Highland Fling Episode 25

Tash looped her arm through Mirabelle’s. The ground was soft and the air was fresh. Mirabelle scanned the vista – it didn’t seem threatening. It was daytime. Still, it was never as quiet as this in Brighton because of the sea. The sound of the tide washing back and forth on the pebbles woke her almost every morning. It should have felt more restful here, she thought, in such silence. But not today. “Nina said this weather was good for the skin,” Tash said stoutly. “There are places in Russia where it’s wet all the time and the women are known for their beauty.”

“I suppose it must be good, when you think about it,” Mirabelle replied. “All that moisture.”

Tash cut across a field at the bottom of the driveway and Mirabelle followed. At a wooden fence, she climbed up and perched on the planking, beyond which a huge Highland cow stood, completely sodden.

The animal’s coat had darkened in the rain to a deep tan, and drops of water flew from the ends when she moved. The field was entirely treeless.

“Isn’t she gorgeous?” Tash said, her cheeks shining.

Mirabelle agreed. The cow stared at them as if the rain had been their fault.

“Nina said there are black ones, but I like this brown colour. It has...” the girl searched for the word, “texture.”

“You seem better today,” Mirabelle said. Tash shrugged. “He’s still out here, isn’t he? Somewhere. But what else are we going to do?”

Mirabelle laid a comforting hand on the girl’s arm. “They’ll find him.”

“When I woke up this morning, I didn’t remember what had happened,” Tash said. “When I did, it was as if my stomach was flattened. I told myself, at least it was quick. It was probably painful, but it was quick, right?”

She sniffed and then wiped her nose on the sleeve of her jacket, waiting for Mirabelle’s reply.

“Yes – it would have been,” Mirabelle reassured the girl, though she knew that speed was relative. Cutting off her air supply meant that Nina would have lost consciousness in a few seconds, but it would have taken a few minutes for her to actually die. She decided against filling

Tash in on the medical reality – nobody knew what the victims of strangulation were aware of as they lay there, apparently out cold. Instead she elected to push for more information. “Tash, can you think of anyone who would have wanted to kill your godmother?”

Tash shifted her position. The cow looked at her as if this was a personal insult, then slowly turned and sauntered to the opposite corner of the field. “People were jealous of her in New York. Her family got out with money. Not all the Whites were so lucky.”

“White Russians, you mean?”

“Yes – the opposite of the Reds – thousands of families got out in ’17 and ’18 and most of us penniless. There are duchesses who’ve become seamstresses. Actually, Nina employed a couple at one point. There are princes hanging around the Waldorf Astoria on Fifth Avenue, hoping to pick up an American heiress. My grandfather was lucky – so was Nina’s. They changed their roubles to American dollars before the currency devalued, so our families had something at least. They couldn’t have known. It was terrible for most people. They brought out their roubles too late and couldn’t change them. Even if they got out diamonds – the market was flooded. You can still buy Fabergé for a pittance because there was so much for sale. In the end, people stopped trying to sell it. What was the point? There are broke, old Russian women, sipping borscht in Brooklyn, who are just covered in Fabergé. So people were jealous of Nina and Niko, for what they had. And that they made more too. Nina made a lot of money. She had a great eye.”

“And Niko?”

“He made his mint in transport. He bought a firm that runs a fleet of trucks and grew it. Hundreds of people work for him now – drivers and mechanics. His great-grandfather made money investing in the railways in the old country. I guess this was Niko’s version of the same thing.”

This, Mirabelle realised, was interesting, but not specific enough to be a motive. “I know it’s horrible to consider, but can you think of anyone who actually wanted your godmother dead – a single person? Can you think of any arguments she may have had? Something more... precise?”

“We’d only been here a week when she died. The people at the cashmere mill loved her. I mean, she swanned in and she bought. She sweet-talked them about ply widths, for heaven’s sake. Apart from that, we hadn’t seen anyone except for Eleanor and Bruce and their friends.” “Which friends?”

“We had dinner one night – Tuesday, I think. It was fun, actually. It was just the locals – the neighbours. One couple had driven from Inverness. Eleanor mixed cocktails and a few people stayed.” “Bloody Marys?”

“They were good. How did you know?” Tash wiped her eyes – a tear or two. Then she jumped down from the fence and began waving, as if she was signalling an aircraft. Mirabelle peered. On the other side of the field a figure cut to the east. He moved quickly given the unevenness of the ground. “Gregory!” Tash called, jumping up and down. “Gregory!”

In the distance, Gregory either didn’t hear or he ignored her. He disappeared into a patch of trees. Tash seemed downhearted. “I wonder where he’s going.” “You’re fond of him.”

“He’s all I have of home,” she replied, though Mirabelle wondered if it was more than that. The girl wasn’t as hard-headed as she seemed, talking about marrying a rich man and then doting on a family retainer. This worried her. If his alibi proved unsound, Gregory was the most likely murderer, as Bruce had pointed out the night before.

“He’s certainly attractive,” she said doubtfully, wondering if this had played a part in events.

Tash waved off the comment. “Muscle,” she said vaguely. “Mirabelle, I know it’s creepy but I have a favour to ask. My books are at the lodge and I don’t want to go on my own to fetch them. It seems chicken to have someone else do it. Would you come with me? Do you think it’s safe?”

“Yes. Of course,” Mirabelle replied. “The two of us together.”

More tomorrow.

Can you think of anyone who actually wanted your godmother dead... any arguments she may have had?

Copyright © Sara Sheridan 2020, extracted from Highland Fling, published by Constable, an imprint of Little, Brown Book Group, at £8.99