by Carly Reid
“I haven’t actually told her yet. She’s in Brisbane, Australia and the time zone – yesterday, by the time I would have been able to reach her I was asleep, knocked out by that stupid Valium. The best time is late evening here which is morning over there. I plan on speaking to her tonight. She and her father…well they didn’t always get on, fathers and daughters you know – they clashed, mostly over money. She will be terribly upset though. I hope to see her soon.”
“Yes, of course, she’ll want to come over,” Ealisaid nodded as she spoke but Jessica noticed that Patricia Wilcott didn’t respond at all and wondered if she had, in fact, meant something entirely different – if, as the overheard phone call had suggested, Patricia was planning to travel to see her daughter, rather than the other way around.
Jessica changed the subject. “I was admiring your trophies on the shelf earlier. Mr Wilcott was really good at golf! There are so many!”
Patricia smiled. “Yes, he was. I barely noticed when he retired, as he switched from going to the office to spending at least as much time at the Golf Club. It was good for him to have a hobby, and Donald certainly enjoyed the fact that Desmond had more free time. I don’t think he always enjoyed Desmond being the victor though, but that was Desmond all over – whatever he did, he had to excel. It was the source of the aggravation with our daughter as well. He was a pushy man. He pushed himself, and he pushed others too. When it came to golf, he’s applied himself rigorously to it over the last few years and it paid off. He got better and better, winning almost everything lately, as you can see.” She waved her hand at the array on the mantel. “Donald will miss him greatly. They’ve been golf partners for years.”
The three women drank their tea in silence for a few moments. As fond as she was becoming of Patricia Wilcott, Jessica couldn’t quiet the little voice running through her head: would Patricia miss her husband too?
Ealisaid and Jessica made further small talk as they finished up their tea, and then made moves to go, not wanting to tire Patricia or to keep her from her conversation with her daughter. As they left, another guest arrived to see her, a woman with short silvery curls and a distinctive long, patterned green raincoat. Patricia greeted her delightedly, clearly a close friend. Jessica dismissed her previous thoughts. Her first impression was surely correct, Patricia Wilcott was a pleasant woman who had a sometimes difficult relationship with a somewhat overbearing husband. That was quite common.
It certainly didn’t make her a murderer.
8
Ye Banks and Braes o’ Bonnie Tay
Monday found Jessica on the train to Dundee, accompanied by Murdo. Further research in the newspaper archives the day before had not unearthed any more clues as to the true identity of McScunnered, and, in the absence of any other potential leads, DI Gordon had sanctioned this trip. Grant was calling his contact at the City Archives as they traveled, and had given Jessica directions on how to find the building. Dundee wasn’t a large city and it was all walkable, he had advised, most of it through the city centre past a small shopping centre – mall, Jessica had translated in her head – and other shops and restaurants.
The journey had been a multi-stage one. First Reenie had dropped them at the bus stop in Drummond, the three of them squeezing into the large front seat of her old green van, ‘Susie’. From there they had caught a bus to a nearby train station on the Dundee line. Lastly, the train journey which, to Jessica’s surprise, was on a comfortable, modern train complete with wifi and charging stations. It made its way steadily through the countryside, allowing Jessica a good view of the rolling hills, wide expanses of fields, now mostly harvested, and small towns along the way.
As they approached Dundee the train’s speed slackened as it began to cross a long, curved rail bridge across a wide, sparkling river. “This’ll be the Tay Bridge!” Murdo, looking out of the window, commented.
Of course. Jessica put two and two together. While studying poetry in her English literature major, the work of the Scottish poet William McGonagall had been discussed a few times as an example of doggerel, poetry that was poorly structured and rhymed. One of his more famous poems was ‘The Tay Bridge Disaster.’ Jessica could only remember the first few lines:
Beautiful railway bridge of the silv’ry Tay
Alas! I am very sorry to say
That ninety lives have been taken away
Their poetry professor had been at pains to point out the lazy rhyming, the lack of scansion and the inappropriate use of imagery in McGonagall’s work, but Jessica, ever fascinated by Scotland due to her family connections, had hung on phrases such as ‘silv’ry Tay’ and ‘Nearby Dundee and the Magdalen Green’ and wondered whether she would ever get the chance to see them for herself. Now, that question was being answered.
