Highland Fling Episode 30

“We don’t know.” Eleanor loitered at the door. “She might have turned on the light and the murderer turned it off again.” Niko brushed her words aside. Inside, the orangery was lit by the moon – eerie blue light filtered through the glass and played on the wide, dark leaves of the tropical plants. Beyond, the hills loomed like enormous voids behind the orchard.

“I still don’t understand why she came up here,” Mcgregor said.

“It must have been an assignation,” Mirabelle cut in. “What I don’t understand is the fingerprints. Did the killer wipe their prints from everything once she was dead? It was quick thinking if he did. And why didn’t he remove the body? He could have dumped her miles away. She wouldn’t have been found for ages. But he just left her and ran.”

The bamboo sofa creaked loudly as Eleanor sat. “Oh, this is just maudlin,” she said, her eyes avoiding the area where Nina’s body had lain.

“I’m Russian. Forgive me,” Niko dismissed her. “I want to feel it.”

“Well wherever Nina is now, let’s hope she’s at peace,” Bruce said.

Niko ran his fingers across the long stem of a tall palm. “Oh no,” he said. “I don’t think so. Nina won’t be at peace until we catch him. Not until he hangs. My sister was a fighter. She would demand vengeance. Nina always got to the bottom of everything.”

Mirabelle felt suddenly queasy. The orangery seemed isolated in the dark, more part of the world outside than of the house – a place of contained darkness. The cool air was like silk but you wouldn’t meet a lover here, she thought. It was too cold even with the stove alight. You’d meet a lover inside. Quietly, by the embers of the fire, where you could curl up and whisper and throw on a log to burn. The orangery was somewhere you’d meet someone if you wanted to talk. If you were planning to argue. If you didn’t want to spend a lot of time. It was an odd kind of room when it was blacked out. There was something alien about the jutting plants and the wash of pale moonlight through the glass. “Where does Jinx sleep?” she asked.

“Upstairs with us,” Eleanor said. “On the other side of the house. You know what he’s like. He follows me everywhere.”

But, Mirabelle thought, Jinx hadn’t followed Eleanor tonight. He loitered in the hallway even now.

“I miss Nina,” Niko said sadly. “I feel her here.”

“We’re all very sorry, old man.” Bruce paused and made his way to the door where Eleanor slipped her hand into his. Niko sighed and followed, back into the certainty of rooms lit by electric light.

Left behind, Mirabelle watched as Mcgregor turned, the moonlight catching his white shirt, stark against his black jacket. A jagged shadow fell across one side of his face so he looked like a charcoal drawing. “I’ll speak to the police tomorrow,” he said. “I’ll see what I can find out.”

Mirabelle got up. “I’m tired. Let’s pack it in.”

He draped his arm around her shoulder. “We should say goodnight to the others.”

In the drawing room, Eleanor and Bruce were lounging on the sofa. Niko had already gone upstairs. “Are you two all right?” Eleanor asked.

Mcgregor kissed Mirabelle on the cheek. “Better than this morning,” he said.

Bruce grinned. “Do you remember sneaking downstairs and sniffing the brandy in here? You must have been all of six years old.”

Mcgregor smiled back. “The grown-ups were at dinner. We made it to the drinks trolley and the fumes just about knocked us out. You wanted to taste it.”

“I did taste it,” Bruce said. “Twelve years of age and a connoisseur. It made me sick as a dog. I still can’t drink the bally stuff.”

At the fringes of Mirabelle’s mind, something niggled. A detail that wouldn’t fall into place. Something about Nina. “Who were the other couple?” she asked. “What couple?” Bruce said.

“At dinner the other night. The last time you saw Nina. It was Nina and Tash, you two, the Dougals –”

“And the Walkers,” Eleanor cut in. “They live in the other direction. Almost in Inverness. They’re nice – a pudding of a couple.”

“And might Nina have upset them?” “I doubt it. It was a pleasant evening. Gwendolyn was better than usual. Better than tonight.” “Now, dear...” Bruce admonished her. “Well, she’s a witch.” Eleanor sighed. “Shame they don’t burn them any more.”

Mcgregor laughed. “That seems quite extreme, though I take your point. Poor Willie Dougal.”

“Perhaps Willie likes it,” Bruce said, and everybody laughed. “Tomorrow we have to do something – we can’t just sit around,” Eleanor sounded decisive. “It’s not good for Tash, or for any of us.”

“Right you are,” Bruce agreed. “Keep calm and carry on.”

Mirabelle was suddenly struck by the memory of a tattered poster flapping in the breeze on the side of a shop that had been bombed. It had always felt strange when it was sunny the morning after a bombing raid, she thought. What had she been doing there, watching two women trying to salvage their things from the rubble before the Home Guard arrived? She couldn’t remember, but it was not a promising image.

“Time for bed,” Mcgregor suggested, also thinking about the wartime maxim. Mirabelle nodded.

“Goodnight,” she called, and slid her arm around his waist as they made for the stairs.

It was raining again when she woke, but today the drops fell half-heartedly through an unrelenting sheet of thin grey cloud and the fire in the grate lay unlit. Mirabelle crept across the cold carpet and tossed a match into the kindling. In the distance the telephone was ringing. She checked her watch and wondered who was on the wire so early.

Eleanor met her on her way down the stairs. “It was bound to happen,” she said. “What?” Mirabelle enquired airily. “What Kenzie said the other night. The press picked up the story,” Eleanor hissed and, right on cue, the telephone sounded again. Bruce stormed out of the dining room into his study. He slammed the door. The women hovered at the foot of the stairs. The sound of Bruce bellowing into the handset penetrated the closed door.

You wouldn’t meet a lover here... The orangery was somewhere you’d meet someone if you wanted to talk

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