my man knows who did it and is holding out on them. I’m so worried I don’t know which way to turn. I’m not very sure that they don’t suspect my man himself.’

  ‘Why should they do that?’ asked Dame Beatrice.

  ‘He will not tell them where he was, or what he was up to, that night and early morning.’

  ‘Has he told you?’

  ‘He has not, then. All I ken is that he went to Inverness and was to go on to Edinburgh next day. I never speir at him what his business is, because I would not understand it if he told me.’

  ‘His business would have to do with the hydro-electric project, no doubt?’

  ‘Ay, it would be just that.’

  ‘I don’t see any connection with Inverness, though,’ said Laura. ‘Does he often go there?’

  ‘Now and again, from Easter until the first snowfall. During the winter and early spring, not at all.’

  ‘How long is he away from home?’ asked Dame Beatrice.

  ‘From the Friday, when he leaves work, until the Sunday night.’

  ‘Always?’

  ‘Always, except for his three weeks’ holiday in September, and even then he’s in a fever. “I wonder how they’re getting on without me?” he’ll say. I tell him not to fash himself, but he fidgets and fadgets until we’re home.’

  ‘Inverness? And Edinburgh?’ said Dame Beatrice thoughtfully. ‘Interesting. Do you think your husband would talk to me?’

  ‘How I wish he would! Mrs Gavin here was telling me of some of your cases. I’m in fear of what may happen if he goes on refusing to give the police any information. If he would give them just one name of a body that would swear he was in Inverness that night, it would do, I think, but he’ll not do even as little as that.’

  ‘Why do you suppose he is being so secretive?’ asked Dame Beatrice, with unusual bluntness. Mrs Grant’s troubled eyes met hers.

  ‘I have no idea,’ she said, ‘but I trust him absolutely. It’s not a woman; I’m certain of that.’

  Kirsty came in.

  ‘I beg your pardon,’ she said, ‘but the wee chridhe is greeting. I think it is necessary to you going.’

  ‘Excuse me,’ said the wee chridhe’s mother. She and the girl went out.

  ‘Sounds like a love-nest to me, whatever she believes,’ said Laura. ‘She may trust him absolutely, but I don’t think I would.’

  ‘It is much too early to judge him,’ said Dame Beatrice. ‘I wonder at what time he gets home this evening? Incidentally, it would have been on a Friday that you met him at Tigh-Osda station, then?’

  ‘Yes, and he’d taken a day’s holiday, if you remember.’

  ‘One would think he might have foregone his business in Inverness for that one weekend, then.’

  ‘Yes. It can’t be much fun for Mrs Grant being left with nobody but the baby for company from Friday night until Sunday night, however seldom it happens,’

  ‘No, indeed. I wonder whether he always goes by train? They have a car, you say.’

  ‘An estate wagon, yes.’

  Mrs Grant came back, carrying the baby. Dame Beatrice put the question to her.

  ‘Och, ay, he always takes the train,’ she replied. ‘You see, it’s a single-track road from here to a mile or so this side of Freagair and he says he has enough of single-track driving to his work and back. The train is quicker. Besides, in a place like this, I’d be lost if I suddenly needed transport, and none was available, would I not?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ Laura hesitated and glanced at Dame Beatrice, raising her eyebrows. Dame Beatrice nodded. Laura went on: ‘Please don’t be offended at what I’m going to ask you, Mrs Grant. I’m bound to sound blunt, I’m afraid, but I think it’s fair to be.’

  Mrs Grant’s eyes very slightly narrowed.

  ‘Bluntness is best, if it’s something awkward,’ she said ‘I don’t like beating about the bush, so out it with it, and I’ll answer as best I can.’

  ‘Right What were you up to when you borrowed my car that night I stayed here?’

  ‘Borrowed your car? But I did nothing of the kind, Mrs Gavin. What on this earth makes you think such a thing?

  ‘The extra mileage on the meter, for one thing.’

  ‘Och, but you’re mistaken. It’s so easy to misread those things or to forget the previous reading.’

  ‘That’s not my experience, especially with a car I’ve hired. Besides, there’s another thing.’

  ‘And what would that be?’

