by Carly Reid
“Look, Murdo! This is another McScunnered letter and it’s a little bit different.”
“Oh, aye?” Murdo turned away from the screen, interested.
“It’s…” Jessica glanced at the letter again and realised something else. Her thumb had been obscuring a small logo or monograph in the top left corner, and switching to her other hand had revealed it. She held it closer. It was an encircled pen and ink sketch, printed in a faded blood-red ink onto the creamy writing paper. It looked like the outline of a farmhouse. Personalized stationery. There was something else too, a couple of tiny words underneath the sketch. She moved it even closer and squinted at it.
Abbotsford Farm, Drummond, Jessica read.
* * *
The discovery of the letter and Murdo’s instructions from the Detective Inspector meant that there was no time to linger in Dundee as Jessica had hoped to do. They completed the same journey in reverse and, back in Dalkinchie, Jessica and Murdo found DI Gordon still at the Village Hall.
Although the Show prize-giving and presentation on Saturday had been a relatively subdued affair, the two days of sales that had followed had gone ahead and attracted the usual healthy footfall. Ealisaid has told Jessica that the Show was marketed year-round online and in specialist print media, with the campaigns ramping up over the summer. It was one of the best places in Scotland to find examples of fine handmade authentic Scottish crafts, and was attended by not just members of the public, but by interested potential stockists, owners of businesses that provided accommodation, and wholesalers too. At 2.30pm on Monday afternoon, it still had a couple of hours to run and people were moving in and out of the Hall, a steady buzz of discussion and purchasing going on the Main Room and, on occasion, the carrying of large and awkward packages to load into vans drawn up outside the main doors.
The Detective Inspector drew them into the judging room, which was still unavailable to the general public and had been cleared for use by the police. His exasperation was evident in his air of slight dishevelment; normally very neatly turned out with a precisely combed haircut, Jessica noted that today the Inspector’s hair looked as if he had been running his hands through it, and his normally neatly pressed shirt was slightly untucked. And was that a stain on the lapel of his suit? Her speculations proved correct, as DI Gordon began to tell them about his morning, running one distracted hand over his head as he did so.
“You were absolute correct that the judging room door was locked, Miss Greer. However, it transpires that the same key will open both of the side rooms, and there were three keys in total. One was with your friend Miss Robertson, one in Mr Wilcott’s possession, and the third was passed around amongst the stewards to give them access to the administration room during the judging.” Jessica nodded, remembering a steward unlocking the door to the administration room when she had sat with Mrs Wilcott on Saturday.
DI Gordon continued: “In addition to that, the janitor has a master key which will open any interior door in the building, and do you know where that was? Hanging on a hook in the janitor’s office under the stairs, which, by the way, was unlocked. No-one I’ve spoken to so far remembers anyone leaving or entering the preserves judging room after 9am, but the point is, anybody could have. And we had a constant stream of people between 9am and 11am, registering crafts, setting up display tables, sorting out the judging. Narrowing it down will be tricky.
“So, Constable Smith, determining access to the marmalade is proving to be harder than I’d hoped. Back to the drawing board I think, which in this instance means looking again for potential suspects, and then figuring out their movements. Did you have any luck in Dundee with finding out the identity of our anonymous newspaper correspondent?”
Murdo was cagey in his response. “No’ really, Detective Inspector. We found plenty more letters, hard copies too, but nothing that said who it wis.”
Jessica looked at him, surprised. “That’s not quite true, DI Gordon. We did find one clue…”
She rummaged in her bag and pulled out a neat folder, within which the letter lay protected by a transparent plastic sleeve. Dr Ferguson had permitted it to be signed out of the Archives, although it was under Murdo’s name as a representative of the police force. She held it in front of the Detective Inspector.
“We found this. It’s quite old - and it looks like it was typed on an actual typewriter. But look here, in the corner. This is personalized stationery, it could tell us where McScunnered lives – or lived back then.”
