by S L Beaumont
The man nodded and led me to a vacant seat at one of the computer screens. “Wait here and I’ll see if we’ve digitized that year.”
A few minutes later he returned, confirming that it had been scanned, and showed me how to open a file containing images of the daily newspaper.
“Thank you.”
“Let me know if you get stuck or need anything further,” he said and stepped away to assist someone else.
I scrolled through the newspaper on the screen for the 30th and the 31st of May, but wasn’t until the June 1st edition that I found what I was looking for. A small article at the bottom of page nine caught my attention.
Death in Cliff Plunge
The body of a 23-year-old woman was recovered from the wreckage of her vehicle at the bottom of a cliff near the village of Strathgarvan yesterday afternoon. The car appears to have lost control during a rain storm the previous evening and plunged over the cliff. Police are yet to release further details until next of kin has been notified.
I gasped as I reread the article. Colin’s parents were right, the accident happened near where I now lived. I continued scanning the Post for the following days, and sure enough on June 3rd a small column confirmed my suspicions.
Victim Named in Cliff Death
The woman who died as the result of a car accident near Strathgarvan on May 30 has been named as local resident Catriona Mackie. There were no witnesses to the incident which happened on a remote stretch of the coastal road south of the village. DS Jones of the Ayrshire Police said that poor visibility at the time appeared to be the cause of the accident and that no other vehicles were involved. Ms. Mackie is survived by her six-year son. Her funeral will be held on Saturday.
I sat back; so that was how Colin’s birth mother had died. I wondered why he’d never told me. I caught the attention of the archivist and he hurried over.
“Would I be able to get copies of two pages emailed to me?” I asked.
“Yes,” he said. “I just need you to complete a request form.”
Ten minutes later, having completed the necessary paperwork, I thanked him and left the reading room.
“Excuse me,” the receptionist called as I walked past her desk.
I paused.
“I just need you to sign out,” she said.
“Sure, sorry I didn’t realize,” I said, reaching for the book at the same time she pushed it towards me. It went flying off the desk and landed face down on the floor. “Sorry,” I said, stooping to retrieve it. I placed it back on the desk and opened it. Dates in October of the previous year showed at the top of the page, I reached to turn the pages to get to back to today’s date when a name caught my eye. Don Harley, my father. I gave a sharp intake of breath and gripped the edge of the desk until my knuckles turned white as I read his entry.
“Is everything okay?” The reception was looking concerned.
I nodded and turned the pages to sign myself out. I raced down the stairs and back out into the courtyard before I stopped, bending over, hands on my knees and took some deep breaths, my head spinning.
Dad had been to the archives looking at newspapers the day before he’d died. What had he found? Was that why he’d been killed?
Chapter 35
April 14
I was mentally exhausted when I arrived back in Strathgarvan late that afternoon. Buffy came bounding up the drive behind my car as I passed the Gordons’, where she’d spent the night, and leapt around me barking her greeting as I climbed from the car. The cottage was cold, so I lit the fire and after taking Buffy for a quick walk, I heated a bowl of soup to eat. I curled up on the sofa with my Kindle and Buffy beside me with her head resting on my legs.
I woke a few hours later with a stiff neck. My Kindle had fallen to the floor and the fire had burned itself down. I slipped my legs out from under Buffy’s weight and added a few logs before placing the fire guard in front of it. Buffy jumped off the couch and padded into the bedroom. I followed, walking to the window to pull the curtains closed. It was windy outside, and the dark sky was overcast, no stars visible. A flickering light caught my attention, then another, at the edge of the cliff. I paused and watched. More lights. Several trucks were driving along the road on top of the cliff. I glanced down at my bedside clock. It was just after 2 am. I cracked open the window and listened. The drone of the engines grew louder, followed by the grating of gears changing as they climbed down the cliff road. I counted the red tail lights of four trucks which disappeared from my view as they turned down towards the little harbor.
