by A. D. Scott
When Rob and Hector returned, mission unaccomplished, they saw Beech had joined the meeting. His offer of help—chasing up the correspondents’ copy, proofreading, council reports—McAllister had gratefully accepted.
Joanne always looked forward to the ritual “Monday Morning News Meeting,” an event she saw in capital letters, but today there was none of the usual joking and bad puns, mostly because of Mrs. Smart’s absence, but also because Don McLeod was not there wielding his wee red pencil, shooting down the more irrelevant stories, correcting facts, eliminating stray adjectives and adverbs, and keeping them all, including the editor, in line.
“Is there any news about Mrs. Smart?” Joanne’s voice was quiet, and asking the question on everyone’s mind.
“I haven’t had a chance to speak to DI Dunne . . . ” McAllister spoke through a fog of cigarette smoke.
“Perhaps you should.” Joanne’s voice was gentle, the remark said not in judgment, more as a suggestion, but McAllister felt it keenly.
“You’re right. I should.” The silence in the room stretched. “She was one of us, a good woman . . . ”
“And what about the funeral arrangements?”
McAllister said, “The Procurator Fiscal will want an expert witness to testify for the Crown. A professor from Edinburgh is coming to assist in the postmortem, so I expect Mrs. Smart’s body will be released in a few days.”
“Let’s hope the funeral is not on deadline day,” Rob quipped. He took in the psychic shudder that ran around the table. “Sorry, not in the best of taste.”
McAllister was actually glad that someone was trying to lighten the mood and get them back to as near normal as possible. “I’m sure Mrs. Smart wouldn’t have minded—she was used to journalists’ appalling sense of humor.”
They let that remark settle, all remembering Mrs. Smart—sitting at the table, presiding over the sometimes frantic proceedings, never flapping, never angry, her steel-grey hair never out of place, lipstick never smudged, the way she would look down at her papers, tidy them into neat stacks before picking out the relevant page and smiling at the corners of her mouth—the only indication she had something to say.
“I know the Aberdeen daily is splashing the murder on their front page,” McAllister told them, “and so far, it seems no one knows about Don’s altercation with the widower.” He lit another cigarette from the butt of the still-lit one. “I’ll cover the story of the death, but let’s keep Don out of it.” He saw the nods from all of Don’s friends. “So, tell me what else we have for the edition.”
“Lord Lovat and the council are at loggerheads over a septic tank,” Rob told them, glad of the change of subject. “It’s becoming personal.”
“Good. Follow it up and get an interview with Lord Lovat if possible.”
“I might be able to help there,” Beech offered. Rob grinned his thanks.
“Joanne?”
Joanne hesitated. “It’s not much of a story,” she started, unaware that it was this hesitancy that annoyed McAllister, never the content of her ideas, “but some of the ladies of the town are gossiping about the provost’s wife and the upcoming trip to Canada.” She opened her notebook and read the quote from the Provost’s Office: “The Provost will be studying ‘aspects of the cinema business arising out of television . . .’”
“What?” Rob laughed.
“And promoting tourism to the Highlands,” Joanne finished reading.
“Sounds like a fiddle to me.” Rob wished he had this story. It would be a chance to make mischief.
“It’s a good story, Joanne,” McAllister said. “It gives an innocuous lead into what some might see as a fiddle, as Rob so aptly put it.” He turned to the photographer.
“Hector?”
“I’ve football photos and some people getting their trophies from the bowling club.”
“Write a few lines to go with the pictures, and make sure you get the names right.”
Hector looked terrified at the idea he might have to touch a typewriter.
Rob sighed, knowing he would end up doing the writing, with Hec waving his arms, windmilling the action. “I’ll help him.”
“Right.” McAllister was not in the mood for any more chat. “Let’s get through this edition, and hopefully Don will be back soon.” He gathered his notes. “Let’s hope Betsy can cope with the advertisers until we appoint a new manager. In the meantime . . . ”
“We will all help as best we can,” Joanne spoke for all of them.
That week, the Gazette was produced without Mrs. Smart and Don McLeod, but barely. The compositors pointed out the more glaring changes in style, McAllister being out of practice at marking up the layout.
“I’m sorry,” he said to the father of the chapel—a formidable man with a formidable title, who was in charge of the printers and also their union representative. “I haven’t done this since I was a cadet.”
“Aye, I can see that,” the man replied. As McAllister turned to go he added, “I’m right sorry about Mrs. Smart—she was a good woman.”
A good woman, that’s what everyone says, McAllister thought. Yet I still know so little about her. He had written up the story of her death but ended up asking Beech to compose the obituary.
The Fatal Accident Enquiry had declared the death “Killed by person or persons unknown,” and ordered the Procurator Fiscal to investigate. The Gazette front page contained the bare facts. The Aberdeen press coverage was much more sensational.
McAllister knew DI Dunne was telling the truth when he said there was no new information. “Sorry, McAllister, but we have no more other than the fact she was stabbed. Not that I want that published.”
There was a good relationship between McAllister and the new detective inspector—unlike with the previous incumbent, a venal man, corrupt, cruel, incompetent, who had met an unfortunate end—an end known only to McAllister and two McPhee brothers.
