Page 13 of A Very Bookish Murder (Ally McKinley Mystery #3)

TEN

After Morag had cleaned the bedrooms, had her mug of tea and gone home, Ally decided to take her still-life down from the wall and maybe move Brigitte to six o’clock. But, just then, she heard the doorbell, and hastily hung the board up again. She had a visitor: Amir Kandahar.

‘Good morning, Ally,’ he said. ‘I hope I haven’t come at an inconvenient time?’

‘Not at all,’ Ally replied. ‘Do come in. Do you mind if we go into the kitchen?’

‘Certainly not,’ he said. ‘I’m very fond of kitchens. And this,’ he added as she led him inside, ‘is a particularly nice one.’

‘Rigby liked a cup of tea and shortbread,’ Ally told him.

‘Let me carry on the tradition,’ said Amir, ‘but no milk in my tea, please. And one spoonful of sugar.’

‘That’s exactly how I take it.’ Ally was now feeling more than ever that here was a kindred spirit, particularly as he made a great fuss of Flora. As she handed him his tea, she asked, ‘Have you any news?’

He shook his head. ‘Unfortunately, not a great deal. I’ve interviewed all the women at the retreat now and believe that we can discount those who didn’t leave the room in the period in question.

I’ve also interviewed the Craigmonie staff who were on duty and the few guests who were in the hotel at that time, none of whom were anywhere near the writers’ retreat section, apart from one or two people in the bar, and they were in full view of the bar staff the whole time.

That now leaves the seven possibilities: the four who are staying here – Joyce Williams, Penelope Fortescue-Rawlins, Brigitte Atkins and Millie Day – plus the three ladies at the Craigmonie: Della Moran, Laura Pike and Morwenna Davies. ’

‘Did you know that one of them, Brigitte Atkins, has now been joined by her husband who is a publisher of educational books?’

‘That would exclude him publishing most of these women’s books then, from what I gather,’ Amir added with a smile.

‘The French lady did in fact inform me of this, and I’ve checked with the company who have confirmed that they concentrate on textbooks, dictionaries and educational stuff, and I gather that Miss Jones’s work did not quite fit in to any of these categories. ’

‘Hardly!’ Ally confirmed with a grin.

‘However, since all of these women are writers, or aspiring writers, I cannot rule any of them out because of their possible connection, however slim, with the publishing world.’ He shuffled some papers. ‘I understand that Miss Jones was accused of plagiarism by a couple of the suspects?’

‘Oh yes,’ Ally said, ‘and they’ve been completely honest about it, particularly Della Moran.’

Amir nodded. ‘Interesting character, that. I really just wanted to remind you that one of your guests could well be the killer, and so, if you see or hear anything about them that might be relevant, I’d be grateful if you could let me know.

’ He looked at Ally a little anxiously. ‘I’m not suggesting you snoop or anything… ’

‘I get what you’re saying,’ Ally said, and then a thought struck her. ‘I had a chat with the earl the other evening and he knew Penelope Fortescue-Rawlins from years ago. She’s a bit of an aristocrat too, you know.’

He frowned and shuffled his papers some more. ‘She’s the woman who speaks very loudly?’

‘That’s her,’ Ally confirmed. ‘And Hamish – the earl – said that she was once suspected of killing her husband.’

Amir stopped shuffling and looked at Ally long and hard. ‘What?’

‘Apparently, she’d been having an affair with Lord Somebody-or-other, and her husband supposedly took his own life, but there was some suggestion that he’d been murdered.

She was actually arrested but later released, due to lack of evidence.

However, the earl seemed to think that she would be quite capable of murder. ’

‘Hmm,’ said Amir. ‘I may have to speak to the earl, but I haven’t met him yet. Is he a nice man?’

‘He’s a charming man,’ Ally replied.

‘His information would be reliable?’

‘Without a doubt.’

Amir took out his phone. ‘Remind me where this woman lives?’

‘In the Cotswolds, somewhere in Gloucestershire, I believe. But I do have all their addresses in my visitors’ book if you need them.’

Amir smiled in thanks. ‘I do have a list of their addresses, and now I will be contacting their local police departments.’ He drained his cup and stood up.

‘Where are you based?’ Ally asked.

