by A. D. Scott
The editor did not disagree.
“He phoned to say there’s been a break-in at the late Miss Ramsay’s house.”
McAllister told him of Joanne’s certainty that they too had had an intruder. He explained why he agreed.
“A spent match, not very much,” Don said. “But since your missus says someone’s been there, well . . .”
McAllister could tell his deputy believed Joanne. And him—maybe. An old Highlander, Don McLeod knew there was more abroad than what could be seen or touched.
“Alive and dead, your Miss Alice Ramsay is at the heart of some great secret.” Don knew that Joanne would not give up until she knew, or was thoroughly convinced she would never know, the mystery of the artist’s death. Therefore, her husband wouldn’t either. So he might as well become involved too. “Time to ask this man from London if he’s responsible for these visitors.”
“Visitors!” McAllister shot off his chair. “Joanne said there’s a brush salesman pestering her.”
“Aye, they’re around this time o’ year. They call on me an’ all, but best to check.” Don said this to footsteps already halfway down the stairs, hurrying for the door and home.
“Brush salesman? You asked me to an urgent meeting to inquire about a door-to-door salesman?”
It was the next day. Stuart was implying he’d rushed to the Highlands on the overnight train, when McAllister knew he was a resident of a hotel on the north side of the river.
“My wife is certain someone is watching her. Certain someone has been in our house. So yes, I’m checking on a brush salesman.”
“And now so am I,” DI Dunne added.
“Mr. McAllister, I leave for London on the overnight train. I have finished my task. You will not be troubled again.”
The editor knew he was being dismissed, and his frustration at the man’s intransigence surfaced. “So was it you and your henchmen? First I find you attending a country auction. Then you threaten me. Spying on my home? A hit-and-run accident? Wrecking an empty house? Isn’t it all a bit drastic? Seems to me, for someone so secretive, you are completely amateurish, flagging your presence wherever you go.”
Stuart said nothing. But his silence said much.
It was then that McAllister understood that Stuart had told the truth about one thing—the man was indeed an “office wallah.” His self-description said more than that; the very phrase indicated a man from a former colonial background, army perhaps, and private education and privilege certainly. He was everything McAllister despised—a man elevated to a job beyond his intelligence, hired, and promoted because of birth and education at the right schools. And, most of all, family connections.
McAllister continued, “Someone was, is, searching for something. It all connects with Alice Ramsay.”
“That may be so. But you and the local police will never know.” Stuart said this quietly, not boasting, not threatening, just stating a fact. His was a profession far removed from the life and experience of a small-town editor, of a small-town policeman.
“One final point. The Leonardo drawing, how does that come into all this?” McAllister almost missed the slight movement in the man’s cheek. Was it a smile? A tic? An admission of heaven knew what?
“A fine example of a master at work,” Stuart replied. “Gentlemen, please excuse me.” He stood. “I am certain our paths will not cross again, so I will say good-bye.” He was wise enough not to offer his hand to McAllister.
McAllister remained seated.
“The matter is over. You have my word.” Stuart’s face blank, voice firm, spoke as though in command of a regiment. “Good-bye, Inspector. Good-bye, Mr. McAllister.”
When they were alone, McAllister quoted, “Ours not to reason why . . .”
The policeman couldn’t resist finishing the quotation. “Ours but to do and die.”
Why the patrol officers stopped the car DI Dunne never discovered. How the small pouch of drawing implements was taken into custody was clearer; the chamois leather roll was in a compartment underneath the spare tire in the boot of the car.
“What made you search the car?” Dunne asked the constable.
The young police officer did not confess that it was his first time as a driver on road patrol and that he was overkeen to book someone, anyone. That the car was big and black and powerful, with English registration plates, and that he’d stopped the car out of curiosity he also kept to himself. “The car was speeding,” PC Cameron said.
“By a lot?”
“No really. But I had to give it some wellie—sorry—I had to accelerate to overtake him.”
