by A. D. Scott
They ordered dinner, ate, drank, made small talk, and then retired to a corner of the lounge.
Mr. Brodie went straight to the point. “I’d like you to be my research assistant.” This time Rob nodded. “Write to me. Inform me of anything and everything: gossip, guesses, wild scenarios, wild women . . . ”
“You mean Jenny McPhee.” Rob was enjoying himself.
“I have heard that Beech’s sister has a colorful past. Those girls that went out to India, there must be some in town who might have heard stories that could discredit the sergeant major.”
“I’ll ask my mother.”
Mr. Brodie gestured to the barman. “Another bottle of the burgundy, please.”
As the second bottle was opened Rob was wondering if he could leave his motorcycle in the Station’s left luggage office.
“Sergeant Patience. He was first on the scene. He plays cards with Smart.”
“I find him a decent enough man, he helps me out from time to time.” Rob didn’t like the idea of the sergeant as an enemy. “The other players are apparently former soldiers.”
“Perhaps you could intimate to the sergeant—as a friend—that I intend to pull him apart in the witness stand. That would be most embarrassing, unless, of course, he has information that might help the defense. I’d also like to know why McAllister was summoned to identify the body. Surely someone in the police station knew who Mrs. Smart was? So why not call her husband?”
“I hadn’t thought of that.” Rob’s admiration for the QC shone out of his face, and the man hitched up his trousers slightly, the better to show off the socks.
“Next, find out if Smart ever attended the church on the riverbank next to the stairs.”
“I know the minister there was an army chaplain during the war.”
“So the sergeant major was possibly of that congregation. Next, ask the good sergeant and anyone else you can think of about the sergeant major’s mobility. Then find me someone willing to testify that Smart was physically capable of gaining access to the back porch by going in through the front door, the riverbank entrance of the church.”
Rob was scribbling frantically, hoping he would be able to decipher his not-so-perfect shorthand.
Mr. Brodie paused. “Here, laddie, you haven’t touched your drink.” He lifted his glass in a toast. “To the befuddlement of juries everywhere.”
Rob laughed and raised his glass.
“When I ask you to research these questions, I am not looking for proof perfect, only as many possibilities as you can suggest—no matter how wild.”
“Then I’m your man.” Rob was so excited at the idea of being Mr. Brodie’s sleuth that he found himself jiggling in his chair, in imitation of the advocate.
“Splendid.” One point dealt with satisfactorily, Mr. Brodie reached for his glass. “Now, what happened to the key to the gate into the courtyard? Again, we need to quiz Sergeant Patience. The knife also. It is not so much who took it, but how did it get back into the niche in the wall?”
Rob wrote these questions in block capital letters.
“And thinking on the whereabouts of the key leads me to ask about the handbag.”
“Handbag?”
“Very well said, young McLean.” He refilled his glass, gestured to Rob, who motioned no, then made a toast. “To Mr. Wilde and handbags.”
“Cheers.” Rob was enjoying himself hugely.
“A woman would never be without a handbag, and none was found at the crime scene. Ergo, the murderer made off with it, or a passerby stole it, or . . . ”
“Mr. Grant, who found the body, left his bike at the top of the steps. It disappeared. Maybe someone used it to get away.”
“Thank you for reminding me.” Mr. Brodie’s knees, as well as his feet, were now dancing.
“Mr. Grant thought he saw something in the graveyard above. Just a glimpse out the corner of his eye, he said. I think he thought it was a ghost.”
“Splendid indeed! And would your man make a good witness?”
“He seems a solid, dependable sort.”
Rob realized that Mr. Brodie was not making notes. I bet he has a memory like an elephant, Rob told himself. He was correct. William Brodie, QC, could recall conversations, facts, faces, with prodigious accuracy. When a child, his parents would wheel him out at family gatherings to play the Memorize the Objects game. He was perfect every time.
“Now, tomorrow morning’s meeting with Mr. McLeod; tell me about the man—just quick impressions.”
