by John Burke
Galbraith in fact doubled as reporter for two regional freesheets as well as printing a monthly one for Kilstane, and acted as a stringer for any national newspapers he could persuade to use his local stories. Today he looked very eager indeed.
‘If you want a feature on the Gathering,’ said Nick, ‘you’d do better consulting Adam Lowther.’
‘Not that, sir. It’s all these new revelations about yon corpse in the Academy. Yesterday’s Express had a short piece about one of the hands being smashed, but that was all. Don’t know where they picked that up. Not from me,’ said Galbraith resentfully. ‘It would help if I could use my local knowhow to get the details right for them.’ By which he presumably meant that it would help his own part-time income. ‘Do you think there’s anything in the idea of those injuries . . . well, sort of tying in with that business of Daniel Erskine’s bashing, years back?’
Again Nick hastened to shift responsibility. ‘You’ll have to ask the police about that.’
‘I’ve tried. Nae chance.’ He evidently shared Scott-Fraser’s view of the local police. ‘The sergeant says he’s not authorized to issue a statement, and the detective inspector in charge of the inquiry is away doing something somewhere else.’
Nick thought to himself that Sergeant Elliot was clearly a well disciplined young officer who knew better than to take responsibility for making statements to the press which could lead to embarrassing gaffes and repercussions.
As Galbraith ran a desultory but expert proof-corrector’s eye down the last page of the brochure, Nick said: ‘You’d do better making a story out of the Gathering. At least we’re pretty clear on our facts there.’
Galbraith grimaced. ‘You don’t know the nationals, Sir Nicholas. They’d only be interested if there was some big scandal connected with the festival.’
‘Which we can do without. Don’t even think of it.’
Reluctant to let him slip away too easily, Galbraith said: ‘It’d be interesting to have a picture of the face. The dead man’s face, I mean.’
‘I can just imagine it on the front page of the tabloids, yes.’
‘You’d be knowing about the old superstition hereabouts.’
Nick sighed. ‘Which one in particular?’
‘The thrawn face. Thrawn — twisted and contorted, ye ken. It used to be said that if ye died with a thraw, either ye’d led an evil life or ye’d been murdered. And if murder was the way of it, then watch should be kept over the corpse until those death thraws smoothed themselves out . . . and then it would denounce the murderer.’
‘I’m sure Detective Inspector Gunn would be delighted with a little help like that,’ said Nick as he left.
Walking up the slope towards the knoll on which Black Knowe stood, he recognized her car drawn up in the shadow of the tower.
*
Mrs Robson had primly shown her into the sparsely furnished reception room on the ground floor which, once upon a time, had been the emergency byre for livestock hustled urgently in when a reivers’ raid was threatened. As Nick came in, she glanced at her wristwatch as if reproving him for keeping her waiting.
‘Oh, so you’re back,’ was all he could think of to say.
‘Only temporarily. I’m sorry to burst in on you at such short notice.’
‘Rounding off that other business, whatever it was?’
She took out a polaroid photograph and handed it to him. ‘This is a bit of a long shot, but does this ring any bells?’
He studied the scene of the family clustered in their plaids and bonnets at the head of those dizzying steps, with the thrash of sea and sky behind. And yes, it did strike a chord.
‘Wilkie?’
‘Yes, it’s a Wilkie all right. I just felt I’d seen it listed somewhere, and it might have belonged to one of your friends.’
‘Another of the landed gentry?’ He grinned, but she merely looked embarrassed. ‘Sorry. There are still a lot of them I’m supposed to know, but don’t. But yes, somewhere or other . . .’ He tilted the photograph, half hoping that a different light would provoke a memory of where he had last seen it.
‘It showed up,’ she said, ‘after a house clearance. I’ve tracked it down to the old Glenlaggan estate. But the big house was given over to an agricultural college two and a half years ago, and the contents sold off to cover death duties.’
‘That’s right. That’s where I saw it, just before old Hutchison died. But everything would have been catalogued. You don’t have a run-of-the-mill house clearance for a place of that calibre. That’s for specialists.’
‘Exactly. And all that the firm in Hawick can offer is that they never handled anything from the laird’s house, but from the mains.’
