e headed down a steep hill towards what was, for the laird, the heart and soul of his property, the McLaren Distillery. The buildings were somewhat farther away than they appeared. Though only mid-afternoon, it was already quite dark. Our horses picked their way along the icy path, while the laird gestured towards a large body of water off to the right. It was rectangular, and clearly devised by human hands.
‘The reservoir,’ he said. ‘Built by my grandfather in 1823. Our water is one of the secrets of our whisky. It originates in the mountains up yonder, passes through rock and bramble, peat fields and rich earth, acquiring its unique Highland flavour, before it arrives here.’
‘It is a considerable feat of engineering, then,’ said Holmes.
‘We are well supplied but quality is as important as quantity. Not all water has the special ingredient.’
‘What ingredient is that?’
The laird turned to us. ‘The Highland magic,’ he said, and winked.
The subject of whisky, his great passion, apparently drew the laird from his grief. Like Holmes, this man’s immersion in work was all consuming.
We dismounted in front of an arched entrance to a large complex of unusually varied buildings. Entering a cobbled courtyard, I noted that some of the buildings were in decorative brick, some ancient and picturesque in stone, and others in cold, modern concrete. The three-storey tower with its pagoda-like top was, I learned, designed to draw and expel the kiln smoke.
The laird explained that power had recently been converted from waterwheel to steam engines. The noise from these was audible across the snow-covered courtyard in which we now stood.
‘I would like a brief tour, if you would, Sir Robert, then is there an office where we may speak privately?’ said Holmes.
‘Certainly, Mr Holmes.’
The laird was more than happy with this brief distraction from the tragedy.
‘The Highland magic is far more than the water, gentlemen,’ said he as he led us through a warren of buildings. ‘Each step of the way combines artistry with the latest engineering. We have increased our production to 750,000 gallons a year in the last two years alone. Follow me.’
We passed through many and varied buildings with rooms large and small. There were steep wooden staircases, slick with moisture, and circular steel ones, ladders and platforms and overlooks, lifts and pulleys, and elevators, each with a distinct purpose and design. The laird pointed out the kiln that dried the damp malt. Men in rolled-up shirtsleeves, their muscles gleaming with sweat, shovelled masses of combustibles into roaring furnaces, serving both the drying rooms and the steam engines. Although fragrant, the peat smoke made it difficult to breathe. But Holmes, I observed, was more interested in the men working there than in the process itself.
It was a particularly rough-looking and strange crew of men who toiled at the McLaren Distillery. I reflected on the fact that I have been fortunate never to have laboured in an industrial setting such as this. As we passed through the malting floor, a milling area, then a grain elevator, and kiln, I was struck by the immense physical effort, but also by the many perils to life and limb – not only the kilns but the grinding machines which could suck a man in to a horrific death with the careless catch of a sleeve.
We crossed a courtyard and entered the distillery itself, coming first into the mash house. Warm and humid, the room was dominated by a large, riveted cast-iron vessel with a copper canopy. Sir Robert slid a section of this aside to reveal what looked like a steaming vat of porridge.
‘This is the mash tun,’ he said. ‘Alistair has been experimenting with the dimensions and temperatures. Here, the ground, malted barley, called “grist” is steeped three times in increasingly hot water. This converts the starch in the malt into sugars, which dissolve into the hot water.’
Stepping around a guard rail, Holmes and I peered into the vessel, which was about ten feet deep, filled just over halfway high with the grey, gluey mush. Below us were a rather alarming set of slowly turning steel rakes, at least five feet in diameter. These resembled nothing so much as the metallic appendages of some winged dinosaur, keeping the ‘pot stirred’ by clawing relentlessly through the steeping mash. The steady, deep huff of the steam engine which powered these rakes, along with the sounds of splashing through the viscous liquid echoed through the large room. To be caught in one of those would be a fearsome way to depart this earth.
I had the sudden sense of being watched and looked up to remark upon two workers who stared at us with unmistakeable malevolence. They turned quickly away. A shout from another direction drew our attention to two rough and angry-looking men engaged in a tense conversation before a complex set of gauges. A third man approached them carrying a long section of pipe. To my physician’s eye, his lopsided gait and grimace spoke of grievous prior injury.
The conversation grew heated, and the third man flung his pipe to the ground, where it came close to hitting one of first two. They nearly came to blows.
The laird stopped and shouted above the cacophony. ‘Joey, separate them!’ A fourth man, equally large, and with facial scarring just visible above a scarf tied over his nose and mouth, emerged from behind a second tank and stepped into the fray, with a quick wave to his employer. In an instant he had subdued the aggressor by twisting his arm behind his back and forcing him to his knees.
