A Kind of Grief

by A. D. Scott

  She was quiet. Joanne did not want a discussion on the pros and cons of progress, Don’s pet peeve, as she, for one, hoped the new decade would bring changes. And she felt in her bones, in the air, on the television, in the demolition of the old buildings on Bridge Street and along the river, that changes were indeed coming.

  “I wanted your advice.”

  “The case in Sutherland? The woman some say is a witch? Are you still following it? It’s a good story, that.”

  “After the disaster in the Herald, no.”

  Don nodded. McAllister had told him already.

  “I’m interested in using the burning of the last witch in Scotland for a short story, maybe even using it for . . .” Her voice trailed off. She was unable to say the word, fearing it was an ambition too far.

  “A book,” he said. “Aye, why not? Witches is always interesting, specially if you make it spooky. Mind you, I’ll never be persuaded thon poor woman was the last witch hereabouts. If you read some o’ the letters to the Gazette you’d be convinced the town and county is hooching wi’ them.”

  “Don!” She laughed, but recalling the trial of Alice Ramsay, “witch hunt” was still an appropriate term.

  “So, how are you going to tackle the idea? Historical? Romantic? Base it on the mean-spirited gossip o’ those who condemned Miss Ramsay just as they condemned thon poor auld wifie that was burned alive centuries ago?”

  “You are completely incorrigible!” The laugh burst out of her, making those around look up, making Don grin, making her cover her mouth with one hand and smile with her eyes.

  “Incorrigible but right.”

  “Aye. Maybe. And thank you. I needed to be reminded there’s lots worse troubles than mine.”

  “With writing, it’s a good idea to begin at the beginning,” Don continued.

  “Starting with the last witch in Scotland?”

  “Maybe no that far back. Ask why was the Ramsay woman accused? How come it went as far as a trial? Seems a bit far-fetched that the police would be involved if it’s only tea she was making. Naw, there’s got to be more. Research, then do what I always told you. When? Who? What? Why?”

  “I’ll never be able to use it. But yes, the why is what interests me.”

  “Write it for no other reason than to put it to rest. Ask questions in a big sense. Why do small communities turn on those who are different? Is it malice? Idleness? And if a person is seen as suspicious, are they? If someone is acting weird, do they have something to hide? Or are they just plain weird? Sometimes something—animal instinct, call it what you will—is behind the gossip and speculation, an’ it turns out to be true, or partly true.”

  “Alice Ramsay was guilty of being a woman alone—no man, no children, even her dog is a stray. She is, was, content. That’s all.” Joanne knew her voice had risen and sat back to calm herself. “Thank you, o Great Wise One, it’s good to talk it over.”

  “For that you can fetch the next round.” He looked towards the bar and the barman, who had known Don for at least thirty-five years, nodded. “Ach, no need. But I have to warn you, this is the last time I buy you lemonade. Any self-respecting writer knows it’s the hard stuff you need to be a novelist, ladies included.”

  As she walked up the hill to home, she felt lighter. Don was right. She was assuming Alice Ramsay had nothing to hide. So what evidence did the police have that made the procurator fiscal decide to go ahead with a trial? What didn’t come out? It was then that she realized she knew nothing about the prosecution’s case.

  She was panting by the time she reached the top of Steven’s Brae. Still not completely fit, she could walk for miles on the flat, but the steep brae and the cobblestones were a challenge. By the time she reached home, she was desperate to write. Afraid that the words and ideas might escape, like dandelion seeds in the wind. She fairly flew into the sitting room to her typewriter.

  The Sutherland Case.

  The woman lived alone. She was content with her life, and said so. Fulfilled in her work, never seeming to need a husband or children or the company of others, at first she attracted the curiosity of her neighbors. Then suspicion.

  CHAPTER 6

  It had been five days since the meeting in the hotel. She enjoyed meeting him again but wondered if she was not being paranoid. Life was now returning to normal, and she was keen to add the final touches to the manuscript.

  Then I’ll make a decision whether to spend another winter here. I do so miss the sun.

