by Carly Reid
They continued chatting as they moved into the main hall, transformed since earlier. The atmosphere was expectant and yet peaceful, the air thronged with possibility. Now that entrants had left the building, the room held all exhibits organised in their different classes and categories, helpfully labelled with the class description. The only other people present were the class judges, moving around the hall in small groups and conferring in low voices.
Jessica made a slow clockwise turn around the hall, making sure she had seen every class and would be able to put them in context later. The textile crafts included knitting, handloom weaving, and something called New Pitsligo Lace which, as Jessica discovered from the description, originated from a town in Aberdeenshire. An adjacent display board showed photographs of the process, both historical and contemporary. She marveled at the intricacies of the patterns and the delicacy of the craft, winding and knotting gossamer-thin thread through a detailed arrangement of pins, requiring the maker to keep track of multiple finely carved bobbins at once.
There was also a stand set up for show visitors to have a try at spinning yarn – either by hand using a drop spindle, or with a spinning wheel. Jessica stroked and squished the beautifully soft samples and admired the Eriskay ganseys – cozy fisherman cable knit sweaters, made to a pattern developed on the Hebridean island of Eriskay. She hadn’t yet spent the winter in Scotland but could see how a gansey could be a very appealing addition to her wardrobe. The woodwork class included carving – both practical items such as lace bobbins, spoons and bowls, and decorative animals and birds – as well as small pieces of furniture. Jessica was particularly taken with an Orkney chair, handcrafted with a decorative straw seat, a high woven back and sides, and a small wooden drawer set in between the chair legs.
“I’ve heard they make them like that because of the awfy windy weather up in Orkney.” Magnus had followed her over to the woodwork classes, and now took a photograph of the chair, positioning himself and his camera perfectly to catch the best light. “Coorie yourself in one of those, a blanket, a bottle of whisky in the drawer, and you’d be just fine.”
Jessica laughed. “Not a bad idea. Have you ever been to Orkney?”
“I have not. I would love to one day, though. I’ve heard it’s a wonderful place. Incredible photography opportunities too, and there’s always that chance of catching the Merry Dancers.”
“The Merry Dancers?” This was an unfamiliar term to Jessica, but she was intrigued.
“The aurora borealis. Northern lights. There’s folk that go to Orkney, or even all the way up to Shetland, just in the hope of seeing them. There’s no guarantees, but a better chance than hereabouts. They’re meant to be tricky to photograph but I wouldnae mind the opportunity to try. One day.”
He smiled at Jessica, and moved off to get a close-up shot of some basketwork in the willow weaving category. Jessica looked after him for a moment, briefly allowing herself to daydream. One day. She was pulled up short by her phone alarm buzzing inside her pocket. 11.25 am. Time to head back to the cakes and preserves, where the judging was about to start.
Entering the small room, Jessica saw that the three judges had already taken their place behind the table. Ealisaid, her long dark hair pulled back in a ponytail, sat in the middle, flanked by Desmond Wilcott on her right, and the third judge on her left – a woman Jessica recognised as a member of the local Women’s Guild. Each judge had a glass of water in front of them.
The table was covered with a snowy white thick tablecloth, and the judges were attended by two stewards who displayed each cake in front of them before preparing and serving the cake samples, and taking the remainder away. The cakes were referred to only by their entry numbers as they were passed to the judges, and the judges’ forms contained only the reference numbers as well.
The cake judging proceeded remarkably quickly, as the three judges nibbled, conferred, and made notes. Jessica couldn’t make out what they were writing; although Desmond Wilcott wrote in a distinctive spiky script, it was too far away to be legible. She noted the calm atmosphere, the lack of dissent between the judges and the speed at which everybody moved through their tasks. Clearly this operation had been running well for a number of years and everybody knew exactly what their roles were.
