A Double Death on the Black Isle
Page 21
She went to the phone. She picked up the receiver and dialed.
“Dochfour 251,” her cousin Mrs. Ross replied.
“Elsie, it’s me, Agnes, I wis thinking of coming over for a visit.”
That night, when Alistair had gone to bed and Allie was sitting in his chair picking at the newspaper, not taking in a word, Mrs. Munro said, “Father, I’d like to go to town and visit ma cousin.”
“Grand idea, lass.”
“I was thinking I might stay the night.”
“Why not? See Joanne and those bairns an’ all. It’ll do you good.”
“I could leave some pies in the larder and a pot of soup. There’s a cake in the tin.” She suddenly remembered. “I’ll have to ask the missus, I hope it will be all right with her. . . .”
“You leave the missus to me. Just go, lass. Me and the young lad, we’ll no starve. Tell me when you’re ready and I’ll drive you to the ferry.”
It was the thought of not having to ask the missus for a day off that did it. She would go. “Come on Saturday,” her cousin had said, “stay for Sunday. Catch an afternoon ferry back, that’ll give us time for a good blether.”
When they arrived at church, the girls went into the church hall to Sunday school and Joanne walked down the aisle to her usual seat beneath the pulpit. Mrs. Munro, Aunty Agnes to everyone in the family, was there with Granny and Granddad Ross.
In this very new church, built to serve the spreading housing estates, there were chairs rather than pews. The pulpit, plain and simple, was in wood and the altar the same, with a lush midsummer floral display on either side. The heavy cross that dominated the plain, whitewashed walls was also in unadorned wood.
Duncan Macdonald, minister, father, brother-in-law, and friend, believed in plain speaking as much as a plain church. His Christ was “fishers of men,” the carpenter, the obedient son. His was the Christ of love and forgiveness. Exactly the Christ for Agnes Munro in her pain and confusion. She listened to the sermon, not once bored. She followed the thoughts. She understood, and was comforted by, the message.
The singing of the Twenty-third Psalm almost undid her. It’s message of hope, comfort, and abiding goodness, brought comfort to the grieving mother, and Mrs. Munro left the church feeling lighter than in a long time.
After the service, the Reverend Macdonald stood on the steps of the church for the ritual handshakes. When it came to Mrs. Munro’s turn, he leaned forward, they spoke quietly, and Joanne could see her nod in agreement.
She collected the children from Sunday school. They all walked slowly back to the Ross house, Agnes Munro with her cousin, Joanne with Granddad Ross, pausing to greet neighbors and friends as they went—another ritual.
Sunday dinner was always the same: soup, roast beef, bottled fruit, and custard. The girls ate every last bit of the custard. After a cheerful argument with Mrs. Munro that she was a guest and wasn’t allowed to help, Joanne and Mrs. Ross cleared up, washed and dried the dishes in good time for Granny Ross to check the results of the football pools.
Mrs. Munro was told to put her feet up on the sofa and rest. She couldn’t rest. She was fretting, afraid the bus would be late, afraid she would miss the ferry, afraid that Allie and her youngest couldn’t manage without her.
“Come away into the garden, Agnes, see my rockery,” Mrs. Ross said, knowing there would be no peace with her cousin “up to high doh” as she always put it.
Agnes Munro told her what was bothering her.
“It’s the minister,” she said, “he’s coming round in his car at three o’clock. I feel I’m imposing, but he wouldn’t take no for an answer.”
“He’s a good man.” Mrs. Ross was glad the minister was going to talk to Agnes. She felt unable to truly comfort her cousin, for she had never liked Fraser. She had thought him a bad lot, especially this last time he came home, and felt hypocritical when she had to mourn his loss. But she felt deeply for Agnes’s pain.
“I insist on running you to the ferry,” Reverend Macdonald had told Mrs. Munro. “No arguments.”
Mrs. Munro didn’t like to argue, but wasn’t Sunday his busy day? He had the evening service, and he probably had to pray and do whatever it was ministers did to talk to God so he could tell them what to preach from the pulpit.
