by A. D. Scott
* * *
Not more than a quarter of a mile away, Don McLeod was scratching an itch in his memory.
It was the nurses and the medical staff, particularly the students, who had dislodged the fragment; the student, a medical student, Don seemed to remember, a student whom he had only met once before when the young man had knocked on his door asking for change for the electricity meter. I’ve an idea he was Eilidh’s boyfriend. Had he been there that night? Or was it the night before? The harder he tried to remember, the less certain he became. No, I must have it wrong, Don decided. If he were there that night, the lass would have said so when she was questioned about Joyce.
The name did it. Saying her name, thinking her name, remembering the small and the large instances of their friendship, made him hurt to the bone. He would have cried were he not Donal McLeod from Skye, where only the heavens wept.
CHAPTER 15
No, I haven’t time, I’m meeting Angus McLean and the advocates from Edinburgh this afternoon.” McAllister did not look up from his writing. With a leaky fountain pen, he was attempting to make notes for the meeting, as he did not want to join the others at a typewriter in the reporters’ room.
Joanne could not look at him either. She felt the tension and was not able, or willing, to ask the cause.
“Fine. I’ll write you a memo.” She turned to go. “But someone needs to look at the accounts and letters . . . there are complaints . . . ”
“Can I help?” Beech stood in the doorway.
“No,” McAllister said. “Joanne can deal with it.” He looked up. He saw her waiting, wanting him to say something more. And he wanted her to know his hurt so he lashed out. “Will that be all, Mrs. Ross?”
She didn’t reply. He went back to scribbling in his notebook. He heard her leave and did not look up. When he did, he saw Beech watching him. Which made him even more surly. “I can’t give you long. I’m preparing notes for Angus McLean.”
“That is why I’m here.” Beech shut the office door, the Do Not Disturb sign to all at the Gazette. He sat down. Taking his time, he reached for some sheets of folded writing paper. He smoothed them open. He cleared his throat. McAllister was beginning to wonder if this pantomime was meant to further annoy him. But he sighed and put down his pen. Then Beech began.
“I have here an account of a conversation my sister had with Gurkha Bahadur. The information may help with Don’s case.”
Now he had McAllister’s full attention.
“Firstly,” Beech began, “Sergeant Major and Mrs. Smart . . . ”
“Were not legally married.”
Beech, although surprised, was too polite to ask McAllister how he came by his information. “In 1920, Joyce Mackenzie asked her father’s permission to marry Mr. Donal McLeod.” Beech glanced at his notes, although there was no need; he knew the contents almost word for word.
“It took months for her to hear back. Her father was upcountry with his regiment and letters to and from India sometimes took months to arrive, sometimes never arrived. Joyce Mackenzie waited more than six months, to no avail. Then she and Mr. McLeod married in the local parish church in Sutherland. When a letter finally arrived, apparently shortly after the marriage ceremony, Colonel Mackenzie denied his permission. Not because Don McLeod was the candidate; he wanted his only child to wait because of her age, and he wanted to meet the future husband.”
Beech sighed. He himself had never married, he had married his career, and the vagaries of matrimony were a puzzle to him.
“A year or so after the marriage, Joyce McLeod, née Mackenzie, went to India to join her father. It took her months to get there. When she arrived, she was ill—weak, thin, in distress, according to Bahadur, who at the time was Colonel Mackenzie’s batman. The colonel arranged for her to stay with friends in a hill station in Simla for the climate. But apparently it was another year before she regained her health, and even then, Bahadur said, she was fragile.”
This McAllister found hard to believe. Mrs. Smart, as he still thought of her, had seemed so strong, so independent. “Why would she leave for India so soon after marrying?”
“All Bahadur knows is that Joyce once told him that Mr. McLeod left her. Told her to find a way to have the marriage dissolved.”
“Now, that really surprises me.” McAllister thought about this. “From what I know, they loved each other.”
