by A. D. Scott
“Aye, but she’s fine now. Patricia too.” Mrs. Ross didn’t look at Joanne and didn’t alter her walk, but she seemed softer.
“You know something, don’t you?” Joanne said quietly, “Whatever happened with Mr. Munro, you know.”
“Aye, I do. But it’s not my place to tell you.” Mrs. Ross would never betray a confidence. “Don’t worry dear, it’ll all be fine in the end.” She reached up and patted Joanne on the arm and in that gesture Joanne knew her mother-in-law was right.
“I know,” she agreed. “It will all be fine in the end.”
Patricia had woken early. The dawn chorus was in full song, but it was more her bladder than the birds that accounted for the early rise. She didn’t go back to bed, too thirsty. All those tears, she thought.
She looked at her face in the small, dappled mirror of the dressing table that sat beneath the small window in the small room in the eaves of the farmhouse that had been her nursery as a child. Calm, clear eyes stared out of a swollen, blotchy face, but she felt safe. Empty, but safe, and it felt good.
“Good morning, Mr. M.,” Patricia said as she came into the kitchen and caught Allie Munro fussing with the teapot. “Here, let me do it. I couldn’t cope with the tar you call tea this early in the morning.”
She stood beside him and he leaned close, letting their shoulders touch—an instinctive gesture, as close and as caring as a huge carthorse with a foal. Patricia had to fight back the tears she knew he hated.
“I need to go home,” she said when they were settled at the table with their tea.
“Mother and me want you to stay with us awhile,” he answered.
“You know, I’d really like that.”
“Mother is right tired,” Allie said after a minute of quiet, comfortable silence broken only by the frantic chirping and fluttering from a family of sparrows fighting for scraps put out on the kitchen window ledge. “I’ll let her sleep in some more.”
“It was all that whisky you slipped into her tea,” Patricia giggled.
“It’s right good to see you smile, lass.” Allie looked at her. “Do you want me to come to the big house wi’ you?”
Patricia thought about it.
“Yes, I would. I’ll pack some clothes. I don’t want to speak to my mother . . . but if she is there, I may not be able to avoid her. And no church for me today, I couldn’t face it.”
Allie drove Patricia in her car the short half-mile to Achnafern Grange.
“I’ll wait outside, if that’s all right.”
“I won’t be long.”
Patricia was hoping her parents were still in bed. It was nearly eight o’clock, but Sundays usually started late.
“Where on earth did you get to yesterday afternoon?” Mrs. Ord Mackenzie was in the kitchen. Even at this hour, her hair was immaculate, her lambswool twinset matched the tweed skirt exactly, her pearls were just right, but she had not yet applied lipstick or powder. “You let the Pony Club down, Patricia. You broke your promise to hand out the prizes.”
“Mrs. Munro was sick.”
“Mrs. Munro would have been fine. You had more important responsibilities.”
“How do you know she would have been fine?” Patricia looked calm, a little pale, and she was terrified. “And Mrs. Munro is more important to me.”
Mrs. Ord Mackenzie sensed a confrontation and sensed that for once her daughter might not back down. “You embarrassed me in front of the parents and the committee of Pony Club. Please have the manners to write to them apologizing.”
She turned to walk away, to leave the kitchen to Patricia and the dogs when Patricia said, “I know you killed Fraser Munro.”
“What utter nonsense.” She was standing in the doorway, and did not turn round.
“I know you hit Fraser Munro and pushed him into the ditch. You were seen.”
“By whom? Allie Munro?” She spun round as fast as a viper about to strike. “He has confessed to killing that appalling son of his. Now he is having second thoughts and trying to blame someone else.”
“I will not stand by and allow you do destroy Mr. and Mrs. Munro.”
“Don’t be so melodramatic.”
It was always thus—every word Patricia uttered rebounded off her mother, making Patricia feel she was the guilty one. She gripped the kitchen table for support. One of the dogs in the basket reached out and licked her bare ankle. The warm sweet rasping tongue sent a rush of comfort coursing through her.
