Death in Dalkinchie

by Carly Reid

  What other choice did she have?

  She looked into Donald Donaldson’s florid face. “Thanks. That would be great.”

  * * *

  Jessica got into the car. As they drove, she tried to keep the conversation light and minimal, and completely off the top of Desmond Wilcott’s murder. Instead, she filled the silence with non-stop chatter about the school science club, and how clever the children were. Donald Donaldson paid little attention, checking the road, looking in his side mirrors and saying nothing at all.

  The car turned into a dark, tree lined road. On one side, flashes of green could be spotted between the trees. On the other, just more trees. The car slowed down, and finally came to a halt at the side of the road.

  “Why have we stopped?”

  “I think my brakes are a bit spongy in these floods, and I am concerned about one of my brake lights. Would you mind getting out and checking if it is working?”

  Again, what choice did she have? Wordlessly, Jessica opened the passenger door and moved to the back of the car. The rain had perhaps lessened a little, but it was still pouring. Her senses were on high alert now, but true to his word, Donald Donaldson drove a little ways off, then applied the brakes. Both brake lights glowed red. Jessica gave a shaky thumbs up. She didn’t trust the man, and was prepared to leap into the ditch if he did anything unpredictable – like, for instance, trying to reverse over her.

  Instead, he exited the car which was still parked twenty yards or so from Jessica, and walked steadily towards her, swinging a golf club.

  The man stood in front of her was still the slightly shambolic Donald Donaldson but with a new and menacing air. His pale grey suit was quickly turning dark with rain, and his hair was plastered to his face. Jessica didn’t like the way this was going at all. Was it something she had said? Her words ran back through her head…she surely had not said anything revealing.

  “I hear you have been chatting to Patricia. She was very interested in what you had to say about the trophy. I must say, Miss Greer, it would have been a lot better had you not interfered in things that do not concern you. At all!”

  Jessica froze. He was close enough now that she could see the rain dripping from his nose.

  “About what trophy?”

  It was the worst thing she could have said. It was far too late to play the innocence card.

  “Oh, I think you know. The Donaldson Cup trophy, of course! Founded by my very own Great-Grandfather and won, year after year, by my good friend Desmond Wilcott! Sitting on his mantelpiece right here in Drummond, a shining beacon of his golfing success!”

  There was no mistaking the sarcastic emphasis Donald Donaldson had placed on the words ‘good friend’.

  “She says you found it empty on Sunday, and of course Patricia found some nicotine in it later that week, placed there by my good self on one of my many visits to check up on her. I think on that occasion I even took my wife. The two of them, chatting away in the kitchen – they had no idea what I was doing. The police were meant to find it and arrest her, of course, and would have if they weren’t a bunch of useless incompetents. I told Patricia that you were probably mistaken, but she would have none of it.”

  “Of course, you are the only witness. It’s just my word against yours – and if yours were silenced…”

  There was no mistaking his intent. He raised the club to strike. High speed possibilities flashed through Jessica’s mind. She could try and reason with him, persuade him that no-one would believe whatever implausible excuse he had dreamed up for this scenario. She could promise that she would say she must have been mistaken. She could try screaming at the top of her voice.

  Or she could run.

  16

  The Picture of Guilt

  Jessica threw herself to the side and in a split second had squeezed between the trees and over the stone wall she had spotted on one side of the road. She had taken the flashes of green to be fields but now that she was running on it, it was unmistakably the beautifully maintained green velvet of a golf green.

  There would be nobody playing in this downpour.

  At first, the only direction that Jessica took was ‘away’ – from Donald Donaldson and his swinging club. As she ran, however, she tried to work out what she might be running towards. She risked a glance backwards – nothing. He had not followed her, no doubt realising that she could easily outrun him. He did have a far better knowledge of the golf course than she did, though, and the local geography. Who knew when she might be brought close to the roadside again, and where he might try to cut her off?

  She tried to stay in the open area, and keep her direction consistent. It wouldn’t do to run around in circles and exhaust herself. It was still raining; perhaps not quite as hard as it had earlier, but still hard enough to make visibility difficult.