  ‘That my petrol tank had more petrol in it when I reached Freagair that morning than it had held when I reached Tigh-Osda where I picked you up on the previous night.’

  ‘Oh, that!’ said Mrs Grant. She seemed at ease. ‘Why, as to that, I gave your car a wee fill-up before I called you down to your breakfast. It was the least I could do, after your kindness in driving me home through all that downpour of rain.’

  Dame Beatrice decided that the time had come to change the subject. She had no doubt that Laura’s car had been used, but there seemed no point in prolonging the discussion. She said:

  ‘We’re on our way, not, so far, in rain, to visit Gàradh. Do you know it?’

  ‘Indeed I do, then. The Mrs Stewart who lives there opens the gardens once a week to visitors. She charges half-a-crown and gives the money to charity. It’s a grand place and very wonderfully kept. I can’t get my man to go, but as it is always on a Wednesday, I doubt if he would care to ask for the time off, even if he cared about flowers, which he does not. I myself go every year, though. We make up a small party and Maclean drives us there and back. This year I’ll be able to take the wean. I used to leave her with Kirsty to mind her, but she’ll be old enough to go with us this year. Have you a special permit, I wonder? The gardens will not be open to ordinary visitors today.’

  ‘We have a special permit,’ Dame Beatrice replied. ‘And, as our time is limited, I think we had better be making our way there.’

  ‘I thought you intended waiting until her husband came home,’ said Laura, when they had left Coinneamh and had bumped carefully on to the road for Tigh-Osda and Crioch. ‘Hadn’t you some such idea?’

  ‘Yes, but I have a better one. I want George to stop when we get to the hydroelectric power station. There is certain to be somewhere on their ground that he can park.’

  ‘You are going to beard Mr Grant in his lair, so that Mrs Grant won’t be present?’

  ‘We shall see. You will remain in the car. Two of us will be an embarrassment of riches to the executives.’

  She returned to the car at the end of twenty minutes and remained silent until they were in sight of the coast at Crioch. Then she said:

  ‘It is all most interesting. They know only of the young Mr Grant who lives in the place we are approaching. He is a reporter on the Freagair Advertiser and Recorder, and it’s his job to collect all the news of this part of the country and relay it to his office. He uses a motor-cycle for this purpose. The paper does not function in the extreme winter months, owing to the difficulty of supplying copies to its subscribers in time of snow, when many roads are impassable.’

  ‘So he isn’t the murderer, anyway,’ said Lau
ra. ‘I’m rather glad. He’s not a bad youth, although he’s rather in favour of preserving a whole skin. But what price Mrs Grant telling me that her husband was employed at these works if he isn’t?’

  ‘I am hoping that young Mr Grant will be able to help us there. It may be a forlorn hope, however, and I think we shall need to find out, if we can, what, if he really goes there, the married Grant finds to do in Inverness and Edinburgh. If he is not there in connection with the hydro-electric project—’

  ‘A tall order, isn’t it?’

  ‘I do not think so. We have been in touch with the Inverness police, who, although taciturn, were polite, and that Conference I attended in Edinburgh brought me into some small contact with the Press. My connection with the Home Office was remarked upon, and the police, no doubt, read the papers. Besides, I am fortunate enough to know a number of people in Edinburgh. I think we may be able to conduct an unobtrusive investigation without much let or hindrance. I am not without a certain amount of—’

  ‘Satiable curiosity,’ said Laura.

  The post office at Crioch was small and dark. Behind the counter was a small, dark woman engaged in checking some sheets of postage stamps.

  ‘I’ve no picture postcards,’ she announced, as Laura entered to a jangle of bells. ‘Those you saw in the case outside are for advertisement, no more.’

  Laura, thinking that to advertise a product which was non-existent was strikingly reminiscent of Through the Looking-Glass, asked for a five-shilling book of stamps and opened her handbag.

  ‘You’ll get separate stamps, as you’re requiring them. I have no books of stamps. There’s no call for them around here,’ said the woman.

  ‘Six threepenny ones and a dozen twopenny ha’penny ones, then,’ said Laura.

