Beneath the Abbey Wall

by A. D. Scott

  “I’m off to see your father,” McAllister told Rob.

  “What about?” Rob asked knowing that his father, a respected local solicitor, would never divulge information on his work or clients.

  “Mind your own business.”

  “Really? I thought a journalist’s job was just the opposite.”

  McAllister stepped out into a grey September day, an opalescent grey, not a slate-grey, so, for this part of the world, at this time of year, a good day. The cheeky grin from the bright-young-going-places-self-styled-star of the Gazette had cheered him. That young man will go far. I hope we can keep him a year or two more.

  He hurried to the solicitor’s office, only a short walk away. He was curious about the meeting, and had no idea why he, albeit editor of a newspaper, should be invited to the reading of Mrs. Smart’s will.

  * * *

  From all his years as a prominent local solicitor, Angus McLean was used to strange wills. It was his opinion that many, from beyond the grave, wanted to influence the living out of jealousy. They are alive, I must be dead, so let’s loose some mischief, Angus imagined the soon-to-be-deceased thinking. But he could not imagine such pettiness from Mrs. Smart. So, he concluded, there must be good reasons for her having made the bequests she did.

  The will was businesslike. Not drawn up by himself but by a solicitor in Edinburgh. He had been named sole executor. He was about to discharge his duties—he glanced at the carriage clock atop the solid cabinet where he kept his law books and the whisky decanter and glasses—in ten minutes’ time.

  McAllister was the first to arrive. He came in, took a seat, the one that would give him the best view of the other attendees at the reading of the will.

  Next to arrive was Jenny McPhee, accompanied by her son Jimmy. The three of them acknowledged each other, and the surprise on McAllister’s face made Jenny laugh.

  “I know no more than you, McAllister,” she said. “All I know is this letter asking me to turn up, here and now.”

  “But we’re right curious,” Jimmy added.

  Jimmy helped his mother settle in to her chair, treating her with the deference due a duchess—or the matriarch of the Traveling people that she was. Her small wiry body and dark skin showed her many years on the road. Her coat and her scarf and her rings showed a woman who kept the traditional life but was not averse to a bit of luxury.

  The sound of a kerfuffle and a well-bred-commanding-the-troops voice came from the reception room. The secretary opened the door, announced “Sergeant Major Smart,” then stood to one side with the look of a woman whose cat has just presented her with a rat.

  A small, wiry, hazelnut-brown man, in neatly pressed khaki trousers and shirt, pushed a wheelchair into the room. There sat Sergeant Major Smart with what remained of his legs covered by a tartan blanket. He did not introduce his companion but looked at the others sitting in a semicircle, and took in the sight of Jenny and Jimmy McPhee.

  He tried to cover his shock and, McAllister fancied, his fear, by blustering, “Damned if I can see why we couldn’t have conducted this meeting at my house.” He glared at Angus McLean, blaming him for the presence of the tinkers. He would never admit to knowing a Traveling person, far less the legendary Jenny McPhee. And he was scared of Jimmy McPhee.

  “How are you, Archie?” Jenny McPhee asked in a sugar-and-spice-voice, the spice being the dominant flavor. “Joyce’s house—are you sure it’s yours now?”

  “Why is this person here?” The way the sergeant major screwed up his face, the way he spat out the word “person,” made Angus McLean worry he might be having a stroke; a person of the former soldier’s status would never expect to be questioned by a tinker.

  Angus McLean ignored the sergeant major. “There is one other person expected, and then we can begin the reading of the will.” He had recruited his son to make sure Don McLeod appeared, but was uncertain he would succeed.

  But a noise in reception announced their arrival. Rob ushered another almost-invalid to a chair. He was startled to see, but knew not to comment on, the attendance of Jenny and Jimmy McPhee. As he was leaving, Rob looked at the secretary, then changed his mind; no one in the solicitor’s office would tell him anything, not his father and especially not the office gorgon, so he would have to wait.

  I’ll find out soon enough, he said to himself. McAllister will fill me in. Or Don—providing he’s drunk enough.

