6 The Queen of Scots Mystery (4 page)

Chapter 5 Christopher puts up a fight

They came for him first thing on Sunday morning. They didn’t break the door down, but they hammered on it until even the dog, who
always seemed to sleep very soundly, woke up and started growling in the spare room. Christopher had no doubt that his annoying neighbour Mr Browning was also awake and quite possibly growling too and that the neighbour would make his feelings known later.

Thinking at first that there might be news of Amaryllis, he didn’t even fling on his dressing-gown before rushing downstairs. He tripped on the last couple of steps and almost fell into the hall, grabbed the key from the table and took several attempts to get it into the lock.

He was surprised to see two uniformed police officers on the doorstep. He had fondly imagined these days were behind him. A third man, not in uniform, was getting off a bicycle on the garden path. He was casually dressed in cycling shorts and a T-shirt. It seemed to Christopher he was slightly under-dressed both for the weather and for interviewing people.

‘Hello, Keith,’ he said to Constable Burnet. ‘Have you come for me? Or is it Charlie you’re after?’

‘We need to ask you some questions, sir,’ said the third man, taking off his helmet and securing his bike to the drainpipe with a padlock before flashing his identification card very quickly and too far from Christopher’s face to enable him to read it. Was he an inspector? Or some lesser being? He couldn’t possibly out-rank Charlie.

‘
Inspector Armstrong,’ he said, confirming Christopher’s suspicions.

‘I’ll come quietly,’ said Christopher, still reasonably relaxed. ‘If you give me five minutes to get dressed.’

‘That’s all right, sir. We can ask the questions here, then you can go back to bed.’

For some reason Christopher found this unsettling. Perhaps it was because of his pyjamas, which had been a present from Amaryllis and which had ‘Make my day’ embroidered in large letters on the back.
Realising this, he tried to usher the police officers into the house without turning his back on them, resulting in some uncomfortable contortions.

A loud growl came from the top of the stairs.

‘Everything all right down there?’ called Charlie Smith.

All four of them froze.

‘It’s fine,’ lied Christopher.

‘Is that dog dangerous?’
said the cyclist, who seemed to be in charge. Christopher wished fervently that Charlie Smith was himself in charge. He wasn’t at all sure of this other man, although of course he had known Keith Burnet for some time.

‘Can I go and get my dressing-gown?’ he asked.

‘Better go with him, Constable Burnet,’ said the senior officer. ‘Find out who else is in the house while you’re at it.’

‘There’s no need for that,
Inspector,’ said Christopher coldly. ‘I’m not going to make a run for it. And the only other person in the house is Chief Inspector Smith.’

He had succeeded in surprising the police
inspector, whose mouth fell open inelegantly. Good. He knew Amaryllis would have said he should keep them on their toes, and in their places. He found himself smiling faintly as he walked back up the stairs, put on his dressing-gown and went down again, this time at a less precipitous pace.

‘You’d better come into the front room,’ he said. He didn’t want them in the kitchen: it was a warm, friendly place where people slumped on the table and slept, where they made toast in the middle of the night and where Jemima had once shown him how to make
a clootie dumpling. ‘Would you like some tea? Coffee? Biscuits?’

‘We’ve had our breakfast, thanks, sir,’
said Keith Burnet. The senior officer glared at him. Or maybe that was just his natural expression.

‘We’re making enquiries into a suspicious death, sir.’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Christopher, sitting down in his usual chair. ‘Liam Johnstone?’

‘We’re not at liberty to release the name until next of kin have been informed. The death took place in or around the Queen of Scots public house
at some time between Friday morning and Saturday. We understand that you were in the vicinity when the beer delivery took place on Friday. Is this correct?’

‘Yes, I suppose so,’ said Christopher, frowning. So much had happened since Friday, including his world having been turned upside down by the news about Amaryllis, that he had genuine difficulty in remembering anything. He doubted very much if he could help them. But he was nothing if not public-spirited, so he had to try, even although he had taken an instant dislike to the new
inspector.

‘Well?’ said the latter, tapping his foot.
He hadn’t taken a seat, but stood over Christopher. He couldn’t have deliberately been thrusting his cycling shorts into Christopher’s face but it did seem a bit like that. Or perhaps Christopher was being over-sensitive again. He disliked both the shorts and the person wearing them.

