Death of a Laird Read online

  “Aye, well, I’ll just hang on to mine,” Hamish said, “it being a police vehicle.”

  “As you will,” said Mrs. Patrick with a shrug.

  The reception hall was a wide area at the foot of an oak staircase. The floor was clad in a diamond pattern of black-and-white tiles, while the walls were oak panelled up to tops of the door frames, all in matching oak. Sitting atop the panelling was a narrow shelf on which stood a widely spaced selection of decorative plates featuring illustrations of pheasant, grouse, red deer, ptarmigan, salmon, and trout. Occasional framed prints of hunting scenes and mountain views decorated the panelling. In all, the hall reinforced the impression created by the exterior of the building that this was a lesser version of a Victorian country house and far less opulent than one of Glasgow’s or Edinburgh’s grand villas of the period, where every ceiling would be dripping with ornate plasterwork and the staircase or any wooden panelling adorned with intricate carvings. Naglar House had been built as a weekend retreat where outdoor pursuits were to be enjoyed, rather than ever having been intended as a main residence.

  “The storm must have taken down the phone lines,” Mrs. Patrick informed him.

  “Aye, one o’ yon pine trees near took me down as well.” Hamish nodded, thumbing his mobile phone. “No mobile reception either?”

  “Nobody here has been able to make any calls since we spoke to the police in Strathbane.”

  “And my radio’s out of action, too,” he said gravely. “So it looks like we’re on our own.”

  “All of the guests are in the lounge along with Mrs. Pringle,” said the old lady. She stepped towards the lounge door and announced to those inside, “Sergeant Macbeth has arrived.”

  “Are you all they’ve sent?” A tall man standing at the fireplace with one elbow on the mantelpiece and a glass of whisky in his free hand scowled at Hamish. “We need a full search party. We need to get organised and get out there. Duncan could be anywhere. He could be injured…”

  “Oh…don’t say that…” A slim, dark-haired woman let out a sob and held a tissue to her nose. She was immediately comforted by the woman sitting beside her, who gently put an arm around her. The slim woman buried her face in her friend’s shoulder, lost amongst billowing waves of auburn hair.

  “It is now pitch dark outside,” Hamish said, “and blowing a gale with heavy rain. Once I have checked the house, we can form a search party from those of us here who have proper clothing for the conditions. It would help me to know who you all are.”

  He looked around the large, comfortable room. Seven adults were gathered around the log fire, seated on an eclectic array of armchairs and sofas. The different colours and styles of the furniture suited the mellow, informal nature of the room. A couple of bookcases, a few lamp tables, and a sideboard accounted for most of the rest of the furniture, and at the far end of the room was a dining table. The guests were wearing sweaters and jeans or casual trousers, all dressed for a relaxing evening amongst friends, and each, bar the two women sitting together, had a glass of wine, gin, or whisky.

  “I’m Paul Craigie, Duncan’s business partner,” barked the man by the fireplace. He was not quite as tall as Hamish, and judging by his receding hairline, Hamish guessed he was in his early forties. “This is my wife, Corinne.” Craigie stepped forward and seated himself beside a woman with a cascade of blonde hair, placing a proprietorial hand on her leg. She nodded to Hamish and took a swig of gin.

  “This is Diana,” said the woman with the auburn hair, “Duncan’s wife, and I’m Catherine.’

  “Lady Catherine Alexander Lamont,” said Mrs. Patrick, moving towards an armchair in which sat a small, neat man with a floppy fringe of light brown hair, “is the wife of His Lordship, the Earl of Strathbane.”

  “Robert will do,” the man said with a slight sigh and a twinkle of a smile, “no need to stand on ceremony, Mrs. Patrick.”

  “And this is Jamie Mackinnon, Mr. Pringle’s nephew,” said Mrs. Patrick, “and his fiancée, Patricia.” The couple who each nodded a greeting to Hamish were the youngest in the room by far. Hamish put them in their mid-twenties. The others ranged from mid-thirties, with Craigie clearly the oldest.

  “Be a good boy and fetch me a G-and-T, would you?” Corinne waved an empty crystal tumbler at Hamish.

  “I’m a police officer, no’ some kind o’ skivvy,” Hamish informed her. “Get up and get it yourself.”

