DEATH IN A DISTILLERY

A Maeve Morgan Murder Mystery

CM RAWLINS

CleanTales Publishing

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Chapter One

Maeve, Countess of Strathfulton and Baritone, was at a loose end.

“I know,” she said to herself, as she toured the castle gardens, marvelling at the verdant growth, probably caused by the fact that it rained on average six days a week, yet the sun never gave up shining wherever it could, making a paradise for rainbows, “I shall go to the distillery.”

How many times had she heard:

You must go to the distillery, countess.

Well, she would go. Today. This very moment.

“Kat,” she said to her slip of a lady’s maid a few moments later, “I’m going to the distillery.”

“Very good, milady, I’ll get something appropriate…”

“I had thought to go as I am, Kat.”

“Oh no, milady, you must wear the…”

“Must I? Well, I suppose you know best in these matters.”

“And it’s a long drive, milady, so I’ll pack you a suitcase. Will you desire me to attend, milady?”

Maeve was of the opinion that she could make it there and back in a day, hence no need for Kat to accompany her. The suitcase was a precaution, nothing more.

“No, Kat,” she replied, “just Miss Hamilton this time. I fully expect to be back for supper.”

“I’ll pack something for Miss Hamilton too, then, milady. If you would like to attend in your bedroom in a quarter-of-an-hour, I shall be ready to dress you, milady.”

Maeve nodded and went in search of coffee, calling to Angus, the ancient butler, to please ask Roskill to be ready for a longish journey in half-an-hour.

“Very good, milady,” Angus replied, “shall I tell him to pack a suitcase, milady?”

“What is it with the distillery and suitcases, Angus?”

“It’s just, milady, that the distillery has a habit of detaining one longer than expected.”

“I see, well, Angus, I fully intend to be back for supper. In fact, I might even bang the gong myself this evening.”

“Very good, milady.” Angus made to turn away, then something else must have come to him, because he turned back to his mistress and asked what about lunch?

“Ah, yes, will cook be upset if we skip lunch?”

“Undoubtedly, milady, undoub⁠—”

“I know. We shall take lunch with us. What is it to be, Angus?”

“I believe beef, milady.” She noted that he believed it was beef, yet he would know full well that it was beef. After all, it was a butler’s job to know such things and Angus was a good butler.

Albeit a strange one.

“Very good, milady.”

“One question, Angus.”

“Yes, milady?”

She had been intending to ask whether he knew how many ‘very good, miladys’ he had issued throughout his long period of service, wondering if a butler’s age could be determined in such a manner, like rings on a tree. But on consideration, she felt it to be trivial and lacking in dignity.

“Nothing, Angus, nothing at all.”

“Very good, milady.”

Roskill had the hamper in the car by the time Maeve descended the stairs following her dressing session with Kat. She was resplendent in her tartan skirt that fell to mid-calf, a white blouse with an emerald at the throat and a matching tartan sash over her right shoulder, sloping across the body to tie at the left waist. On her head stood a large tartan beret with a huge badge that made it stand up at the front like the shoulder of one of the large mountains that God had scattered about Scotland in one of the creation stages of his ongoing involvement.

By contrast, Fi, her secretary and friend, wore a modest beige suit with big smart buttons marching in step down her jacket and skirt.

“You look quite the part, milady,” said Fi Hamilton, deliberately using a formal address because of the presence of several servants on the drive.

That was their rule: as familiar as best friends when on their own, formality stepping in whenever staff members were around. Yet, there was one exception to that rule: Roskill had politely said on the day he reported for duty that he had trouble with hearing when driving in the front seat, implying that his betters could call themselves what they liked.

The Rolls Royce Phantom slid down the rutted drive with such smoothness that the occupants of the car - Maeve and Fi in the back with Roskill driving - felt no bumps at all.

“This is like floating on air,” Maeve said.

“Too true,” Fi replied, but looking out of the window where a droning sound was increasing in volume. “Talking of floating on air, there’s an aeroplane about to land on the field where Robbie used to put down.”

Maeve leant forward and asked Roskill to divert to the field where a huge aeroplane was currently descending.

“It’s Robbie’s new aircraft, or I’m a dimwit,” she said.

And sure enough, five minutes later they watched Robbie Munro jump down from the cockpit and turn towards them.

“What’s this?” he said. “An official welcoming committee?”

“We were passing through,” Maeve replied, allowing Robbie to give her a warm kiss on both cheeks.

“Dressed to the nines, I see.” Robbie did that thing where he held Maeve at arm’s length in order to look her over. Maeve blushed slightly but managed to keep eye contact with this lovely man who seemed to be around more and more.

Especially, it seemed, when she needed him.

“We’re going to the distillery,” Fi replied.

“Oh,” he said, “I have a week off work and hoped to spend it with you here at the castle, but…”

“But what?” Maeve wanted to know.

“Well, perhaps if I promised to be very well behaved, I might be able to come along on your trip and run little errands for you.”

“Well,” said Maeve, “I’m not entirely sure, you know. This is a top-level meeting we’re going to and I’m not so sure there will be room for a bag-carrier to come along. What do you think, Fi?”

Fi reminded Maeve that the bag-carrier had promised to be excruciatingly well behaved and she supposed that youngsters, however junior, should get occasional glimpses of their betters so that they might start their climb up the slippery pole.

It was agreed. Roskill carried Robbie’s two suitcases to the Rolls. Robbie checked some things on the aircraft and locked the cockpit, putting a sign in the ground he pulled from the plane:

Look, by all means

Just don’t touch

Then, they were away, stopping for a delightful picnic lunch in a bend of the River Fulton that gave Strathfulton its name. They skimmed stones after eating and Roskill proved himself to be an expert at pushing them out across the shallow stream.

“This is heaven,” Robbie said at one point, but looking directly at Maeve, rather than the scenery beyond.

The roads became increasingly steep and windy after lunch. Fi commented that the river was like a faithful companion, because it was never out of eyesight, unless on an occasional basis a group of trees obscured the view.

Roskill stopped at one point, explaining that he had to consult the map and maybe they had come the wrong way.

“I do believe we’ve come too far,” Robbie said, looking over Roskill’s shoulder by crouching in the back of the Rolls and poking his head through the open partition.

“I do believe you are right, sir. But, rather than go all the way back to the fork in the road we came across after lunch, could we not trace our way across here and here.”

“I believe we might be able to do just that, Roskill. I delegate navigational responsibilities to you.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Roskill did find a way through, but they came out at the rear of the building that housed the distillery, where a couple of youngsters seemed bent over the task of scrubbing out some stainless steel tools that Maeve imagined had some specific purpose within the operation. There were a myriad of tracks going this way and that across the backyard. Roskill pulled up the car on the cleanest patch of land he could find and stopped the engine, causing a sudden succession of sound so that they could hear each other’s breathing.

That’s when they heard a cry.

It came from the front of the house; it wasn’t so much a cry of death, not even of pain, but, as cries go, it sounded remarkably like one emitted through terror.

They left the car where it was, and ran to the back door with one purpose in mind: to determine who and why, when and where.

Because, as Maeve put it, they seemed to have walked right into another mystery.

Chapter Two

It was the worst possible news. Well, any death, forced or unforced, was a great sadness, but the fact that it was James Campbell, the very man they had come to see, made it all the worse.

“We need to call the police,” a man said, wringing his hands as if he were a mangle squeezing the last drops of water out of some freshly laundered washing.

Maybe he was covering up his tracks by washing his hands thoroughly? Whoever he was. The man in question was very small with the face of a ferret with beady eyes that seemed like fireballs. Maeve noted a twitch whereby the left side of his face moved in an involuntary way; could it be that the twitch told the truth while the man span his lies?

Maeve then told herself to get a grip. It was hardly a professional approach to draw early conclusions without any evidence to back it up. It’s just that this man… well, he didn't seem right.

Wait a moment, though. She still didn’t know whether a crime had occurred. And, if it had, she had no idea of the details.

“What’s happened?” she asked, raising her voice to cut through the mist of competing chatter. “I mean, I know it’s James Campbell who is no longer with us, but how did it happen and where’s the body?”

“In the vat.” Maeve swung around on hearing these words to see the ferret man she had taken a dislike for.

On sight.

“The man is in the vat,” he said it again, labouring each word to stress his evident opinion that he was dealing with imbeciles of the first order.

“And who are you, my man?” Maeve tried to put imperious overtones into her voice, but her Welsh accent undermined her efforts to sound commanding.

“Who are you?” he replied, not exactly pleasantly. “After all, you’re the stranger around here.”

“True,” she said, trying her most disarming smile, “I am Maeve Strathfulton.”

There was a moment, then, in which it seemed the whole world had stopped. Ferret-face stood completely still, as if he was the dead man and not the manager. Then, he came alive again but resurrected with a diametrically opposed personality. Gone was anything to do with cunning and sly - replaced with hands that wrang for another purpose altogether.

“My dear Lady Strathfulton,” he started, “welcome to the distillery you own, the best in the land, and that’s a fact.”

“It’s your turn now, Mr…?”

“Browne, milady, Alisdair Browne, or Al Browne as I’m generally known.”

“And your role in this establishment?”

“I, milady, just happen to be the assistant manager of Strathfulton Distillery.” There was a significant amount of chest puffing as he completed his introduction to the countess, who he probably never expected to see in the flesh.

“Right,” said Maeve a few moments later, “let’s get on with what we know. You say the body of Mr Campbell was found….”

Mr Browne confirmed the details to Maeve. He had been conducting a routine check when he had noticed the lid of this particular vat to be incorrectly secured. On closer examination, he found large splashes of liquid across the whole of the top, as well as some dripping from the pipes that ran down the side.

“It was only a matter of time before I discovered Mr Campbell’s body, milady, and that’s when I called for assistance, milady.” More hand-wringing accompanied the end of his explanation; previously the man’s hands had acted out the scenes so that, had Maeve been deaf, she would have gathered the bare facts with ease. “We should call the police, milady.”

“Yes, quite. Tell me, Mr Browne, do you have a telephone here?”

“No, milady. Mr Campbell always said the buzz of electricity would damage the whisky, altering its taste and destroying our hard-won reputation. But at times like this…”

“At times like this, we need to act accordingly,” Maeve interrupted, finding her assistant manager somewhat on the wrong side of the annoyance scale.

But secretly, she was rather pleased at the lack of a telephone. The delay in summoning the police would give her time to examine the scene before some officious plod tried to block her access.

The cheek of such blocking action, in her own distillery. But, she had to admit from direct experience; it was the most likely action the police would take on arrival.

“Where is the nearest telephone?” she asked.

“Why, I’m not rightly sure, milady. Perhaps I should ask someone in the general office.” The sudden change from pompous officialdom to pompous obsequiousness had thrown Maeve. Fi, too, judging by the way she was staring at the man. He now backed away, bowing with each step as if dealing with royalty.

“No, Mr Browne, don’t bother them in the general office. They’ve had enough excitement for one day. I think it best to keep them from events for the time being, don’t you? Maybe it’s better for Roskill to go into the village and find a telephone and…”

“Very wise, milady, very wise.” He looked blankly at her. Clearly, he had no idea who this ‘Roskill’ was. Maeve put him out of his state of ignorance by turning to Roskill and asking him to undertake the task.

“Of course, milady,” he said and immediately left the room.

‘Good,’ she thought, ‘the delay in summoning the police will give her a few minutes of time she could usefully use.’

They had some time, and needed to make the most of it; for that, they needed to be alone. Maeve asked Mr Browne for a list of workers at the distillery and a separate list of any visitors due that day. He backed and bowed and scurried away, leaving Maeve, Fi and Robbie on their own in the room that had been explained to them as the final treatment stage, after the brown liquid - almost recognisable as scotch - had been pumped by hand from the main mixing room.

They made two observations in the period they were alone at the murder scene. The first was made by Maeve:

“This is no accident,” she said after climbing the long ladder to the top of the vat and almost catching her feet in the tartan sash wrapped around her top half, but with the ends trailing to her calves.

“How can you tell?” Robbie had climbed up the other side of the vat, swinging amongst the various pipes like a trapeze artist.

“Because the lid was secured, clamped into place. If someone had opened it to peer inside and had accidentally toppled in, despite the safety rails I’m using right now, how would they have been able to secure the lid with them wallowing around in the tank?”

“More to the point,” Robbie replied, “why on earth would they choose to shut themselves in, thus facing a near certain death? Shall we drag the body out through the top hatch?”

She looked at him across the top of the vat, standing on something just out of vision, probably a pipe of inspection ledge, his body swaying like the sailors who had raced up the rigging in the days of sail. He was deeply intelligent, a fine legal mind, knew how to take an aeroplane engine apart in the dark, yet, at times, it seemed he lacked a single ounce of common sense. But, for all that was missing, she was terribly fond of him, to the extent that she had sometimes wondered how her name might change again. Maeve Mary Morgan had become PC Morgan, then Sergeant Morgan. Then, on sudden inheritance of the title, total change had occurred with her becoming Maeve Strathfulton, Countess of Strathfulton and Baritone, Laird of Naybower and a dozen other places she could not remember.

She sort of wanted it to change again, but had no ideas as to the protocol.

“No,” she answered, shaking herself from the idle thoughts she had indulged in, “it’s better to watch and take matters in. I know from my policing days how deeply frustrating it is when a member of the public tampers with the evidence. It also makes them deeply suspicious and I don’t particularly want to be in anybody’s target sights right now.”

“Well, seeing as we were only just driving up when the body was discovered, I hardly think it would stand up in court.”

Maeve, on hearing this, felt like telling Robbie he had come up with a typical lawyer’s response. She almost did, but then events overtook her with a cry from Fi who had started her examination of the vat from ground level, walking around and around, ducking under pipes and ducts as she went.

“Hey, you two,” she cried, “I think I’ve found something significant, although for the life of me, I can’t work it out.”

Chapter Three

If it was a clue, they really couldn’t make it out at all.

“I think it might be code,” Robbie said, reading it as best as he could:

tha thu airidh air

“What on earth does it mean?” Maeve asked. “The best I can manage is, ‘that thou… then something about being in the air. But that makes no sense, unless…”

“Yes?” Fi and Robbie both clamouring for an answer.

“Well, could it be a reference to Robbie coming by air?” Fi asked. “I mean to piloting his aeroplane.”

“But nobody knew you were coming,” Maeve replied. “I only decided a few hours ago and then we were surprised, ourselves, that Robbie turned up out of the blue.”

“A pleasant surprise, I hope.”

“Yes, Robbie, a very pleasant surprise. Now please can we concentrate on the matter at hand? I don’t think it has anything to do with aeroplanes. I believe Robbie’s arrival is pure coincidence.”

They were making progress around the edges of the problem, but needed to move it on.

That’s when Fi offered something that made all the difference.

“I wonder,” she said, “whether it might be… Well, I don’t actually speak Gaelic, but do you think it could be? It looks like it might.”

“Of course,” said Robbie. “It must be Gaelic, but my knowledge is at the same level as yours.”

“It looks nothing like Welsh,” Maeve offered.

“No, they’re entirely different languages within the Gaelic umbrella, so the fact that you speak Welsh, Maeve, won’t help us one jot.”

“But there must be someone around here. I’ll just nip to the general office and seek out a Gaelic speaker.”

Fi was back a few minutes later, bringing an ancient specimen with her.

“He speaks Gaelic,” she said, “but I can’t understand a word of his English!”

They decided to try anyway, thinking they had nothing to lose. Maeve asked Fi to show the old man the words scrawled in what looked like paint on the side of the vat:

tha thu airidh air

The old man scratched his head, then gabled something totally unintelligible. They asked him to repeat it, straining their ears for sounds they recognised.

“Something to do with dessert,” Fi said.

“I know you get dessert wines,” Robbie added, “so maybe you get dessert whiskies too.” He then acted out the scene by standing before the old man and pretending to eat some delicious pudding while rubbing his tummy.

The old man looked blankly at Robbie, no doubt wondering what the world was coming to.

“What then?” Maeve asked, gently moving Robbie behind the next door vat where he continued with the charades.

The man responded with an action that immediately threatened her and Fi until she realised he was attempting to act out the meaning, too.

It was no good. This wizened old man would never get a job as a translator. A confuser, yes, but never someone to provide the clarity of a precise translation.

They had to find another way to get at the meaning of these words. Then, when Roskill came back, saying the police were on their way and had radioed HQ in Inverness for back up, Maeve knew they were under time pressure.

She felt sure this was Gaelic—a big thank you to Fi for recognising it as such, but she had no way of taking it further.

Robbie dug out a half-crown from his trousers pocket and the old man shuffled away. The door to the finishing room opened just as he approached it and a young and pretty girl walked in.

“Your ladyship,” she said, getting her address completely wrong, “I wondered if you wanted some coffee. Ah, grandpa, what are you doing here?”

“He’s your grandfather.”

“Well, great grandfather-in-law, actually. He’s the oldest living Campbell in the area.”

“Do you speak Gaelic then?” Fi asked, her hopes obviously rising.

“No, I’m afraid not. Is there something I can help with, your ladyship?”

“It’s milady.”

“What is?”

“Instead of your ‘ladyship’, you need to say ‘milady’,” Fi said gently, adding that she knew it was complicated when aristocracy descended without warning.

“Oh, it’s not that,” she replied, “it’s just that everything’s in a tizz with Mr Campbell being found dead.”

“Just a minute,” Maeve intervened, “your great-grandfather is a Campbell and so is the manager?”

“Yes, but no relation. Mr Campbell was of Auclichie stock, whereas our family comes from around here, milady. The Auclichie Campbells are much more… well, they’ve got something about them, milady.”

“I see, but is this a Campbell stronghold? What, by the way, is your name?”

“Emma Campbell, milady.” She looked shy for a moment and then bobbed down in a curtsey.

“Well, Emma, can you interpret what your great-grandfather is saying?”

“Oh no, milady, I can’t understand a word of what he says.”

They were back at square one with time ticking. They were in a Gaelic speaking stronghold, yet no one seemed to speak Gaelic, at least no one who could be understood.

Then Emma offered a possible solution.

“If it’s Gaelic you’re after, milady, there’s Mr Browne, the assistant manager.”

“Excellent,” Robbie said, “and I would willingly commit murder for a cup of coffee.”

“I’ll bring the coffee and send for Mr Browne.” It seemed like solution found. Except, Emma returned a few minutes later with coffee, but no Mr Browne.

“I’m afraid Mr Browne is nowhere to be found, milady, miss and gents,” she said, concentrating so hard on what she said that she poured too much coffee into the cups.

“Surely he’s not left the premises, Emma? No, don’t worry about the spills, that’s to be expected.” Maeve found herself intrigued by the workings of this girl’s mind.

“No, Mr Browne won’t have left the prem… the distillery, milady, but you see, there’s a problem.”

Emma was reluctant to talk further, so that Maeve and the others spent precious minutes winkling out from her that Mr Browne had a drink problem. Before Fi could organise a search, they heard a police car screeching up the drive and Maeve knew her time where she could steal a march on the mystery was up.

The police had arrived and any enquiries she made from now on would be subordinated to theirs.

Except it seemed there might be a little more time, because a solitary policeman entered the room a few minutes later.

“PC Campbell,” he introduced himself as.

“Auclichie or local?” Fi asked.

“Oh, very much local,” the young constable answered, “the Auclichie lot look down on us quite some, but we can hold our own in things that matter.” When pressed by Fi on what mattered, it seemed to be Scottish country dancing and tossing the caber, and PC Campbell was an expert in the first and a disaster in the second. “I’m only just big enough to get in the police,” he said.

Maeve had already nodded to Roskill, who then glanced at Robbie and the two stole out through the other door at the back of the finishing room. Maeve and Fi would keep this young policeman talking while the two men organised a search for Mr Browne.

Maeve and Fi, they decided later, had the easy role because if PC Campbell wasn’t up to scratch in tossing the caber, he could certainly hold his own with regards to talking the hind legs off a donkey.

“Are you on your own, constable?”

“Yes, you see, my area is the Greater Lower Strathfulton…”

“Greater Lower?”

“Yes, that gets everyone new to the area, milady. You see, you have Strathfulton proper, where you live in your castle, then you get Lower Strathfulton, that being the village here at the distillery.”

“But we climbed quite some into the mountains to get here,” Fi said.

“Yes, that’s quite the thing, is it not? We’re Lower Strathfulton but we’re higher than Strathfulton. We local Campbells say we’re closer to God that way, but lower in pretentiousness compared to the Auclichie lot.”

“But why Greater?”

“Oh, that’s simple, milady. You see, my beat covers the whole area north of here, so it’s a greater area than that around Strathfulton.”

“I see.” But Maeve wasn’t at all sure that she did see.

“Ah,” PC Campbell said, cocking his ear, “I do believe that must be my boss arriving. She’s driven like fury from Strathfulton if it is her.”

“Constable, who exactly is your boss?” Fi asked.

“Why, it’s DI Summers, of course. Now her area runs from…”

But both Maeve and Fi were moving towards the door, neither able to believe their good fortune until they had set eyes on DI Summers themselves.

Chapter Four

Not only DI Summers, but the inane grin of PC Cyril ‘Cliché’ Clarke as well. Plus, of course, a hastily put together group of constables from the villages in between Strathfulton and Lower Strathfulton, most of whom seemed particularly displeased to have been disturbed during their early afternoon nap.

Still, they had willingly signed up, through thick and thin, good times and bad.

“Ah, Lady Strathfulton,” DI Summers said, after stopping short on meeting her in the small reception area furnished not with a desk but with a bar, behind which were stacked a huge quantity of whisky bottles. “What on earth brings you here?” PC Clarke whispered something in her ear and had to repeat it twice. Either for hearing or understanding, Maeve wasn’t quite sure.

“Of course, I didn’t mean you need permission to be here seeing as you own it, but I just wondered what prompted you to turn up today of all days.”

“I was at a loose end and decided, rather on an impromptu basis, to make a visit. Everybody’s been saying I need to come and so I decided to come. Yes, I recognise that it appears strange for you to find me here when you’re called to investigate a murder, but I assure you we were only just arriving at the point when the body was discovered.”

“Yes, yes, I’m quite sure about that,” the detective inspector answered. Maeve considered that a weak answer. It was the job of the police to question everyone and check everything, never to assume anything. Still, it served no purpose to raise this with the detective inspector, because Maeve knew she was innocent and could rest easily on that knowledge. “But,” continued DI Summers, “you said murder and it was reported to me as an unexplained death. There’s potentially a world of difference, you know.”

Maeve was tempted to tell she knew the differences well-enough, but refrained because only cooperation would solve this terrible killing.

