by A. D. Scott
“Joyce Mackenzie. Use her real name.” Jimmy’s voice resembled the camp dogs growling at unknown night noises. “As for her and ma mother, that’s their business. ”
It took another five minutes or so before McAllister, his mind overwhelmed by the story, could bring himself to ask his next question. “Your brothers? The ones who were taken?”
“Have you no’ heard o’ the bairns that were—and still are—stolen from tinker families?” Jimmy asked. “No, you and everybody else are no’ concerned wi’ the likes o’ us.”
McAllister’s foot involuntarily lifted from the accelerator. The thought gave him the shivers.
“The welfare declares them neglected,” Jimmy continued, “grabs them, and that’s the last we see or hear of them.”
Everything in McAllister made him want to stop the car, but he knew that the anonymity of the dark, of sitting side by side, not able to see faces, gestures, pain, made a story easier to tell.
“We’re well liked, mostly, in the North West. People around Ullapool and Lochinver, and Sutherland, they treat us well. But there are some do-gooders working for the welfare who believe our bairns are better off in institutions, going to school, being sent to homes in Australia and Canada, having life on the road beaten out o’ them, and worse.”
Jimmy’s voice seemed to be coming from far away; he had spent some time in one of those schools and had seen the evil that those caring men could inflict on small boys locked up in their care.
“What Joyce Mackenzie and the auld Colonel did was give us a wee but and ben on the estate. It was basic but much more than four walls and a roof; it was an address, and we bairns could go to school, and that kept the welfare away.”
It was then that McAllister knew the magnitude of the debt Jenny felt to Joyce Mackenzie. A home, an address, the privacy of a cottage, no matter how basic, on a private estate, where the welfare would be loath to invite the wrath of a landowner, an old soldier, a family of the Highland gentry. But it still didn’t explain the bequest. It should have been the other way round, he thought, but perhaps it was friendship, pure and simple.
“Drop me off at the Longman camp outside the town.” Jimmy barked out the order. The memories of that time, at that institution, when he was twelve or so was not a place he wanted to revisit.
They continued along the firth into town. Their arrival started the camp dogs barking. Jimmy let out a roar that cleansed the memories and stopped the barking, except for one puppy that would not last long if it continued yelping.
Jimmy leaned in the car door before shutting it. “Talk to thon Beech character. He knows a thing or two—or at least his sister does.”
On the drive home, McAllister considered Jimmy’s suggestion; it threw up more questions than answers. But he would ask, knowing that with the prurience of a good journalist, he would not let this story go.
When he reached home, McAllister was surprised to find how late it was—nearly midnight. He took a book to bed but could not concentrate. He put it aside and tried to make sense of what he had discovered.
It was Joyce Mackenzie’s father who had sheltered the Travelers, so why would she leave a bequest to Jenny? Perhaps it was no more than what it was—a gesture, a simple act of kindness; jewelry was not an item Archibald Smart needed, and there were no children, daughters, daughters-in-law to pass the jewelry on to. As far as McAllister knew, the line stopped with Joyce and her husband.
Children stolen from their parents he had vaguely heard of, and he did not doubt it happened. A wicked iniquitous practice, but what does it have to do with Mrs. Smart’s death? He was drifting in and out of sleep, the bedside light still on; only when his book hit the floor did he reach out to turn it off.
Waking next morning to a tangle of sheets and eiderdown and the metallic taste of spent fear, he remembered only fractals of his nighttime visitation from marble angels and lost boys and drowned boys and gunshots at dawn and falling, endlessly falling, down the long flight of steps beneath the abbey wall.
As always, McAllister dismissed it as a side effect of too much reading and one too many whiskies.
CHAPTER 7
McAllister was exhausted; the Monday morning news meeting was a drudge rather than an adrenaline-fueled let’s-get-a-good-paper-out delight, so he focused on composing the edition with the least possible fuss.
“Joanne, you’re covering council business; anything important?”
“Problems with the town water supply from Loch Duntelchaig—I’ve an interview at council chambers later.”
“Good. Rob?”
