by A. D. Scott
“Don McLeod did not kill Mrs. Smart,” McAllister told them with total conviction. But the cold-blooded journalist part of him flashed the thought, But nothing is certain except death itself.
CHAPTER 5
The Highland Gazette was the news and everyone, right down to the printer’s boy, hated that.
Rob was particularly annoyed at being waylaid on the steps outside the Gazette office by a gleeful rival from the Aberdeen daily broadsheet.
McAllister fended off phone calls from other newspapers with a brusque “No comment,” but he gave a brief phone interview to a colleague from the Glasgow national, knowing it would be reported accurately.
The front page of the Gazette carried the full facts of Don’s arrest and the charge. “We report this as we would any other case of this significance,” McAllister told Rob, Joanne, Hector, and Beech.
They had worked early and late, pushed themselves until exhausted, and the newspaper had come out on time, with full content.
Friday morning, and the regular postmortem meeting was taking place. No one knew how to express the delayed-until-after-the-deadline shock. The hush around the table was dense. Like the crew of a sinking ship, they wanted the captain to announce the rescue plan.
“First, I’d like to thank all of you,” McAllister started. “We managed to put together a newspaper minus two of our key staff. Thanks also to Mrs. Buchanan for looking after business so efficiently.” He glanced across at Betsy, thankful she had had the tact not to sit in Mrs. Smart’s usual place at the head of the table, not knowing Joanne had pre-empted Betsy Buchanan by taking the seat herself. “This saga is likely to go on for some time unless . . . ”
“Until we can find who really killed Mrs. Smart.” To Rob, Don was the consummate newspaper hack, accused of a crime he did not commit, destined to be proved innocent by the dashing young hero, himself. Only, Rob could find no way into the case. No one he knew, knew anything to help his investigations.
“Aye—until the real killer is found,” McAllister agreed, but the exhaustion in his voice, the slump of his body, his lighting one cigarette from the butt of the previous one did not inspire confidence.
“McAllister, how could Don be charged . . . I mean, what evidence . . . ” Joanne was stumbling over her words, her brain refusing to contemplate.
“All the evidence is circumstantial—but you never know.” He saw the faces of his staff, each in their own way expressing their horror that Don might be found guilty. He started to cough to cover his emotions. “Let’s start early on next week’s edition.”
The mumbles of Fine and Sure and No problem were all anyone could muster. But work—a refuge from thinking about Don McLeod, locked up, awaiting trial and the judgment of fifteen of his peers—saved them.
* * *
As Friday was normally a slow day on the Gazette, it was Joanne’s library day. Today, it felt like an escape to an oasis of tranquillity. In order to borrow two books of fiction, two books of nonfiction had to be checked out. She thought the system patronizing, but because she was forced to, she had discovered travel books, which she would share with her girls, especially those with pictures.
The books were heavy. Joanne had left her bag in the office and was attempting to wrap her coat around to protect them from the intermittent drizzle that had been falling for the past three days, making the cobbled surface of the steep brae of Castle Wynd treacherous.
“Careful there.”
From a step above, she was level with and much too close to the man she had almost collided with. From this step, she could see directly into his hazel eyes, see his even white teeth in an open, I-know-I-am-a-good-looking-man grin. She thought she felt his breath on her cheek, but perhaps that was wishful thinking. His other attributes, good haircut, good teeth, good but unostentatious tweed jacket and cavalry twill trousers in a shade of brown that spoke quality, made him instantly recognizable as not Scottish—or at least not Scottish of the class that she belonged to.
“I’m so sorry, I was in a right dwam.” She knew she was blushing and hated it.
Again the stranger’s grin made her feel off balance.
“My mother used to say that.”
“Oh really?”
“She used to say ‘a right dwam,’ usually referring to me when I was lost in a book—like you.” He pointed to her finds from the library.
She couldn’t quite place his accent. “You’re not from here,” was all Joanne could think to say, knowing that to mistake a Canadian for an American was as terrible as calling a Scotsman English.