The laird moved us quickly away from the scene. ‘We are having trouble maintaining water temperature in the tank. Some of the newest equipment seems to be faulty.’
‘You are having more trouble than that,’ remarked Holmes.
The laird said nothing, but led us out of the room and on a circuitous route to our next destination.
‘Something is not quite right here,’ I whispered to Holmes while we were out of earshot.
He nodded. ‘Clearly, Watson.’
Entering another room, we found ourselves on a platform looking down at several huge wooden vats the laird referred to as ‘washbacks’ reeking with the strong beer-like odour of fermentation. They too were covered as these fumes were strong enough to render one unconscious with prolonged contact. Men worked on the platform where we stood, adjusting the temperature, checking progress. A cold draught made me shiver and I noticed a door open on the floor one storey below us.
Holmes noticed my discomfort and smiled. ‘Be grateful for the fresh air, Watson. Carbon dioxide is a by-product of fermentation and, since it is heavier than air, has collected down there.’
‘Precisely,’ said the laird. ‘Linger there at your peril.’
‘Has anyone been asphyxiated?’ asked Holmes.
The laird avoided a direct answer. ‘I have an excellent safety record.’
We entered a back staircase down to a lower level.
‘I cannot help but notice, Laird Robert, your crew is a rough lot. How many of these men were rescued from, shall we say, questionable circumstances?’ asked Holmes.
‘What do you mean, Mr Holmes? These are veterans. Dr Watson here knows how difficult it can be to return from war. There is a period of adjustment. Fifty of our seventy men are those who have been given a new start.’ said Robert McLaren.
The laird’s familiarity with me was disconcerting, although of course it was all in Beeton’s Christmas Annual. And it was true; I knew well the despair of the forcibly retired soldier. It was only fate that delivered me to 221B and not a life of grinding penury. Perhaps I had been too harsh in assessing these men.
‘It is more than that. I sense a criminal element here, Sir Robert,’ said Holmes.
‘You witnessed a rare moment, Mr Holmes. A minor disagreement.’
‘Then why do two of your overseers carry pistols?’
I had not noticed this.
‘You interpret wrongly. There are few problems,’ said the laird. ‘These men are grateful.’
‘I would wager that some have police records,’ said Holmes. ‘Sir Robert, it has been my experience that once one has crossed the line to criminal behaviour, the way back can be hard to find, and regular employment may not be sufficient.’
‘My late wife would find you a harsh judge. It was she, God rest her soul, who convinced me to give the most desperate of men a chance of redemption. Where is your charity?’
The laird stepped away before Holmes could answer. But I bristled at the insinuation. Holmes was a most charitable man, but he knew danger when he saw it.
At last we arrived at the heart of the distillery, the room containing the stills themselves. These were fantastic constructions, enormous, two-storey versions of the tiny still I had seen at 221B.
These riveted copper dinosaurs were shaped like metallic tulip bulbs, swelled wide at the bottom, studded with rivets and narrowing into long pipes at the top which then bent sideways. As the liquids passed through them, their surfaces became hot and dangerous. They brought to mind fantastic diving bells or space ships from a Jules Verne novel.
‘We put our liquid, which is clear in colour at this point, through the distilling process more than once. It is the second time that produces the whisky. But not all the liquid makes it into the casks. The first stuff, the foreshot is too strong, then comes the “heart” which is the usable stuff, followed by the “feints” and “spent lees”. It is my foreman – using a combination of artistic taste and pure science, you’ll appreciate that, Mr Holmes – who makes the choice by smell, by clarity, by instinct, and by this instrumentation here.’
He then pointed out an elaborate, beautiful glass and brass box with precise measuring equipment inside. ‘This is called the spirit safe. There the precise level of alcohol is measured as there are strict legal requirements.’
‘Sir Robert, I have seen enough,’ said Holmes suddenly. ‘Let us return to the subject of your men. In the problem of your murdered parlour maid, it seems an entire crew of suspects tend to your business here.’
‘No. Her killer is not one of these men.’
‘How can you be sure?’
‘I have taken great care to separate the distillery workers from my family and those who attend the estate. My foreman has put into place a number of precautions. The dormitories are patrolled. The castle is locked like a fortress at night. No, you may rest assured it is not one of these men.’
Holmes stared at him, one eyebrow raised. He was clearly not convinced.
The laird paused thoughtfully. ‘Follow me, gentlemen. Mr Holmes, now that we are away from the house, it is time for me to be more frank with you. There is something I wish to tell you without risk of being overheard.’