‘Well, Glasgow really, but temporarily with the Inverness police. I believe Detective Inspector Rigby had a bungalow or something converted into a temporary police station while he was here?’

Ally nodded. ‘He did.’

‘Depending on how long this case goes on for, I might find it helpful to continue using that, so I’ll look into it.’ He handed her a card. ‘Please get in touch if you should discover anything at all that might be relevant.’

‘I will,’ Ally promised. ‘I honestly don’t know if this is important or not, but Brigitte Atkins was extremely keen to occupy Room One, mainly because her husband was about to join her.

But when I went upstairs a few days ago, before he arrived, I found Brigitte in there, looking at Jodi’s diary, and after she left I looked at the diary and noticed that a page – this week’s page – had been torn out, but I could decipher, from the indented section on the previous page, something about her having a chat with Brigitte.

’ Ally opened a drawer. ‘I do have the diary here. It had fallen down the back of the chest of drawers so Owen Jones didn’t see it when he came for Jodi’s things, but I thought it could be relevant. ’ She handed it to him.

Amir examined the diary. ‘Rigby was right – you really are quite a sleuth.’

Ally felt ridiculously pleased.

‘Perhaps Jodi Jones knew her from before?’ Amir suggested.

‘Possibly. I just wondered.’

‘I’ll have a word with her. You will let me know if any similar incident occurs?’

‘Yes, of course,’ Ally replied, glancing guiltily at her still-life on the wall. I wonder what he’d think of that , she mused, if he turned it over ? She accompanied him to the door and waved him off.

After he’d gone, she realised that she should have asked him if the women would be allowed to leave when the week was up. And, if they weren’t, who’d be paying?

Callum Dalrymple arrived on the malthouse doorstep just before midday, settled himself in the sunny kitchen next to the biscuit tin and, fixing his Paul-Newman-type blue eyes on Ally, said, ‘One of these damned women, Ally, is the killer – has to be, so let’s just hope that this Kandahar fellow is more clued up than Rigby was. ’

‘Rigby wasn’t so bad,’ Ally murmured in his defence, handing him a mug of coffee.

Callum ignored her remark. ‘Now,’ he said, ‘the five women who did not visit the ladies’ room that afternoon have been excluded as suspects and are all leaving tomorrow, as originally planned.

And I must emphasise that none of my other guests were anywhere near there at the time.

Most were out for the day, and the couple who remained were sitting down by the river.

There was a man chatting up Miss Jones at the bar, and we’re trying to locate him.

’ He paused for a moment. ‘I can’t for the life of me think why anyone would want to kill the woman!

I mean, so what if she did steal the Irishwoman’s story? Is that worth a life sentence?’

‘Unlikely,’ Ally agreed. ‘I’m coming to the conclusion that there’s more to it than that. Possibly something connected with their personal lives?’

‘Maybe.’ Callum shook his head. ‘Anyway, what I came to tell you is that Laura and Morwenna want to stay on at the Craigmonie for another week, but they want a room each and they’re happy to pay. Della can’t make up her mind at the moment but has promised to let me know by tomorrow.’

‘I’ve no idea what my lot plan to do,’ Ally said, ‘except for Brigitte. Her husband has arrived, and they want to stay on, as tourists, for another week too.’

Callum nodded. ‘Good. I understand that all seven of them have been told by the police that they are free to go home but that their local police stations would be alerted to the fact that they are murder suspects, so they’d have to check in there once a week and hand in their passports, just in case they decided to abscond. ’

‘I don’t suppose they’d like that,’ Ally said.

‘What will the neighbours think?’ Callum joked in a falsetto voice. He grinned. ‘So don’t be surprised if your women decide to stay on.’

Ross was working in the surgery all that afternoon, and Ally decided to drive Flora and herself down to his house, to take Flora and Ebony for a walk around the grounds. Ally often stayed there overnight in the winter, but when the guests arrived, she obviously had to be at the malthouse.

Ebony was highly delighted to see both her and Flora, and they set off round Ross’s domain.

Both his cottages were let out, so she gave them a wide berth, and headed towards the river and the loch.

It was the same river that flowed through Locharran, the Altbeag, but closer to where it flowed into the sea loch and then into the Atlantic.

It was a beautiful day, and she stopped for a moment to listen to the blackbird singing above in one of the trees, enthralled as always by the deep, throaty, melodic tones.