‘Yes! I noticed the name on the back of the delivery lorry. Aberdour Breweries. I remember thinking I didn’t
know there was a brewery in Aberdour.’

‘Did you notice anything else, Mr Wilson? Think very carefully. It’s important.’

‘Um,’ said Christopher. The only other thing he could call to mind was the appalling smell that had come from Charlie Smith, and he didn’t think Charlie would thank him for passing on that information on to his colleagues, or former colleagues.

‘Did you see the delivery men?’

‘I must have done, I suppose. Were there two of them?’

‘That’s what we’d like to know, sir.’

Christopher closed his eyes and tried to picture the scene. He had walked past the Queen of Scots before seeing Charlie on the bench, and he had dodged out of the way of a man lifting something off the lorry… Had there been another man somewhere in the background? Perhaps.

It soon became obvious that he could add little or nothing to the information they already had.
He wasn’t sure what they were expecting. Was the landlord still in custody? They wouldn’t tell him even if he asked.

A mobile phone rang. The fierce
inspector went into the hall to take the call, and Christopher stared at the other two.

‘So is Mr Smith staying with you for a while?’ whispered Constable Burnet. ‘Has he got the dog up there?’

‘Yes,’ said Christopher. ‘They aren’t really going to confiscate it, are they?’

Keith Burnet shook his head. ‘I don’t think so. It’ll all blow over, I expect.’

‘Do you think so?’

‘I hope so. We’ve got
Inspector Armstrong on loan from Rosyth at the moment.’ He gestured towards the hall. ‘You wouldn’t catch him cooking sprouts in the microwave for Christmas dinner.’

The other constable gave Keith a funny look, but he didn’t say anything.
Evidently he was from a different force too.

The
inspector popped his head back into the room. ‘Thunderbirds are go,’ he said to his two juniors. ‘We’ve got someone coming round to identify the deceased in fifteen minutes. Let’s get up and at them.’

They dashed off as suddenly as they had arrived. Once they were safely out of the way, Charlie Smith and the dog came downstairs.

‘Was that about Liam Johnstone?’ said Charlie as they all went into the kitchen.

‘Mmm,’ said Christopher. ‘We’re not
supposed to know who it was yet though. I wonder if they’ve got Penelope over from Aberdour to identify him. I just hope she hasn’t brought Zak along.’

‘Hmph,’ said Charlie, helping himself to Sugar Puffs, which Christopher had bought specially for him. ‘It won’t do him any harm to understand the
facts of life and death. He’s old enough.’

Later, as Christopher did some Sunday housework and the dog undid it almost as rapidly, Charlie said in a conversational tone, ‘Do you think
Penelope killed him?’

‘I thought we weren’t meant to discuss this,’ said Christopher, pulling the vacuum cleaner brush out of the dog’s mouth for the fourteenth time.

‘It’s usually the spouse or partner,’ said Charlie.

‘Here,’ said Christopher. ‘Take this and clean the bathroom.’ He handed Charlie a cloth and a spray bottle. He couldn’t stand any more talk for the moment. Maybe in a few hours he would be ready for it again.

The dog became baffled about which of them to follow, and moved between the two, showing signs of serious mental disorder. Christopher resolved never under any circumstances to acquire a dog.

After lunch t
hey took the dog for a walk in the woods. There was nothing else to do, with the Queen of Scots presumably still out of action.

Late in the afternoon, as Charlie snoozed on the settee and Christopher wrestled with the Sunday papers, the doorbell rang and a crowd of people streamed into the house without waiting for him to answer the door. They were led, of course, by Jock McLean, and included but were not limited to Jemima, Dave, Tricia Laidlaw, Penelope and Zak Johnstone. Trailing along behind were Rosie from the cattery, Darren Laidlaw
, Maisie Sue McPherson and Jan from the wool shop.

‘Right then,’ said Jock when he had them all in the front room, taking up far too much space and causing the dog to hide behind the curtains in terror.
‘We’ve brought our own biscuits.’ He waved an industrial-sized packet of Bourbons. ‘I’ll go and put the kettle on.’

He returned from the kitchen a few moments later to say, ‘Come on, you boys, let’s find a few more chairs.’