“The bus is fine,” she said, “I can’t impose.”
But no, he insisted he would take her there.
He collected her from the Ross semi-detached. He said he could not come in, but stopped to admire the new rockery. The drive to the ferry did not take long. Parking his car near the ramp, Duncan suggested they wait by the sea wall.
“No need for you to wait, Reverend Macdonald.”
“If you don’t mind, I’d like to wait. I love watching the ferry. A grand sight, the old Eilann Dubh.”
As they waited in the shelter of the sea wall, Mrs. Munro spoke without any forethought. The question popped up from somewhere deep inside a troubled conscience. Afterwards she was amazed at her daring.
“I think my husband is hiding something about how our Fraser died. I don’t know for sure. I ask, but he’ll no talk. He keeps saying ‘everything’s fine.’ But he willney look at me when he says it. He thinks I don’t know our Fraser was kicked out the army, he thinks I don’t know what Fraser got up to; I’m his mother, I’m no blind to Fraser’s faults. Besides, you can’t help but hear every bit o’ gossip on the Black Isle. That’s no all, something else is bothering my man, I just know there is.”
This was the longest speech of Mrs. Munro’s life. All her fears came tumbling out, each sentence a pebble dropped into a pond of despair, making ripples that would reach into their lives for a long, long while.
“What can I do to help?” Duncan asked. He towered over the small, plump figure. Without his robes, she could see how skinny he was. Needs proper feeding, she thought.
“Oh no. I mean . . . thank you for the offer Reverend, but you’ve already helped,” she replied. “You did a right fine reading o’ the Twenty-third Psalm.” She smiled, remembering. “My father was a shepherd, you know. When I was a wee girl, I used to help him with the newborn lambs, feeding the ones who couldn’t suckle. We kept them in a dog basket in the kitchen.”
“The Lord is my shepherd. I shall not want,” Duncan Macdonald quoted.
“Aye. Just like that.” Again Mrs. Munro felt the comfort of the words. “My favorite bit is, ‘In pastures green, he leadeth me. The quiet waters by . . .’ It’s like the back burn at our place. Lovely it is, with the quiet pools and the waterfalls. A comforting place to walk.”
They stood in quiet contemplation of the ancient words. It was Mrs. Munro who broke the silence.
“I didn’t remember the morning my Fraser was taken, not at first. It was walking along the burn, listening to the quiet that reminded me. . . . It was quiet that morning . . . it was different only in that we had to be up early for the hay. . . . I never noticed anything, not really. . . .
“Sorry, Reverend, I’m thinking out loud, trying to make sense o’ it all.”
“Talk all you want, it often helps.” His voice was smooth and calming, yet distant, not intruding into the unconscious stream of thoughts.
“Goodness and mercy . . .” she again quoted. “Mercy can mean forgiveness, can’t it?”
“To forgive and to receive forgiveness. That is our Lord’s message.”
They stood quietly. It was as though the thought was a reminder that life was not only of the body, but of the soul.
“Thank you, Reverend Macdonald. You’ve been a great help, and a comfort.” She looked up at him, gave him a shy, wee smile. She was still overawed by the minister, but that is as it should be, she felt. He was a man of God.
His immediate thought came from a favorite Burns poem.
“Wee sleekit, cow’rin’, tim’rous beastie,
Oh what a panic’s in thy breastie!”
And like the fieldmouse, he knew her panic was not for herself, but for her family.
“God bless you and keep you, Mrs. Munro. Remember, I am always ready to listen if you need someone.”
There was nothing more she needed to say so she simply said, “Thank you.”
As the ferry left, she saw the minister standing beside the sea wall, watching the boat leave. She gave a little wave. He doffed his hat and used it to wave back.
Watching his wife as she walked up the jetty, Allie Munro was glad she was back.
“How are you, lass?” he greeted her.
“I’ve been thinking about what happened to our Fraser,” she came straight out with the sentence, none of her usual hesitations.
