Greater sins, p.6
Greater Sins, page 6
James begins to pull away the body’s wrapping. ‘Incredible …’
Lizzie watches the way his eyes widen. It is a tender intimacy, witnessing another person’s wonder, and her instinct is to look away as James touches a fingertip to the woman’s wrist, then strokes the length of her arm. He pulls back the shroud, revealing the soft hollow at her collarbone, her throat, her face. ‘I can’t believe this.’ He gently touches her mouth – those curling lips that could be smiling, coy; or set hard in refusal of tears.
There is a clatter from below. The door opens and Rab and Johnny Nicol come in, the farmer peeling back the tarpaulin on one of the stacks and leaning in to sniff the crop. Johnny stands back, watching. He’s soaked through, twisted brown cotton round his neck, the colour of a dubious bottle of whisky. ‘Still wet?’
‘Soaking,’ Rab says. They turn to go, but James leans over the edge of the hayloft and raises his palm.
‘Hello! I do apologize – ever so rude – in my excitement to see this woman I came straight up here without greeting her hosts.’ He climbs down the ladder and strides towards the men with an outstretched hand. ‘A fascinating thing you’ve got up there.’
‘Aye,’ says Johnny, shaking James’s hand with one quick jerk, ‘it was me who took her out the bog.’
‘Then you’ll be well acquainted. I’ve some theories about her if you’d like to hear them, though … perhaps inside. The cold out here!’
Rab hesitates. ‘Aye, well, if it doesn’t take too long. Come on, I’ll have my wife boil up a kettle.’
James touches Rab’s shoulder. ‘Kind of you.’ He turns to Johnny. ‘We’ll need to re-wrap the body, stop the air getting to her. Would you mind?’
Johnny mutters agreement and stands by the ladder, averting his eyes as Lizzie clambers down.
In the kitchen, Lizzie wrestles her arms out of her damp coat while James hangs his on a hook and settles himself into a chair by the fire, a man apt at finding his ease. Rab and the gang stand, though Johnny has pulled up a dining chair and sits with one ankle crossed over the other knee so the clotted muck on his boot presents itself to the room. He is wearing a holey pullover, giving off the stink of wet wool, and watches with something like disdain as James gets out his pipe, fills it at his leisure, tamps it, sparks a flame from his silver lighter.
‘So,’ the Inspector says, ‘I think it’s the water. There’s something in the acidity of bogs that can keep things preserved. I’ve heard of peat cutters finding old scraps of fabric and the like, but never anything like this.’
‘You’re saying it’s some kind of magic water?’ asks Johnny.
James laughs. ‘Not magic, no. It’ll be a mix of things – the composition, perhaps something to do with oxygen levels. Do you know much about chemistry?’
‘That was more my wee brother’s thing.’
‘Right. Well look, I’ll make no promises, but I know someone at the university in Aberdeen. He’s a geologist, really, but he’ll likely have colleagues who’ll be interested in this sort of thing.’
‘When might he come?’ Lizzie asks.
‘I couldn’t say. They’ll have had their own share of men joining up. But I’ll write to him.’
‘All right. But who do you think she was?’ she asks.
Johnny jumps in with his theory. ‘She probably had an accident up there, fell down and was never found.’
‘Wouldn’t have thought so,’ says James. ‘Lizzie said she was found in a box – seems unlikely she’d have fallen into that.’
‘Duh,’ says Stephen.
Johnny shrugs. ‘Aye, well, whatever.’
‘I think,’ James takes another pull on his pipe, lets the blue smoke disperse before continuing, ‘well, it could be foul play, but more likely it was some outbreak of disease – measles, or worse. They might have decided to bury her far from the living.’
Lizzie hadn’t thought of this but it makes sense, and James sounds confident in his assertion. He always was that way, back in town, presenting theories as facts with such assurance that he was rarely challenged. ‘But what about that metal round her neck?’
