Malice in the Highlands (21 page)

“Whatever do you mean, George?”

“You dinna really know him. Sure he's charmin’ as you please with the guests—butter wouldn't melt in his mouth. But he carries on like Lord Muck wi’ the rest of us. Thinks because he went to school down south he's better than ordinary folk. Spoiled rotten if you ask me. And there's somethin’ else—” He stopped abruptly, as if suddenly realizing that he was on the brink of going too far.

“Yes?”

Stuart drew a deep breath. “There was a chambermaid used to work at the hotel, Mary MacLean—perhaps you remember her? A soft-spoken lass with lovely red hair? It was a few years back now.” He shifted from one foot to the other. “There was talk going around that young Mr. Whitely had, er—” he blushed profusely “—taken advantage of the lass. There was never any complaint from her, mind you, but one mornin’ she was gone, without even giving her notice. Very peculiar if you ask me.”

Powell wondered what he was driving at, but decided not to press the point. At least not now. “You know how unreliable gossip can be, George,” he said pointedly.

Stuart's jaw was set stubbornly. “That's as may be, Mr. Powell, but I ken what I ken.”

When Powell got back to the Salar Lodge he telephoned Detective-Sergeant Black in London. He was disappointed, but not surprised, to learn that Pickens was sticking to his story. After lunch Powell drove to the hospital and collected Pinky, who from all appearances had
fully recovered from his ordeal. On the way back to Kinlochy, Warburton listened attentively while Powell gave his account of the interview with John Sanders.

Pinky seemed pleased with himself. “You will be interested to know that John came to see me last night. He was most contrite for not having come earlier. He explained everything. I pride myself in being an excellent judge of character, Erskine, and I simply refuse to believe that John had anything to do with this business.”

“I'm not prepared to rule anything out at this point.”

Pinky cleared his throat nervously. “I don't know quite how to put this, old man, but do you think there's any danger of a repeat performance?”

“I think it's highly unlikely. But just to be on the safe side, I want you on the London train tomorrow afternoon; I'll sleep more easily with you safely out of the way.”

Warburton nodded.

“In the meantime, I'd like you to stick close to the Salar Lodge. I'll leave Shand to keep an eye on you.”

Warburton smiled. “My own personal bodyguard?”

“Something like that.” Powell regarded his friend with mixed emotions. He had invited Pinky to Kinlochy for a bit of rest and relaxation, but it hadn't exactly worked out that way. For either of them, come to that. He could not dispel the growing feeling that, like a river tumbling headlong to the sea, events were unfolding beyond his control, which was hardly reassuring under the circumstances. His fatalistic musings were interrupted by Warburton.

“What about this Pickens chap? It seems to me from what you've said that he had as good a reason as anyone to settle scores with Murray.”

“Perhaps. But someone tried to drown you, Pinky, and of one thing I'm absolutely certain: It wasn't Oliver Pickens. I'm still convinced that there's a connection between what happened to you and the murder of Charles Murray, although for the life of me I can't put my finger on it. I keep coming back to that damned fishing rod and running up against the same brick wall. But you can chalk up another thing I'm certain of: John Sanders's reason for coming to Kinlochy had absolutely nothing to do with journalistic curiosity.”

“What do you mean?”

Powell explained about the notebook.

Warburton frowned. “There must be somebody else— somebody who would have benefited from Murray's death.”

Powell sighed heavily. “I can tell you this much, Pinky—there is no shortage of possibilities.”

Powell experienced a growing sense of ambivalence as he mounted the steps of Castle Glyn. He had put it off as long as possible, for reasons which, even now, he remained unwilling to consciously confront. The door opened to reveal Ross, no sign of recognition in his rheumy eyes. He tottered aside muttering to himself, having resigned himself by now to the continual invasion of Castle Glyn by riffraff of all descriptions.

When Powell entered the sitting room, Heather Murray, who was standing in front of the fireplace, turned quickly away.

“You might have called first,” she said.

Powell felt a tightening in the pit of his stomach. “Look at me, Miss Murray.”

