The Avalon Chanter (15 page)

“
I’m hoping I’ve got a few answers for
you, as per Alasdair’s message from last night. Quite inspiring,
how folk are up and about of a Saturday morning.”

Alasdair turned away from the window.
“Miranda?”

Yep
,
she mouthed at him. Into the phone she said, “You mean,
inspiring how people are willing to answer strange questions on a
Saturday morning. I was going to settle down with the Internet and
see what I could find, but . . .”

“
No need. You’re in the field. I’m the
rear-echelon support team, eh? And I’ve already done a fair bit of
wandering about the Internet. But the actual folk involved are
better at cutting to the chase.”

“
Who have you talked to? Whom, I
guess.”

“
Maggie Lauder’s barrister, who
defended her—successfully, as she kept pointing out—in the murder
trial.”

If in time she arrived at the Pearly Gates,
Jean thought, Miranda would be there waiting to introduce her to
Saint Peter.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, she waved
Alasdair down beside her and tilted the phone so he could hear,
too. “All right then, Miranda. We’re listening.”

“
Good morning, Alasdair,” Miranda said,
and, without waiting for a reply, “Maggie was tried for the murder
of her lover, one Oliver Phillips. Quite the handsome young sprig
of the landed gentry, judging by his photos—classic features,
artfully tousled hair, expression of a man offering noblesse oblige
to the local pig farmer.”

Jean could see him, nostrils dilated, eyes
hooded, his confidence and refinement like a flower to a bee. So
Maggie had been looking for love in high places rather than low.
“Oliver Phillips?” she repeated. “Any relationship to the Oliver
Montagu Phillips ancient and medieval manuscript library at
Cambridge?”

A pause, and the sound of manicured
fingertips on a keyboard. “Well done, Jean,” Miranda said. “Yes, he
was the grandson. No surprise he went up to Cambridge himself, when
his family donated such a tidy sum to buy and then house those
manuscripts.”

“
Elaine Lauder’s degree is from
Cambridge, too. She spent weeks on end studying in the Phillips
library. No surprise Maggie went there, too. Nice that getting into
a prestigious university here in the UK is a matter of acing the
tests, not being independently wealthy.”

“
Was Maggie not reading archaeology?”
asked Alasdair.

“
Sure, but historical archaeology
requires knowledge of the relevant written materials.”

“
Furthermore,” said Miranda’s voice in
the phone, “Maggie started out reading literature like her mum,
only switched to archaeology in her second year.”

“
And also in her second year . . .”
Jean prompted.

“
One lovely autumn day, a group of
students went wildfowling—shooting ducks and geese. Before the day
was out, Oliver was dead from a shotgun blast to the chest and
head. That much for the pretty face, I’m afraid.”

Alasdair grimaced. Jean didn’t want to know
what he remembered. All he said was, “It was no accident,
then.”

“
Maggie claimed it was. However, it was
clear that the weapon had been fired within a foot of the lad’s
anatomy. Aimed directly at him, in other words.”

“
There was a group of students,” Jean
said. “I assume no one actually saw the murd—er, accident, but did
someone see Maggie threaten Oliver? I mean, why arrest her rather
than anyone else?”

“
She and Oliver had a terrible row just
that morning. According to the others, he was accusing her of
having someone else on the side, of playing him for a fool. But she
was having none of that, telling him he had no claim on her. She
was by way of being a free agent.”

She’d learned a few things from her mother,
thought Jean. And she’d skipped a few lessons as well, like the one
about being doomed to repeat history.

“
At the time of Oliver’s death, the
group had broken up to walk through a belt of woodland. Maggie was
alone with him—or so she implied. The barrister made much of Maggie
never having held a gun in her life, saying that it was Oliver’s
fault for handing her a loaded gun, and that no matter how the gun
was aimed, the firing was an accident.”

“
Was it a shotgun with two barrels?
Pulling two triggers instead of the one would hardly be an
accident.” Alasdair was still playing devil’s advocate.