  Alice looks around at the bright, late-autumn, gold-red day and resolves to walk, to tramp to the high moors, and take pictures before resuming work. She laces up her stout brown boots, slings her smallest camera around her neck, and calls the dog.

  She is about to set off when she hears a vehicle in the distance. So does the dog. His ears prick up, but he is silent.

  Shading her eyes with two hands, she scans the moorland. Nothing. She looks down to the dip where the burn runs to meet the river and continue to the firth and the sea. Again, nothing. Along the tree line all seems as deserted as ever. She considers fetching the binoculars.

  Don’t be so silly, she chides herself.

  “Must be a Forestry vehicle,” she tells the wee dog. He wags his tail, then bounds off. She takes his lack of alarm as a sign that all is well.

  No one is out there, she tells herself. You are being ridiculous.

  “Gazette.”

  “It’s me.”

  “I’ll be home for lunch.”

  “That’s not why I’m calling,” she said. “Sorry. It’s just such a shock and—”

  “Joanne, what’s wrong?”

  “I’m fine. Well, not really. But I will be.”

  McAllister sighed. “I can’t help if I don’t know.”

  “Mrs. Mackenzie from Sutherland called. She says Alice is dead.”

  “Alice Ramsay?”

  “And the way she put it . . .” She hesitated. “She says Alice died the day before yesterday and the police think Alice killed herself. The story is in today’s Sutherland newspaper.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. No. I can’t believe it. Not Alice. She is so . . . was so . . . she’d never kill herself.”

  “You never know who, you never know why someone takes their own life.”

  Joanne flinched. She could say nothing to that. His younger brother had let the river swallow him. McAllister was intimate with suicide—a word never uttered, a word always in the air, a kite of doom floating above her husband. And his mother.

  “Why would Mrs. Mackenzie call you?”

  “A tip. Thought you and the Gazette might be interested, she said, and she implied her local newspaper couldn’t function without her input.”

  They both knew that with a huge geographical area covered by their local newspapers, informants could be time-wasting but crucial.

  “How, exactly, did Miss Ramsay die?” he asked. “Did the newspaper say?” He quickly answered his own question. “No, of course not.” This was Scotland. This was 1959 and a local newspaper. Nothing direct could be printed. But the code words, the conventions of reporting suicide, would make it clear. “Joanne, I am so sorry. I know Alice Ramsay meant a lot to you.” Bloody clichés, he thought, and you, a journalist, you should know better. He too was shaken—partly by the mention of suicide, partly because he feared for his wife’s well-being.

  “I only talked to her properly the once.” Joanne’s voice trailed off. She couldn’t say what she was really thinking, that Alice was a woman with a life she would have liked for herself—if she hadn’t been trapped by an early marriage and children. “I wonder what will happen to her pictures.”

  “I’ll come home.”

  “And her hens. She’d never abandon her hens.”

  “See you in about twenty minutes.”

  “No. Come back at the usual time. I need to think.”

  To mourn, he thought. “Are you sure?”

  “I’m fine. See you later.”
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  Joanne remembered word for word what McAllister had said, and it didn’t help. You never know who, you never know why someone takes their own life.

  Joanne was pacing. Shivering and pacing. She knew it was not her fault. But she also knew she had been complicit.

  If I hadn’t talked to that beast Forsythe.

  The phone rang. It’s McAllister checking up on me.

  “What?” she shouted down the line.

  “Joanne? Calum Mackenzie here. Sorry to call you at home, but . . .”

  “Sorry, Calum. I just found out about Alice. Your mother told me.”

  “Aye, she would. She likes to pass on information to the paper.” There was a hint of impatience in his voice, and Joanne sensed that it was something Calum would be teased about. “Joanne, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner.” He couldn’t tell her he’d been too shocked to talk.

  “Well, I know now.”

  “Erm, I’m not sure how to tell you this . . .” He sniffed as though he had a cold, and Joanne wanted to tell him to use a hankie, just as she would to her daughters.

  She waited. She heard him taking a deep breath.