What would be being transported to or from the harbor at this time of night that needed four large lorries? I closed the window, pulled the curtains across and crawled beneath the covers.
I woke late the following morning. The sun was making a welcome appearance so after breakfast, Buffy and I headed out for our morning walk. I decided to change my usual route and tramped across the fields beside my cottage, towards the cliff road and the harbor to see if I could work out what the activity from the previous night had been.
Buffy danced in front of me, returning to my side every so often to make sure that I was still coming. I was out of breath by the time I crested the rise to the road. I crossed over, calling to Buffy who’d run ahead. I stopped on the far side and looked down into the village’s little harbor expecting to see a number of vehicles, but the parking spaces were empty. Four fishing boats were moored along the jetty, with five others anchored in the bay.
I watched as a group of men loaded wooden crates from the jetty onto one of the fishing boats. When the load was on board, the boat was untethered from its mooring and chugged out of the harbor and across the bay towards Campbell Island, the home of Ewan Campbell. I shaded my eyes and gazed out across the water. The approach to the island was rocky, with just a single safe passage ending at a wharf jutting out into the water. There had once been a causeway out to the island but the sea had long since washed it away. The circular island was dominated by a large austere grey brick building in its center, partially hidden by the tall trees that covered the island. The house was three-storied with four chimneys, all of which had plumes of smoke curling skywards. A number of outbuildings were scattered around the house and hidden among the trees. A red and white striped lighthouse stood on the northern edge of the island and had protected boats along the coast for many years. I could see the sun glinting off solar panels attached to the sides of its roof dome.
A car pulled up beside me.
“Alright, Jess?”
I turned to see Alastair in the driver’s seat leaning his elbow out of the window.
I smiled. “Yes, lovely day.”
“What are ye lookin’ at?”
“Just the harbor. I heard a convoy of trucks last night and I wondered if they were still here,” I said.
“A convoy, eh?” he said. “Some of the fleet arrived back last night, so they were probably picking up the catch. I’m off to see what they’ve caught. Fresh fish on the menu tonight.”
“Do they sell directly from the boats?”
Alastair grinned. “To me they do.”
“Alastair, you knew Colin for a long time, didn’t you?”
Alastair’s grin dropped and a wary look crossed his face. “Aye.”
“Did Colin live in the village until his mother died?”
A slight frown formed on his brow. “Aye, in the cottage.”
“Which cottage?”
Alastair looked at me as though I was a little simple. “Why, your cottage, of course.”
“My…” I began as another piece of the Colin McDonald puzzle slotted into place. Colin didn’t buy the cottage while he was at university, it was always his. “Of course,” I said nodding.
“Must keep movin’. See ya.” Alastair gave a nod and pulled away.
I turned to look back out to sea. The fishing boat had made its way across the bay and was pulling alongside the wharf on the island. I watched as two men strode onto the pier and began
helping to unload the cargo.
“Come on, Buffy,” I called and started walking again.
My next destination was the cemetery. If Colin’s mother had lived here and had been killed near here, then she was sure to have been buried in the local churchyard.
I followed the road down into the village, past a row of pretty stone fishermen’s cottages, lining one side of the harbor, once home to the fishermen who plied their trade on this part of the coast and their families, but now sought after historic holiday cottages with their picturesque views of the tiny harbor and the castle ruin on the hill. Most of the cottages had been brought into the twenty-first century with indoor plumbing and modern kitchens added. In many cases the tiny back gardens had been turned into stylish courtyards. At the end of the row of cottages, I turned and walked along in front of the pub. Several of the overnight guests were sitting at tables on the footpath in the sun, enjoying the view across the harbor to Campbell Island as they sipped their morning coffee. Buffy trotted over to scavenge for any stray breakfast items that might be surplus to requirements and was rewarded with half a sausage for her troubles by a middle-aged woman whose portly husband was tucking into a large cooked breakfast. I smiled my thanks at her and continued walking.