  McAllister had not seen Don for almost two weeks, leaving his deputy to do whatever he needed to, to recover from the shock of Mrs. Smart’s death. Don’s solution was to search for, and not find, the answer at the dark end of a whisky bottle. Sober or not was hard to distinguish with Don McLeod. McAllister watched Jenny McPhee close the gap between her chair and Don’s, seemingly without movement, and he was glad.

  Don had seen Jenny and Jimmy when he came in, but to wonder why they were there was beyond him, and nodding to acknowledge their acquaintance would hurt his head. But he was grateful they were there.

  Angus McLean picked up a document. Everyone came to attention. “This is the last will and testament of Mrs. Archibald Smart, née Joyce Eileen Mackenzie,” he began.

  “As far as you know,” the sergeant major interrupted.

  “Do you know of the existence of another will?” Angus asked. But both he and Sergeant Major Smart knew it was a rhetorical question; the late Mrs. Smart had been meticulous in keeping her affairs in order.

  “The will is a straightforward list of bequests with no extraneous codicils. Firstly: the sum of one hundred pounds per year is bequeathed for a scholarship, to be used for the training and education of a young journalist at the Highland Gazette. The terms state that the person must be under twenty-five, be from a disadvanted family . . . ”

  “You mean poor,” Jimmy McPhee said. He had no time for those who didn’t call an elbow an elbow.

  “Precisely. And be a native Gaelic speaker. The editor of the Highland Gazette will choose the candidate in an open competition, held to coincide with the annual Mod.”

  “Most gracious.” McAllister nodded towards the sergeant major. He also tried to catch Don’s eye, but Don’s eyes were closed, his body motionless, as though any movement might set off a hangover, or worse.

  “Second. All jewelry and a set of Highland dancing swords are bequeathed to Mrs. Jenny McPhee.”

  “Never!” Sergeant Major Smart shot up in his chair, his legs making a distinct clank. His Nepali caregiver stepped forward, then retreated back into the corner, watching his master like a guardian temple dog from his Himalayan kingdom. “Some of that jewelry is worth a fortune. Make note, McLean, I shall be contesting this.”

  “That is entirely up to you. However, your late wife’s will is legal and unequivocal.” As Angus McLean said this he saw Jenny McPhee whispering to her son Jimmy. She did not look at all happy at the news. Even among Travelers, who were known to keep themselves to themselves, Jenny McPhee was a secretive woman. No one knew what bound her to Joyce Mackenzie—as she always called her friend. Neither woman was ashamed of the friendship, and no one, not even Jimmy McPhee, knew of their shared past. Until now.

  Angus McLean too was curious as to why Jenny McPhee was a beneficiary but would never ask. He looked down at the document and continued, “The sum of two thousand pounds is left to Bahadur Gurung in recognition of his devoted service to my late father.”

  Jimmy whistled when the substantial sum of money was read out. The Gurkha soldier remained as impassive as a painted deity from his homeland.

  “Next”—Angus was holding up the document in front of him as though to ward off the venom wafting across the deck—“the marital home at Ness Walk is left, unencumbered, to Sergeant Major Archibald Smart.”

  No comment from the sergeant major this time.

  “Next. All monies in the bank account in the name of Joyce Eileen Smart are bequeathed to the local orphanage. Joint bank accounts revert to the widower.”

  “What bank accounts? I know no
thing of a separate account. How much is in there? I have every right to know.”

  What an auld eejit, Jenny thought.

  “We can discuss that later.” Angus wanted to get on with the reading, knowing there was worse to come. He took a deep breath. “The estate in Assynt, Sutherland, is left, in its entirety, to Donal Dewar McLeod.”

  This time Angus began wondering if Sergeant Major Smart would need an ambulance.

  “I knew it! That man.” Sergeant Major Smart pointed at a now more alert Don, or at least a man with his eyes only half shut. “That man murdered my wife.”

  Don was immediately on his feet. Jimmy put an arm between him and the sergeant major, who was attempting to rise from his chair. The Gurkha jumped between him and Don. McAllister was saying, “Calm down, calm down.” Jenny was sitting back enjoying herself. And Angus was glad of the width of the partner’s desk between himself and chaos.

  “If you don’t need him anymore, I’m taking Mr. McLeod wi’ me,” Jimmy said.