  “Now, see here, Macbeth,” Craigie spouted angrily. “I’ll not have you talk to my wife like that!”

  “Then you’d better tell her to learn some manners,” Hamish responded. “Mrs. Patrick, would you show me round the rest of the house, please?”

  “With pleasure,” said the old lady, a smile playing at the corner of her mouth when she saw Corinne’s look of exasperation and her husband’s red-faced fury.

  “Should we get kitted up to go outside, Sergeant?” asked Lord Robert.

  “No’ yet, sir,” Hamish replied. “I’d rather you all bide here for now. Maybe lay off the drink, though,” he added, with a pointed look at Corinne.

  Mrs. Patrick led Hamish out into the reception hall and stood at the foot of the staircase, using her arms to point out the various doors, like a small, round, retired air hostess.

  “Both doors on the right lead into the main lounge/dining area we’ve just been in,” she said, facing right and holding out both arms. “The first door on the left leads to Mr. Pringle’s study. Next to that is the kitchen, and at the back of the house are the boot room, gun room, and downstairs bathroom.”

  “Lead on,” said Hamish. “Let’s start with the Laird’s office.’

  A quick look in the office was enough to establish that there was no hiding place for Pringle there. By the window there was a desk on which sat a laptop computer. There was a small leather sofa, a couple of filing cabinets, and a smaller version of the lounge’s fireplace merrily burning a couple of pine logs. Neither was there any sign of Pringle in the kitchen nor the scullery just off the kitchen. The downstairs bathroom was also clear, and when Mrs. Patrick showed Hamish to the gun room, a burly young man appeared with a set of keys and a black Labrador at his side. Mrs. Patrick introduced him as Fergus—gamekeeper, gardener, and general handyman—and the Labrador as Flynn.

  “Fergus keeps the keys to this room,” Mrs. Patrick explained, “although Mr. Pringle has another set.”

  “You do the honours, then, Fergus,” said Hamish, waving the younger man forward and rubbing the Labrador’s ears while Flynn sniffed at his trouser legs, identifying the scent of Lugs and, with the look of grave concern and confusion that Labradors do so well, a whiff of Sonsie.

  The small room had no windows, and when Fergus flicked the light switch, Hamish could see various shelves and cupboards surrounding a rectangular table in the middle of the room. The wall facing the door was dominated by a tall, grey-steel storage cabinet that was fixed to the masonry, with a smaller version of the same alongside it.

  “This is for the guns,” Fergus said, unlocking the taller cabinet to show two shotguns secured upright in mounts at the back of the cabinet. A third mount stood ominously empty. “There should be a Ruger stalking rifle in there—it’s gone.”

  “When did you notice it was missing?” Hamish asked.

  “I checked when we started to get worried about the boss, just afore we called the police—afore the phones all went dead,” Fergus explained. “It was missing then, and so were these…”

  He unlocked the smaller cabinet, revealing three shelves, with rifle ammunition in small boxes on the top shelf and shotgun cartridges of various types in boxes below. He opened one of the rifle boxes. Inside was a plastic matrix, each hole in the pattern designed to hold one round. Five holes were empty.

  “Five rounds missing?” Hamish asked, receiving a nod of confirmation from Fergus. “Enough to fill the Ruger’s magazine?” Fergus gave another nod. “All right. Lock everything up, Fergus, and I’ll take the keys for safekeeping.”
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  Hamish stationed Fergus in the hallway with Flynn to keep an eye on the guests—he didn’t want them causing confusion by moving around during the search—then followed Mrs. Patrick upstairs. There were four bedrooms, each with its own en-suite bathroom. Hamish could tell by the layout that there would once have been at least two more bedrooms, but these had been sacrificed to create the en-suite arrangement. Like the downstairs rooms, the bedrooms were elegantly furnished and tastefully decorated with woodland and hunting themes. As Hamish had expected, there was no sign of Pringle in any of the rooms. With the rain slashing in silver streaks through the beam of Hamish’s flashlight, he and Fergus dashed through the storm to check out Mrs. Patrick’s neat-and-tidy garden cottage. Hamish then had Fergus show him the garden storage outbuildings and the boathouse before they hurried down the drive to the gatehouse where the handyman lived. It consisted of a kitchen/living room, a small bedroom, and a tiny bathroom. Pringle was nowhere to be found in the little stone building and Hamish barely bothered looking.