Beech made no comment. He glanced at another page of the notes and continued. “In India, Joyce lived very quietly, not part of the wives’ brigade. But her father was away a lot, and she must have been lonely. She became a volunteer at an orphanage clinic. Then Sergeant Major Smart began to pursue Joyce Mackenzie. Smart was persistent, Bahadur says, and, apparently, he was thought of as a most charming man.” Beech did not add that his sister had also made a side note that Bahadur had never trusted the man.
“After about two years, they married. Joyce told my sister that she agreed in a moment of weakness, in the heat of a particularly hot summer. Smart announced it to all the army set, and it was done. Her father was not unhappy about the match but not thrilled either.”
“They were married when?” McAllister was taking notes.
“March 1930.”
“So it was a bigamous marriage?”
“Maybe. Maybe the first marriage was indeed dissolved. I don’t know.”
“Then . . . ”
“Then . . . Not long after the marriage it became obvious that Smart was treating his new wife badly, physically and mentally. He’d discovered that although her family was rich, she herself had no cash. He had gambling debts and other unsavory habits. The colonel paid off some of the debts and hushed up a scandal . . . ” Beech paused. “I don’t think we need go into that . . . So, when Joyce Mackenzie left Smart to return to Scotland, it was with her father’s tacit blessing.”
McAllister had not forgotten Don’s remark about the sergeant major’s fall from a brothel window and that it hadn’t been girls the soldier was visiting.
“Mrs. Smart, as she was known when she returned here, she and Mr. McLeod resumed their relationship. My sister, recently widowed, returned from China in 1934. She and Joyce became friends. All was well until . . . ”
“Until Archibald Smart returned.”
“Without his legs.”
McAllister looked at Beech. “That was a remark worthy of Rob.”
“Or Mr. McLeod,” Beech agreed.
McAllister suddenly saw it; Mortimer Beauchamp Carlyle’s resemblance to a wolf; not a big-bad-fairy-tale-I’ll-blow-your-house-down wolf, but a lone noble savage intelligent wolf. Never get on the wrong side of that man, McAllister told himself.
“From the day he came back until the day she died, Smart made Joyce Mackenzie’s life hell on earth,” Beech said. “My sister and Mr. Bahadur will attest to that.”
“So where does all this get us?” the editor asked.
“It gives Smart a motive.”
“Don too.”
They were silent for a moment, then Beech stood. “If you don’t think I’m interfering, I will talk to Joanne and Mrs. Buchanan, see if I can be of help with the accounts, et cetera.”
“I’d be grateful.” McAllister did not mention that as Beech and his sister were the major shareholders and Beech chairman of the Gazette’s board of trustees, he had every right to scrutinize the accounts.
“If there is anything else I can help with, do let me know.” Beech was examining McAllister, and his concern came through in his voice.
“I will.” McAllister meant it.
After Beech had left, McAllister knew he could not bear to stay in the office. He had a typewriter at home, so he left to write up the notes for Mr. Brodie, QC. He also needed to eat. He could not remember when he had last had a decent meal.
No, he thought, I’ll pick up some fish, I’ll cook properly, then I’ll type up the notes. Somehow the thought of domesticity cheered him. And the knowledge that he could work without constantly straining to listen
for Joanne’s voice, without constantly tracking her movements, was, he knew, much healthier than his morning’s behavior.
* * *
On the premises of Angus McLean, Solicitor, there was a room off the main office that looked more like a dining room than a meeting room. The secretary had laid pens, paper, and a bottle of black ink just in case the illustrious gentlemen from Edinburgh needed to refill their fountain pens. She had no time for the newfangled Biro pens and believed no real gentleman would ever use one.
Angus McLean went into the room, looked out the bay windows, spotted McAllister striding down the street, and was glad the editor was early.
“I thought we might catch up before the others arrive.”
“Good,” Angus said. “I must say I’m slightly nervous about the meeting—Mr. Brodie, QC, has a formidable reputation.”
“Mr. William Brodie, QC?”
“Yes, but for heaven’s sake, don’t call him ‘Deacon.’”
The reference to the infamous eighteenth-century jurist and burglar, Deacon William Brodie, who was hanged on a gallows of his own design, had plagued Mr. Brodie most of his life. Then again, it had been the spur to him taking the queen’s silk.