“On May Day morning, you drove the Land Rover . . . .” Patricia faced her mother. He mother faced her back. They were like gladiators throwing out challenges before a fight to the death.
“I would never have given you and that creature my car.”
“You took the Land Rover. You drove along the farm road. . . .”
“I was trying to catch you at the ferry to retrieve my car. . . .”
“Something made you stop. You hit Fraser Munro with Daddy’s shooting stick. . . .”
“How on earth do you know that?”
“Mr. Munro found it in the ditch.”
“So that’s what happened to it.”
“Mummy, please . . . this is destroying Mrs. M. You have to tell the police what really happened.”
“Did Mr. Munro say he was going to go to the police?”
“No, he . . .” Patricia stopped. It was beyond her comprehension why Allie Munro refused absolutely to talk to the police. He had told Patricia that if she called them, he would deny everything.
“It’s for the best,” he had said.
Janet Ord Mackenzie took a step towards her daughter, but was stopped by a low, grumbling growl from the older of the dogs—the mother.
“All this is your fault, Patricia.” She pointed her forefinger at her daughter and, for the first time ever, Patricia did not flinch. “None of this would have happened if it weren’t for you and that—father of your child. You brought disgrace to the Ord Mackenzie name with your ridiculous marriage.”
The baby chose that moment to give its mother some gentle fluttering kicks. Patricia clasped her hands over her tummy, protecting the unborn child from her mother’s venom.
“You have never understood that Mr. Munro and all who work here are part of this estate,” Mrs. Ord Mackenzie drawled in her regal, mistress of Achnafern Estate voice. “The workers owe the Ord Mackenzie family their loyalty. We in turn give them a home and a livelihood . . . we look after them even when they are old. . . .”
Patricia half-chanted, half-sang.
“The rich man in his castle,
The poor man at his gate,
God made them, high and lowly . . .”
“What on earth are you on about?” her mother snapped. “Honestly Patricia, you have no sense.”
“It is Sunday. I am remembering the hymn.”
Mrs. Ord Mackenzie turned to leave, but stopped when Patricia called out, “I want you to telephone the police and tell them what really happened to Fraser Munro.”
“I will do nothing of the sort.”
“There is one thing I will never forgive you for.” It took Patricia ever ounce of self-control to speak in a calm, ordinary voice, as though they were discussing the expected price of the barley crop. “When you heard Mr. Munro had confessed, you must have worked out that they thought it was me who killed Fraser.”
“Whomever they thought they were protecting, they were showing nothing more than the loyalty expected of someone in their position.”
“You let them believe I killed their son.”
“Don’t be so histrionic, Patricia. It doesn’t suit you.”
When my mother purses her lips like that, thought Patricia, makes that “O,” makes her mouth like a prune, I used to hide under the table, in the basket with the dogs. Not this time.
“I blame myself for your relationship with the Munros,” Janet Ord Mackenzie continued. “We should have brought in a proper nanny. It took years to get rid of that appalling local accent you acquired, and as for
the way you kept running to Mrs. Munro and calling her ‘Ma’ . . .” she shook her head and shuddered. “We packed you off to school as soon as possible, but the damage had been done.”
“Fraser Munro,” Patricia reminded her.
“Fraser Munro jumped out in front of the Land Rover, waving his arms around, staggering all over the place. He refused to get off the road and let me drive on.”
“So you hit him with Daddy’s shooting stick.”
“He deserved it. He called me vile names, cursing and swearing. . . . How dare he speak to his betters like that! The Munros forget their place sometimes.”
“You killed him.”
“I don’t suppose you confessed to your dear friends the Munros that you pushed that ridiculous husband of yours over the falls?”
“Sandy’s death was an accident.”
“Don’t be silly, you must have pushed him. When I met you, you were distraught, your shoes and clothes were muddy.”
“I went to look for him. I couldn’t find him. Of course I was distraught and muddy.” Patricia stared at her mother. “Just because that is what you would have done, doesn’t make me a murderer . . . unlike you.”
“Do what you will Patricia, I can’t stop you. But remember this, if you accuse me, I will make sure everyone knows you killed your husband.”
“I didn’t.”