‘Ceremonial, perhaps? Part of some sort of funeral ritual? Lord knows what folks got up to around here many moons ago. Whoever she was, she’s some find.’ James looks at Lizzie and there is something knowing in his gaze, as though he suspects her of devising it all to draw him back to her. ‘I’ll try to find out more – dig out some files from the area, see if there are any reports of a missing woman, things like that. I think I’ll bring a couple of my colleagues over in a few days and have a look at where you found her, if you’d be able to take us up there?’
Lizzie agrees – it seems essential to the investigation.
‘Marvellous!’ says James, rising from his chair. ‘I’ll leave these men to their work then, I’ve taken up enough of everyone’s afternoon.’
Rab waves a hand. ‘Nae bother at all. In fact, it’s past four. You go, Johnny, there’s nae much more we can do today.’
‘Oh, I’ll easy stay.’
‘No, away home, we dinnae need you.’ He means nothing ill with his words, surely, but Johnny’s face drops and he gets up, crams his soggy cap on his head.
‘Which one’s yours?’ James asks, rummaging amongst the coats on the hook before holding up the tatty jacket Johnny had been wearing in the barn. The Inspector fingers a sleeve, a shadow of distaste in his expression. ‘It’s damp, still, I’m afraid. How about I run you home in the car? I’ll be dropping Lizzie off, so it’s no bother.’
Johnny shakes his head. ‘Dinnae worry about it, I’ll gladly walk.’ He has been surly all afternoon, scowling in a way that doesn’t flatter him.
‘Come on, you’d be foolish to walk in this rain when James will be nigh on passing your front door,’ Lizzie says.
The Inspector nods. ‘It’s really no trouble – your wife will give you a scolding if you turn up dripping all over the kitchen.’
‘He disnae have a wife,’ says Henry.
‘Really,’ Johnny says, shooting him a look. ‘I wouldnae dirty this good man’s car.’
‘All right, well, you take care.’ James stands for a moment, surveying the gang as they get up, ready to finish the day’s tasks. His mouth twitches in the manner of a man who has formed a joke and finds himself greatly pleased with it. ‘I must say, I haven’t seen so many young men in one room for some time!’
Johnny, at the door, pauses with a hand on the latch. He turns his head, looks at the policeman in his sharply fitted wool. ‘Aye, well, you’ve tae eat, don’t you?’ And he opens the door and steps back into the rain.
In the parlour at Blackwater, James peruses the art. Lizzie hadn’t intended to invite him in, but could hardly let him make the long journey home without rest or refreshment. She watches as he leans in closer to the portraits, perusing them like a critic.
‘Long dead Calders,’ says Lizzie. ‘I don’t know who most of them are.’
‘Your husband, which one is he? I can barely remember the great William’s face.’
They were never really friends, James and William – would encounter each other on the same town circuit, but William was older, too serious, unmoved by James’s easy charm. James liked to spar, ideally with a partner who would meet his banter with similar good humour, but William was never a man who appreciated being laughed at. Lizzie finds she does not particularly want to show James the wedding photograph, but gestures to where it sits on the side table.
‘Ah well, you’ve not got to rely on the eye of an artist for that.’
She watches James’s face as he scrutinizes the image – she, stiff in the chill of a Cabrach February, smiling though her hands shook in her lap. William is sombre, dressed in black that is harsh beside the off-white of his wife’s high-necked lace.
‘You all look very serious,’ James says.
‘Serious business, a wedding.’
‘Aye, but your father – that’s not how I remember him. He’d a big sturdy grin on his face most of the time.’ James sets down the frame. ‘How are your parents anyway? I heard they moved south.’
Lizzie doesn’t want this interrogation. James always was good at deflection, flattering people with interest so they might only realize later that he’d told them nothing about himself.
‘Edinburgh. My father was offered a role at the bank’s head office, quite high up. I don’t often see them.’
It is easier, Lizzie supposes, for her parents’ genteel city friends to know only that they have a daughter up north who has married well – if well means into money. Her parents hadn’t visited much before the move in any case; a few awkward evenings at the dinner table, her mother rabbiting on about the paintings and rugs and silverware, William responding in syllables. The last time, when Lizzie’s father took her aside and asked, earnestly, if she was happy, she could have wrapped her hands round his neck and squeezed.
