No Suspicious Circumstances Page 7

  By now the other guests would be at breakfast, looking round with nervous curiosity to see who had survived the night. Well, Waldo had, and yet he hadn’t survived till breakfast. If anyone noted his absence, Mrs Mackenzie would stonewall, and the only person interested enough to pursue the matter of his non-appearance would be Gina. Most guests would merely assume that he had checked out. I thought about breakfast. If I went down, it would be hard to explain later why I hadn’t said anything to the assembled guests. My non-appearance, on the other hand, would be understandable in view of the shock of finding the body. And I did feel a little queasy after that foot-to-face meeting with a corpse.

  Gina. She was now the only link with the Mackenzies. That snatch of conversation I’d overheard at the Botanics, I tell you there’s nothing wrong with the castle. It’s the best place… She knew what Mackenzie was referring to. And I might find the answer in her room. This was an ideal opportunity to search it while she was at breakfast. If I could find out which castle was involved and discover the lines of supply…

  Had she already gone down to breakfast? And if so, how long before she returned? A few quiet steps took me along to her room. I pressed my ear to the wooden door. No sound from within. If this had been a flimsy modern door, I could have been sure that the room was empty, but the thick wood deadened everything. I straightened and rapped sharply on the panelling. If she answered, I would say that there had been an accident and Mrs Mackenzie wanted everyone down to breakfast as soon as possible. From within, no movement or shouted question. I tried again. Still no response. Slowly, I turned the handle. As expected, it was locked.

  I’d inserted the pick in the lock, when I heard a creak of the stair and the soft brush of shoes on carpet. Time to retreat. Gina’s room would have to wait.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  At a quarter to two, I was standing on the quayside at South Queensferry looking up at the spider’s web tracery of the Forth Railway Bridge. The honey-coloured stone columns supporting the rust-red ironwork dwarfed the little yachts bobbing uneasily in the swell. Wispy clouds had thickened, and under a faded blue sky the colour of washed-out jeans, the pale grey sea was heaving itself up into peaks and mountains.

  There was no sign of Gina Lombardini. I joined the dozen or so people queuing to present their tickets for boarding. It would be better to be on board before she arrived, though almost impossible to avoid coming face to face with her on such a small vessel.

  I found myself a position in the saloon from where I would have a good view of the jetty. The Maid of the Forth filled up rapidly. Few chose the exposed upper deck, most, like myself, preferring the comfort and shelter of the cabin. A noisy couple with a young child discussed at loud length where to sit, then spread their belongings on the bench behind me. So much for a peaceful cruise on the river. I felt a thump, then another, as the back of my seat shuddered under the playful onslaught of the child’s foot. I pressed my lips firmly together and gazed out through one of the large observation windows. No sign yet of the Italian. Overhead, seagulls performed a noisy aerial ballet. A bank of clouds drifted slowly over the sun, turning the sea into a gunmetal sheet shot with silver highlights.

  At precisely two o’clock the ship’s engines rumbled into life and the crew began to pull in the gangway. It looked as if this was going to be a wasted journey, she was not going to turn up. And then I saw her, a figure in an ankle-length black coat hurrying along beside the sea wall. I found I’d been unconsciously holding my breath, and released it in a long sigh. Just as the last rope was being untied and the boat was preparing to pull away from the quayside, she scrambled aboard. The tactics of a professional, making sure anyone following would be given the slip.

  Bypassing the saloon, she made immediately for the top deck. If I managed to keep a low profile, the results could be promising. I unfolded the tourist map I had purchased from the ship’s bar and settled down to behave like a genuine tourist.

  With much threshing of engines we reversed, swinging upstream towards the soaring span of the Road Bridge before turning to begin the four mile journey down the River Forth to the island of Inchcolm. Once clear of the shelter of the shore, the ship began to pitch and roll as its bow ploughed into the white-crested waves.

  ‘I’m going to be sick, Mummy!’ the child behind me announced tremulously. ‘Now!’

  Just what I needed when my own stomach was beginning to churn ominously. I tried to close my ears to the ensuing gurgles and studied the map of the island. I’d no idea where Gina was likely to go. I ran my finger along the route from the landing stage to the ruined abbey, a good place for a rendezvous with all those visitors wandering round.

