by Carly Reid
He handed Jessica a long rectangular brown envelope. The post-mark betrayed nothing other than it had been posted locally the day before, which was entirely as she would have expected. She flipped the envelope open and drew out the letter within. Folded into thirds, it was exactly like most of the hard copy letters she had seen at the Dundee City Archives. Word-processed on white printer paper, no personalization. The heading contained only a date. McScunnered did not like to share his/her address.
“Dear Sir,
I refer to the unfortunate demise of Mr Desmond Wilcott, and wish to extend my condolences to his family and friends for their loss. I could not say that I considered him a friend, but I have certainly enjoyed the cut and thrust of debate in these very pages over the years. He and I differed on many things, but he was a force to be reckoned with and I acknowledge that he achieved a lot for the community, even if he often went about it in entirely reprehensible ways.
Had I known it was to be his final hour, I would have spent longer talking to him on the morning of his exit. As it is, I wish this to be my last goodbye to the man who, more than any other, kept my wit sharp and my pen quick over the last decade and a half.
Yours faithfully,
McScunnered of Drummond.”
Jessica found herself unexpectedly moved. She read over it again.
“It’s quite touching in a way, isn’t it?” Grant had obviously noticed her reaction.
“It’s the bit about ‘the man who kept my wits sharp’, it just gets to me. I suppose McScunnered has suffered a loss as well.”
“Yes. The loss of an adversary shouldn’t be underestimated, and it doesn’t seem as if McScunnered has done so. However, you will have noticed the reason I asked you to take a look at it?” Grant looked questioningly at Jessica.
“Yes. So Desmond Wilcott actually spoke to McScunnered on Saturday morning? I suppose that means McScunnered was at the Show – although, it could have been earlier that morning, before the Show. I suppose I could ask Patricia if they talked to anyone before arriving. If it was at the Show, then I suppose there are lots of people it could still be. It does narrow it down a little, although probably not enough to be worth bothering DI Gordon. He’s already tearing his hair out at the number of potential suspects who could have had access to the marmalade. Actually, I had a thought, Grant – do you think that Margaret Mustard could be McScunnered? She fits the criteria in a lot of ways…”
“No.” Grant’s reply was decisive. Jessica looked at him in surprise.
“I mean, I really don’t think so. Sorry to be so adamant. You are right to consider it and it is, of course, technically possible. I just cannot see it, however. Margaret writes a lot – snippets for the Diary section, the occasional letter herself, in the Parish newsletter – and I therefore know her writing style well. It couldn’t be more different from McScunnered, and I also just can’t see her having the ability to invent an alter ego with their own voice, and stick to it for so long. Margaret is many things, but she’s not duplicitous. No. I’m ninety-nine percent certain that we are dealing with someone else. I have been meaning to ask you actually, can I have a look at the letter that you found at the archives? I’m assuming you still have it, or did DI Gordon hold on to it?”
“I still have it. He didn’t believe it was really evidence, so I planned on keeping it here actually; I should have filed it with our records until we could return it to the archives.”
She drew the letter from her bag, still in its protective plastic sleeve. Grant looked it over carefully. “This one is surely before my time. It looks like it has been typed on a typewriter. I see what you mean about the farmhouse, it must be very tempting to see if you can track that down. It doesn’t exist any more?”
Jessica was glad that someone understood her compulsion to follow this lead.
“No, Murdo said there was no such farm now. I think the shape of the house is quite distinctive though, and I can’t see why it would have been demolished – surely it probably still stands, even if not on a farm and not called Abbotsford any longer?”
“I should think that is entirely accurate, yes. I presume that that farm land was probably sold off for development, and the farmhouse itself remains a private dwelling, probably now close to some newer houses. That’s happened on a few sites around here. Look.”
Grant moved over to one of his large wooden bookcases. Lying along the top of it he kept a few maps, long and rolled within sturdy cardboard outer tubes. He drew one down and checked the description printed on one end, returned it and drew down another. This he opened and spread across his large wooden desk, which he always kept clear and free of clutter. Jessica assisted by placing paperweights at two of the four corners while Grant held down the other two.
“This is a map of Dalkinchie and Drummond around fifty years ago. You can see here that there are many more green spaces than there are now – it’s still very green of course, but from time to time a farmer will decide to sell his land for development instead of continuing to work the land, if he didn’t have anyone to pass it on to. It has historically been a ‘he’, although we are seeing more women take on farming these days and being very enterprising – a wonderful thing, in my opinion. Individual farm names are not marked here, but it might give you a starting point.”
“A starting point? I don’t know, Grant, I’m not sure now whether I should pursue it any further and I would have to find transport to Drummond.”
“Well, you see, that’s the thing. I have a small job for you this afternoon. Very easy – just nip along to Drummond Primary School to attend the Primary One welcoming presentation, and write it up for next week’s paper. Magnus will drive you, as he will be taking new class photos anyway. While you are there, I don’t see that it would do any harm to have a quick look round the areas and see if you can spot anything that resembles the house here. Magnus will also be helpful in that regard as he’s sure to know what used to be farmland as well. What do you say?”