“He’s the keeper of the town’s secrets,” Rob started. He saw the interest in the advocate’s small bright eyes. “He likes a bet on the horses. He likes a dram. He speaks Gaelic. He thinks Trotsky made some valid points. He’s really good at his job. He’s smarter than you’d think from meeting him.”
“Good at keeping secrets too.” Mr. Brodie was rolling this around as though tasting a good wine. “He kept the marriage secret all these years to protect the good name of his lady-love. How touching.”
Rob heard admiration, not sarcasm. “So, if the sergeant major found out . . . ”
“Precisely.” Mr. Brodie beamed. “But when did he find out? Had he always known? Did he have to live with the knowledge for years, having his nose rubbed in it every Sunday evening?”
Rob could see how that would drive a man to murder.
“Had she decided she had had enough? Did Mr. McLeod persuade her at long last to come to live with him?”
“No, I don’t think so.” Rob was answering the last question. “There was no change that I could see in their behavior.”
“Ah, but did you ever notice they were close? It seems no one on the Gazette did.” He answered his own question.
Rob considered this. “You’re right. I didn’t do very well for a reporter, did I?”
“You’ll learn. So now, ask many questions. Answers not always necessary. Remember, the defense must only prove, on balance of probability, that Mr. McLeod did not kill her. We do not need to find the culprit.” Mr. Brodie stood. “It has been a pleasure.” He held out his hand. “Please keep in touch. Telephone me anytime. Send a report as soon as possible. And don’t forget an invoice for your time.”
“But Don’s a friend.” Rob had never considered being paid for the work.
“I expect a professional job, therefore professional rates apply. If Mr. Angus McLean should question this, refer him to me. But perhaps best not to mention it.” Mr. Brodie winked, then set off on his red-clad feet, across the carpet towards the grand staircase, as though on his way to an assignation with a courtesan.
Rob decided to drive home, believing the cold would sober him. As he turned the bike around, the clock struck ten. He remembered the date. There were barely three weeks till the trial. That sobered him.
CHAPTER 16
The phone in his office started to ring when he was halfway up the stairs. He ran the last steps and regretted it. “McAllister,” he answered, his breathing heavy and hoarse.
“Brodie, QC, here.” The breathing from the other end of the phone reminded the advocate of a racehorse that had just won an eight-furlough steeplechase. “I have just come from the gaol. I’d like to ask your opinion on a number of points before I go back to Edinburgh. I will be here for . . . ” McAllister could almost see the dapper wee gentleman consulting a pocket watch, but dismissed the notion as fanciful. “My train leaves in fifty-five minutes.”
“I’ll be right over.” McAllister put down the phone and made for the stairs.
“McAllister,” Joanne called out, “I need you to approve this . . . ” She was waving some sheets of copy paper.
“Later,” McAllister called from halfway down the stairs.
Beech appeared around the corner of the half-spiral stairs. “Can I help?”
“I need someone to sign off on these articles. The father of the chapel has already threatened me with a blank page if I don’t get it down to the stone in the next two minutes.”
Beech wen
t into the reporters’ room, unscrewed his pen, and signed the pages. “There. Done.”
“Don’t you want to read them?” she asked.
“And spoil the surprise when I read the Gazette over breakfast?”
“Will the printers accept your signature?” This question came from Neil, who knew how strictly the printer’s union enforced their rules.
“Oh, I think so.” Beech smiled. “Don McLeod is highly regarded. I think they will bend the rules until he is back.” Beech sat at a typewriter, looked around. “Anything else?” Neil handed him some copy. “Ah, my favorite subject—council rates.” He started to type, and the room came alive with morning-of-deadline vim.
Just before the seven-o’clock deadline, Rob announced, “That’s all, folks. McAllister is checking the final proofs but, all being well, another edition of the Highland Gazette will roll off the presses on time.”
“Well done, everyone.” Beech clapped. Neil joined in.
