Innocent Blood

Book 3: Venerables and McBride

by Iris Collier

Genres: General Fiction

Synopsis

Chief Inspector Douglas MacBride is flattered to be asked to join a shooting party given by the wealthy McKenzies at their home. But his holiday comes to an abrupt end when Ian McKenzie is found hanged in his bedroom, dressed in women's clothing.

Release date: May 7, 2015

Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group

Print pages: 272

Sample

Chief Inspector Douglas McBride took a gulp of champagne and thought longingly of the row of fine malt whiskies on the shelf in his study back home. He wondered where Ian McKenzie kept his store. Surely he, of all people wouldn’t mind if … how many times had Douglas heard him say that he too couldn’t abide champagne? All the same, it seemed a bit rude. Then he thought; for pity’s sake, they’d been out all day shooting McKenzie’s birds. The least he could do was to offer his friends a wee dram. Leave the fizzy frozen stuff to the ladies.

Douglas would be mighty glad when tonight was over and he could get to his bed. Not much chance of that yet, though it was gone midnight. Dinner might be finished with, but judging by the noise coming from the room next door – a squawking of bagpipes and stamping of feet – the rest of the guests were settling in nicely to the swing of the eightsome reel. He’d been lucky to have escaped so far. McKenzie’s study, with its log fire and comfortable armchairs, was a welcome haven, but for how long? At any moment the door might open – and he was trapped. An enviable trap, admittedly – McKenzie lived in great style, Douglas thought, as he looked with admiration at the heavy antique desk, the bookcases full of leather-bound books, and the elegant Victorian fireplace with its famous inset mosaic panels depicting scantily clad women with too much hair. Yes, McKenzie certainly had style. Reivers Hall must cost a bomb to keep up, though. And he was still buying things: pictures; a collection of carriages, locked away in a barn; a state-of-the-art master bathroom with a sunken bath big enough for a football team; and landscaped gardens. He’d even diverted the local river to flow through the grounds of Reivers Hall. Everywhere you looked there were water-falls and ponds and ornamental footbridges where guests could linger and gaze at the views. Vistas, they were called; Douglas savoured the word. Patricia had used it when she’d taken him round the grounds before dinner. They’d tamed nature, she’d said; not that he thought the landscape needed taming. This part of Northumbria was renowned for its wild and spectacular scenery. It was amazing how wealthy men were always throwing their money away. And good luck to them, he thought, as he took a gulp of champagne. McKenzie lived in a magnificent house; he’d got a beautiful wife; he enjoyed an enviable lifestyle. What more could any man want?

At that moment, what Douglas wanted was his bed. His legs ached from walking over rough ground all day. His dress shirt and bow tie felt like a strait-jacket. Never again was he going to accept an invitation to a day’s shooting which involved staying the night and playing the part of the perfect guest …

Just then the door opened and Mary Cameron came in. He felt his heart turn a somersault: a strange feeling which he’d experienced for the first time in his life that morning as the company assembled for the shoot. It had happened again at dinner, when he’d been seated next to Mary Cameron: not only had his heart turned several somersaults, but his tongue had seized up and he’d been reduced to a stammering teenager. All because Mary Cameron was wearing a low-cut dress which revealed voluptuous breasts and had a face that glowed with health and vitality and a mass of hair the colour of autumn leaves. All she’d done was smile at him, but he’d been so overcome that he’d had to lower his eyes and pretend to scrutinise his plateful of roast duck, which suddenly seemed unappetising. Ridiculous! Usually, there was nothing he liked better than a beautifully cooked duck after a day out on the moors …

Now it was happening again. And this time she was going to pounce; there was no escape. She marched across the room and took his arm.

‘So here you are, Chief Inspector! I can call you Douglas, can’t I? After all, you’re not about to arrest me! Put that glass down. You’re going to dance with me. Ian’s disappeared and we need you to make up the numbers.’

Panic seized him. It was years since he’d danced.

‘Mary, I can’t. Now be a good girl and leave me out of this. I’d be the laughing stock of the whole room if you let me loose in an eightsome.’

She laughed, and his heart lurched again. It was a lovely laugh – a rich chuckle. Like gravy, he thought: brown, succulent, smooth.

‘We’ll be finished with the eightsome in a minute. “Dashing White Sergeant” next. That surely must appeal to you. Isn’t your sidekick a Sergeant someone or other?’

