Why Scotland?

Hello, and welcome to my 2025 Blogging From A To Z April Challenge! This year, I’ve written you a complete murder mystery novelette. The setting is rural England, a few years after WWI. The extra challenge that I set myself for this story is that the first murder will not take place until the letter “M”–halfway through! And the second murder will happen at “S.” There may be murders after “S,” of course, but they are less structural or foundational or something.

And now, without further ado…

Why Scotland?

 

The next morning, the inhabitants of the Manor waited for the police interrogation to resume. They expected to be pestered with questions, and were prepared, on the whole, for a very trying day. When noon came and went without a single policeman calling, they felt varying degrees of surprise and apprehension.

Could Crowner and Mug be holed up at the Inn, reviewing the evidence? Dr. Camphor, acting on this theory, sought them there—and was told that both police gentlemen had left the Inn at dawn, in a great hurry and muttering about trains. Did the Innkeeper happen to know what train they were trying to catch? The 7:18 for Glasgow, but they meant to go on from there, he didn’t know where. Did they take their belongings with them? Only a small valise; the Innkeeper believed they meant to return either late this evening or early the next morning.

Wondering greatly, Dr. Camphor delivered the results of the postmortem to Constable Briggs—who did not seem to know what to do with the information. He did think, however, that as the Yard had thrown up the case, he might as well go and collar that Nigel again.

“They haven’t thrown up the case,” said Dr. Camphor. “They’ve gone to Scotland.”

Briggs made a gesture of baffled dismissal. “Well, Scotland can’t possibly come in, now, can it?”

Dr. Camphor shrugged and went to the Manor to give Lottie her usual check-up. On his way out, he had a word with Frank.

“Scotland, Doctor? Now that is odd. Crowner asked me last night for the address of the place in Scotland where Lottie went to have Reggie. They’ve gone there, I expect. Can’t think why.” Frank smiled nostalgically. “Funny about that—Lottie and Gertie told me I couldn’t even have the address at first—told me Lottie needed absolute seclusion—but I put my foot down. Told Gertie that I knew she was just looking out for her sister, and all that, but that I wouldn’t have her hauling my pregnant wife off to Scotland without knowing where they’d be. They made me promise not to visit ‘em, and then they finally unbelted.”

* * *

The stationmaster blinked myopically at Inspector Crowner.

“The oldest resident, sir? Well, that’d be Lord Bannock—a hundred if he’s a day. Oh, more humble-like? There’s three as might do—there’s a feud on among ‘em, on account of they all claim to be oldest, though I have my private opinion about that. Their names and addresses? Certainly, sir!”

* * *

“Remember that place in Scotland at all, my dear? You know, where Reggie was born,” said Frank, walking in the garden with his wife.

Her hand, which had been lightly resting on his arm, suddenly squeezed him so tightly it hurt.

“Why talk of such matters now? Oh, don’t look at me—I can’t stand it!” said Lottie, and, with surprising agility, fled into the rose garden. When he found her again, she was trembling, and the eyes she turned on him were full of fear.

“Oh Frank—I’m so sorry!” she said—but would not say what she was sorry about.

* * *

“Scotland, Father?” said Stephen, staring at his parent with glassy incomprehension. He’d been going over the farm accounts in the study, and it always took him a moment to re-calibrate himself for conversation.

“Scotland,” said Frank. “Any ideas?” And he looked at his middle son hopefully. Frank thought of Stephen as both a rock to rely on and something of an intellectual colossus. Everyone else in the family stopped at “rock.” “Seemed to upset your mother.”

“I don’t know,” said Stephen, looking at his father with worried eyes.

* * *

“What’s that? Speak up, boy!” The terrible old woman glared at Crowner from the depths of a filthy armchair. “A lady staying here wi’ sister and maid forty five years agone? And how do you imagine—oh, she were in the family way! English lady? Aye, I ken the ones you mean. There was talk about them, of course, but nothing known. Oh, the usual thing. That she came here to have it private-like because there were nay husband.”

* * *

“The Yard chappies have gone to Scotland. Any idea why?” said Stephen to Nigel. He’d looked all over the house for him before finally tracking him down in the garage.