“
Yes, it had two barrels, but only the
one was fired. That helped her case with the jury. They agreed it
was an unfortunate accident and since she’d already spent time
detained at Her Majesty’s pleasure awaiting the trial, she’d paid
for her carelessness.”

Jean waited for Alasdair to say something
about Maggie being young and pretty to boot, but he didn’t. She
gave Miranda another cue. “There were two local detectives who
thought she’d gotten off, if you’ll pardon the expression,
scot-free.”

“
That there were. However, they
weakened their own argument by making another arrest within the
week, an older lad claiming he’d been nowhere near the scene of the
crime.”

“
Was it fingerprint evidence turned the
trick?” asked Alasdair.

“
There was a muddle of prints on the
gun, nothing particularly helpful. No, what finally solved the case
was breaking the lad’s alibi.”

“
He was another student?”

“
No. He was working as a bar man in the
town. Maggie met him busking outside the university. Played a fine
set of Irish small pipes, by all accounts. Turned out Oliver’s
jealousy was well-placed.”

“
A musician,” said Alasdair. “A
piper.”

“
Must be in her DNA,” Jean
added.

“
He was a handsome lad as well—a
ginger-haired leprechaun. I expect there was more than a bit of
class conflict between him and Oliver, over and beyond the
competition for Maggie’s favors.”

“
No kidding. Go on.”

“
Once he’d been arrested, this fellow,
Donal McCarthy, testified he’d followed along behind the shooting
party, worried about Oliver’s possessiveness. He testified Oliver
was cursing at Maggie and pushing her about with the gun. Donal was
after taking the gun away and preventing any accidents. In the
struggle, it went off. Exit Oliver.”

“
Did the jury find manslaughter or
murder?” Alasdair asked.

“
The general feeling seemed to be that
if Oliver’s death had truly been an accident, Donal should have
stepped forward much earlier. If he was by way of defending Maggie
in the woods, then why not in court, eh? He was found guilty of the
full monty, murder, and the judge sent him down for
life.”

“
A perfect gentle knight would have
stepped forward at her arrest,” agreed Jean.

“
Oh aye. The judge was no doubt
thinking Donal was more of a knave.”

“
Maggie must have parsed her testimony
very finely to avoid being charged with perjury,” said
Alasdair.

“
The barrister’s saying it was a fine a
performance as she’d ever seen, aye.”

“
Did she testify at Donal’s trial at
all?”

“
No, the Crown had sufficient evidence
without her—and was not sure about putting a massively pregnant
woman on the stand in any event.”

“
The pregnancy raised the
quality-of-mercy factor in her own trial,” Jean said.

Alasdair asked, “Which man was the
father?”

“
I’ve got no idea. Oliver, I’m
supposing, though Donal’s being married makes no difference in the
paternity sweepstakes.”

“
Donal’s the father,” Jean stated, and
to the angle of Alasdair’s eyebrow, “Maggie never ratted him out.
Grassed him up. She was willing to take the blame and go to prison
for him. Maybe she didn’t want to break up his marriage, though it
was a little late to be worried about that.”

His other eyebrow arched up to join the
first.

“
Okay, so she
believed
Donal was the father.” Jean went on,
“When the child, a little girl, was born, she gave her up for
adoption, and the family who adopted her took her to the U.S. of
A.”

Miranda laughed. “You’ve got yourself a
crystal ball, have you now, Jean?”

“
No more than eyes and ears,” explained
Alasdair. “The child’s here on Farnaby just now, introducing
herself to us as Maggie’s daughter. Tara Hogg, her name
is.”

“
Aye, that’s the lass. Getting a bit
more than she bargained for, is she?”

“
You don’t know the half of it. There’s
a lot more going on than the stranger in the tomb.” Jean quickly
summed up the episode of the policeman who barked in the nighttime,
how he was one of the Cambridgeshire dissenters still picking bones
with Maggie after all these years and showing every intention of
hounding her family as well. “There was poor Tara hiding behind the
shrub . . .” She stopped dead.
Whoa.

