he dining room of the castle was adjacent to the Great Hall. It, too, was a gothic stone wonder, the walls dotted with a combination of massive oil paintings of moody Scottish landscapes, mounted animal heads, and fanciful brass electrical lighting sconces, all turned down low so that the primary sources of light were the multiple silver candelabra down the centre of a long table. Seven places had been set at one end.
The polished dark wood floor was laid over with an expensive tartan rug in muted colours. Ever since the Queen had established her residence at Balmoral and publicly embraced all things Scottish, the use of Highland motifs had come into vogue. Even in Scotland, apparently.
Isla came up behind me as I took in the room.
‘Are you enjoying our Highland hospitality, Doctor?’ she asked.
‘I have had little time to do so,’ I said. ‘We have been hard at work since we arrived.’
‘So I have heard. I have been awaiting my turn to be interrogated by The Great Detective. I confess I am surprised you did not question me first.’
‘It is not up to me. However I know Mr Holmes is looking forward to speaking with you.’ In fact he had expressed the opposite to me, earlier.
‘Dr Watson, I do think that I could be of help to you.’
‘And I agree,’ I said with a smile.
The lady looked past me to the Great Hall.
‘Where is he, by the way?’
‘I am afraid he is indisposed, Mrs McLaren.’
She stared into my eyes with that disconcerting penetration. ‘Nothing serious, I hope?’
‘Not at all, madam. Perhaps he will join us for coffee later.’ I knew that this was unlikely.
‘Hmm,’ she said, and took her seat at the table, allowing me to hold out her chair.
The various family members took their places one by one. I was directed to a seat between Charles and Alistair McLaren. Facing me were Isla McLaren and her sister-in-law Catherine, with a seat left vacant between them for Holmes.
I passed along Holmes’s regrets which were met with a snort by Charles, and a knowing smile from Alistair. It was my first glimpse of the younger brother since the South of France. His supercilious attitude had not shifted at all. While his intelligence was in evidence, and a sharp contrast to his brother, his arrogant expression never seemed to waiver.
Holmes had evidently been positioned so that they could observe him. But once I had given his apologies, I was moved to his chair and my old place setting was swiftly removed.
The laird’s ornately carved seat at the head of the table, however, remained empty, yet with its place set. Was it possible that the household did not know of his trip to Balmoral? Several servants stood at attention along the wall, awaiting signal to begin. It was at this point that I realized Holmes and I had not stopped for lunch.
Charles gave the servants the signal, and announced ‘Sir Robert will not be joining us tonight. He has been called to Balmoral for a meeting with the Lord Chamberlain.’ Murmurs of pleased surprise came from the ladies. I sensed Alistair already knew.
‘Charles!’ said Catherine to her husband. ‘Is a Royal Warrant at last under consideration?’
Charles flashed her a look of annoyance. ‘It is. And, if all goes well, the family will accept our invitation to sample the new McLaren Garnet. It was intended as a 21 year but has matured beautifully at 18.’
‘Congratulations,’ said I.
‘Or at least casks 12, 51, 253, 647, and 895 have done so,’ remarked Alistair. At my puzzled look, he turned to me. ‘Those are our samplers. I have detected a larger than usual inconsistency in this edition.’
‘How can there be a difference among the casks of a single edition of whisky?’ I wondered.
‘Many variables. An accident of wood, previous contents, amount of charring inside the cask, position in the maturation warehouse, small variations in the distilling process, any number of things may affect flavour.’
‘Then how do you sell a—what do you call an unblended whisky?’
‘A “self whisky” is our term.’
‘How do you create a run of “self whisky” with any consistency?’
‘At the end of maturation, we vat them all together before bottling,’ said Alistair.
‘And flavourings can be added,’ said Charles.
Alistair snorted in disgust. ‘Not if I have any say.’
‘In any case, it is superlative,’ said Charles with evident pride.
‘Do not take credit, brother. It was put to cask when we were in school. And the decision has been the laird’s, along with Coupe. Our foreman has a remarkable nose,’ said Alistair. Charles bristled at his brother’s remarks.