McAllister and Angus McLean spent a short fifteen minutes going over the relevant points, such as they were, before the advocates were announced. Rob came in at the same time, and as the secretary said, “Mr. William Brodie, QC,” as though she were announcing royalty, Rob, standing behind her, quipped, “Ah-ha, Deacon Brodie!”
Like Lot’s wife, the secretary was pillar still.
McAllister looked out of the window, his shoulders trembling, trying his best not to laugh.
Angus McLean looked at the ceiling.
And Mr. Brodie, QC, turned to Rob and beamed. “No relation, I’m told, but it does my reputation no harm to never deny it.” He held out his small hand, “McLean the younger, I presume?”
“Rob.”
“You’re the nosy reporter on the Gazette. Here, sit next to me, tell me the gossip, the speculation, everything; let me judge whether it is relevant or not.”
They all sat, now looking forward to the meeting. Mr. Brodie told the secretary Rob would take notes. “You have shorthand?” Rob nodded, and she left in very high dudgeon indeed.
“Firstly, let me say that I believe the prognosis for Mr. McLeod is not good,” Mr. Brodie started, “but”—here he paused for dramatic effect—“not beyond salvaging. If we are unfortunate and there is a guilty verdict, I am sure that, as the evidence is circumstantial, an appeal would succeed.”
“Thank goodness for that.” Rob spoke for all of them.
“That is more a reflection of the times; with capital punishment abolished, juries are less reluctant to return a guilty verdict. Now, let’s review what we have.” Mr. Brodie barely paused for breath between sentences. “This case calls for the ‘Abelard and Heloise’ defense.”
McAllister sat up. He doubted a twelfth-century love affair, a French one at that, was a suitable defense strategy for a small Highland town in the mid-twentieth century.
Angus McLean agreed. “The McLeod Faerie Flag might be a better analogy,” he suggested.
Mr. Brodie positively radiated approval. “Yes. Of course. Splendid.”
“Faerie flags?” McAllister was even more doubtful.
“There are at least two versions, so take your pick,” Rob explained. “The flag was either a banner from the Crusades or a gift to a McLeod chieftain from his faerie lover—another unsuitable match that ended in tears.”
McAllister was reminded that as a Southerner, he was completely unconnected with the Highlanders from the Gaeltachd. But though he might not know the legends, he trusted the lawyer’s theatrics would at best win over a jury of locals, at worst confuse them.
“The story of a love gone wrong means we must hope for as many women on the jury as possible,” the advocate continued.
“How can you manage that?” Angus McLean was perplexed. Under Scottish law there was no say in who the jurors were.
“Pray,” Mr. Brodie said, and turned and winked at Rob.
“Next, bombard the jury with possibilities, the husband for example.” Again he turned to Rob. “Everything unsavory you can find . . . ”
“There is a rumor he is not the war hero he claims to be . . . ” McAllister put in. But he left out the rumor of the sergeant major visiting boys in an Indian brothel.
“Splendid.” Mr. Brodie was tapping his dainty red-sock-clad feet in happiness.
“I heard Smart gambles,” Angus contributed.
“Sergeant Patience is rumored to be one of the card circle.” McAllister again.
“Even more splendid. He was the first policeman at the scene, he is a friend of the sergeant major—I’ll give him the full grilling.”
“The sergeant major behaved appallingly to Mrs. Smart. We have two excellent witnesses to this.” McAllister again.
“Of course. Mortimer said he would be happy to speak in court.”
It took McAllister a second to place who Mortimer was, then he remembered Beech must know the advocate, as it was he who had suggested him in the first place. Mr. Brodie sensed the confusion. “Beauchamp Carlyle and I are old acquaintances. My father was a footman on his family estate.”
At the honesty of this, McAllister liked the man even more.
“Mrs. Jenny McPhee—would she make a good witness?”
“Splendid,” Rob said, making Mr. Brodie chuckle and nudge Rob with his elbow.