“I think that if they stay there forever, that’ll suit me just fine,” said Nigel, his voice muffled by the automobile in which he was partially enveloped.

Stephen moved restlessly. “Don’t you want the thing cleared up?” he asked.

“How nice of you, not to assume I did it myself!”

Stephen looked uncomfortable. “I don’t think anyone thinks that.”

“Correction—you know that lots of people think it,” said Nigel. “Well, I didn’t do it, I don’t want it cleared up, and I wish our detective duo the worst of luck in Scotland.”

“You know something,” said Stephen, stating it as a fact.

Nigel pulled himself out of the car’s innards and turned to face his brother. His face was horribly earnest, without a trace of his usual bitter mockery. “Well, I don’t know how Scotland comes in, anyway. But I know—or call it suspect—just enough about this business to hope that the case remains a mystery.”

“That would be beastly!”

“Lots of things are beastly, Stephen.”

* * *

“Our detective friends have gone to Scotland,” said Nigel to Reggie a little later. He’d found Reggie in the library, a liberal whiskey-and-soda in his hand.

“Oh—hullo Nigel,” said Reggie, without much friendliness. “What about Scotland? I don’t understand.”

“Neither do I. But I thought perhaps you would.” Nigel eyed Reggie with hostile curiosity. “You were born in Scotland, weren’t you?”

“Yes, but I don’t remember the incident,” Reggie snapped.

Nigel was on point of replying—but then shut his mouth and looked at his brother with new, startled eyes.

“What?” asked Reggie, sounding provoked.

“I wonder if that could be it,” said Nigel slowly.

“What?”

“That it’s rather a pity you don’t remember your birth.”

“Oh, go away if you’re just going to be tiresomely cryptic!” said Reggie fretfully.

Nigel went away.

* * *

“I saw you callin’ on that Mary Beddows,” said an ancient man from the doorway of his ancient cottage. “Still entertaining gentlemen at her age! Too old for harlotry now, but nay too old for hope! Ha-ha! Well, now—funny you should ask, seeing as we were just speaking of harlots. Three English women, kept very strictly to themselves. Hiding out here, they were, and very careful not to let no-one see them—except for that maid, who did the shopping. Very close-mouthed, she was. And the other two we never had sight of. Arrived at dead of night and never left the place they rented. Old Vicarage. Falling to pieces it was even then; finally burnt down ten years ago.”

* * *

“You were with Mother in Scotland when I was born, weren’t you, Aunt Gert?” asked Reggie after making himself as cozy as he could in his favorite room—Aunt Gert’s little sitting-room. There were tea and biscuits, and he ate them—but they seemed curiously tasteless.

Aunt Gert stiffened. “Why do you ask that, child?” she demanded.

“Because Crowner and that Mug chap have apparently gone off to Scotland—and Nigel rather hinted that maybe it had something to do with my birth. Silly, isn’t it?” But Reggie looked uneasy. So did Gertrude.

“Scotland? Nonsense! Nigel was toying with you in his usual nasty way. Why the police couldn’t have just left well enough alone—why, the best thing for that boy is a quick snap of his neck and say no more about him.”

“But, my dear Aunt Gert, if he didn’t do it…”

“He’d have hanged just as well innocent as guilty. And then this would all be over, instead of dragging on interminably. I’m not sure how much more I can take.” Gertrude turned haggard eyes for an instant upon Reggie. But upon seeing his expression, her face softened. “But there! My foolish old maid’s nerves—don’t bother your head about me, dear boy. I’m just upset by all this. And Hettie dead, too. Horrible!”

“Yes,” said Reggie thoughtfully. “Of course. Hettie’s death must have upset you. You’ve known her all your life, haven’t you? I’ll—I’ll see you later on.” And, like the coward he undeniably was (at least when it came to the strong emotions of women), Reggie fled the room.

* * *

Gertrude found Penny playing the piano in a desultory way in the music room. “Why—hello, child,” she said. “I don’t know if anyone’s told you yet. The police are in Scotland.”

