The Stalking Party Read online

  ‘Where and when was Beverley last seen?’ Robb hacked off another wedge of pie. ‘You don’t know what you’re missing, Jim.’

  ‘Tuesday morning, she asks for a packed lunch and a map. Wants to walk to a local landmark known as the Prince’s Rock, or Charlie’s Stane, which happens to be just on the boundary between Strathtorran and Glen Buie ground. To get there, she walked up the path beside the Torran river, then followed a walkers’ trail marked with whitewashed stones over the back of the hill, and round to the head of the glen. I’ll show you on this.’

  He moved to the big wall-mounted map of the peninsula, studied it a moment, then drew his finger in a big loop around the rim of hills.

  ‘How long would that take her?’

  ‘Between two and three hours. Then she planned to walk on to the next hostel at Glen Alderdale, spend Tuesday night there, and come back next day.’

  ‘Wednesday.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘When she hadn’t turned up by dusk on Wednesday, Lady S sent her brother-in-law, Ian McNeil, up the forestry track in a Land Rover, in case Beverley had been benighted. But when he got back at about half-eight, Lady S told him the Glen Alderdale warden had rung to say that Miss Skinner had decided to go straight back to London, and would they please cancel the rest of her reservation?’

  ‘What about the luggage she’d left at Glen Buie?’

  ‘No mention of that. She probably thought Nicholas would bring it back.’

  ‘Right.’ Robb thought for a moment, then swallowed the last morsel of pie and drained his glass. ‘Go up and have a word with Kirsty McNichol, the stalker’s wife. Find out why she went walking by the river last night. After that you’d better fix us up with rooms at the pub. I’ll carry on here, and hope we get an interim report from Griff Rhys before we’re much older. It looks as if his guess is right about how long she’d been in the river, but I can’t see why she lied about going over to the islands.’

  *****

  ‘She went to meet a man,’ said Gwennie.

  She sat with ankles neatly crossed and knees pressed together like a caricature of a Tory lady on a platform, with her well-tailored, well-worn tweeds and double row of pearls. Iron-grey hair curled in little horns at her temples, and her make-up was limited to a dusting of loose powder and lipstick of a shade that had to be called English Rose. Her manner was friendly, if a trifle remote. Only the cool grey eyes and firm mouth suggested that she could pull rank if she chose to.

  ‘What makes you think that, Lady Hanbury?’

  ‘I don’t think. I know. I heard them on the telephone. There’s an extension by my bed,’ she went on without a trace of embarrassment, ‘and Beverley can’t have realised that I always breakfast in my bedroom, because I heard her say that everyone had left the house. I was just picking up the receiver to make a call, and checking the number I wanted, and I heard her talking to this man.’

  ‘What impression did you get of him?’

  ‘Not a gent,’ said Gwennie definitely. ‘Apart from that, difficult to tell. I’m afraid I’m hopeless with accents.’

  ‘Could it have been a local accent?’

  ‘Not – not exactly.’ She shook her head. ‘I can’t really say what it was.’

  ‘Can you remember what they said?’

  ‘It was really more what they didn’t say. I don’t know if he guessed I was there, but he seemed to want to get off the line. Beverley was asking questions, and he laughed and said, Wait until Sunday, and he’d tell her then. So when she told us she was going across to Stornoway, of course I thought she was meeting this man. And when we got the message that she had a cold and wouldn’t be back for a few days, I couldn’t help hoping she had decided to ditch my stepson in favour of –’

  The telephone rang on Wpc Kenny’s table. ‘Mr Rhys for you, sir.’

  ‘Right, Peg, I’ll take it over here. If you’ll excuse me a moment, Lady Hanbury?’

  ‘You carry on, Inspector,’ said Gwennie graciously, but she made no move to leave the room.

  ‘We’ve done the prelim on your lady of the lake,’ said the rich Welsh baritone. ‘Been in the water a minimum of four days. It’s hard to be more precise, because in a spate river, as you know, the volume of water varies almost from hour to hour. So, since last Wednesday or Thursday.’

  ‘Thanks, Griff. We’ll base it on that.’

  ‘Hang about,’ said Rhys testily, ‘I said the body went in the water then.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘She was already dead. Shot through the chest at least 24 hours earlier.’

  ‘Shot!’ he exclaimed, taken by surprise, and both women stared at him. No matter. Everyone would know soon enough.