“No. But my bones are from hereabouts. I’m Neil Stewart.” He held out his hand, then laughed. “Sorry, I can see you’re laden. Would you like help with those?”
“Thanks, but I’m not going far. I work down the street at the Highland Gazette.” This was said with obvious pride, and she was delighted when he whistled in appreciation.
“A journalist, eh? I was a journalist before becoming an academic. Started at my hometown newspaper in Nova Scotia; now I live in Ottawa.” He glanced up at the Church Street clock tower. “Have you time for a cup of tea? I’d love to pick your brains about the town.”
“I’d love to. But I’m late and it’s crazy in the office right now . . . why don’t you call me at the Gazette?”
“I’ll do that.” Again his smile. “So, what do I call you?”
She saw him glance at her wedding ring.
“I’m Joanne Ross.” It was suddenly important to her to state the facts. “I hate the Mrs. Ross bit—I was married, I’m now separated, and I want to be known as me.” Even saying the words felt daring.
“Pleased to meet you, ‘Me.’”
It was a silly joke, and she was glad of it. Again he offered his hand. Clutching her books in the crook of her elbow, she took it. “Pleased to meet you too.” She smiled back. “Sorry, but I must get back to work.”
“Can we meet again?”
Yes. Yes please, she was thinking. “Call me at the Gazette office,” she said, and hurried off, anxious to hide her embarrassment.
Did I really do that? Ask him to call me? Joanne was amazed at herself. Anyhow, I don’t suppose he will.
* * *
Neil Stewart had worked and planned and saved for this journey for seven years. He had arrived in Scotland two months ago and had spent the time in Edinburgh, mostly in the National Library. But the focus of his journey was the Highlands.
Expecting Scotland to be like the stories that permeated his childhood—stories from school, from books, stories told by his émigrée mother—was, he knew, unrealistic. But from the moment his train had reached the lowland hills to its steady climb up and across the faultline of mountains, his enchantment with the highland scenery grew and grew. He felt, right to his bones, the visceral pleasure of a prodigal homecoming, knowing that passing burns, rivers, crags, glens, were as much a part of him as that other indelible mark of a true Scot—freckles.
And from the moment he arrived in the Highlands town, stepping off the train and crossing the station square with its statue of an unknown soldier from a forgotten war and seeing the stone terraces lining the wide street, Union Street, aware of the air and the harsh light and the faces and walk and dress of the passersby, familiar yet poorer than he had imagined, he felt he belonged here, because that was why he had come—to belong.
“Where to?” Even the accent of the taxi driver was familiar. It was his mother’s intonation, cadence, the way the wh in “where” was pronounced as softly as a whiff of wind.
“Seventy-three Crown Terrace, please.”
“You’ll be staying wi’ Mrs. Wilkie then.”
It wasn’t a question, it was a statement. The way the man said it, as though he was announcing the Apocalypse, did not fill Neil with confidence.
“So where are you from?”
“Canada.” He wanted to say, From here.
His name—Neil Stewart—came from here in the Highlands. He knew his late mother, C
hrissie, was born in Sutherland but not where. She had always been reluctant to talk of the details of her past. His dark sandy hair, his hazel eyes, and his freckles were marks of a Highland man and although he did not know it, having been born and raised after the diaspora of Scots to Nova Scotia, he had the trait of those raised in a time warp; they did not recognize that their homeland had changed and moved on. Brigadoon was Scotland to many of them.
The journey was short. The taxi driver pulled into a semicircular driveway and stopped in front of a glassed-in porch sheltering a double door painted a shade of brown reminiscent of a medical sample.
The guesthouse was a large Victorian edifice with a lawn, herbaceous borders, and not one ounce of warmth showing in the shrubs or the curtains or the paint. It seemed that all the life had been drained from it in its transformation from family home to lodging house. Respectability dictated that net curtains shroud every window; convenience meant the removal of trees so all that remained were churchyard cypress evergreens.