We moved to Sir Robert’s private office, a small room set in an upstairs portion of the distillery, and behind two sets of doors. Quiet and warm, it was panelled, with a fire, a desk, a paraffin lamp, and a row of decanters. We sat at a table near the fire, and the laird moved to the decanters. He hesitated, then held one up, offering it. Holmes waved him off impatiently. ‘Please, sir?’ he said. ‘You had something to tell us, Laird Robert?’
The older man hesitated, then took a breath and began.
‘My son Charles, you see, was attracted to Fiona, and possibly Alistair was, as well. Charles, as you have noted, Mr Holmes, has shown a certain lack of restraint, and, well, my boys were already at loggerheads over control of the business and I feared this rivalry would make it worse.’
‘Might you consider one son more likely than the other to murder the girl?’
‘Neither, sir! Both have tempers. And yet I cannot imagine it.’
‘Charles is estranged from his wife, Catherine, is he not? This much I have seen for myself.’
The laird looked off a moment, as if lost in thought. He turned back to Holmes. ‘Yes, and his many dalliances with girls below stairs were known. Yet … I cannot conceive of Charles behind such an act.’
‘His wife Catherine is impaired by drink and has reason for jealousy. What of your younger son and his wife?’
‘Alistair, oh no! His temper is short, but there is a basic goodness in Alistair that would make him an unlikely villain. No, I think not.’
‘Jealousy can twist a man.’ said I.
‘Yet he is quite complacent where his wife is concerned,’ remarked Holmes. ‘Isla McLaren is a very independent young woman, it seems.’
‘Yes and it is a shame. Alistair ignores her at his peril, I tell him. She is a treasure, my Isla,’ said the laird.
‘And what of Isla herself? Jealous, perhaps?’ asked Holmes.
‘I would say she is above such a feeling. My daughter-in-law shows a refined nature and advanced intellect. If she were a man, the business would be hers.’
I glanced at Holmes. He appeared unmoved by this assessment.
‘It is said that Fiona was one to stir the pot, presumably below stairs as well. What of the other servants?’
The laird paused. ‘She flirted with them all. Or at least three of whom I am aware. I allowed it because a marriage to one of them, I thought, would end my worries.’
‘What worries? Affairs between servants and masters, this is common, is it not?’
The laird was a rabbit in a trap, casting his eyes about for an escape. ‘The real problem, Mr Holmes lay with my two sons. I had to … I had to stop this, before …’ He covered his eyes in an emotional gesture that seemed strangely out of character. Recovering instantly, he turned to us with sudden ferocity. ‘What I am about to relate to you now, is not to leave this room. Do you swear? Because if it does, heaven help you both.’
‘Laird McLaren,’ retorted Holmes, ‘if I am to continue, you must refrain from making casual threats.’
The laird immediately realized his mistake. ‘Yes, of course. But I require the utmost discretion.’
‘That is understood. Now, if you please, Sir Robert, let us get to the heart of the matter. You were responsible for the girl’s abduction, were you not?’
It was all I could do to suppress a gasp.
The laird froze. There was a long silence. Yes,’ he said finally. ‘I was. How did you know?’
‘I can well imagine the motive; I need to understand the details. Did you kidnap the girl yourself? And cut off all her hair?’ said Holmes.
A flicker of remorse passed over the man’s face.
‘Not precisely,’ said he. ‘Rather, I commissioned the act. For her own good, of course.’
‘Commissioned? We shall get to that in a moment. Why was it “for her own good”? Was she in some danger?’
‘Well, I, yes, danger.’
‘From whom? Again, is one of your sons inclined to violence?’
‘No, it was not that. Well, not directly—’
‘What then?’
‘I needed to prevent an unthinkable turn of events—’
‘Whatever is unthinkable, as you say, surely worse has happened. How did you intend this act to protect the girl?’
‘I had hoped to frighten the girl off.’
‘And the hair?’
‘I thought to make her less attractive to … her admirers.’
‘And why was this so important to you?’
‘It—’
Holmes leaned in towards the laird. ‘Because this young girl was very important to you, was she not? Almost as important to you as the sons you were also protecting.’
Protecting from what? I was not following this conversation.
The laird understood my friend perfectly. ‘Your reputation is indeed merited, Mr Holmes. Yes, the girl was very important to me.’
‘But why?’ I exclaimed. ‘And why would you damage her so?’
‘It was an impermanent gesture, no lasting harm done!’ said the laird.
Holmes stared coldly at the man. ‘There is a simple explanation, Watson,’ said he. ‘Shall I give it, or will you, Sir Robert?’
The man held his gaze, and then suddenly looked away.