As the train rounded the bridge into Dundee and Jessica looked at the silv’ry Tay herself, she felt her excitement rise at the chance to explore a new place. She hadn’t left Dalkinchie and Drummond since her arrival in Scotland two months before, and a trip to the city might be just what she needed.
The train rolled into the station and Jessica and Murdo disembarked. The train station wasn’t particularly large, but Jessica had the impression of industry and business. She realised suddenly that as it was the middle of August, the school holidays had ended, earlier than they would back at home in the U.S, and it was odd how she could almost feel the change in the air – a perceptible shift as the country moved from vacation back to routines, and to business as usual. It was 10 in the morning so they had missed the commuter rush, but the station was still full of people in office wear, as well as a few who were clearly tourists.
Exiting the railway station, Jessica looked back towards the river that they had just crossed by bridge. She knew that they had to head away from it towards the centre of the city, but she was interested in the new riverside developments that Grant had described. The RRS Discovery, famous as Captain Scott’s Antarctic explorer vessel, had been docked in Dundee for decades, and now formed a visitor attraction. Reenie had mentioned herself and her twin Bella, Jessica’s mom, visiting in their teens.
Adjacent to Discovery Point was a new and exciting building, a contemporary design for a new gallery that stood proudly on the circumference of the city, looking out over the Tay. The gallery was part of the Victoria and Albert collection of museums and galleries, and the first in Scotland. Jessica had read that the V&A, as it was affectionately known, housed a permanent collection of Scottish iconic design and also ran exhibitions focusing on different aspects of design history. The building was certainly imposing, formed of two conjoined roughly triangular buildings sitting on their apexes and rising in a jagged sweep towards a flat roof under the open sky. Today, another dry, bright day, it was visually impressive and its outline seemed to Jessica to echo the masts of the stalwart ship beside it. She hoped she and Murdo would be able to pay a short visit before catching the train on their return journey.
Grant had given Jessica sketchy directions to the City Archives and she was relying on the map on her cell phone for the rest. Murdo, not a frequent city visitor, was happy to leave navigation up to her. “Aye, I’ve been here before, but no’ for years Jessica. I wouldnae be able to find anything at a’. I went to an agricultural show but it wisnae in the city centre…I cannae quite remember where it wis but it wis a great day. Pipes playin’, and there wis a beer tent. I mind Magnus got intae trouble for samplin’ the beer that day.” Murdo chuckled to himself at the memory.
As keen as Jessica was to learn about the exploits of a younger Magnus, she knew she would have to concentrate to find their destination. “Grant said we should take a shortcut through an old graveyard. I think he thought it would save time and I would quite like it too. I like reading the inscriptions and I find graveyards peaceful. Are you cool with that? It’s got a funny name – the Huff?”
“Oh aye, the Howff. I’ve heard of that. It dates from Mary, Queen o’ Scots. Dinnae mind me, Jessica, I’m happy anywh
ere. It would maybe be quite interesting, being so old.”
Jessica was getting used to Murdo’s seemingly endless hive of knowledge. On the face of it he seemed to be entirely focused on farming and the rural community life, but occasionally he produced interesting facts or startling insights. This information about the Howff convinced her. Who didn’t love the romanticism of poor, doomed Queen Mary? Plus, the Howff had appeared on her map and it was therefore a practical move to aim there first.