“
What?” asked Alasdair.

“
The light caught the bandage on her
hand. The one Niamh put on. Miranda, what was Donal’s last name?
McCarthy?”

“
Ah,” Alasdair said. “McCarthy, is
it?”

“
Aye,” said Miranda. “Donal McCarthy.
Why?”

Alasdair and Jean spoke simultaneously,
stopped, made “after you” noises. Finally, Jean managed to babble,
“There’s a nurse working for Maggie—well, for her mother—suffering
from dementia, it’s really sad—the nurse is named Niamh
McCarthy—has a great voice. She was singing with Hugh last
night.”

“
Well, well, well.” That tone in
Miranda’s voice always indicated plots thickening and headlines
generating.

“
There are plenty of people named
McCarthy in the world,” Jean cautioned, even as her thumbs pricked.
“Coincidences happen.”

“
They do that, aye. If I went combing
through
Great Scot
’s
subscriber list, I’d be turning up who knows how many folk
with the same names.”

“
So you’re thinking Niamh working for
Elaine’s a coincidence?” asked Alasdair.

“
No more than you’re thinking it. Aye?
Half a sec. Jean, Alasdair, Duncan’s arrived and is telling me it
looks like being a fine day for golf. Nothing like chasing a wee
white ball down eighteen rabbit holes.”

“
The only things we’re going to be
chasing here on Farnaby are wild geese in the fog.” Although a
glance at the window showed Jean the same diluted sunlight she’d
seen earlier. “Have a good game.”

“
I shall, thank you. More inquiries
later, I’m hoping.”

“
There’s a lot to hope for.” Jean
switched off the phone and sat slumped over it, her thoughts
flapping like wild fowl scattering before a shotgun
blast.

Chapter Fifteen

Jean could feel Alasdair’s scrutiny on the
side of her face. “Yeah. I know. It’s Grinsell’s case. Oliver’s
death and Tara and where Niamh comes in—none of that is any of our
business. I don’t really think it’s his business, either, not
anymore, but he’s in charge. Our business is the original burial
and the press conference, and Maggie’s been open and aboveboard
about that—once we pressed her into being aboveboard.”

“
Aye.”

“
But you’re not letting that stop you
from checking out Grinsell himself. And working up your own file on
Maggie. Sort of, anyway.”

“
No, I’m not letting that stop
me.”

“
You’re feeling a disturbance in the
police force, aren’t you? No pun intended.”

With a thin smile and shake of his head,
Alasdair got to his feet. He did not bend down to search for
conspiracies under the bed, instead sending a searching look
through the front window. “The police boat’s still there. Grinsell
should be out and about harassing the villagers, eager to be
getting himself and the body back to Berwick. But all I’m seeing is
D.S. Darling on the breakwater, looking at his phone. Let’s have us
a word.”

“
Everyone’s eager to get Grinsell
away.” Jean grabbed her backpack and slipped on her jacket. “Surely
he doesn’t think he’ll find some new evidence here about the
Phillips case.”

“
Aye, he’s fighting the wrong battle.
Even if he’s not thinking Thomas Seaton’s case is worth his while,
it’s the one he’s dealing with.” Alasdair opened the door and
stopped in the opening.

Jean piled up behind him. “What?”

Alasdair pointed to a cloth and a can of
polish sitting on the radiator next to the door. “I’m thinking we
had us an audience whilst chatting with Miranda.”

“
None of it was anything Pen didn’t
already know. The Lauders, and by extension everyone on the island,
have to have followed every word of Maggie’s trial. We should
just
ask
Pen what she knows
about Elaine and Tom and everything.”

“
She’ll be biased, Jean, being friends
of the family and all. She might even be involved in the murd—the
death. Besides, it’s no good our interviewing witnesses. It’s
Grinsell’s case.”

“
But Pen has to expect us to be
interested—if we asked a few questions as friends, not as the
Spanish Inquisition . . . Oh, never mind.”