Come to Harm
Page 30
“And like Craig,” Keiko said gently.
“Living with your uncle, who’s king of the hill, is nothing like getting farmed out to whoever’ll take you,” said Fancy.
“He didn’t harm Tash,” said Keiko.
“What? Not like me, you mean?”
“You didn’t harm her either. But you’ll never find peace in anger.”
“He’s not right for Vi and me,” Fancy said. “We don’t all get a fairy tale ending.”
Ten pages. Keiko hoped she’d have time to cross to the river and stand at the railings, look down into the water and clear her eyes. Perhaps she’d even have time to walk up the bark path through the woods to the little look-out platform above the waterfall. Maybe someone she knew would happen by, and she would tell them that she was finished and they would hold out a hand and say well done. Or more likely, she said to herself, they would say what a good thing to get it over and done with just in time.
The town was very excited about the wedding. The town. If she tried she could still just about think of it that way: the town that had been shocked numb and silent after the fire; the town that hated its notoriety and wouldn’t want to be famous for anything.
“I thought the committee would have my guts for garters,” said Mr. McKendrick. “Me changing my mind after all the work I’d done to persuade them about Food Town. Going on about a big splash in the national press, Painchton in the spotlight. But they didn’t mind. They seemed … relieved.”
“Really?” said Keiko. “I wonder why.”
But she didn’t wonder; she knew. Because she had asked them. Sandra and Iain with their affair. Kenny and his sock puppet reviews. Etta McLuskie and her backroom deals to start the Food Town bid early. All of them thinking their secrets were bound to come out, and a big splash would only make the stories worth more to whoever was selling.
She had asked Mrs. Watson too, one quiet evening, about the envelope for you. And Mrs. Watson had told her about those dreadful days—years ago—when the nasty things started up, one after the other and the last one asking for money.
“Of course, I knew it was just nonsense,” she said. “I’ve done nothing to make someone blackmail me. But when I saw you with one in your hand that day and thought it was starting again …”
“Why didn’t you tell the police, Mabel?” said Keiko.
“I didn’t know who it was who’d sent it, poor soul,” Mrs. Watson replied. “Some friend, some neighbour, not in her right self.”
“Her?”
Mrs. Watson flushed. “Grace was going through a right bad spell just then,” she said. “Very low. I couldn’t have lived with myself if I’d made it worse for her.” She sniffed. “And anyway, they stopped after the one that asked for money, didn’t they?”
They stopped for anyone who didn’t pay, Keiko thought. Anyone innocent. But there were plenty of others.
“Willie bloody Byers just picked a town and set up shop,” Fancy said.
“No trouble with planners and zoning in the blackmail business,” said Keiko.
“And paying him killed my father,” said Malcolm. “Even though Byers knew nothing.”
They all agreed that Grace should never hear the truth—that they’d paid for no good reason, after all. Grace was looking forward to the wedding. And Keiko had offered herself up to all the rituals she must follow, from the borrowed veil to the hen night to the first waltz, which Mr. McKendrick had taught them. But she would be glad when it was over.
There had been such a regular drumbeat of occasions, all different enough to other people, she assumed, but all so much the same to her, with their flowers and toasts, hats and handbags. The opening of the memorial gardens, James and Grace’s wedding, even Mrs. McMaster’s adoption of Fancy in the registrar’s office, where Viola pirouetted with excitement. All the gatherings took Keiko back to Murray’s funeral—the empty coffin lowered into the grave beside his father’s, and Mrs. Poole, after the guests had left, sliding down the wall to the floor, rucking her skirt up to her waist, spewing out the ugliest, most wretched noises Keiko had ever heard, draining the blood from Mr. McKendrick’s face and drying Malcolm’s tears.
The printer came to rest with its fan purring. She took out the last warm bundle and lifted the rest of the pages onto the top of it, making the finished pile as tidy as she could get it, knowing it would never be the same smooth sculpted block of cool blank paper as when she’d begun.
facts and fiction
The Psychology Department at the University of Edinburgh is no longer in the venerable old building in George Square where Keiko found it, but has moved to splendid new quarters in the Dugald Stewart Building. This intentional mistake might make it even clearer that Keiko’s experience is entirely fictional. The unhelpful secretary, the charmless roommates, and, of course, Dr. Bryant are not based on any real people at my beloved alma mater.
Painchton is imagined to be in East Lothian, but it and its inhabitants were born in my head. Scotland’s real Food Town is Castle Douglas. The incomparable Grierson Brothers Family Butchers as well as Henderson Butchers and Ballards Butchers are to be found there. The Pooles are not based on any of them.
about the author
Catriona McPherson was born in Scotland, where she lived until moving to California in 2010. She is the author of the award-winning Dandy Gilver historical mystery series. Catriona is a member of Mystery Writers of America and the 2014–2015 president of Sisters in Crime. As She Left It was her first modern standalone, earning her an Anthony Award for best paperback original. Her second standalone, The Day She Died, was released in 2014. You can visit Catriona online at www.catrionamcpherson.com.
Author Photo © Neil McRoberts.