Around ten minutes later, Jessica and Murdo edged in through a small gate in the corner of the graveyard. According to the map, this was not the main entrance through which they would exit. The graveyard was not as large and imposing as Jessica had expected, thinking that a landmark like this would be grandiose. Instead the smallish patch of ground was very green, both with grassy patches and the dipping foliage of several perimeter trees, but gave the impression of being squeezed in between various high grey buildings. The rows of gravestones were close together and somewhat haphazardly arranged. A cobbled path lined with benches ran around and between the graves, some of which Jessica could see were extremely ornate. She and Murdo drifted slowly, pausing to read the inscriptions in a companionable silence.
It was peaceful; not another soul had decided to take the shortcut at this moment. The buzz of the city ebbed away as Jessica and Murdo reached the middle of the plot. They passed three stone sarcophagi and a stone table, which stood out as unusual amongst the standing gravestones and smaller monuments. Jessica found herself thinking of Aslan, and the ancient magic of the Narnian stone table in one of her favourite childhood books, The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe. Apart from the stone table, nothing else on this dry, fine August day was particularly Narnian.
She changed her mind a few minutes later when they left through the main entrance. Above it sat a stone heraldic crest, the crest itself displaying an urn with three flowers above it and buttressed on either side by a dragon-like creature, wings folded back. There was something inscribed above it but Jessica couldn’t make out what it said, and in all likelihood it would have been in Latin anyway. She resolved to ask Grant later. They were only a couple of minutes from the City Archives now, and she hoped he had managed to speak to his contact there, and that they would be expected.
Indeed he had. Dr Ferguson, a short twinkly man wearing a buttoned up cardigan, welcomed them warmly. “Miss Greer, Mr Smith - welcome to Dundee City Archives. I’ve had a lovely chat this morning with my old friend Grant Mack about your visit. I understand you are in a bit of a hurry, so I will show you straight to the local newspapers section, but if you were ever able to come back I would be delighted to show you more of our collection. Miss Greer, I understand that you are working as a reporter for The Drummond and Dalkinchie Herald? And Mr Smith, you are a local farmer as well as your role in the constabulary?”
They kept up the conversation as they moved across the polished floors of the building. The long corridors were panelled with a rich wood, and above that were ornately framed portraits of solemn looking men, many in uniform. Jessica didn’t get a chance to look at the small signs underneath each portrait to work out who they were, but she assumed them to be Dundee dignitaries and people of importance.
Dr Ferguson got them set up in a small private reading room, adjacent to the stacks and shelves of records. He left them with a smile and the promise of a cup of tea afterwards – no food or drink was permitted near the archives – and the support of a Records Officer who had been assigned to find the correct back editions of The Herald plus anything else that might be of use. Jessica had made a note of those that she had already been able to check, and Murdo was able to pinpoint the year in which the Wilcotts had arrived in Drummond. They decided to check the issues for a couple of years before that, just in case McScunnered had already been in the habit of writing in to the newspaper – or arguing with anyone else.
The officer provided more sheets of microfiche; there was a reader in the room, as well as some hard copy issues and archive boxes containing files of correspondence. The newspapers were delicate and they had been advised that they should only check those if they really felt that there was anything missing from the run on microfiche.
Jessica and Murdo divided the work, Jessica using the reader to check old letters pages and Murdo flicking through the hard copy correspondence in case there was anything from McScunnered that would give more of a clue to his, or her, identity. They worked steadily for over an hour, then were interrupted by Murdo’s cell phone ringing. He left the building to take the call and while he was away Jessica worked on. Upon his return, he filled her in. Jessica was never sure whether he was meant to tell her information or not, but it didn’t trouble Murdo.
“Jessica, that wis the Detective Inspector. They’ve had the test results back on the marmalade. There wis poison in the jar at the Show.”
Jessica felt a sudden lurch in her stomach at his words. She wasn’t sure why she felt so shocked. She’d known that this was suspected, otherwise why would she and Murdo be in Dundee, looking into the background of someone that might have had a motive against Desmond Wilcott? It had been clear to her that DI Gordon hadn’t been sharing every piece of information he held, but that something about the case and Desmond Wilcott’s death had strongly indicated foul play.
