Bonnie Macbird - Unquiet Spirits - Whisky, Ghosts, Murder

I could sense Holmes had gone very still beside me.

‘It cannot be done, Father,’ said Charles, the eldest, sourly. ‘He has only just met us.’

‘What is the point?’ asked his blonde wife, a small bead of sweat appearing on her brow. She dabbed at it with a napkin.

‘A jolly idea,’ said Alistair, with a touch of belligerence. ‘I like it.’

Holmes turned to me and smiled like a friendly executioner. ‘What an interesting notion, Watson!’ He then turned to the laird. ‘Sir, you compliment me greatly. But I must decline this kind offer as, frankly, it would be nothing short of embarrassing to your family. If you will excuse us, please.’ He rose to go. I rose with him.

‘But, Mr Holmes, do stay. Consider it not the price of your dinner, I would never be so bold, but merely the polite request of one who admires you.’ The laird could not have been more charming. Yet somehow I knew that underneath he was well aware of his insult. There appeared to be a double meaning in everything the man said. The evening grew more curious.

Isla McLaren burst out ‘Sir Robert! I would never have recommended Mr Holmes for anything like this. He is a professional, not a travelling player. Really, sir, you insult our guests.’

‘No insult at all. Sit down, Mr Holmes. And Dr Watson. I have something which may attract your interest.’ He snapped his fingers.

Charles McLaren at once stood up and took from his pocket a small leather bag held closed by two drawstrings. He loosened the top and poured out a small pile of what looked like at least fifty gold sovereigns on the table before Holmes. They glittered in the candlelight, a tempting mound of freedom and luxury. But at such a cost to Holmes’s pride. I glanced at him.

Holmes, whom I thought to know so well, was ever a surprise. A slow smile spread across his face. I had seen it before, after solving a crime and just before confronting the perpetrator. It did not bode well for this overbearing laird. I felt a prickle of incipient amusement.

‘Ah, the laird is most convincing,’ said he. He turned to Charles who loomed next to him. Despite his very fine clothes the man had an aura of violence. ‘Sit down, Chimney, for I perceive that is your nickname. Before your bad back has you limping from the room, exchange seats with your brother and take the hand of your wife, who may very well learn to love you again. Although some effort will be necessary to forgive your philandering.’

There was an audible gasp from those around the table. Isla McLaren coughed to stifle a laugh. The laird stared at Holmes in some confusion.

‘Well, your method bears some explanation,’ said the laird. ‘But you may very well have hit the nail on the head. Has he, Charles?’ Charles said nothing but reddened. Poor Catherine looked down at her lap and I felt a pang of sympathy for her. Alistair offered Charles his seat with a flourish and the elder brother duly changed places and sat, glowering.

The laird laughed, although with some discomfort. ‘Well, then, you have just given us confirmation, son. You must learn discretion.’ He turned to Holmes. ‘And how did you come to this theory? Pardon us, Catherine.’

‘They are not theories,’ began Holmes. ‘They are—’

‘I am no philanderer!’ exclaimed ‘Chimney’. He turned to Holmes in a fury, and pounded his fist on the table, making the silverware jump. ‘Be damned man, I will not have my name besmirched.’

‘I am merely acting at your father’s behest,’ said Holmes quietly.

‘Hmph. I see that you are right,’ said the laird. ‘Charles, you reveal yourself piteously. Get control. Mr Holmes, I demand to know your reasoning. What are the clues?’

‘Perhaps it would be best—’

‘Sir, I insist.’

Holmes shrugged, and then turned on his considerable charm. The malice beneath it was obvious to me but masked, I hoped, to others. I glanced at Isla McLaren. Her look of alarm told me I was mistaken. At least one other saw what was ahead.

‘It was quite simple. Obvious, really,’ said Holmes. He turned back to Charles. ‘Your wife called you by your nickname earlier when you arose to speak to that waiter. Softly, but I heard it. Your shifting in your chair, obvious discomfort, and the placement of a small pillow to support your lumbar region – none of the rest of the chairs has one – and your particular manner of eyeing the flaxen-haired young woman pouring coffee, and your wife’s observation of this tells me what I need to know. Perhaps your back condition is not due to riding horses, but some other strain. You must take care. And then, the gambling—’

His furious wife stifled a gasp. Holmes turned to her. ‘By the way, you, my dear lady, must see a doctor and soon. The slight palsy in your hand and your pale face indicate lead poisoning. It could be the use of an inauspicious cosmetic, and made all the worse by drink. Perhaps Doctor Watson could be of service.’

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