“I’ll write the usual ‘Anyone with any information’ appeal, then.”
“That would be good. One other thing, could you tell Don McLeod we need to interview him? From what I’ve heard, he knew her the longest of anyone hereabouts.”
“I’ll try.” McAllister was thoughtful after he put down the phone. He picked up the copy of the yesterday’s Gazette, didn’t like what he saw—lightweight, was his opinion—and reread the obituary.
When he had finished, McAllister still felt none the wiser. The facts of her birth, marriage, and career gave no real impression of the private person. I presume that is how she wanted it, he thought, but death, violent death, is no protector of secrets.
Somehow it seemed crass to find a replacement for Mrs. Smart so soon after her death, but he knew it must be done. He walked across to the reporters’ room.
“Joanne, we need your help.”
At those words she was immediately on her guard.
Joanne went with McAllister into the editor’s office. She had noticed the dark under his eyes a few days before but assumed it was overwork. It was more than that; McAllister feared the unraveling of all he had striven for, dreamed of, all he had come to the Highlands to achieve.
“Betsy Buchanan needs help. Since you know most of the advertisers from before you took on reporting duties, could you give her a hand?” He was waving his cigarette in the air as he spoke. “I realize it’s extra work, and we’ll run an advert for a replacement for—not that anyone could replace Mrs. Smart . . . ”
Joanne felt a lurch in her stomach. Her first thought was, No, I don’t want to give up working as a reporter. I’ve come too far and I love my job. What she was yet to acknowledge was that the job gave her a sense of self-worth; something her father, a minister of the strictly John Knox branch of Scottish Presbyterianism, had tried to discipline out of her; something her husband had tried to beat out of her. Plus, she needed the money; supporting their two daughters was not something Bill Ross remembered very often—unless it was to bribe them for information about their mother.
McAllister saw her struggling with the idea. “You’ve come on so much in the past six months, and you’ve the makings of a good journalist . . . ”
Don’t patronize me, she thought, but he didn’t catch her flash of anger.
“We’ll advertise for a manager,” he continued, “but in the meantime the Gazette needs someone on the business side. We have to ensure we have the revenue to pay for all the changes plus pay the wages.”
No pressure then, she felt like saying. “I’ll do it,” she said.
He would never know it, but if he had only used a different tense, an “I” instead of a “we,” it would have been different; she would have felt valued by him, not the organization.
“I know it might be hard for you to work with Betsy . . . ” McAllister had offered to ask Betsy Buchanan to leave when learning of her ongoing affair with Joanne’s husband.
That’s not fair, Joanne had said. Besides, I’m grateful to Betsy for keeping him out of my hair.
Women, I’ll never understand them, had been McAllister’s comment to Don. Don had agreed.
“I know how to deal with Betsy.” She smiled when she saw his reaction. “Don’t worry. I’ll be all sweetness and light. She’ll never know my manipulating ways.”
“We can’t afford to lose another member of staff.” As soon as he said it, he regretted it. Even the words coming out of my mouth are wrong—along with everything else. “Thanks, Joanne. As I said, it’s only temporary . . . ” But she had left before he could say more.
Joanne ran down the stairs. The phone was quiet for once. She didn’t see the unplugged leads on the switchboard—Betsy’s way of dealing with the volume of calls.
“Betsy, can you come upstairs?” Joanne asked.
Joanne could see Betsy was nervous as she came into the reporters’ room.
“Joanne, I’m sorry. I know you must be angry at Bill for leaving you . . . ” Her voice had gone up a register.
Joanne said nothing to this remark. If it salvages his pride saying he left me rather than the other way around, let him.
“We’re really in love,” Betsy was saying.
All Joanne could think was, You poor thing. She knew she had married a damaged soldier who’d been through a terrible war. But she thought she could heal him. She failed.
She remembered the beatings from Bill Ross, her soldier laddie, her beautiful beau turned wife-beating-bully-boy husband. She remembered hiding the black-and-blue marks from her children, her colleagues, until one day, when he had hit her too hard, she ended up in hospital, and she was the one who felt ashamed—of being a battered wife.
“Betsy, I really don’t care about you and my husband, some things are more important.” She saw Betsy didn’t understand. “Mrs. Smart . . . ”
“Oh. Right. I know. It’s terrible . . . ”
“Mr. McAllister has asked me to help you look after the business side of the Gazette until a replacement manager is found. But I can’t do that without you.”
“That would be great, only . . . ”
“Really?”
“Mrs. Smart being killed is so terrible. I can’t stop thinking about it. But I was hoping . . . ” Betsy couldn’t look directly at Joanne. It was obvious she wanted to say something. Joanne waited.
“I was hoping . . . maybe . . . ”
Joanne guessed what Betsy was hoping but did not feel like being generous.
“The advertisement for a manager will be in next week’s Gazette. In the meantime, I will help if I can. But Betsy, you know the ropes, everyone likes you, you’d be so much better talking to the advertisers than me.”