  Angus nodded gratefully. “We can go over the details another time.”

  Jimmy’s grip on Don’s arm and the strength he was using to propel him out the door left Don with no choice. There was no energy left in him; three weeks of steady drinking had seen to that.

  “I shall be reporting this to the police,” Sergeant Major Smart called after them. “This proves motive, you know.” But everyone ignored him.

  Angus McLean wanted the gathering over and done with. “I have informed all the beneficiaries of the contents of the will, as is my duty as executor. My office will be in contact to sort out the details.”

  “I will fight this.” The sergeant major’s voice was still loud but had lost a little of the arrogance.

  “The will is properly drawn up and will be properly executed.” Angus had never liked the man, and not for the first time wondered how a person as obviously decent as Mrs. Smart had married such a popinjay. “To fight the will would be expensive. The law will take into account your inheritance of a property of substantial value, worth more than fifty percent of the total value of your late wife’s estate.”

  “I will do everything in my power to see that that McLeod man inherits nothing.” He next turned on Jenny McPhee. “As for you, I will make certain you do not inherit a single piece of her jewelry.”

  “I canny stop you, Mr. Smart”—Jenny’s nonuse of his title was deliberate—“but know this; she was a far better woman than you ever deserved, and she is sorely missed.”

  When the sergeant major had been wheeled out of the room, Jenny waited a minute to avoid meeting him again, then she too rose to leave.

  “Thank you, Mr. McLean. What happened to Joyce is beyond belief and pains me greatly, and this”—she gestured to the papers on the desk—“does not make me any happier.”

  McAllister saw the back of her hand, brown and wrinkled, and he knew she was much older than she seemed. Don’s age, he thought. He also noted her saying “Joyce,” and considered that she might know the secrets of Mrs. Smart. Not that Jenny McPhee was likely to share her knowledge with anyone other than her son Jimmy.

  “I’ll miss the woman.” Jenny lifted a handbag that resembled a badly cured reptile, pulled down a hat that resembled a tea cozy, and added, “But I wish she hadn’t landed me with this inheritance. It’ll only lead to trouble.” She nodded—“Mr. McLean, McAllister”—and made for the door.

  “Could you give me an address where I can write to you?” Angus McLean asked.

  “Care of the Ferry Inn will get me.”

  When he and the solicitor were alone, McAllister sat down and lit a Passing Cloud, hoping the fragrance would clear the malice from the air.

  “I suppose you are used to it,” he said, waiting as the solicitor filled and lit his pipe, setting off enough smoke to kipper a good dozen herrings. “But from all I know and read, wills bring out the worst in everyone, and this will is certainly intriguing.”

  “I couldn’t pass an opinion on a client’s mind.” Angus smiled. “All I do is administer their wishes. In this case I fear it may be a long-drawn-out, perhaps bitter, process.”

  “Rather you than me.” The banality of the comment covered McAllister’s curiosity. He knew he would get few answers from Angus McLean—but maybe a few discreet directions. “It was good of her to leave a scholarship to the Gazette.”

  “She was a good woman.”

  “She and Jenny must have been close.”

  “Indeed.”

  “An estate in Sutherland—does that make Don a laird?”

  “Quite a thought.” Angus McLean smiled, but he was giving no more information than absolutely required of him by law.

  They shook hands. McAllister left to walk to the Gazette office. In the act of walking he did his thinking; he would consider yet another layer of complexity in the character of the much-missed Mrs. Joyce Eileen Smart, née Mackenzie, of the Assynt Mackenzies.

  The scholarship for a young person from the Gaeltachd was novel and welcome and much needed. The bequests to Jenny McPhee and Don McLeod were perplexing.

  In former times Jenny and Mrs. Smart must have known each other well. McAllister had not been aware of a connection between them; the friendship seemed unlikely—one being a tinker, the other a lady. Although he could say he knew Jimmy McPhee and his mother, he could not say he knew them; the Travelers were secretive, and knowing the hostility towards them from the majority of the population, he didn’t blame them for distrusting outsiders.