“It is murder, Detective Inspector.” She went on to explain about how the lid worked and how it had to be closed from the outside. “That has to mean someone else was involved.” She noticed how DI Summers hung on every word coming from her; as if Maeve was the source of both inspiration and correct policing procedures.

“We need to set up an incident room and question every employee and visitor one by one.”

“Yes, DI Summers. I took the liberty of asking for a list of employees and of any visitors. I have both lists now. It’s just that we seem to have lost a key player.”

“That’s careless, Lady Strathfulton. Very unlike you to lose a key player.” DI Summers wasn’t a particularly confident woman, but the joke she had made genuinely tickled both Fi and Maeve.

“What’s so funny?” Robbie said on re-entering the room, with Roskill and, between them, a rather wobbly Mr Browne.

“Just DI Summers’ sense of humour,” Maeve replied, “but I see you’ve found the mysterious missing assistant manager. Shall I make the introductions?”

Mr Browne proved the perfect chameleon once more. Previously, he had gone from officious to obsequious. Now he tried maudlin in the extreme. DI Summers showed another side to her complex character when she snapped at the man, evidently feeling the stress of another investigation weighing heavily upon her.

“The man is useless,” she breathed between clenched teeth. “I say lock him up and throw away the key, at least until he’s sober.” Quite how they would find the key again once he had regained use of his faculties, Maeve didn’t want to ask. She assumed it was just a figure of speech.

Until PC Campbell actually took out some handcuffs and clapped them on the incoherent assistant manager, before leading him away somewhere.

“Just a minute,” the lawyer in Robbie spoke up, “what exactly are you arresting him for?”

“He’s in charge now, isn’t he?”

“With Mr Campbell dead, yes, I suppose the assistant steps up to take over.”

“Then he’s charged with being drunk in charge of a distillery.”

It was hard for Maeve to keep a straight face. Fi had to leave the room, followed quickly by Roskill, who looked like he was about to burst at any moment.

Robbie also looked fit to explode, but from anger, not amusement, until Maeve pulled him around behind a vat, out of sight of the police officers.

“It will blow over,” she said.

“But the injustice of it…”

“Look at it this way, Robbie, my dear: what does Mr Browne need most of all at this moment?”

“Probably to sleep off the drink and take a lot of water, so his headache isn't so bad when he wakes up.”

“And if he stays here in the office, will he get that?”

“No.”

“Where will he go now? Where will PC Campbell take him?”

“To the local nick, I imagine. Ah, I see what you’re getting at: what better place than a cosy cell to sleep off a heavy drinking session. So, DI Summers is actually doing the poor man a favour.”

“Exactly,” Maeve said, “you see some things have a way of working out.”

“There’s something I would love to work out with you, Maeve.”

“Does it involve kissing behind the vat like two naughty school children?”

“What if it does?”

“Did I say there was anything wrong with that?” She closed her eyes and stood on tiptoes, enjoying every moment of that brief but special encounter.

“There remains a problem,” DI Summers said when Maeve and Robbie came out from behind the vat next door to the murder one.

“What’s that?” Maeve asked, wondering whether she had been away behind the vat for so long that even DI Summers had closed the case and was ready to move on… other than the one remaining problem.

It hadn’t been that long at all, and the case was far from solved, as Maeve was about to learn.

In fact, it was just about to get as complicated as ever these cases could get.

“My problem is that I just asked for all employees to be assembled in the break room and only twelve turned up.”

“What’s wrong with that?” Fi asked.

“Only that there are sixty-three on the list. Yet, when I asked, nobody would give me a straight answer. I can’t conduct enquiries without there being a full assembly of the workforce.”

“No, I see that as a problem,” Maeve replied, “it adds to the mystery and I don’t have an answer right now.”

“There is another issue,” Fi added. “Did you see the words scribbled on the vat where the murder took place?”

Di Summers hadn’t seen the writing, so Fi showed it to her:

tha thu airidh air

“That’s Gaelic, isn’t it?” DI Summers said.

“Yes, and that’s the problem. Despite being in a Gaelic speaking part of the world, we don’t seem to have a sober, intelligible person able to translate it,” Fi said, letting the exasperation get the better of her.

DI Summers didn’t answer. Instead, she beckoned to PC Clarke.

“Clarkie,” she said, “what does this mean?”

He squinted a moment then declared it for what it was:

You deserve it

“You deserve it?”

“Yep, it’s usually said in praise, Lady Strathfulton, but it can be used in anger. In other words…”

“In other words, you get bad things for being a bad person,” Fi interrupted her cousin, the policeman, in her excitement.

“Exactly, Fi, exactly.”

“The question remains, however,” Maeve said, “who deserved what? Is it as simple as a word of condemnation from murderer to victim? Or is it just one part of a complex mystery that we’re just scratching the surface of?”

Chapter Five

“Can I have a moment, please, Lady Strathfulton?”

“Of course, Miss Hamilton. Shall we go outside for a moment?” Formality prevailed when in front of others. 

“Yes, that would be nice, Lady Strathfulton.” Although it was not exactly nice outside with drizzle that couldn’t decide whether to break out in total rain or not. Still, as long as it was undecided, they would be moderately dry and Maeve sensed correctly, that Fi needed some privacy.

“I didn’t know that my cousin spoke Gaelic,” Fi said on the way downstairs and out into the yard at the back of the distillery. “It seems an ominous thing to put on one’s grave. ‘You deserve it’, I mean, it is pretty aggressive.”

“Not as aggressive as murder, of course.” They were outside now, in the oddly shaped, cobbled yard, on which were built several wildly different outbuildings, and off which led several paths, tracks and even one paved road. “This is quite a higgedly-piggedly collection out here, but that isn’t why you asked for a private word, is it now?” It did make sense, however, to take in one’s surroundings, as one never knew when such knowledge may be useful. “Shall we walk down one of the tracks while we talk and see where it leads us to?”

Fi nodded her assent, leaving the choice of track to her friend, the countess.

“It’s always difficult,” she said as Maeve led them around a huge shed that had seen better days, ensuring they were totally out of earshot.

“My dear, what is it that troubles you?” A part of her had been expecting what she feared most of all. Maeve needed her team around her. With Fi’s father fresh out of prison, she imagined the family would want to make a fresh start. That, inevitably, would mean moving somewhere new. The trouble with a place like Strathfulton was that everybody knew everybody’s business.

Maeve had been expecting to receive Fi’s notice for most of the two weeks since her father had returned, albeit in style in the back of Maeve’s Rolls Royce.

“It’s about father,” Fi said, confirming Maeve’s worst fears. She could imagine how the script would run from here on in. She would have to be stoic, pretending great joy at the family decision to move to Edinburgh or New York, the Outer Hebrides or all the way to Australia. It didn’t matter where, because it wouldn’t be Strathfulton.

“How is your father doing?” Was that a delaying tactic? Should she beat straight to the bush? As if a signal, the path they had taken led at that moment to a huge lilac bush.

“We’ll have to beat about the lilac,” Fi said. “You know they should prune this back drastically. I’ll have to come back here late spring next year to supervise the job myself.”

“But won’t you be gone?”

“Gone?”

“Yes, to wherever you’re about to say you’re leaving to.” That’s the point when it clicked with Fi. She stopped and turned to face her employer.

“Maeve, know one thing. I would never leave you.”

Maeve looked blankly at her employee.

“But I thought…”

“You thought wrong, Maeve. First, even if my parents wanted to leave, I would never agree. Second, the last thing in the world they want to do is to go away from Strathfulton. In fact, I suggested it as an option, for the two of them, I mean. I was delighted when they turned it down flat.”

“So, that’s not why you wanted to see me?”

“No, it most certainly is not, Maeve. Actually, I can’t remember what I wanted to say now! Your talk of me leaving has put it totally out of my mind!”

“You started to talk about your father and I thought you were going to tell me about a fresh start in some place where recent events wouldn’t be known.”

“Yes, it comes back to me now, Maeve, and it is about my father’s recent experience. You see, over the last two weeks, he’s spoken a bit about his time at HMP Nay Bother, as it’s known. One story he relayed to mama and me came back to me when we were talking about missing employees. I didn’t want to ‘broadcast’ it, to borrow a term from the wireless, in front of everyone else.”

“I understand. Now tell me about the experience your father told you about.” She didn’t particularly want to hear a prison story, but inside she was dancing with joy that Fi Hamilton, secretary, head gardener and dear friend, was not leaving at all; in fact, had declared herself as staying forever.

“Alright, my father told me about a con the cons used to play. Ha, I like that joke of his! Well, when I heard about the situation with employees in the distillery, it brought to mind his experience. In this case, it centred not on money but on food.”

“I don’t follow you, Fi. Tell me the story in your father’s words and then we can work out the parallels afterwards.”

Fi nodded and took a deep breath as they beat about the lilac bush that, come late spring next year, Fi would be hacking back to its base, or whatever one did with lilac bushes. Then she launched into what was on her mind:

Daddy said they had a clever ruse at the prison at Nay Bother. The prison had a tradition of giving cocoa and biscuits on a Friday night. Apparently, it was funded by a charity called something like Second Chance. Anyway, each Friday evening a group of mainly elderly ladies came into the dining area wheeling three huge urns of sweet cocoa and carrying multiple boxes of biscuits. The deal was you got two biscuits and a big cup of hot chocolate, but not without cost, because there was a price to pay.

That price was to sit down with one of the volunteers and discuss plans for a reformed life once out of prison. The guards set up booths for a little bit of privacy and, generally speaking, they stood back, relaxing some of the usual discipline. 

The prisoners would queue up outside the dining room and each person had five minutes to gulp down their cocoa and talk about their plans. Now, this is where the clever part comes in because they were supposed to return to their cells afterwards, no doubt to contemplate their plans upon release. However, most just joined the back of the queue again and went around again. Daddy believed some people went around five or six times. 

The trick was to get to the front of the queue, even if it meant holding back and letting others go before you. Then you were in pole position to go to a booth you hadn’t been to before. Sometimes you’d get caught and sent out; even then, a few of the more daring prisoners would try it once again, simply by…

“Joining the back of the queue again. Yes, quite ingenious, Fi.” Maeve didn’t ask whether her father had partaken in this ploy, feeling that it wasn’t her business to enquire. “So, you think a similar trick could be happening at the distillery? But how? As far as I know, there’s no cocoa and biscuits distributed on a Friday evening.”

“No, but what there will be is payday every Friday, probably in the afternoon before they go home.”

“My goodness,” Maeve replied, “you mean to say…?”

“Yes, it could well be the same principle at play. How else can one explain 63 people on the payroll and only a dozen bodies on the premises?”

“That’s theft, theft on a huge scale. Why would…?” Maeve didn’t finish her question, because her realisation of what was likely happening blew away her words. 

If this was happening at the distillery, those involved were stealing from her. Not once or twice, but every Friday payday going back who knew how long?

“There’s one way to find out,” Maeve said after the pair had walked in silence for a few minutes.

“You mean…?” Fi seemed reluctant suddenly, her enthusiasm evaporating. 

“Yes, we must stay overnight,” Maeve was busy in planning mode, wanting to get to the truth of any dishonesty. 

“I can’t,” Fi said, much to Maeve’s surprise. Fi was always on for an adventure, so why not now? “I’ve got to um… get back, you see. I mean, I have to get back today because…” 

That’s when Fi broke away from Maeve and ran into the bushes, cracking twigs and stems as she pushed her way through.

Then she was gone completely, leaving Maeve with another puzzle to get to grips with.

Chapter Six

Maeve’s solitary walk back to the distillery was a thoughtful one, with her pace slowing with each step, almost like a schoolgirl knowing that extra Latin prep lay in wait for her the moment she got across the threshold. 

She pondered what could have caused Fi to be upset. Fi was resilient in the extreme, having coped with the death of the brother she adored during the war, the family’s steady decline and then the ultimate with her father being sent to prison. Yet, something had clearly got to her.

Maeve ran back through the conversation, wondering if it was something she had said. She divided their time together into sections, the better to analyse what had been said.

It had started when Fi approached her at the top of the spiral staircase that led from the reception bar below up to the offices above. She had asked to speak privately to her so Maeve had suggested going outside. 

Surely, nothing wrong with that?

Then, Maeve had suggested they explore a bit, a harmless activity, but it was always a good idea to understand one’ surroundings; you never knew when local knowledge might prove helpful. Maeve had commented on that huge lilac bush and Fi had responded with a maintenance plan that she had committed to.

Maeve had appreciated Fi’s interest in anything that grew. Her assessment at that stage was that everything was hunky dory; no sign of any pending problem.

Following that, Fi had launched into the tale about her father’s time in prison and the way the clever prisoners obtained extra rations of cocoa and biscuits. Although it was hard to approve of such behaviour, Maeve had to admit that the initiative the prisoners had displayed was something to admire.

This had led to a discussion about staying on to observe Friday’s payday, and then Fi had disappeared, jumping through the bushes.

“What a fool I am,” Maeve banged her hand across her head, repeating the process in disgust at her insensitivity. “The poor girl has only just got her father back and she’ll be wanting to spend as much time as she can with him. It’s out of the question to stay here. We must, of course, go back. We’ll leave immediately and I’ll send Fi straight home to her parents when we get back. Roskill can take her there immediately.” Talking it over made her feel better about how she had been: insensitive, unthinking, selfish.

Problem solved, or so she thought. Her pace quickened as she got closer to the house. As she crossed over the threshold, however, she ran straight into another problem altogether.

When one has worked on quite a few murder investigations, one becomes somewhat inured to the inevitable gruesome discovery of bodies in unlikely places. She sometimes filled idle moments, ranking them in terms of most to least bizarre final resting places.

Well, at least it was her theory that one became inured to the discovery of dead bodies over time. If Maeve believed it, she was due for a rude awakening. As soon as she stepped into the distillery, she sensed the commotion and knew, instinctively, the source.

The same finishing room where James Campbell had been discovered. She hurried along there, wondering what it could be this time around.

“What’s going on?” she called as soon as she entered the room, not even noticing who was there.

“More bodies.” She swivelled on hearing the voice she knew so well.

“Whose bodies, Robbie?”

“We don’t know, Maeve. DI Summers decided to drain the vat. I think she was looking for clues. Maybe a club or other weapon, because we’ve ascertained that Mr Campbell was struck on the head before being neatly inserted into the vat. They haven’t found a murder weapon, but they did find the remains of several other bodies.”

“Goodness!” Well, what other response could she make to this news? “Who is in charge?” she asked as she looked around and saw no white-suited technical bods who, normally, would be pouring over the collection of bones, making sense of the evident confusion.

“PC Campbell,” Robbie replied, nodding towards the police officer they had met earlier. 

“Excuse me, Mr Campbell,” Maeve called after observing for a moment the total lack of procedures, something that sat badly with her police training. “Can I suggest a different approach?”

PC Campbell turned and stared at the countess.

“Milady,” he said eventually, “can I remind you that this is a police op—” He got no further for DI Summers entered and roared at the young policeman to get some order together, asking what on earth he thought he was doing.

“I thought to collect all the bones together in one place, ma’am,” he replied.

“But you’re playing havoc with the evidence. What value will it have if it's been tampered with before the forensic boys have arrived. What were you thinking of, Campbell?”

The policeman didn’t answer his boss. Instead, he stared at her a moment, face flushing deep crimson. Then he simply walked to the door, removing his helmet as he went. Maeve sensed the symbolism of the helmet removal.

“I quit,” he said, flinging his helmet so it skidded across the floor and, neatly, came to a stop by the feet of DI Summers.

An action he wouldn’t be able to repeat had he practised for months.

Then Maeve watched as the detective inspector did a remarkable thing. She stooped, something quite difficult to manage in her tight skirt. But she managed it, coming back upright with possession of the helmet. She then crossed the floor to the door, handed the helmet back to PC Campbell and said something quietly to him.

Whatever she said, it seemed to work, because PC Campbell placed his helmet back on his head and saluted his boss before leaving the room, still burning red but, presumably, somewhat mollified by whatever his boss had said to him.

Maeve was impressed. Even more so when DI Summers turned to her and, with the tiniest hint of officialdom, suggested she leave the scene and let the professionals get on with the job.

It was no more than she had done a hundred times over during her time with the force.

“Of course, DI Summers. I was just about to gather up the crew and take them off. Naturally, the cry of discovery excited us all and we came to look at the find. Do you know who the body parts belong to?”

“How could we before the forensic scientists get here from Inverness?” she replied, again just over the border into officialdom but remaining far away from being aggressive, or even commanding.

Yet Maeve’s senses were on high alert. This detective inspector was incredibly fragile, flicking through the emotions while grabbing control of some aspects and flailing with others.

Maeve had an answer to her point about ignorance before forensics arrived. She debated discussing it with her, feeling sure she could tackle the subject with a degree of sensitivity. However, coming down against risking the detective inspector’s ire, she thought she would have a quiet word with PC Clarke instead.

He would always listen to her; a little matter of permission to fish on the Fulton River saw to that.

However, she first got distracted by a tug on the arm. It was Fi.

“I’m sorry, Maeve,” she said in the smallest voice Maeve had ever heard from her friend.

“No, Fi, it’s me that needs to apologise. I wasn’t thinking at all.”

They both insisted that they were at fault and their apologies bounced back between them for a few minutes, only broken when Fi smiled and Maeve responded with a laugh.

“We’re going back right now,” Maeve said. “I’ve told Roskill, and Robbie is already with the car.”

“Are you sure, Maeve? I don’t want to break up your investigation.” That struck Maeve as strange, almost as if… well, could it really be?

“Fi, have you changed your mind about going home?”

“No, yes, no, I mean, if you’re alright with going home then that’s absolutely fine with me.” Fi turned and left the room, leaving Maeve completely confused about where she should be.

She was in the middle of a murder mystery, but it was wrapped in a dozen other mysteries, and she would have to clear every one of them to have any chance of solving the core crime.

She was just about to take stock when Fi rushed back in, calling for Maeve to come immediately.

“This is urgent,” she cried, tugging at Maeve’s sleeve in an attempt to get some momentum going.

Chapter Seven

There was little chance of leaving now. Not with DI Summers in the state she was in.

“What’s the matter?” Maeve asked, then immediately thought it a pointless question. Ever on edge, something had pushed her that bit too far; that much Maeve could see immediately. 

Suzy Summers was slumped on the floor of Mr Campbell’s office, head in hands, blubbering solidly. Cyril Clarke stood above her, his eyes focused on his fiancé. When he looked up at Maeve, his expression mirrored Maeve’s confusion, but with something else attached. 

Maeve studied his face the whole time he gazed at her: what was that emotion that twinned so neatly with confusion? She should know; she had seen it often as a police officer, especially when confronting the guilty party.

That was it: guilt; that implied that Clarke could provide some insight into what had happened.

The guilty will always talk, eventually. And PC Cliché Clarke was no exception.

“I told her what’s what,” he said with a level of plaintiveness usually reserved to children who want something so badly from their parents.

“What do you mean, Clarke?” Maeve dropped the title of either PC or Mr, as if she had been transported back into the police and was confronting a troublesome trainee, having to deal firmly with the snotty youngster just out of school.

She felt that she was barely acting that part, nor was Clarke, for that matter.

“I laid it on thick,” he continued with his clichéd run down on events just passed. “You see, it happened like this. I was proceeding about my business of directing the interviewees for… well, for interviewing, milady, and then I got a telegram addressed to the SIO and I went to find Suzy, I mean DI Summers, but on the way to locating said DI Summers, I came across a policeman who criticised my Suzy for not sticking to procedures. Well, I thought about this and doubled back to confront said police officer and…”

“This particular police officer, the one who you had just confronted, was nowhere to be found, despite being somewhere in the distillery, of which fact you were certain,” Maeve interrupted the verbose police officer, aware that they had moved from time being in abundance to everything becoming urgent with an imposter in their midst, interrupted to save a few precious seconds.

Seconds that could make all the difference. 

“Exactly, Lady Strathfulton,” Clarke said, glad that someone else had put in the words of pending shame that he had hesitated to send out into the world.

“Because, Clarke,” Maeve continued, “there’s reason to suspect that the policeman you refer to was not a policeman at all.” Her reasoning went like this. All the policemen had been picked up by DI Summers and PC Clarke on their way here, other than Campbell, who was based in the tiny village of Lower Strathfulton. Hence, they were all known to each other. That meant Clarke would have recognised the man he met in the corridor. 

Unless he was no policeman at all. Shame on Clarke for being slow to realise this. An immediate arrest of the imposter might have closed the case here and now, saving his fiancé much stress and allowing his cousin, Fi Hamilton, to return home.

Assuming, that is, that Fi now wanted to return home. Everything seemed to be up in the air, to use a phrase Clarke would employ.

Maeve looked up and saw that Robbie had entered the room.

“Has DI Summers had an anxiety attack?” he asked, taking in the situation immediately. Of course, Maeve considered, the evidence was laid out plainly for everyone to see.

“Exactly that, sir,” Clarke addressed Robbie, who had evidently decided that they were not leaving the distillery imminently after all. Roskill was right behind him, sliding into the office as if trying desperately to fit in with the big boys, because the little boys didn’t cut the mustard.

Maeve was pleased to have Roskill include himself in this way; he was part of her team and she liked his bold but considered moves, appreciating his perspective on events, while thinking him an excellent driver and a thoroughly good fellow.

“...when she slid to the floor and I thought she was having a seizure or something, Lady Strathfulton.”

Maeve hadn’t been listening to the last part of the narrative, bearing in mind she had ‘hot’ issues of her own to sort out, she didn’t lay blame at her own door.

Goodness, ten minutes with Cliché Clarke and she was expressing her own thoughts in a stream of clichés.

Thinking about her own hot issues, they seemed to be running at the rate of a new mystery a day, except those days, like today, when there were considerably more.

Still, she needed to gain a proper understanding and couldn’t allow herself not to take heed of anything one of the actors in her play came up with.

Actors in a play. She liked that:

The Mystery of the Death in the Distillery

She could just see it headlining in the west end.

“Just recap the last bit, PC Clarke,” she said, promoting him by adding two letters to his name.

Maeve made sure that DI Summers was comfortable, instructing Clarke and Robbie to lift her into Mr Campbell’s big swivel chair behind his desk.

“Fi, a word please,” she then said. The others made this easy by withdrawing, so they had an audience of DI Summers, now asleep on the big chair.

“You realise,” Maeve started, but Fi was determined to lead the conversation.

“Maeve,” she said, “we need to stay here to see this through, what with the police presence being such a disaster. I know I kicked up a selfish fuss about leaving… no, please hear me out… I did want to get back but now I want to stay. I want to get to the bottom of this case and help you solve it. I agree that the police team, as constituted presently, is not up to the job - ah, that’s a good Clarkism, is it not? We have to stay and this is what I suggest we do. We send a telegram, well, Roskill sends a telegram, saying that we have been detained up here and expect to be back on Friday evening, just in time to change for supper.”