“I’m covering the trial of the drunken driver who hit and killed a schoolgirl out west.”
“Hector?”
“The usual.”
“Neil? How’re you managing?”
“I’m getting the hang of it,” Neil replied. “I’m finding out that Canadian English is not Highland English.”
Joanne laughed when he said this.
He’s not that funny, McAllister thought as he watched Joanne watching Neil.
“I’d like to finalize my hours,” Neil continued. “Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday until paper the goes to bed; is that okay?”
“How long can we count on you?”
“A couple of months should see me finished with my research.”
McAllister nodded. “Fine. Don McLeod will be back by then.” He sounded as though he was trying to convince himself of the truth of this. “I saw him on Saturday, he’s . . . he asked me to sneak in some whisky next time.”
The brightness of Joanne’s laugh, the extra-wide grin from Rob, and Hec’s “That’s great” annoyed McAllister, though he was unable to think why. “This week’s edition.” He moved on, annoyed at his annoyance. “Neil, could you help Mrs. Buchanan? She’s booking all sorts of advertising but has no idea how to draw up the layout.”
“Sure. I’m happy to show her,” Neil said. Betsy gave her signature smile, the one that reminded Joanne of her youngest daughter’s doll’s painted-on smile.
“Can I sit in?” Joanne asked. “I’d like to learn how to make up the dummy.”
“If you’re covering stories, plus helping cover Mrs. Smart’s duties . . . ” McAllister was aware how peevish he was sounding. “Just make sure you have the time.” He turned to Betsy Buchanan. “Mrs. Buchanan, how are you managing?”
“I’m managing very well, Mr. McAllister.” Betsy was booking in the ads, indeed increasing the advertising space. What neither she nor anyone else realized was, her paperwork was shambolic. In the case of some clients, nonexistent.
“Hector? Any problems?” McAllister asked out of duty, though he was nervous that the photographer might give him an answer that threw up tribulations needing the judgment of Solomon.
“It’s hard without Mr. McLeod. He can always pick the winner in the football so I know who to photograph.” His wee bright-face-bright-hair-bright-grin seemed on reduced wattage since Don’s arrest. “Maybe I can get to visit him in the gaol for next week’s away game. It’s Thistle against Forres.”
“You can’t get a visitor’s pass to talk about the Highland League football,” McAllister told him, ready to move on to serious matters.
“Why not?” Joanne asked. “It might do Don good to see Hector. Take his mind off . . . ” She went pale. She was about to say, Take his mind off a life sentence, and was appalled at the thought.
“Hector always drove Don to distraction.” Rob saw McAllister was considering the idea. “I could ask my father if he could arrange it.”
“Do that.” McAllister wanted to finish the meeting but knew, as editor, he had to rally his staff. “Last week was bad; it may not get better for a while. Remember, we are a bloody good newspaper and will continue to be, so ignore the stories in our daily rival. I will report, and investigate”—he was aware of every face looking closely at his—“Mrs. Smart’s death, the accusations against Don, I will be covering those stories—and the trial. So, to give me time, I’m appointing Ro
b as acting deputy-editor.”
Rob looked up from the playlist he was scribbling for his band’s next gig. He nodded agreement but did not look as delighted as he would have been in happier times.
“Neil, you’re the chief and only subeditor. Joanne, reporting duties as usual, but do you need help since you’re also dealing with administration?”
“Beech has taken over chasing up the casual contributors, and Betsy is doing a good job. So I’m fine. But we really need a typist cum receptionist.”
“See to it. I’ll be in my office for an hour or so, then I’m unavailable. If you need anything, ask Rob.”
When the editor had left, Neil sensed it was time to change the atmosphere. “So, Rob, tell me about this band of yours.”
“It’s brilliant,” Hec answered, “you should hear them, all kinds of American rock ’n’ roll stuff. Great for dancing.”
Joanne smiled. She had seen Hector dancing, looking like an out-of-control puppet with three of the vital strings cut, including the one for his head.
“For once I agree with Hec,” Rob said. “I’m singer and lead guitarist and we’re pretty good—for around here. Do you play?”