Murdo shook his head, interjecting now: “I telt Jessica there’s no such place as Abbotsford Farm, no’ these days. I’ve never heard of it. I’m sure there’s maybe a way of finding it, but…”
The Detective Inspector looked at the letter, lips pursed. “Constable Smith is right, Miss Greer. I’m sure it could be very interesting to track down the building and find out who lived there, but from our perspective it’s a dead-end. The trail is too cold, and with our limited resources, we would be far better to concentrate on the people that were currently in Mr Wilcott’s life, and any information they might have to shed on who would have a grudge against him. It’s highly likely that one of them will turn out to be McScunnered anyway. Thank you for bringing it to our attention and for visiting the archives, and I’m sorry that it wasn’t more productive.”
Jessica was disappointed. She had looked forward to continuing her investigation, and the presence of McScunnered meant that she had a legitimate reason to be assisting with the case in her capacity as junior reporter for The Herald. She wasn’t sure what was driving her to help – a desire to solve the mystery? Her innate sense of justice? Or was it that she felt instinctively that the finger would be pointed at Mrs Wilcott and she wanted to do everything in her power to prevent that from happening? Ever since overhearing her strained telephone conversation, Jessica had felt protective of the woman. This had only been compounded as she spent more time with her.
Jessica privately resolved to do everything she could to find McScunnered herself. DI Gordon and Murdo had turned slightly away from her and were engaged in conversation. Unnoticed, she slipped the plastic sleeve containing the old letter back into her bag.
After all, there was nothing stopping her doing some unrelated local history research, was there? Nothing at all.
9
A Wild Dash
Having taken her leave of Murdo and DI Gordon, Jessica went next door to the newspaper offices. She had gathered plenty of material for her piece on the Show that would appear that week, but hadn’t yet pulled it all together into a coherent form – and after all, it wouldn’t write itself. She found the office empty; Grant must be out reporting on something. She was grateful for the peace and quiet to get on and concentrate, but as always felt a pang of regret at Magnus’ absence. He was rarely at the newspaper offices, and when he was there it was usually just to quickly upload his images, but she always enjoyed working alongside him whenever the occasion presented itself.
Despite this, Jessica worked steadily for the remainder of the afternoon. Grant didn’t reappear at all, and by the time Jessica had finished her article she glanced at the clock and realised it was shop closing time, and that if she hurried down the hill she could catch Reenie and Willow at The Bloom Room and walk home through the park with them.
She emailed her article to Grant with a note saying that she would come to the office the next morning to go over any changes and finalise the copy for the deadline, and then she locked up the office and went down the stairs. The Show had closed half-an-hour earlier, and the car park opposite the Village Hall was full of people loading up their remaining crafts, stands and props. She spotted Ealisaid, busy in the middle of operations, and waved to her, gesturing that she was headed down the hill. Ealisaid shook her head and tapped at her watch – clearly indicating that her duties would keep her there for some time yet. Jessica marveled at her friend, currently single-handedly running a business and stepping up to do most of the Show Convenor duties since Des
mond Wilcott’s death. Ealisaid’s sister Mairead had a certain amount of flexibility – she had recently decided to stay on in school for an optional 6th year, with a light timetable allowing her and sometimes a friend to work in the café – but even so, Jessica wondered how Ealisaid juggled everything. She had been the sole carer for her younger sister for the last decade, and on top of that plus the café, she had a small outside catering business and a long-distance relationship to throw into the mix as well. Solveig was an archaeologist, working on a summer-long dig somewhere up North, Jessica knew. The women rarely got a chance to spend any time together, but Jessica hoped to meet Solveig at Christmas time.
She knew that Ealisaid had not really had a choice about stepping up to carry through with the Show, but wondered if taking on the Convenor role as a permanent position was perhaps taking on too much. She resolved to have a chat with Ealisaid about it the next time they managed to catch up, and turning away, walked speedily down the hill towards the centre of Dalkinchie High Street. As she had suspected, Mairead was closing up in Lissa’s and Reenie was doing the same, right across the street in The Bloom Room. Her timing couldn’t have been better.