“Oh Fi, there’s no need to send a telegram. Don’t you remember that Kat and Angus expected us to be away for the night? That’s why she packed us both a suitcase. The problem we have to face, now, is how to solve this case so we can get back for a busy weekend at home. Now, we need to know what this message for the SIO says.”

“SIO?”

“Police talk for Senior Investigating Officer, DI Summers in this instance. I’m going to read it because I suppose I’m the SIO now, seeing as I’m a retired sergeant, and outrank this bunch of local bobbies.”

“Are you sure, Maeve? You definitely outrank them all?”

“Well, not strictly, but in terms of experience in murder cases most definitely. So, on that basis, I’m taking charge, Fi.”

“Can we send the telegram, please?” Fi asked, telling Maeve that her friend’s concentration was still off-beam. Maeve had just made a major assumption of authority and Fi was more concerned with sending a telegram.

“Is it really that important that you…?” Maeve stopped mid-sentence, then started again. “Just a minute, Fi, you want to warn Kat that we won’t be back until Friday. I assumed it was your parents you were worried about.”

“Oh no, Maeve. My parents are away for a week. A friend offered them a house in Sutherland, so they got the train first thing this morning. They’ll be there by now, probably sitting in front of a roaring fire after walking together until they just can't walk another step. You know, despite all the catastrophes in their life, they’re so in love. I hope one day I’ll find love like that.”

“They’re away? But why then the need to rush back and then the apparent need reversed, so you actually want to stay here and don’t need to hurry back to the castle?”

“Well, it’s sort of embarrassing, Maeve.”

“Tell all to Auntie Maeve. It’s better out at the end of the day. Oh, is that a Clarkism?”

Fi sat on the edge of the desk a moment more, summoning up the courage to come out with what was causing her so much difficulty. Then, she found that courage.

“You know you decided to put me in uniform?” she said.

“Yes, is that…”

“Well, my uniform fitting is tomorrow morning. At first, I thought I had to go to it, with Kit and Kat being so keen on the whole thing, but now I want to put it off. I’m sorry, Maeve.”

“Oh Fi,” Maeve said, “you know I love you dearly. I’ll get Roskill down there straight away. The telegram will be delivered if Roskill has to do so himself.”

Chapter Eight

They were a team again and that’s what mattered, especially with not one crime, but a series of murders to solve. 

After sending Roskill to the post office, Fi, Robbie and Maeve turned their attention to the message sent to the SIO. It turned out to be another telegram:

Forensics delayed STOP Disaster in Wick STOP Hostage situation tension high STOP All forensic capability on standby STOP Proceed on basis no forensic input available STOP We expect progress soonest STOP

“So, we can’t rely on forensics,” Robbie said when Maeve had read the telegram out loud and then passed it to each of them in turn. “I can see why poor DI Summers couldn’t hack the pressure. What do we do now, Maeve?”

Obviously, her team would look to her. The big question was whether, with DI Summers incapacitated, the half-dozen police officers would accept her authority as a retired sergeant. Well, she would just have to see how it went.

“We must seem to be in control,” she replied. “Whatever doubts we may have internally have to stay buried deep within us.”

“I think I can help here,” Robbie said.

“How so?”

“You’re a Justice of the Peace, are you not, Maeve?”

“I am, yes. I sit for three days a month, more if the case load is high. Why’s that relevant?”

“I’m just trying to remember the details of the 1923 Appointment of Special Constables Act in terms of how it deals with your county.”

“I see,” Maeve replied, “does it help that I’m also the Lord Lieutenant for Inverness-shire, which stretches all the way to include the Strathfulton estate?”

“Does it help? Yes, it certainly does. I’d forgotten that. Let me think a moment.” Maeve and Fi did allow him a moment, despite the rising sense of excitement from knowing that Robbie was on to something that would give them the authority they needed.

“How well do you know the Chief Constable?” was the only question he asked during that hopelessly extended moment during which, as Cliché Clarke would have said, ‘they waited with bated breath’.

“Old Bertie?” Maeve replied. “He came to stay last week. Following the solving of the telephone box mystery, he wrote to me and said it was high time we met. I replied with a general invitation and he turned up the next day. We got on like a house on fire.”

“So, you think he’d back you after the fact? I’m thinking of the mechanics of you being re-hired as a police sergeant in order to take control of this investigation while DI Summers is indisposed.”

“He offered me a position as Detective Superintendent, actually, but I had to decline because of my other responsibilities.” 

“Excellent, then consider yourself reinstated. Now, as Lord Lieutenant of Inverness-shire, and as a Commissioner of Supply on the Standing Joint Committee for Inverness-shire, of which committee you are also the chair, being the Lord Lieutenant… Have I lost you here?”

“Yes,” said Fi.

“Definitely, without doubt,” said Maeve.

“Well, it comes down to this: do you think the other members of the Joint Standing Committee would retroactively approve your appointment of a trio of special constables? You see, there’s the thorny issue of a quorum. We need three members of the Standing Joint Committee. We have you as the chair. We have the Chief Constable and we need one other.”

“I think Daddy’s a Commissioner of Supply,” Fi said tentatively.

“Despite…?”

“There’s nothing in law to say a prison sentence precludes a local landowner from serving on the Standing Joint Committee,” Robbie answered the hinted-at question from Maeve. “The only point of concern is whether he still qualifies with regards to having a substantial landholding in Inverness-shire.”

“Oh, we have bags of land in the Outer Hebrides,” Fi replied. “It’s just that it doesn’t produce a lot of income as he keeps letting the crofters get away with reduced rents.”

“Excellent, Fi. No, I don’t mean your father’s lack of income. I was referring to my plan. Here’s how it will work with retrospective authority and backing, owing to the emergency situation we find ourselves in. Maeve is re-appointed as Sergeant… what was your name before?

“Morgan.”

“Sergeant Morgan. Now, as Lord Lieutenant of the county, she can convene a meeting of the Standing Joint Committee and appoint us, plus Roskill when he returns, as Special Constables. Thus, we’re all now part of the Inverness-shire Constabulary.”

It worked like a dream because the local village police constables only really wanted to be told what to do and were happy to leave all initiative to others. Maeve had seen this before during her years in the police in Oxfordshire; some latched on to responsibility and authority, while many were content to follow orders. Robbie explained the whole procedure in a gathering in the vat finishing room, standing next to the pile of bones that had been discovered in the bottom of the drained vat.

He then saluted Maeve in a somewhat over-elaborate fashion and the deal was sealed. Even more so when Fi handed out armbands made from material torn from a curtain in the breakroom. Somehow Fi had managed to get three white stripes stitched onto one armband, which she gave to Maeve with a shy grin.

Maeve, Countess of Strathfulton and Baritone, was now plain Sergeant Morgan again, something she rather liked.

At least for the time being.

“Right,” Maeve said, “to action.” She had given this some frantic thought while Robbie and Roskill were gathering the constables and Fi had disappeared with a handful of dark blue material. She gave a string of commands as part of a full briefing, just as she had been taught to do.

“It’s SMEAC,” she had said to Robbie when he had asked for a preview of what she would say to the forces under her control.

“What on earth is that?”

“It stands for Situation, Mission, Execution, Any Questions and Check Understanding. It’s how they taught briefings when I went through police college. Of course, nobody expected any female officers to have any leadership responsibilities, but I took it seriously.” That thought put another in her mind, despite the fact that she had no time then to dwell on it. The question as to how Suzy Summers had made it all the way to DI would have to wait until the case was solved.

“Just as well you took the training seriously,” Robbie had commented after she had outlined the situation, stated the mission, gone into the details of who was to do what, asked who had any points for clarification and then asked random questions to ensure they had taken it all in.

“Yes,” she replied, “it’s quite fun to be a sergeant again, even though it’s only for a short while. It’s also jolly useful to have a lawyer hanging around, is it not?”

In an active investigation, if things seem static, it most likely means you’ve lost your way and need, urgently, to rethink your approach. With DI Summers backing out, it was a reset in effect and Maeve intended to put some oomph into proceedings. What she didn’t expect was for events to move forward at such a pace.

Just after she had reflected with Robbie on the change of tempo, the door to the finishing room flung open and a rather flabby man strode in.

“Who are you?” he said, piggy dark eyes focusing on Maeve after noting the distinctive armband. He, too, had a form of armband with the clips bank tellers wore to keep their shirts clean. Maeve deduced that he must be an employee of the distillery because he was in shirt-sleeves order, no jacket at all.

“Sergeant Morgan of the Oxfordshire, I mean Inverness-shire Constabulary. And you are, sir?”

“George Riddles at your service, sergeant. With Mr Campbell gone the way we all go, I suppose, and Mr Browne um, shall we say, otherwise engaged, I suppose I am in charge of this little ship as it charts its way. Yes, George Riddles, Company Accountant and Company Secretary for my sins.”

“Well, I must say, it’s rather peculiar I didn’t run into you earlier, Mr Riddles. After all, I’ve been here for a good chunk of the afternoon and it's now getting on a bit.

“Yes, yes, been busy, that’s all, sergeant.”

“What on earth could be more important than an active murder enquiry?”

“Why, the annual stocktake, of course. Where would we be without our stocktakes, I ask you?”

Maeve didn’t have a ready answer to that, although her surprise must have stood out on her face because she saw Mr Riddles’ face set into a deep frown.

Something told her this one might be a whole stocktake full of trouble.

Chapter Nine

Maeve found an old storeroom on the first floor and declared it her crime scene operations room. It had a table, some chairs but not much else. Roskill said it would never do, disappeared and returned a moment later with a cleaning apron around him and a brush and a feather duster. Cracking open the window to let the evening air filter in, he then proceeded to chase all the dust out of the window into the backyard below.

“Thank you, Roskill,” Maeve said, taking up a duster herself. Fi entered with a bucket of warm soapy water and a mop that looked like it might have been new sometime in the last century.

“It will get the worst off the floor,” she said. “All we need now is for Robbie to come in with a tin of polish and we’ll have the Strathfulton Cleaning Company all present and correct.”

“Ah, yes,” replied Maeve with just a part of her mind, the rest dwelling on the brief chat she had had with Mr Riddles. “I’ve given Robbie leave not to partake in humble domestic chores as he’s currently occupied in piecing together the different bones to see how many bodies they might make up.”

What was that word that seemed a perfect fit for Mr Riddles? Complacency? Yes, that was present, but there was something else. It would come to her in a moment.

Roskill had deserted again, but surprised them a few minutes later by wheeling in a large notice board, “to stick ideas on,” he said, so you can keep track of all the possibilities.

“Very good, Roskill, very good.” What was that word again, the one she wanted to link with Mr Riddles?

There was a knock on the doorframe, the door itself deliberately left open to invite all to partake of the investigation. Maeve looked up to see Emma Campbell standing there.

“Hello there,” she said, “what can I do for you?”

“Mary Campbell is here, milady, or should I say, sergeant?”

“Mary Campbell?”

“Yes, eh… sergeant. She’s Mr Campbell’s wife. She doesn’t know about…”

“Of course. Would you mind showing her up? Don’t rush to bring her here. We need time for Miss Hamilton to finish the floor. Then I’ll walk her down to where her husband is lying. Tell me, why are there so many Campbells working here at the distillery?”

“Why, this is Campbell land, well a bit over to the west it is, but there’s no work over there so many of them come into these Cameron lands, although there’s a fair bit of friction between Campbells and Camerons, and then there’s the friction between the different Campbells as well, milady sergeant.” She seemed to have settled on a combined term of address for Maeve, who smiled inwardly at ‘milady sergeant’, thinking it sounded almost medieval in its quaintness.

But her words caused something else to strike her. What was it now?

There’s no work over there so many of them come into these Cameron lands

Cameron was Maeve’s clan, although that sounded ridiculous with her being as Welsh as they come. But she had inherited the land and titles through a Cameron great-grandfather.

That wasn’t it, however:

so many of them come

That was it; Emma Campbell was distancing herself from her Campbell ancestors.

“You say ‘some of them’, but do you not include yourself in that category? After all, you’ve presumably come from the Campbell region to work here.” Maeve wanted to like this young woman but could not ignore the fact that she seemed to have caught her out.

“Oh no, milady sergeant, I’m not a Campbell at all. I’m a MacDonald but I just happened to have married a Campbell. It does happen from time to time, although there’s some as will say, there’s no good will ever come of it. I don’t hold with such tittle tattle. I reckoned, milady sergeant, that I couldn’t hold the fact he was a Campbell against him, seeing as I fell head-over-heels in love with him.”

“Ah, I see, you’re a ‘Mrs Campbell’ and I assumed you were a ‘Miss Campbell’. Now, which Campbell did you marry?”

“Why, you’ve met him, milady sergeant. I’m married to PC Campbell. You know my husband isn’t the brightest spark but he’s got a heart like Jesus and he loves me dearly.”

“Ah, yes, I remember him well. I believe he’s helping Mr Munro with the bones at the moment.”

“Do you think he’ll be long, milady sergeant?” Emma Campbell, neé MacDonald, asked and Maeve immediately picked up on the hint of exasperation in her voice.

“I don’t know, my dear. Do you need him?”

“It’s just that today is our first wedding anniversary and he was going to take me out for our tea.”

“Well, I think we can do something about that. If you run and fetch Mrs Campbell, Mrs Campbell, I’ll look into releasing PC Campbell directly into your care.” 

Maeve wondered whether this particular Campbell would get her convolution of ‘Campbells’ but she clearly did; she bobbed quickly and was gone. Fi trotted off to the finishing room to fetch the husband of one year, exactly, and a few moments later Maeve rose in order to go and meet the wife of the deceased.

At least one of the deceased, for Robbie had slipped into the room while Maeve was waiting to meet the Mrs Campbell of Auclichie origin, and had confirmed that there were at least three more bodies found in the bottom of the vat.

Or the bones of three more, at any rate.

“But, just a minute, Robbie,” Maeve said, thinking back to the tiny bit of chemistry she had studied at school, “won’t the whisky have preserved the bodies rather than finished them off?”

“Yes, you’re spot on there, Sergeant Morgan, as always.”

“Thank you, Special Constable Munro.”

“Except for one thing.”

“That being?”

“It wasn’t whisky in that particular vat. The chamber hadn’t been used for some time due to contamination…”

“Too right, with dead bodies being dumped in there.”

“No, Maeve, that’s my point. You see, we’ve got a rough idea of timing now because that vat was last used for whisky production about six months ago. It was emptied out and, sadly, the whisky had to be disposed of, but then it was filled with acid to try and eliminate the contamination.”

“So, the bodies must have been placed in the vat over the last six months?”

“Exactly, Maeve. If we had forensics available, we could probably tie it down even closer, but there are three, possibly four, dead people who have been shoved in a bath of acid at some point over the last six months.”

“Dead first and then the acid is used to dispose of the evidence, or killed by immersion in acid?” Robbie shrugged as Maeve posed the question, as if to say, ‘over now to the real detective to work on that conundrum’.

As Maeve and Robbie went to meet Mrs Campbell (of Auclichie), Maeve pondered that Robbie’s discovery also meant there was a brain at work behind these crimes. It wasn’t just a case of someone killing in some frenzy and dumping the body. Then, a week or two later, descending into another frenzy, resulting in another body for disposal. 

Somebody had gone to the lengths of contaminating the chamber, making others aware of that contamination, possibly even surreptitiously so that they remained above suspicion. Next, they would empty the tank, refilling it with acid, ostensibly to cleanse it of the contaminating factors. Then, when nobody was looking, they would place the dead bodies inside, either as a job lot or individually, over a period of time.

That had to mean it was someone who knew the operation of the distillery well, even had the authority to step in and give orders without arousing suspicion. That had to narrow it down enormously.

Chapter Ten

Two unpleasant tasks faced them. Not only did they have to inform Mary Campbell of the fact that her husband was no longer of this world, but they also had to witness her seeing what remained - a water-logged lifeless body where once there had been humour, compassion and other fascinating facets of human existence.

Including, no doubt, an intense ability to love.

Not something ever to look forward to. Certainly, in Maeve’s experience, it had never been easy.

Except, this time, it rather was, giving Maeve the distinct impression that the widowed wife was neither shocked nor saddened.

Mary Campbell may once have been pretty, possibly witty, accomplished and amusing too. But not now. She had a veil drawn over her, consisting of intense self control and reserve that Maeve struggled to understand.

Talking of struggling, it came to her at that moment. Just as she concentrated on Mrs Campbell’s character, so Mr Riddles’ personality crystallised before her.

The man was pompous. In fact, he was ridiculously pompous; that was an attribute she had never warmed to. Give her a ‘nasty piece of work’, as Cliché Clarke would call any rough and ready crook-type figure, any day of the week, rather than superciliousness and pomposity.

She, as the new SIO of the case of the multiple deaths in the distillery, would have to sit down and interview said pomposity, something she was not looking forward to doing in the slightest.

But this was not the moment for that. She had to consider Mrs Mary Campbell, rather than the intricacies of George Riddles’ character. The new Widow Campbell would make a fascinating article of study for a psychologist, or whatever those bods were called that looked into the mind.

For instance, did she always react so cooly when her world was being ripped apart?

And was murder so normal that she barely lifted an eyebrow on hearing her husband had gone to an early grave?

At least it would be a grave, now that his body had been discovered; she thought of those poor souls lying in disjointed state at the bottom of the vat full of acid. The fact that Mr Campbell hadn’t reached such a state suggested he had only recently met his end. That fitted with the last sightings, of course.

Mrs Mary Campbell was tall, thin and with a face shaped like a ship’s bows, designed to cut through the waves.

“You don’t seem surprised, Mrs Campbell,” Fi said, hitting the matter straight on the head. Maeve would have turned the subject over and over, but Fi went straight to the heart of the matter.

“The man was a brute,” she replied, but said distantly, as if going over her lines one more time before going out on stage. “But that doesn’t mean I had anything to do with his death, now does it?”

“I wasn’t accusing you, Mrs Campbell. In fact, we’re at a very early stage of our enquiries, madam.” The old form of words, ‘police speak’ as it was termed, was returning to her. Put on an armband with three stripes and her old life, existing before the inheritance, was straight back on centre stage.

Mrs Campbell looked directly at the dead body of her husband, nodded and then confirmed verbally two things:

“That is my husband, James Campbell of Auclichie. Now, I’d like to go home, please.”

“First, madam, we must ask a few questions,” Maeve replied.

“I was with my sewing circle all day. There are over twenty people who can vouch for that.”

“Which day, Mrs Campbell?”

“Today, of course.”

“When did you last see your husband?”

“The day before yesterday, in the evening. He always stays at work for the annual stocktake, you know?”

“But I thought…” Robbie interjected.

“Thank you, Mrs Campbell, that will be all. Can I have someone take you home?”

Afterwards, back in their makeshift operations room, she explained to her trio of special constables that sometimes you needed to take an interrogation in small, bitesize pieces, “checking as you go along.”

“Yes, boss,” said Robbie, doing a silly salute once more.

“We might as well get on with it,” Maeve said, after smiling at Robbie’s antics. They all knew what she referred to, evidenced by Roskill leaving the room and returning a few minutes later with George Riddles in tow.

After some polite formalities, Maeve asked in a matter-of-fact manner when the annual stocktake had taken place.

“Why, today, of course, I thought I’d told you that, Lady Strathfulton.” He seemed to reject her authority as a newly reappointed police sergeant, instead talking to her as if he belonged in her circle.

“Sergeant Morgan, if you don’t mind.” He smiled weakly at that, as if slightly embarrassed to be called to task on the subject.

“You didn’t start last night?”

“No, to get an accurate representation of the state of the company, it’s essential to count on the day. Of course, while completed bottles in the bottling plant are fine, one doesn’t actually count the whisky in the various vats, but one estimates the contents of the tanks from the gauges on the outside. There’s then a complicated formula to get to value.”

Said with such condescension that Maeve felt like demanding he expose the formula to the light of day, demonstrating that she could cope with a dose or two of mathematics. But she held back, thinking this wouldn’t take the investigation any further forward.

Besides, was her understanding and mathematics skill really up to the task?

“Mr Riddles, where do you hail from?” An art of interrogation lay in the subtlety of approach, but also in changes of pace, tone and subject, all designed to throw the other party. Pitching in with questions that suddenly changed the subject was a big part of the technique and it brought a rush of excitement back to Maeve to participate once more.

It was a game.

“I ‘hail’ from Hailsham,” he said, clearly pleased with his little joke. “I transferred up here a few years ago when I applied for this position, got the job hands down, too. Ask Mr… oh, you can’t, can you? Ask Mr Campbell, I was going to say, you see, he said to me that of all the candidates…”

“Mr Riddles,” Robbie asked, too impatient to wait for Mr Pomposity to conclude with his self-congratulation indulgence, “can you comment on the decline in profitability over the last few years? It’s really pretty noticeable, don’t you agree?”

“Well,” he said, stretching back on his chair as if enjoying himself, “do you want the full answer or the condensed version?”

Robbie opted for the full version, clearly fascinated in how the business could watch all its profits evaporate into thin air like alcohol in the distillery if some foolish worker left the lid of the tank off. However, Maeve decided against this, explaining that such a thorough investigation would fare much better in the morning.

“I know it’s late for you police bods,” Mr Riddles said, “but I’m happy to continue for as long as it takes. We’ve got to get to the bottom of this, don’t you agree?”

“No,” Maeve decided, “we’ll continue first thing in the morning, Mr Riddles. I wish you a good night, sir.”

Mr Riddles left the ops room and Maeve began to think about where to stay for the night.

“Oh, that’s all settled,” Fi said when Maeve raised the question. “I asked Roskill to stop at the Lower Strathfulton Hotel after his trip to the post office to send the telegram. He booked some rooms for us all. Well, actually, Maeve, you and I are sharing.”

“That’s fine, Fi, it will make a change to share. I’ve got so much space dedicated to myself at the castle.” She did feel a touch guilty that she had a huge bedroom, a dressing room, her own bathroom and a spacious private sitting room, all tucked away in a corner of the first floor of the castle. And, as she had recently discovered, with a secret passage leading to the hidden apartment on the ground floor that Barry Baritone and Lily Reid had used for the love affair that had resulted in Pudding Reid coming into this world.

“Why stop the questioning?” Robbie wanted to know when they were in the back of the Rolls. “I mean, I think I had the blighter on the run back there. Another ten or twenty minutes and I think I’d have cracked Mr Pompous.”