“I play a pretty mean blues harp.” Neil joined Rob in the spitting contest.
“A harp?” Hec snorted. “Only lassies play a harp.”
“Idiot.” Rob laughed. “Harp is short for harmonica, a mouth organ, a mouthie to you.”
Joanne was glad of the explanation too, as she had had no idea what Neil meant.
“We’re rehearsing this Saturday afternoon in the Scout Hall. Why don’t you sit in?” Rob asked.
“I’d like that.”
Rob left to cover the Sheriff Court proceedings, and Hector got on checking the names on his sports shots. Joanne typed up county council proceedings. Neil checked copy, occasionally querying a spelling, a name, an occasional point of geography, and the morning passed, the bones of the next edition falling into shape.
“I’m off,” Hector announced just before midday. “I’ve printing to do so I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Joanne finished her work. She watched as Neil finished checking the last of the copy.
“How’s the research going?” she asked. She was interested in everything about him, and the neutral topic of research might lead to the more personal questions she was dying to ask.
“It’s going well,” he replied. “Or at least it was.” He stretched, flexing his fingers. “Boy, this old machine is tough on the hands and shoulders.” They smiled. “My research.” He leaned back in the high chair, a gesture characteristic of McAllister. “I knew what I wanted to know before I came to Scotland,” Neil continued. “I’ve verified my ideas. But reading the old records in the library, a lot of new information has come up. Now the manuscript needs serious rearranging and editing.”
“That sounds daunting.”
“A little. It’s more exciting than anything. I was concentrating on the nineteenth century but I’m now finding early-twentieth-century emigration equally fascinating.” He grinned at her. “You don’t want to hear me on my pet subject, I could drone on for hours, completely bore you.”
“No, I find it really interesting.” She looked at him thinking, You could never bore me.
“Tell you what, why don’t we have a drink after work—no, sorry, no respectable women allowed in bars—a coffee, after work.”
“Tonight is difficult . . . ”
“Of course. Your children. Girls, aren’t they?”
“Yes, Annie is ten, Jean nearly eight.”
“Do you go to band practice?”
“Sometimes.” Liar, she told herself, you’ve never been before.
“I’m looking forward to it. It should be fun.”
“I’ll see you there then. My girls are staying the night with their grandparents so we could have a drink afterwards.” She made that up but knew the Rosses would love to have the girls stay the night.
Later, when thinking over the conversation, Joanne’s thoughts were a confusion of Why did I mention I’d be free for the night? Why did I? Why? She reassured herself, Seeing him with Rob and the band will be fine, then Rob will join us for a drink, we won’t be alone.
“I have to go shopping.” She was panicking. She stood. “See you later.”
She fled, not noticing him smiling at her subterfuge.
* * *
Up until breakfast next morning, Rob had been confident Don would be released. He was accustomed to his father being remote when involved in a complicated case. But the furrows on his father’s forehead and the absentminded way Angus McLean backed his car out of the driveway, almost colliding with the coalman, terrifying the poor horse, made Rob reconsider. His father was not a man to panic.
Once at work, Rob finished an article on a local baker who insisted on prosecuting a child for stealing a sausage roll. He angled the story to expose the baker as the skinflint most knew him to be, without being libelous.
“This is for you, Neil.” Rob put the finished copy into the sub’s tray. “I’m away out for about an hour.” He could have spoken to the moon for all the attention he got; Joanne and Neil were engrossed in a conversation about Labrador or Nova Scotia or other cold, cold places that held no interest whatsoever for Rob.
“Can I have a quick word with my father?” Rob asked the dragon cum secretary cum receptionist who guarded his father from clients who, her expression said, must have committed some unfortunate deed if they were in need of a solicitor.
“I will see if Mr. McLean is available.”
A person more icy than Artic Canada, was how Rob always thought of the woman.
“What can I do for you?” his father asked when Rob came in and took the visitor’s chair.
Rob knew not to waste his time. “Don McLeod. Is there anything I can do to help?”