Jessica couldn’t prevent a wide smile from taking over her face. A fun, easy job, an afternoon with Magnus and an opportunity to follow up on a fascinating clue?
“I say, you’re the boss, Boss!”
* * *
Magnus turned the steering wheel smoothly to the left, and they drove up a leafy residential street in Drummond. It had looked from the map that this area had been farmland at approximately the right time, and while the houses here were newer, they definitely were not brand new – a couple of decades old, at least. Jessica had tried to sketch the little farmhouse a bit larger, capturing the distinctive outline of the house which had a large gable end and, it looked like, a smaller outbuilding that peeked out the side. There was also a sketch of a tall spiny tree beside it – possibly the tree would still be there?
There was, however, no shortage of trees, and none of the older stone houses Magnus and Jessica drove past looked enough like the one in her sketch to warrant further investigation. Jessica admitted temporary defeat. It was time to head to the primary school for their Primary One welcoming ceremony.
The tiny children were delightful in their impossibly cute school uniforms. Jessica hadn’t known that you could get school shirts, formal trousers and blazers that small, but the children certainly looked adorable and were very enthusiastic. They had learned a song in their first day at school and belted it out to the gathered parents.
The MacNaughton was also present, poised to hand out a gym bag to each child in a short presentation after the ceremony. Magnus captured this, and was also ready to group the children together in their classes with their individual teachers and take photos for the paper – something, he had explained to Jessica, that happened every year. It also took place in the same spot every time, beside a large shady tree in the school grounds.
Jessica thoroughly enjoyed the ceremony, and it wouldn’t be hard at all to write up. She made sure she knew the name of the song, and of the teachers. After that, she just watched as the children lin
ed up for their photos – a task which proved to be not unlike herding cats, but the atmosphere was relaxed and good-natured. The event had been timed for the last hour of school so that parents could take the children home afterwards. The bell rang, signalling the end of the school day, and Jessica, Magnus and the MacNaughton signed out at the main office and headed to the car park together.
“Here – I’d promised your dad something, Magnus, a jar of that salve that we’d thought might work for the coo wi’ the sore leg? Would you have the time just noo to pop up for it? Might as well, get it to him that bit quicker if you were no’ in a hurry.”
Magnus looked at Jessica, who nodded – she certainly didn’t have anywhere urgent to be, and the thought of visiting Castle Drummond was thrilling. She had seen photos and read up a little on its history, but as yet had not had the occasion to visit. She was more than happy to ‘pop up’!
“Aye, I’ll take ye up on that, Gillespie. Thanks very much. My dad will be awfy grateful, he’s been concerned about Meg, on and off. It’s no’ really bad and she’s fine in herself, milking is fine, so he’s no’ called the vet, but there’s definitely a wee twinge here and there, as if she’s just moved it funny.”
“This stuff works wonders. Coos, sheep, pigs – it’s just a muscle rub, but I’ve half a jar left, and there’s no point your dad buying some when he can try it, an’ see if it works. Just follow me up then, and I’ll see you there.”
Castle Drummond sat slightly above the village, its vantage point betraying its history as a defensive keep. The straight-sided rectangular stone building was in fact the section of the castle that was most visible from the village below, and today, as ever, it boasted a single Saltire flag, the white cross on the blue background fluttering in the afternoon’s stiff breeze. The castle dated from the fifteenth century, but an extension added some 250 years later formed the main living residence for the MacNaughton. Jessica knew that he held occasional Clan Gatherings there, and wondered what it must be like to see it full of people in full kilted regalia.
They followed the MacNaughton’s rattly Land Rover up the narrow, winding road and then turned left through large, imposing gates – which, Magnus informed Jessica, were permanently propped open. The MacNaughton, as the Laird of Drummond, managed a lot of the neighbouring estate, and tenant farmers were always popping in and out – and other people too. He was famously friendly. The Smiths’ own farm Balnaguise was not part of the Drummond estate, but Magnus had spent plenty of time there anyway. Farmers stick together.
After driving through the gate, Magnus drew to a halt in front of the castle. Jessica looked around with undisguised interest. The section to the right was the original keep, a blocky rectangular building of ancient weathered stones and narrow slits of windows. She remembered from previous castle tours that the word for the gaps in the walls was ‘crenels’ but she couldn’t remember the other words. It was topped with proper battlements, and Jessica thrilled at the thought of what must have taken place there. Fighting off the English, and occasionally other Scots as well, she thought.
The rest of Drummond castle was more rambling, a higgledy piggledy mish mash of buildings joined on to the original. She spotted a turret in one corner and stout chimneys adorning the centre of the roof. The windows here were larger, built to let light in rather than to shoot arrows from. Above two of them thistle and ivy were carved into arched stone lintels which also proclaimed ‘I HOIP IN GOD’. The views from this vantage point over Drummond were already breathtaking, sweeping over the land to the purplish hills beyond, and Jessica realized that they must be exceptional from the high points of the castle.
“Come away in!” The MacNaughton had pulled his car up too, on the rough gravel just adjacent to a green lawn that circled the property. His thick boots crunched over the path as he led them around the side of the building and held a heavy wooden door open for them.
