A Double Death on the Black Isle

by A. D. Scott

  It was mid-afternoon when the visitor arrived at the front door. Patricia was dozing on the sofa. She felt a flash of annoyance at being disturbed, but rousing herself, she went to answer the doorbell. She flinched when she met the eyes of the small, twisted bundle of venom glaring up at her.

  “I’m Mrs. Skinner.”

  “Oh, I see. I’m Mrs. Skinner also,” Patricia said. “You must be Sandy’s mother, and my mother-in-law. Please come in.”

  Walking into the drawing room, momentarily blinded by the strong afternoon sun pouring through the westerly casement windows, Patricia turned and started at the strangeness of the visitor.

  The tight, little figure was standing to attention before her. No movement was made to greet her daughter-in-law. Dressed in battleship grey, the coat that skimmed her ankles covered her like a carapace, giving the impression of an insect, a slater perhaps. Wisps of wire-wool hair escaped the tight bun, pulled painfully from the scalp into a net of some sort.

  A spare scrap from a fishing net. The silly thought lodged in Patricia’s mind, and it was with a smile concealing a laugh that she stepped across the room and held out her hand.

  “I am so pleased to meet you, Mrs. Skinner. I am sorry we did not get acquainted before now. It was a great shame you couldn’t attend Sandy’s funeral. You must be distraught over the loss. But let’s hope for a brighter future. After all, I am expecting your first grandchild. Maybe a little Alexander.”

  All this was said with warmth. All the sentiments meant. So Patricia was unprepared for what followed.

  “A child conceived out of wedlock is a bastard. No grandchild of mine. I don’t make friends with sinners. Nor do they step into my house, nor sit at my table. The scriptures are clear.”

  Momentarily taken aback by the reply, Patricia replied meekly, “Surely Jesus taught us to forgive sinners?”

  Silence.

  “Well,” Patricia sat down leaving her visitor standing. “Since you have made that quite clear, why are you here?”

  “The police came a whiley ago. They took my youngest away.”

  “Sandy’s brother? That must be why Sandy didn’t want an investigation.” Patricia noticed her visitor’s lips compress even tighter at the mention of her first son’s name.

  “Oh, that was the least of it. Sandy, that fine laddie,” she almost spat the name out, “had much to hide. No, he’d no be wanting a fuss.”

  “Is Sandy’s brother charged with anything?”

  “No, he’s no. Helping with inquiries they say.”

  “Then if it is as you say, they will let him go.”

  “Aye. But it won’t stop everyone poking their noses into what’s private.”

  “My mother feels much the same.”

  The woman was completely unbending. A fierce moral code ruled her life. No transgressions allowed, no forgiveness allowed. Even for her firstborn son. Even in death.

  So Sandy and I did have something in common after all, Patricia realized.

  “I want you to fix it.” Mrs. Skinner pointed her finger at Patricia. “Have a word with the police to drop the matter. My young lad has done nothing wrong.”

  “I can’t influence the police,” Patricia said.

  “A person like you? In this big hoose wi’ your money and your land and all your fine friends? You and your ilk can have anything you want.” The woman was spitting her sentences, her rage coarsening her accent so Patricia could barely decipher the dialect.

  “You corrupted my firstborn, brought the Lord’s vengeance down on him, and on all his family. This is the least you owe us.” She turned away as though the very sight of Patricia and her swollen belly was an insult to the Lord. “One thing more: I’ll thank you no to go airing your dirty washing in a newspaper. I don’t want my family’s troubles in thon rag for all to gloat over.”

  Patricia smiled fiercely. “We agree on one thing. I don’t like the newspaper stories either, but what can I do?”

  “Use you hoity-toity friends to put a stop to it, that’s what you can do.”

  “Shouldn’t you be with your son at the police station?” Patricia had had enough of the woman. “Not wasting time with sinners like me?”

  “Not that it is any of your business, but his uncle is with him.”

  “I still don’t see what I can do. The police won’t do or not do anything on my say-so.”