Normally Angus McLean knew Rob only wanted reassurance that all was well, and his reply would be, no thank you, but thank you for asking. This time he said, “Perhaps you could help.”
The solicitor had not been enthusiastic in his son’s choice of career, would have preferred that his only child attend his old university before settling into a career in the law. McLean and McLean had been his dream. However, after nearly three years at the Gazette, he acknowledged his son was a talented reporter, excellent at ferreting out information.
“Don McLeod lives in a close near the Old High Church,” he started.
Rob knew the place. “Opposite the stairs where Mrs. Smart was killed.”
“Quite. According to the police, the neighbors neither saw nor heard anything that night. However, Mr. McLeod’s next-door neighbor is a student nurse. I haven’t been able to contact her. Apparently she works shifts. I’d like to know if she has any information that might help the defense, specifically if she knew of the whereabouts of the knife.” He then went on to explain the significance of the knife, the one used to kill Mrs. Smart.
Rob felt the hair on his arms tingle when his father described the filleting knife. “Leave it with me,” he said when his father finished.
“Thank you, Rob.” Angus McLean turned back to his papers. “I must continue with this”—he tapped a document—“and I needn’t tell you how essential it is we follow every lead, no matter how tenuous . . . ”
As Rob stood to leave, his father, in a voice soft with the Highland sibilants, said, “Perhaps you and McAllister could . . . you know.” He made a circular motion with his hand as though bringing an orchestra to attention.
Rob did know. He and McAllister had worked well together in the past, discovering information that the police had overlooked, or perhaps it was more a case of employing methods the police were not allowed to use. But, he thought as he walked back to work, McAllister shuts off when I ask about Don McLeod—and Mrs. Smart. But I’ll do as my father suggested, I’ll investigate.
* * *
That evening, as McAllister was on his way to dinner with the Beauchamp Carlyle siblings, he fou
nd himself passing the home of Mrs. Smart, or Joyce Mackenzie as he now thought of her.
He looked up at the high crow-step gables, the Ballachulish slates glistening in the light of a gibbous moon; the mansion looked like an apt setting for an Edgar Allan Poe poem.
“The date on the masthead gave me a real shock, only two months to Mr. McLeod’s trial,” Beech said as he and McAllister sat with a whisky by the drawing-room fire.
His sister, Rosemary, was in the kitchen finishing off dinner, glad to escape the tobacco fumes. “Tobacco destroys the taste buds,” she told her brother, often.
Twenty minutes later, she summoned them. “Dinner is ready.”
In the dining room, a long table that would sit sixteen comfortably was set at one end. A table candelabrum, as bright as a Halloween bonfire, set the numerous items of unfathomable silver serving dishes sitting polished on the sideboards aglistening.
An elderly woman came in with a tureen. Her hands trembled as she filled their bowls, but not a drop of soup was spilled. She had ignored Countess Sokolov, as she always called Rosemary, not Mrs. Sokolov as Rosemary requested, when told there was no need to get out the best china. So, the overelaborately decorated best china it was.
The soup was chicken, but the spices and herbs were nothing McAllister could identify. He shared his cock-a-leekie soup recipe and asked for her secrets. Rosemary Sokolov said she grew her own Asian herbs and told him her traumas of gardening in the Highland climate.
“I found Himalayan plants do best,” she said, “and I’ve taken advice from Mr. Bahadur next door on tending the plants.”
“Mr. Bahadur?”
“He looks after Sergeant Major Smart. He was in the Gurkha Rifles under the command of Colonel Ian Mackenzie, Joyce Mackenzie’s father.”
“Ah, I see,” McAllister said, although he didn’t completely.
All through dinner, good manners prevailed; the real reason behind the invitation assigned its time and place—the drawing room.
The drawing room, another large space, was at the front of the house with French doors opening onto the lawn. High stone walls hid the river, but there was always the sense that it was there, bearing the waters of Loch Ness to the sea. After serving her brother and McAllister with coffee, Rosemary settled into a deep armchair opposite the journalist. She was not looking forward to the “inquisition,” as she thought of it.