‘Venerables might be a white sergeant, but he’s far from dashing. Now run along with you, lassie, and find Ian.’

‘But a dance will do you good, Douglas. Not that you need good doing to you,’ she added hastily. ‘You’re a fine figure of a man. In your prime,’ she said in her seductively soft Highland brogue.

‘And you’re a great flatterer, Mary. But I’m willing to believe you, though you’ll still not get me involved with any dashing white sergeants. I’ll go and look for Ian, tell him he’s needed urgently on the dance floor.’

‘I expect he’s taking a wee nap somewhere. He always does that on big occasions. What with all the shooting and that huge dinner, he’s no doubt worn out.’

Lucky old Ian, Douglas thought enviously. Why should he get all the sympathy? He risked a glance at Mary; she was particularly animated tonight, her face alight with mischief. God, what a tragedy for her husband to die when he did! Charles Cameron hadn’t lived to see Mary in her full glorious maturity. Why did men do these foolhardy things? Taking a yacht out in a Force Seven gale off the West Coast of Scotland when a woman like this was waiting at home for him … it was incomprehensible.

‘Come on, Douglas. Dance first, then you can escape.’ And Mary seized his arm and dragged him into the room next door. A blast of hot, stale air, smelling of sweat and brandy overlaid with expensive perfume, greeted him as they went in. He felt slightly sick. Much to his consternation, everyone turned to look at them and he was briskly propelled into line by several pairs of hands. He saw Willy Graham, his old friend from Coldstream, wave to him from the top of the line. Patricia McKenzie, his hostess, beamed at him with just a hint of mockery. She was another fine woman, a few years older than her sister Mary who was only just nudging forty. Patricia was closer to fifty but her dress revealed a firm figure – the same creamy breasts as her sister. Her long auburn hair was gathered in a smooth knot at the back of her head. A fine-looking family, he thought. From north of the Border, of course. McDonalds. The real McCoy: McDonalds from Skye. Pure Highland stock. Not like the McKenzies, who’d been Border reivers back in the Middle Ages. Cattle thieves, robbers, murderers.

He looked round the room, less embarrassed now. All the big-wigs of the County were there. The Grahams, the Selbys, the Milburns; all the Border reiver families, representing solid wealth acquired over the centuries from mining, heavy industry and shipbuilding. Their ancestors had been Victorian entrepreneurs. Now their descendants were enjoying the fruits of all that energy and enterprise. Douglas felt an outsider. He had nothing behind him except his house in Berwick, which his uncle had left him, and a modest sum in the building society. No use trying to save a fortune on a policeman’s salary. He felt a pang of regret for all the things he’d missed out on – a wife to show off to his friends, children to carry on his name …

But this was not the time for introspection. Mary yanked him into place in the line, and with a tortured yelp from the bagpipes they were off. Somehow, due largely to Mary’s prodding, he didn’t make too much of a fool of himself. But when the music died away with an anguished shriek, he extricated himself from her grasp.

‘Once is more than enough. It’s time I followed Ian’s example and found myself a wee nook to hide in. I’ve work to do tomorrow, you know. Today, I mean.’

‘On a Sunday? Surely not. Besides, we’ve only just started.’

Douglas groaned inwardly. Were all women like Mary Cameron? Didn’t they ever give up?

‘Get away with you, lass. Find yourself a younger man; or come with me to find a whisky.’

‘Douglas McBride, you’re an old stick-in-the-mud. Isn’t he, Pat?’ she said to Patricia McKenzie who’d come over to join them.

‘No more than Ian. They’re two of a kind. Why don’t you go and find him, Douglas, and tell him I want him? He’ll no doubt offer you a dram. You come with me, Mary, and meet someone who’s been admiring you all evening.’

Women, thought Douglas, as he watched Patricia drag Mary over to some enthusiastic young man. First they butter you up, then they drop you like a hot brick when something better appears on the horizon.

He wandered off, unnoticed. He walked along softly carpeted corridors, stopping to admire gilt-framed oil paintings of the Cheviots and the coast near Dunstanburgh. Then up the wide staircase to the first floor. Pictures everywhere: the sort Douglas understood and liked. Nothing modern. Hunting scenes. Old sailing ships. Piles of dead pheasants and decanters of port.