  “Alice Ramsay left a note—more a message, really.”

  “How do you know that?”

  Calum went silent.

  “Sorry. I know how it works in small towns.” She guessed someone he had been at school with or a neighbor or a relative working with the police had told him. “What did it say?”

  “The police found the page from the Herald with Forsythe’s article on the kitchen table. Her notebook was on top, open at your name and your home and Gazette telephone numbers.”

  “I see.” She couldn’t process the news. Not yet. Not in a conversation with a twenty-two-year-old who was almost a stranger. After a moment, she gathered herself to ask, “How did Alice die?”

  “I heard that she hanged herself.”

  “No!” Joanne moaned. “That’s horrible.” She always assumed that when women killed themselves, they took tablets of some kind and drifted away in their sleep. A coward’s way out, it would be said if the victim was a man. But hanging? That was so brutal, so judicial. And final.

  “Joanne, sorry, I have to go now. I just wanted to let you know.”

  “Your mother beat you to it.” Joanne didn’t mean to sound so bitter but was shocked that a stranger should take it on herself to spread the news.

  “I’m sorry.” Whether for his mother or for Alice wasn’t clear. “I have to finish ma report. I’ll send you a copy if you like.”

  “Yes, please.” Her voice was a whisper.

  “I’m sorry, Joanne,” he said again before he hung up.

  Not knowing what else to do, she put on her coat and hat and half-walked, half-stumbled to the Gazette office. She stopped at the bottom of Castle Wynd to take some deep breaths, not wanting her husband to see the depths of her distress. And guilt. But she needed company.

  “Shocked” was not a word that could describe her feelings; “complete disbelief” was closest. She couldn’t believe Alice Ramsay would kill herself. She was so alive; she’d created such a beautiful home. Leave the glen, yes, that she could understand, especially with winter coming on. But kill herself over some ridiculous gossip? No, not the woman Joanne had met.

  McAllister was in the reporters’ room with Don McLeod and Rob McLean. Hector Bain, the photographer, was there too.

  “Hiya, Joanne. Nice to see you.” Hector’s grin was reminiscent of a Halloween turnip lantern. His hair color also.

  “Good to see you, Hector.”

  “Are you all right?” McAllister asked.

  “We’ve heard,” Don said. “Calum Mackenzie called.” He didn’t mention that Calum had also asked if the Gazette would be interested in publishing the story. Joanne was glad she did not have to explain why she was there.

  “Sad business, suicide,” Rob said.

  “It wasn’t.” Joanne, her back straight, her lips pressed tight as though keeping in the anger, the sadness, and the indignation, continued, “No matter what anyone tells me, no matter what the note implies, I will never believe she killed herself.”

  “Note?” Rob was interested. At the age of twenty-four, he had finally grown up but still couldn’t disguise his eagerness for a story.

  “It wasn’t a note. It was only the newspaper with that stupid article left on the kitchen table with my name and telephone number beside it.” Her voice was flat. Deliberately so. She wanted to shout, It is not my fault!

  Don said, “I never met the woman, but with suicide, you can never pick who will—”

  “Don, she just wouldn’t. Believe me.”

  McAllister took her arm. “Let’s walk.”

  “The girls will be home from school soon.”

  “I’ll call Annie,” Rob volunteered, “tell her you’re finally off on your honeymoon.” Even that did not raise a smile.

  As they walked down the stairs, Joanne ahead of him, McAllister heard Hector asking, “What was that all about?” Indeed, McAllister was thinking, what is this all about? He hated not being able to protect Joanne from bad news; his greatest fear was that an upset, a scandal, would affect her, depress her, in ways he couldn’t anticipate.

  They walked across the castle forecourt, not seeing the view or the statue or the river. They walked down the steep brae to the riverbank and followed the path towards the islands.

  No matter how many times they walked this walk, it always soothed them, putting fear and worry in perspective, gladdening the heart. Joanne had a dream of living on a river. Much too pricy for us, she’d said often as she admired the mansions of the wealthy townsfolk.