  ‘At close quarters?’

  ‘No, from a fair distance. Over a hundred yards, I’d say. The bullet passed through the thorax, penetrated the left ventricle, and exited just over 2 mill to the right of the spine. High velocity bullet from a heavy calibre rifle, something of the kind you’d use to shoot deer.’

  ‘Ah!’

  ‘I expect there are a few of those not far from where you’re sitting, eh?’

  ‘Have you got the bullet?’

  ‘No joy,’ said Rhys, ‘but don’t give up hope. I may be able to fill you in when my samples come back from the lab. I’ll keep you posted.’

  ‘So it wasn’t an accident,’ said Gwennie flatly, as he replaced the receiver.

  ‘Doesn’t look like it.’

  ‘But it’s inconceivable!’ Between the kiss-curls, her brow furrowed. ‘It must have been some maniac – the man she spoke to –’

  ‘Lady Hanbury, Beverley was shot dead with a rifle, not the sort of weapon that could easily be concealed. From what I’ve heard, I don’t imagine your estate staff would allow any stranger to roam Glen Buie with a loaded rifle.’

  ‘You’re saying it was one of us. That’s – that’s horrible.’

  ‘Murder is horrible.’

  There was a moment’s silence. Then Gwennie said carefully, ‘Beverley may not have fitted in very well here. No, that’s wrong: start again. Beverley may have made herself very much disliked in the short time she spent here, but I don’t have to tell you, Inspector, there’s a big difference between disliking a person and murdering him or her.’

  ‘That’s correct. You don’t have to tell me.’

  Gwennie flushed and said stiffly, ‘I’m sorry. I’m not trying to teach you your business. It’s just that I – I’m not used to being on the wrong side of the tracks.’

  Robb shuffled his papers and said briskly, ‘Well, since this is now a murder enquiry, I would like you to make sure that no one leaves the premises without my permission.’

  ‘Not even Mary?’

  ‘Not even Mary.’

  ‘Oh, dear. That’s going to be difficult.’

  ‘What’s the problem? Food?’

  Gwennie nodded. ‘Mary always goes to Tounie on Sunday evening so she can get to the market early on Monday. She has a shopping list as long as your arm.’

  ‘Give it to Wpc Kenny. She’ll deal with it, won’t you, Peg?’

  She gave him a darkling look. ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Any other problems? No? Then I’d be glad if you’d ask Sir Archibald to come in again. I want to know what everyone was doing last Tuesday afternoon.’

  ‘I’ve brought you the Game Book,’ said Sir Archie, placing the heavy volume in front of Robb with the air of a faithful retriever. He leafed through the pages. ‘Here you are: Tuesday, September 22nd. As you see, we had a busy day. Lovely stalking weather, although the wind was in the south-west, so we were all up the same end of the ground. Two stalking-parties out on Carn Mhor and Carn Beag respectively, and we got three stags between us. My wife and Lady Priscilla were up at Loch a Bealach, and caught a lot of small trout; and Nicky and Benjamin were on the river.’

  And somebody shot Beverley Tanner, thought Robb, studying the page. Where the devil were all these places? Carn Mh
or. Carn Beag. Loch a Bealach. He’d have to get to know the layout of the forest.

  He rose to take a look at the wall-map, but the faithful retriever had something else to present. He moved heaps of paper and old magazines from the lower deck of a trolley covered with a green baize cloth, and wheeled it up to the desk. ‘Here you are, Inspector. You’ll find this a help.’

  Beneath the cloth was a contour model of the whole peninsula, beautifully modelled and painted, with tiny houses, huts, silver threads of river and burn, trees, fences, paths, bridges all marked and identified.

  ‘Work of art,’ said Sir Archie proudly. ‘It took Sandy two years to complete, but it’s all there, right down to the names of the fishing-pools.’

  ‘Wonderful,’ said Robb. ‘Just what I need.’

  He studied it carefully. The elongated triangle of the peninsula was more or less bisected by the River Torran, which was joined by its tributary the Buie at the Greeting Pool for the last two miles of its journey to the sea-loch. On either side of the Buie rose the long dragon’s-back ridges of Carn Mhor and Carn Beag, the latter’s lower slopes forested with conifer plantations, which in turn were intersected by a grid of forestry tracks.