He stopped to examine cabinets stuffed with delicate Chinese vases and porcelain figures of oriental gentlemen with long beards dressed in long overcoats. He didn’t know much about antiques, but anyone could see that these things represented thousands of pounds. He thought of the security problem. He’d begged Ian to install a more up-to-date alarm system, but it hadn’t happened yet. He remembered all those mullioned bay windows with their flat roofs, and the convenient drainpipes down the side of the house. Reivers Hall would be a doddle to break into, unless Ian invested in a pack of rottweilers and a sophisticated electronic alarm system, complete with security cameras.

He tore himself away from the Chinese figurines and opened the first bedroom door, knocking gently before he entered. It was a large room. On the double bed pyjamas were laid out neatly, with a nightdress on the other pillow. The next bedroom was similar. At the far end of the corridor he knew he’d find Patricia and Ian’s bedroom; it had been pointed out to him when he arrived, and his own room was nearby. He hesitated, reluctant now to invade his host’s privacy and disturb his nap. He’d take a quick peep, and if he was asleep, let him be. After that, he could slip away into his own room and nobody would miss him.

He opened the door. The corridor was gloomy at this end so he switched on the light. He peered in. It was a fine room with a four-poster bed, its curtains tied back. Most of the bedrooms had four-posters: they suited the style of the house with its imitation oak beams and its armorial bearings over the doors.

Douglas thought of his own warm four-poster and yawned. Where the hell was Ian? The bathroom was en suite, and the door was open. Might Ian have been taken ill as a result of too much champagne? Douglas walked across and looked in. Nothing. He noted the massive sunken bath with its gold-plated taps and marvelled at Ian’s extravagance. Then he remembered the dressing room. He’d been most impressed by the idea of a dressing room: all the couples he knew simply shared a wardrobe. Maybe Ian had retreated there when he got bored with the party, hoping he’d be less easy to find.

He walked across the room and opened the door. The room felt cold, as if a window were open. He flicked on the light.

Ian was there all right. His six-foot frame was dangling from an overhead beam, his feet just a few inches from the floor. On the floor nearby, a footstool had been kicked aside. As Douglas looked, disbelieving, his stomach went into convulsions. For Ian was naked, except for a woman’s skirt draped awkwardly over the lower part of his body. Ever the professional, Douglas automatically registered the colour and fabric of the skirt. Green. Green, shiny material. He counted ten and got back control of his body. Then he looked up at Ian’s face. He was dead. No real doubt about that. But he had to make absolutely sure; and he had to get help. Mustn’t touch that knot which had cut so deeply into Ian’s neck. Forensic would never forgive him if he botched this one. He thought of those thirty guests dancing away downstairs. You fool, you damn fool, thought Douglas. You had a beautiful wife who was devoted to you. You had everything to live for. Why, in God’s name did you need a deadly erotic thrill? Patricia, dancing away downstairs; how was he going to tell her?

Deeply shocked, but forcing himself into the usual routine, he took out his mobile and called Berwick. He needed an ambulance, a police surgeon, and the Forensic team. Quickly. Douglas was back in the saddle again. This time with a vengeance.

On Sunday morning, the fifteenth of September, Father Paul Dalrymple adjusted his stole in the sacristy of St Frida’s Church in the village of Fridale, glanced across at the safe to check that it was safely shut and left the sacristy, locking the door behind him. It would be a while before the Little Sisters arrived.

Then he went to meet his parishioners, who were assembling by the lychgate. It was a quarter past nine and the choir had already formed into a group. The thurifer was frantically trying to control the censer, which was rather too enthusiastically puffing out clouds of aromatic smoke. The two acolytes were giggling together; Father Paul had to call them to order. Grumbling that the breeze had blown out their candles, they reluctantly positioned themselves at the head of the procession. The crucifer, Derek Fairbrother, was late, of course; he was always late, thought Father Paul with some irritation. Soon he’d be off to Durham to begin his degree course and then Father Paul would find someone else to carry the cross. Someone who could be trusted to arrive on time.