He and his fellow policeman had used their flashing blue light and siren and were thrilled by the chase.
“When he got out the car, he was right unhappy.” This was mostly untrue. The man had been quiet. Too quiet. Too cooperative. That seemed suspicious in a place where motorists would argue pink was purple to get out of a speeding charge. “Anyhow, me an’ Allie thought we’d better check.”
“You were being careful.”
The constable worried that Dunne was reproaching him.
“Sergeant Patience says you can never be too careful.”
“Quite right.”
“We took him in. The sarge looked at what we found. We made a list, gave all his stuff back to him. Then the sergeant told the man to go to his nearest police station within seven days with his license and insurance.”
“He didn’t have those with him?”
“No. No license, no insurance, no ID.”
“Why didn’t you charge him with speeding?”
The young policeman blushed at the humiliation. “The motorist denied he was speeding. Sitting exactly on the speed limit, he said. An’ he said that if we could overtake him in our patrol car, he couldney’ve been going that fast.”
Dunne presumed the car had been speeding—slightly. He also knew that a foreigner from London, with the voice and demeanor of entitlement, would panic a young man on the first day in a job he had wanted and trained for ever since joining the police force.
“There was no one else in the car.” This wasn’t a question. Dunne already knew the answer.
“No, Inspector. He was alone.”
The contents of the chamois roll had baffled the custody sergeant. He did not think to consult his inspector, so it was fortuitous that Dunne saw the contents listed on the charge sheet. By that time, the man had left.
“Aye, but we have his registration number and address,” the sergeant said. “I’ll check.”
He left the sergeant peering at the booking sheet through half-moon spectacles, before reaching for the telephone. Good luck with that, the inspector thought.
Dunne called McAllister.
McAllister said, “I don’t remember, exactly. Joanne will know. But I think a pen holder and nibs, Chinese calligraphy brushes, and an inkstone. No seals or stamps.”
The sergeant had said he didn’t examine the stamps but remembered some were in metal, a few were wood. There were seals and sealing wax. There was a box stuffed full of old paper. There was what looked like some receipt books, but they were in a foreign script. “Russian?” he’d guessed.
Dunne continued, “This fellow told Sergeant Patience he worked with museums rebinding old books and such like and these were the tools of his trade.”
“Tools of the trade—maybe. His tools? Unlikely.” McAllister sighed. An explanation was unlikely. “We know Miss Ramsay was a forger. And we know she worked in some branch of the security services in London. But did she continue to work for who knows who when she left? And does all this relate to her death?”
“Mr. McAllister . . .”
McAllister, alerted by the “Mr.,” could guess what was coming.
“The verdict was suicide. The matter is over.” Stated simply. Said as a matter of fact. The policeman was being neither judgmental nor encouraging. But the hidden rebuke was there. The question: Why are you letting your wife involve herself in an affair
this dangerous?
“Joanne doesn’t believe the woman committed suicide.” Both men knew that the obsession of the living with the untimely dead could destroy even the sanest of survivors.
“Her opinion, your opinion, even mine, do not matter here. We are dealing with a government agency with powers way beyond our experience.”
“Joanne is editing the manuscript Miss Ramsay was working on before her death.” Here McAllister hesitated. The work on Alice’s manuscript gave Joanne pleasure, purpose, perhaps an obsession. “Naturally, the life and death of Miss Ramsay are of interest.”
“Is there a connection between the manuscript and her death?”
“Paintings of the local flora and fauna? I don’t see how.” McAllister lit another cigarette to help him think. “Miss Ramsay’s house was vandalized. You said the man your constables stopped and searched was calm and professional. So would he wreck the house? Search thoroughly, yes. But Calum Mackenzie said windows were smashed, floorboards ripped up, pipes pulled out, water flooding the kitchen—the vandalism was done in anger.”
McAllister heard the policeman groan before saying,“That’s a matter for the Sutherland Constabulary.”
“I told Calum Mackenzie the same.” Both men felt it was yet another part of the puzzle.