Penny looked up from the sheet music, genuinely confused. “Scotland? But isn’t that very far away?”

Gertrude laughed, and came closer. “Oh, you Americans! The Scottish border couldn’t be more than a two-hour train ride from here. Of course, who knows how far in they think they need to go.” She put her hands on Penny’s slim shoulders. They were cold hands, and they felt hard. “Do you have any idea what they might find in Scotland?” she asked.

“No, I—”

And then Nigel came into the room. “Oh—hullo,” he said, smiling unbeautifully. “Did I interrupt a private discussion?”

“We were just talking about Scotland,” said Penny. “The police—”

“I think the less conversation about Scotland, the better,” said Nigel.

* * *

“Aye, I recall—two English ‘ladies,’ with their big fat bellies and nary a husband between them—and one maid along, acting like she was too good for a bit of a clack. Am I sure? I tell you, I saw them—though they didn’t know. It was one day when the curtains weren’t quite right. Yes, I went and had a look in—wouldn’t you? Two ladies, each as big as the other, sitting in armchairs all huddled up in blankets—for winter was long in dying that year, and the chill was something awful. Truly, sin comes wi’ its own punishment. Whenever the minister talks about that, I think on those two trollops, shivering and miserable, having to be in their pains where no-one knew them or cared for them. And if you’d be wanting to know more, you’d best speak to Agnes MacDougall. She was nay older than a lass at the time, but I saw her being hustled in once late at night into the house. Must have been an emergency, to bring her in. Why? Oh, folks do say she’s a witch. Nonsense, of course. Her mother was, though. We had real witches back then.”

* * *

Penny, feeling disturbed and restless, took a walk that afternoon—and her feet led her, seemingly by accident, to Dr. Camphor’s house.

“Oh, Penny! Do come in! Father’s not home, I’m afwaid,” said Geraldine. “I was about to have a solitawy tea—but now you can join me, and that will be so much nicer. Have a scone? Do you take sugar? Do you intend to mawwy my father?” And Geraldine smiled dazzlingly.

“Yes please, no thanks—what?” said Penny, feeling dazed.

“You pwobably think I’m against it. Well, I’m not—as long as you don’t twy to be my mother, we’ll do just fine. Have some of these little sandwiches—they’re potted meat.”

“I—you wouldn’t mind?”

“Not at all. I like father. He needs a wife; he’s getting a bit stwange without one. I’m not saying I wouldn’t prefer one wather older, but no-one else has come along and put in a bid.”

“Oh. Oh! Thanks!” And then Penny, not knowing what else to say, said, “the police are in Scotland.”

* * *

Geraldine, after tea, walked into the village and hovered rather uncertainly outside a particular gate. She didn’t like the woman, of course, but—on the whole, actually, she rather did. Which was awkward, considering. After a moment, she grew disgusted with herself, pushed open the garden gate, and rang firmly at the front door.

Wilhelmina appeared at once.

“The police awe in Scotland,” Geraldine blurted. “And I can’t in the least imagine why.”

Wilhelmina, who’d been mildly startled when she’d seen who her visitor was, looked doubly startled now. “Well, neither can I. Come in, child, come in—and we’ll see what we can come up with together.”

* * *

“Aye, aye—come you in and ha’ some tea. Table’s set for three. Been expecting you. You’re a day late, but that’s police all the world over. You smell of blood. Poor little maid, not quick enough to save her. And unless you’re quick back, another will die. It may be it’s too late already. No, I don’t know who—don’t know which.

“A course I remember the night I went to call at th’ old Vicarage. There’d been a birth, and baby was howling, but the mother was near dead. The other lady, fussing around and sly, about ready to bust herself. And the maid in a dead panic. No-one to see to mother or child but me. And I seen to them. When I left her, she was terrible weak, but able to sit up. Handed her the baby, told her it needed nursing, quick. ‘My little Emily,’ said the woman. ‘Of course.’ And that’s all I know, mister. Except that I got a package a few days back—box of chocolates that I wouldn’t eat for all the money there is. Yes, it is there, in the corner. Take it—but don’t you eat any, young man, unless you’re quite sure you’re going to Heaven.”