‘Will you have a drink?’ she asks now, to stave off further questions.
‘Oh, go on. A small one.’
Lizzie goes to the cabinet and roots through the bottles for William’s good whisky. Her hands tremble and she scolds herself as the lip of the decanter knocks against the tumbler – she is being ridiculous.
‘I must say, it came as a surprise when I heard you were marrying William Calder. I didn’t realize you two knew each other very well.’ James paces in front of the fire as he makes his enquiries, employing the detached, neutral tone that he might use with anyone – victim or perpetrator. Lizzie runs a finger along the rim of the glass, presses down on the fine crack that now splits the crystal, lets it hurt her for a second. She takes the two drams and it seems diminishing, somehow, to go to his side and give him something.
‘We didn’t, really.’ She raises the ruined glass she has taken for herself. ‘Slainte.’
‘Slainte.’ James drinks, and for a moment he meets her eye before looking up at the ceiling. ‘It’s some place you’ve got here. I’m surprised they didn’t sell it.’
‘It’s been in the family for centuries.’
‘Aye, but that was a hefty sum William and his da were trying to get together.’
‘When?’
‘Oh, ten or so years back?’
Lizzie frowns – that was when they married. Back then, James’s father had looked after the Calder account at the bank.
‘There was a farm they were trying to buy, but it didn’t work out. William and his father fell out over it. I’d imagine the money was for that,’ Lizzie says.
‘Maybe. Though I could have sworn the funds were all drawn down. I seem to remember my father being called out of his bed on a Saturday morning. Perhaps that was someone else.’
‘Can you ask him?’
James smiles at her indulgently, as if she were a child playing detective. ‘If you like.’ He swallows another mouthful of his whisky. ‘Anyway, I’m glad they held on to this place, it’s a fine old house. Though … it must be awfully lonely out here?’
Lizzie has answered all his questions, but she will not give him this. ‘I’m not alone. I probably should have said – Jane’s come to stay for a while. Just to keep me company.’
James stops, his glass half raised to his mouth. ‘Oh, I didn’t know.’
‘No, well. You wouldn’t.’
‘Is she well?’
‘I suspect …’ Lizzie says, pausing at what sounds like footsteps in the hall, ‘you’ll be able to ask her yourself.’
When Jane comes in, she looks at their drinks and the clock and then at Lizzie. ‘You posted the letter, then?’
‘Clearly,’ says Lizzie.
‘Your prerogative, I suppose. Anyway, Mr Esslemont.’ She endures his kiss on the cheek.
‘It’s been a long time, but a pleasure as ever, Miss Calder – or, so I still presume?’
Jane looks at him as if he is stupid to suggest she might have cuffed herself to a man. ‘I won’t haver long, I’ve things to be getting on with. Are you well, James? How’s your wife?’
‘She’s well, as am I.’
‘A shame not to have met her properly,’ Jane goes on, ‘we didn’t get to speak much at the wedding. And your bairns – how many are there now?’
‘Three, all girls.’
‘How lovely!’ Jane’s voice is cloying, and she looks at Lizzie for a reaction, but if she thinks these simple facts will pain her she is mistaken. Lizzie knows the circumstances of James’s life – what she has wondered is if he is content with them. And James looks uncomfortable all of a sudden, caught in a net of questioning he’s rather more used to casting himself.
‘They must keep you busy,’ Lizzie says.
‘Ah, well, they’re in Forres most of the time, we’ve a place there. Charlotte prefers the school and it’s close to her mother, so …’ He drains his glass and sets it loudly on the side table.
‘That must be a lot for you, going between Forres and town for work?’ Lizzie says.
He runs a palm over the crown of his head, disturbing the elegant wave in his hair. ‘No, I stay in town, mostly. With this job it’s … easier.’
Though she has forced it, Lizzie finds herself alarmed at this slippage – the fluttering of a curtain that has revealed something untoward. Part of her wants to cover it back over, but she is also well aware of her own capacity for cruelty. ‘Well, you ought to bring the family out for a visit one day. I’d love to meet the girls.’