  To the left of the landing stage, on the eastern tip of the island, were wartime gun emplacements and an ammunition tunnel… Promising, but too public a place for a drugs drop, and the fortifications were located on top of cliffs, with only one access, and that was direct from the landing stage. Tourists are inquisitive creatures. They’d be sure to stumble upon any hidden cache sooner or later. And with the custodian’s cottage close by, nocturnal activity would run an extremely high risk of discovery. I crossed the gun emplacement off my list of possibilities.

  I scanned the map again. Could Gina’s rendezvous be at East Jetty on the far south-west tip of the island? In the short time available for a visit, few tourists would make their way there. I pursed my lips and gazed thoughtfully into space.

  The childish treble screeched a few inches from my ear. ‘I’m feeling better, Mummy! Look, look!’

  While my attention had been on the map, a long low green island had appeared over the bow. Inchcolm. Quarter of an hour later, the ship nosed its way into a sheltered little harbour guarded by cliffs of brown volcanic rock, and the square tower of the 12th century abbey came into view.

  Gina Lombardini had taken up position at the gangway ready for a quick getaway. The problem would be how to follow her without being detected. As if sensing that she was being watched, her head began to turn in my direction. I restrained an impulse to duck. A sudden movement like that would be sure to draw her attention.

  I was saved by a click, a cough, from the ship’s public address system. Heads jerked up to listen. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, this is an important announcement.’ The tinny voice paused, using silence to corral attention. ‘If weather conditions should deteriorate further this afternoon, you will be recalled earlier than stated on the itinerary. If you hear three blasts on the klaxon, I must ask you to return immediately. The ship will leave ten minutes after the signal.’

  The child delivered a farewell salvo of kicks to the back of my seat, but I sat still. Ignoring the hectic rush to disembark, I took care to be one of the last to get off. Gina had set off briskly, not in the direction of the East Jetty but towards the ruins of the abbey. As the majority of the visitors were also heading that way, I found it easy to mingle with them. I hoped that she hadn’t spotted me, but there was nothing I could do about it if she had.

  Her black-clad figure disappeared through the entrance arch of the abbey, and, by the time I reached the same spot, was nowhere to be seen. I gazed around. The plan on the wall showed that I was standing at one corner of a four-sided cloister, not the airy open-sided cloister familiar in English abbeys, but solid walls pierced at infrequent intervals by small arched windows. I could see along two sides, but the passage enclosed by the other two sides was hidden from view. It was impossible to know if anyone was standing there.

  Somebody passed one of the arched windows – Gina, or just another tourist? It was the perfect place to shake off any pursuit – or to observe without being seen. Were eyes watching me at this very moment? The back of my neck prickled. Hurriedly, I moved out of line with the window.

  The old walls seemed to swallow up any sound from the outside world. It was eerily silent. Even my footsteps were muffled as I walked quickly along the east side of the cloister. At the end of the passage a low doorway led into the church. A couple of people were
peering at the explanatory notices. They moved off, leaving me alone. Though I had no obvious reason for the feeling, again I had the sensation that someone was watching me.

  There was still no sign of Gina. From one corner of the church, worn stone steps led steeply up to a dark doorway. I paused on the topmost step to listen. Was that a faint murmur of voices? Perhaps they were only tourists, but my pulse quickened as I stepped through the doorway, very conscious that I would be momentarily outlined against the lighter gloom of the church. When my eyes adjusted to the semi-darkness, I could just make out two figures studying a piece of paper at the far end of the long shadowy room. One wore an ankle-length coat. Gina.

  I took a careful step back. My foot scuffed on one of the uneven flagstones, the sound magnified in the stillness. The murmur of voices stopped abruptly. I let the map slip from my fingers and flutter to the floor. I made a show of scrabbling for it, and when I looked up, they had gone.

  Oooong Oooong Oooong Three strident blasts blared from the direction of the landing stage. As the echoes of the ship’s klaxon died away, I could hear footsteps clattering downwards. Passengers rushing back to the jetty? Or Gina and her co-conspirator making their escape? Abandoning caution, I ran across the room to the narrow spiral staircase, ducked through the low arch, and hurried as fast as I dared down the twisting precipitous stairway.

