he next morning was bright and cold. After a brief breakfast, served buffet style as was the custom in such places, we were guided to the South Wing, and the rooms of Alistair McLaren. My brief contact with him last night at dinner had left me with a distaste for both his sarcasm and his casual dismissiveness towards his wife.
In contrast to his brother’s and father’s spacious apartments, Alistair’s rooms were crammed with books and scientific equipment of the type favoured by the mechanical engineer. A drafting table had been set up next to two of the largest windows I had seen in the estate, and he was bent over it, pencil and ruler in hand, when we entered.
A servant announced us and departed. After a moment he looked up, distracted.
‘Oh, yes, you two. Come in and sit down. Have you had coffee? I shall ring.’
‘We have had breakfast,’ said Holmes, moving to stand beside him at the drafting table.
The man stepped away in annoyance. ‘What is it you wish to see here?’ he demanded.
‘I do not know until I see it, Mr McLaren,’ said Holmes smoothly. ‘Ah, that looks like a new still design. That has, I believe, a longer neck than the ones your father showed us yesterday.’
Alistair’s frown faded, and he stepped back to the table.
‘Indeed it does! It prolongs the contact of the alcohol vapour with the copper as it passes through the still. A more delicate flavour can be the result.’
‘A chemical reaction, then?’ I asked. ‘So that is the reason your stills are made of copper?’
‘There are several reasons, Watson,’ said Holmes. ‘It affects the taste remarkably, in one respect by partly removing the sulphur compounds.’
‘Precisely,’ said Alistair, with the briefest flash of admiration towards my friend. ‘You do not want your whisky to taste like rotten eggs, do you?’
I laughed.
‘But a bit, aye, that you do want. It is little known to those who appreciate whisky, but the subtleties of flavour are the result of precise calibration, and are not always what one would suspect. I am known for my adjustments. Achieving the art, it all boils down to science really.’ Alistair smiled at us. ‘I have read of your methods, Mr Holmes, and they are not so very different from my own. Come, follow me to my office at the distillery and ask your questions there. It is more private and I can give you fifteen minutes.’
After a freezing ride downhill to the McLaren distillery, we were seated in Alistair McLaren’s office located within the warren of stone buildings we had visited previously. It was a large airy space, lit through a window and skylight by the cold snowy white of a field outside. To my surprise, Holmes began the discussion with mention of Docteur Paul-Édouard Janvier, and the likelihood of British intervention in the wine industry debacle, a topic he had also raised with the laird.
‘It is preposterous. Janvier is correct,’ Alistair McLaren said. ‘Seeding the phylloxera is impractical as a weapon. Slowing the research for a cure, however, that I might envision.’
‘The plot to bomb Janvier’s laboratory is said to have originated in Scotland.’
‘Ha! Well, we have our reputation as hell raisers, do we not, Mr Holmes? But even so, it seems a futile gesture, in my view. Science will out, and that is that.’
‘It is some people’s opinion that the McLarens had a hand in it. Your family was conveniently in the area when the bomb went off. And the dynamite was manufactured in Scotland. The same kind, in fact, that you use here on the property.’
It was as if we had set off a small charge of said explosive directly under the younger McLaren. He stood up abruptly knocking his own chair over backwards. ‘You will not be accusing me of this, will you, Mr Holmes? Because if you are, God help you! I shall pick you up and throw you straight through that window, and your little bulldog of a bodyguard along with you!’
I had risen to my feet without thinking and the two of us faced each other. Holmes had remained seated. He sighed.
‘Mr McLaren, if I were to accuse any of the McLarens it would not be you. Your brother, on the other hand, might well be stupid enough to think it not only effective, but untraceable.’
Alistair McLaren paused. Then suddenly, he threw back his head and laughed. ‘Aye, right you are there. Charles is an idiot. And he is constantly looking for ways to gain favour with our father.’
‘But he already has the running of the distillery.’
‘In name only. He is naught but a figurehead. Fancy dinners in London. Social appearances at the opera and such. But he can’t even maintain the wife, that silly woman Catherine, to assist him with making his way in society. I am the one who runs the place. I am the one who has increased our production and serves now as master distiller. I am the one with taste, knowledge, and—’
‘—and, by contrast, a very remarkable wife,’ said Holmes.
Alistair’s face darkened. ‘Isla. Ach!’
‘She is not, I presume, threatened by your temper and posturing, is she?’