“Oh, so you’ve drawn the same conclusion as me concerning our friend, Mr Riddles,” Maeve said, then became more serious as she continued her police procedure training for the benefit of her special constables. “Remember what I said about bitesize interrogating? I want to look into this fellow a bit more before we throw more questions at the man. I like to know who I’m dealing with, Robbie, and a word of warning, my dearest.”

“What would that be, sergeant?”

“Just don’t salute me again, my dear. Promise me that, please?”

Chapter Eleven

“What a dump!” Fi said on kicking off her shoes and throwing herself on the bed. “Oh, sorry,” she said, jumping off again and smoothing her skirt, “I should have asked you which bed you wanted, Maeve.”

“I’m fine with either one,” Maeve replied. “Mind you, I’m not exactly impressed with the cleanliness around here.” To make her point, she traced a finger across the bedstead and held it up for her friend to see.

“Quite disgusting.” It was, too. Fi didn’t say anything more but left the bedroom they had been allocated on the top floor amongst the attics of the hotel. Maeve thought she was going to the manager to complain, so straightened her cardigan and followed her.

Only to bump into Fi returning with a roller sweeper, a bucket and mop and one hand clutching a collection of dusters and cloths.

“You don’t share a room with Kat without picking up a few basics of cleaning,” Fi said. “She’s always going on about the best techniques to keep your private rooms absolutely sparkling.”

“She does an excellent job, Fi,” Maeve replied, “here, let me lend a hand. I used to clean my own cottage in Darriby. A sergeant’s wages doesn’t exactly stretch to a fleet of domestics.”

“Same with my family home, except in the case of the Hamiltons, it was the maids refusing to work for no pay. Quite unreasonable of them, I always said.”

They made a passable job of it, managed two baths afterwards in the smelly bathroom at the end of the corridor, having it to themselves as there seemed to be no other guests on the top floor at all. Then, dressed for supper, they descended the stairs, both in elegant evening gowns packed by Kat, who seemed to have an incredible sense for what was required.

They found Robbie in the bar, grumbling.

“No ice,” he said, tilting his glass over and looking ruefully into the pale liquid.

“Shall we go into the dining room?” Maeve asked, thinking maybe this hotel skimped on cleaning and ice, but excelled in all things culinary.

Unfortunately, the food was dire, the service even worse. There weren’t that many guests in the large dining room, but a sultry waiter showed them over to a far corner where several of the overhead bulbs flickered.

“Can we sit where there’s better light, please?”

“Can’t, all reserved.”

“Every table?”

“Every table.” The waiter left, leaving the three of them nursing their lukewarm drinks in glasses that did not look too clean at all. Robbie stood and walked over to the waiter, who had shown them to their table.

Maeve and Fi watched in amazement as the waiter made to leave the dining room after seeing Robbie’s approach.

It was a slight, no two ways about it.

“Excuse me!” Robbie’s voice bellowed across the dining room, causing diners to turn in their seats.

“Yes… sir?” The insolence was like a repeated slap in the face. Remarkably, Robbie kept calm, just putting steel into his voice when asking if it wasn’t too much to see the menus.

“I’ll bring them in a moment. Can’t be everywhere at once now, can I… sir?”

Robbie returned to the table, his face red with fury.

“I’ve a good mind to walk out and drive to the nearest half-decent restaurant,” he fumed.

“I’m too tired,” Maeve replied. “Frankly, I’d prefer to forget supper and just go to bed.”

However, that made Robbie even more determined to receive proper service. As Fi shared his indignance, Maeve went along with it, but her mind worked feverishly on why a business relying on good service for survival would treat their guests so abominably.

Some guests, those on the far side of the dining room, were receiving considerably better service than Lady Strathfulton’s party.

They ordered steak, when they eventually got one greasy menu between them.

“Steak’s off, sir.”

“What will it be, then?” Robbie asked the other two. “I tell you what, I’ll have the pork loin.”

“Pork’s off, sir.”

“Duck?”

“Duck’s off, sir.”

“Perhaps it might be more practical if you said what was available and we selected from that.”

Apparently availability was down to two remaining items: kidneys or tinned beef from Argentina. They went for tinned beef, with Maeve declaring in a loud voice that it happened to be her favourite.

After the waiter had left, Fi burst out with:

“Tinned beef’s off, madam, while we just served the last helping of kidneys.” Her mimicry was spot on, even getting a smile from Robbie.

“Let’s have a confab in the bar,” Maeve said after they had pushed the tinned beef around their plates for a few minutes.

“No ice,” Robbie said, “but I think duty calls.”

“Let’s ask Roskill to join us. He’s really one of the team, you know.”

Fi said she would leave a message at reception for Roskill to come to the bar. Robbie and Maeve moved there, Robbie still complaining about the lack of ice.

They had just settled in with drinks when they heard a huge clatter coming from the main hall. Rushing out, they saw Roskill lying in a heap on the floor.

“What’s happened?” Fi asked, but the question was unnecessary; it was clear that Roskill had taken a tumble and landed at the foot of the stairs.

“Are you alright, Roskill?”

“Where did the bomb come from? Was it a mine?” Roskill seemed confused; who wouldn’t after falling down a full flight of stairs and, presumably, banging his head on something hard as he landed.

“No,” Fi stepped forward and took charge, “you’re not in the army any longer and it isn’t a case of bombs and mines and shells. You work now for Lady Strathfulton, and unfortunately, you took quite the tumble down the stairs. Do you feel any aches and pains? Good, shall we try standing then?” She looked at Maeve and Robbie when Roskill showed no sign of taking in what she was saying. Then, inspiration hit her square on. “Private Roskill,” she said in as commanding voice as she could muster, “I need you to conduct a high danger mission.” Her sharp, military tone got his attention, and she kept it while explaining that the mission objective was to occupy certain seating arrangements in the room opposite.

Which happened to be the bar.

There were scuffs, abrasions and bruises on their way, but no real damage done; at least none that a glass of single malt couldn’t manage to ease, despite the glaring lack of ice.

Robbie returned to the bar a few minutes after the main party.

“I was doing a recce of the ambush site,” he said, latching onto the tone of Fi’s approach.

“What did you find?”

“A sawn through stair runner, the things that are used to keep the carpet in place. That means it was intentional.”

“I don’t recall it being loose when using it before,” Maeve said.

“You mean someone might have deliberately sawn through?”

“I wouldn’t put it past them at this hotel. I mean, this is not a friendly place in the slightest,” Maeve replied, at the same time wondering whether Roskill would have a black eye in the morning. She rather liked the idea of a chauffeur with a ripe black eye; it lent a certain flavour to things, provided, of course, it didn’t hurt too much.

“I think it’s high time we had this out with the manager,” Robbie had calmed down a bit with the prospect of a quiet drink while they discussed the case, but that seemed all lost now. Maeve’s pleas had no effect on his determination to have this out.

“Barman,” he called across from the seats they had taken, “could you please inform the manager that we would like to speak with the manager?” To be fair, it had been a long day, and wasn’t quite over yet.

“You would speak with the manager, would you?”

“If it’s not too much trouble, we rather would.”

“Fire away, sir, fire away.”

“I asked for the manager, man, not the…”

“I am the manager, sir. We have no choice but to double up roles here as we’re so short-staffed.”

“Well, be so good as to come over here. Perhaps you can start by explaining why the hotel is so slipshod. All our rooms were filthy and supper was a catastrophe. Your staff vary on a range between indifferent and downright rude.”

“Might I suggest, sir, that you put that question to the owner?”

“And where might be the owner? Where would I find…”

“Easy, sir, just look to your left and you’ll see your owner right there.”

Robbie looked to his left, but knew already that his eyes would come across Lady Strathfulton, countess and the biggest landowner in these parts.

Chapter Twelve

“Iown this hotel?”

“Along with most of the village, milady.”

“I didn’t know. I’m finding out all sorts about the estate. This is just the latest. Did you know, Robbie?”

Robbie shook his head.

“Mr…?”

“Mr MacDonald, sir, Claran MacDonald.”

“Mr MacDonald, why don’t you grab yourself a drink and bring it over here. We would very much like to understand what the problems are. My name is Robert Munro of Munro, Dunstan and Munro. Our firm acts as attorneys for Lady Strathfulton, and I don’t believe she will object if I say I also act in a business advice capacity for her holdings, but that doesn’t mean I know everything.”

“I’m too busy, sir, so much to do.”

“Surely, a few minutes won’t hurt,” Maeve added to the mix. The man was angry, but why? Was his anger connected to the poor attitude of every single staff member?

“I suppose a few minutes will be alright, but if Mrs MacDonald comes in, I was only picking up spent glasses, right?”

He poured a generous glass of 20-year stuff and sat on the bench seat that held Fi at one end and Roskill at the other. A tall, thin, gangly man, sitting on the bench, he looked like the central fulcrum of an elaborate seesaw.

“It’s like this, milady,” Mr MacDonald’s voice came across as a tremor combined with extreme hesitation.

“Yes?” Maeve said, hoping to instil some confidence in the man.

“Well, we’ve been starved of funds for ever so long now.”

“What do you mean?” Fi asked. “In the absence of a factor, I receive all the requests for funding, but I don’t recall any from the Lower Strathfulton Hotel.”

“There’s good reason for that,” he replied, possibly picking up a little confidence on the way, or was it just the anger talking? “The old earl…”

“Yes?”

“Well, begging your pardon, milady, seeing as he was a relation to you, cousin, I do believe.”

“A distant cousin, don’t be shy of blasting the man, many have done so before, believe you me.” Maeve always felt bad about such comments, because her distant cousin happened to be Lily’s old lover and the father of Pudding, both of whom were very dear to her.

“Well, he had a secretary, a lowlander, you see.” He spat out the word ‘lowlander’ as if that explained everything.

“I see,” said both Fi and Robbie in unison, both clearly accepting his words as total explanation. “You must be referring to Musgrove, Mr MacDonald,” Robbie continued. “I must admit, I never cared for the man. I can’t imagine him being all that sympathetic to a business that clearly needs some loving care and attention.”

“He said if I ever approached the earl again, he’d bury me in the rubble of this hotel.”

“That’s not a nice sentiment, Mr MacDonald, but there’s no earl now, just me as the countess. I moved Mr Musgrove on even before I arrived in Scotland. I met him in London beforehand and took an instinctive dislike to the man. If you want to raise your needs with me, I’d be happy to consider them. In fact, with Mr Munro and Miss Hamilton, my lawyer and secretary, respectively, we’re in a perfect position to consider your requests this very night.”

“But, milady, I heard the estate was bankrupt, driven into the ground by the old earl. And that you were selling up, breaking the estate up into manageable chunks.”

“Far from it, I assure you,” Fi said, “I was going over the quarterly returns the other day and they’re at a record high. As for selling up, Lady Strathfulton couldn’t sell up even if she wanted to. There’s a little matter of entail.”

“Whose tail?”

“No, e-n-t-a-i-l, it’s when the current owner has no say in inheritance matters; it passes automatically to the next of kin. If Lady Strathfulton even wanted to sell, which she doesn’t, Mr Munro would pop his tiresome head up and say ‘no can do’. It’s as simple as that. Is that not the case, Mr Munro?”

“Spot on, except I am, nor ever have been, the slightest bit tiresome.”

While Roskill nursed a second large whisky, the other four set about a business and investment plan, as Robbie rather grandly called it, for the Lower Strathfulton Hotel.

“Let’s recap,” Maeve said when they had lost count of the refills they had got through. Roskill was snoring at the far end of the bench, but Maeve could see the full glory of his magnificent black eye; in fact, it was anything but black, being multi-coloured in the extreme.

“Well, said Fi, we’ve got the roof repairs, the installation of modern bathrooms, the restoration of the ballroom, which, naturally, will lead to a marvellous function to mark its reopening.”

“I’d like to come to that,” Maeve said. “But what shall we do about the gardens?”

“I’d love to lead on that project,” Fi replied.

“Of course you would, but can you afford the time?”

They settled on oversight for Fi, with her having the main say on who the onsite garden restoration manager would be. That led to a pleasant discussion about plans for the twelve acres the hotel stood in.

“Who owns the land around?” Maeve asked, knowing the probable answer.

“You do, Lady Strathfulton. I believe there are three farms this side of wee Loch Fulton and then several more before you hit the road to Strathfulton proper. Why do you ask?”

“Well, this seems to me to be prime riding country. What if we took a few fields over and built some stables so we could offer riding holidays? Families could stay at the hotel and either ride, walk or fish. Perhaps we could have some Highland Games or do archery competitions. With a bit of land, the possibilities are endless.”

They got to the crunch question about how much money this would all cost. Fi and Robbie added it up, mumbling amongst themselves over the different figures. It actually came to a lower figure than Maeve had expected, so she was happy to give consent, especially when Robbie and Fi both nodded enthusiastically.

“I’ll talk to the bank on Monday,” Fi said.

“Might I ask a question?” Mr MacDonald seemed a bag of nerves again. The others were slowing down from exhaustion, but the hotel manager evidently wanted to tie the knot to make things certain. “Is this really likely to happen? There’s so much resentment here, you see. I mean, this investment would be fantastic, but I don’t want to raise people’s hopes when, year after year, all the available money has gone to the distillery and we’ve been starved of cash. I suppose the Campbells were always seen more favourably than us MacDonalds.”

That demanded an explanation and the three Highlanders - Fi, Robbie and Mr MacDonald - were happy to fill her in collectively, all contributing their own areas of expertise. Mr MacDonald spoke of local matters, highlighting something Maeve hadn’t taken in quite yet:

“For as long as anyone can remember, Lady Strathfulton, there’s been intense rivalry between the Campbells at the distillery and the MacDonalds at the hotel. It goes back way before my time.”

“It actually goes back to the Glencoe Massacre over two-hundred years ago,” Robbie added.

“Such a lot of nonsense,” came Fi’s contribution.

“That’s as may be, Miss Hamilton. If I remember correctly, there was a Colonel Hamilton involved on the Campbell side, but let’s not make matters worse than they need be. I don’t want a feud that cuts the village I love in two.”

“Does that explain why there’s so many Campbells at the distillery?” Maeve wanted to know.

To which Mr MacDonald nodded his confirmation.

“We do have a MacDonald that used to work as Chief Accountant, but he…”

“You don’t say? I mean really?” Robbie seemed to gain enormous new energy on learning this. “Is it possible to meet him?”

“Only with the help of a medium, Mr Munro. You see, he died in a dreadful accident three years ago.”

“At work?”

“Yes.”

“You mean in the distillery?”

“Yes.”

“And then they got Mr Riddles in?”

“Exactly. He became great buddies with the Campbell management and, in my opinion, the place went downhill from that moment.”

Chapter Thirteen

Mr MacDonald stood up and made to depart suddenly, saying he had to carry out the lockup procedures for the hotel. That left the four of them alone in the bar, Roskill snoring, but so gently it was little louder than a bumblebee, and almost as rhythmical.

“We’ll need to wake him in order to get him up the stairs to Bedfordshire,” Maeve said, still observing the developing black eye.

They tried calling his name, but no response at all, despite their calls migrating to almost shouts.

“I’ll have to shake him,” Robbie said. Even then, it took a few to get his good eye open.

“I learned to sleep through bombardments in the trenches,” he said as soon as he understood their intention, “I could sleep anywhere, anytime. It’s probably the only useful thing four years in the army taught me. What’s been happening, sir?”

“We’ve been putting together an investment plan for the hotel,” Fi said, allowing a hint of pride to drop into her voice.

Excitement too.

“You know, milady, Miss Hamilton and Mr Munro, I’ve been sound asleep, yet not so, if you see what I mean.”

“You’ve been going over the details of your fall?” Maeve confirmed. “That’s not surprising, given that you took quite the tumble. I’ve been watching your shiner; it’s going to be magnificent in the morning. I dare say Mrs Roskill will have something rare to say about it.”

“Especially, milady, when she understands what these devils were up to. You see, milady, Miss…”

“Roskill, please don’t repeat all our names each time you address us. It’s unbearably tantalising when we all want to know what you’ve got to say. Now, tell us what you mean.”

“That sounds like a direct order, Roskill,” Fi joked, “better do as Field Marshall Strathfulton orders or it’ll be the firing squad at dawn for you.”

“The thing is, I remember tripping down the stairs. I didn’t remember it at first, not straight after the fall, because of the cushens…”

“The what, Roskill?”

“The cushens, sir, they follow a fall, sir.”

“You mean the concussion? Yes, I can see that.” Maeve felt like adding a ‘carry on’ but felt that to be a touch too commanding. Besides, the tone of her voice indicated she was handing the conversation back to him for elaboration.

“But its come back to me now, milady. I remember looking down and seeing the loose runner. I said to myself, ‘that’s a poor thing because I don’t recall that being there before’. It was like when you lift your leg but see a baby mouse, or a newly emerging flower, right at the same time. You’re going to try and alter the projection of your foot to sidestep the mouse or flower, only your brain has already programmed your foot to step out in a particular direction. Well, I couldn’t stop myself stepping on that runner, despite knowing it would end in disaster.”

“What are you saying, Roskill? That it was tampered with?”

“Yes, I do believe it was. Somebody is out to nobble me and I don’t like it, not after surviving so much time in the trenches during the war, just to fall foul of a stair runner rigged as a booby trap.”

“Interesting,” Robbie said, the syllables coming slowly due to the deep thought pattern of his mind. “The overall question has to be, is this connected to the distillery murders?”

“How can it be?” Fi asked. “Also, why such a scattergun approach of cutting through a stair runner? I mean, anybody could have been coming down the stairs at that point?”

“That leads to another question: was whoever did this aiming for the early demise of Roskill, or had they someone else in mind?”

The discussion ended at that point, because Maeve declared it too late at night for detective work.

“It will all look different in the morning,” she said behind her yawn.

The whole world did look different in the morning. Not only their perspective on the investigation, but the weather had turned completely with great sheets of rain moving in, blocking sight beyond the immediate.

“Weather’s back to normal,” Fi said as they were dressing in the morning in their shared room. “Here, Maeve, let me help you with that.”

“It’s incredible,” Maeve replied, “I dressed myself every day from the age of four or five, even the demands of my uniform in the police force, but give me a lady’s maid for a few months and I’ve lost all my own carefully acquired skills.”

“What’s it like to wear a uniform?” Fi asked, “I mean I had one that short period at boarding school, but I kept rejecting it and bunking off in my own clothes.”

“Are you worried about my decision, Fi?”

“A bit, I suppose. Why did you decide I should have one?”

Maeve had never considered that question fully. She realised now it was instinct; the trouble with following instinct is when someone called for an explanation halfway through and you needed to come up with one pronto.

“I don’t…” But that, she knew, wasn’t good enough, “I suppose I thought it would help you fit in and give us a sense of order. Maybe it was a silly suggestion and we should cancel the order.”

“No, Maeve, let’s just see how it works out. It’s your prerogative as my employer, I suppose. Now, are you ready for some breakfast? That’s if we think we can stand another visit to the dreaded dining room. Say, it was a bit noisy last night. Do you think we missed out on a party?”

“I was bushed, Fi, and slept like a log so I wouldn’t know, but, yes, just about brave enough to try for some breakfast now.”

They went downstairs and straight into the other major change.

“It looks different, somehow,” Maeve said, but these were the only words she got out before the changes were sprung on them.

“Good morning, Lady Strathfulton and Miss Hamilton. Welcome to the Lower Strathfulton Hotel Mark II.” They had reached the bottom of the staircase and, there in the main hallway, were what seemed like the entire hotel staff, all lined up and all in their best uniforms.

Somebody must have given a secret signal for, as one, they dipped in either bow or curtsey and said in perfect chorus:

Good morning Lady Strathfulton and Miss Hamilton, and thank you for breathing new life into the hotel you own but is a second home to us.

It was rehearsed but had an honesty about it that Maeve felt deep within her. She glanced over at Fi and saw tears in her young face.

Somehow, overnight, every part of the hotel had been transformed. Not the structure - there were still leaks and peeling paint, but in terms of cleanliness and freshness, every room was like new.

The food, too, was unrecognisable. They enjoyed delicious eggs, sausage and haggis, with porridge and heather honey to start. They drank tea and coffee that tasted as if it had been made with loving care and attention.

Then, on returning to their rooms before leaving for the distillery, they found a team of enthusiastic maids just finishing up.

“Good morning, milady, good morning, Miss Hamilton, good morning, sir,” bounced off all the walls and added genuine cheer to the drab they had experienced the day before.

“It’s remarkable what you’ve achieved,” Robbie said, offering his hand to Claran MacDonald as they took their leave.

“Did you do it all on your own?” Fi asked in wonder.

“No, Miss Hamilton, I had some considerable assistance.”

When pressed, he told them that he was someone high up in their branch of the MacDonald clan and he had also been surprised by the take up when he let it be known that he desired some help at the hotel because he wanted to show the visiting owner what a bunch of MacDonalds could do inside a single September night.

“You did a remarkable job, Mr MacDonald, truly excellent. Please pass on my appreciation to all your many helpers.”

“It’s a pleasure, Lady Strathfulton. Just seeing your face is reward enough.”

Afterwards, in the back of the Rolls driven by a chauffeur with the most distorted and multi-coloured eye imaginable, they tried to turn their minds to the investigation on hand. They all felt the importance of tearing themselves away from their grand hotel project to solve the mystery at the distillery.

Chapter Fourteen

From hotel to distillery took eight minutes exactly. From the bottom of the hotel drive, Roskill turned right and headed along the narrow lane bordered by a large dry-stone wall on one side, heavy, ponderous trees on the other. Beneath the trees, Maeve could see a bed of fir leaves interspersed with cones.

“Stop a minute, please, Roskill. Fi, help me collect some fir cones we can take back to the castle. We need more splendid evergreens and what better way than to plant cones galore.”

It turned into quite an exercise with Fi, Robbie, and Roskill all involved. They stored them inside the luggage compartment at the back of their car, placing them next to the suitcases so they appeared covered in a blanket of cones when one opened the lid of the luggage trunk.

“A few more?” Maeve asked, but Robbie shook his head.

“When you’re nervous about something, the best thing is to face it head on, Maeve. We need to go to the distillery and see how DI Summers is.”

“Do you think she might be better today?”

“I think it’s a fair chance she will, dearest Maeve. You do realise, don’t you, that if she’s feeling up to it, you need to hand back the reins to her?”

“I want to be involved.”

“You’re still a specially appointed police sergeant, sergeant,” Fi pointed out, “so, unless DI Summers sends you away, you’ll still have a role to play.”

Not only had DI Summers recovered, but she had found a reserve of energy to boost her efforts enormously. The only thing that held her back from solving all the mysteries that morning, it seemed to Maeve, was an intense shyness emanating from the embarrassment of her collapse from strain the day before.