Once the cakes class was finished, the three judges took a short break, standing up to stretch their legs before returning to judge the preserves. The stewards refreshed the water glasses and started to prepare the preserves for judging. The format was slightly different here, as the jams and marmalades had to be scrutinised while still in the jar to check for overall presentation and appearance as well as color and clarity. Ealisaid had explained that while translucency was a sought-after quality, too much could indicate that the sugar content was too high. Desmond Wilcott would take a jar and hold it by the lid up to the light, looking it over thoroughly and making notes before passing it to his fellow judges, who did the same. The jar would then be passed back to the head judge who would open it for tasting. Each judge would use a clean spoon to place a dollop of the jam or marmalade on to an individual saucer in front of them, checking for consistency as they did so. Jessica knew that it should have a ‘good set’, not syrupy, and that for marmalade, the peel should be very soft. Lastly, aroma and flavour were critical. Each judge would have their own preferences here, but they were looking for true flavours to match the fruit description, and if anything else had been added, it shouldn’t overpower the fruit.
Once they were set up, the preserves judging went as smoothly as the cake judging had. Again, Jessica couldn’t read their expressions as they stirred, tasted and made notes. None of them gave anything away. When Margaret Mustard’s distinctive Castle Drummond Marmalade was brought to the table, Jessica perked up. Hadn’t Ealisaid said that this one always took first place? Maybe she would be able to pick something up in their reactions to this tasting session.
Desmond Wilcott went through the same process as he had for all the preserves. Hold the jar up to the light, turn it slowly to view from all angles. Jessica could really see now why there such strict regulations on jars – there was no hiding whose entry this was. He passed it down the table to his fellow judges who repeated his actions and made notes. Jessica made a mental note of her own to ask Ealisaid later what she really thought about Margaret Mustard’s marmalade. The jar was passed back and Desmond Wilcott opened it with a satisfying ‘pop!’ before spooning the golden preserve out on to his saucer. He pulled the back of his spoon across the marmalade and tested a piece of peel with its edge before passing the jar down to Ealisaid. He was raising the spoon to his lips as Ealisaid lifted the jar and took a delicate sniff at the contents, before she dipped her own spoon into the jar.
Jessica watched. Desmond Wilcott had tasted his sample spoonful now and made a short note, before swallowing some more, upon which he seemed to catch his breath. And again: a short cough, or gasp. He glanced up, and briefly made eye contact with Jessica. His eyes were wide, staring, and now he dropped his spoon from his right hand and grabbed at his arm. His face reddened, but he hadn’t made much of a sound. The jar had been passed to the third judge. Ealisaid lifted her spoon to her lips.
“Ealisaid – don’t taste that!” Jessica’s shout to her friend was panicked, but she needn’t have worried because as Desmond Wilcott continued to gasp, Ealisaid dropped the spoon and turned to him. The third judge, pushing both the jar and her saucer of marmalade away, stood up in alarm.
“Mr Wilcott’s choking…is it a piece of peel? Mr Wilcott, have a glass of water. Mr Wilcott!” The young steward was trying to be helpful, but as she proffered the glass to Desmond Wilcott, his arm flailed upwards and knocked it out of her grasp. The glass arced over the table, landed a glancing blow on its edge and clattered to the floor but fortunately didn’t smash; water drenched the tablecloth in front of him.
Ealisaid had thumped him firmly on his back. “Try and cough, Desmond,” she was saying steadily, but he either wouldn�
��t or couldn’t. He then seized the tablecloth, which was slowly half-dragged from the table, the saucers and spoons with it, as Mr Wilcott slid off his chair and collapsed, both Ealisaid and the steward struggling to support his fall from either side.
“Call an ambulance!” Ealisaid’s voice was authoritative, her command directed at the second steward, a young lad by the name of Callum. He nodded, wide-eyed, and left the room. Jessica went with him, stood in the hall and held the door closed behind her, looking around wildly and hoping that the caretaker might be there. Wouldn’t they be trained in first-aid? Would they have any useful equipment? She knew Ealisaid, as a climber, had some training.
Callum had finished his call. “The ambulance is on the way. Will I go and see if I can find the caretaker, Miss?”
Jessica realised that he was deferring to her as the most capable adult around.