It led straight into a large kitchen. Jessica had an impression of space, a huge stone flagged floor, wooden beams running across the ceiling and an absolutely enormous range stove set in an alcove at the back of the room. A series of pulleys ran down the length of the kitchen ceiling, used variously as pot racks and drying racks for clothes. Bundles of herbs were hanging there too, giving a woody, sweet smell to the whole room. A large, scrubbed wooden table, which would have completely filled any kitchen Jessica had ever set foot in before, took up about a third of the floor space. Everything was cluttered, but immaculately clean, the table clear and free of crumbs, the old slate floor swept.
“Tea?”
Even in this enormous room the MacNaughton looked larger than life, his expansive personality, big beard and booming voice filling the kitchen. Both Magnus and Jessica accepted his offer and Gillespie McNaughton strode down to the stove where a large metal kettle sat, picked it up with one hand and casually filled it from the taps above a deep, square porcelain sink beneath the window – a Belfast sink, Jessica thought they were called. He lifted one of the round metal plates and placed the kettle on top of the stove where it immediately began to stir. Jessica realised that the stove must be permanently hot.
“Margaret’s been in today, but she’s always away by this time. She’s done a grand job as usual, and if I’m no’ mistaken, will have left us a wee something in the pantry.” There was a door on either side of the stove alcove; the MacNaughton disappeared through one of them and reappeared within seconds, triumphantly bearing a platter covered in a snowy white cloth with blue stitched edges. As he did so, the kettle on top of the stove began to sing.
“We’re in luck! Petticoat tails. Who would like a piece?”
“Oh aye, that would be just the thing.” Magnus replied, saying as an aside to Jessica, “Margaret’s shortbread is some of the finest you’ll ever taste.”
He wasn’t wrong. Jessica accepted a piece of the crumbly, triangular baked delicacy along with the enormous mug of steaming hot tea that was soon pressed into her hand. Both were delicious, the shortbread buttery, slightly gritty, perfectly sweet and almost melting in her mouth. The tea stopped just short of too strong, and Jessica found it incredibly reviving. Sitting here at the kitchen table, in a Laird’s kitchen, having just been made a cup of tea by him – she could almost have been dreaming. She hadn’t realised how tired she was, but her energy returned as she ate and drank. Magnus and the MacNaughton tucked in too, all three in a companionable silence.
Magnus was the first to speak again. “Gillespie – have you ever heard tell of Abbotsford Farm? Long gone noo – but we’ve been trying to find where it was. A wee history project.”
The MacNaughton looked thoughtful. “Abbotsford...Abbotsford...the name sounds familiar, but I cannae mind right noo. Why don’t you both come through to the study and I’ll see what I can find.”
Jessica and Magnus both followed as the MacNaughton led the way through the other side door at the far end of the kitchen. The study was exactly as Jessica would have pictured. Ornate, carved, dark wood furniture, including a desk inlaid with dark green leather, and massive bookcases filled with bound volumes. She ached to have a look through them. A rich burgundy carpet was underfoot, patterned with small gold diamonds. In one corner of the room, a wooden bust sat on a tall unit. Every available surface was covered with sheaves of papers and folders, and the desk also held open notebooks containing pencilled scribbles.
The MacNaughton scratched his head. “I apologise for the mess. My solicitor’s been up a few times and we’ve been trying to get some of the papers in order. We are still working on it. Anyway, maybe these would be what you’d need – land registers, going back a couple o’ hundred years.” He knelt down at the base of one of the bookcases and ran a finger along the large volumes stored there. There must have been at least thirty of them. “Either of you would be welcome to take a look if that would help?”
Jessica looked gratefully at him, and secretly there was nothing she would like more than poring over old ledgers in the Castle Drummond study
, but she knew it would turn into a lengthy task and that Magnus would have evening duties at the farm. “That would be great, thanks! If we don’t find it I will definitely take you up on that. I think we need to get back to Dalkinchie now, though – get that salve to your dad, Magnus.”
“We do indeed, but thanks Gillespie. I’d be interested in taking a look. I bet Balnaguise features in those old registers.”
“Oh, more than once, Magnus, more than once. Any time, just let me know.”
The MacNaughton escorted them back through to the kitchen where Jessica and Magnus thanked him again and took their leave, Jessica conscious that Magnus had duties on the farm. She asked him to drop her in Dalkinchie High Street, where she planned to assist Reenie with closing up The Bloom Room before heading home for the evening.
Magnus did so, waving as he left, leaving Jessica smiling as she watched the car drive off. Turning, she almost bumped into Margaret Mustard who was about to head into Lissa’s. Her next words changed Jessica’s plans once again.
“Oh Jessica – it’s yourself! Have you heard? It’s Patricia Wilcott. She’s been arrested!”
11
Patricia and the Poison
Jessica followed Margaret into Lissa’s where everyone was abuzz with this new information. Her head was spinning. How could this be? She had only been speaking to Patricia that morning – what could possibly have happened in the interim that had led to her arrest?
Margaret joined a large group of women who had pushed two tables together near the front of the café. One of them vacated her seat in order to usher Margaret into it, and another went looking for a spare chair to squeeze around the table to accommodate her. They were all agog.