  And then – in the distance – surely that had to be the clubhouse? It was a long, white building which had clearly had multiple additions and extensions over the years. The roof was red tiled and peaked, the many windows were highly polished; the whole building exuded an air of class, sophistication and wealth that Jessica certainly did not reflect as she reached the front door, soaked and gasping for breath.

  She ran inside. The first thing that she saw was a small sign at the bottom of a flight of stairs, stating that the ‘Donaldson Cup and Wilcott memorial ceremony’ would be taking place upstairs in the Donaldson room. More Donaldsons! There was no-one else in sight but she was sure she had caught sight of Ealisaid’s old blue Beetle in the corner of the car park, although in her panicked dash she hadn’t paused to check. Donald Donaldson was travelling by car, too, and she didn’t know what route he could have taken. Could he be here already?

  Jessica bolted up the stairs. The striped carpet was soft, and the sound of her running footsteps disappeared into the thick pile, giving her the eerie sense of lack of progress. Running without moving, just like in a nightmare. Would she be able to hear if he came after her? She looked back over her shoulder – nothing, for now.

  The long, wide corridor was lined with portraits, gilt framed, mostly men, each with its own light source positioned directly above. Soon, Jessica thought, they would be joined by the murdered Desmond Wilcott.

  Ahead were wide glass doors and through them – finally – Jessica could see a small gathering of people. Safety.

  * * *

  Bursting through the doors she finally began to feel her fear recede a little. At first she didn’t recognise anyone in the room, but soon her eyes began to distinguish a few familiar faces. The room was long and rectangular, and Jessica had entered through doors on one short end. The long left side was completely taken up with large windows, and on the right there was a low platform stage set up with a microphone, a couple of chairs and, at one end, a covered easel. Four rectangular concrete pillars ran floor to ceiling at equally spaced intervals in the room, and in between them chairs were placed in rows facing the platform, with a small aisle in the middle.

  And then – a rush of relief! – there was Ealisaid, at the far end of the room. She was smartly dressed with her green tartan apron tied over a long black skirt and white blouse, her usual outfit for evening outside catering gigs. She was presiding over a couple of long tables set up at the back, and as Jessica made her way towards her around the chairs, she looked up in concern. Jessica tried to steady herself and walk slowly across the carpet, but she was conscious of her messy, damp hair, dripping coat, and no doubt flushed face.

  Behind her, the entrance doors opened again. This time, it was Patricia Wilcott who entered, closely followed by Detective Inspector Gordon and Special Constable Murdo Smith. Of course, thought Jessica, they would want to attend and see if there was anything to be found amongst the golf cronies. Golf. It had turned out to be the key to the whole thing, although she wasn’t quite sure exactly why.

  There was still no sign of Donald Donaldson, but now she realized Grant Mack was there too, no doubt in his capacity as local repo
rter. Jessica realized that she hadn’t checked in with him since her illness – she would have to make time to speak to him later, and thank him for his kindness. Not right now though. There was a murderer to unmask.

  First things first. She had promised to help Ealisaid, and help Ealisaid she would. It looked as if her friend had nearly finished setting out the food, and Jessica hurried up to her, issuing her apologies.

  “Jessica! Don’t worry, it’s fine – but what on earth happened? Did you have to walk here? You are completely drookit! Do you have your black clothes? Here – I have your apron in this bag. You can go through there.”

  Jessica, still breathless, promised she would explain everything later. Grateful for the chance to change her clothes, she dodged into the back room, which as luck would have it led to a bathroom with a full length mirror and proper towels. By the time she emerged, kitted out in her all black catering gear, damp hair pulled back into as professional-looking a hairstyle as she could manage, the room had filled up and it was time to start milling around and handing out the drinks. Some people had started to take their seats. A man wearing a heavy medal around his neck was standing on the raised platform, talking to a young woman who was animatedly gesturing to the easel as she spoke. Jessica recognised Nicholas Pringle as he entered, and he nodded to her as he joined a small group and started chatting.