Darren and Zak jumped to their feet. Christopher, powerless to do anything about it, heard them tramping upstairs, then down again dragging something along. Darren brought in the old conservatory chair from Caroline’s room as triumphantly as if he were delivering a dead stag that he had killed with his own hands. Zak had the stool from the bathroom, and Jock had a kitchen chair in each hand.

They were all here to stay.

‘Where’s Amaryllis?’ said Penelope. ‘She should be here too.’

‘She’s away on holiday,’ said Jock McLean.

‘In the South of France,’ said Jemima.

‘No, dear, isn’t it Monte Carlo?’ said Dave.

‘Same thing,’ said Jock.

‘No, it isn’t,’ said Dave.

By the way they studiously avoided looking at Christopher during this little scene, he knew they had guessed there was something wrong and were trying, in their ham-fisted way, to take the spotlight off him and spare his feelings. For some reason this made him want to blink a lot, and the room became very warm all of a sudden. It’s all the extra bodies, he told himself. And I expect I’m allergic to Penelope’s perfume and it’s got in my eyes.

Jock vanished again, followed by Tricia Laidlaw, and they returned in due course with trays containing every mug and cup Christopher possessed and the Bourbons arranged artistically on three plates.

‘It’s only tea-bags,’ said Tricia apologetically. ‘The tea-pot wasn’t big enough for everybody.’

She put her tray on the coffee table. To Christopher’s surprise he quite fancied a Bourbon
biscuit, for the first time in his life.

‘Well, here we all are anyway,’ said Jock, placing one of the kitchen chairs in what he apparently considered to be a commanding position – in the doorway – and sitting down on it so firmly that its legs wobbled. The dog whined softly behind the curtains. Christopher felt like doing the same.
But he happened to glance at Penelope at that moment. Her eyes were red and puffy, and she was staring down at her knees, currently concealed by a truly hideous beige tweed skirt. Zak had put the bathroom stool next to her chair and had his hand on the arm, only centimetres from her own but not quite touching it.

For some reason Liam’s death had upset her.

Chapter 6 Jock rallies the troops

It was a sort of chain reaction really. Penelope and Zak had gone round to Tricia Laidlaw’s after identifying Liam Johnstone’s body, and while they were there Dave’s niece Rosie and Tricia’s son Darren had popped in on their way home to the cattery after a trip to the cat litter wholesaler in Torryburn. Then they had all gone over to Jock McLean’s house to see if he knew where Amaryllis was. Everyone knew, of course, that she was the only one who could sort all this out properly. While they were all at Jock McLean’s, Jemima and Dave had appeared there to ask Jock if he knew what was the matter with Christopher.

Jock had decided that, no matter what the problem was, Christopher needed his friends around him. At least if he got cross about all these people crowding into his front room, he wouldn’t have time to worry about Amaryllis.
That was the theory anyway. And then of course, with the Queen of Scots being temporary out of action, there was nowhere much else to go on a Sunday night in Pitkirtly.

So they had all trooped down the road to Christopher’s house. Somewhere along the way
Maisie Sue and Jan from the wool shop had attached themselves to the little group. Maybe they thought there was a party going on somewhere.

From his first sight of Christopher’s face, Jock wondered if he’d done the right thing in bringing them all here. But after a while the greyness had gone
from Christopher’s skin, and some of the tension from round his mouth. There were still the dark circles under the eyes, but they would take longer to go. It would do Christopher good to think about what Penelope was going through, too. He did tend to wallow in his own problems and anxieties – far too much, in Jock’s opinion. You couldn’t solve everything by delving about in your own head and fishing out inner resources. They weren’t always enough.

It was difficult to make himself heard above the general background noise of people eating and drinking, and exchanging platitudes, but Jock hadn’t been a teacher for nothing.

‘Can we have a bit of order?’ he requested, raising his voice only a little. He noticed with amusement that Darren Laidlaw and Zak Johnstone fell silent before anybody else did. It was only a few years, after all, since they had had the benefit of Jock’s teaching methods. Obviously the brainwashing was still effective. They even turned and shushed everyone else. Maybe they thought the whole class would get kept in if one person was still talking.