Neil took his suitcase, asked the fare, paid, and added a tip.
“Here’s yer change, sir,” the man said.
“It’s for you.”
“I don’t need a tip. Sir.”
Neil saw the friendly face turn cold, registered that the man was offended. “I’m sorry, I . . . ”
The driver slammed the door of the taxi and was off before Neil could finish the apology. There was a note attached to the door. Please enter and ring bell. It made no sense, but after ringing the doorbell a few times, Neil went inside, found a small brass handbell on a table, and rang it. As he waited he read the framed list of all things disallowed. Not a propitious start.
Down the green linoleum-lined hallway came a tall grey woman with grey hair, grey dress, and grey demeanor.
“Mrs. Wilkie?”
“Mr. Stewart.” Her inflection was as grey as the rest of her, and Neil felt another of his illusions shatter. Where is the warm Highland welcome?
* * *
Perhaps comfort is not respectable either, Neil thought after ten days of chill and damp and excruciatingly bad breakfasts where even the porridge was horrible, lumpy, and occasionally burnt. Dinners were worse; every meat, fowl, or vegetable was boiled into submission and coated with a grey sludge he presumed was gravy.
Only his research gave him joy. One half of his book, set in the Canadian diaspora, was written. Now he needed to finish researching the Scottish part.
The public library became his refuge. It became a habit to start the day with the newspapers. First he would read the Scotsman, the biweekly Courier, and finally the weekly Highland Gazette. He admired the Gazette. Unlike the newspaper he had worked on in Halifax, he saw it as a paper for the times. They know it is 1957, was his judgment, and they must be doing it tough reporting the murder of one of their own.
As he was folding up the Gazette, he thought, Why not? It would help me financially and maybe give me access to their archives.
* * *
Joanne was struggling to proof the pages the printers had set and sent upstairs for approval. “I’ll never get the hang of reading upside-down!” she wailed. “And I can’t read back to front.”
“I can.”
It was a scene from a romantic comedy except Joanne was a brunette, not a blonde. And the stranger in the doorway was not the proverbial American abroad but Canadian.
“Hello again.” He smiled at Joanne. “I’m Neil Stewart. We bumped into each other at the library. Remember?”
“Aye. I mean—yes. Hello.” She blushed. Then was furious with herself—The sight of a good-looking, interesting stranger and you’re behaving like a schoolgirl fainting over Elvis—grow up, Joanne.
Neil looked across at McAllister, sensing he was the man in charge. “I was wondering if there is any part-time work available.” Again that North American grin demonstrated his confidence with strangers.
“I’m John McAllister, the editor.” McAllister rose to shake hands. “Are you a journalist?”
“I was on a newspaper in Nova Scotia for ten years. Worked on everything—reporting, subediting, and occasional staff photographer.”
“When can you start?”
Neil stared at McAllister, then laughed. “That’s it? No interview? No references?”
“It’ll take half a day to find out if you’re for real.” McAllister gave his trademark one-eyebrow-raised-lips-tight-shut grin and pushed a pile of copy across the desk. “Right you are, Neil, start subbing these.”
The stranger took in the ancient Underwood, wishing for a moment he had his brand-spanking-new Olivetti, rolled in a fresh piece of paper, then looked up. He saw three faces that had either survived a particularly rough sea crossing or else were in shock. He saw that the phone was off the hook—in a newspaper office. He didn’t ask; he’d read the news. He started to type. The others did the same.
The sound of the hooter from the iron foundry bounced off the ring of hills surrounding the town. Most businesses took that as a signal for the lunch break. Most small shops and businesses closed at one o’clock, opening again at two. Most people went home for the midday meal. Others, Joanne among them, brought a flask of tea and sandwiches. She liked having her break alone; it was one of the few times she could enjoy solitude—a rare treat for a working mother.
But she was intrigued; she had never met a man who was not Scottish, except for the Frenchmen who came to town every autumn selling onions tied into long string. Onion Johnnies was their nickname. But as they spoke little English or Scottish, they didn’t count. She had never met a man who seemed so at ease with a woman. And she was vulnerable to charm.