“Best not,” he replied quickly. “We’ll never know for sure so best not to dwell on it.”
It was said. And they did not speak of it again until there was no alternative.
NINETEEN
After another impressive edition of the Gazette, with the arrest of Mrs. Skinner taking up most of the front page as well as a detailed account of the saga on page three, McAllister sat in his office, alone, looking out the window at nothing much—clouds, a passing seagull, two pigeons preening their oil-on-water plumage on the window ledge.
He was in that letdown-after-major-triumphs state of ennui.
“You’re busy. Maybe I should come back later.” Rob stood with his hand on the doorknob trying to suppress a smirk.
“One day, someone will thump you,” McAllister told him, but he did not take his feet off the desk.
“The McPhee brothers’ trial is three weeks away. I’m thinking of going to the scene of the crime with Hec for some background shots in case we need them.”
“A good idea.”
It was only when Rob shut the door and sat down that McAllister moved his legs. “So, what do you really want?”
“Sandy Skinner.”
“The verdict was accidental death.” McAllister lit a cigarette. He had no opinion one way or another on Sandy Skinner’s death, but he was open to an argument.
“It’s nothing much,” Rob started. But McAllister saw from the way he leaned forward, from the way his eyes lit up, that it was much more than nothing.
“First,” Rob counted, “the time between Sandy walking down to the falls and Patricia waiting in the Land Rover—for over an hour according to her. But no one saw her there.”
“Did anyone look for verification?”
“Not that I know. Second, why Dores? It doesn’t make sense.”
McAllister leaned back in his chair, interested in Rob’s thinking. “Joanne said it was because she was distraught. And sick.”
“Mmmm.” Rob rolled his eyes.
“Spit it out,” McAllister told him.
“I’m sorry Joanne covered the hearing, not me.” He saw the editor frown and quickly added, “It’s not that I don’t think Joanne is up to the job, but she doesn’t have a clear head when it comes to Patricia. I should have gone to see how Patricia played her audience.”
“A bit harsh.” But McAllister nodded when Rob said this.
“I’ve watched Patricia Ord Mackenzie in action before.”
McAllister knew what a coup it would be for the Gazette if there were something suspicious about Sandy’s death.
“Any nosying around must be discrete. Don’t tell anyone what you’re up to. Talk only to me if you find out anything. Above all, do not alert Patricia. Mr. Ord Mackenzie is a friend of the chief constable, the lord lieutenant, and probably the Almighty himself.”
“Don’t worry. I can be discrete when I need to be.” Rob gave a mock salute and left McAllister to think about his proposal.
There might be consequences in poking into a case that was firmly closed, but the editor trusted Rob’s instinct.
On Saturday morning, Joanne and Rob were going over to the Black Isle with Hector. He was to give them a lift back to the ferry when they had finished, before continuing on to photograph the Ross County football match.
“Remember, I want shots of the goals—not the supporters and not the goalkeeper’s dog,” Don had warned Hector.
The problem with the arrangements became apparent on the first part of the journey, the short drive from the office to the ferry. Hector may have been blessed with a marvelous eye for a photograph, but had no eye for the road and was constantly distracted by passing scenes, mentally framing them in a camera lens.
“Hector, keep your eyes on the road!” Rob shouted as they passed over the Black Bridge.
“What? Oh, aye.”
He swerved back onto his side of the road, avoiding an oncoming lorry.
“Hector!” Joanne shouted from the backseat. She shrank down low, away from the doors, trying to present as small a target as possible to each oncoming vehicle, parked car, or inconvenient tree. “I’m keeping my eyes shut till we get to the ferry.”
Another half mile and Rob couldn’t look either. “Stop, Hector, pull over. I’ll drive.”
“No you’ll no. It’s my car and I’m driving.”
“Pull over then. I’m getting in the back with Joanne, and we’ll both keep our eyes shut.” He climbed in the back, and he and Joanne held hands and tried not to look on the final mile to the ferry ramp.