  At a dark opening in the stair wall I hesitated. The footsteps continued steadily downwards. I risked taking steps two at a time, my harsh breathing noisy in my ears.

  I failed to register the faint whisper of sound behind me till it was too late. The violent push was sudden and effective. As I pitched forward, I desperately flung up an arm to protect my head. For a split second I was aware of the worn steps hurtling up to meet me.

  Then nothing.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  ‘Yes, there are vacancies.’ An elongated Mrs Mackenzie towered over me. ‘Double beds for Smythes, single beds for Smyths, rooms without bed for Smiths. And, of course, twin beds for twins and cat beds for cats.’

  The floor was very hard. I banged the bell at reception. Mrs Mackenzie’s head floated up from under the desk.

  ‘I want to change my name to Smythe,’ I whined.

  ‘Once a Smith, always a Smythe,’ her head said before floating away.

  My whole body ached, and when I moved my head, excruciating pain shot through it and brought on a wave of nausea. I squeezed my eyes shut and lay motionless in the hope that it would pass. Nausea… My mind woozily tried to pinpoint the cause. Hadn’t there been a scare in the hotel about food poisoning… Botulism, that was it. Somebody had been struck down, a shrouded form carried off on a stretcher. I had the feeling that it was important to remember who, but it was all too much effort…

  Consciousness ebbed and flowed. A soft tap tap tap. The sound of approaching footsteps. I must escape…must… Again, I felt those hands on my back sending me hurtling headlong down the steep stone stairs. Panic.

  The footsteps were much closer now, the unknown assailant coming to finish the job. Perhaps if I lay without moving… Now I could sense the presence of someone standing over me. My heart hammered against my ribs. I heard a sharp intake of breath and a man’s voice booming and echoing unintelligibly. A hand touched my shoulder. As I tried to twist away, an amazing fireworks display erupted in my head, to be almost instantly extinguished by darkness once more as I slid into unconsciousness.

  My eyelids painfully flickered open. My head ached dreadfully, my eyes refused to focus. I felt as if I had been squashed through the rollers of a giant mangle. Every movement hurt. Mrs Mackenzie’s beds were very hard. Someone ought to complain…

  The click of a door opening jerked me into wakefulness. In hotels, I make it a habit to lock my bedroom door. Again, I felt that rush of terror. As I struggled to raise my head, there was a movement beside me, and I found myself looking up into an unfamiliar bearded face.

  ‘It’s a braw, bricht, moonlicht nicht the nicht, lassie,’ said the face cheerfully in a broad Scots accent.

  As I stared in astonishment, the hairy features subtly transformed themselves into Gorgonzola’s best Cheshire Cat grin, all teeth. Comforted by her presence, I drifted off into an uneasy sleep.

  Next time I awoke, I still hurt all over. A trial movement of my head brought not much more than a moment’s dizziness. I eased myself up on the pillows and gazed round the room, puzzled by its unfamiliarity. Where was I? Blue and green checked curtains fluttered at the open window, revealing a sky of palest eggshell blue. The furniture was a light pine, the wallpaper cheerful and sunny. This was certainly not the impersonal, deliberately old-fashioned style favoured by Mrs Mackenzie at the White Heather Hotel. What was I doing here? I propped myself up against the pillows and tried to work out an answer, but my mind seemed wrapped in cotton wool.

  A light tap at the door was followed by a bearded face, vaguely familiar. The face, surmounted by a mop of unruly ginger hair, peered in at me.

  ‘Glad to see you’re awake at last,’ the man advanced into the room with a beaming smile. ‘I was really worried about you, lassie. Real wabbit, you were. That was a right tumble you took. We wanted the doctor to take a look at you, but the storm was too bad for him to come across.’

  ‘Storm? Tumble…? Doctor…?’

  ‘Och, I’m forgetting you’ll maybe not remember much about it, seeing it’s likely you’ll be having concussion. I’m Iain Fraser. My wife and I are the curators here on Inchcolm. When The Maid had to leave in a hurry yesterday because of the storm, they reported that they were one passenger missing, so I had a wee look around the Abbey and found you at the foot of the dormitory stairs.’ He paused. ‘You’re looking a lot better today.’