  “I knew it.” Mrs. Skinner was happy to be proven right. “I told my brother he’s soft in the head suggesting the likes of you would ever help anyone.” And with that, she scuttled down the hallway, not waiting to be shown out, reminding Patricia of a crab on the seashore hastening back to its lair.

  Patricia sank back down onto the sofa. Then she laughed, partly in relief, partly at the awfulness of the woman.

  “Poor Sandy. She is as bad as you said.” Patricia considered the visit. There is something she’s not saying. That dreadful woman came for something more, but couldn’t bring herself to ask. I wonder what it was?

  It was barely three minutes later when she heard a vehicle arrive.

  “Good Lord, whatever next?” Patricia muttered before realizing the crunching of gravel was her mother’s car. From childhood, she had always thought it a strangely expectant sound, never knowing what mood her mother would be in.

  “Who was that walking down the driveway?” Mrs. Ord Mackenzie asked.

  “Only my mother-in-law.”

  “I see.”

  The disdain Mrs. Ord Mackenzie could convey with those two words had haunted Patricia’s childhood. She went to leave the room, pausing only to say, “If that woman visits again, make sure she uses the tradesmen’s entrance.”

  Patricia gave a small laugh. “Don’t worry, Mother, I’m certain she will never call again.”

  Across the farm, at the same hour, Mrs. Munro was as surprised as Patricia by her visitor.

  Jenny McPhee had called at the back door as Mrs. Munro was dozing in her armchair. The knock made her jump. She was even more surprised by the sight of Jenny on her doorstep.

  “Come away in,” she told Jenny. “I’ll just put the kettle on. You don’t mind being in the kitchen?” She darted between sink and pantry and the Rayburn.

  “Not at all, lass.” Jenny settled into a chair and waited.

  Tea was served in her best china cups. The women took their time, observing the formalities, asking after each other’s families, commenting on the weather. They had known each other, not well, but had been acquaintances since childhood, their lives intertwined by the tides of the agricultural cycle.

  Mrs. Munro was not completely at ease with Jenny McPhee, but her deeply embedded sense of Highland hospitality would never allow her to turn away any person, even the mother of the boys who may be responsible for her son’s death.

  Just as deeply embedded was a wariness of tinker women, fear of their disfavor, of their curses, fear that Jenny McPhee may have “powers.” There were long-standing rumors that the tinker woman had the second sight.

  When she judged the time was right, Jenny said, “I’m right sorry about your Fraser.”

  “Thank you,” replied Mrs. Munro, reaching into her apron pocket for a hankie. Her eyes always welled up when her son’s name was spoken.

  “I remember him as a fine wee lad.” Jenny didn’t mention his later years, the years when he was known throughout the county and beyond as a troublemaker. “I know my lads are terribly sorry for what’s happened an’ all.”

  Mrs. Munro said nothing.

  “I’m not saying my boys are blameless,” Jenny started, “I know there was a bit o’ push and shove outside the hotel. But that’s all. My boys swear they went straight home after that and Jimmy has this solicitor fellow, Calum Sinclair, who thinks he can prove it wisney ma lads’ fault.”

  Mrs. Munro didn’t know what to think but she let the moment pass. They sipped their tea. The silence was not uncomfortable.

  Again it was Jenny McPhee who broke the quiet.

  “What
I wanted to warn you is this. It might be that somebody else had a hand in it—the killing of your Fraser.”

  Mrs. Munro was shocked. “Surely no!”

  “I just wanted to warn you,” Jenny repeated.

  “That can’t be right.” The teacup rattled in her hand.

  “Calum Sinclair read the report on Fraser’s injuries. He then asked another fellow, some expert on this kind o’ thing, to look at the details o’ Fraser’s injuries. What this expert fellow said is, there was bruising on Fraser that happened hours after he left the hotel, and he says he thinks Fraser was alive until much later. Maybe as late as six o’clock.”

  Mrs. Munro stared at Jenny. Her eyes were small in her head, with dark shadows and lines that went deeper than those of age. Jenny McPhee felt for the woman.

  “He’s saying that if Fraser had been found earlier, he’d still be alive?” The thought horrified Mrs. Munro. “Are you sure about this?”