‘Until now, McLaren whisky has met with indifference from the Royal Household,’ said Isla McLaren.
‘That is an exaggeration, dear wife. This is an honour sought by every distillery in Scotland. We are merely in a very long queue,’ said Alistair.
‘Few distilleries are so near Balmoral geographically,’ said she. ‘We are quite convenient to supply them.’
‘Yes, but Royal Lochnagar is even closer and already has the Queen’s favour. In any case,’ said Alistair, ‘the laird has at last received an invitation to a meeting tonight. It is an important first step and bodes well for McLaren whisky. I propose a toast.’ He raised a glass.
‘No, that is to me, dear brother.’ Charles stood and raised his glass. ‘A toast to McLaren whisky, our father, and royal connections.’
The meal proceeded with desultory conversation about the weather, the prize horses owned by the laird, some technical aspects of the distillery, and the results of some local archery contest. The evening was relieved only by an extraordinarily delicious dinner featuring Scottish salmon, venison, a variety of vegetables and a potato dish with local cheese. I focused on that more pleasant aspect of the evening, as each time I tried to engage the ladies on a topic I was overridden by one of the brothers, who vied with each other continually for dominance in the conversation.
At last we adjourned to an adjacent small salon, lit by a cheery fireplace and featuring a piano. The ladies were incited to perform, and Isla went first, playing a lively polonaise with admirable musicality. Catherine followed with a lamentable and piteous German song, sung in a voice that could etch glass.
I fortified myself by sampling the various whiskies on hand. But the other two men continued to converse in a corner during this appalling demonstration, an act of rudeness that only inflamed my irritation with them. This left Isla McLaren and myself to feign interest and give the poor creature some token applause at the end of her piteous warbling.
At last Catherine abandoned the piano and picked up some needlework and a large glass of whisky, sitting herself across the room, nearer the men. With a gesture, her sister-in-law beckoned me away from the salon and into the Great Hall where she took my arm and drew close.
‘Mrs McLaren!’ said I. ‘Perhaps we should rejoin—’
‘Oh, do be sensible, Dr Watson. My need to speak to you is not personal.’
‘Of course not. Forgive me.’
‘Listen. I have canvassed the servants about Fiona’s disappearance. There is something strange there. When Fiona eloped, she left all her belongings behind, in her room that she shared with another young parlour maid, Gillian, who relates that shortly after Fiona left, Cameron Coupe entered the room and gathered up all her things.’
‘She told you this?’
‘Yes. This is why you need me to help you. Fiona and Gillian were close. They had a kind of pact, or so says Gillian. If either of them married and left the estate, they had promised some of their treasured belongings to each other. When she told Coupe of this, crying of course, Coupe apparently asked her what Fiona had promised her and kindly gave her those items. But what was strange was that Fiona had said nothing to Gillian about eloping.’
‘What did Gillian have to say about Fiona’s kidnapping? The hair?’
‘She refused to elaborate, saying only that Fiona was deeply distraught and was determined to find out who had done this. Cameron Coupe had agreed to help her, but had made no progress.’
Coupe, of course, had performed the deeds himself.
‘This is strange news indeed. Do you know what items he allowed the girl to retain?’
‘Some trinkets and a Bible is all she said. Fiona possessed little of value.’
‘Thank you, Mrs McLaren. I will relate all you say to Mr Holmes.’
She smiled ruefully. ‘Please ask him to include me in the investigation, Dr Watson.’
‘I will make sure to mention it. But Mrs McLaren, Mr Holmes has his own way of working. There are times when even I am in the dark as to his processes.’
‘They would be clear to a mind accustomed to logic,’ said she crisply. Then, seeing that I might have taken this amiss, she added, ‘Forgive me, Dr Watson. I meant no aspersion.’
I smiled. This woman was vastly underrated by her entire family. It was time to return to the room and report to Holmes what I had discovered tonight.