  Above the deer fence, the trees gave way to rock with only a patchy covering of turf, while the broken, boggy nature of the Carn Mhor low ground was indicated by camouflage green-and-brown mottling.

  At the head of the glen the two long ridges came together in a narrow defile, and between them nestled the turquoise tadpole shape of Loch a Bealach, with its three small islands.

  ‘Can you show me where you went that day?’ he asked.

  ‘Me, personally? Yes, of course. I was with the Carn Mhor party. Sandy was in charge. I was first rifle, and John Forbes, my nephew, was to take over if we had time for a second stalk. Ashy came along for the walk.’ He reflected a moment, putting his fingertips to his eyes, then said, ‘Sorry, it was the other way round. I remember now. Johnny shot his stag first, and went down to fetch the pony. Ashy and I went on with Sandy, and I got a shot around four o’clock.’

  His thick forefinger traced a path along the ridge of Carn Mhor, up and down, up and down, finally climbing once more to end near the pass at Corrie Dubh. ‘We dragged my stag down to this track for the pony to pick up, then walked on home by the Devil’s Staircase.’ His fingers took little steps over the shoulder of the hill and down behind the lodge. ‘Is that what you want?’

  ‘Clear enough. Thank you, sir. So you and Sandy and Miss Macleod were together from – say – nine in the morning until five-thirty; and John Forbes was with you until – when?’

  ‘One-ish, I suppose. His shot was 12.15, or thereabouts.’ He hesitated, then said, ‘I’m afraid I can’t give you a detailed breakdown of what the other party did. You’ll have to ask our second stalker, Fergus Grant.’

  Robb glanced at his list. ‘Son of your cook, Mary?’

  Sir Archie nodded. ‘His father works here, too. Gardener by day, butler by night. A man of many talents.’

  ‘Right, sir. I needn’t bother you for anything else just now.’

  ‘One other thing,’ said Sir Archie casually, ‘I’ve been on the blower to the Chief Constable. Old friend: we were at school together. I wanted to check that it would be in order to keep on with the cull. Time is of the essence, you know.’

  Thank you, God, for a lovely day! thought Robb, schooling his features to conceal his fury. Just what I need: suspects with a hotline to old Blood-and-Guts.’

  ‘What did he say to that, sir?’

  ‘Oh, he said fine: as far as he’s concerned there’s no problem. He’s stalked here himself many a time, so he knows the form. If we’re to get our quota of stags, we have to crack on while the going’s good. He said you’d have no objection.’

  One day not too far distant, thought Robb, when the girls can fend for themselves, I shall enjoy telling people like Sir Archibald Hanbury just how much I like being bypassed in the chain of command. Tell them what they can do with their Old School Ties. Not yet, though. Not quite yet.

  He swallowed his anger, smiled his sleepy smile, and said, ‘All right, sir. If that’s the Chief Constable’s view, I have no objection. Perhaps you’d allow my sergeant to go with tomorrow’s stalking-party. I’m sure he’d find it instructive.’

  ‘By all means. He’ll be most welcome.’

  Sir Archie withdrew, wagging his tail, and Robb took a few turns about the room. ‘Damn, damn, and damn,’ he said softly. Wpc Kenny propped her elbow on the table and regarded him with raised eyebrows.

  ‘All right, Peg, you can wipe that grin off your face.’ He dropped back into his chair. ‘Send in Lady Priscilla Cooper, and for God’s sake let’s get on with the job.’

  Building a driftwood fire on the shore of Loch a Bealach, Lady Priscilla had noticed a lone hiker climbing the path marked by whitewashed rocks.

  ‘I remember thinking, Hullo, there’s that girl Beverley; then realising it couldn’t be, because she was away to Stornoway,’ she told Robb. ‘Of course it was some way off, the other side of the loch, and everyone wears those cagoules now: it’s almost a uniform, but certainly my first thought was that it was her.’

  She smiled at him: with her toothy, bony-nosed face and narrow, greyhoundy head she was – to Robb’s way of thinking – every inch a duke’s daughter, so sure of her position that she felt no need to make herself fashionable or attractive. Yet she was elegant in a loose-limbed, very English way, even though her mannish Viyella shirt, ancient fawn cords and sludge-green quilted waistcoat had all seen better days.