She turned around to face him. In ghastly contrast to her pale complexion, a livid bluish yellow bruise extended from her left eye to her cheekbone. Her eyes blazed defiantly. Powell looked at her in silence for a moment, buffeted by a storm of conflicting emotions. When he spoke his voice was taut. “Who did this to you?”

She did not answer.

“It was Bob Whitely, wasn't it?”

She turned away again, reaching for a cigarette on the mantelshelf. Before Powell could react, she'd lit it with a tiny gold lighter. She inhaled deeply. “Does it really matter?”

“It matters to me. Assault is against the law in this country.”

“An eye for an eye, is that it?”

“If you like. See here, Miss Murray, I'm not interested in debating the ethical basis of the criminal justice system. I'm just trying to do my bloody job. Now, I'll ask you again: Who did this to you?”

“That's my business, until I decide otherwise.”

“I know all about you and Bob Whitely.” He could see her shoulders tighten. He pressed on. “I think your father approved at first. He was probably pleased that you'd begun to make a life for yourself here. But it wasn't long before he became concerned about the relationship. Not to put too fine a point on it, Miss Murray, it's no secret that young Whitely has an extremely volatile nature. I don't believe he'd physically abused you at that point, but the tendency was there, nonetheless. I think your father could see it, which is why he wanted you to end the relationship.”

She turned and regarded him steadily, her eyes like cool, emerald pools. “You're very perceptive, Mr. Powell.”

Powell could detect neither sincerity nor sarcasm in her voice, nor anything else for that matter. “You've stated to both Mr. Barrett and myself that you'd spent the weekend in question with a friend. You were with Bob, weren't you?”

She slipped lightly into a chair, drawing her legs under her. “Yes, it's true.”

Powell felt a twinge of guilt. “I know this must be difficult for you, Miss Murray, but it is necessary, I'm afraid.” Marvelous things, cliches. “Would you like to tell me about it?”

She brushed a strand of hair from her forehead. “Everything I told you before was true. I just left out the part about Bob. It's rather ironic. We hadn't seen each other for months. Then about three weeks ago he called me. He'd apparently heard a rumor that Castle Glyn was to be put up for sale. He asked me what I was going to do. I told him that I hadn't decided, although in reality I'd already made up my mind to return to Canada with Father. Bob pleaded with me to stay. He promised to be more reasonable about things, so I agreed to go away with him for the weekend. To try to sort things out once and for all. I felt I owed him that much.”

“I'm a little confused,” Powell interjected in spite of himself. “You say your relationship with young Whitely had ended some months ago, yet you decided to spend the weekend with him?”

“We're being a little judgmental aren't we, Chief Superintendent?”

“Not at all,” Powell lied. “I'm just trying to understand the nature of your relationship.”

“Then will make it easy for you. We were lovers. It just didn't work out, that's all. Bob has more than his share of problems, and he needed more from me than I was able to give him. I wasn't prepared to be his lover, nursemaid, and surrogate mother. It's true that my father didn't like him, but in spite of what you may have heard, the decision to end the affair was mine. It's as simple as that.”

“Not quite that simple, Miss Murray, surely.”

“What do you mean?” Involuntarily, she touched her cheek.

“Do you know that Bob blamed your father for the breakup?”

She shrugged. “That doesn't surprise me.”

“And are you aware that your father went to the Salar Lodge the night he was murdered and threatened to put Nigel Whitely out of business if he didn't keep Bob away from you?”

She seemed to grow even paler. “I—I'd told Father about going away with Bob to Pitlochry. He was livid of course, but I believe in being honest with people, Mr. Powell, don't you?” Her eyes searched his.

Powell thought it best not to answer.

“If I'd thought… but it doesn't matter now, does it?”

“You've said that you returned to Castle Glyn on Monday evening, but Bob didn't get back until the following morning. Where was he?”

“We'd originally planned to come back on Sunday, but I decided to stay an extra day and take in a play at the festival. Bob went on to Aberdeen Sunday afternoon.”

“Do you know why?”

“He said he was going to look for a job.”

“Just like that, a bolt out of the blue?”