‘Perhaps, when the weather’s finer. Anyway, I’d better be off. I’ll come back in a couple of days with the others to continue the investigation.’ He has fallen back into the easy authority of his profession. Lizzie watches him as he goes out to the hall to put on his coat – the familiar slant of his shoulders, a pattern of freckles on the back of his neck. It is a small consolation that if Lizzie is unhappy, at least James is too. And yet the realization doesn’t bring her any satisfaction, as she’d always thought it might. She tilts her cheek to him and he places a kiss there, withdrawing too slowly for her not to hear his sigh.
JOHNNY
Johnny shoves the door open. Rain hurls in behind him, the wind nudging him over the threshold as though he might have it in mind to turn back round again. The inn is full – a low simmer of perturbed men, the wet clearing of throats. He wants to get a dram in before he is accosted. At the bar, Agnes gives him a hard-luck look and reaches for a bottle of her better stuff. ‘No peace here tonight, loon, though you’ll give them something to talk about that’s nae the new liquor restrictions, and for that,’ she slides the dram across the bar, ‘you can have this on me.’
‘You, my darling, are an angel and a saint.’
Agnes gives him a steady look, flattered despite herself. ‘Go on then, they’ve all been waiting for you.’
Round the hearth, the men have drawn their chairs into a circle – democratic in their misery, all tales of woe equal to the rest. They will be ired mostly by the weather, but once they get going other grievances soon spill out. Dougie sits rubbing his swollen knuckles, though manages a grin when he sees Johnny.
‘Now we’ll hear it fae the horse’s mouth.’ The farmer slaps the cushion of an empty chair and Johnny sits, notes the sullen expressions of the other men – Sinclair’s got a face like cream on the turn and Jock looks tetchy. Johnny pats his head.
‘What’s the matter with you, Jock? Only a chop for your supper tonight? A hole in your fine feather quilt?’
Jock tuts. ‘Shut your gob.’
‘What’ve you heard already, then?’ Johnny asks. It has been several days since the body was found and the rumours and speculation will be well under way.
‘Well, you tell us the facts,’ says Dougie. ‘You hauled it down.’
‘You could have asked the loon.’ Johnny nods towards Henry, who sits with a tankard that looks too heavy for his wrist. They’ve scarcely exchanged two words since the rain came, bringing in the drooping stooks with barely a look in the other’s direction. Johnny gets it: the loon at a new fee, eager to impress, and he’d let his disappointment get the better of him. But still, Johnny had thought he might hear an apology.
Dougie narrows his eyes. ‘He’s new, how are we tae know he’s honest?’
‘I’m honest as a judge,’ says Henry, but the men ignore him and continue to badger Johnny for his story. Johnny removes his coat, takes his time to get comfortable – his audience will wait. He takes a sip of Agnes’s good whisky and regards them. ‘It’s a body. A lassie. And she’s been in there a good long time.’
‘And? What did she look like?’
‘I hear she’s six foot tall?’
‘And she’s got just the one eye – is that right?’
‘Someone told me she’s got bright-red hair …’
‘Aye,’ Johnny says, ‘You’re right about the hair. But the rest … as I said, she’s just a lassie. Normal-sized, two eyes, nose, mouth, and the rest of it.’
Dougie raises both hands and squeezes the air like he’s milking a heifer. ‘Aye, I heard she has the rest of it!’
‘Gads, man, it’s a corpse.’
The farmer huffs. ‘So she’s just a normal lassie – where’s the story in that?’
‘I dinnae know, but I can do you a song about it.’ Johnny looks expectantly at the group, thinks it might cheer them to get a bit of music going, stamp the mud from their boots. But Jock puts up a hand.
‘Nae in the mood, man.’
Johnny shrugs. In truth he can’t really be arsed either – he’s irritable, had wanted to get out of the house for a drink and a blether, but he sees there’s no cheer to be found here tonight. He closes his eyes, detaching himself from the men as they take up other lines of talk: flaring gout and boggy pastures, sheep growing scabby with rain-rot; and, to insult them further, a dwindling supply of ale with which to drown their sorrows, for the brewery over in Dufftown has lost its men to war.