  “It’s what I’ve been told and I thought you should know.” Jenny looked at her, deciding whether or not to say any more.

  “So why did my boy die?”

  “I don’t know, lass. The bruises on Fraser, he didn’t get all o’ them from ma boys. That’s what this man will say in court.”

  Mrs. Munro bent her head, looking down at her half-drunk tea. It was only the sound of the plop of a tear dripping into the teacup that made Jenny realize she was crying. She went over, took the cup and saucer from Mrs. Munro, put them on the draining board.

  “I’m right sorry to bring the news. But better you hear it from me than it coming out and you no expecting it.”

  “Aye” was all Mrs. Munro could manage to say.

  Jenny gathered her bag and her coat, and saw herself out.

  After the visitor left, Mrs. Munro stayed sitting in her chair—the effort to move, to start preparing a meal, was beyond her.

  She did not know what to think of the visit. And somehow, somewhere the niggle that had lodged itself in her head and wouldn’t go away, this niggle that had been there since the day of the death, returned, more persistent than ever. There is more bad news to come, she felt it in her bones.

  My Allie, he’ll know what’s what, she told herself. No, maybe not. He’ll just tell me to put it out o’ ma mind. As if I could. She blinked rapidly to stop a fresh well of tears.

  Patricia was her next thought. I’ll talk to her. No, she has enough worries of her own. I know she’s coping well with the death, but she was always a brave lass.

  My cousin, I could go over on the ferry and visit. No, she thought, I don’t want to make more of it than it is. Jenny McPhee could have it all wrong.

  The sound of the back door slamming frightened her. I’m not up to more bad news, she thought.

  “Mrs. M. you’ll never guess who came to visit,” Patricia announced.

  Mrs. Munro’s first thought was, How did Patricia know about her visitor?

  They exchanged stories. They talked away the rest of the afternoon. It was only when Patricia was walking back through the woods to Achnafern Grange that the thought struck her. This is far from over.

  The fatal accident inquiry into Sandy’s death—that would be held soon. Then Sandy’s brother, what was his name? John. That would mean another police inquiry. Did he throw the petrol bomb? Did he destroy the family boat? But why?

  Then she thought about the trial of the McPhee brothers. Did they kill Fraser? No. Surely it was an accident? He died hours after the fight. But they had been charged. There will be a trial. That will have everyone’s attention—front page on the Highland Gazette. Mummy will be furious.

  The thought made her smile.

  THIRTEEN

  McAllister liked to be there the evenings the Highland Gazette came off the press. He liked to lift a warm newspaper off the production line and glance through it. He liked the smell of newsprint, the crispness of the pages.

  He liked knowing the delivery vans and their drivers were gathered in the lane below, waiting to take the bundles of papers to the trains and buses going northwest, due west, northeast, to the Black Isle, Daviot, Kingussie, Nairn, to the Carse of Moray, to all the small farming villages and crofting clachans.

  McAllister was perched on a high stool with a mug of tea, keeping out of the way of the organized chaos around him, when the senior printer came over with a first edition of the Gazette.

  “Happy with everything?” McAllister asked him.

  “Aye, mostly.”

  “What’s the problem?”

  “Don McLeod. He’s prejudiced. Never gives Clach a fair go.”

  “Hector Bain would agree with you there.”

  “Now thon’s a good lad. His granny too. A fine woman.”

  Since McAllister had never heard anyone refer to Hector’s grandmother except in terms of asking about her broomstick, this came as a surprise. The foreman noticed.

  “She’s of a fine, old family from Moidart. Speaks the Gaelic still. All that family do. Or did. There are not many of them left hereabouts. Shipped out to Canada, most of them. Still, she made sure Hector and his sister kept the tongue.”

  “Hector speaks Gaelic?” McAllister was surprised.

  “Aye. His wee sister has the Gaelic too. You should hear her sing.”

  “The sister?”

  “No, Mharie Bain, his granny. She does thon mouth music. A champion at the Mod. Right bonnie her voice.”

  McAllister remembered Graham Nicolson in Fort William telling him the Gazette could do more for the Gaeltacht and the diaspora of Gaelic readers.