“What are you doing for dinner, em, lunch? Sorry, I don’t know what you call it in Canada.”
“My mother called it dinner. But in smart academic circles we call it lunch and right now I usually call it a sandwich—and not a very nice one at that.”
“Do you fancy a coffee and a decent sandwich? There’s a great place on Castle Street.”
As soon as she’d asked, Joanne looked away, embarrassed by how forward the questions must seem. Neil hadn’t noticed.
This is the second time I’ve asked him for something. He’ll think I’m a loose woman. No, I can pass it off as Highland hospitality.
“Really? Take me there this instant. I’ve been searching for good coffee ever since I arrived.”
To Joanne, even walking down the flight of steps and through the car park and across busy Castle Street felt daring. What if anyone sees us? she was thinking. So what? She told herself. He’s a colleague. But among her first impressions of Neil Stewart was a sense of irresistible danger.
The small café was narrow and long and a favorite amongst staff from the offices in the town. The worst of the lunchtime rush over, a black-aproned waiter, with what was left of his hair combed across his pink skull looking like it had been stuck there with glue, gestured to a window table before whipping out his notepad, to which was tied a pencil on a grubby length of string.
“Can you make an espresso?” Neil asked.
“We certainly can.” The man straightened his back and talking down his nose said, “And we do.”
“A double then.” When he had gone, Neil leaned across the table and in a loud whisper said, “I think I offended him.”
“You did,” Joanne agreed. “So if you’re wanting a decent coffee from now on you’d better tell him how good it is.”
When the coffees arrived, Neil sipped his and declared loudly, “This coffee is exceptional.”
“I know.” Their waiter, who was also part owner of the café, replied, honor satisfied.
Waiting for the toasted sandwiches, Neil said, “Tell me about working on the Gazette.”
“Well . . . ” Joanne began. To her frustration, tears welled up.
“Idiot!” He smacked his forehead. “I’m so sorry. I read the news about your colleagues.”
“Mrs. Smart’s death was horrible. Don McLeod’s arrest doesn’t feel r
eal. He would never have—” She shook her head as though tossing her hair around would dislodge the memories. “I walk into the office and expect to see Mrs. Smart sitting at the head of the table, pen in hand, ready to take notes . . . ”
“After my mother died, I kept seeing her out the corner of my eye.” Neil was staring out the window, not seeing the passersby. “More than once I thought I saw her disappearing round a corner, shopping bag in her hand. Or I would imagine I could hear her climbing the stairs to bed—after she had checked the front and back doors twice to see if they were locked—something she said she never did when she lived in Scotland.” He leaned forward slightly. “And something I’ve never told anyone—I still talk to her, especially at night. I tell her about my day, I tell her of my achievements, knowing how proud it would make her. Some would think I’m mad, but it’s comforting.”
It was this more than anything that made Joanne warm to this stranger, drop her guard; the way he confided in her, the way he told her the small things in his life; it made him vulnerable, human, more of a man. He was intelligent, an attribute she admired, and knowledgeable. It was what attracted her to McAllister, but with Neil she did not feel intimidated.
“Heavens, we’d better get back.” Joanne was surprised that the time had passed so quickly. She put a half a crown on the table. Neil pushed it back and laid a ten-shilling note down. The waiter appeared and took Neil’s money, saving the embarrassment of a discussion. “Thanks.” Joanne smiled.
“You’re welcome,” Neil replied.
She hurried across the road. For a woman who went to church on Sundays, who was reared on the Ten Commandments, who had known no one but her husband, even being alone in the company of an unknown single male was not the done thing; for a woman from this town, this society, it was verging on sin—and she knew it.
His long strides easily kept up with hers. They climbed the steps back to the office, back to the deadline, back to sorrow and a difficult edition of the Highland Gazette, reporting the tragedy and naming one of their own as perhaps a murderer.