  And then – there was Donald Donaldson. Jessica froze, but luckily Ealisaid was nearer to him as he entered, and he took the glass of wine she offered. He glanced around but Jessica was able to briefly dodge his line of sight behind one of the pillars.

  At that moment someone took the last of the glasses on her tray, and she was able to retreat to the back of the room to refill it. As she re-entered the crowd, people were being encouraged to sit down, with Murdo and DI Gordon at the end of the front row beside Patricia. Jessica really wished she had had the opportunity to speak to them, but it had not been possible while serving. Donald Donaldson also took a seat in the front row, across the aisle from Patricia. The seats filled rapidly and Jessica, following Ealisaid’s lead, stood at the back. The short presentation was to be followed by the food, and more drinks.

  The man with the medal kicked off proceedings with a short, suitably solemn speech. He introduced the young woman who, as Jessica had suspected, turned out to be the portrait artist. Together they unveiled the portrait on the easel to restrained applause from the audience. It was an excellent piece of work, capturing Desmond Wilcott well. Jessica felt it would look entirely appropriate in the Golf Club setting.

  Following this, the man with the medal invited Donald Donaldson to the stage, to say a few words about his old friend and golf partner. Jessica quickly dodged behind the pillar again. The movement caught Ealisaid’s eye, and she looked over curiously. Donald Donaldson began to speak. “Desmond Wilcott and I shared many a golf game over our long friendship. I was proud to call him one of my closest friends,” he began.

  Jessica’s heart thumped. It was now or never. Once again she wished that she had had the opportunity to warn DI Gordon and Murdo, but there was no time for that now. She stepped out from behind the pillar.

  “Mr Donaldson.”

  Donald Donaldson looked expectantly towards her, his eyes narrowing in shock as he recognised her.

  “If the two of you were as close as you say, I was wondering why you poisoned him?”

  “Miss Greer!”

  Shocked faces swivelled to look at Jessica. Her courage nearly failed her, but she continued on regardless, her voice wavering. “You swapped the jars of marmalade. You must have stolen one from the Castle Drummond kitchen, and you swapped it out when you were registering your wife’s entries. You also must have done it right front of me and Ealisaid, and we didn’t even notice. You placed the poisoned jar into the competition, knowing that Desmond, as Head Judge, would taste it first.”

  “I…I…” Donald Donaldson stuttered. Then he regained some of his composure. “I am well known in this community, the owner of a respected, decades-old local family business, and a seasoned member of the Golf Club of many years standing. I do not think that anyone is going to listen to the ramblings of some young…American lassie!” He spat the last words out with venom.

  “Actually, I am interested in what Miss Greer has to say. Please continue, Jessica.” DI Gordon had stood up at the end of the row, and so now did Murdo. Jessica, aware that they now directly blocked the path between the stage and the exit doors, continued, this time speaking directly to the Detective Inspector.

  “Donald Donaldson tried to attack me on the way here.”

  There was a sharp intake of breath around the room, and the low buzz of conversation started. Beside Jessica, Ealisaid looked at her friend in alarm and reaching across, squeezed her hand. Comforted by the support, Jessica continued. “He thought that I might pass on information about the planting of the nicotine vial. I knew it wasn’t there on Sunday, you see, which meant that only a few people had access to Patricia’s house to hide it. Process of elimination.

  “He also accidentally told me that he had enjoyed some of Margaret Mustard’s Orange and Whisky marmalade for breakfast this week. I didn’t pay any attention to that, until I later found out that all the remaining jars had been destroyed. The only explanation was that Donald Donaldson had got his hands on a jar...and he had. He ate the one he’d swapped. The one that should have gone into the Show. We should have realized that it wasn’t tampered with on the day - it popped when it was opened. He had prepared it in advance.”

  The buzz of conversation had increased to the point that DI Gordon had to intervene by standing and raising his hands. Having achieved silence, he addressed Donald Donaldson directly. “Mr Donaldson, you are going to have to come with us for further questioning.”