  As for an estate in remote Assynt—what would Don do with it? There was nothing there but heather, peat bogs, lochs, and lochans, fortified by fiercesome mountains. In McAllister’s opinion, summer in the Northwest, with its nine-and-a-half-month winter, did not make it the Highland paradise of song and legend and maudlin expatriate memory. A Glasgow public house was his idea of real Scotland.

  Not that he knew the area well. When a young journalist in Glasgow, he had been as far as Lairg once, in June, and had been driven back by rain interspersed with occasional sleet. Two years later, in August, he had driven up the west coast to Ullapool and on to Lochinver, on some of the most beautiful roads in Scotland. The purple-heather-clad hills were spectacular, though the shocking clouds of midgies that could bite through cowhide made walking nigh impossible. The way the locals examined a stranger as though he was a green man from Mars, the absolute ban on any activity on the Sabbath, and the desolate glens with abandoned crofts overgrown with grass a brighter green than the surrounding moorland depressed him. He knew the history of the Clearances and the stories still hurt.

  Yes, there was something majestic about the ancient scarred mountaintops, particularly Suilven. Yes, the late-night-never-quite-dark light was enchanting, but he was a city man then, too young and self-absorbed to fall in love with landscape. So he went scuttling back to the warm comfort of his beloved hard man land of Glasgow.

  McAllister thought again about the woman he had worked with but barely knew. He hadn’t known her husband was wheelchair-bound. He hadn’t known she was wealthy. He hadn’t known she had lived in India. There was much he hadn’t known. But he agreed with the many people who’d said, “She was a good woman.” Such an old-fashioned phrase that, he thought, and in Joyce Smart’s case, absolutely true.

  He had reached the Gazette without being aware he was there. Climbing the staircase, he thought, Jenny McPhee is right, there’s trouble brewing.

  CHAPTER 4

  Once more, settled in his armchair with the fire blazing and the wireless playing Mozart, McAllister was startled out of a good book and a good malt by a late-night visitor. This time it was Saturday, but again the thought came to him, It’s almost the Sabbath, who on earth is about in this town, this late at night? Again, he knew it would not be good news.

  The visitor was Sergeant Patience, a man whom all considered most inappropriately named.

  “Mr. McAllister, sir, you’re needed down the station,” the policeman told him.

  “No
thing serious, I hope?”

  A big barreled bulk of a policeman, the sergeant was not always popular but had lately formed an odd alliance with Rob McLean over motorbikes.

  “It’s Donnie McLeod and it’s no’ serious—yet,” the sergeant said, “but if he carries on like this much longer, there’s no saying what might happen.”

  “I’ll get my coat and meet you at the station.”

  * * *

  Don was in a cell, but the door was open. The smell of drink and vomit and stale urine was nasty, but what really appalled McAllister was the state of the man; he looked like one of those lost souls who had suffered in either or both of the wars, wandering the country, living a half-life, surviving on the kindness of strangers and the Salvation Army.

  “Are you charging him?” McAllister asked.

  “No’ this time,” Sergeant Patience told him, “but it’s no’ always me who finds him and I canny vouch for some o’ the other police officers who don’t know him like I do.”

  “Would you help me get him to my car?”

  “Nae bother.”

  On the short ride home, McAllister worried Don might vomit. He wasn’t scared for his car, just afraid Don would choke. One death at the Gazette is enough.

  It took McAllister much more effort than it had the policeman to get Don out of the car, down the garden path, and inside the house. At the doorstep, while McAllister was fiddling with his keys, Don leaned against the porch door, then slid to the checkerboard tiles, and collapsed in the middle like a sad Victorian sponge cake. All the while Don was muttering, arguing with himself, in Gaelic. To McAllister, who knew no Gaelic, the words washed over him like a Highland burn, running to the sea.

  Getting Don upstairs to bed was beyond him. Getting him to the bathroom was difficult, but McAllister managed. Stripping off trousers, jacket, and shirt that had been slept in since the day of the reading of the will, a week ago, was relatively easy, as Don was snoring on the kitchen floor; getting him into the sitting room and onto the sofa was achieved without putting McAllister’s back out. He tucked a blanket around his deputy; then, in case of accidents, he spread old newspapers around the floor near Don’s head before retreating to his armchair to sit the night out, on watch for the man he admired and cared for sleep the sleep of the unready.