  ‘You don’t mind if I get on with my tatting?’ she had said as she took a seat, pulling a bundle of wool and canvas from a bag with wooden handles. ‘Kneelers for our church. In a moment of madness I let myself in for a whole pew’s-worth.’

  Robb felt he could hardly object to so blameless an activity, but he found it distracting. ‘Did Lady Hanbury see her too?’ he asked.

  ‘No. Nor did I point her out,’ said Lady Priscilla wryly. ‘I didn’t want to spoil our day. There’s a good deal of feeling about walkers using that path during the stalking season, and Gwennie’s quite territorially-minded. I thought I would let sleeping dogs lie. As I said, I concluded I had made a mistake and it couldn’t be Beverley. But next day, when Maya Forrester told us she’d actually found Beverley’s body under an upturned boat at the far end of the loch, it did cross my mind to wonder if I’d been right in the first place.’

  ‘She found what?’ exclaimed Robb incredulously.

  ‘Haven’t you been told about that?’ Her finely arched eyebrows rose. ‘None of us believed her at the time, but now it looks as if she saw exactly what she said.’

  ‘Which was?’

  ‘You’ll hear the whole story from her, but the long and short of it was that last Wednesday afternoon, Maya went off round the trout-loch to fish on her own, and she spotted a boat lying hull-up at the top end. By the Sanctuary burn – here.’

  Laying aside her needlework, she bent over the contour model. Her bony forefinger moved round Loch a Bealach, and stopped at the southern end.

  ‘Is that where the boat’s usually kept? It seems a long way from the path,’ said Robb, and she gave him a quick, keen glance.

  ‘You’re quite right – it’s not. Normally it’s tied up to the jetty at the northern end, and that, may I say, is where Gwennie and I had left it the previous afternoon.’ She resumed her seat, the needle stabbing steadily in and out. ‘Maya apparently thought she would row back to where my daughter was painting. She flipped the boat over, and got a nasty shock when she found Beverley underneath it, dead as mutton. Or so she said. The poor girl panicked, which was hardly surprising, tried to run back to the lodge, and got herself thoroughly lost in the forestry. She was brought home that evening, in a state of collapse, by one of Ian McNeil’s truck-drivers.’

  ‘Did anyone go and check her story?’

  ‘You bet they did. Poor Archie, Nicholas, and Johnny were u
p there half the night, along with the two stalkers and Donny Lamont the ponyboy, but they found nothing. No boat. No body.’

  ‘So they concluded that Mrs Forrester had imagined it?’

  ‘I’m afraid we all did. But if you’re right and Beverley was shot on Tuesday afternoon, I suppose it’s possible that whoever killed her hid the body under the boat until he had time to dispose of it in the river. Horrible, but possible. All the same, it leaves a lot of questions unanswered.’

  She’s the one who’ll be teaching me my job next, thought Robb wryly. She’s no fool, though; I must watch my step. ‘You said that Lady Hanbury would have been annoyed to see a hiker using that path,’ he said, feeling his way. ‘Haven’t they a right to do so?’

  ‘Yes, of course they have, but one can’t deny that from the stalkers’ point of view it’s a nuisance, because the north wind, which is the best for this ground, carries the scent of anyone picnicking by the Prince’s Rock straight back across Carn Beag, and puts any stags that are on that face into the Sanctuary.’

  The word had an old-fashioned ring. ‘Can’t they be shot in there?’

  ‘Only because it’s impossible to drag out the carcase. You can imagine how frustrated Fergus feels when the stag he has been stalking suddenly vanishes into the Sanctuary because some hiker has decided to take some snaps of Charlie’s Stane. In fact, that was the first thing I thought when I spotted Beverley going up that path. I hope to God the silly bitch doesn’t ruin Everard’s stalk.’ She gave Robb an unexpectedly charmng smile. ‘My husband isn’t the greatest of shots – in fact, until last Tuesday he’d had a lot of misses – so he was hoping for a change of luck. Then I remembered that the wind was from the south-west that day, so it didn’t matter if anyone was up at the Stane.’

  ‘And the change of luck. Did Mr Cooper get it?’

  ‘In the end, yes. But he had several misses first.’ She shook her head. ‘One way and another, my husband has not distinguished himself this year, and after last night’s debacle, I very much doubt if he will be asked here again.’

  ‘But you will?’

  She gave him a cool look. ‘I shouldn’t wonder.’