Norman fancies himself a writer,” Rab said, “but he has no poetry.”
“If he has no sense of smell, he won’t believe anyone doused in patchouli was in Tom’s house,” Christine said.
“Here he is,” Rab said. “I’ll let him in.”
Hobbs, in civilian clothes that did nothing to disguise his profession, preceded Rab into Janet’s living room. The men sat. Rachel Carson turned her back on the room and stared toward the kitchen.
“You went to Tom’s house?” Christine asked.
“I did. I found no evidence of a break-in.”
“Tcha.”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Robertson. I do appreciate your civic-mindedness.”
“Tcha.”
“So, Norman, Rab,” Janet said, hoping to move past Christine’s irritation and on to the reason the men were sitting in her living room past a hoped-for early bedtime. “My daughter is out at a film and the curtains are drawn against nosy neighbors. Of course, with your cars in front—”
“Mine’s round the corner,” Rab said.
“And mine’s two streets over,” Hobbs said.
“But why the secrecy?” Janet asked.
“Tradition,” they both said.
“Why are you telling us, then?” Christine asked.
“A secret told is safer than one ferreted out,” said Rab.
Janet thought she heard a slight sniff from Hobbs. “Then, by all means, tell us.”
“I’m the current historian of the Deoch-an-doris Society,” Hobbs said, with the residue of the sniff in his voice.
“The have-a-drink-for-the-road society?” Janet asked, trying not to sound incredulous.
“Close enough,” Hobbs agreed.
“From the Gaelic,” Rab said. “‘Drink of the door’ is more accurate.”
Hobbs cleared his throat with authority. “I’ll give you a summary of our history. The Deoch-an-doris Society is the oldest organization in Inversgail, its beginnings lost in the mists of the nineteenth century, when thwarting excisemen was a way of life.”
“Survival for some,” Rab said.
“However,” Hobbs harrumphed, “we aren’t a society given to drunken bacchanals. Although, judging by the historian’s notes from the turn of the last century, something like that might have gone on in the past. Usually during the dark winter months. Or perhaps there’s some other reason for the deterioration of the historian’s handwriting.”
“And spelling,” Rab added.
“Membership was originally limited to men,” Hobbs continued. “That changed shortly before the start of World War One.”
“That change following closely on the bacchanal period, no doubt,” Christine said.
“Quite possibly,” Hobbs agreed. “Memberships are handed down within families, but because membership has dwindled over the years, due to deaths and people leaving the area, there are other ways to join. For instance, memberships can be transferred. Membership is ecumenical. The society isn’t so much secret as not talked about—part of the tradition of thwarting the gaugers.”
“I thought you were thwarting excisemen,” Janet said.
“Same thing,” said Rab. “But it’s also not talked about in the way some people don’t like talking about their favorite books or movies. Too much talk diminishes them. Dilutes the pleasure.”
“So, it’s basically a secret club for people who like to drink,” Janet said.
“Drink whisky, aye,” Rab said. “Tom was a member. That’s why we know the Ardbeg found with him is wrong.”
“Ardbeg Corryvreckan,” Hobbs said. “It’s particularly dear.”
Rab waved the complaint of expense away. “He was a man of strong opinion, and he hated the smoky, slap-ye-in-the-face taste of Ardbeg. I looked tonight. He had several whiskies, but no Ardbeg. Nothing peaty or smoky at all.”
“Yet he drank it with the laurel,” Janet said. “Why?”
“The whisky in the flask with the tea was different,” Hobbs said. “He probably filled that himself. The extra bottle, the Ardbeg, made it look as though he’d brought plenty more to do the job properly.”
“Window dressing?” Janet asked. “Or a stage prop? That means someone else was out there with him or went out later.”
“Possibilities,” Hobbs said.
“Why has Reddick been sniffing around your society?” Christine asked.
“Sam Smith had a photocopy of a letter in his rucksack,” Hobbs said. “It was an anecdote about a Great-Great-Uncle Edward and his belief that a bottle of Laphroaig saved his life, on a voyage of polar exploration, when he was caught in a blizzard and buried in snow for three days with only his reindeer hide suit and the bottle to keep him warm. He didn’t drink the bottle while buried. He saved it to celebrate if he survived.”
“Always good to have a goal,” Rab said.
“A penciled note on the letter said that Great-Great-Uncle Edward lived in Inversgail and belonged to the Deoch-an-doris Society. We’re reasonably certain this was Edward Buchan. There have been no members of that family in Inversgail since he emigrated to Canada in 1903. As far as Reddick knows, Sam Smith didn’t ask anyone about the society while he was in town.”
“Tell us about Ian,” Christine said.
Hobbs and Rab exchanged looks.
“Think of him the way you think of an exciseman,” she said. “If we know what you’re up against, then we can help thwart him.”
“We think he stumbled across something while researching one of his books,” Hobbs said. “It must not have been anything specific, but it convinced him a secret society exists, and he seems to think that his books, or his dream to own a wee distillery, mean he should be allowed to join, if only he can track us down.”
“Silly question, I’m sure,” Janet said, “but why not let him?”
“Because no one needs him,” Hobbs said. “That sounds unnecessarily blunt, and membership isn’t based on anyone’s value to the society, but there are other ways of not needing someone. We don’t need the aggro.”
“Or the ego,” Rab said.
“May we have a list of members?” Janet asked.
“Why?”
“It’ll save further ferreting.”
Hobbs brought the membership list to Yon Bonnie Books the next morning, before any customers arrived. It was in an unmarked envelope. Janet promised not to share it outside the SCONES and to keep it safe. Even so, she felt a smidge of resistance when she took the envelope from his hand.
“Rab was the historian before me,” Hobbs said as she took the envelope, “but his tasting notes tended to be too flowery. I took over to improve the tone.”
“That was good of you.” She ignored the renewed sniff in his voice and the smile Tallie hid behind a feigned cough. “Norman, do you know who died first? Was it Daphne or Tom?”
“I haven’t read the official reports.”
“A guess?”
“My report, after finding Ms. Wood Sunday night, included the information that she’d made a pot of stew after leaving the signing at your shop. The pot was still warm and on the stove. The kitchen hadn’t been tidied, but parings and spills appeared to be fresh.”
“That doesn’t sound like the kitchen of someone planning suicide, does it? It’s all so awful and shocking. Gillian wants to believe that Daphne poisoned Tom’s tea and scones and then herself. But that doesn’t account for the wrong whisky.”
“Aye, to me, the stew indicates someone who was home all evening, not traveling up the glen with Tom or after him. Well, I’ll leave you to your business and I’ll attend to mine—more bad news, I’m afraid.”
“Oh dear, what now?”
“Another crime of opportunity, Mrs. Marsh. They do happen frequently, ken. This time, Sharon Davis is the unlucky recipient. Someone broke into her house last night.”