‘The home farm?’
‘That and the estate cottages. Some sold off to the tenants, but several of them moved off for jobs elsewhere, and the contents of the mains were all cleared to make way for a folk museum.’
‘And who was living in the farmhouse at the time?’
‘That’s what I have to find out. The heritage people dealt through a factor, but he’s moved out as well — somewhere over in Argyll. But I just wanted to make absolutely sure: you do remember the painting?’
‘I’m pretty sure I do. And this’ — he handed the photograph back to her — ‘is an original? Not just a copy?’
‘It’s the real thing. Up for auction until we stopped it.’
‘I’d love to hear the full story when you’ve unravelled it.’
‘The threads are still a bit tangled. Now I’d better get moving.’
‘Back to Hawick? Or pacing round Glenlaggan?’
‘Both. But first I’ve got to check with Sergeant Elliot how things have been going round here.’
‘A very discreet young officer. But doesn’t it make you a bit dizzy, juggling two cases in the air at the same time?’
‘We often have nine or ten going on at the same time. And loose ends all over the place.’
Nick thought of Scott-Fraser’s grumbles. ‘But you don’t let them get you down?’ Rashly he added: ‘You don’t think the top brass are trying to hassle you?’
She froze, staring at him in what might almost have been hostility. ‘Sometimes I do get that impression. But I won’t get paranoid about it.’
‘Why don’t you pack it in? That job I offered you, we might still —’
‘No,’ she said fiercely. ‘I’m not going to give in. I’m going to get both these things sorted out. No way do I give up.’
After she had gone, he sat at the piano for a while, improvising around a few snatches of half-formed themes, occasionally linking them up into a tune whose sentimentality surprised him. When the phone rang he half welcomed the interruption.
Lesley Gunn said: ‘I thought you ought to know, before it’s on the radio news or in the local rag. This Galbraith stringer is bouncing about all over the place, and he’s bound to come to you for a comment.’
‘A comment on what?’
‘Our corpse. No identification yet, but it’s a woman. And she was pregnant.’
Part 2
FALSE RELATIONS
Chapter One
He had arrived. Erskine had, after all, set foot once more in Kilstane. Adam Lowther didn’t know the hows or whys. They didn’t matter. Erskine had changed his mind, and was here. Adam faced a day of mounting practical problems, but faced it with jubilant music in his head — not just a swirling pot-pourri of Erskine’s music but a great symphony of light and air, the sheer joy of being alive.
Nora gave him her usual peck of a kiss as he set out into the morning, leaving her in charge of the shop.
‘Happy now? I’ve never seen you look so excited.’ If there was a hint of a reproach, it was typical of Nora that her expression should imply she supposed she herself must be partly to blame.
‘It’s going to be a hell of a scramble,’ he said jubilantly, ‘reorganizing things to fit in around him.’
‘Everything to be made worthy of him?
’ As he tucked his briefcase under his arm, she added: ‘You’re not afraid that . . . I mean, you’re sure you won’t be disappointed?’ It didn’t deserve an answer. He was on his way through the door when she said: ‘Mind you’re back for this afternoon. I’ve got a practice with Duncan. You’ll have to look after the shop.’
Closing the shop door behind him, he wondered guiltily whether he really ought to have brought Nora here. She had been reluctant to come, had lost her baby, and didn’t enjoy going out for walks while he reminisced about his childhood memories or talked of music. At most he got grudging politeness. Would their marriage have been less edgy if they had stayed in Leeds?
Halfway down St Ninian Street he was stopped by Enoch Buchanan. ‘Will that be true, then?’
‘What, Mr Buchanan?’
‘Ye’ll be letting that blasphemer and defiler back into this town? I tell ye, we’ll no’ be having it. I’ve made my views plain enough at all oor meetings.’
‘You made your views plain, yes, Mr Buchanan. But the majority agreed to offer an invitation to Erskine, and he has now agreed to attend.’
‘Dinna say I didnae warn ye.’ Buchanan glared up at the overhead bunting with its frivolity of crotchets and quavers in garish colours. ‘That spawn of the Devil did an unco’ amount of wickedness before. Lies and fornication. But not this time.’