The little black car stopped at the top of the jetty. They tumbled out of the backseat.
“I feel sick,” Joanne said.
“Me too.” Rob’s face was white with a distinct green tinge. “I’ve never been so scared.”
Hector was shouting and waving his tourie. One of the crew walked up, took the keys, drove up the metal ramp onto the boat, and parked the car. Joanne and Rob looked at each other.
“That’s not usual,” Joanne said.
“Neither is he,” Rob pointed to Hector in his lime tourie with oversized pom-pom, his Clachnacuddin football scarf, and his leather schoolbag.
After the intrepid trio had crossed the firth and driven the final eight miles, “no faster than twenty-five miles an hour,” Joanne had told Hec, they reached the village hotel.
“That was the longest eight miles of my life,” Rob told Joanne.
“Never, ever again—I have children.” She opened the door, glad to be standing on firm ground.
After a tour of the car park, and a discussion of what photos might be needed, Joanne said she’d walk to Achnafern farmhouse.
“It’s only two miles,” she told Hector, who was insisting on giving her a lift. “You have work to do, I’ll enjoy the walk.”
As she strode up the hill through the village, Hector was torn between taking photographs, running after her, or listening to Rob, who was calling him into the hotel. He compromised by taking a shot of Joanne striding past the village cemetery. He knew it was where Fraser Munro and Sandy Skinner were buried and wanted pictures . . . just in case, he thought.
The reception from the occupants of the hotel bar was cold to the point of arctic.
“We might as well have landed from Mars for all we have in common with the people over here,” Rob said, as they sat with a half of shandy apiece. Hector was used to this treatment, so he hadn’t noticed. No one even took up the offer of a free drink. So they talked to each other, which surprised Rob—he hadn’t had a conversation with Hector since primary school.
“The best way to figure it out is to look at the map,” Hector suggested. “I’ve got one in the car.”
Rob was trying to ignore being ignored when the landlady brought over an unasked-for beer. She put the glass down, then leaned over to pick up the empties. “If you want to know anything, ask at the post office.”
“Oh. Right. Thanks.”
Hector returned with an Ordinance Survey map showing the countryside at half an inch to the mile. All the farms were named, cottages marked, even standing stones were noted.
Rob’s finger traced the road to Culbokie. The turn-off to the private farm road was clear.
“Fraser Munro was found at the Devil’s Den—here. The McPhees would have had to go well out of their way to follow him.”
Hec pointed to the large expanse of forest marked on the map. “I bet it’s scary in the dark with all them trees.”
“Not to mention the risk of meeting a bogyman. Or the Devil.” Rob made horns above his head like a bairn at Halloween.
“He met the Devil at the Devil’s Den.”
“Hey! That’s good, Hector. I’ll use that.”
Rob folded the map. “No use hanging around here, no one is going to talk to us.”
He paid, and leaving Hector to take shots of the hotel, the car park, the road, the church, anything that caught his magpie eye. Rob walked across the road to the post office, a small wooden shed that could only accommodate two customers at a time. He did a double take when he saw the postmistress.
“Aren’t you the landlady, or are you her twin?”
“No, it’s me. I help my husband out in the bar when I’m not in here.” She came out from behind the counter and turned the sign in the door to CLOSED. “Now I don’t want you saying you got this from me but . . .”
“I promise.”
“There’s a lot more to Fraser Munro’s death than anyone’s willing to say. Maybe you should ask about the fight farther up the road with the other boys on the farm.”
“Fight?”
“Maybe no a fight as such. But definitely a falling out. No one’s going to say anything because they all grew up together, work together, live right next to each other. I not overfond o’ tinks, but it’s no right they’re getting all the blame. There’s times I might have hit Fraser maself, but he was the kind o’ man who’d hit even a woman back.”
“So who will talk to me?”
“Aye, that’s your problem, isn’t it? The way people round here see it, charging the McPhee boys is better than charging them on the farm.”
“Maybe I’ll ask Beech,” Rob said, more to himself than to the landlady.