“Thank you for taking over, Lady Strathfulton,” she whispered the first moment she had some privacy with Maeve. “Cyril, well, I mean PC Clarke, tells me you appointed yourself sergeant yesterday under advice from Mr Munro.”

“That’s correct, DI Summers. I forget the name of the act he cited, but he assured me it’s all good and on the right side of the law.” Maeve felt certain she was heading for a polite but firm, ‘Thank you, Lady Strathfulton, but I’m back at the helm now and I strongly suggest you go home so we can get on with our investigations.’

“You were sergeant before… um, before…”

“Before I inherited a couple of earldoms and a vast tract of the Scottish countryside. Yes, I was a humble sergeant.”

“And you appointed yourself a sergeant once again? In your capacity as a leading landowner and Lord Lieutenant of Inverness-shire, I mean.”

“That’s correct, DI Summers. I was assured by Mr Munro that this was correct procedure in an event like this.”

“And you did not promote yourself to a more senior position?”

“No, I wouldn’t presume and I just reacted to the immediate need for somebody to be in charge.”

“So, technically, you’re still a sergeant? You haven’t un-appointed yourself?”

“I suppose, technically, I’m still a sergeant.”

“Good,” she said, “because I need all the help I can get. Now, where do we start?”

Where they started was with some organisation. Maeve had noticed that, when DI Summers was in charge, the officers reporting to her tended to mill around.

Milling around would never solve murders.

Maeve called a confab with Fi and DI Summers. She chose the training room because it had a blackboard they could use.

“Girls together,” Fi said, “because girls are the best organisers by far.”

Using pink chalk, because that was the only colour she could find, she drew four lines down the blackboard, creating five columns heading each ones as follows:

Responsibilities

Immediate Priorities

Lines of Enquiry

Suspects

Anything Else

“I think the first thing we need to do is create a command structure and lines for reporting.” Maeve was going back to basics, taught endlessly in the police academy. She went to the Responsibilities column and wrote:

DI Summers - SIO

Acting Sergeant Morgan - Lead Investigator

Special Constable Hamilton - Second Lead Investigator

PC Clarke - Coordination and Liaison Officer

“Well, that’s a start,” she said, placing the chalk on the trainer’s desk at the front of what appeared to be a classroom. “Now, onto the immediate priorities.”

They had an action plan. Now came the delegation. Maeve stepped to the back of the training room so that DI Summers could take centre stage on the podium. Others were called and filtered into the back of the room.

“Special Constables Munro and Roskill, I want you to go to the post office in the village and use the telephone to contact whatever CID is applicable to this place called Hailsham. Find out whatever you can about George Riddles: any criminal record, past employers, family, civil cases, friends, anything you can. Take thorough notes. Is that clear? Good. Now, PC Clarke will stay close to me.” That caused a ripple of amusement across the room, causing both police officers to blush.

“While Hamilton and Morgan go and re-interview Mary Campbell. I’m going to pay a visit to the hotel to go into what happened to Roskill last night, see if it has any connection. I want the rest of you to search for Alasdair Browne, the assistant manager, who seems to have mysteriously disappeared. Where’s PC Campbell, by the way?”

Nobody knew, so a couple of village constables were instructed to enquire of his wife, who should be in the office at any moment.

She correctly asked some questions to check everybody had been paying attention and knew what they were supposed to be doing, then dismissed her team, calling for PC Clarke to come with her.

“It seems like DI Summers is back in the driving seat,” Fi said as they prepared for their trip to see Mrs Mary Campbell, otherwise known as, according to Fi, ‘the coldest fish in a frigid sea.’

“For now,” Maeve replied, “but it’s anybody’s guess as to how long it might last. Do you mind driving, Fi?”

Mrs Mary Campbell had changed since the previous afternoon; changed in a day that seemed full of change, at least as far as Maeve was concerned.

In particular, all semblance of shock and sorrow at her husband’s death had evaporated.

“You’re selling up?” Maeve asked as soon as they were shown into the parlour by a bad-tempered maid-of-all. It wasn’t the cleverest piece of detective work at play: there had been the estate agents erecting a ‘For Sale’ sign at the end of the short drive.

Plus, Mrs Campbell was knee deep in packing boxes.

“Yes,” she replied, “I’m just waiting on the life assurance and then you won’t see me, hear me or smell me because I’ll be miles away! Don’t worry about Mildred, the maid, I mean. She’s in a fury because I’ve just given her a month's notice and work isn’t that easy to come by around here. What can I do for you two now? I see armbands are in play. Does that mean you have some official capacity?”

“Yes,” Fi replied, drawing herself up until she stood taller than Mrs Campbell. “We’re now part of the police. You were probably too upset to notice the armbands yesterday.”

Maeve didn’t correct her friend. She didn’t believe Mrs Campbell had been upset at all. But, she warned herself, being upset or not was no proof of guilt; one must keep an open mind.

However much of an open mind Fi and Maeve kept that morning, however, they made no progress with the woman they were questioning. She seemed to dance just outside their reach, sending facile answers back to their serious questions.

“Well, Mrs Campbell, I think that pretty much wraps things up from our side. While we don’t want to stop your preparations for departure, please be so kind as to inform us before you actually depart, just for our records, you understand?”

“I vote guilty,” Fi said the moment they got back onto the drive.

“I’m not so sure,” Maeve replied thoughtfully. “Let’s get back to the distillery and see what’s going on there.”

Plenty was going on, for as the Rolls purred up the track to the hardstanding at the front of the distillery, they saw a worried-looking Roskill pacing up and down.

“I was waiting for you, milady,” he said the moment Maeve slid out from the front seat. “You see, there’s been another murder.”

Chapter Fifteen

“Who? Where? Why? What with? How?” The questions were bouncing around the place as Roskill led the way up the main stairs, along the corridor that went straight past the main office and to a room at the end. The door was half open, but would not open any further when Roskill pushed at it. Maeve imagined a slumped body on the other side of the door, but, when they squeezed through, she saw it was several crates of whisky that half-barred their way.

The body was under the window of this long, thin, low-ceilinged room, one floor before the attics. Next to it, with a hangdog expression sufficient for any jury to condemn the man, stood a sheepish-looking police officer.

Surely not?

“Um, eh…” she thrashed through her brain to come up with a name for this particular bobbie, “PC Campbell, what are you doing here?”

It took quite a few minutes to get the story out in the open where it belonged. That was mainly because PC Campbell had an extraordinary reluctance to have any part in this particular play. Had there been auditions, he would have fluffed his lines deliberately, just hoping to hear, “Thank you, next,” or whatever directors call when they think someone is hopelessly unsuited to the role they’re trying to fulfil.

But, like it or not, he had little choice but to spill all; very few people would go against the will of a countess, even if it was one born into a pleasant middle-class home in Cardiff and come to the earldoms through a good stint in the police force.

Not that he had a hand in the murder, for the blow to the back of the victim’s head could only be murder, especially with the axe lying beside it, as if someone had suddenly been called in from chopping wood.

“I had to find somewhere to put him yesterday,” he said.

“But didn’t the DI say to lock him up?” Robbie asked.

“Yes, but you see we don’t have a cell here at Lower Strathfulton police house. We’ve never had need of it before.”

“So you locked him in here, drunk as a skunk, as they say across the pond, with several crates of whisky?”

“I… eh… I didn’t know about the whisky, sir.”

“It looks like he was playing skittles with bottles of single malt,” Maeve observed. “Either that or there was quite a fight.” Maeve spread her arms to indicate the broken bottles and puddling pale liquid. “The important thing is to concentrate on what happened to cause this poor man’s death.” She meant it kindly because she had seen the mortification on the young policeman’s face.

As good ‘subordinates’ to the DI, they stood back and carefully examined the scene before them, ascertaining that the axe had done the job, with Maeve also commenting that it was strange that there had been no attempt to hide the murder weapon.

“Perhaps he had intended to take it with him but was surprised by something and had to leave without covering his tracks.”

“Or her tracks,” Robbie said, with emphasis on his ‘her’.

“Who were you thinking of?”

“Our friend, Mary Campbell, of course. I don’t have a motive, but let me know what you think of the following scenario.”

The scenario Robbie outlined was one Maeve had already considered as a possibility.

Considered and then set aside as lacking in several key areas.

Mary Campbell, the coldest fish in a frigid, ice-covered pond, had murdered her husband, sneaking up behind and then bashing him on the head before depositing him in the tank filled with acid. Several questions needed answering: could she have lifted him up without help? If guilty, did she really expect there to be nothing left of his body when the tank was eventually emptied? Also, did she have anything to do with the other bodily remains at the bottom of the tank?

But, sticking with the broad theory for a moment, it was logical that perhaps Mr Browne found out about her murdering her husband. Maybe he was blackmailing her, or maybe he was about to go to the police. Either way, Mary Campbell must have seen a need to end the life of another senior employee of the Strathfulton Distillery.

It wasn’t enough to dispense with the manager, the assistant manager had to go as well.

Still, something didn’t ring true to Maeve. Despite the hardness, barely hidden below the surface, Maeve couldn’t see Mary Campbell as a murderess. True, she had clearly been unhappy and now embraced her new-found freedom. But if every disgruntled wife took the ultimate act with her husband, where would that leave the human population?

Maeve believed the murder of James Campbell of Auclichie would come down to motive.

She just didn’t have the slightest idea what that motive could be.

“We need to bring her in. PC Campbell, take two…”

“Do you really think that’s wise, Detective Inspector?” Maeve broke in. In reply to DI Summers’ blank stare, she explained that, in her experience, it didn’t always pay to jump in with arrests too early. Early action often just acted as advance warning to the culprit that they need to disappear.

“Don’t you think we should discuss this when we have reports back from everyone, including the discussion with Hailsham CID and yours from the hotel?” Maeve asked.

“Yes, I suppose so, just what I was really thinking, sergeant, carry on.”

Maeve could tell she was struggling with something. The detective inspector confirmed this by leaving the room at that point, calling behind her for the others to jump to it with the murder scene analysis and report to her pronto.

Maeve disobeyed the ‘carry on’ instruction and followed her temporary boss out into the corridor, rushing to catch up with her on the stairs. As she arrived at the landing, she noticed Fi right at her heels. She felt glad of her company and turned to give a brief smile to her secretary and head gardener.

“It’s no good, Lady Strathfulton, I can’t manage two big things at once,” Suzy Summers said the moment Maeve caught up with her, as if the confession had long been in preparation and now was allowed to soar.

“The other being?”

“Why, the wedding, of course. You know it’s next Saturday?”

“You mean Saturday week?” Maeve had known, but had forgotten. Today was Friday. For a moment, she had thought the worried lady beside her had been getting married in the morning.

“Exactly. Do you want to know the latest?”

“Yes, please tell us what’s obviously troubling you.”

“I’ve just had a telegram from the hotel in Fort William where we were supposed to be holding the wedding. They’ve had a fire and are having to cancel all bookings in order to concentrate on the refurbishment.”

“That’s too bad,” Fi said with a deep sigh. “What will you do now?”

“I don’t know, Miss Hamilton, I really don’t. I’m at my wits’ end. My cousins and aunts and uncles are all coming over from Canada and now there’s no wedding venue.”

“Fi,” said Maeve, “do you think we might be able to manage?”

“At the castle, you mean?”

“Why not? There are rooms galore and we are almost fully staffed thanks to your hiring efforts.” She didn’t say it, but thanks also to the fact that her extensive landholdings in Scotland made pots of money; the reason why Barry Baritone, her predecessor, had suffered acute financial woe could only be put down to him not knowing where to look.

“And a week to get it all organised. I think that’s plenty of time, Maeve, more than enough, in fact. I, for one, would relish the challenge.” Fi was always quick on the uptake, that being one of the many reasons why Maeve was delighted to have her as an employee and friend.

“Then, if you’re in agreement, Fi, I shall issue an invitation.” Maeve turned to DI Summers with the broadest smile possible to ask her if she would be willing to allow them to hold a ‘wee’ celebration in honour of her marriage to PC Cyril Clarke of the parish of Strathfulton.

“If you’re sure, Lady Strathfulton?” Her developing smile swept away the tears lurking in her eyes.

“I’m sure,” she replied, and the deal was done.

They still had some murders to solve, however, and everybody knew that the wedding preparations would only follow the successful solving of the death in a distillery.

‘Scratch that,’ thought Maeve, ‘we’re dealing with deaths, not one but many. And who knew where the murderer might choose to strike next?’

Chapter Sixteen

“Confab time,” Robbie said, when the six of them had convened back in their ‘operations room’. A slightly sniffy DI Summers sat in the largest chair at the head of the table, a position nobody contested. Despite this, PC Clarke stood by her shoulder, like a guardian angel or a mafia bodyguard, daring anyone to deny her authority.

“What did you two find out?” Fi asked when DI Summers failed to call the meeting to order.

“From Hailsham CID? Well, they don’t have a record of any George Riddles…”

“But he said…”

“However, full marks to a bright desk sergeant who answered our call. He felt something was wrong and spoke to the detective sergeant immediately following our disappointing phone call.”

“I don’t understand, sir,” PC Clarke said. Maeve looked at him and saw both hands hovering inches above DI Summers’ shoulders; it might be a cliché, but this was a man determined to protect his woman, despite the fact that she was several rungs of the ladder more senior than him.

Of course, as a police constable, he was the lowest of the low, the bottom of the pile.

The one who was always sent to make the tea.

“I know,” said DI Summers quite suddenly, “why don’t we have a nice cup of tea? PC Clarke, I’ll take an extra spoon of sugar in mine, just a wee one. It’s been quite the morning and we’re not yet halfway through.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He sounded officially obedient, but Maeve was sure there were deep notes of love in his voice, making a delicious harmony of the most simple of words.

Would she ever know that type of love? She didn’t mean the love she knew all about, that which she shared with Fi, or Pudding, or Lily Reid, Pudding’s mother. She was blessed with that type of love and relished it enormously. Yet, she couldn’t help but wonder about the other type of love; the one that was all-encompassing, intense to the point of ferocity.

The one that you never knew about until it hit you square on and then you wondered how you had ever lived without it.

She had shifted her gaze from the PC Clarke and DI Summers combination to settle firmly on Special Constable Robbie Munro. He looked back at her and she looked down at her feet, filling her mind with the absurdity of a special appointed police sergeant wearing expensive high-heeled shoes that must have cost a month of a sergeant’s salary.

Armed with a teapot and teacups borrowed from the pantry next to the boardroom, they turned their attention to the updates they all had. For some reason, Maeve and Fi went first; perhaps, Maeve thought, because they needed someone to stand up for Mrs Campbell, as she seemed to be the main suspect, with several of the attending police officers itching to clap the handcuffs on. Maeve felt a need to put another perspective to the team.

So, she started with the opposite. Maeve carefully described the shallowness of Mary Campbell, plus her determination to get as far away from Lower Strathfulton as was possible.

“As quickly as poss., too,” Fi added, “but the sergeant and I…”

“The sergeant?”

“Yes, DI Summers, don’t you recall? This morning you reaffirmed the emergency appointment yesterday that Lady Strathfulton decided on when you were… um… temporarily out of action yesterday. The decision was to put Sergeant Morgan (retired) back into action.” Maeve considered that clever of Fi. By splitting her down the middle into Lady Strathfulton of the present and Sergeant Morgan of the recent past, she hoped to distract DI Summers from her fear that Lady Strathfulton, a promising young aristocratic sleuth, might be attempting to take over her case.

The case of the deaths in the distillery.

“Did I?” DI Summers asked after a pause in which the silence was only broken by the very distant sounds of a distillery at work.

At that point, PC Clarke lent over from his now seated position to her right and whispered something in her ear. Maeve was sure his hand moved to grip hers under the table. Then, both hands were purposefully back in plain sight. The tender moment, one of a thousand each day, was over for now.

“So,” Fi said, “where was I? Yes, the sergeant and I both feel that it’s unlikely that Mrs Mary Campbell had anything to do with the deaths at the distillery. She may have had no feelings for her husband, but we can’t see her committing the ultimate crime to rid herself of him.”

“Interesting, Special Constable Hamilton. Now, back to the findings of Roskill and Munro.”

Maeve made a note to herself to watch the detective inspector carefully; her swings between total control and total confusion worried her.

Was DI Summers at all cut out for this type of role? If she concluded not, who did she need to speak to? More to the point, how could this be put to her delicately?

They moved on, then, to the fascinating bit of detective work Special Constables Roskill and Munro had started to unveil before teatime had been declared. They had been dropped at the village post office by DI Summers and PC Clarke on their way to the hotel, and were to make their own way back to the distillery. This they had successfully done, but it was the content of the information they carried with them that astounded.

“It wasn’t us,” Robbie explained modestly, “it was the sharp-eared and quick thinking sergeant at Hailsham police station who thought something wasn’t quite right.”

“Go on,” said Maeve, thinking this had to be just like the cheap detective novels Lady Darriby-Jones consumed as if going out of fashion. Maeve had borrowed one once, concluding after fifty pages that the real thing was much more entertaining.

“Well, we put the phone down, inevitably disappointed not to unearth anything about Mr George Riddles. We were about to leave the post office when…”

“Get on with it, special constable, or you won’t find yourself quite so special anymore.”

“Yes, detective inspector, of course. Straight to the point and no more going round and round the houses as if going to Will’s mother.”

That made Maeve look sharply at Robbie. He was teasing the detective inspector and that wouldn’t do. She glared at him, but then found an under-the-table kick to be that much more effective.

DI Summers and PC Clarke could wallow in every cliché under the sun. They were, after all, proper police officers. Special Constable Munro had to buckle under and do as he was told.

Or face the consequences.

“Right, to the point,” Robbie said, having locked both legs behind his chair to prevent a further assault by the countess. “No sooner did we put down the phone and make to leave the post office, than the blessed thing started chirping back at us. The postmistress answered and handed it straight over to us. It was that highly-skilled desk sergeant from Hailsham police station.”

“And?” Maeve felt like giving him a really ferocious kick at that point.

“There was no one in any part of their records that went by the name of George Riddles.”

“Is that it?”

“No, Maeve, but Sergeant Enterprising did tell us that there was a well-known criminal in their local area that went by the name of Richard George. He asked whether it was possible that Richard George had become George Riddles during his disappearance. And, yes, before you ask, Mr George Riddles-Richard, or whatever his name is or was, had been missing from the Hailsham area for quite some time.”

This took quite some taking-in. Robbie and Roskill answered all the questions put to them as the senior investigating team plunged through the information provided.

“There’s one easy way to determine whether George Riddles and Richard George are the same person,” Maeve said when the questioning started to die down.

“Fingerprints,” Robbie replied, then offered the interesting fact that he had attended dozens of criminal cases as a defence solicitor. “In my experience, it can be enough to sway the jury and that’s a fact.”

“Yes, we’ll do that.” DI Summers seemed to wake and spring into decision mode. “PC…” But she never got any further because of the cries and shouts coming from the main part of the distillery.

All six of them rushed for the stairs, sensing the source of the shouts to be the main finishing room, the scene of James Campbell’s death just twenty-four hours earlier. Fi, the lightest and most nimble, got there first.

“What on earth?” Fi called, her voice shriller than the general cries.

“What are you doing?” Robbie’s voice backed her enquiry, strong strains of incredulity running through his words. “Just you wait until the detective inspector sees what you’ve done.”

Chapter Seventeen

“Ithink you'll find,” George Riddles said in a pompous tone, “that I’m in charge here. With both the manager and the assistant manager unable to show leadership due to their early demises, I do believe the mantle falls upon me. I’d like to remind you that I sit upon the board of the distillery in my capacity as company secretary. I decided it was quite enough time gone by in which production was at a standstill and the employees twiddling their thumbs and starting rumours as to what was going on. I felt it was time to start clearing up and getting operations running normally again. That, I believe, was the correct and responsible decision.”

“Without even asking me, Mr Riddles?”

For a moment, Maeve thought DI Summers was, in her rage, about to add a few incautious words to the end of her sentence, something like:

Without even asking me, Mr Riddles, or whatever your name really is?

But she did not, thankfully. Information about suspects must, Maeve knew, be used sparingly, revelations punched out into the air only when there was something definite the investigating officers hoped to gain from the disclosure.

Thankfully, DI Summers kept her calm, while showing her rage. She railed about Mr Riddles cleaning out the whole finishing room, “all the tanks and everything,” asking how on earth can we search for clues when the evidence has been so disrupted? “What, for that matter,” she added, “will forensics, if they ever manage to get here, make of this clean out? How will they ever do a proper analysis that might lead to the murderer or murderers? Make no mistake, Mr Riddles, this is a serious breach and you'll need to answer to the magistrate for this.”

Maeve, relieved that DI Summers hadn’t revealed too much of their current thinking, decided what's done is done and maybe it would be best to calm matters down. DI Summers was shaking visibly with PC Clark as ever hovering just behind her.

“Let's agree to stop right where we are,” Maeve said. “Let's withdraw and discuss this in a calm and reasonable manner. Mr Riddles, you must see that tampering with evidence, however well meant your actions are, is a serious situation and one which threatens the police investigation seriously. Now we just have to try and re-establish some control, bearing in mind that this is a murder scene and that DI Summers, as the senior investigating officer, has full authority. As the owner of Strathfulton Distillery, I endorse this authority. Furthermore, I ask that all attempts to clean this room, or the vats contained within them, cease immediately.

This worked, at least for the time being. The workers looked between Mr Riddles and Maeve, the ultimate owner and boss, and then the foreman trooped out, followed by all the others.

“Mr Riddles,” DI Summers said, “please make your way up to the operations room where we have a few questions to put to you.”

Mr. Riddles, his perspiring face and bald head glowing a glistening red, stormed out at that point, muttering something about needing to go to the little boys room.

“He will calm down," Fi said, "just give him a few minutes. The important thing has to be to get his fingerprints.”

“Yes,” DI Summers said, “but I’ve just had a thought. How on earth will we get a comparison of the fingerprints?”

“Simple,” said Robbie, when the rest of the party looked blank, “remember I have an aeroplane less than an hour’s drive from here. If we take the prints from Mr Riddles now, and I leave immediately, I should be back by…” It seemed to Maeve that he was running a flight plan through his head. Maeve wondered how long it would take to fly to Croydon Airport. Robbie’s aeroplane was bright and shiny and looked powerful, but she had no idea how quickly it could fly.

“I could be back by tomorrow morning,” he said as things started to slot into his mind. “Yes, before lunch, definitely.”

“Does your kite take passengers?” PC Cliché Clarke asked.

“Yes, why?”