“Yes. See if they have a first-aid kit – whatever they have. If you can’t find them, but you see Magnus Smith, ask him to come to the room. Don’t let everyone know though, we don’t want them all to start to panic.”
“Yes, Miss.”
Callum ran off towards the main hall. Jessica returned into the room where she found the other young steward almost in tears, the third judge comforting her, and Ealisaid trying to perform CPR.
“He’s…. unconscious, Jessica.”
Ealisaid could barely get the words out in between her efforts. Jessica ran over to assist and as she did so, Magnus arrived at the door of the room.
“What’s going on?”
“It’s Desmond Wilcott! He’s had a stroke, or a heart attack…or something…” and Jessica’s eyes met Ealisaid’s across his prone body, and then slowly they both turned their gaze to the domed pot of Castle Drummond Orange and Whisky marmalade, sitting untroubled on the judging table.
3
News Travels Fast
Jessica and Ealisaid left the room after the paramedics arrived, which gave them the opportunity to share their suspicions.
“Ealisaid, that marmalade…he was totally fine before he tried it! ” Jessica kept her voice to an urgent whisper, but she wanted to ensure her friend had seen the same events play out as she had.
“I know.” Ealisaid’s expression was grim, concern drawing together her eyebrows and pressing her lips together.
“Should we tell someone? Do something?”
“I dinnae know, Jessica. Hang on a wee minute, I’m just thinking.”
Ealisaid paused, clearly trying to decide what to do next. The hall itself was still quiet, with the judges in the large hall unaware of the drama taking place here in the corridor, and in the cake and preserves judging room. Jessica knew that this was serious. The show was huge, thousands of pounds worth of artisan crafts sitting there in the main hall, hundreds of visitors expected in just a few hours to begin a day of presentations followed by two days of sales. Some people had traveled long distances to enter. It would be unthinkable to cancel, but the alternative – keeping going as normal when show convenor Desmond Wilcott was grievously ill – seemed equally unthinkable. Especially if it turned out that something he had eaten in the course of his duties was responsible.
Ealisaid spoke up. “I told the paramedics exactly what happened. They asked lots of questions, about what he’d had to eat – that was tricky! Also whether he was on medication, history of heart trouble…I didn’t know the answers. I had to say he was married but that I didn’t know where his wife was. They said that they would need to take him away, and to try and find her.” She came to a decision. “The café. If she’s not there, surely someone will know where she is. I doubt I’ll get through if I phone though, Murdo and Mairead will be run off their feet on Show day. I don’t feel I can leave here either. I’m Vice-Chair, and there will be a panic soon, when people find out about Desmond. That wee steward Ellie is already very distressed. I’ll have to be in charge. We’ll need to decide what to do about the Show.”
“Down to the café? I’ll go.” Magnus had been standing near the whole time, half-listening to their conversation. Now he volunteered his help.
“Magnus, that would be great. I know it will be tricky, but be discreet; try and get hold of Patricia Wilcott or find someone who knows her and can contact her. Also – and I really hope I’m wrong about this – I think we need Murdo here. Tell Mairead I’m sorry, and I’d only do this if really necessary. I’ll find her someone else to help in the café as soon as I can.”
Magnus listened gravely. “On it, Ealisaid. I’ll run there noo. Jessica, can you lock my camera next door in the office? It will only slow me doon.”
He passed the shoulder bag to Jessica and took off.
Magnus’ brother Murdo’s role with the police meant that he had assisted in investigations before. Jessica knew that if Ealisaid was asking for Murdo, it could only mean one thing. She, too, suspected that the preserves judging room might be a crime scene.
* * *
Magnus arrived at Lissa’s within a few minutes. Ealisaid had been right, the café, always popular on a Saturday, was packed with people – many locals, but also a number of people from out-of-town looking for a cup of tea and a slice of cake to while away the waiting, in between entering their crafts and the opening of the Show. Mairead and Murdo were coping fine, Mairead behind the counter taking orders and serving drinks and Murdo currently serving food orders out to waiting tables. Every table was full, and there was a queue waiting to be served as well.