  “This is a braw wee house, Fergus,” he said, wiping rainwater out of his eyes with the back of his hand. “You keep it tidy.”

  “You have to be tidy when there’s no’ much room,” Fergus replied. “I learned that in my last place.’

  “Aye, I’m sure you did,” Hamish said. “Listen, I need you to keep your eyes and ears open around these folk, all right? Have a think about anything strange you might have seen or heard since they all arrived and let me know.”

  “I’ll do that,” was the reply, before they both sprinted back up the drive to the house, where Mrs. Patrick greeted them with warm towels to dry their faces and Flynn danced around their legs, wagging his tail.

  “You’re spoiling us, Mrs. Patrick,” Hamish said, removing his rain-drenched cap and dripping jacket to hang on pegs. “Now I’d better talk to them in the lounge again.”

  The guests, seated precisely as Hamish had left them, looked towards the big Highlander when he entered the room.

  “There’s no sign of Mr. Pringle anywhere in the house or the immediate vicinity,” he reported in a formal tone. “Afore we make a plan to go further into the grounds, I’d like your permission to have a quick look in your cars.’

  “That will be quite all right, Sergeant,” said Lord Robert, cutting short the beginning of a bluster from Craigie. “You go straight ahead.”

  Hamish studied the keys on a hall stand near the front door, produced a pair of latex gloves from his pocket, and pulled them on while selecting the first set. Which should he start with? If Pringle was hiding, or if he had been trussed up and hidden, or if something even more sinister had happened to him, the bigger cars would provide better concealment. There were two Range Rovers parked outside—Pringle’s burgundy car and the Alexander-Lamonts’ dark blue version. He shrugged on his rain jacket and picked up both sets of Range Rover keys, pressing the button on one of the fobs as he walked out the front door. The dark blue car lit up. He opened the tailgate to find nothing but the expected clutter of muddy walking boots, a couple of tennis racquets, a well-worn waterproof waxed jacket, and a space on the plush carpet where the weekend luggage had been.

  He pinged the second Range Rover and opened its tailgate to discover a completely different scene. Duncan Pringle’s blank eyes stared up at him, devoid of life. Startled for a moment, Hamish took a step back. Pringle had been bundled into the back of his own car, knees drawn up in front of him and left hand behind his back, leaving his pale face turned towards the open tailgate. Hamish reached in to feel for a pulse but the dark blood stain around a bullet wound in the middle of Pringle’s chest told him that searching for any sign of life was a forlorn hope. Judging by the coldness of the skin and the way the blood had congealed on his shirt front, he knew Pringle had been dead for some time. Hamish cursed. The weather was foul, he was a long way from his cosey home in Lochdubh, he had no way of getting back there, and now he had a murder on his hands with no way of summoning help. His week really was ending badly.

  Lying beside Pringle was the missing rifle. Hamish was familiar with the Ruger model and picked it up, clicking the safety catch into its rearmost “safe” position. He then went through the pockets of Pringle’s heavy tweed jacket and wool trousers, looking for the missing gun-room keys. They were not on the body, and a quick search established that they were not anywhere in the car either. With a sigh, he closed the tailgate. There was nothing he could do for Duncan Pringle now, and the forensics team, when they were finally able to get to Loch Naglar, would not want him to have moved the body. Clutching the Ruger, he loped back through the lashing rain to the house and made his way straight to the gun room. There he flicked the rifle’s safety catch to its central position, worked the bolt to eject the spent cartridge, and opened the magazine plate beneath the smooth wooden stock to collect four live rounds. The ammunition went into an evidence bag, and, to try to preserve any prints or forensic evidence, the rifle was carefully wrapped in bin liners supplied by Mrs. Patrick before being locked in the gun cabinet.

  Making the firearm safe had been an immediate priority, but now he had a trickier task to perform. He asked Mrs. Patrick to have Catherine Alexander-Lamont and Diana Pringle join him in the study. He needed to break the bad news to Diana, and it was best that she had someone close to provide a shoulder to cry on. He was standing by the mantelpiece, letting the warmth from the fire dry the last of the rain from his trousers, when the two women walked in.