“Look, Mr. Powell, I'd made it clear to Bob that it was over as far as I was concerned, but he seemed unable, or unwilling, to accept it. Perhaps a stint on an oil rig seemed a little like joining the Foreign Legion. You know, to forget.” Was there a hint of self-mockery in her voice?

Curiously detached, Powell marveled at the inevitability of it all. Questions and answers, like those little Russian dolls, one within the other. “How is it then, Miss Murray, if it was all over, as you say, that you and Bob were seen together in Kinlochy less than a week after your father's death?”

At first she did not reply. When she did, she seemed more disappointed in him than anything else. “After my father's death, Bob paid the obligatory visit to Castle Glyn. It was all very proper, I can assure you. Then a few days later I happened to meet him in the High Street.” She paused. “On that particular day I was feeling—well, not exactly on top of things. Perhaps vulnerable is a better word. Women are supposed to feel vulnerable, aren't they, Mr. Powell? It was a mistake, I can see that now. He probably thought I was leading him on.”

Powell noticed that she had begun to tremble slightly, but he resisted the temptation to go to her. He felt faintly irrelevant.

“What are you going to do?” she asked eventually.

“Are you willing to bring forward a complaint?”

“Have you thought about Nigel?”

“That's not a consideration.”

“Isn't it? It would probably kill him.”

“You're aware that he'll probably do it again—to somebody else? They always do, you know.”

“Perhaps he needs help then, not a jail sentence.”

Powell experienced an all too familiar sense of frustration. He often got into similar debates with his sons. “It's your decision, of course,” he said stiffly. “You know how to reach me if you change your mind.”

“Right now, I just want to put this sordid little chapter of my life behind me. Now, if there's nothing else …”

“I assume that you stand to inherit your father's estate.”

“Yes.” She appraised him cooly.

“Did Bob know?”

“He probably guessed, don't you think?”

“Miss Murray, I want you to consider my next question very carefully before answering. Do you think Bob Whitely is capable of murder?”

She hesitated for a moment. “If you'd asked me before, I'd have thought it a ludicrous suggestion. Now, I'd have to say I—I just don't know.”

Powell wondered as he drove back to Kinlochy what in God's name he was going to do.

CHAPTER 16

Barrett arrived on schedule the following morning. He and Powell conferred in the dining room over coffee.

“Where's Pinky?” Barrett asked.

‘Out for a stroll with Shand, I expect.”

Barrett stirred his coffee interminably with an irritating clinking of spoon against Spode. “While you were languishing here Speyside,” he said when he was satisfied with the result, “I managed to dig up a few interesting tidbits.”

“Such as?”

“To start with, it seems our friend Sanders is not only a reporter, but a reporter specializing in financial matters. He used to be business editor for the
Vancouver Sun
before he turned to freelancing.”

“That explains quite a lot.”

“And there's this.” He casually tossed over a thick brown envelope. “It just so happens I have a contact at Mountie Headquarters in Ottawa with whom I've consulted on a number of previous occasions. I explained our problem and he was able to get a warrant.”

The envelope was labeled B
RITISH
C
OLUMBIA SECURITIES COMMISSION.
Powell extracted the contents of the envelope and quickly leafed through the pages. It was a veritable gold mine of information. For each brokerage house there was a printout of the account statements of clients with short positions for the companies of interest. It took him a few minutes to find what he was looking for. Under the heading
WESTERN SECURITIES LTD.
, 1659
HOWE STREET,
V
ANCOUVER
, B. c. was the following entry:

JOHN G. SANDERS

“What does it mean?” Barrett said.

“In a nutshell, Sanders sold something he didn't own in order to make a profit.”

“Sorry I asked.”

Powell did his best to explain.

“Forgive me, Erskine, but so what?”

“I should have thought it was obvious. Sanders was in a position to profit handsomely when the prices of these shares fell on the news of Charles Murray's death. As I understand it the indicated cash balance of nearly four hundred fifty thousand dollars represents the proceeds of his short sales. If the value of the shares were to fall by,
say, fifty percent, his profit after he covered his positions, that is after he bought the shares back, would be about two hundred twenty-five thousand dollars, less commissions. A tidy sum in anyone's book.”