Chapter and Hearse by Catherine Aird Page A

no piper at Castle Balgalkin today and no pibroch heralding his approach with ancient tune. Instead there had been only a distraught servant waiting at the gate, anxiously watching out for the coming of himself and his little entourage.
    The child’s fingers didn’t seem broken to him. And the fingernails definitely weren’t.
    At the first sight of the Sheriff, the retainer had turned and run back inside the fortillage in a great hurry. Macmillan had heard quite clearly his urgent shout apprising his master of the Sheriff’s arrival. His voice had echoed round the castle’s sandstone walls with a diminishing resonance, but any sound made by the Laird as he crossed the great hall towards the Sheriff and his clerk had been muffled by the reeds and the rushes that were strewn about the floor.
    Those same rushes, deep as they were, noted the Sheriff automatically, had not been deep and soft enough to save the girl as she fell. Even though her head was half covered by them, he could see from where he was standing that her face was badly discoloured by both blood and bruise on the left-hand side.
    â€˜It’s a bad business, Rhuaraidh…’ The servant’s call had produced the man himself – Hector Leanaig, Laird of Balgalkin, He too had presented a very different picture from the genial host of the week before. A veritable giant of a man, he was sufficiently blackavised to have gone first-footing himself on New Year’s Eve. He had come forward to meet the Sheriff, shaking his head sadly. ‘A bad, bad business…’
    â€˜Tell me, Hector.’ Macmillan had inclined his head attentively towards Hector Leanaig and waited. It would have been quite impossible to discern from the Sheriff’s tone whether this was an invitation or a command.
    â€˜My Jeannie’s dead,’ the Laird had blurted out. Big and strong though he was, nevertheless the man looked shaken to his wattles now. There was an unhealthy pallor about him too, contrasting sharply with his raven-coloured hair. ‘My poor, wee bairn.’
    The Sheriff nodded. This was what he had been told.
    â€˜She’s just where we found her,’ Leanaig had struggled for speech but only achieved a rather tremulous croak. ‘This way…’
    Although at first the Laird had taken the lead through the castle, he fell back as soon as they neared the broken figure spread-eagled across the bottom three steps of the stair. The Sheriff had advanced alone, his clerk and the Laird lagging behind.
    And now Rhuaraidh Macmillan was gently turning the girl’s hands over and taking a long look at their outer aspects. There were grazes here and there on both and some dried blood over the back of the knuckles of her left hand.
    â€˜Poor wee Jeannie,’ repeated the Laird brokenly.
    â€˜Aye, Hector,’ agreed the Sheriff noncommittally. That, at least, was true enough, whatever had happened to her. He straightened up and changed his stance, the better to take a look at her head.
    Seemingly Hector Leanaig could not bear to watch him going about his business, because he took a step back and averted his gaze from the sad scene.
    The child was in her nightclothes, her gown rucked up on one side. A dreadful bruise disfigured the left-hand side of her face and, even without stooping, the Sheriff could see that her cheek was broken on that side. He dropped on one knee and, with great care, put his hand to her skull. That too might be broken. It was certainly cold to the touch and what blood was visible there was brown and dried: the girl, he concluded, must have been dead for several hours.
    Hector Leanaig licked dry lips. ‘She’s just where we found her.’
    â€˜We?’ queried Rhuaraidh Macmillan sharply. ‘Who was it exactly who found her, then?’
    â€˜One of the women,’ said Leanaig, jerking his head roughly over his shoulder but not turning round.
    The Sheriff’s gaze followed