Betsy Buchanan couldn’t help it. It is what she is, Joanne thought as she watched Betsy cock her head to one side, put her hand to her hair, smile in that oh so annoying little girl way, and say, “Do you really think so?”
“I do.” Joanne sat down. “So tell me what needs doing.”
“I’ll visit our major advertisers, and get the ads off them. Mrs. Smart always said the personal touch was best.”
And I bet you’re good at that, Joanne didn’t say. “That’s great, Betsy. I’ll help with the layout and coordinate with editorial.” Joanne found she liked being decisive. They decided that McAllister would sign off on any major financial contracts Betsy recommended, and in less than an hour they had decided who was to do what.
“One thing, Joanne. Mrs. Smart paid me a commission on the advertising I sold. I’m happy to stay on the same wages if I get paid the extra.”
Betsy was not the most educated of women, having left school at fifteen, but she had no doubt that she could do very well with a commission-based career.
Joanne laughed. “Ask McAllister. But I can see the Gazette will do very well with you in charge of sales.”
“I’ll need a title. I was thinking ‘Advertising Manager.’”
Manager? Joanne thought, and then saw that it was only a title. “How about Advertising Executive?”
“I like it.” More than anything it was the idea of a title and a business card that thrilled Betsy Buchanan—and the extra commission she was sure she would make.
When Betsy left, Joanne was pleased with the way she had handled the situation—professional and businesslike. Plus she had achieved her aim—to make sure that helping Betsy did not interfere with her job as reporter. I can do both, was her thinking. After all, I’m a working mother, able to do half a dozen things at once.
* * *
Mortimer Beauchamp Carlyle was seldom surprised by human nature, but the news he was about to convey to the staff at the Gazette had disturbed and dismayed him and his sister.
As he walked into the reporters’ room, seeing the bent heads, hearing the clatter of the ancient Underwood typewriters, he fancied he felt the air vibrate as the words formed on copy paper, waiting to be edited, typeset, proofread, printed, the black type making the news and stories real, ready for the denizens of town and county to digest, to discuss, to sense that they were part of the Highlands of Scotland 1957. This was their world—a world changing too rapidly for many.
They needed their local newspaper to touch on the changing postwar world, but mostly the readers wanted reassurance, wanted to know that the schools were educating their children, the hospitals tending their sick, that the auction marts were busy, that the roads were being mended, and that the Church, of whatever denomination, still ruled their community.
Rob sensed the presence of Beech in the doorway. He looked up and grinned at the tall angular figure. “Hiya.”
“Good morning, young man. Picking up the lingo from our American cousins?”
“And the music. You must come and hear our band next time we play.”
Beech had heard the new American music that was sweeping Great Britain and found a startling resemblance to the chanting and singing of the tribes of Abyssinia and the Sudan.
“I’m not sure I would appreciate it.” Beech remained standing in the doorway. “No, I’m here on a much less pleasant matter, I’m afraid.”
There was a sudden lull in the chatter of typewriters. “I have information about Mrs. Smart’s funeral.”
“When is it?” Joanne asked.
“Today,” Beech replied.
“Today? Where? When?” McAllister, Joanne, and Rob and Hector were speaking all at once.
“It was held this morning.” He saw the looks of astonishment. “I’ve only just found out myself.” Beech apologized. “My sister went next door to ask about the arrangements. Sergeant Major Smart said the body was released late yesterday afternoon and taken directly to Assynt, where Mrs. Smart is be
ing interred in the family plot.”
McAllister was the first to ask the obvious. “So why is the man still here in town when his wife is being buried on the other side of the country?”
“Ah. Yes. My sister asked the same. The sergeant major told her it was a private funeral. That he was unable to go all that way . . . ” Sergeant Major Smart had also said that it was none of anyone’s business and had shut the door in Rosemary Sokolov’s face. Beech told this to McAllister later, in private.
“Does she have family over there?” Joanne asked.
“No one still living—as far as I know. Her mother died when Joyce Mackenzie was a child, her father died some fifteen or so years ago.”
No one knew what to say, except Hector.
“That’s no’ right,” he said, voicing everyone’s thoughts. “No one should go to their grave alone.”
“Why would her husband do this?” Joanne was shocked; funerals were big affairs in the Highlands, the size of the send-off giving comfort to the living and respect to the deceased.
Beech too was keenly aware of the breach of etiquette. He was aware of a second wave of bereavement, hurting Joyce Smart’s colleagues and friends.
“When the time is right . . . ” Everyone looked up at Beech, his voice and stance those of an elder statesman. “We’ll find her grave. We all will go there, and hold our own commemoration.”
“Yes, we will.” As McAllister spoke, murmurs of agreement filled the room, and he knew the time would be right when the Highland Gazette had published the name of Mrs. Smart’s killer across the front page.
CHAPTER 3
The lack of progress in the police investigation infuriated McAllister, and the reading of the will obsessed him; the death of Mrs. Smart came about because of her life, not some random act committed by a madman, of that he was certain.
I owe it to her, he told himself when he started delving to better understand why she was killed. But really it had been that terrible night when he couldn’t remember her Christian name that had stabbed his conscience. And McAllister had a deep conscience—when it mattered to him.