Joanne blew an offending wisp of hair out of her eyes and leaned back in her chair, rolling her shoulders. “That was insane.”
“But fun.” Neil smiled.
Joanne had to look away. Thrilled that she had this secret, she was also terrified that everyone in the room could sense the current between them. Especially Rob.
“So, who’s up for a drink? Beech? Neil? Joanne?” Rob asked.
“An early night for me, my boy.” Beech was already up and putting on his coat.
“Not sure,” Neil said. “Joanne?” He looked at her.
She looked away.
Rob saw the small smile—She thinks it’s a secret, he thought, and he grinned. “Okay, I get it. Maybe McAllister will join me.” He doubted it. McAllister had not returned until midafternoon—on deadline day and with two key staff missing. And even if he did fancy a drink, Rob wasn’t sure he wanted his company—more cheer at a funeral. So he went home. He didn’t mind; an evening transfixed by Radio Luxembourg, rock ’n’ roll crackling over the airwaves, fading in and out as though it was coming from another planet, not a radio mast in not-too-distant-as-the-crow-flies Europe, was Rob’s idea of heaven.
* * *
Joanne and Neil walked through town, Joanne pushing her bicycle. In the basket were cooking apples for a pie and eggs for custard.
I’ll make you an apple pie, she had told Neil, not wanting to say, I’m desperate for your company.
“You must get on well with your in-laws,” Neil said as they walked across the bridge.
“Granddad Ross is a lovely man,” Joanne replied. “I’m not sure Granny Ross approves of me—but she loves the girls.”
“And your husband? Is he still in the picture?”
“No, thank heavens.”
“If life here is anything like a small town in Canada, it must be hard for you. My mother certainly found it so.”
“Your mother was a widow. She didn’t desert her husband.”
“She was a widow for respectability. Her husband left her a few months after they arrived in Canada, so I was told.” Even that was a lie, he remembered but did not share.
It was dark and the night was cloudy and the streetlights far apart, and the trees, especially those in front of the bowling greens, were big and bare, the many-fingered limbs creating a bower over them as they passed at a very slow pace, the weight of the story slowing Neil down.
He had never told anyone about that day.
“I was eleven, starting high school, when some busybody in the office saw my birth certificate and made sure everyone knew I had no father.”
She could hear it in his voice. The pain and anger still fresh.
“At midafternoon break, John Rasmussen, the bully in the form above me, whose father worked in the lumber mill and was also a bully, started the chant.” What Neil remembered most clearly was that John Rasmussen, although from a Swedish family, was chanting in a strange mixture of Canadian, Scottish Canadian, and Gaelic accents.
They were almost at Joanne’s prefab and, not wanting to break the spell, her bicycle against her right hip, she stopped, and Neil was talking, and she was listening, and the sound of the silent trees was the music the dirge the pibroch to the tale.
“He was saying, Bastard. You’re a bastard, his voice low so the teachers wouldn’t hear, and after saying it about half a dozen times, his sidekick, a daft fat boy called Eric, joined in.” The sound of John Rasmussen’s voice had stayed with him and would stay forever. He had heard it during the mortar fire at Monte Casino and it had made him stronger. He had heard it on the day he first walked into the university, an ex-soldier student on a scholarship. When he heard it, it made him stronger, Bassstrd, it sounded like, basstrd, basstrd, you’ve got no da, basstrd, basstrd.
“I was big for my age, and strong, and I hit him, so the headmaster gave me and John Rasmussen six of the best and we became good friends.” Neil kicked a tree root that had pierced the tarmac of the pavement. “He died right at the end—when most of Italy had been liberated and we were about to go home, he was shot by a sniper.”
John Rasmussen was the only person he had ever talked to; about the resentment, the pain, the shock—not of having no father—but of being lied to. And on every birthday, in spite of his reading, in libraries and archives, in parish registers, how impossible it was for unmarried women to keep their babies—he could not forgive that. He told himself he did not hate her, his birth mother, the one who rejected him, gave him away, but no, there was no forgiveness.