  Donald Donaldson looked around wildly. There was nowhere now for him to go, no escape to make. As well as Murdo and DI Gordon, a few Club officials had stood and moved closer to the edge of the stage, and, as Jessica now noticed, so had Grant Mack. Still Donald Donaldson’s next move shocked everyone.

  Moving across the stage, he kicked over the easel, causing the portrait to come crashing to the ground. The artist’s hands flew to her face. Donald Donaldson picked up the portrait in two hands and began to smash it against the floor.

  “He. Was. A. CHEAT!” he bellowed, punctuating each word with a crash. “A ball-dropper! In that last tournament, I saw him! The ball rolled from right under his trouser leg. My golf partner for years, the respected businessman and stalwart family man – he was nothing but a dirty hustler. The Donaldson Memorial Cup? Don’t make me laugh! He never deserved it. No integrity, no loyalty, and no respect for my family name!”

  Sickened, Jessica looked away from the tantrum. Ealisaid put an arm around her shoulders. Donald Donaldson was manhandled from the stage and led from the room.

  The audience looked at each other, unsure of how to react or what to do next. The portrait artist was kneeling down beside her work, examining the damage – which looked to be mostly to the frame. Patricia Wilcott, stood at the front, had turned and was scanning the crowd. Grant was making his way towards Jessica. As he reached her, Patricia’s eyes met hers, her look of concern was wiped away, and she gave one single, composed nod.

  17

  A Few Weeks Later

  “Down! Willow, down!”

  The little dog struggled, mostly because of her furiously wagging tail, but finally she bent her front legs and moved from her sitting position to lie down on the grass, where she watched Reenie expectantly, tail still thumping.

  “Look, Jessica, look! She’s done it!” As soon as Reenie said this, Willow bounded over and barked excitedly, clearly delighted with herself and looking for her reward which she soon received. “Yes! Clever dog.”

  Jessica smiled at the sight. They were spending a relaxed Sunday afternoon in Patricia Wilcott’s garden, along with a few carefully chosen guests. She followed Patricia into the kitchen, carrying a tray of
empty bowls to refill with snacks. The party had turned into a huge success. It was a cloudy yet dry day, the rolling hills behind Drummond standing out green and lush against a slightly steely sky. If you knew where to look, Castle Drummond was just visible. Patricia had thrown open the glass doors that led to the garden and dotted around occasional tables with snacks.

  Patricia leaned against the window frame for a moment and watched as her daughter Helen played with Evie outside. The little girl was a mini-me of her mother, sweet yet serious faces with silky curtains of long, straight dark hair parted in the middle. The child had a habit of sweeping hers back with her forearm as she played, and was right now engaged in chasing bubbles that her mom was blowing, lifted out of her reach in a sparking ribbon by a late summer breeze. As Jessica joined Patrica at the window, Evie insisted on taking her own turn blowing the bubbles and, as children tend to do, blew too hard for the first few tries, spraying the mixture everywhere but having no success at a properly formed bubble. Her mom patiently modelled the gentle way of coaxing the bubble from its plastic ring and the little girl, determined, blew softly, first of all producing one or two that immediately burst until finally a perfect translucent sphere rose from the stem of the wand, floating into the air just in front of Evie’s delighted face.

  The expression on Patricia’s own face brought a distinct prickling of tears to Jessica’s eyes. Gone was the tension that had been there since Jessica first met her. She now realised that it always had more to do with Helen’s plight than it had with the death of her husband. As shocking as the circumstances had been, the end result was that Patricia had her family safely back in the U.K. where she could be close to them and see her little granddaughter grow up. Whether it was the lack of a censorious father-in-law or not, Jessica knew that Helen’s ex-husband had suddenly become more accommodating, realising that it was better all round if his child had a good relationship with her mother and grandmother. Taking a job transfer, he planned to move back to the U.K. himself, so that he and Helen could take up the challenge of co-parenting while still moving ahead with their separate lives. While it was still early days, Patricia had been very positive about how the situation was looking.