“Will that matter? It is what people think that matters.”
Patricia had had enough. She knew she couldn’t win with her mother.
“You are right,” she agreed, “you will never be sure what happened at the Falls of Foyers. I am my mother’s daughter, after all. As for the death of Fraser Munro, people would believe Allie Munro if it is your word against his.”
Mrs. Ord Mackenzie’s grievance with her only surviving child was deep and dark, and had festered from never having been cleansed in the light of logical examination.
“You were a cuckoo in my womb.” As the poison poured out, a small foam of spittle formed at the corners of her mouth. “My son died because of you.”
“I . . .” Patricia gave up. There was no point. She sat down and the dogs came out of the basket and she ruffled their necks and they rested their heads, one on each knee, their soft brown eyes staring at her, comforting her, and whatever her mother had to say, it no longer mattered.
“When your brother died and you survived, I was persuaded by your father that no matter how much I hated you, I could not disown you without a scandal.”
Janet Ord Mackenzie had said it. She had uttered the words Patricia had always known—her mother hated her. Her mother’s words no longer contaminated the sun-filled room, as Patricia no longer cared.
“Allie Munro knows his place.” Janet Ord Mackenzie had not finished. “The Munros owe everything to Achnafern Estate. If he opens his mouth, he will be out of the farmhouse, out of a job, without references, and I will make sure no one in the county will employ him. Who would believe the word of a farmhand against mine?”
“I would.”
The dogs ran across the kitchen. The younger one couldn’t stop himself from half jumping against Mr. Ord Mackenzie’s pajama-clad legs and, no matter how dramatic the moment, he couldn’t stop himself from reaching down and scratching the dog’s chest.
Patricia looked at her father, standing there in his dressing gown, pajamas, and slippers. She smiled. He smiled back.
He looks old, she thought. He is old, she remembered.
“I think we have some talking to do,” he said. “I will get dressed. And Patricia, I noticed Allie Munro outside with that splendid new car of yours, why don’t you invite him in, then we can talk this over together.”
TWENTY-SIX
The Monday morning meeting had been in progress for almost an hour when Betsy Buchanan breezed into the room with the official photographs from the Black Isle Show Society.
“These have just arrived,” she said.
Hector snatched the envelopes and spilled the prints onto the table.
“I like your hair,” Joanne remarked in her best sweet voice. “The Kim Novak look, isn’t it?”
“Why, thank you, Joanne.” Betsy, oblivious to sarcasm, patted her hair, stiff with enough lacquer to withstand a force-ten gale from the Faeroes, then swayed out the door in her tight skirt and stiletto heels.
“What was that all about?” Rob asked. “I thought you couldn’t stand her.”
“It’s the way she refuses to do anything I ask,” Joanne protested. “But when McAllister asks it’s ‘yes, Mr. McAllister,’ ‘no, Mr. McAllister,’ ‘anything you say, Mr. McAllister.’ She’s a fluffy imitation of a woman. If Flopsy Rabbit had big breasts, she’d look exactly like Betsy.”
“Meow!” Rob grinned at her.
McAllister grinned through his usual morning cloud of cigarette smoke and said, “Children, please. Can we get on with the paper? We’ve nothing much for a front page, so, ideas?”
“We canny use these photos,” Hector declared. “A heap o’ shite, that’s what they are.”
“Language,” Don told him.
“Sorry, Mrs. Smart, Joanne,” Hector blushed. “But look—they’re rubbish.”
The photographs consisted of shots of prizewinners being presented with cups and rosettes. Lined up in a row, staring straight into the camera, everyone looking as though they were being photographed for a police mug shot.
“We will have to use them,” Mrs. Smart said.
She was right, McAllister and Don knew, the politics of not using the official photographs was too fraught, the Black Isle Show Society being a powerful gathering of local worthies.
Hec was not happy. “Where are my photos going to go?” he complained. “What about the front page?” he had asked at least three times already.
Rob held up a particularly striking shot of the prizewinning Aberdeen Angus bull.