‘Would you like to say a few words, Penelope, or will I carry on myself?’ he asked. He had never been all that keen on Penelope, not being a fan of stout middle-aged women in beige – he preferred the no-nonsense checked shirt and dungarees style of Rosie from the cattery, or the slightly gypsyish look of Tricia Laidlaw, although he could never decide which appealed to him more – but there was no doubt that on this occasion Penelope deserved to be the centre of attention. Normally Christopher would have taken charge of this kind of gathering, harking back to the days when he actually chaired a small community group, but you only had to look at him to see he wasn’t fit to do so.
Jock had felt responsible for stepping into the gap, and of course he was the one who had led the little group round to Christopher’s house in the first place too.

Penelope muttered something and carried on staring at her knees. Zak’s hand moved almost imperceptibly closer to hers on the arm of the chair.

‘We’re going to need to stick together to sort this out,’ Jock continued. He hoped he didn’t sound too Churchillian. ‘What with Amaryllis being – away – and Mr Smith being out of action, we won’t be getting any help from the professionals this time. Neil Macrae’s in custody and that means the Queen of Scots won’t be opening its doors again any time soon, even if it wasn’t a crime scene. We’ll have nowhere to go and nothing to do. We need to get Neil’s name cleared, and the Queen of Scots re-opened. Think of all the Pictish brew just sitting in there waiting to be drunk. The bottles of whisky and vodka getting dusty with lack of use. The crisps mouldering away in their bags…’

He glanced round and encountered some horrified expressions and some amused ones. He had evidently strayed quite a long way from being Churchillian.

Maisie Sue applauded. He was almost sure it wasn’t ironic.

‘I didn’t know you were so poetic, Jock,’ said Dave. ‘That was quite stirring.’

‘Never mind the Pictish brew,’ said Jan from the wool-shop. She frowned as people turned round to stare at her. ‘The important thing is to get Neil out of custody.’

‘The important thing is to let the police
establish the truth of the matter,’ said Charlie Smith. ‘Without anybody getting in their way.

Jock was surprised by the vehemence of the glare Jan directed at
Charlie.

‘But what if they have the wrong man?’ she said. ‘Even you must admit that happens sometimes.’

‘I’m not sure I should be here,’ said Charlie Smith, looking uncomfortable. ‘Where’s the dog? I can take him out now…’

‘No, you stay where you are,’ said Christopher.

Jan folded her arms and closed her mouth in a tight line.

‘So, what do we know so far?’ said Jock, deciding that he now had the validation he needed. ‘
Anybody got a notebook and pencil?’

He noticed Tricia and Rosie exchanging glances. Ideally they would be fighting over him, but he had a feeling they weren’t going to.

‘Dad was asphyxiated in the cellar of the Queen of Scots on Friday night,’ said Zak baldly. ‘They think it was carbon dioxide poisoning. They don’t know what he was doing in there.’

He had succeeded in silencing his audience. There was an unnatural hush in the room, until Penelope looked up and gave a little moan.

‘I like those curtains, Christopher,’ she said unexpectedly. ‘What’s that colour called? Is it sage green?’

‘Mum!’ snapped Zak.

‘Surely carbon dioxide poisoning would be an accident?’ said Jemima. ‘Why have they arrested Neil, then?’

‘Maybe it was criminal negligence,’ said Tricia Laidlaw. ‘I used to work in a lawyer’s office,’ she added apologetically, blushing in a way that Jock found very alluring.

‘He could literally be helping them with their enquiries,’ said Charlie Smith. ‘Are they sure about the cause of death?’

Zak nodded. ‘That’s what they told us. The cellar was full of it. Dad would have suffocated in quite a short time.’

He blinked and looked down at the floor. Jock experienced grave doubts about whether he had done the right thing, bringing all these people together here. It had just happened somehow, and before he knew what he was doing he had been leading them up the path to Christopher’s front door.

‘Do you want to go home?’ he said quietly to Penelope.

‘I could drive you,’ Dave offered.

Penelope shuddered perceptibly. ‘No thanks, Mr Douglas. I couldn’t possible trouble you to do that. We’re staying the night with Tricia anyway. We’ll get the bus home tomorrow morning.’