Adam left Buchanan fuming by the grocer’s window, obviously preparing to go in and rant at MacKenzie over the heads of waiting customers.
Next port of call was the police station. Arrangements had been agreed for extra duty officers to keep an eye on the Town Hall and the Tolbooth, sharing a display of musical instruments and scores, and of course the invaluable portraits of Kilstane worthies. There was little fear of vandals painting moustaches on these faces, since most of them already sported great tracts of facial hair; though there was no way of predicting the ingenuity of really determined troublemakers. Next he was told that a Drugs Squad officer would be at the station tomorrow and wanted a word with him about surveillance of the open air concerts and the pub bars.
In the last twenty-four hours a dispute had arisen over a concert by a small pipes ensemble advertised as taking place in the Tolbooth. Nobody had noticed until yesterday that this date clashed with the Incorporated Crafts Guilds of Kilstane’s annual tournament for the MacLean trophy, instituted by the same benefactor who had funded the Academy tower. Despite the impressive resonances of some ancient tradition, the tournament was in fact a knock-out game of dominoes in memory of MacLean’s passion for that game. The clash would have to be sorted out by this afternoon at the latest.
He would cope with that after lunch, after his inspection of the outdoor setup. He felt unstoppably cheerful under the jauntily fluttering bunting with crotchets and quavers on it — Galbraith’s idea, and since he was providing it cost price, nobody had cared to criticize.
On the way round the town towards the Academy he stopped at Marshall & Corsock’s garage and coach office to check on the timetable for bringing people in from the villages and getting them back again, allowing ample time before and after concerts. And had they liaised with William Kerr over the float for the combined marching and driving New Orleans band?
Everything seemed satisfactory until Sandy Corsock looked out of the office window on to the forecourt and groaned. ‘Oh, God, him again. I wish he’d fill up back home in Rowanbie and let them subsidize him.’
Adam turned towards the window. Captain Scott-Fraser was pouring fuel into the tank of his Range Rover at the pump. He stood at an angle, propped against the side of the vehicle, his lips twitching as he watched the flickering digits of litres and money.
‘‘Put it on the bill.’’ Corsock had Scott-Fraser’s terrier-like bark off to perfection. ‘That’ll be the refrain. ‘Put it on the bill’ — and then forget about it. Don’t suppose you have any dealings with him, though?’
‘I tune his piano.’
‘Cash on the nail?’
‘Sometimes he forgets, and I have to remind him next time.’
‘Remind him? More like a long chase. Takes a long time to catch up. And then he gets hoity-toity and says it’s the last time he’s going to be insulted by us. So Rowanbie gets the benefit of his custom for a while — until he gets tired of insults over there, and goes the rounds until eventually he comes back here. You’re lucky. I don’t think there are any other piano tuners round here, are there? No payment, no keyboard capers.’
As Adam came out, Scott-Fraser was thrusting the gun back into its slot with the decisiveness of a dedicated officer shoving his revolver back in its holster after executing half a dozen deserters. He was delighted to have an audience.
‘Look at them! Look at those prices! And that’s just for litres. There was a time you could get a couple of gallons for the price of that. Outrageous, isn’t it?’ He came round and leaned on the massive bull-bars, an impressive fitment, though there were few bulls or kangaroos or anything of dangerous size hereabouts. ‘Glad to have bumped into you. About this chap Erskine. He’s arrived?’
‘So I believe,’ said Adam. ‘He’ll be staying with Sir Nicholas, of course.’
‘Hmph. Well, I’m sure you’ll see him before I do. Thought it might be an idea to invite him to next Thursday’s Schiltron Circle luncheon. You’ll be giving that talk of yours about him, won’t you? Looking forward to it, Lowther. What better than having the man himself there in the Pheasant, putting you right, eh? Think you could have a word with him?’
‘There might be some objections, sir.’
‘Objections?’
‘I think Mr Buchanan is a member of your society?’
‘Miserable old fart. Drinks water all the time. Even for the loyal toast. And he grudges that anyway. But what’s he got to do with it?’