  He had the good sense not to speak. And she didn’t want to talk. So, in silence except for the quiet roar of rushing water, they crossed the bridge, walked over one island, and crossed a smaller bridge onto the next. At the final bridge, Joanne turned around and began walking back the way they had come.

  Keeping to the middle of the path, avoiding the deep banks of autumn leaves lining the sandy walkways, she was looking up through the tunnel of bare branches. She watched one solitary leaf that had survived wind and weather come twirling down to fall at her feet. She couldn’t resist. She jumped into them, began kicking up leaves, stirring up small clouds of red and orange and gold and dust and sand and a smell, a damp dank earthy scent. She relished it, until the memory of her father’s funeral hit, the smell of freshly turned earth in a freshly dug grave.

  “I wonder who will bury her,” Joanne said. “She told me she had no one.”

  “I don’t know,” McAllister replied. He was not one for funerals. He believed in the memory of the person, not the worship of a body when it was all too late.

  “I will be there.”

  He said, “I’ll come with you.”

  “Thank you.”

  They didn’t take the river path back, instead walking up the steep hill that wound through woodland to their home. Not until they reached Drummond Road and had their breath back did she speak.

  “You’d have liked her. Like you, she lived in Europe for years. Before and after the war, I think. She spoke Italian, she said. And I think she spoke French—she had French books, anyhow. I can see her there. Living in the sun. Painting. Visiting art galleries and churches and . . . Sorry, McAllister. It all seems so wrong.”

  “I know.”

  The funeral would not be immediate; this they both knew. The procurator fiscal would institute a fatal accident inquiry, starting with a postmortem. Only after the finding—suicide, natural causes—would there be a funeral.

  “We’ll wait till the legalities are over,” McAllister said. “Then we will go to Sutherland to say farewell.”

  Next morning, Joanne was once more on the phone to Calum Mackenzie. “It’s about the trial,” she started—no need to say which trial. “I wanted to ask . . .” She had no idea what she wanted to ask; she just couldn’t let go of Alice Ramsay.

  “I don’t mind. Maybe we coul
d meet up?”

  Joanne dreaded the thought of another drive. The last one had been fun, but it had taken her three days to recover.

  “Me and my fiancée, Elaine, we’re coming down your way,” Calum said. “She has a training day at the hospital, and I’m driving her down in ma dad’s car, so I’ve all day to kill.”

  “When?”

  “Friday coming.”

  “Perfect.” Joanne was pleased. “Phone me when you arrive, then come for a cup of tea. No, better still, let’s meet at the Gazette office. I can show you around, introduce you to everyone.”

  Now it was Calum’s turn to be delighted. “Elaine has to be at the hospital at nine o’clock, so let’s say . . .”

  “Ten o’clock at the Gazette.”

  Joanne sat in a visitor’s chair in her husband’s office, Calum in the other. Purloining McAllister’s chair was one step too many. She had her reporter’s notebook and a pen. She put on reading glasses. They reminded her that the surgeon had feared for her eyesight.

  In her thinking, however, she’d reached a turning point in her recovery. For a long while, she’d believed that the attack was her fault. She wrestled with different scenarios in which she should have done this, could have done that, changing the outcome. She wrestled with what she should have said, or done, and after the fact decided that she was not clever enough. Or brave enough. Until McAllister showed her different.

  Joanne guessed he would be unlikely to support her investigation into Alice Ramsay’s death, but she was determined to find out more, if only to lessen her own guilt.

  That stare, that sentence uttered in a cold voice on a cold day in the Station Square, would not go away. I thought better of you. Joanne had been, and still was, the victim of small-town gossip. And she in turn had gossiped with Dougald Forsythe. That she could not forgive herself for.

  “The trial of Alice Ramsay,” she began. “Why was she prosecuted?”

  This was a question that flummoxed Calum still. The charge was an obscure one; even the procurator fiscal had wrestled with it. Calum hated to think about the miscarriage, deliberate or otherwise. Anything to do with what he called “women’s plumbing” he avoided.