‘Ah, it is to me, then,’ said Holmes. ‘The young woman was your illegitimate daughter. Am I correct?’
‘Your daughter!’ I exclaimed.
The laird did not move, but dropped his eyes. ‘Yes,’ he said softly. ‘Fiona is – was – my daughter.’ A tear fell from one eye, and he wiped it away quickly.
I could not help but feel a wave of revulsion. To frighten and shame a young girl in this way to protect his sons from inadvertent incest was unthinkable.
‘Why did you not simply send her away?’ asked Holmes.
‘I promised her late mother I would personally look after the child and provide for her myself. Braedern is a safe haven for many.’
‘Unless they are kidnapped and shorn, or murdered,’ said I.
‘Dr Watson! Mr Holmes, I had no idea … the murder … I am not responsible! Gentlemen! I am a tolerant man, and a generous employer. Ask anyone. That one of my … that this should have happened—’
‘Did Fiona know you were her father?’ asked Holmes.
‘No. She was told her father died when she was an infant. I could not trust her with the secret of her birth.’
‘Of course not. She might have laid claim to a part of your estate.’
‘Mr Holmes, you continue to misjudge me! It was the promise to her mother that bound me. That I would care for the girl personally.’
‘Presumably, that promise extends to her funeral,’ said Holmes. ‘Why did you not confide in your sons?’
The laird’s face contorted in pain. ‘To admit to adultery would have destroyed the family. They hold the memory of their dear late mother as a saint.’
‘Yes, well, blocked at every turn,’ said Holmes, the note of sarcasm evident, at least, to me.
‘Mr Holmes, please. I made efforts. Many times. I sent Fiona away to school, despite the other servants’ jealousy. She failed, I tried again, and again she failed. The girl was ineducable. The letters all went backwards, she said, and she could learn to neither read nor write. In desperation I sent her to work at the MacElheny estate, twenty-five miles to the south. They returned her in a week. No one could handle her.’
‘Then what?’
‘She grew even more forward with the men of the estate. She was also highly superstitious. We have troubles with that here. The servants all believe in ghosts, and I have had the devil of a time getting them to tend to certain areas of the castle. Fiona loved the drama. She told many a wild ghost tale and enjoyed the effects. Among the servants, this was like throwing kerosene on a simmering flame. She had everyone in a turmoil, from my sons to my lowliest scullery maid.’
‘So you decided to frighten Fiona into submission?’
‘As a last resort, you see, having exhausted all other options, I thought of the plan. But oh, I never imagined—’
‘You had your daughter abducted and shamed. In desperation, you say?’
‘Mr Holmes, I sense your disdain. But sir, you have no idea of the depths of my remorse. I have made a terrible mistake.’
‘For which your child has paid with her life.’
The laird flushed with rage and for a brief moment I thought he might strike Holmes. But his face contorted strangely as a second emotion swept over him. He closed his eyes as if to blink back tears and emitted a painful sigh.
Holmes and I exchanged a look.
In a moment, the laird composed himself. ‘Find who killed Fiona, Mr Holmes. And I will make you wealthy beyond your wildest dreams.’
‘I do not dream wildly, Sir Robert,’ said Holmes. ‘But I am here to find the killer. Now, tell me about her disappearance. I understand you received a note from her saying she eloped. Are you sure the note was her writing?’
‘I am sure! The backwards letters. It was her writing.’
‘And she said she eloped with the groundsman’s son? Is this something you believed?’
‘Yes. Yes, it was. Iain Moray. That boy loved her since childhood.’
‘Where is this note now?’
‘It is here.’ The laird rose, and unlocked a small drawer in a desk under the window. He handed a sheet of foolscap to Holmes. The detective studied it for a moment then handed it to me. It was hastily written, with many letters backwards. Clearly an uneducated hand. I pocketed it.
‘You are sure it is Fiona’s hand?’ asked Holmes.
The laird nodded sadly. ‘Unmistakable.’
‘Whom did you hire to carry out this abduction?’ said Holmes.
The laird hesitated.
‘Perhaps it was he who later returned to kill the girl,’ I prompted.
The laird shook his head violently. ‘Never. On that fact you may be reassured. I hired the strongest, most loyal, most calm and wise man on the estate. A man of utmost integrity and to whom, if only he were my son and not my employee, I would gladly give the running of the business.’
‘Who is this sterling character?’ drawled Holmes.
‘My right-hand man. Third generation distillery foreman for McLaren whisky. From a long line of coopers, they come. And no better man to have at the helm. I hired Mr Cameron Coupe.’
On cue, as he must have been listening just outside, a man opened the door and stepped into the room.