‘I’ve just been talking to him.’ Or listening to him, thought Adam. ‘He has always been opposed to Daniel Erskine showing his face in Kilstane again. And he’s capable of making trouble. I think he would oppose any idea of Erskine himself being present.’
‘Would he, indeed?’ Scott-Fraser had made the suggestion a bit tentatively at first. This made him very positive. ‘I’m Chairman of the Schiltrons, and I’m issuing an invitation. And that’s that. Shall I leave it to you?’
‘It’s rather short notice, sir. And’ — Adam wasn’t sure how much Scott-Fraser knew, or wanted to know — ‘there’s the matter of . . . well, of injury to his hands. I think he might have some difficulty in eating a formal meal.’
‘Very sharp of you, Lowther. Very tactful. Should have thought of that myself. No need for him to sit through all our ceremonies. Ask him along at the end. He can lift a glass, can’t he? Give him a dram, ask him to chat for ten minutes or so, pick up where you leave off, sort of thing, and answer a few questions. Make a change from old Blaine’s serial reminiscences about his holiday up the Norwegian fjords. I leave it in your capable hands, Lowther.’ Scott-Fraser slapped his thigh and marched round to the driver’s seat, waving up at the office window and bellowing as he went. ‘On the bill, right?’
Outside the Academy, rubble had been tidied away. A lorry had been driven up to the main entrance, and two young men were carrying chairs into the building. In the hall itself, one door at the end of the passage into the tower had been sealed off, but an electrician was checking the EXIT and EMERGENCY EXIT signs above the others. Two women were scrubbing the floor of the stage, while the two young men clattered to and fro across the auditorium, scraping and slamming chairs into rows.
He returned to the shop to make a couple of phone calls. Nora was not on her own. Deirdre and Duncan were arguing as he arrived, and all three of them turned on him, ready to throw another problem at him.
‘We’re supposed to be rehearsing this afternoon,’ Duncan blustered. ‘Nora and me, we have a lot to go through. But they’ll not let us use the room.’
‘Who won’t?’
‘One of the kirk elders says the choir has to have the Sund
ay School room for their practice.’
Adam opened his folder and skimmed yet again down the schedule of dates and times. There was no mention on it of the choir.
‘The minister says it’s important the choir is perfect for the service of fellowship on Sunday,’ added Nora forlornly.
Adam leaned against the counter. To go and have a row . . .? That wouldn’t help the general atmosphere. In any case it was too late to rearrange this afternoon’s bookings at this stage.
He said: ‘You’ll have to use the shop here. That piano’s in better condition than the Sunday School one, anyway.’
Deirdre said: ‘And you can give them some pointers?’ It sounded suggestive, but none of them could imagine what she was suggesting.
‘We’ll have an early lunch, shut up shop for the afternoon, and I’ll leave you to it. I’ve got plenty to do elsewhere. Too much, really.’ He went to the door and swung the sign round to say CLOSED.
Nora looked at Deirdre without favour but asked: ‘Would you like to join us? Just a bit of cold meat and salad.’
Deirdre flashed a smile at Adam and was about to speak when her husband said: ‘We’ll have a snack in the pub. Back here at one-thirty sharp, right?’
‘I’m fed up with that bloody pub,’ said Deirdre. Coming from her, it might be true for just the moment, but on the whole it was not very convincing.
As the two of them left, Deirdre glanced back at Adam as if imploring him to rescue her from her husband’s clutches. That, too, was only a momentary impulse.
Nora said: ‘You’re not really going to fall for her, are you?’
‘Fall for Deirdre? Come off it.’
‘She seems to have her eye on you.’ Nora sounded almost sympathetic.
When they went upstairs for lunch, she slowed on the landing and for a moment he wondered if she fancied half an hour in bed rather than eating. But somehow the timing wasn’t right, the mood wasn’t right, and he didn’t reach out for her. She quickened her pace and went on into the kitchen.
After lunch he dropped in at the booking office in the corner of the Tourist Information Office, staffed in Duncan’s absence by a blonde girl whose father was the Marshall of Marshall & Corsock’s coach business. She was very good at explaining smoothly to visitors why the coach timetables were frequently misleading, and why some services failed to run at all.