The Strathgarvan Presbyterian church stood at the northern corner of the harbor as the land began to rise away from the sea. Its tall steeple could be seen for miles along the coast and from out at sea. The church itself was a sturdy, unadorned structure, built using local quarried stone. It was surrounded by a solid drywall fence. I pushed through the main gate and passed between two large stone columns and into the churchyard. A gravel path meandered through the old graveyard towards the main doors of the church. An elderly parishioner was already hard at work, weeding and sweeping. He raised a finger to his cap in greeting before going back to his work.
The gravestones in front of the church looked old and worn, so I headed towards the back. Here, the graveyard continued into a meadow behind the drywall where rows of neat charcoal colored headstones were lined up like soldiers on parade, with splashes of color provided by floral tributes left by mourners dotted here and there. I walked through the rear gate and over to the nearest row of graves and stopped to read the inscription on the first headstone. The date was 1975, too early. Colin’s mother had died in 1998. I crossed to the plots three rows over and tried again. This time the dates were from 1997. I took my time and wandered along the row, stopping every so often to read the sad memorial to someone’s loved one. The graves of three men lost in a fishing boat capsize at the end of 1997 gave me pause and I found a lump rising in my throat and tears stinging my eyes.
Buffy had bounded away, chasing something into the trees at the far end of the meadow. As if sensing my sadness, she returned and leaned against my leg, panting. I reached down and gave her head a scratch, before she raced off again and I continued my search. I reached April 1998 at the top of the row and found myself holding my breath as I turned to walk back down the adjacent row. Catriona Mackie had died on May 31, 1998, so her final resting place must be near.
An elderly women and a small child had died in May and then the next headstone was for a man in August. I frowned and retraced my steps, double checking as a thought came to me. Maybe she was cremated. I couldn’t see a memorial garden, so perhaps it was time to ask the minister and see if he would check the church records.
“Buffy,” I called as I walked back towards the church. She gamboled back to me, tail wagging and ears pricked. “Good girl.”
I came across the gardener, who had moved his wheelbarrow and was now working at the side of the church.
“Excuse me?” I said as I walked over to him. “I’m hoping you can help me. I’m looking for the grave of my mother-in-law, Catriona Mackie. She died in a car accident near here in 1998.”
The man straightened and pushed his cap back on his head. A look of sympathy crossed his weathered face as he registered who I was. He leaned his broom against the wheelbarrow. “Aye, lassie, I knew her folk well. Follow me.”
He turned and trudged towards the rear of the church, a little hunched and walking with a slight limp. Buffy trotted beside me until we reached a grave tucked in beside the wall. It was made of expensive looking black marble, rather than stone like the ones around it.
“She was buried with her folks, God rest their souls. Tragedy has stalked that family,” he said. “John and Ethel both succumbed to cancer within months of one another, then poor Cat and now young Colin gone too. Are you going to inter him here?”
I stared at the headstone, surprised to find tears blurring my vision. “There wasn’t anything much left of him to inter.” I could hear the bitterness creeping into my voice, but I couldn’t stop it. As if I’d desecrate this lovely churchyard with the remains of a terrorist. The man patted my arm and nodded his head as if he understood my pain, before ambling back to his wheelbarrow.
I sat down on the grass beside the headstone. Buffy crouched beside me and put her head on my lap. According to the inscription, Catriona Mackie had lost her parents when she was sixteen and had been killed just seven years later. I reached over and ran my fingers across the words.
Catriona Ethel Mackie 1975-1998
Much loved daughter and mother
Safe with God and Forever missed
I pulled a handful of dead flowers out of the vase set into the concrete in front of the headstone and dropped them onto the grass. Someone was still visiting and leaving flowers on occasion.
Buffy’s ears pricked up and she lifted her head off my knee, sniffing. A low growl emanated from deep within her as a cloud moved across the sun. The temperature seemed to plummet and the church threw shadows across the graveyard. Buffy leapt up and started barking.