The Bloom Room bell pinged as she entered. She loved Reenie’s shop, which was her aunt’s pride and joy since setting up in business just a couple of months ago. She infinitely preferred it to her previous job as a florist for corporate events in the city, and even although she wasn’t immune to the trials and tribulations of running her own business, life in Dalkinchie suited her perfectly. Jessica had initially only planned to stay for the summer, but had fallen in love with Dalkinchie herself. Funny she thought to herself I’d be thinking about going back to school soon if I was at home. Even as the thought crossed her mind, she realized how the word ‘home’ didn’t seem like the correct one to use any more. Dalkinchie, Scotland: these were the places that the word ‘home’ was now conjuring up.
The shop wasn’t large, but held a wonderful assortment of cut flowers and potted plants. The flowers were stored in a wrought iron rack at one side of the shop, and deep shelving held pots, vases and other accessories on the opposite wall. In the back left hand corner of the shop was a long, rich wooden counter, which was vintage and had been there when Reenie first rented the shop. She handled transactions there, and was able to do some floristry too, making up quick bouquets and hand-ties on the spot in front of customers. Dispensers behind the counter held ribbon and rolls of paper. A smaller unit sat in front of the counter held Reenie’s selection of handmade potions, salves and bath salts. She grew the herbs she used herself, and Jessica knew that this was a side of the business that she hoped to expand. Jessica inhaled deeply; the scent in The Bloom Room was always beautiful and calming.
Willow greeted her enthusiastically. Jessica found two paws planked just below her knee, and as she glanced down, the puppy’s expressive eyes gazed lovingly into her own. Her tail was wagging so powerfully that she struggled to keep her balance. It was hard to reprimand her under these circumstances! Jessica reached down to fondle Willow’s silky ears, and the puppy dropped to her feet and circled round her legs, sniffing her jeans as she always did when Jessica had spent any time in the newspaper offices. She must be picking up Skye’s scent.
“Just in time Jessica, I’m cashing up!” Reenie called from the back shop, and a few moments later she emerged, having locked the cash and banking away in a small, stout safe she used for that purpose. Dalkinchie didn’t have a bank branch, instead relying on a mobile service that visited the village twice a week, and Drummond on one further occasion.
With the locking up accomplished, the two women made their way back home to the cottage on their accustomed path through the park. Reenie had picked Jessica up from the bus stop earlier, and had therefore heard all about the trip to Dundee, but since then had apparently had a visitor in the form of Grant who had popped in to the shop to have a quick coffee on the way to a reporting job.
“Oh, yes?” Jessica’s ears pricked up. She had spotted the chemistry between her aunt and Grant the first time that she had met him. Reenie had been single for a long time after losing her husband tragically early – Jessica had never known her Uncle Alistair, although he was present in the many photographs that Reenie displayed around her home. Since arriving in Dalkinchie, Reenie and Grant had become undeniably closer, going for occasional drinks together and on one occasion, dinner – but Grant’s caring responsibilities prevented him from having much of a social life, and for her part Reenie seemed content to work on settling in to Dalkinchie and establishing her business, with not much time or energy left over for romance. This seemed to suit them both, but frustrated Jessica, who loved her aunt dearly and was becoming very fond of her boss, a genuine and kind man.
“Nothing like that Jessica! He just found himself nearby and in need of a wee caffeine boost, I think. You are a terrible girl! I wouldn’t have thought you’d be interested – the age of the pair of us. We’re ancient!”
“Hardly! Everyone deserves happiness, Reenie. You are so good for each other.”
“Well, we are good friends, I’ll give you that. Don’t be in too much of a rush though. I certainly enjoy the time I spend with Grant, but he’s got a lot on his plate and so do I. This little one, for starters. Although she’s being a very good girl today!”
