A Step So Grave by Catriona McPherson

Author:Catriona McPherson [McPherson, Catriona]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781473682375
Publisher: Hodder and Stoughton
Published: 2018-10-11T04:00:00+00:00

14

‘What are we doing, Dan?’ Alec said when Mallory had scuttled off, leaving us staring at her back. ‘We have no client here. This is not a case. The body is buried and the family is recovering. If you want my opinion, we should take Donald by the scruff of his neck and get out before we turn over another stone and find another seething nest of white maggots.’

‘What a delightful phrase,’ I said. ‘And just in time for luncheon.’

Neither Cherry not Mitten were present in the dining room when we arrived a few minutes later. Lord Ross sat withdrawn and austere at the head, Mallory pale and quiet at the foot. Hugh was still glowering. Donald and Teddy were marooned together on one side looking very much as though they wished the earth would open and swallow them. David Spencer on the other side was watching the company with short flicking glances, as though wondering what on earth had caused such an unspeakable atmosphere: crackles like an approaching thunderstorm and waves of misery emanating from all around and meeting to hover above the table in a sickening cloud.

Dickie and Biddy Tibball alone seemed unperturbed. They were engaged in a long story about their engagement party, but Biddy broke off to welcome us, actually standing up and flapping a napkin to shoo me into the seat where she wanted me. I glanced at Mallory to see what she made of the woman assuming a hostess’s bearing, but that young woman was concentrating fiercely on shaking pepper into her soup.

‘Don’t worry that you’re a tiny moment late,’ said Biddy. ‘Mrs McReadie sends out the soup so hot we’ve all got time for a stroll round the garden before it’s safe to sip.’

Perhaps it was the conversation we had just been a part of, but that ‘stroll round the garden’ struck me as terribly thoughtless. Any mention of the garden was tainted now. Biddy was right about the soup, though. The dining room was not chilly but billows of steam rose in rolls from the ten plates. Dickie Tibball’s spectacles clouded as he bent over his serving.

It was, I saw with horror, so thick as to be not quite flat on top, still showing signs of the ladle’s last drops sitting proud on the surface. I diagnosed barley and mutton from its dark grey colour and the viscous skin over the lumps beneath. It was, in short, Scotch broth, the very concoction that made me weep with homesickness when I was first served it, just after my honeymoon all those years ago. Mrs Tilling, my cook, had been running through the entire Scottish repertoire in my honour, from haunches of venison to plates of humble porridge. Scotch broth, I was to understand, was the jewel in the crown, studded with chunks of Swedish turnip and threaded with scraps of bitter kale.

I jabbed my spoon into the current bowlful and lifted. There was a sucking sound as the soup below reluctantly loosened its grip.

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