It was a great day for the villagers of Fridale. The patronal day of their patron saint, St Frida, happily coincided with Harvest Festival. Father Paul would dearly have loved to arrange a proper procession, like the ones he’d seen in Spain and Italy, where his counterpart would wear a splendid chasuble and carry a gold monstrance so everyone could see and venerate the Blessed Sacrament. But he knew that although this corner of Northumberland, close to the great house of Reivers Hall, contained a tiny pocket of Anglo-Catholics, there was a limit to the number of ‘Popish practices’ he could inflict on his parishioners. He sighed deeply. A young man, full of religious enthusiasm, austere in his private life, he resented being continually reminded by his churchwardens that this was the North East of England, and not Rome.

He watched the crucifer arrive, riding his bicycle with a verve that drew admiring looks from the two acolytes. Father Paul frowned. Yes, it was certainly time Derek went off to university. He was beginning to have a disruptive influence on the acolytes, as well as other female members of the congregation. Now it was time to go. The acolytes had stopped giggling and the thurifer was getting even more anxious. And Derek had finally collected the cross from the churchwarden.

Seeing that all was in order at last, Father Paul signalled to the thurifer to lead the way to the village square. Thurifer first; then the acolytes, followed closely by Derek with his cross; then the choir. The congregation was left to straggle along as best as it could. Most of them were regulars, Father Paul noted as he took his place in the procession, although one or two tourists had come along to see what was going on. He also spotted one or two of the gentry who hadn’t gone to the McKenzie party last night and therefore weren’t contending with the subsequent hangovers. Alec Montgomery, for instance; a good friend of Sister Anne’s. He waved to Father Paul and crossed the road to fall into step beside him.

‘Nice day for the procession, Father,’ Alec said briskly.

‘A bit too much wind for the acolytes. They can’t get the candles to stay alight.’

Alec laughed. ‘They look fine to me. Are the Sisters going to join us?’

‘No; they’ll be in the church when we get back. They’re not too fond of making an exhibition of themselves.’

As far as Father Paul was concerned, Alec was one of the best: a good friend of the Church and the Little Sisters. A big man with a big stride, he was finding it difficult to match his pace to the stateliness of the others in the procession.

‘Not up at the big house yesterday, Alec?’ said Father Paul, hurrying to catch him up.

‘Me? No, I’m a rotten shot. I haven’t got the figure for all that tramping over moors.’

Father Paul glanced at his friend’s solid frame. Perhaps he would not have enjoyed the enforced exercise, but he certainly would have done justice to the dinner. The McKenzies’ hospitality was renowned.

Over the hedge he caught a glimpse of the white habits of the Little Sisters as they made their way to the church. ‘We can relax now, Alex. The Sisters are on their way.’

‘That’s good. If you ask me, it’s just plain madness to leave the church unlocked on a day like this, with so many strangers about. I’ve nagged and nagged Sister Anne to let the Treasury of Durham Cathedral have the Gospel. It’s ridiculous that a priceless national treasure should remain virtually unprotected in a parish church; but she’s as stubborn as a mule. She won’t let it go.’

‘I do sympathise with her, Alec. St Frida brought it here from Lindisfarne in AD 658 and it’s been with us all that time. I know it’s tempting providence to keep it in the church, but the safe is pretty sophisticated and no one knows the combination except Sister Anne.’

‘And mighty careless she is, Father. I once found the safe wide open after she’d shown the Gospel to someone. Sean O’Neill, it was. He could easily have hit her over the head and walked off with it.’

Father Paul liked the young Irishman: A quiet academic from Trinity College, Dublin, he wasn’t likely to bash an elderly nun over the head. But he was passionate about St Frida’s Gospel according to St John; and he wanted it returned to its native Ireland. After all, St Frida herself had been Irish. She’d come over with St Aidan, after he’d befriended her following a dreadful attack she’d endured from a robber. She’d worked alongside him in Lindisfarne, and after he’d died she’d come South, clutching the Gospel to save it from the raids of the Vikings. Yes, the young man had a good reason for trying to persuade Sister Anne to let him return the Gospel to Ireland. And it would certainly be safe in Trinity College. But Sister Anne was adamant. Frida had brought it to Fridale; and here it was going to stay.

‘I don’t think Sean would resort to violence,’ he said equably. ‘But I agree. The Gospel ought not to be in that church, however sophisticated the safe.’

They were approaching the village square now, past the petrol station, the village shop, and round the ancient pump which still stood in the centre of the square. Then they would return the way they’d come, back up Church Lane and into the church, where they’d celebrate Mass. Just showing the flag, thought Father Paul. Just reminding the people of Fridale that they had a church, a very ancient one; so why not come along and join in an act of worship?