Zak looked up again, straight at Jock. ‘It’s cool, Mr McLean, bringing all those people here.  We can put all our information together, and then we’ll be way ahead of the police.’

There was a quick, instinctive protest from Charlie Smith, but he hushed himself before he even finished the sentence.
Jock brightened up again. Zak’s take on the situation seemed like a very good idea. Maybe he would have thought of it himself given a bit more time. Maybe it had been swilling around at the back of his mind all along. But the word ‘swilling’ brought his thoughts back to beer. He coughed, and called for silence again.

‘That’s
exactly what we’ll do, Zak. Let’s start by asking everybody where they were on Friday. Not because we suspect them,’ he hastened to add as the babble of voices started up again, ‘but in case any of you saw anything relevant.’

‘Charlie and I were outside the Queen of Scots on Friday morning,’ said Christopher, going first
as he often did. ‘The beer delivery truck was there. The police seemed to be interested in that – they’ve already been round asking about it. I couldn’t remember anything much. The beer was from Aberdour Breweries, that’s all.’

‘We were at the pictures,’ said Dave. ‘In Dunfermline. Jemima went to sleep.’

‘I did not! I only closed my eyes for a minute. I was getting a headache from the special effects. And there weren’t any more biscuits.’

‘Darren and I were at the cattery all day,’ said Rosie. ‘No rest for the wicked!’

‘I guess I must have been quilting most all day,’ said Maisie Sue, frowning with concentration. ‘I’ve been trying to get cushions all ready for the craft fair. I must have lost track of time. I guess I just get myself into the zone.’

‘No, you weren’t
quilting all day,’ said Jan from the wool shop, opening her mouth again at last. ‘You came into the shop about half-past two asking for cashmere sock wool.’

‘And you told me it was a special order and it would have to be sent by train from Halifax,’ said Maisie Sue. ‘Thank you so much, Jan – I wouldn’t want to perjure myself.’

‘This isn’t exactly a court of law,’ muttered Charlie Smith. ‘About as far from it as you can possibly get, in fact.’

‘Now, now, Charlie,’ said Jemima, who had treated Mr Smith like one of the family ever since
the time she had let him sleep in her spare room. ‘Try and pretend you’re not a policeman for five minutes.’

‘Craft fair?’ said Tricia. ‘Where’s that going to be?’

‘Well,’ said Maisie Sue proudly, ‘Christopher has kindly offered to host it at the Cultural Centre. We’re kind of honoured – he doesn’t usually let outside organisations do that kind of thing.’

Jock glanced at Christopher to see if he knew he was hosting a craft fair. Christopher’s face had his usual blank expression, the one that annoyed all his friends because they couldn’t tell if he agreed, disagreed or had switched off completely.

‘When’s that then?’ said Rosie. ‘I know somebody who makes cats. She might like a stall.’

‘Makes cats?’ said Christopher. Evidently he had indeed been paying attention.

‘Ceramic cats,’ Rosie explained. ‘She started out making different kinds of animals, but cats were the most popular.’

Ha! Jock knew why that was: there was nobody like a mad cat woman to want to collect ceramic cat ornaments that had no conceivable use except to clutter the place up and need dusting.
The fact that he didn’t actually know anyone who could possibly fall into the category of ‘mad cat woman’ didn’t deter him from coming to this conclusion. Rosie was the nearest and in his experience she was a long way from fitting the stereotype. In many ways he thought she was the sanest person of his acquaintance.

‘What about Friday afternoon, though?’ he said. Somebody had to
heave this runaway conversation back on to the rails.

‘I went into Dunfermline too,’ said Tricia Laidlaw. ‘I was looking for a birthday present for Darren.’

Darren scowled at her ungraciously.

‘Anybody else?’ said Jock.

‘Well, there’s me,’ said Penelope. She clasped her hands in her lap. Her face had gone scarlet, but not in the pretty, apologetic way Tricia Laidlaw’s had done. Jock noticed this particularly. ‘I was at home all morning,’ she continued. ‘In Aberdour, you know. And then – well, early in the evening I came into Pitkirtly and went to see Neil Macrae at the Queen of Scots.’

The silence that followed this statement was denser and more
profound than anything Jock had managed to inspire in any of the many classrooms he had taught in during his career.