“Stuart’s departure is the end of it.” Dunne’s words were certain, his thoughts less so. “So I doubt we will ever know.”
And therein lies the problem, McAllister didn’t say.
CHAPTER 18
I can’t condemn Mrs. Mackenzie. Gossip is a form of currency, and without it, my job, and the lives of our operatives, would be impossible. To add veracity to a false identity, I relied on agents to provide me with current gossip, the slang, the jokes going around. That and the price of beer and bread and cigarettes.
What was the opinion of the man in the bar? The housewife in the market? I would pick a reference here, a piece of gossip there, and weave them into a new identity.
When I returned here, so many years later, I began to understand that Mrs. Mackenzie needed to be someone in the community. Being married and the owner of a prosperous local business brings her status. She trades information and feels needed. Unfortunately, she also embellishes the stories.
I tell her nothing. I smile. I’m polite. I pay my bills before they are due.
I should have known better. Nothing will satisfy her until she’s discovered the minutiae of every moment of my life before coming up north to retire. (That’s what I told her, and that is the truth. Mostly.)
No, I won’t give her the satisfaction of my life’s story. I’ve no wish to be a character in her dramas. In revenge, she encouraged, and exaggerated a ridiculous rumor. She calls me a witch instead of saying what she really wants to say: “a stuck-up bitch.”
Foolish me for thinking I could be anonymous in a place where my family was once known. But the glen bewitched me.
Although it was early evening, Calum was in bed in quiet despair. With Elaine gone, he could no longer look forward to their walks, their talks. If her shift was daytime, they would meet in the evenings and huddle up, cuddle up, on a sand dune or in the shelter of the rocks or in his father’s car. If her shift was nighttime, in all weathers, they would spend afternoons at the beach or in the hills or drive up to Lairg, taking a picnic of digestive biscuits and cheese and pickle and lemonade. Or a flask of tea.
Once, Elaine brought a tea made from Miss Ramsay’s herbs. He spat it out. “It’s chamomile,” she told him.
“Boiled garden weeds,” he said.
Elaine laughed. Teased him for having no adventure in him. He gazed around at the loch, at the hills, at the high country up above Golspie, at the pass leading to the wildness of moorland around Garve, saying, “This is a grand adventure.” And she’d agreed.
“Calum.” The voice carried along the corridor, through two shut doors, past a small flight of stairs to a half landing, and through another sturdy door to his room, where Radio Luxembourg was transmitting faint sounds of music and voices through a thick haar of static. “Caa-lum.”
When he could no longer ignore the macaw-like squawk, he climbed out of bed, put on his slippers, and pulled a jumper over his pajamas. In my pajamas at nine o’clock at night, he thought. Elaine would say I’m an old man before ma time. He yawned and went to his mother. “What’s wrong?” he asked.
“Nothing’s wrong. I just wanted company.”
“I’m reading. And listening to the wireless.”
“You can bring your book in here,” she answered from her throne in the high bed, with a mountain of pillows and cushions and rugs and a shawl. “Bring the wireless an’ all. I feel like some music.”
“Mum, I’m writing a—” Telling her he was writing to Elaine was not a good idea. “I’m trying to compose some articles for the Highland Gazette.”
“Surely you’re not going back there? Not now you’ve been offered your old job back.”
“I want to work on the Gazette. It’s interesting, and I’ll learn a lot.” He knew he had to leave. The feeling of wanting to escape from her had come more and more frequently in recent weeks. And he hated himself for it. She was his mother. She was lonely. Not being in the shop, not serving the petrol, she had no one to talk to. Except him.
“That Elaine,” Mrs. Mackenzie began, “she’s determined to take you away from me.”
“Mum.” Calum stood.
She heard the warning and stretched out for his hand, his sleeve, anything to hold on to her boy.
He was out of reach. “Can I make you a drink?” he asked.
“No, thanks. I don’t want to disturb you in the night.” She would anyway, he knew.