There was a holiday atmosphere about that morning. The square was full of onlookers, many of whom he’d never seen before. Children were running about; impatient dogs tugged at leads; parents tried to keep order; old people stood quietly, showing respect. Alec walked on to exchange a few words with Derek Fairbrother. Father Paul waved to the owner of the village shop: a good sort, but a thorough heathen. He spotted Sean O’Neill, quietly watching from outside his cottage. They were approaching the new estate now. There was a path between the houses leading to garages at the back, with an archway over the path. Father Paul caught a glimpse of a man standing under the arch. Not the ideal place from which to watch the procession, he thought. But perhaps, on second thoughts, he was just waiting for someone. He looked overdressed for the pleasant September weather. The collar of his anorak was pulled up round his face, almost meeting the brim of his woolly hat. Father Paul turned to see that the procession was moving in an orderly fashion; and then the shot rang out. And Derek Fairbrother dropped the great silver cross he was carrying, and fell face down on the road.

No one moved. A dog barked; someone screamed. Father Paul ran to Derek. He bent down, looked at his face, at the neat hole in the side of his head. He felt for a pulse. Dazed with horror, he looked up.

‘I can’t feel anything. Pray God he’s not dead. I can’t believe it! Someone must call an ambulance. Quickly. Oh, Derek, Derek, stay with us. Please.’

He stood up, and looked around. He thought of what he must do. But was there time? Could he get to the church and back again before the ambulance arrived?

‘Stay with him,’ he said to Alec Montgomery, who was standing by his side. ‘I must get the holy oil. Just in case,’ he added, conscious that Alec was looking at him in amazement. ‘Perhaps you could …’

‘Call an ambulance,’ shouted Alec, seeing what was needed and taking charge of the situation. ‘Derek’s been shot. And get the police too. Stand back, everyone. Don’t touch anything until the police get here.’

Numb with shock, Father Paul managed to collect himself sufficiently to run back to the church. Dashing past the Little Sisters of Saint Frida, who had already taken their seats in the front row of the pews, he collected the bag containing all that was necessary for the administration of the Last Rites. ‘It’s Derek Fairbrother,’ he shouted. ‘He’s been badly hurt.’ He couldn’t wait to explain further.

Then he ran back to the square where Alec Montgomery was heroically trying to keep order. ‘No one must leave the square,’ he was saying firmly when Father Paul arrived. ‘The ambulance is on its way. And the police. They’ll want to talk to everyone. Stay where you are, and keep away from Derek.’

Thanking God for people like Alec Montgomery, Father Paul knelt beside his crucifer. Derek looked very pale. Very still. Father Paul feared the worst. Sadly, he made the sign of the cross and began the first prayer.

When he’d finished, he whispered, ‘Why, Lord? Why Derek? He’d never even harm a fly.’

‘You’re quite sure about this, McBride?’ said Superintendent Blackburn, irritated by the abrupt termination of his customary Sunday morning lie-in. ‘Ian McKenzie didn’t die by his own hand?’

Douglas, exhausted from his sleepless night, nodded wearily. ‘There’s no doubt, thank God. We’ve got a case of homicide on our hands.’

‘Thank God, McBride? I don’t understand. Homicide’s hardly something to give thanks about.’

‘It’s better than the alternative, sir. For the family, I mean. Think how they must feel.’

‘I am, McBride, I am. The family’s my main concern. The McKenzies of Reivers Hall are scarcely nonentities. With the exception of the Grahams of Coldstream they’re one of the leading County families.’

Douglas sighed. The one thing he disliked about his superior was his unabashed snobbery where the victims of crime were concerned. ‘Whether someone’s a member of the blue-blooded aristocracy, or a fisherman from Craster, murder is murder.’

‘All right, all right, McBride. I’ve no time for one of your sermons. Let’s start again. You’ve been up at the Hall all night, I take it?’

‘I have that. And I’d be grateful for some coffee if it’s not too much to ask. Do you want me to run through the sequence of events?’

‘If you please. And take a seat, man; don’t stand there dithering. Coffee coming up.’

Blackburn spoke into the intercom. Almost immediately a young constable came in carrying a tray with two mugs on it and a jug of freshly brewed coffee.

‘I take it you’ll want it bl. . .