Every year she’d always waited for the blackbirds to commence singing, usually in March, and then she knew that spring had arrived.

Sadly, by July he’d stop trying to attract the females and he’d fall silent for another year.

Ally moved towards the river, weaving a path through the wild garlic and avoiding nettles. And then she saw it: Owen Jones’s scruffy camper van. She walked slowly in that direction, wondering if he might be around. Perhaps she should ask about the funeral?

As luck would have it, she saw him coming out and crouching over what was plainly a camping stove. He must have heard her coming because he stood up and stared in her direction.

‘We meet again!’ Ally exclaimed, hoping she sounded hearty enough.

He scowled, as if trying to remember.

‘I’m Ally McKinley from The Auld Malthouse,’ she reminded him.

He nodded. ‘What do you want?’

‘I don’t want anything,’ Ally said sharply.

‘I just happen to be here walking on my friend’s land when I saw your van.

’ She was conscious of the fact that he kept walking towards her while looking back anxiously at the van.

Was he trying to hide something – or somebody?

She could have sworn she saw some movement inside the limited space of the camper van.

Keen to stay on for a few minutes longer, Ally asked, ‘Have any arrangements been made for Jodi’s funeral?’

There was more movement inside the van, and he looked back nervously. What or who was he trying to hide?

‘A week on Sunday, in the morning, eleven o’clock,’ he said, ‘at the natural burial site. I’ve told the bloody police, so if you need any information, ask them.’ With that, he gave her a final glare before tracing his steps back towards the van.

Aware of being ‘dismissed’, Ally nodded, shouted at the dogs and moved away.

She was quite sure that there had been someone in that van. But who?

When they all arrived back in the evening, it was Joyce who approached Ally.

‘Ally,’ she asked hesitantly, ‘would it be OK if Penelope, Millie and myself stayed on for another week? The police have told us that Jodi is to be buried somewhere around here next Sunday, and we all feel we should go.’ She hesitated for a moment and then said, ‘She’s being buried in a field !’

‘I think you mean a natural burial ground,’ Ally said with a wry smile. ‘Yes, of course you can stay. I gather that two of the ladies at the Craigmonie are staying on too. Is that why you’ve come to this decision?’

‘Well,’ said Joyce, looking surreptitiously over her shoulder, ‘there are several reasons. One is that we all get on well and enjoy each other’s company.

Another is because we’re writers and so we’re naturally curious to know who killed poor Jodi, and what a plot that might provide for our next books!

’ She paused for a moment. ‘And, Ally, we all love The Auld Malthouse – and you! Also, we’d like to see more of this part of the world and, because none of us are exactly on the breadline, we are fortunate enough to be able to afford to stay on for the extra week. ’

Ally felt quite moved by her comments. ‘I’d love you to stay,’ she confirmed, wondering how much information she could elicit from the ladies in the week ahead.

When she went back into the kitchen, she made herself a coffee and sat down at the table.

Another week. Callum was right, and the women did not appear to be in any hurry to go home for whatever reason.

Could it just be because they wanted to stay for Jodi’s funeral?

Was it because of the neighbours finding out that they were murder suspects?

Or that six out of the seven were desperate to know who the killer was?

Or was it just to give them ideas for their own plots?

She recalled Desdemona’s remarks about the real motives for killing: love, hate, jealousy, revenge.

Could it be possible that at least one of the women had come to the writing retreat solely to kill Jodi? But who? And why?

Ally had a week to try to help DI Kandahar – and Rigby, of course– on this one.

Four of the women were right here, under her roof.

She’d try to find time to chat to them individually because they might tell her things that they wouldn’t necessarily disclose to a man.

She wondered how she could find a way to befriend the three down at the Craigmonie, not that Della had confirmed yet if she was staying or not.

She studied her still-life painting, but there was no point in removing it from the wall until she could narrow down the suspects.

Her thoughts returned to Rigby. Jodi Jones certainly appeared to be his sister, and the poor man needed to find out who had killed her.

She felt rather guilty that she had done nothing yet to try to find out more about Jodi’s life, as she had promised Rigby she would do.

She had every hope that she could do both though – find the killer and the details of Jodi’s personal life, which were so important to Bob Rigby.