  “Please take a seat, ladies,” Hamish said, indicating the sofa.

  “What is it?” asked Diana as she and Catherine sat side-by-side. “Do you have some news?’

  “Aye, but I’m afraid it’s no’ good news,” Hamish replied sombrely. “Mrs. Pringle, I’m sorry to have to tell you that I found your husband’s body just a few minutes ago.”

  “Duncan’s…dead? No! He can’t be! I mean…where is he? I mean…” Diana’s speech slowed until she fell silent and suddenly burst into tears, turning to Catherine, who held her in her arms.

  “Where is he?” Catherine asked, tears also coursing down her cheeks.

  “He’s in his car.”

  “Well bring him in, Sergeant!” Catherine demanded. “We can’t leave him out there!”

  “We mustn’t move the body or disturb the scene afore the forensics lads get here.”

  “What happened to him?” Diana sobbed. “What happened?”

  “He was shot. If it’s any comfort at all, it would have been very quick. He wouldn’t have felt a thing.”

  “What do you mean, ‘shot’?” Catherine frowned at Hamish. “He wouldn’t have shot himself. Duncan most certainly would not have taken his own life.”

  “I don’t believe he did,” Hamish agreed. “Mr. Pringle was murdered.”

  “But…who could have done that?” Catherine asked, her expression changing to one of horror as the answer to her own question sent a chill down her spine. “There’s only us here…”

  “Aye,” Hamish agreed. “Whoever murdered Duncan Pringle is still right here in this house.”

  Part Two

  The Laird’s Guests

  Words are easy, like the wind;

  Faithful friends are hard to find.

  William Shakespeare, The Passionate Pilgrim

  “The road is impassable and I have no way of contacting Strathbane. My radio is dead and none of us has any phone signal.” Hamish addressed the guests gathered in the lounge. “We have no choice but to sit tight until other police officers get here.”

  “When do you think that might be, Sergeant?” asked Lord Robert.

  “One way or another, they will be able to reach us as soon as the storm blows over,” Hamish explained.

  “But that could take days!” rasped Craigie.

  “We can’t all stay here for days,” Catherine said, shaking her head. “Not after what’s happened.”

  “I’m afraid there’s no’ any choice in the matter,” Hamish said, “but I doubt it wil
l take days. The storm is bad, but it’s moving fast and will blow over quickly. In the meantime, this is now a murder enquiry and I have a job to do. I need you all to stay here in the lounge while I search your rooms and your cars.”

  “Really?” Patricia sniffed. “Again?’

  “I was looking for a man before,” Hamish told her. “This time it’s different.”

  “What exactly is it that you’re looking for, Sergeant?” asked Mackinnon, exchanging a look of concern with his fiancée.

  “I’ll know that when I find it,” Hamish replied.

  What he really wanted to find were the missing gun-room keys. Unless there was some maniac lurking outside in the forest, which seemed highly unlikely, then one—perhaps more than one—of the people in the room had murdered Duncan Pringle. Why take the gun-room keys? There was only one real answer to that: The killer wanted access to the guns.

  Whatever had happened earlier that day, whether the murder was planned or a spur-of-the-moment thing, the killer had been caught out by the storm. Maybe the body was supposed to have been buried in the woods, or up in the hills, or sunk in a peat bog, but the weather had closed in. Bundling the body into the back of Duncan Pringle’s own car was, perhaps, a temporary measure. The guests hadn’t searched the cars when they went looking for Pringle because they had been looking for someone alive and possibly injured, not dead and deliberately hidden.

  The killer had left the Ruger with the body because the rifle would have been difficult to smuggle back into the house. He, or she, knew it would be found eventually, but until it was, it was in a reasonably convenient, dry place should it be needed again. Even if it was found, the keys gave the killer access to the shotguns to help make a getaway should that become necessary—desperate people are prone to resort to desperate measures. That was uppermost in Hamish’s mind. Someone in the house had already committed one murder and could still get at the weapons in the gun room. He didn’t want any more shooting.