It wasn’t surprising. While Ealisaid’s café didn’t have much competition in Dalkinchie, it was a genuinely charming little establishment. Since taking on the café after her mother’s death nearly ten years before, Ealisaid had worked hard to give it her own stamp with a cozy ambience, and an affordable yet delectable menu. She displayed Dalkinchie and Drummond artists on her limited wall space and sold a small selection of local produce too, including cheeses made from the Smiths’ own Balnaguise milk. Her range of cakes was well known locally and she kept everyone in the village well topped up with hot drinks, including her own mild Dalkinchie roast coffee.
Magnus glanced around. He couldn’t see Patricia Wilcott anywhere, but spotted a couple of women whom he knew had entered textile crafts. The café was filled with the noise of chatting. He sighed. How to obey Ealisaid’s instruction to be discreet? He decided to start with Murdo, watching for his brother who had disappeared into the kitchen with a tray of mugs in need of washing. When he re-emerged, Magnus stepped in front of him before he could reach the main body of the café.
“Murdo, can I have a wee word?” He kept his voice low, but it seemed that Murdo hadn’t picked up on this because he responded, loudly and cheerily:
“It’s yourself, Magnus! I thought you would be too busy to pop in the day. Were you not tied up with the photography at the Village Hall?”
“Aye, I was. That’s why I’m here. There’s been a…problem at the Village Hall. Ealisaid thinks you’re needed, and maybe give your boss a wee call too.”
Magnus was referring to Detective Inspector James Gordon, with whom Murdo had worked on a previous case in Dalkinchie.
“Aye, right enough, Magnus. If Ealisaid says I’m needed then I must be! I’m no sure it’s a good idea to leave Mairead here on her own though. It’s awfy busy and it’s no’ likely to calm doon any time before the Show opening. Would I have to go to the hall right away?”
“Aye, Murdo, I think you really should, it’s quite serious. Tell you what, I’ll stay here and help oot until Ealisaid can arrange for someone else to come in and help. She said she would. First I need to find Patricia Wilcott, the heid judge’s wife. Do you ken where she is?”
Murdo took a long look around the café before responding. “She’s no’ here, Magnus.”
“Aye, I can see that. Has she been in though? This morning, I mean,” Magnus added hastily, knowing his brother well, and understanding that he was likely to list all the occasions upon which Patricia Wilcott had ever visited the café.
“Mairead! Have you seen Mrs Wilcott in at all this morning, or passing by?”
So much for discreet. Mairead indicated that she had not seen her, but it was too late: heads whipped round, the babble of noise receded, then just as swiftly restarted but this time it was all directed at Murdo – and Magnus.
“Did he say Patricia Wilcott? Who’s looking for her?”
“Patricia’s not here. She’ll be at the show at 2.30pm, though.”
“Who are they looking for?” This was a woman whom Magnus knew to be a little hard of hearing. Her companion had to raise her voice to get across to her.
“Patricia Wilcott, Dorothy!”
“Patricia Wilcott? She’s thon judge’s wife, the one who does the lace. Aye, she’ll be entering the Show. She always does.” Satisfied that this cleared the matter up, Dorothy returned to her scone, taking a nibble followed by a sip of tea.
Magnus felt he had to intervene. Discreetly.
“I’ve just come from the Hall and Patricia Wilcott is needed up there. There’s a…wee problem, but we dinnae know where she went when the judging started. Can anyone contact her or know where she was headed?”
“What kind of a problem, Magnus, son?”
He should have known he wouldn’t get away easily. Any chance he had had of keeping this under wraps was over. He faced a room of curious faces, all looking directly at him and wondering what he would say next.
“Err, well, I just really need tae find her.” Magnus was floundering. He didn’t think there was any way of getting out of this conversation without telling the truth – or at least part of it. “Her husband has maybe been taken ill at the Show – we just want to let her know, but naebody up there had her contact details.”