“I think you’ll need an official police presence to gain access to the fingerprints at Hailsham police station. I could go with you, if the detective inspector allowed it.” Maeve recognised that as a brave move; normally Cyril Clarke stuck like a magnet to his fiancé.

“Yes,” DI Summers said, equally bravely, “yes, Clarke, you go, make it official.”

Roskill then had a few words of advice, words that proved to be deeply practical. He coughed to indicate he had something to add to the conversation.

“Yes, Roskill. Did you have something to say?”

“It’s just, milady, that very often at times like these, it’s important to be as quick as possible in getting the results.”

“I agree,” Fi said, “we can’t really move against Mr Riddles without confirmation that he is actually Mr George.”

“Well, then,” Roskill continued, “might I suggest some ways to speed up the process?”

Roskill’s plan was as ingenious as it was simple. It hinged on a meeting in the middle.

“Sir,” he said to Robbie, forgetting that they were strictly equals as special constables, “it will take you an hour to get to Strathfulton where your aeroplane is and start the beauty up, with doing all the checks that need to be done.”

“That’s correct, Roskill.”

“How long will it then take to fly to Croydon aerodrome?”

“I’m working on the basis of four hours, maybe five.”

“Exactly sir, I looked up Hailsham earlier in the road atlas I always keep in the Rolls. It’s actually almost two hours by car from the airport to Hailsham police station, possibly longer if you consider all the tractors on the road at this time of year.”

Robbie confirmed that he had allowed eight hours and then eight hours back again, with an allowance of an hour to check the fingerprints.

“But here’s the thing, sir,” Roskill said, “for the whole of that eight hours of travel time, what are the Hailsham police doing? Twiddling their thumbs while they wait for your arrival, most likely.”

Maeve got it at that moment. Roskill was suggesting that the Hailsham police use that time to travel halfway to an agreed meeting point. This would cut the length of Robbie’s journey considerably.

They would meet at a halfway point. The only question was where? Roskill went to fetch his road atlas from the car, while PC Clarke and Fi went to summon Mr Riddles to get his fingerprints taken.

They settled a few minutes later on meeting at Grantham. Robbie had flown to a crude airfield there before, little more than a field owned by an enthusiastic flyer. He calculated his door-to-door time to be five hours. Roskill went to the main office, where the girls were sitting around speculating as to who amongst them might be the murderer. He returned a few minutes later with some train timetables. From there they worked out that it would take about five hours for a Hailsham based police officer to reach Grantham by train, changing in London.

Maeve then suggested that DI Summers leave for the Lower Strathfulton post office, from where they could make a phone call to the chief constable of the Inverness-shire Constabulary.

“DI Summers, if you could ask him to contact his counterpart in the Sussex Constabulary, there will be no questions asked and a police officer bearing the fingerprints for Mr George will be on their way to Grantham.”

“Yes, Lady Strathfulton, I was just contemplating the very same action myself. I’ll go right away and then return here to resume control of the investigation.” She looked at PC Clarke for a moment, no doubt wondering when she would see her beloved again. PC Clarke, however, seemed preoccupied with the fact that Mr Riddles had not yet turned up for his fingerprinting session.

Nothing is ever easy when you’ve got both feet firmly into a murder investigation.

Mr Riddles did eventually turn up, just not in the best of moods. At first, he refused to cooperate in the absence of a senior police officer.

“I am a sergeant,” Maeve replied.

“Yes, but you’re playing at it, Lady Strathfulton, not doing a very good job of it either, might I add?”

That bit Maeve badly. She informed Mr Riddles that she had spent eight years in the Oxfordshire Constabulary and did, in actual fact, know a thing or two about police work.

Mr Riddles acquiesced at this point, clearly thinking the fight not worth the trouble. He allowed his fingerprints to be taken and then left, still in a sullen mood.

But Maeve felt there was something else, something theatrical she needed to understand. Why kick up such a fuss when all it is going to do is move you higher up the list of suspects? It was as if the chief accountant of Strathfulton Distillery was playing with them.

Almost as if he was enjoying the wild goose chase he was sending them on.

Maeve had a bad feeling about this dash down the country to prove two men were one and the same. It was too late, however, because Roskill had already taken Robbie and PC Clarke to Strathfulton, where Robbie’s aircraft was waiting for them.

Chapter Eighteen

Maeve realised her mistake just after a lunch of beef sandwiches hurriedly put together by Fi in the boardroom pantry.

“The choice of drink is whisky or water,” she said as she passed out three plates and then put a mound of beef sandwiches on the table between them all.

“Water while we’re on duty,” Maeve said and nobody objected to her decision.

They were a reduced party, anyway, with the three men away on their dash to Grantham. DI Summers had reported that the Chief Constable had understood almost immediately, “at least,” she told Maeve, “when I mentioned your name.”

“That’s the value of rank in our society,” Maeve replied.

“No, Lady Strathfulton, I have to disagree with you there. It’s actually because of your reputation as a detective. I’d go as far as to say the Chief Constable doesn’t care two hoots for whether someone sports a title. He always says it’s the inner person that counts.”

“That’s very nice of you to say that, DI Summers.”

“Well, it’s not much compared to what you’ve done for me. You know, I’m not really cut out for being a detective.”

“What else would you do?” Maeve asked.

“Well, that’s the thing,” she replied, talking with her mouth full of stringy beef, so that Maeve had to look away at the early autumn scene out of the window. “I just don’t know what I would do. I have to find something because Inverness-shire Constabulary doesn’t allow married females in its ranks.”

“What are you good at?” Maeve asked again, still looking out of the window at the thick trees that surrounded the distillery. She would have liked to have explored the woods. But she doubted there would be time on this trip.

“Well, let me see, Lady Strathfulton. I’m good with animals and I love the countryside. I like gardening but can’t ever remember the names of the flowers and bushes. It doesn’t amount to much, does it?”

Surprisingly, Fi took over at that point, although she waited until her mouth was empty, signalling that she had something to say by raising her hand like a schoolgirl.

“Sorry,” Fi said eventually, “I just have to butt in there, because it seems to me that you have a lot to offer. It’s just that maybe the police force isn’t quite you. Having said that, you’ve done extremely well to reach detective inspector, I must say.”

“That’s kind of you, Miss Hamilton, but do you want a list of what I’m not so good at?” She didn’t wait for an answer to her question. Instead, she just launched in with it, listing organisation, leading people, mathematics, public speaking and several more.

All of which went over Maeve’s head, not because she wasn’t interested, but because she was working on an idea.

It could work, except she had delegated that job to Fi. That meant she would have to talk to Fi about it first and accept whatever her decision…

And that’s when she realised her mistake.

“DI Summers,” she said, swallowing a large morsel of beef so she might put the point to the detective a moment earlier, “you never gave an account of your time at the hotel.”

“What hotel? I promise we never stayed in a hotel, not together together, at least, if you see what I mean. I wouldn’t do that, not before being married…”

She had hit a raw nerve, although that had not been the direction of Maeve’s enquiry.

“No,” she laughed, “I wasn’t questioning your morals in the slightest, DI Summers. I was referring to your visit to Claran MacDonald at the Lower Strathfulton Hotel. Do you remember I stayed there last night with my party and poor old Roskill almost came a cropper when somebody removed the gripper rod on the stairs. That’s why he’s got the black eye.”

“Yes, yes, of course. I knew all that. I was just trying to be a bit more light-hearted, that’s all.”

She felt like picking up DI Summers and shaking the truth out of her. A couple of practicalities stood in the way: There was the simple fact that the inspector was much bigger than Maeve—strong and solid, and not someone she could easily budge. Secondly, this poor lady needed kind hands to lead her gently to her life’s purpose, rather than have that purpose shaken out of her while she hung upside down, clinging to anything.

But first she owed it to Fi to talk to her first.

“So, DI Summers, what did you find at the hotel?”

“Ah, yes, the hotel here in Lower Strathfulton. Well, here it is. I proceeded to the hotel in the company of…”

She paused. Was that a sudden thought for the man who she wanted to spend the rest of her life with? Who, by now would be sitting next to Robbie as they flew recklessly fast through the sky, his heart probably jumping all over the place?

“Yes?” Fi was interested in finding out what had happened as well. After all, somebody had made an attempt to end Roskill’s life; that had to mean some connection with the distillery deaths, didn’t it?

“Um… we… we met with Claran MacDonald and…” She seemed deep in thought. Perhaps, Maeve thought, her earlier hesitation had not been about Clarke at all. Maybe she was filtering facts through her mind, trying to work out what had happened.

“Yes, DI Summers?” Fi tried once more.

“Bad sort,” came the reply, “still processing, will let you know. Claran MacDonald and…”

At that moment, there was a knock on the door. Fi jumped up to open it.

“Mrs Campbell,” she said, seeing the younger Mrs Campbell standing in the doorway. It made Maeve think of the silly mistake her husband, PC Campbell, had made by locking Alasdair Browne, a drunk, in a room containing three or four crates of the finest single malt ever produced.

Everyone made mistakes. Sometimes, Maeve felt, you could string together a life just from the series of mistakes that littered it. Strangely, that made Maeve feel better; probably because every mistake has the seed of learning within it.

And seeds are made of hope.

Emma Campbell had ostensibly come to remove the lunch things. However, the real reason soon came out, as if Emma had volunteered for the task of clearing up so that she might have the shade of a chance of bringing up what she wanted to discuss.

She gathered the plates onto her tray. Her voice was little more than a whisper as she said, “Would you like some coffee? By the way, I thought you should know I was attacked this morning.”

It took Maeve half way through a thank you for the coffee idea before the rest of the sentence dawned on her.

“Attacked?”

“Yes, Lady Strathfulton. I was walking to work when a great big hand grabbed me, well, an arm, actually, around my throat. I panicked and tried to cry out, but his arm was tight around me and I could only squirm and squeal like a pig.”

“What happened next?” DI Summers was all attention now, as if a scientist had developed a theory everyone had ignored for the longest time. Then, suddenly, the theory made sense and people everywhere started looking.

“Someone came around the corner, where the high street meets the lane to the distillery. My captor threw me down to the ground and fled. By the time I recovered my wits, he had vanished completely.”

“Who came around the corner?”

“I couldn’t see. I didn’t have my glasses on, you see. I’m blind as a bat without me glasses.”

“Do you feel unsafe?” Fi asked. When the girl nodded, Fi followed up with whether there was anyone she could stay with away from the area.”

“There’s my nan, over on Harris,” she said, brightening a bit at that thought. “I could ask Mr…”

“No, don’t ask, just go, Emma,” Maeve said, quite firmly. “But before you head for Harris, perhaps you could show me around the grounds for a few minutes? I would love to stretch my legs for a few moments. You don’t mind, do you, DI Summers? You were just going to interview the other staff members and it might be better if I’m not around, seeing as I am their employer.”

DI Summers neither confirmed or denied the request, but Fi motioned for her to go, mouthing that she would take care of matters at home base.

Emma then led Maeve out the back door, asking her what type of thing she wished to see.

“Oh, anything,” she replied, “I just need time to think and I do that best outdoors and with someone who doesn’t talk nineteen to the dozen.”

“I think I can fit that requirement, milady,” Emma said with a grin.

Maeve replied, but slightly on the mechanical side of things, because she was already deep in thought, several conflicting thoughts competing for processing space within her mind.

She was in her element, loving every second of it. She had a murderer to uncover and suddenly felt she was making some progress.

At long last.

Chapter Nineteen

Emma led the pair of them down a grassy path where the brambles hosted huge blackberries. Every so often, she would skip ahead and pick a few, holding them out in her hand for Maeve to try one.

She refused the first few times, but then couldn’t resist the juiciness and the shiny deep purple as they lay in Emma’s pale hand.

“What time is the pay given out, Emma?” Maeve wanted the fresh air, but she still had a few things to ask about, especially if they were to follow up on the enquiries Robbie had started concerning the deteriorating financial position of the distillery.

“Every Friday, milady, just before we go home, milady.”

“And what time would that be?”

“We go home at six, milady, so that would be when the pay bell goes, milady, at ten minutes to the hour, milady.”

“Emma, you don’t need to litter your sentences with miladies. It’s quite enough once in a while.

“Yes, milady, of course, milady.” When she realised what she had done, she broke out into a grin. That was the breakthrough Maeve had been hoping for.

“And what about Saturday work?” Maeve asked. Emma replied that Saturdays were just a half day; they always finished by lunchtime.

“Do you enjoy working here, Emma?”

“Oh yes, I do so love it. The pay is not bad, but what I really love is the sense that I’m helping in a very small way to create something that is truly wonderful. Did you know that every Friday Mr Campbell the manager gives us a little glass of whiskey as we collect our pay. Oh, but that won’t be happening now.”

“Well,” Maeve replied, “I think that's quite a wonderful thing to do. It’s the sort of tradition that’s well worth continuing as far as I’m concerned. Tell me, Emma, are you sorry that he's gone, Mr Campbell, I mean?” Maeve recognised what she was doing - investigation and experimentation in one cup. She was feeling her way, letting one answer lead naturally to the next question.

She really wanted to know what made the distillery work. Not the ingredients of the Scotch, but what gave it a heart.

“I cried, you know, milady, when I heard it. He’s not kin, of course, not even to me husband, but he was a good man and I miss him a lot.” She danced ahead once more, coming back with a couple of apples as they skirted an old orchard. “I am sorry for Mr Campbell,” she said, “but I also wonder who's going to take over.”

That primed Maeve to ask an important question: who did Emma think should take over?

“Oh, eh… well, I rightly don’t know, milady.”

An interesting answer, thought Maeve, making it worth probing a little more.

Eventually, Emma came out with her opinion, saying she had a cousin. “He had been fired, you see, and now he works at the hotel. That's where most of the MacDonalds work. It’s Campbells at the distillery and the MacDonalds at the hotel.”

“I forgot that you were a MacDonald until you married young Mr Campbell, the policeman.”

“Is he in terrible trouble, milady?”

“I don’t think so.” Maeve thought of the mess stemming from DI Summers downwards. It was unlikely his error of judgement would ever come to light given such utter disorganisation. “At least, not if he learns from it and thinks hard before taking such unusual actions again. It’s not the making of mistakes that matters so much, Emma, as the repeating of them.”

Maeve felt that statement should win an award for its astuteness. Then she looked at Emma’s happy face and felt it had enough reward bound up in it already.

It seemed the distillery grounds were extensive. Largely wooded, with some impressively large, and presumably ancient trees, there were dozens of paths and tracks through it, making it quite the hideaway. As Maeve walked, a plan started to form in her head. She looked at her pocket watch. It was still early, a few minutes before one o’clock. She hadn’t checked the time when Roskill had driven off with Robbie and PC Clarke in the back, but she thought they must have reached the aeroplane and be up in the sky now. She had only once ever flown in an aeroplane, that being when Robbie had taken her and Fi from Inverness down to Stirling. She had decided after that trip to follow a foot on the ground policy, although she knew that Fi had loved it.

Her mind was drifting when she needed to focus.

“Emma, what do you do at the distillery?”

“Oh, I’m what’s called a dogsbody, milady. I do anything people want me to do. Sometimes Mr Riddles has me checking invoices to deliveries. Often, I work behind the bar when visitors come. Other times I help clean out the barrels or the vats. But, milady, I said to Mr Riddles, it wasn’t right to scrub out those vats in the finishing room. My husband was cross with him, too, but he wouldn’t stop. He just kept saying he was in charge and we were all to get on with it. Well, I mentioned this to my husband when I saw him at break time and it was he that marched straight to tell about it.”

“Well, that’s a very good thing he did. Despite all the heavy cleaning, we might still be able to salvage some clues, if only forensics ever got here.”

They had walked as far as the Fulton river, the water from which contributed to the distinctive taste of Strathfulton Single Malt. This marked the halfway point, but already Maeve’s thinking had moved on significantly. She had a few more questions to ask; she would space these out during the walk back. First, they picked up some flat, thin stones and skimmed them across the river.

“Six bounces,” Emma exclaimed, “that’s incredible. How do you do it?”

“Long practice with my brothers as children.”

“You’ve got brothers? That’s nice. I’m an only child, but… why are you crying, milady?”

“I was the baby of the family,” Maeve replied. “I had three brothers, but two died during the war and the third died on Armistice Day. He didn’t have a scratch all through the war. Then, he took a bullet in his arm in October 1918. The wound should have healed simply, but it got infected and he passed away on 11th November 1918.”

There was no answer to that, so they walked in silence. Except Emma did answer in a sort of way because a few minutes later her hand slipped into Maeve’s. It remained there throughout the walk back up to the distillery.

“Who hands out the pay packets?” Maeve had almost forgotten the last vital question.

“Mr Riddles supervises the pay packets, milady, but Mr Campbell always signed the chit for the whisky.”

“I see.” What she also saw was that this was a good place to work, ordinarily. When bodies weren’t being found in vats of acid or slumped against the window of an upstairs locked room.

She had a plan almost formulated in her mind as they crossed the courtyard, honing in on their task of returning to whatever duties were decided for them that early afternoon.

“That’s funny,” Emma said when they reached the back door. “It’s locked. We must have accidentally locked it on our way out. We’ll have to walk around to the front.”

“Can’t we bang on the door until someone comes to let us in?” Maeve asked.

“Nobody will hear us, milady. They’re all as deaf as a doorpost.”

They walked around towards the front of the large building. Maeve looked again at her watch; ten minutes to two. It was time to start her plan swinging into action. Roskill would be back soon; he was a key part of it, so that was good. Two o’clock to six o’clock gave her four hours. Plenty of time to help interview the rest of the staff and then to explain her plan to DI Summers.

She was staking everything on this plan of hers, despite the fact that it wasn’t yet finalised.

They reached the front of the house to see a police car, squealing away as it rushed down the drive. Fi was there at the top of the stairs.

“What happened, Fi?”

“She wouldn’t listen, Maeve. She just refused to listen.”

“Where’s she gone?”

“She’s gone to the hotel, Maeve, and, before you ask, she hasn’t gone to lie down for a few moments.”

“Why then?”

“Only to arrest Claran MacDonald, and “as many of those rat bags as we find.”

Chapter Twenty

Maeve stared as two police cars roared down the drive and disappeared onto the lane. The sirens started at that moment, announcing the arresting officers driving like fury for the hotel.

“MacDonald?” Maeve said, not managing much else. “MacDonald?”

“My uncle,” said Emma Campbell, letting go of where she had been gripping Maeve’s arm and running with incredible speed across the gravel towards the gate.

It was easy to forget that she was a MacDonald by birth; even these days, Maeve considered, not many would think of a MacDonald marrying a Campbell. There was just too much bad blood between the two clans, making cosying up seem a little odd.

Yet here was a young couple bucking the trend.

“No, Emma,” Fi called after her, launching herself towards the distraught young woman. “There’s a better way to manage this. Where’s your husband, I wonder?”

“He was guarding the finishing room earlier,” Maeve said. “What’s your plan, Fi?” The actions of DI Summers were certainly putting her own plan into a state of shambles, so maybe Fi had some ideas that could remedy the situation.

And quickly, because her plan rested on a period of yawn-provoking tedium, and the detective inspector racing off to the hotel was anything but leaning towards the boring.

“Emma, please stay with the countess while I get your husband. Then we’ll need a vehicle as Roskill isn’t back yet.”

“There’s the delivery van, Miss Hamilton,” Emma replied, not the slightest out of breath despite her hundred-yard dash towards the gate, “but it’s pretty ropey and smelly for two ladies to travel in.”

“I’m sure it’ll be fine,” Maeve said, impressed by both of their quick thinking.

Which is why, seven minutes after the two police cars screeched up the hotel drive, a shabby old van with faded lettering below a coronet to indicate the Earldom of Strathfulton, edged up the same route and shuddered to a halt outside the hotel front door. Four people tumbled out: Maeve, Fi, Emma and Emma’s husband, PC Campbell.

Given their means of transport, Maeve half-expected to be turned away by the hotel staff, told firmly to go around to the kitchen door and be snappy about it.

Instead, there was no one at the door to either greet them or send them around the back. As they entered the hotel, the reason for the mass desertion of their posts became obvious. There was a huge commotion going on within.

There’s a rule about noise and humans, very similar to light and insects, or magnets and iron filings:

Start a ruckus and you’ll soon gather a crowd.

The bar was the scene of all the action, with an outer circle of guests and staff and, just like Stonehenge, an inner circle too, but this one made up of rather animated police officers rather than immovable stones.

In the centre, just where the sacrificial altar might once have been, stood Claran MacDonald, clearly in some distress.

“You can’t take me away. I’ve done nothing wrong.”

Mr MacDonald’s footwork was neat, enabling him to stay well away from whichever officer moved forward from the circle in the vain hope of ensnaring who they held to be their prime suspect.

“DI Summers,” Maeve instinctively went with the formality so common in the police, “Sergeant Morgan reporting for duty, ma’am.”

“Ah, Sergeant Morgan…”

“Ma’am, may I please have a word?”

“Now?”

“Now, if it pleases you, detective inspector.”

Strangely, it actually did please DI Summers. She threw a ‘carry on’ over her shoulder, then stopped at the door from the bar to the front hall, and amended her order.

“Hold steady until I get back. Nobody move.” Did she really expect the whole contingent in the bar to stay stick still until she returned to pick up the reins again?

They went across the hall to the deserted dining room.

“Well, sergeant?” There was a wild look in her eyes that Maeve hadn’t seen before, not even when things were going disastrously wrong for this quite unsuitable police detective.

Not for the first time, Maeve wondered how she had ever got into this senior position. She had a plan with regards to the detective inspector and her future, but she had to talk to Fi first.

Well, before even that, she had some murders to solve, because it was clear as day that DI Summers wasn’t going to manage to crack the series of deaths in the distillery.

“Suzy, I do think we’re taking the wrong road here,” she started, placing a tiny emphasis on the ‘we’.

Also, a hand on that of the detective inspector.

“I thought I’d cracked it,” she said. “You see, when it clicked what happened with young Emma Campbell being attacked, following on from James Campbell being the first death. I thought it had to be a resurrection of the Campbell and MacDonald feud. These things linger, don’t you know?”

Maeve had to say it, although a big part of her didn’t want to be responsible for popping the balloon.

“Suzy, Emma was born a MacDonald.”

“What?”

“MacDonald is her maiden name. She married a Campbell, you see. Claran MacDonald, the hotel manager, is her uncle.”

“But…”

There were no buts to it as Maeve watched Suzy Summers’ face crumble.

“What do we do now?”

Maeve’s over large heart went out to the detective inspector at that moment. She itched to tell her of the plan for her future, but couldn’t, not until she had spoken to Fi about it. Because even a countess has rules to follow in order not to upset those around her.

And first things first, she had a murderer to catch.