  ‘Very good. You might get a postcard or two at the hotel, if you’re anxious for them.’

  Laura received the stamps, paid for them and put them away.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘Oh, I remember! I have a message for Mr Grant’

  ‘For Mr Grant?’

  ‘Yes. From his editor in Freagair.’

  ‘You’ll need to write it down. He’s away to Strathpeffer. There’s a flower show. Does it need an answer?’

  ‘Yes, I’m afraid it does.’

  ‘Ah, well, here’s a wee jotter, ninepence, and I can sell you an envelope for a penny. I keep stamped envelopes, but you’ve laid out your siller for stamps already, so you’ll need nothing but a plain envelope the now. There’s pens, unless you have your own.’ Laura had her own, and, in any case, had no intention of writing any messages to Grant until she had consulted Dame Beatrice, who, in accordance with plan, had just come into the post office.

  ‘A pound of peppermint bullseyes, please,’ she said.

  ‘Do you need a whole pound of the peppermint cushions?’

  ‘Yes, if you please.’

  ‘Good for you. That’s a very wholesome sweetie. Now some would be stuffing themselves with chocolates. I’m right glad to know you’ve more sense. There you are. That will be two shillings and eightpence.’

  They took their leave. In fact, Laura had already gone out to the car before Dame Beatrice’s purchase had been shot into a paper bag and paid for. Dame Beatrice placed the bag on the seat between them and Laura grabbed a handful of the sweets.

  ‘Good old-fashioned stuff,’ she said, approvingly. ‘No luck there, though. Most unfortunately Grant isn’t at home. He’s covering a flower show in Strathpeffer.’

  ‘Something of the kind was to be expected. Never mind. It may turn out for the best. If I read the postmistress aright, she will most certainly furnish Mr Grant with an unmistakable picture of yourself.’

  ‘You think he’d recognise the description?’

  ‘I do not see why not.’

  ‘I wonder what you mean by that? Anyway, this message. What do I inscribe on this gosh-awful little writing tablet?’

  ‘Nothing, child, unless you have something to suggest.’

  ‘I could ask him again what relation he is to the other Grants, although I suppose we’ve had his answer to that. I could tell him that, now we know he’s a cub reporter, we’d also like to know what he was really after when he squatted in the boathouse on Tannasgan that night. I feel that I must leave him a note. After all, I have spent tenpence on him and the stamp represents another threepence. When I’ve posted it we might as well have some tea at the hotel. Oh, yes! And if Grant’s paper doesn’t circulate during the winter, is that when he’s had employment at An Tigh Mór?’

  Laura, seated in the car with the nine-penny writing-pad on her knee, scribbled busily. Then she addressed and stamped an envelope and, jumping out of the car, posted the letter in the box outside the post office. She realised, when she had done so, that the sardonic eye of the postmistress had been watching her through the shop window.

  It had been impossible to drive fast on the narrow road between Tigh-Osda and Crioch, so it was half-past five when they left the seafront hotel after tea and seven o’clock in the evening when they reached the hospitable home of Mrs Stewart at Gàradh. Dinner was at eight, and the talk, as was to be expected, turned on Dame Beatrice’s experiences at the Conference, news of mutual friends in Edinburgh and then Laura had to give an account of her adventures since she had left Gàradh after her first visit.

  Coffee had been brought to the fireside – for, in Scottish tradition, Mrs Stewart kept fires burning all the year round, whatever the weather – when a maid announced that there was a gentleman at the door asking to speak with Mrs Gavin.

  ‘That will be young Mr Grant,’ said Dame Beatrice. ‘Let us hope he has news for us.’

  ‘Find out his name, Elspeth, and then show him in here and bring another cup and saucer,’ said Mrs Stewart. The caller did indeed prove to be Grant. He came in with his motor-cycling goggles in one hand and gauntlet gloves in the other and apologised for troubling the company. Mrs Stewart sent him out to leave his equipment and his leather jacket in the hall and ordered him to return for some coffee. ‘And now, young man,’ she continued, when he had obeyed these instructions and was seated, coffee-cup in hand, between Laura and Dame Beatrice, I hope you have brought some interesting news. And it’s of no use for you to imagine I shall go out of the room while you make your disclosures. I am consumed with curiosity, so drink your coffee and fire away.’