  “Is it possible to print Gaelic?” McAllister asked the head typesetter. “Do we have a font?”

  “Aye, it could be done. Donny McLeod would have to proofread the copy.”

  “Aye” was all McAllister heard. A column in Gaelic, another coup for the Gazette—it didn’t matter how many read it, it was filling the space that mattered.

  The extra pages on the new Gazette scared McAllister—they may have some good stories now, but what happens when everything settles back into the boring routine of small-town life? Local content was what the readers looked for. The investigative stories excellently written—McAllister’s major focus—had created a buzz around the newspaper. But the new columns—the crossword, the page for women, a small children’s section—all contributed to what he wanted, a newspaper of quality.

  He hoped the changes in the paper had upped circulation, but knew the stories in the last four editions were a more likely reason for good sales. The fire on the boat, two deaths linked to Achnafern Estate—these were real news, and he would milk them for all he could. He must also plan for the weeks of flat calm.

  Rob would eventually leave. McAllister accepted that. But right now, he was needed; to Rob, nothing was sacrosanct if it meant a good story. And he could write. McAllister also knew the Gazette needed Joanne; her freshness, her lack of cynicism, would remind him how the readers saw life. Above all, the new-style Highland Gazette had to work; his pride was at stake.

  He bade the printers goodnight, walked home, put on a Charlie Parker record, poured a whisky, and sat down to plan.

  Next morning, McAllister spoke to Rob first. “A word in my office,” he said through the open door of the reporters’ room.

  Rob shrugged his shoulders at Joanne and walked out as nonchalantly as he could.

  “Shut the door.” McAllister lit a cigarette. “Aberdeen.”

  “I have to tell them soon but . . .” Rob started. “McAllister, I . . .”

  “Let me speak. Then you can think about it. But let me know before you call them. Agreed?”

  Rob nodded.

  “As you may have gathered, we’ve still a long way to go before the Gazette becomes the newspaper it could be.” McAllister looked straight at him. “Rob, there is no one here can do your job, no one with your abilities, it would be hard to replace you.”

  Rob shrugged an “it’s nothing” shrug, uncomfortable at such praise, but also acknowledging the tr
uth in the statement.

  “You can write,” the editor continued, “but more importantly, you have an instinct for a story even when it doesn’t seem there is one. You’re persistent. You get people to talk to you.” He paused. “That said, you still have a lot to learn.”

  Rob nodded. “I know and . . .”

  “I’m not done.” McAllister held up the hand with the smoking cigarette, a typical McAllister gesture. “I may be the editor of a small paper in a small town, but I’m an experienced journalist. I know what’s best for you, you just have to trust me.”

  “I do.”

  “On a paper like the Aberdeen one, you’d be a junior, on all the shite jobs—as well as making tea and fetching fags for the senior reporters. The training there is one job, one section at a time. You do all the work, a senior reporter takes all the credit. Five years of that, maybe only four if they make allowance for your time on the Gazette, it’s a long haul.”

  “I know.”

  “At the Gazette, you cover every aspect of a journalist’s job—sports, news, features. . . .”

  “I booked an advertisement last week. . . .” Rob added.

  “See what I mean? You have more freedom, more responsibility than you’ll get on a big paper, and you’ll learn a lot more.”

  McAllister leaned forward. “Here’s what I propose. Stay here another two years, I’ll make sure you learn everything you need to know, then I’ll help you get a job on a national daily.”

  Quick as lightning Rob grinned, shook his head, and said, “Thanks McAllister, I’ll stay. But forget the national daily, I fancy television journalism—it’s the big thing of the future.”

  McAllister roared with laughter. “That’s what I like about you, you’re as direct as a heart attack. You’ll do well, Robert McLean.”

  With a swagger and a grin, Rob walked back into the reporters’ room and sat at his typewriter.

  “Well?” Joanne asked.

  “Well what?”

  She took a swipe at him and missed.

  “OK, I surrender.” He held up his hands laughing, “I’m staying at the Gazette.”

  “Rob! That’s wonderful.” She hugged him.