“Here’s what we’ll do,” Maeve said. “We withdraw tactfully, Suzy. I know, you can say new evidence has come to light and you need to concentrate on that, need to redirect the investigation. You’ll be back shortly; you see, that will make them think they’re still on the hook. Then, when we find the real murderer, this little issue will be lost in the congratulations.”

“Alright, Sergeant Morgan, I’m game for that, but the question remains, how…”

“How do we find the murderer? I’ve got a feeling about that, if you want to listen to my rough plan. It’s actually very rough and very much in need of your wisdom.”

“My wisdom…?”

“Yes, gained from your experience in the field. Oh, I thought you knew, Lady Strathfulton. I was in the office in Edinburgh for most of my career. My first promotion was into central records, then, when I made inspector, I was working on a committee looking at policing in the future. You know the sort of thing, how technology is making a policeman’s lot both easier and harder. We were looking at bringing in radios to talk amongst ourselves. It’s quite fascinating, actually.”

Yes, thought Maeve, but a million miles from real policing.

Maeve had learned well from her lazy boss in the Oxfordshire Constabulary. DCI Rory ‘Rude’ Manners had been unable to tolerate any briefing lasting longer than a few minutes. She had learned the hard way to get the main points across in as few words as possible. Thus, she managed to get the gist of her plan across to DI Summers, who clearly surprising herself, came up with a few helpful comments, helping Maeve further develop her ideas.

“Right, time to face the troops,” Maeve said. “Remember, stay calm and confident, Suzy.”

It worked like a dream and five minutes later, with Mr MacDonald asked to come to the tiny Lower Strathfulton police station in the morning, if only to receive an apology from DI Summers in private, the group of policemen, plus Emma, Fi and Maeve were piling into the two police cars and the rickety delivery van, which Fi was insistent upon driving. But, first, DI Summers had a question to put to Emma.

“Tell me, Mrs Campbell, why did you marry a Campbell? I heard it was still daggers drawn between the two clans. I’m a lowlander through and through, so never have really understood the Highland ways.”

“Well, miss, it sort of is and isn’t, if you see what I mean. Well, it’s more like love-hate, or is that hate-love? It happens quite a lot, you know. Uncle Clary is married to a Campbell, although she’s an Auclichie Campbell, just like Mr James was. They’re like a different breed, you know.

“Mr MacDonald is married?” DI Summers said, “our enquiries indicated he was single.”

“Well, Auntie Margaret disappeared, didn’t she just?”

“How did she disappear?” Fi asked. “I mean, when and who saw her last?”

“I don’t know, Miss Hamilton. I was a wee girl at the time and Uncle Clary won’t talk about it.”

“Say that again, Emma, will you?” Maeve asked, as the police officers rushed to hold the doors open for the ladies.

“Which bit?”

“About your uncle.”

“That Uncle Clary won’t talk about it, that’s all. Why? What does it matter?”

Maeve replied that she didn’t know for sure. In saying that, she was telling the truth.

Suddenly, just as she thought she saw a way through this case, Emma’s words had thrown her straight back into confusion.

Chapter Twenty-One

No sirens sounded on the return journey to the distillery, a ponderous mood descending upon the police officers present. In the delivery van, Fi crunched the gears horribly, leaving a strange burning smell every time she pushed on the brake pedal. But Maeve could have been floating on a royal barge for all the notice she took of the journey, such was her level of distraction.

Even the presence of Roskill coming up the drive in her new Rolls Royce as they climbed out of the old boneshaker of a delivery van, didn’t return her to a normal state of attentiveness; not at first, at least.

“Milady,” Roskill bowed, nothing elaborate, just a tipping of the head in Maeve’s direction, while bringing his feet together. “I bring news that Mr Munro and PC Clarke have left for their rendezvous in Grantham. They should be arriving in two hours’ time, milady.”

She nodded, about to say something facile, such as ‘good show, Roskill, carry on, man, carry on’, but she pulled herself up short at the last moment.

She owed more to Roskill than that, much more.

“Thank you, Roskill. Were they in good spirits when they took off?”

“They both seemed in good spirits, milady. Excited even, a little like boys being selected for a top secret mission is the impression I got, milady.”

“Excellent, Roskill,” she said, now fully back in the present and evidencing it with her next words. “That leaves two questions for you.”

“Milady?”

“First, did they give you a rendezvous time for meeting with the chap from Hailsham CID?”

“Well, milady, they did. In fact, they gave a string of ETAs, milady.”

“ETAs?” Fi asked.

“Estimated Time of Arrival,” Maeve said, “it’s a phrase they used in the police quite a lot, in the army too, I believe.”

“That’s correct, milady, when I was in the army…”

“What are the ETAs, Roskill?” Maeve interrupted, not wanting another long diversion into Roskill’s wartime activities, not at that moment, anyway.

“Yes, of course, milady. First one was touchdown Grantham 1430, milady.”

Maeve looked at her pocket watch and commented that that was in less than twenty minutes.

“Yes, milady. Meeting with Hailsham CID officer tentatively scheduled for 1500, milady, after seeing a man about fuelling up the aeroplane. That means we can expect a telegram around 1515. Then it’s ETD Grantham…”

“That must be Estimated Time of Departure,” Fi interrupted, to which Maeve and Roskill nodded.

“ETD Grantham 1530, so I said I would plan on meeting them back at Strathfulton around 1830, making the final ETA here at the distillery to be approx. 1930, milady.”

“Very good, Roskill, very good indeed.”

“And the second question, milady?”

“Oh yes, now this one is of vital national importance, Roskill. Are you ready for it?”

“As ready as I’ll ever be, milady.” Roskill stood about three inches taller, bracing himself like a mast before the storm.

“Did you manage to get some lunch into yourself, Roskill?”

“Oh yes, milady. I stopped by Mrs Roskill and she just happened to have a cottage pie cooking. The wife makes the best cottage pie in the country, milady.”

As they walked back into the ops room Maeve and Fi had set up in the distillery, Maeve’s mind returned to her badly mauled plan for later that afternoon. The casual information that Emma’s Uncle Clary had been married to a Campbell who had disappeared off the face of the earth had shaken her confidence in her detective skills.

Could she really have got it so wrong? Well, in a little over an hour, they would have another significant clue, with the tying of George Riddles to Richard George through the fingerprint comparison.

But how on earth did that sit with the fact that MacDonald of Lower Strathfulton Hotel fame had had a wife that had disappeared many years ago?

And, that that wife had been a Campbell?

Should she go ahead with the original plan she had sketched out to DI Summers in the hotel dining room?

Why not? In the absence of anything that marked out an alternative approach to this highly intriguing case, her instincts were to stick with a plan.

And then, there was Emma’s cousin, who had been sacked from the distillery. Could that be? It was highly possible, certainly warranted being checked on.

“Emma, a quiet word, please, about your family. Perhaps we could walk outside again. There’s something I would like to look into out there, anyway.”

Maeve was used to military speak with the time from her police days. Emma found it completely confusing and appeared to be drifting off when DI Summers briefed the team with what she called her plan, but was really Maeve’s. After the briefing, Maeve, recognising Emma’s confusion, took her to one side and translated the times for her.

“Your important job is to open the back door at exactly twenty minutes to six o’clock this evening. Have you got that? Good, repeat it back to me, then, Emma.”

“I go down the back stairs at twenty-five minutes afore six and open the back door, leaving it on the latch. Then I go back up the stairs and ring the pay bell and then go to the front hall as usual for the pay to be given out.”

“Exactly, now let’s imagine it’s time now and we can go over it again.”

After going over it two more times, Emma came up with a pertinent question.

“Milady, shall I prepare the whisky to be given out as people collect their pay? That’s what I usually do.”

“Yes, that’s an excellent idea.”

“Who will sign the chit for the whisky, milady?”

“Oh, as the owner, I believe I have the authority to do that, but I won’t do it until afterwards. Can you trust me on that? Good, right, if that’s all organised, I need to get back to our ops room as we need to see about the telegram coming from Mr Munro. No, Emma, you go back to your normal duties so as not to raise suspicion. I’ll see you later.”

Waiting for the telegram was like a modern version of an ancient description of hell. Maeve remembered enough from her school days to recall there was some chap who was condemned by the gods to roll a boulder up the hill perpetually.

“That’s Sisyphus,” Fi said, “every time he almost got to the top of the hill, it tipped and rolled back down again.”

“Just like every time we hear a knock on the door, we think it’s the telegram boy, but it never is,” Maeve replied. “But how come you know about Greek mythology? I thought your schooling was a disaster.”

“It was, but my daddy knows everything and he taught me a lot of fun things. They’re not all myths either. Some are very practical, like how to walk through the woods without being heard.”

“Like a Native American,” DI Summers suddenly said, “not only can they track you over a bare stone mountain, but they can also walk without emitting a sound. We used to do that as kids, trying to imitate them.”

“I put you down as a city type,” Maeve said, suddenly interested in her origins.

Because of her plan. The other plan. The one she still needed to talk to Fi about.

“No, I grew up in the wilds of Galloway, quite close, in actual fact, to your other estate.”

“You mean Baritone Abbey? I’ve never actually been there.”

“You should. It’s beautifully beautiful, if you see what I mean. The abbey is a ruin, but the house now called Baritone Abbey is built with stone from the abbey. It’s set in a most gorgeous valley with pine trees all around and a thick blanket of oaks a little lower.”

“Yes, I really must go. I’ve just been so busy.”

“It’s not that, Maeve,” Fi said, causing Maeve to twirl around to face reality.

Her reality. Brought to her by her dear friend, Fi.

“It’s because Barry Baritone’s mother has set up station there and, from what I hear, she rules it like a petty princedom.”

Maeve had been about to admit the truth when there was a knock on the door.

“Enter,” someone called, Maeve wasn’t sure whether it was Fi, DI Summers or, even, herself.

The telegram boy entered, still with his smart peaked cap on his head.

“Telegram for the Countess of Strathfulton,” he said in a voice that soon enough would bounce around the room, but came across as little more than a squeak.

“Take it to the countess,” Fi said, fumbling in her bag for a coin.

“Yes, miss,” said Pip Squeak.

Here was the telegram, now in her hands, that would prove her theory and solve the mystery of the murders in the distillery. She opened it with fumbling fingers, accepting the knife that Fi offered her to slit the envelope.

No match stop

Repeat stop

No match stop

Chapter Twenty-Two

“It makes no sense,” Maeve cried out loud, placing the telegram down on the table so that Fi and DI Summers could see it.

If it was any consolation to Maeve, both of the others were equally puzzled by the devastating news.

“It can’t be…”

“Surely not…”

These expressions of incredulity eventually evolved to the inevitable question of what to do next.

The whole assumption Maeve had based her plans on had been proved wrong with just two words:

No match

Well, strictly three words:

No match stop

The rug pulled from beneath her feet, Maeve felt a need to sit down before she toppled over.

How could this be?

It was DI Summers who came up with the answer to that question.

“It’s almost like there are two crimes in one,” she said, the meandering tone to her voice telling the other two that she was letting her mind wander.

But sometimes, just sometimes, a wandering mind is what you need to solve a slippery problem.

Or a slippery case, for that matter.

“Say that again, Suzy.”

“Say what again, Lady Strathfulton?”

“About two crimes in one.”

But her meandering had been true meandering and she could not retrace the steps in her mind to recall what she had said just half-a-minute earlier.

“You said,” Fi butted in, “‘It’s almost like there are two crimes in one.’ I believe that is word for word.”

Maeve agreed as to it being word for word. She stood and started pacing the room. The branch of a lime tree dipped and scratched against the window behind her, as if wanting to come in and join in the conversation. Maybe the trees had a wisdom from their long lives that mere humans lacked?

“We need to leave,” Maeve said after several ‘ups and downs’ of their ops room. Outside, the nosy branch brushed against the window with a large sweeping motion, as if saying:

Well, you got there eventually.

“You’re still planning to leave, Lady Strathfulton?” DI Summers asked. “I mean without us making any progress? What will I say to…?”

“We need to leave, Suzy. By that I mean you, the constables, Fi, Roskill, me, the whole lot. We need to stick to our original plan, don’t you see? I thought there was one culprit for all that’s been going on, but what if, like you say, Suzy, there’s more than one? I mean to say, what if there are two distinct crimes here and part of our problem has been lumping all illegal acts together?”

DI Summers looked blankly at Maeve, whereas with Fi, Maeve could see the wheels turning.

Maybe slowly, but they were turning. The trouble was that Maeve’s mind was leaping forward with giant strides and all in the same direction.

“There’s something I still can’t quite get my mind around,” she said, pacing again, this time with a rapidity that endangered anything in her way, including the tray of teapot and cups that Emma had brought in earlier.

“What’s that, Sergeant Morgan of the Inverness-shire Constabulary?” Fi asked, no doubt thinking some humour might lower the temperature a little, thus easing the creative parts of the mind.

“How can someone just disappear? I mean, I suppose it happens from time to time, but usually there’s a dead body, men in blue rushing around and then an arrest of some sort. Emma told me what she knows about her aunt’s disappearance before the war, but it’s not much to go on because she was a child at the time. She just said her aunt was there and then she wasn’t and nobody would talk about it, least of all Uncle Clary.”

“There’s only one way to find out,” Fi said.

“Yes, but that will put him even more on high alert, don’t you think? Frankly, I’m at a loss as to what to do. But at least we can solve one crime today. That involves leaving, or rather staying.”

“What?”

“Staying with our original plan. We’ve got to leave, but not leave. Yes, I know I’m being contradictory and totally confusing. All I can say is follow my lead, if you will.”

They made quite a song and dance about it. They had to for the plan to work. First, DI Summers called all her half-dozen constables together in the front hall, selecting the place on Maeve’s suggestion as the central hub of the distillery.

Maeve, Fi and Roskill, as temporary police officers, attended too.

“Right, you people, listen in because I’ve got news for you. You may have noticed a telegram arriving recently. It seems everything is not quite as it seemed pre-telegram arrival.” She stopped, looking towards Maeve, who nodded reassuringly. “We’ve been instructed to withdraw.” It was a good choice of word. With the exception of PC Campbell, they would all have been tangled up in the war in some shape or form.

“However,” she continued into the particular part she had rehearsed with Maeve and Fi, “I’d like to try and squeeze in the remaining staff interviews before we close the case, at least closed subject to HQ review. The obvious conclusion is that both recent deaths were tragic accidents. That means nobody is to blame.”

Maeve wondered whether DI Summers was stressing no blame attributable a bit too much. The detective inspector needed to get the balance right. She risked looking around and saw all the staff and several suppliers leaning over the banisters as if in a box at the theatre.

There was even a group of customers on a tour, where the bar in the front hall acted as a tasting room. There, behind the bar, stood Emma Campbell, neé MacDonald, undoubtedly an innocent young thing.

Yet, somehow, at the centre of a series of murders.

The reading of the telegram had put her back from a 90% confidence level to under 20%. Now she was clawing her way back. She knew some things were dead right. She just had to build up again from those.

Gosh, she had been daydreaming and now everyone was looking at her. This was to be expected, because DI Summers and she had agreed that, after her talk to the troops over, she would pass the mantle to Maeve.

“Yes,” she said, clearing her throat a little as she launched into what she had rehearsed in her mind. “Yes, forgive me for being a little distracted. I’ve been wondering what it must be like for you going through the awful discoveries of today and yesterday. In some ways, it seems like a lifetime ago that I first walked through these doors yesterday afternoon.”

Feeling a bit bolder at the appreciative silence, she dared to look around the hall. She was doing alright, so onto the crux of it.

“I and my little team of people are leaving now, but I leave you in the capable hands, for the time being, of Mr Riddles who, as you know, is both a board member and the most senior staff member… here.” She had almost said ‘left standing’ but some part of her mind warned her off that pair of words at just the right time. She needed people to think life was going on as normal.

“We’ve been much distracted by the events of the last day or so. I had intended to discuss investment and the future of the distillery, which I see as extremely positive. That will now have to wait for the next time I visit, which shall not be long, I promise.”

Perhaps Emma had had a glass or two of whisky to steady her nerves. Perhaps she hadn’t. The suspicion was there, though, because at this precise moment, just as Maeve’s speech was coming to a close, she launched into:

For She’s a Jolly Good Fellow,

For She’s a Jolly Good Fellow,

For She’s a Jolly Good Fellow,

And so Say all of Us.

And followed it up with, ‘Three Cheers for the Countess, Hip Hip Hooray!’

Maeve found herself smiling broadly, loving humanity in almost all its shapes and sizes.

A moment later, they were gone. The other police car had preceded them, while DI Summers rushed through the remaining interviews. That didn’t take long because the workers only really spoke Gaelic, a language DI Summers knew nothing about. She would be gone, too, in just a few minutes.

Roskill held the car door open for Maeve and Fi to climb in. There was a slight delay when Fi had to race back for her favourite cardigan, left on a chair in the ops room. The staff came out to see the owner off and the car trundled down the drive and turned right at the gates, slipping through the gates and turning right onto the Strathfulton Road.

They had gone, leaving several unsolved murders behind them.

Chapter Twenty-Three

They turned right onto the Strathfulton Road and soon the distillery had disappeared behind the thick trees that surrounded it.

“And right again here,” Maeve said when they reached the bridge over the Fulton River. “Then it’s next right up a track. I walked it with Emma and it’s fine for the motor car.”

“This is exciting,” said Fi, both hands wrapping around and around each other as if she were a child unable to keep still on the eve of the family annual holiday.

“You’ll need to cut the engine, Roskill.”

“Very good, milady.”

“Not now. There’s a huge willow up ahead, by the banks of the river. We’ll stop there and stay silent and still for a little while.”

Two minutes later, Roskill cut the engine. Fi jumped out and ran along the track.

“Where are you…” hissed Maeve, before realising what Fi was up to.

“Totally hidden,” she said, skipping back to the willow, “you could walk down this track and not know there’s a Rolls Royce containing three human beings just yards from you.”

“What do we do now?” Fi asked a moment later.

“We wait, Fi. We have to exercise extreme patience for…” she looked at her pocked watch, “for thirty-six minutes. That’s not too bad, is it?”

“Well, milady,” Roskill said, “there’s no point in waiting uncomfortably, is there?”

“What did you have in mind, Roskill?”

Roskill didn’t answer, at least not in the spoken word. Instead, he went into a compartment at the side of the car and pulled out some folded articles, which he started to set up.

“A table and chairs,” Fi squealed, “what fun!”

“But only two chairs, Roskill?”

“It wouldn’t be right, milady. Besides, somebody needs to keep a look out.”

Roskill had one more surprise. He opened a box located at the back of the car and pulled out two glasses. The Scotch came from the front passenger seat.

“I took the liberty of purloining something for your refreshment, milady.”

“Again, Roskill, what about you?”

“Oh, milady, I’m sticking to my flask of trusty tea. Mrs Campbell was kind enough to fill it up with a fresh brew. I find my vision goes a little wobbly if I imbibe before driving.”

“Well, if it all goes to plan, you will be driving in another hour or two, because I’ve promised Kit and Kat to get Fi back into their hands before supper tonight.”

“Oh,” said Fi, evidently reminded of what lay in store for her later that day.

“It will be fine, Fi,” Maeve replied. “Kit and Kat will take good care of you and I’m sure it will turn out splendidly.”

Time can be irritatingly variable when you’re waiting for something. There’s probably a scientist somewhere who has worked out a complex, inverse relationship between anticipation levels and the passage of time.

But throw in two cut glass tumblers and a bottle of single malt, and time speeds up again, even sometimes overtaking the original schedule.

Roskill took his flask of tea with him and disappeared amongst the weeping willow leaves. But after what seemed like a few moments discussing what Fi could expect that evening back at Strathfulton Castle, Roskill returned to say, unless he was very much mistaken, it was time to move out.

“Gosh, yes,” said Maeve, looking at her pocket watch. She picked up the bottle and placed it in the car while Roskill and Fi packed up the table and chairs.

Then they were ready to start their mission.

“Now,” Maeve said, “we need to keep very quiet. It’s essential that we’re not seen or heard by anyone else. We’ve got to make our way to the back door, which is right in the middle of the building.” She pointed through the willow leaves to the back of the building where Maeve could just about make out the back door.

“So, we’ve got to walk up the track in full view of all those windows?” Fi asked.

“No, Miss Hamilton, and milady,” Roskill answered, “I considered that problem and took the liberty of doing a little bit of scouting about. If we go this way through the trees, we can keep under cover, either of trees or of buildings, all the way to within a few yards of the main building.”

“Excellent, Roskill, good thinking. You better lead the way.”

Emma was as good for her word. She had memorised the instructions given to her by Maeve and performed them to perfection. She had the door open at the precise time, cracking it open to ensure the right people were in attendance, then swinging it more widely.

“I oiled it earlier,” she said, proud of her foresight.

They went silently down the back passage. The only noise came from the tap tap of Roskill’s shoes, such that he bent down and pulled them off, using the laces to tie them around his neck.

Silently, they progressed. Then, close to the door leading to the backstairs, Fi fell over a bucket and mop, spilling water everywhere, but, more importantly for them, sending clangs and echoes of clangs up the stairwell to the tiny room above.

Which just so happened to be next door to the main hall where whisky was traditionally served every pay day. The building had once been a home, so was designed as a house, with a staircase for the domestic staff and one for the residents. Unfortunately, the two almost met and the bucket noise certainly seemed to travel.

They froze. Then Emma stepped forward, saying in a loud voice that she had been chasing a rat that seemed to want to move in with them.

“I didn’t get it, Mr Riddles. It got clean away from me by scurrying over a bucket and mop that someone left in the passage. It’ll be back, I’m sure, and I’ll get it then, mark my words.”

“Clear up the mess and come upstairs or you’ll miss your pay and then what will you take home to that moronic husband of yours?”

That was just the cover they needed for Maeve, Fi and Roskill to get up the stairs to the top floor, around a corner, down another passage and across the landing.

They were in position. Maeve pulled out her pocket watch to check the time.

“We’ve got a minute to spare,” she whispered.

Someone else rang the pay bell that evening at ten minutes to six, with Emma being tied up with a mop and a bucket. Maeve had asked her to really give it a ring and a half, so as to create as much noise as possible to give them the cover to get into position. In the end, it didn’t matter, because they were already in position, just waiting on events.

And what events they were. Maeve almost dropped her pocket watch when she understood what was going on. The process of handing out pay seemed a ritual, almost like a high church service with priests in robes.

It started as one might expect, with a line of workers shuffling forwards to receive their pay. After being handed their pay packet, they would stay in line and shuffle a bit further to the other table where Emma was busy pouring whisky into dozens upon dozens of glasses.