  Chapter 9

  Young Grant’s Story

  I reckon it’s one of two things, ’Spec. Either there come along somebody and done this devil’s job while I was fetchin’ the poor toad his physic, or else he done it himself.’

  Eden Philpotts

  « ^ »

  YOUNG Grant accepted a second cup of coffee and in reply to a motherly query from his hostess assured her that he had had his evening meal. No one else spoke until he put down his cup. Then Laura said: ‘You have been a chump, you know. Now, what about a first, Christian or baptismal name? The word “Grant” is getting a bit confusing.’

  ‘Me? Oh, call me Alastair.’

  ‘I will, although I know it isn’t your name.’

  ‘Right, it is not, then. But I’m ganging warily because you don’t seem at all anxious to give me the alibi I’m seeking.’

  ‘I can’t give it you. There’s no proof whatever that the laird was killed when the pipes ceased from skirling. Don’t be silly.’

  Grant wagged his head and looked apologetic.

  ‘I don’t wonder you’re mad at me,’ he said. ‘I suppose I’ve made myself a fair nuisance to you.’

  ‘Why have you come here?’

  ‘In answer to your letter. Losh, but the old wife was angry when the postwoman, Maggie McTaggart, handed in your envelope! She always scrutinises the mail, does Maggie, when she collects it out of the box. There’s so little of it, you see, because the people staying at the hotel have their own posting box and Maggie collects there, too, so if there’s half a dozen letters with the postmistress that seems an awful lot.’


  ‘Don’t dodge the issue. Why have you come here?’

  ‘Why, to have a crack with you. Why else?’

  ‘Oh, cut out the witticisms,’ said Laura ‘We don’t mind trying to help you, but not if you want to be fresh. Now, then, tell us the tale and we’ll do our best to believe you.’

  ‘Very good. I do realise that I’ve made myself a great nuisance to you, but…’

  ‘Cut the cackle, for goodness’ sake, and begin.’

  ‘Yes, well, to cut a long story short…’

  ‘But we don’t want you to cut it short,’ said Dame Beatrice, giving Laura the cue to slip out of the ring. ‘Please give us every possible detail. Begin at the beginning, illuminate and expand the middle and proceed at a decorous pace to the end.’

  ‘Well, Dame Beatrice, the story begins in Edinburgh.’

  ‘Eh?’ exclaimed Laura involuntarily.

  ‘The story begins in Edinburgh. I was standing waiting to cross the road when I saw an accident. Well, as you know now, I’m a reporter and, like all reporters, I’m always on the look-out for a story. That day I got one. I saw a man pushed under a car.’

  Laura, in spite of her excitement, remained apparently calm.

  ‘You did?’ she said. ‘When would that have been?’

  Dame Beatrice intervened before Grant could answer.

  ‘Tell us, please, Mr Grant, what you were doing in Edinburgh at that time.’

  ‘Doing? Oh, you mean my reason for being there! Why, I was covering your Conference, Dame Beatrice. You may not know it, but all Scotland is interested – ay, intensely interested—in anything to do with education.’

  ‘I was not speaking on education,’ said Dame Beatrice mildly.

  ‘Maybe not, but I was sent to cover the Conference and we regard such a gathering as educational.’

  ‘I see. Please continue.’

  ‘I managed to get leave from my editor to be in Edinburgh before the Conference was actually in session. I said I wanted to interview some of the notables in their hotels. What I really wanted – and he knew it, the douce man!—was to have a wee bit of a fling the way you can’t get it in these parts. Oh, nothing I wouldn’t care for my mother to know about. You can’t get that sort of a fling in Edinburgh, anyway—but just to get to a theatre and walk with the crowds along Princess Street and that kind of thing, and maybe, over a dram, hear of a job on the Scotsman. Of course, I did some interviewing, too. I met two or three of the professors and psychologists and pursuaded them to give me a few facts and theories that I could send back to Freagair to show that I was on the job, and it was when I was coming away from one of these interviews—with Signor Ginetti it was…’