“What is it, girl?” I asked, rising to my feet and looking around.
There was no one there. The gardener had moved his wheelbarrow and disappeared from sight. Buffy continued to growl, looking in the direction of the trees beyond the church. I shivered and looked at the sky. The sunny morning was gone and rain clouds threatened.
“Come on, girl, time to go home,” I said, walking back to the front of the church and hurrying down the path, Buffy at my heels, still growling.
I knocked on the Gordons’ door on my way past.
“Come in,” a cheery voice called.
I gave Buffy instructions to wait and opened the door. Buffy curled up on the doorstep and put her head on her paws, exhausted after the morning’s adventure.
Mrs. Gordon was sitting at the kitchen table reading the newspaper, a walking frame parked within easy reach of her chair.
“Hello, Jessica,” she said, smiling at me.
“Hello, Mrs. Gordon, it’s good to see you up and about,” I said.
“Aye, can’t spend all day in bed,” she said with a smile. “Would you like a cuppa? Mr. Gordon is down in the village.”
“I’ll make it,” I said and moved to the bench, picking up the kettle from the stove and filling it from the tap over the kitchen sink. I lit the gas and placed the kettle on the hob before taking a seat opposite Mrs. Gordon, who’d closed the paper.
“Been for ya walk then, love?” she asked.
“Yes, actually I stopped by the church and found the Mackie’s graves. I didn’t realize until yesterday that Colin’s mother and grandparents lived in the village.”
“It’s their cottage that you’re livin’ in,” she said.
“I realize that now. Did you know them well?”
Mrs. Gordon smiled, her cheeks crinkling. “I knew them very well. Lovely couple and Catriona was such a beautiful, kind young woman. And the wee bairn.” She stopped speaking and gave me a wary look. “So much tragedy.”
The kettle whistled and I jumped up to lift it and extinguish the flame. I busied myself making the tea while I framed my next question. I placed two cups of tea on the table and sat down again.
“I read recently that Catriona died near here in a ca
r accident. Do you remember what happened?”
Mrs. Gordon studied me for a long moment. “She had met a nice young man from the city and was going to a concert with him up in Edinburgh that evening and staying overnight. He had a good job working for the government. Her parents had long since passed, and we often helped out with young Colin so he was spending the night with us.” She paused and took a sip of her tea. “We answered the door to her young man the next morning, looking for her. She hadn’t made it to Edinburgh. The police found her car that afternoon at the bottom of a cliff.”
“Do you recall if there was any suggestion that it was anything other than an accident?”
“Why would you ask that?”
“I just wondered. I figured that she would have known the roads around here well. So there was nothing unusual?”
Mrs. Gordon paused again and looked uncertain. “We thought we heard shouting up at her cottage the night she left, but the police looked into it and said that I must have imagined it.”
“Well, I think I’ll take some flowers up to her grave tomorrow.”
“That would be grand. I usually do, but with this silly hip, I haven’t been over to the church for several weeks now.”
We chatted a little longer and I finished up my tea. I washed our cups and left them on the draining tray.
“I’d better get Buffy home for something to eat,” I said, walking across to the door.
“Pop in anytime, dear.”
“Thank you,” I said. “One other thing, do you know who Colin’s birth father was?”
I could have sworn that an emotion resembling fear crossed the old lady’s face. She shook her head. “No, she never said.”
Chapter 36
April 15
Buffy and I arrived back at the cottage just as the first large drops of rain fell. So much for the promise of the beautiful sunny morning. I stood on the threshold of the cottage and looked out across the fields to the village and harbor beyond. I wondered how many times Catriona had stood here doing the same thing. I tried to imagine her living in the little cottage and failed. It was beginning to feel like my home now and I couldn’t imagine Colin or anyone else here. I wished that I had a photo of her; perhaps that would make her seem real.