Willow was bouncy, but walking quite nicely along the path. At least, she had been walking quite nicely up until this point, but as Reenie uttered her words the pup spotted a flash of movement in the distance and was off, pulling her leash from Reenie’s grip and dashing away down the path – in the wrong direction from the cottage.
“I spoke too soon,” Reenie groaned, just as Jessica said, “you jinxed it!” and gave chase after the small white-and-tan puppy.
For a young puppy, Willow was really fast. She dived down the path, shadowed overhead by the thick green foliage of high beech trees. Her leash trailed uselessly behind her as she found her legs and sped like an arrow away from Jessica. Reenie had unearthed some treats from her jacket pocket and was calling “Wil-low! Wil-low!”, using the high-pitched tone they had been advised by the dog trainer to employ in situations such as these. It didn’t work. The puppy was too young to have learned a good recall, and while Jessica fancied that Willow had first spotted a squirrel and had run after it, she was now running for the sheer, glorious freedom of unchecked speed and motion. At least Jessica was managing to keep her in sight, and at least Willow was keeping to the path.
After many weeks of largely sunny weather the dirt path was packed down and dry, but underneath these trees it was always in deep shade. The surface was uneven, tree roots running underneath it here and there, and Jessica had to watch where she was placing her feet. Not Willow. She practically flew over the knobbly surface and seemed, if anything, to be picking up speed as she went. Jessica had followed this particular path only once before. It took you deep into the wilder parts of the park, the open grassy areas and children’s play equipments left behind and replaced with steep banks down to the Burn. A profusion of wildflowers and weeds covered the banks at the sides of the path. Despite the untouched nature of this part of the park, there were still signs of civilisation here and there. An occasional bench along the route. Garbage bins. Steps leading down from the main path to a small decked area below, adjacent to the Burn. Jessica even noticed some small carved figures, peeking from the trees. She must ask Reenie about them some time. She believed that this path eventually joined up with another road in Dalkinchie, and wanted to catch Willow before she could make it that far.
All of a sudden, Willow seemed to tire and came to a stop. She stood, panting, as Jessica slowed down herself and walked carefully up to her, not wanting to startle the puppy into bolting again. It seemed that this was the last thing on the dog’s mind, however, as she turned to Jessica and obediently came to her, the leash slithering over the path in her wake. Jessica reached down and picked it up, wrapping it around her wrist for good measure, and then, do
g secured, she bent over and brushed Willow down. The pup had picked up some grass, wood chippings and leaves on her flight and they were sticking to her fur. Willow stood patiently for this, even nuzzling Jessica’s leg.
Jessica was about to turn and leave to find Reenie again when she caught sight of someone in the distance, further along the path. Ahead of Jessica and Willow it followed a slight incline upwards and then curved left and went down again. There was thick foliage between them, meaning that from where Jessica stood she could just see a green coat and the back of someone’s head – a distinctive cloud of apricot-coloured hair. Jessica, still unsure if she knew the person, adjusted her position to get a clearer view which confirmed that it was indeed, Margaret Mustard. But what was she doing?
Margaret was behaving most unlike her usual self. Never one for dodging the spotlight, she stood hunched and crouched, as if to make herself appear smaller, and head bowed, she was taking quick, furtive glances around. She was looking in the wrong direction to spot Jessica however, and as the latter watched, Margaret took out a bundle from under her coat. It was wrapped in a plastic bag from a grocery store and as Jessica watched, she realised what Margaret was doing. There was a trash can where she stood, the square, black type with a cover and an opening at the top of each face. Margaret Mustard manoeuvred her package through one of the openings and in to the trash, and, Jessica still watching, she reached right inside, clearly lowering the bundle as far as she could. It finally landed inside with a heavy thud. Margaret withdrew her arm, took another surreptitious look around, and then, still not spotting Jessica, she left, moving along the path in the opposite direction. The whole time Willow hadn’t made a sound, clearly shattered from her escape.
Jessica stood, deep in thought. What could Margaret Mustard want to get rid of so badly that she had to do so in secret in the middle of the dark paths of the park?