  I gazed at him in astonishment. ‘The last thing I remember,’ I said slowly, ‘is getting on the boat at the Forth Bridge.’

  He patted my hand comfortingly, ‘I wouldn’t worry about it, lassie. That’s quite common after concussion. The doctor from Aberdour will be here soon. He’ll tell you the same. Just you have a wee rest till he comes.’

  With an encouraging smile, he went out, closing the door quietly behind him. I let my body relax against the soft pillows, but my mind refused to settle. Elusive images flitted tantalisingly on the verge of recall… My eyelids drooped and I fell into a fitful doze…

  ‘Another day in bed, and you’ll be fit to travel,’ the doctor assured me when he came. ‘But by bus, not car, Ms Smith.’

  So, the next day I sat in the bus on my way back to the White Heather Hotel, staring out of the window and striving desperately to remember anything that had happened after I had boarded The Maid of the Forth. Try as I might, those vital hours remained infuriatingly and disturbingly blank.

  After the bus deposited me at the gates, I walked slowly up the drive. I stumbled a little as I mounted the entrance steps. That short walk had been a lot more exhausting than I’d bargained for. I pushed open the door, and saw with relief that, as usual, the hall was deserted and there was no one behind the imposing reception desk. I didn’t feel I could cope with the formidable Mrs Mackenzie. In fact, I didn’t want to meet anybody. Until I could recall what had happened during those missing hours on Inchcolm, I felt instinctively that it was important to be on my guard.

  As I leant over the desk and stretched out my hand for the key with its heavy brass tag, a muffled cough from my left startled me. Mr Mackenzie’s straggle of dark hair, then that fissure of a frown line, slowly appeared above the polished expanse of the desktop. His eyes widened in astonishment when he saw me, his mouth opening and closing like a newly caught fish landed on the river bank. He recovered, opened the door to the basement and yelled, ‘Morag, she’s back!’

  Mrs Mackenzie popped up from the lower regions, her expression sour. I couldn’t blame them for jumping to the conclusion that I had left without paying my bill. I got in first, to forestall an angry outburst.

  ‘I’m terribly sorry, Mrs Mackenzie, but I had rather a bad
accident on Friday. I realise, of course, that the two nights I have been away will be charged at normal rates.’

  Her expression uncurdled infinitesimally, but she slapped my key down sharply, showing no sign whatsoever of enquiring solicitously after my health.

  It was perhaps unwise to antagonise her, but, put it down to my concussed state, I couldn’t resist the temptation. ‘And how is Miss Lannelle?’ I asked sweetly.

  Her expression recurdled.

  I delivered a second thrust. Feigning a look of concern, I added, ‘I hope not too many other guests have been taken ill?’

  That implied aspersion cast on the White Heather cuisine elicited a squeak of indignation from Murdo and a sharp intake of outraged breath from Morag. I turned and limped my way upstairs as quickly as my shaky state allowed.

  As soon as I had locked the door of my room behind me, I went straight to the window. Though, in a crisis, Gorgonzola was perfectly capable of looking after herself by catching wildlife – mice, rather than the feathered kind, I hoped – I was always a little anxious when I had to leave her for a long period of time. Once I’d opened the window, I flung myself on the bed. It didn’t matter how long I had to wait. I’d just rest till Gorgonzola came…

  …Whiskers tickled my face, followed by a tap on my cheek, gentle, then harder. Gorgonzola was peering down at me crossly. When she saw she had gained my attention, she leapt lightly off the bed and sat beside the holdall of tins, running her tongue meaningfully over her lips.

  I was in the midst of spooning out a generous helping of duck onto her plate, when the faint boom of the dinner gong rippled up the stairs. I didn’t feel very much like eating, but I’d better put in an appearance or Mrs Mackenzie might take it as another deliberate insult, might even ask me to leave. And that wouldn’t do at all. I was more convinced than ever that the key to Operation Scotch Mist lay in the Mackenzie kitchen…