What Will Burn by James Oswald (latest novels to read .TXT) 📗

bustled over with a cloth, wiping the mess her husband had left on the tabletop from eating biscuits.

‘How do you mean?’ McLean asked.

‘Mistress Cecily never cared for the titles and the privilege and all. She hated the hall, though she loved her wee cottage. She never said much about it, mind, but I got the feeling the family had done her wrong. Many years ago.’

‘Did she not get on with her nephew then? Do you know how he felt about her?’

‘Can’t remember the last time I spoke to Lord Reginald,’ Tam Uist said, as if that explained everything. ‘Most of my business is with Charlie.’

‘Charlie?’ McLean felt acute embarrassment in asking. He should have been far better briefed before coming to this interview.

‘Charlie McPherson. He’s the estate manager. Lord Reggie’s right-hand man.’

‘We spoke to him on the day, sir,’ Harrison interrupted before McLean could say anything more. ‘Should have been a transcript of the interview in the file. Not that he could add much to what Mr Uist here told us.’

‘Of course.’ McLean finished his tea, carefully placing the mug back down once he was done. ‘Mr McPherson’s next on our list of people to speak to again. I’m afraid what we took for a tragic accident at the start is beginning to look like something a bit more serious.’

Margaret Uist let out a little gasp, her hand reaching for her throat. ‘Oh my word. You think somebody . . . did for her?’

Before McLean could answer, the farmer had crossed the room and taken his wife in his arms. A head and more shorter than him, she melted into his embrace.

‘I’m very sorry to be the bearer of such bad tidings, Mrs Uist.’ McLean turned his attention to her husband. ‘Mr Uist, I would appreciate it if you kept this information to yourselves for now. We will find out what happened to Cecily Slater, I can assure you. But it’s easier for us to carry out our investigations if people aren’t speculating about what might have happened.’

11

‘Wow. This is a bit posh, isn’t it?’

DS Harrison leaned forward over the steering wheel, the better to peer out the windscreen at the approaching mansion. McLean sat in the passenger seat, happy to be driven for a change, even if it was only the short distance from the farm. Harrison liked driving the Alfa, he knew, and she did it well. None of the other junior officers dared even try, declining whenever he suggested it to them. It was probably for the best.

‘Ostentatious is the word you’re looking for, I’d say.’ He watched the building appear to grow in size as they came ever closer. No doubt whoever had designed the grounds surrounding Bairnfather Hall had intended it to work that way, the mature woodland on either side of the drive easing gently away to reveal more and more of a massive sandstone edifice. That it had all been the residence of just one family seemed rather obscene, and its current use as a hotel for the kind of people who didn’t blink at spending a five-figure sum on a bed for the night wasn’t much better.

A half-dozen needlessly expensive cars were parked on a vast gravel circle in front of the main entrance. McLean’s Alfa wasn’t cheap, but it might as well have been an old banger in comparison. He should probably have run it through a carwash, or maybe taken a bucket and rag to it himself whilst he’d been suspended, sitting at home and mostly twiddling his thumbs. Instead he’d neglected the poor thing, and its black paint was more road grime grey, reflected in the dazzling polish of the gleaming, and spectacularly ugly, Rolls-Royce SUV Harrison parked next to.

It would be easy to forget that Edinburgh city centre was less than a half-hour’s drive away. Set in gently undulating parkland, surrounded by distant woodlands and sheltered by the rising slopes of the Pentland Hills, the hall felt like it belonged in a different era, or perhaps another dimension. That, of course, was what the punters paid for, and only the occasional plane climbing into the air from Turnhouse and the omnipresent dull roar of the M8 spoiled the otherwise perfect calm.

They climbed a set of elegant stone steps to the front entrance and a hall almost as large as McLean’s entire house. A low mutter of voices escaped from a room off to the left, but before McLean could investigate, a young man in an immaculate tailcoat approached the two of them.

‘Good afternoon, sir, ma’am.’ He bowed, minimally. ‘Welcome to Bairnfather Hall. Might I be of assistance?’

McLean ignored him, allowing Harrison the honours. She dug her warrant card out and presented it to the doorman. ‘Detective Sergeant Harrison. This is Detective Chief Inspector McLean. I wonder if we might have a word with Mr McPherson?’

To his credit, the doorman didn’t miss a beat. Nor did he bother inspecting Harrison’s warrant card. With another of those minimalist bows, he turned. ‘If you would like to follow me.’ And without waiting to see if they would, he set off across the hall. McLean offered Harrison a raised eyebrow, which earned him a scowl. Promotion had boosted her confidence, and it had also made her less respectful of his rank.

‘You do know it’s only Detective Inspector now, not Chief,’ he said, quietly enough that their guide wouldn’t hear.

‘Aye, sir. But this place . . .’ Harrison shrugged. ‘Seems like it needs someone a bit more senior?’

He had to admit she had a point. They followed the doorman, trekking across vast acres of polished marble floor. The entrance hall, or grand hall or whatever the hell it was called, rose up to a glass cupola high overhead. It wasn’t that impressive by the standards of modern engineering, but given it had been built in an age when sophisticated construction involved placing stones on top of other stones, it was quite breathtaking. Something about knowing it had been built with sweat and muscle, rather than computers and heavy machinery, lent