Alistair McLaren paused. To his credit he took the insult in his stride. ‘No. Nor I of her own. But the woman lacks a proper outlet. She is a steam engine trapped in the drawing room.’
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘I mean hers is an overactive mind. She is bored, and a woman bored is a danger. Her imagination runs wild.’
Holmes took out a cigarette and searched for matches.
‘Not here, Mr Holmes. I allow no smoking.’
Holmes sighed and put his case away.
‘Her imagination, you say? My impression was that your wife prides herself on her logic.’
‘Ah, you noted that, did you?’ Alistair smiled. ‘For a woman, perhaps, she is logical. But she has not enough to occupy her. The womanly pastimes – she would sooner shoot a tiger than embroider a pillow. ’Tis a pity she were not born a man.’
‘I presume her quickness of mind initially attracted you.’
‘Have you never fallen in love, Mr Holmes? Intelligence in a woman can be an aphrodisiac. The mind plays tricks.’
‘Hmm. She came to consult me in London, did you know?’
I started. Why on earth would Holmes reveal this?
Alistair shifted uncomfortably. ‘Yes, of course I knew.’ I did not believe him.
‘Mr McLaren, who do you think killed that girl?’
‘I have no idea. Nor do I care, frankly. Fiona’s death, while sad, meant little to me. Many were taken with her, and the girl played upon this. Someone was jealous, I presume. Someone with a touch of madness evidently.’
‘An interesting description. Does anyone come to mind?’
‘No one in particular, no. Though I hope you catch the fellow, certainly. But one cannot discount Fiona’s own role in her demise.’
‘Do you mean to say she brought this upon herself?’
‘That would be harsh. Let me simply say that she was one who craved attention and enjoyed creating drama about her.’
‘I understand she was superstitious. Ghost stories and the like. She frightened the other servants?’ prompted Holmes.
‘Aye. The damned ghosts!’
‘Do you believe in ghosts, Mr McLaren?’
‘I do not. I am an educated man.’
‘St Andrews, correct?’
‘I am aware that you do your research, Mr Holmes.’
Holmes had moved to a bookshelf on a nearby wall and was perusing the books. He turned with a smile. ‘As do you, sir. You are a wide-ranging reader.’ He pulled a book bound in blue paper from the shelves and flipped through it. ‘Hmmm. The Third Annual Report of Her Majesty’s Inspectors of Explosives, 1878. I have read this. Some interesting developments since, wouldn’t you say, Mr McLaren?’
‘Indeed, Mr Nobel has—’ he stopped suddenly. ‘You already know that we make use of dynamite here.’
‘Mr McLaren, you realize that if I connect a family member to the explosion at the Montpellier laboratory, that person will serve time.’
‘Understood.’ Alistair paused. ‘You might want to know that Charles has tried several marginally legal endeavours regarding water rights and distribution, one of which involved an explosion to divert a stream, causing our father to spend a considerable sum on legal fees to bail him out.’
‘Interesting. Then your father is not above buying the law, you say?’ asked Holmes.
Alistair hesitated, then walked away from his drafting table and towards a sideboard, on which were arrayed the ubiquitous whisky bottles and glasses.
‘A dram, perhaps?’
‘No. The question remains, Mr McLaren.’
‘Well, Mr Holmes. My father, like you, wishes for justice. But justice is not always served by the law. Surely you agree. That is, I believe, why he hired a private detective.’
‘I am a consulting detective. I consult with the police. He is aware of the difference.’
‘Then he surely expects to buy you, Mr Holmes. If he has not done so already.’
Holmes did not dignify this with an answer. But his tone became more sharp. ‘Something puzzles me, Mr McLaren. Why did you see fit to bring up Charles and water disputes? As well as your father’s questionable dealings. It is as though you are ready to throw both of your family members to the wolves.’
‘I did not say Charles did anything wrong. Only that he might have done. And regarding my father, it is good that you know the kind of man you may be dealing with, that is all. Consider it a friendly warning.’
‘I am not in need of protection, Mr McLaren,’ said Holmes.
‘Again, I would not go so far as to say I suspect Charles,’ said Alistair. ‘I simply do not like my brother. This is no secret. And so, Mr Holmes, it is for you to unravel the mystery, is it not? But do proceed with caution. The laird is used to having his way and once the mystery is solved, if the answer is not to his liking – well, you must comply, or watch your back.’