Then, after downing their Scotch and pocketing their pay packet, they would continue the Pay Day Shuffle back into the room next door.

“It’s all highly choreographed,” Roskill whispered, “almost like a ballet.”

“It’s a long queue,” Maeve said, watching intently the proceedings below.

“Too long,” said Fi.

And that was the crux of it. The shuffling figures suddenly made sense.

They were going around again.

And again and again.

People were collecting two, three, four or even more pay packets. Except they were not. As the three of them looked down at the bizarre scene below, Fi, with her eagle eyes, was the first one to notice.

“They’re not after the pay. It’s the single malt they want.”

Maeve looked, squinting down two flights of stairs.

“I think you’re right, Fi. They’re picking up their ‘wages’ with one hand, bringing hands together, transferring the pay packet to the other hand and dropping it straight back into the strong box containing all the money. My goodness, Fi, this is out and out theft.

It was theft, and from her, the countess, too.

Maeve looked around for the police, checked her watch again, and sighed deeply. They were due back at six o’clock and it was now a quarter past.

They had uncovered one significant part of the whole mystery, but just when you needed the police, there wasn’t an officer in sight.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Except there was.

Maeve had not yet been relieved of her duties as a sergeant of the Inverness-shire Constabulary.

And that meant both Roskill and Fi were still special constables.

They were empowered to make arrests. It wasn’t usual for temporary officers to make such major arrests; usually they would be involved with crowd control and the like.

But these were not usual times.

Sergeant Maeve Morgan thought it through for a moment, coming at the problem from two different angles.

First, that they, as far as she could tell, had the authority. This had been covered nine or so years earlier in her initial police training, but almost a decade, a busy one at that, doesn’t leave much impression from a dry lecture led by Inspector Boring, or whatever they had nicknamed him at the time.

As an ancillary thought, did it matter that the crime of theft was a crime from her and that she would also be the arresting officer? Did that mean a conflict of interest arose? She put that question to one side, thinking it too complicated and insufficient time to ponder that dilemma.

Sometimes, it’s just better to act first and worry afterwards.

She was fairly certain she had the authority. Then another thought came to her; even if she didn’t have the legal right to make such arrests, would Riddles know that? By the time he got on to his lawyer, the real - as in permanent - police would be on the scene and the whole question would become academic.

The second angle was a much more practical one. How would they go about making such an arrest? It was time for another confab. She pulled on Fi’s sleeve, then on Roskill’s, to get their attention, indicating for them to move back to the far side of the landing where they could talk a bit more.

“I did this sort of thing a lot during the war,” Roskill said as he took charge naturally. “We start with stating what we need to do.”

“Arrest George Riddles for theft,” Maeve said. “I don’t think we should complicate it with murder at present. Besides, I’m still torn about who is responsible for the murders.”

“I agree,” Fi offered, “especially as without forensics being here, we don’t know how old the bones are from the vat. They could well predate his time in Scotland.”

“Alright, we know what we’re trying to do. Just to be clear, we’re concentrating on making an arrest of one George Riddles, not, apparently, also known as Richard George. We’re arresting him for theft from the company he works for. We’re not trying to arrest any accomplices, because they will be easy to round up later, all being locals.”

“Agreed, Roskill,” Maeve said, “but the big question is how we’re going to do that.”

“Miss Hamilton,” Roskill replied, “do you mind going back to have a look? I want to know they’re still all there and haven’t dispersed themselves. It would be a sorry situation if we’re busy planning here while our target walks away scot-free.”

Fi nipped across the landing and looked down before returning to report that all was well and the proceedings were dragging on.

“Did anyone see you?” Maeve wanted to know, thinking if they were discovered before they were ready to act, they might be the ones being locked up.

And Riddles was the type to throw away the key.

“Just Emma,” Fi replied. “She looked up once and our eyes met. But she made it look like a big yawn and a stretch, so I don’t think anyone suspects anything.”

“Good,” said Roskill. “Now I’ve been thinking and this is what I suggest we do, milady and Miss Hamilton.”

A few minutes later, they were ready to kick off the first phase of a two-stage operation. Maeve was adamant that she carry it out. Fi disappeared into the back of the building and returned a moment later with an overall she had found in one of the offices.

“Wear this, Maeve, you’ll blend in much better.”

She left by the back stairs and trod carefully down to the ground floor. She didn’t know the building terribly well, creating a weak link in their plan, but she thought she could probably feel her way to the right spot.

That right spot was the door that led from the small room off the back stairs out to the back of the bar.

She had to get Emma’s attention, but she had to do this without raising any suspicion.

She reached the ground floor and decided to walk to the ancillary room that linked to the bar as if she owned the place.

She couldn’t resist smiling at that thought, because, of course, she did actually own the place.

It was the smile that saved her, for George Riddles come past her at that very moment. He was smiling, but more from a mixture of Scotch and his money-making schemes. Maeve felt immediate alarm, but didn’t show it. Instead, she kept a frozen grin on her face until she was safely past him.

Then she relaxed, but shouldn’t have done, because Riddles turned and called after her.

“Hey,” he called across the room, “what’s your name, lass?”

“Who me?” She almost didn’t hear his slightly drunken swirl of words around his mouth.

“Yes, you. I’ve seen you before. Where was it now?”

“Well, sir, I don’t rightly know,” she replied, “seeing as this is me first time off Eigg in me life, sir.”

“Egg? Who said the eggs were off? I’ve had one of the sandwiches myself and will skin that Emma love if we all wake up with food poisoning tomorrow.”

Maeve felt the need to smile inanely and did so, sending her smile directly to the feet of Riddles where it could do neither good nor harm.

Then, she was through the door and bumped straight into Emma, who wasn’t fooled by her flimsy disguise in the slightest.

“Oh, milady…” she blurted out, then, seeing the urgency in Maeve’s eyes, she did a remarkably rapid turn around, putting immense sarcasm into her voice as she carried on, “It’s so good that you’ve managed to turn up to help. So gracious of you, Margie, or is your real name actually ‘Milady’ and you’re the long-lost daughter of some famous overseas prince?”

“I just thought to come and help you, Miss Emma.” Maeve wasn’t too bad at accents, having a good listening ear and excellent control of her mouth muscles and tongue. Robbie always said she would have been a comedian in another life.

The attention remained, but calmer now. There was a bunch of older men grouped around the bar who rather appreciated the sight of a young woman in her prime.

“Even if she’s Irish,” she heard one of them say. But Maeve was only keeping a cursory eye on the crowd at the bar; she had a message to pass on to Emma and needed to whisper it lest the establishment have long ears.

“Emma,” she mouthed a few minutes later after a session, pouring whisky into the hundreds of glasses laid out on the table. “I need you to lock the front and back door. Can you do that without raising suspicion? It’s vital that there are no escape routes.”

“Yes, provided you keep pouring the drinks.”

That meant she only had a few moments to familiarise herself with how the bar worked. Thankfully, it was a simple operation with only one drink available; you would be fine if you liked Strathfulton Single Malt.

This was followed by ten agonising minutes as she watched Emma move surreptitiously around the hall, ostensibly collecting spent glasses, really moving towards the front door.

She checked back in to the bar, scolding Maeve in a loud voice, while passing her the front door key.

“I’ll go and get some more bottles,” Emma said, again almost shouting across the bar. “Try not to mess up too much while I’m gone.”

“Yes, Miss Emma.”

A moment later, Maeve, clutching two keys in her hand, was sent away for incompetence. Their first objective had been achieved.

She took off her heavy overalls, but didn’t go back upstairs. That would have been a waste of time given that Roskill was coming down the main stairs with Fi guarding the back ones.

This was her moment. She just had to get the timing right.

The arrest was as sweet as anything she remembered from her years in the police force down in Oxfordshire. Riddles’ first thought was escape, so he made for the front door, then darted down the back stairs for the only other door to the building. When that didn’t work, and both stairs up were blocked, he turned to scorn, ridiculing Maeve’s attempt to arrest him, trying to use bravado as his next defence.

Then there was a loud banging on the door, but nobody could open it until Maeve remembered that she had the key. She fished it out of her skirt pocket and opened the door to DI Summers and her team.

Whatever the legality of the arrest originally, DI Summers’ presence lent the authority required as George Riddles was led away.

Chapter Twenty-Five

“We’ve got to rush,” Maeve said as soon as she had drawn breath and with George Riddles deposited in the back of one of the police cars.

“Rush where?” DI Summers wanted to know.

“To the hotel, of course.”

“Why? You disproved my theory of a Campbell-MacDonald feud, so why else would we go back there?”

“Because it seems you were right, at least in part, Suzy.” It was a big statement to make, because DI Summers had been wrong about most things, but Maeve wanted to take this strange lady with her each stage of the way.

“So, I was right about something, after all? By the way, you’re still my sergeant, aren't you?”

“If you want me to be, ma’am,” said with a warm grin.

“Then you go. I’ve drafted my resignation on account of I’m getting married a week tomorrow. It’s not effective until next Friday, but, frankly, I’m tired of it all and just want to be doing something else. I’m going to write up the report on this arrest…”

“The arrest that you made, DI Summers, even if I, technically-speaking, made the arrest, I was doing it in your name and under your authority.”

“You’re very kind, Lady Strathfulton. I’m aware of my inadequacies and of your generosity. Thank you.”

That reminded Maeve that she had to talk to Fi about the conservation role. But first things first, she had to get to the hotel to decipher the last bit of the mystery, and then get home in time for supper, albeit a late one.

Claran MacDonald was in his office, head between his hands.

“We need to talk, Mr MacDonald. Your wife.” It seemed to Maeve that staccato talk would make it easier for him.

“I’ve got a confession to make.”

“About your wife?”

“Sort of. But something about the murders at the distillery, too.”

Maeve sat back in the Rolls after telling Roskill to step on it.

“It’s just after eight,” she said. “Home by nine?”

“Leave it to me, milady, leave it to me.”

“So, tell all,” Fi said, picking up on Maeve’s shortened speech pattern.

“I’ve got a signed confession from Claran MacDonald,” she replied.

“Murder?”

“Good Lord, no! The man’s guilty, but not of any crime in the statute book. At least, not that I’m aware of. Are you ready for quite a tale?” She lent forward and slid open the divider. “You need to hear this as well, Roskill.”

“Very well, milady.”

Claran MacDonald had been James Campbell’s brother-in-law, Claran being married to James’ sister, Jane, who had suffered from melancholy all her life, giving her a tendency to erratic behaviour. Claran and James had fought over proper treatment for her and almost came to blows several times.

When Jane ran away to live in St Helena with an eccentric old lady who wrote letters about conspiracy theories to everyone who she had an address for, it would seem all contact would cease between Claran and James. In actual fact, a strange friendship developed, built on mutual concern for Jane and her well-being.

Claran had always struggled for money, but James also sent what he could, especially with his better salary as the managing director of the Strathfulton Distillery.

Mary Campbell, James’ wife, now makes an entrance, having got quite the thing for Claran and relentlessly chasing him. Claran, however, remained loyal to his friend, an act aided by the fact that he had never been able to abide by Mary Campbell.

However, Claran then made a major error of judgement. James and he used to drink together, not at the distillery or in the hotel bar, but in the private rooms that Claran had on the top floor of the hotel. James told him one day of his fear that his wife was trying to take his life. Accidents kept happening around him and she always brushed them aside, often faking an endearment or giving him a cuddle he knew to be false. Claran’s error of judgement came in dismissing these wild imaginings as the whisky talking.

Then the rumours started about an affair between her and Alasdair Browne. Three weeks later, James was dead and Claran, just the previous day, had confronted Mary after driving to her home. He, like Maeve, had found her busy packing.

She admitted it, laughing in his face and saying she was free of the old man at long last. Claran said he would go straight to the police but Mary was prepared for that, threatening to cut off all funds for Jane if he ever breathed a word. Claran, on his uppers and with the hotel in the doldrums, felt he had to fall in line or his estranged wife would suffer dreadfully.

He had seen Mary one more time after that. She came to the hotel in a taxi that morning, saying she was going away. When Claran asked about Alasdair Browne, she laughed and said she was only using him and he had served his purpose. He was being dealt with now. He asked who was doing her dirty work and she could not help but tell her that George Riddles was her man, a genuine accountant, but very much on the crooked side of things. She had sought him out after disposing of the previous company secretary (one of the sets of bones in the vat), finding the fact that he had spent time in prison for stealing from his employer to be the ideal qualification for her purposes.

Claran was advised of everything yet, for fear of his wife’s well-being, did not go to the police. Mary Campbell, still harbouring desires for Claran, could not help but boast in front of him of all her ‘accomplishments’, including the names of the other murdered people, whose bodies were disposed of in the vat of acid. They had all tried to expose the pay racket that George Riddles had set up, being unable to resist the temptation of enriching himself.

That tale took much of the drive back, as Roskill sped through the evening. It left a few questions.

“Where is Mary Campbell now?”

“All the ports have been alerted and her description telegrammed to every police force in the country. They’re hopeful of finding her, but aware that she may have left the country already.”

“How on earth can this ever be proved?”

“Apparently, Riddles is already singing like a canary!” Maeve replied.

“He’ll do that to save his neck if he can,” Roskill commented from the driver’s seat.

“Will anything happen to Claren MacDonald?” Fi wanted to know.

“It’s up to the authorities, but I don’t imagine withholding information from the police would hold up in court, not with the personal circumstances of his wife.”

“So there was no connection between George Riddles and Richard George?”

“None whatsoever. I’m not looking forward to telling Mr Munro that his mad dash across half of Great Britain was just a wild goose chase.”

“If you don’t mind me saying, milady, I think he will just be pleased to see you. I don’t believe the miles travelled will enter into his reasoning.”

“That’s very kind of you, Roskill. Look, we’re here and just in time for a late supper.”

There was no supper for Fi that evening, at least not until considerably later, because Kit and Kat pounced on her the moment she entered the castle.

Forty minutes later, an extremely self-conscious Fi Hamilton entered the dining room where Maeve and Robbie were enjoying a quiet meal.

Maeve couldn’t believe the sight before her. Kit and Kat had done wonders in crossing a typical secretary’s attire with their idea of a uniform suitable for someone in domestic service. She wore a rich burgundy skirt, heavily pleated and high-waisted with a matching elaborately large floppy bow tie. Thick burgundy straps crossed her torso at the back in a replica of the uniforms they themselves wore, only in black in their case. To top it all, a white mob cap stood on her pretty hair. This cap was identical to theirs, except the ribbons at the back were burgundy rather than white.

Fi stood nervously in front of Maeve, uncertain what to do with her hands.

“It’s quite wonderful, Fi,” Maeve said, “better than I ever imagined. Sit down now. You must be starving.”

“Thank you, milady.”

It was only much later as she lay in bed thinking about the day that had finally come to an end that she realised Fi had called her ‘milady’.

“I’ll have to put a stop to that,” she muttered as she drifted off to sleep, leaving the problem to be addressed in the morning.

The End

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Death in a Marquee

Chapter 1 Sneak Peek

“Minister MacAllister, all I’m asking for is a bit of reasonableness in this matter.”

“I understand, Lady Strathfulton, it’s just unheard of to do a wedding in such a rushed manner. I’m sure you understand.”

He had, in Maeve’s opinion, the grimmest expression known to man. Probably God in Heaven had been astonished when this particular version was wheeled out of the workshop.

His eyes glowered below huge white moustaches of eyebrows, matched by similar on his upper lip so that to some he looked not so much two-faced and treble-mouthed.

“Well, Minister MacAllister, I suppose I could always take the matter down the road to…”

“You wouldn’t!”

“She would, Minister. Her ladyship is actually quite friendly with the Reverend Murray,” Fi spoke up for the first time. “Wasn’t it just the other day, milady, that you were talking about having Minister Murray to lunch one day?”

“Yes, Miss Hamilton.” In actual fact, she recalled saying she would never have that despicable man around to lunch. She reasoned now, that the misleading nature of Fi’s words were excusable because sometimes, when friendships were involved, the end justifies the means.

She and Fi had offered to host the wedding of Suzy Summers, soon to be ex-police detective, and PC Cyril Cliché Clarke, the local bobby, due to a last minute cancellation by the hotel in Fort William.

The wedding was being held tomorrow, yet they still lacked a venue for the service.

“I suppose it might be possible to hold the ceremony here, if I had certain reassurances.”

“Reassure…?” But Fi lent forward and whispered in Maeve’s ear that Minister MacAllister was a teetotaller with a fierce attitude towards the consumption of alcohol.

“Until last year he was a minister in Wick,” Fi muttered, as if that told Maeve everything she needed to know.

They made the arrangements once the minister had given in to their demands; clearly the prospect of the wedding being held at the rival Wee Free Church was just too much to bear. Fi led the negotiations while Maeve walked between the aisles, wondering why there were no cushions on the hard benches of the kirk, especially with Minister MacAllister’s sermons lasting up to an hour.

“That’s all done, milady,” Fi said, standing up and straightening the smart uniform she now wore when on duty as Maeve’s secretary. “Shall we head back to the castle? Actually, if I could just stop at the post office to use the telephone to call the caterers.”

“Of course, my dear, Fi, but I wish you wouldn’t call me ‘milady’.”

“It just seems appropriate, mi… alright, Maeve, with the uniform, I mean.”

“Well, hush about that and tell me the significance of Wick in the negotiations to hold a wedding here at Strathfulton. I mean, Wick is a long way away, is it not?”

“Oh, it’s all about temperance, Maeve,” Fi replied. “There was an act of parliament when I was a baby allowing regions in Scotland to vote on abstinence from alcohol in their area. I’m afraid Wick took it a little too seriously and has banned it altogether.”

“I don’t own any property in Wick, do I?”

“I believe just a few tenement buildings. Why, I hope you’re not thinking of visiting!”

“No, I shall ask Rob to do an inspection. It might do him some good to go a day or two without liquid refreshment. Now, what else is there to do?”

“I believe everything’s in order, milady.” Fi danced out of the way of Maeve as she deliberately adopted the nomenclature of domestic and estate staff. From a safe distance, she reported that the decision to bring in outside caterers had made the preparations a lot easier.

“Where did you find them, Fi? I mean most catering firms would be booked up for months ahead.”

“Ah, simple deduction, Maeve,” Fi said, judging it safe to return to within striking distance of Maeve’s fists. “I thought it likely that the workers at the hotel in Fort William where the fire took place might be in need of a few pounds each for some extra work. I was right, because the hotel management had dispensed with their services, saying they would take on new workers when the hotel reopened.”

The marquee had been up for several days, dug out of storage from its last use to celebrate the investiture of Barry Baritone, the previous holder of the title before Maeve inherited when her distant cousin Baritone was hung from the neck until he was dead for a series of horrific murders.

Mrs Hamilton, Fi’s mother, remembered where it had been stored and advised on its use on the basis of ‘waste not, want not’. The gardeners had worked wonders in getting it up, while Mrs Ritchie, the chauffeur’s wife, led a team of volunteer sewers to repair the numerous tears.

It was Pudding Reid, the thirteen-year-old daughter of Lily Reid, who came up with the idea of turning the various repairs into a decorative feature depicting the happy couple. She gathered a veritable army of helpers and directed cohorts of workers, many of whom skipped school to lend a hand. Maeve had been worried about the new teacher complaining until she saw Miss Anderson leading a small team to add a a bouquet of flowers to the canvas.

With everything ready, there was little for Maeve to do other than get ready for the evening before party, to which, at Suzy Summers’ insistence, everybody who had helped with the preparations had been invited. Suzy had used her rank as a senior police officer to get the deposit they had paid back from the hotel. Because Maeve wouldn’t hear of taking a penny from the couple to be, Suzy had insisted that she pay entirely for this party.

Kat, Maeve’s slip of a lady’s maid, was waiting in Maeve’s bedroom, a beautiful set of lingerie laid out on the bed.

“That’s for me?” Maeve asked, thinking the question rather an odd one. Who else would have lingerie spread out on the countess’ bed?

“Yes, milady, and I have a lovely dress for you too, milady. It’s come straight from the dressmaker’s only this afternoon.”

“Oh, how exciting!” Maeve said the words but knew it would be a variant of tartan. Maybe a tartan shoulder sash over a simple white evening gown, or alternating blocks of tartan with some significance over the selected ones:

This one is from your great-grandmother’s family, while you’re also related to…

After a bath and a hair wash at the hands of Kat, the young maid pulled out the dress.

“Surprise!” she said, holding it up.

Not a scrap of tartan in sight. It was a bare-back, off-the-shoulder silk creation that ended in an inverted castellation effect halfway between knee and ankle. It appeared to Maeve to be elf-like yet elegant, classic yet stylish. It took her breath away and she stood, fascinated, while Kat helped her into it.

“Gosh,” Maeve eventually found her voice when Kat had buttoned it up at the back, “it’s quite… sort of…”

“Adventurous, milady?”

“Did old Mrs Ferguson really make this?” Maeve asked.

“Milady, I have a confession to make.”

“Out with it, Kat.”

“It was made at the home of Mrs Ferguson but by her granddaughter, Miss Ferguson. She has studied under Lucien Lelong in Paris, milady, but now has returned home to add a new dimension to Highland couture, milady.”

What impressed Maeve in particular was Kat’s initiative in seeking out Miss Ferguson in the first place.

“You’ve done exceedingly well, Kat. I believe I shall give you an allowance for my clothes and leave much of it to your discretion. Would you like that, my dear?”

“Oh, milady.”

“Well, hurry up with everything else, Kat, I need to be in the marquee early to greet everyone. You need to get ready, too.”

“Me, milady?”

“Yes, the party is for everyone involved in the preparations for the wedding, and you, all the staff, in fact, have done a wonderful job. Help me with my hair quickly and then you are dismissed and ordered to your room to get ready.”

By the time Robbie Munro met her at the bottom of the stairs, the jazz quartet stationed at the far end of the marquee had struck up with the latest tune hummed by everyone.

“Mack the Knife,” Robbie said, in answer to Maeve’s question as to what the song was, “from the Threepenny Orchestra.”

“It’s such a lovely song, but⁠—”

A scream pierced the air, rising like an extra attempt at a harmony to the tune the band played. Their own effort faltered, the trumpet playing on for a few more bars until it, too, stopped abruptly, a single long note echoing the scream.

A scream of death that Maeve, as an ex-police sergeant, knew only too well.

“Quick,” she cried, “to the marquee.” She shed her high-heeled shoes and ran barefoot out of the house, Robbie following just behind.

Discover how things unfold in this murder mystery. Get your copy of Death in a Marquee.

Also By CM Rawlins

THE LADY DARRIBY-JONES COZY MYSTERY SERIES

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The Mystery of the Wettest Wedding Ever (Book 12)

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