“This picture is great, Hec. The bull’s dangly bits are spectacular.” Rob waved the photo around for all to admire. Joanne was trying to suppress a giggle at Rob’s polite description of the bull. She laughed outright at Don’s reply.
“Aye,” Don said, “Joanne could use this on her wimmin’s page along wi’ a recipe for sweetbreads.”
“Gazette.” Joanne was still laughing as she answered the phone.
“Front page! Ideas please,” McAllister shouted. The team continued their discussion. Joanne continued her phone call.
“Hello.” The voice was faint. Joanne stuck a finger in her other ear and turned away to hear better.
“Patricia. How are you? Did you get back from the show all right? I have been worried about you. . . .”
“Joanne, please listen.”
Three minutes later, Joanne put down the phone. Sitting absolutely still, staring at the yellowing wall, not seeing the inky print of Don’s thumb, nor the streaks of mud off someone’s coat, nor—just below the windowsill—what could have been a faint smudge of blood from who knew where, she was staring, tying to take in the news.
“All you okay?” Rob asked.
“Was that your friend Patricia?” McAllister was watching her across the table.
“Yes,” she replied, her voice quiet, distant. She shuddered. “Sorry.” She looked at her colleagues who were waiting, watching the shock shadowing her eyes. “That was Patricia,” she told them. Then she paused. It was as though she could not quite believe what she had heard. “Mrs. Janet Ord Mackenzie has been arrested and charged with the manslaughter of Fraser Munro.”
“What?” McAllister.
“Goodness me!” Mrs. Smart.
“Great!” Hector.
“Front page!” Don.
It took a good minute to regain order. Everyone was firing questions at Joanne, who answered “I don’t know” to most of them before McAllister intervened.
“Settle down everyone,” he commanded. “Rob, you contact the Ross & Cromarty police. Hector, do you have a photo to go with this story?”
“Aye, I’ve a great one o’
the big house. Really spooky.”
“Joanne, can you talk to Patricia Ord Mackenzie again?” McAllister looked at her carefully, knowing what he was asking.
“I’ll try.” Joanne felt, once again, she was in that tricky space between friendship and professionalism. “Later, when we know more, I’ll call her.”
“Don?” McAllister indicated the layout of the Gazette.
“I’ll block out a front page, then page three for a longer piece, then . . .”
He was interrupted by Betsy arriving with a sheaf of typed copy and a huge grin.
“How exciting,” she trilled. “Mrs. Ord Mackenzie arrested! Who ever would have thought it?”
It took Joanne a fraction of a second to register what Betsy had just said.
“How do you know that?” she asked. “Have you been listening in to my phone calls?” She stood. “How dare you!” She stepped towards Betsy, standing so close it seemed to Hector their bosoms might collide. She raised a finger and waved it in Betsy’s face. “You have been listening in to my personal calls. . . .” She had Betsy backed up against the wall. “If I ever catch you doing that again, I’ll . . .”
“I’ll fire you,” Mrs. Smart spoke without raising her voice but her resolve was as clear any general issuing an order on the battlefield.
Betsy fled. Joanne turned to thank Mrs. Smart, who was sitting at her place at the top of the table, notebook open, pen in hand, neither moving nor changing her expression of calm efficiency until Joanne said, “Thank you, Mrs. Smart.” Then Mrs. Smart nodded back, acknowledging the thanks with a dismissive wave in the manner of Queen Elizabeth The Queen Mother, and said, “Now, where were we?”
The men, and Hector, who had sat through the episode in various degrees of astonishment, were staring at Joanne. Unable to help herself, she licked her forefinger and drew an imaginary mark in the air. “Joanne—one. Betsy—nil.”
She joined in the laughter and, pink with embarrassment, it hit her—this was her place, this was her future.
“So, where were we?” McAllister looked around, desperate to continue the news meeting. It amazed him how much effort it took to appear nonchalant. When he was watching Joanne sit back at her typewriter after dealing with Mrs. Betsy Buchanan, watching her flushed face, seeing how she pushed a stray strand of hair behind her ear and let out a deep sigh of satisfaction, he felt his knees tremble in panic. He lit a cigarette, knowing he could no longer deny to himself that he was in love with her.