“My mother, my real mother, who brought me up, who worked gutting fish until her hands were crippled with arthritis, who fed me, who told me stories in the long winter nights, who gave up her beloved glens for me, that woman was truly good. Whoever gave birth to me is not my mother.”
He said it with a finality that made Joanne wonder whom he was trying to convince, himself or her.
“My parents threw me out when I became pregnant on the first and only time I’d drunk spirits, gin of all things, and . . . ” She quickly came out with her story, to show him that she too had suffered. “My father is a minister. He could not bear the shame.” She laughed, and it was her turn to hide the bitterness that had diminished over time but never completely vanished. “So much for Christian forgiveness.”
They were speaking conversationally, trying to tell their stories lightly. But neither was fooled.
“I love your little house,” Neil said as he held open the gate for her. “And your garden.”
For once Joanne was glad she hadn’t the time to trim the hedge, glad the lilac was overbearing, blocking the front door from the lane. She went round the back and put her bike away, opened the kitchen door, and was suddenly aware that the girls were away, that she and Neil were alone.
“Would you put the kettle on?” she asked, her hands covered in flour and butter for the pastry. Ten minutes later, the apple pie in the oven, she went to close the curtains in the sitting room. The thought of her husband made her nervous. Never mind he’s with Betsy, she thought, he’d still give me a good hiding if he found me with a man. The double standard she did not think about, it was just the way it was.
She switched on the radio. Brahms swelled out into the room. She took off her shoes. She ran her fingers through her hair and wished she had time for a bath. She went to the bedroom to check the sheets were clean.
“Milk? Sugar?” Neil called out. He had the tea made and the mugs out on a tray.
“No sugar, thanks.”
“Not very Scottish.” The sight of the tray, the way he had put out the sugar bowl and milk jug, made her tingle. What man does that, she thought, and she knew for certain she loved him.
“And you’re very well trained, milk in the milk jug indeed.”
“My mother was once in service. She insisted everything was done properly. No matter how poor we are, she would say, good manners and good habits cost nothing.” He smiled. “I still have her most precious possession, her tea set. There are only three cups and saucers left, but I t
reasure it.” He did not tell her that no matter how many times he asked, his mother never revealed how she came by the tea service. “Coming here, I feel I am paying homage to her. She was once a beautiful young woman, barely eighteen when she went to Canada, where she had a tough life, and I wanted to say thank you to the mountains and glens that she came from.”
There was something artificial in the way he said this, but Joanne put it down to his being a scholar, a man whose words were better on paper. Not that he’s not silver-tongued, he could charm the birds from the trees.
Joanne rose. “I’ll make custard.”
He reached out, put his hand on her wrist. “No regrets?”
“You asked me that before and the answer is the same—no, no regrets.” But she wished that she did not feel so guilty. Adultery, adulterer, fallen woman, those were the words that would haunt her as surely as basstrd haunted him.
He pulled her onto his lap. She felt she had never been kissed properly until she met Neil. She felt she had never known what love was, until she had met Neil. And the guilt—she pushed it down deep into a well where her conscience could not penetrate. For now.
“Better switch off the oven,” he murmured as he led her by the hand to her own bedroom, her narrow bed, her sanctuary that she had vowed no man would breach—until she met Neil Stewart.
It was late when they eventually had the apple pie and tea. Without custard. He ate half, and with every slice he told her again how good it was.
“So you can cook too,” he teased. He loved the way she blushed so easily.
“And sew and knit and all the usual housewifely things.”
“Your husband was mad to leave you.”
“It was the other way round, I threw him out.” This was important to her; Joanne was proud of remaking her life. No matter how many disapproved, this was a better life for her and her children. “And, although he doesn’t know it, I am going to divorce him.” There, I’ve said it. She prayed Neil would see what a divorce meant.
Neil looked at her, but with his mouth full of apple pie, he could only nod.