“I’m leaving on Sunday so I can be back at the Gazette Monday morning. I’ve talked to the doctor, and the district nurse will come daily until you’re up and about.” He knew when she said nothing that she didn’t believe he would leave her. “I want to be with Elaine, so even if I don’t have a job on a newspaper, with my qualifications, I can always find work down there.” He was proud of his daring.
“It’s clear I’m not wanted.” With a tremble in her voice, reaching into her sleeve for a hankie, she overplayed the pity-poor-me.
“It’s only for a year. When me and Elaine are married, we’ll settle back here.” He knew not to mention they were saving for a house of their own or that his dad and Mrs. Galloway had promised to help them financially.
Elaine had agreed when they discussed it. “Of course we’ll move back. But we’re young, so let’s have some fun first, then find a nice wee place and start a family.” She had one in mind, a small terraced house across the cobbled lane from her mother. “We’ll have our wedding in the cathedral, you can go back to your old job, and I’ll go back to nursing—after our babies are at school, of course.”
He’d blushed. She’d kissed him.
His anxiety lessened. He loved his mother. But knew they could not live with her.
Next morning, after the drawn-out performance of taking his mother breakfast in bed, helping her downstairs, fetching the newspaper, tuning the wireless to the Home Service, lighting the fire, and promising to be back in time to make dinner—“twelve o’clock sharp, else ma stomach plays up”—Calum walked to the hotel where his dad had left the car for him, keys in the ignition.
About to set off for the glen, he changed his mind.
“Hello, Mrs. Galloway, how are you?”
“Grand, Calum. Yourself?” She didn’t need to ask. She could see the shadows under his eyes. See the sag of his shoulders.
“Not too bad. I just dropped in to tell you I’m taking Dad’s car. Miss Ramsay’s house was broken into. Now the rain’s stopped, I want to have a proper poke around. See if . . .” See if what, he didn’t know.
“Can I come too?” she asked. “It’s been a while since I was up there. The auction was the last time.”
He didn’t know why he’d hoped she would come with him but was grateful she’d offered.
He liked Mrs. Galloway and was happy his dad was happy. Besides, he’d known little else. When he was growing up, his father would finish work, join them for supper, and be there for breakfast. It was only when he was nine, or was it ten, that he discovered from the school bully that his father spent his nights with Mrs. Galloway.
When they climbed out of the car, they buttoned their coats tight and pulled their hats down over their ears. The wind was brisk, the temperature in the low forties, but the sun was bright and the sky a deep blue that gladdened the heart.
“Listen.” Mrs. Galloway stood still, her head to one side.
“What?” He could hear nothing except a rustle of bog cotton, a whisper of wind in distant pines, the faint sound of a Forestry vehicle climbing the track across the glen.
“A skylark. Alice’s favorite. That’s why she took the house, she said. The skylark enchanted her into falling in love with the glen all over again.”
The five-bar gate had a new shiny lock. They climbed over and tramped up the track. From a distance, the house looked the same as Miss Ramsay had left it. Close up, it looked like it was suffering from a terminal injury: empty eye sockets for windows; the once bright blue door had fresh wounds slashed across the middle; the door handle had been gouged out; someone had nailed two planks of what looked like old floorboards across the doorframe to keep intruders out.
The back door was intact and locked. “I wonder if the key’s in the same place.” Mrs. Galloway checked under a stone near the outside stone sink cum drinking trough Alice had used to pound willow bark to make a sleep remedy. “Here it is.”
“If someone knew Miss Ramsay, would they know where the key was kept?”
Mrs. Galloway thought about it. “A local would know that we seldom lock up hereabouts. An’ if we do, we always leave a spare key handy.”
Calum nodded in agreement. He pushed open the back door that led into the scullery. This area was intact. The coat stand, the floor-to-ceiling shelves full of tins and jam jars and shoe polish and balls of twine and a bag full of of bags, all the handy things you might need in the garden—it was typical of a farmhouse or cottage.