Now it was confirmed. The marmalade – Margaret Mustard’s prized Castle Drummond Orange and Whisky Marmalade – had been poisoned all along.
“Do they know what kind of poison?”
“Aye, he said. It wis nicotine apparently, I didnae even know that it wis a poison that could be used like that. It causes heart failure if you take enough o’ it, and the DI said that it was a fair amount. It disnae always kill you though – Mr Wilcott wis unlucky there. Sometimes it just makes you very ill.”
Jessica reflected on his words. Nicotine, in the marmalade. That sounded very intentional – hardly something that could happen by accident. It definitely seemed as if someone had targeted Desmond Wilcott.
“There’s something else – the poison wis only in the top layer of the marmalade, not mixed throughout the whole jar. A big dose, right at the tap.”
“So that means – ”
“No much, really. DI Gordon wis clear on that. He says…he said it doesn’t eliminate the possibility that the poison was added at the Castle before the Show, it just strongly indicates that it wis poisoned later. Which means that it could have been a number of people. Anyone wi’ access.”
“I know, Murdo, but no-one had access, remember? Ealisaid locked the door after registration and opened up for the judging.”
“Aye. The DI is headed to the Hall right now. He says to meet him there later, if we are back in time. He’s going to find oot how many sets of keys there are. Oh and by the way, Jessica, dinnae tell anyone about the details about the poison in the marmalade. I’ve just remembered that the Detective Inspector said no’ to tell anyone. I didnae think that meant you, but just in case – keep it to yourself, will you?”
Getting back to work, Jessica and Murdo swapped tasks for a while. She had found plenty more of the sorts of letter Desmond Wilcott and McScunnered had enjoyed exchanging, with various levels of heatedness and spite, but nothing that served as an outright threat or identified McScunnered. Her eyes were getting tired of looking at the illuminated transparencies and she decided that flicking through the boxes might rest them.
When she found it, at first she didn’t realise what she was holding. On the face of it it just looked like the hard copy of a letter that she had already read on microfiche. Murdo had already found a couple of such letters and they had compared them with the printed versions. Occasionally the editor had cut down a phrase or used an abbreviation to save space, but there had been no significant insight. Until now.
“Dear Sir,
I refer to the letter from Mr D. Wilcott in your most recent issue, concerning the development of a local fund for community gardening projects. Mr Wilcott suggests that the
administration of such a fund would be best managed by himself as a de facto treasurer of the group. I suggest that the community might wish to examine his track record with managing money and think twice before allowing this appointment. After all, the last thing that is required is any more mismanagement – not to mention corruption!
Yours faithfully,
McScunnered of Drummond.”
Jessica remembered the letter. She had read it over a few times, because this one in particular seemed to be quite risky in its language. Could you outright accuse a person of being corrupt in a public forum and get away with it? Especially when it discussed finance, and Desmond Wilcott had worked in a bank! Upon re-reading, she realised that McScunnered had worded it quite cleverly – it only contained suggestion, and no direct accusation. Still, McScunnered, whoever it was, seemed a braver person than Jessica would be. At home, there was no way that her lawyer mom would have let this pass.
The previous letters from McScunnered that Murdo had found were word processed and printed on standard white printer paper. This was on a thicker parchment style paper, smaller with a slight creamy hue to it – and, Jessica noticed now, actually typewritten. The lettering had that slightly uneven, idiosyncratic look to it that betrayed it having been typed on a manual typewriter. For a moment Jessica briefly, wildly, considered that they might be able to find the typewriter and match the lettering to it, just as happened so frequently in the old British mysteries she had loved reading in her early teens. Then she realised that she was being ridiculous. This had to be so old that the typewriter would be long gone by now. She was holding the letter in her left hand by the top left corner so as not to handle it too much. She turned to Murdo and as she did so, she transferred the document to her other hand.