“Next, we’ll call the Gurkha chappie. Should make an interesting witness. And McAllister of course. You can attest to the sergeant major’s temper.”
“That might backfire. The sergeant major tried to have me charged . . . ”
“I’m sure I can help the jury to see what a bully the man is. Next, do we know anyone from the church who could be a witness to Mrs. Smart’s good works or something along those lines?”
“I’ll find someone,” Angus McLean said.
“And if anyone can find something that might muddy Smart’s reputation . . . hand in the till, housemaid pregnant . . . that sort of thing . . . ” Mr. Brodie went on. “Next, the key; a fine old mystery. We shall make much of that. The knife the same. Next”—he turned to another page—“the will. Mrs. McPhee’s legacy. Mrs. Married-Name-Yet-To-Be-Determined was most generous in her bequest to a Traveler woman. The bequest to the Gurkha chappie the same. The estate in the Highlands; did Mr. McLeod know it might be worthless once death duties were paid? Mr. McLean, would you find out exactly how much Mr. McLeod might inherit, erring on the low side perhaps?” The questions were rattled off with the speed of a Gatling gun. “Next, I need the details of the sergeant major’s financial situation.”
“That will be difficult.” Angus looked across the table hoping this guardian of the law was not encouraging his son to indulge in illegal activity.
“Come, now, one of you gentlemen must know a friendly bank manager.”
“Don would have something on someone who might know. Or Jimmy McPhee, he knows everything,” Rob told him.
“Marvelous, this boy of yours.” The advocate’s feet were dancing as he beamed at Angus McLean. “I shall ask Mr. McLeod when we meet. But I believe it may not be a good idea to have Mr. Jimmy McPhee in court.” He looked around the table. “My next step is to interview the prisoner.” He used the word deliberately, to remind them Don was a man charged with murder in the first degree. “With all your notes plus my own observations and more sterling work from young Rob here, we have a start. Now it is up to Mr. McLeod to start talking in his own defense.”
“His secret is out,” McAllister pointed out.
“Ah, but are there more?” As Mr. Brodie, QC, said this, he shut his leather-bound notebook—red, naturally.
McAllister spoke. It was not that he wanted to dilute the enthusiasm, it was reassurance he wanted.
“There is absolutely no evidence against Sergeant Major Smart. And no matter how unsavo
ry the man, it seems highly unlikely he could have killed Joyce Mackenzie.”
Angus had been thinking the same, and he nodded his agreement.
“You are quite correct, Mr. McAllister. I cannot see how Smart could physically commit the crime. However, in the absence of other possibilities, we shall use him to distract from the most likely killer—Mr. McLeod.”
McAllister did not find this at all reassuring.
“Well, gentlemen, we have plenty to keep us busy, and we will talk again after I have seen Mr. McLeod.” It was as though he owned the room, his companions his chatelains, and now they were dismissed to do their master’s bidding. But no one minded.
After handshakes all round, the advocate murmured to Rob, “Dinner this evening? Station Hotel?”
“I’ll be there.”
When the gentlemen advocates had left, Angus looked at McAllister. “No smoking in here, I’m afraid. Let’s go into my office.”
“That was splendid,” Rob said as he watched his father pack his pipe and McAllister savor the first cigarette he had had in almost an hour.
“I don’t know how a jury will keep up with him—he had me bamboozled,” McAllister replied.
“Yes, but will the judge see through the tactic and clarify the arguments for the jury? It is often the summing-up that determines the verdict.” Having put a damper on McAllister’s hopes, Angus lit his pipe and puffed away like Para Handy.
“We’d better go. We have a newspaper to put out,” Rob reminded his boss.
They walked back to the office in silence. There was much to think about, not least the next edition of the Highland Gazette.
* * *
“We’ll have the wine list first, please,” Mr. Brodie told the black-clad waiter, who, Rob thought, had probably been hired when the hotel opened in 1854.
“They have an acceptable burgundy,” Rob said. “I believe Lord Lovat orders it when in town.”
“Splendid.”
Mr. Brodie sampled the wine. He nodded at the waiter, then at Rob. “You are a young man full of surprises.”