A Double Death on the Black Isle

by A. D. Scott

  John Skinner was sitting at Mrs. Munro’s kitchen table when Patricia appeared. The poor boy, she thought when she saw him.

  “Hello John, it’s lovely to meet you at last. I am very sorry about all that has happened and I hope we can be friends.”

  John doubted that, but he had come to say his piece and he wanted it over with.

  “I’m sorry too,” he started. “I came over to say I’m sorry for what Ma—I mean, my mother—did because the boat was rightfully yours and the baby’s, since Sandy died and you’re his widow.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Patricia stared, unsure she had heard right.

  The lad continued speaking in a rush, as though in pausing for breath he might lose his courage.

  “I want you to know it wisney me burnt the boat and the police came this mornin’ and they took Ma away.”

  “What?” Patricia’s eyes widened, flashing in surprise with hints of glee and amusement. “Sandy’s mother? Your mother?”

  Mrs. Munro was so surprised all she could say was, “Well I never!”

  John Skinner was bright pink from the effort of speaking to Patricia—she dazzled him. “I came to say good-bye, I won’t be back for a long time . . . if ever.”

  “Ever is a long time.” Patricia said the cliché automatically, busy trying to understand the revelation.

  “John, I’m quite lost,” Mrs. Munro spoke to him as though he were a wee boy. “What’s this about your mother?”

  Her voice worked as well as a Celtic spell to calm the soul.

  “It was our mother,” he started, looking down, his eyes not yet ready to meet Mrs. Munro’s. “She threw the milk bottle, but she didney mean for the boat to be burnt down.”

  Not that John knew this—it was more that he would never understand his mother’s reasoning.

  “Whyever would she burn down your own boat?” To Mrs. Munro it was an incredible act, especially for a woman and a mother. Someone might have been hurt, she was thinking.

  “She was angry at him fishing on a Sunday. And she was angry him leaving the faith. She didn’t like . . .” he glanced at Patricia, “his friends. She was always angry.”

  He stopped. There was no way he could tell them of her rages. As a child, he had thought a ball of fire was burning inside of her. How could he explain that she was always angry at Sandy. He himself avoided provoking her. He was the good boy. Not so Sandy. The fights had been continuous and fierce. Periods of calm came to the household when Sandy was old enough to join the crew of The Good Shepphard. But his mother’s rage returned the minute Sandy came ashore.

  His father was hardly ever at home. He was at sea, or he was down at the harbor mending nets, or keeping the boat spruce and seaworthy. He seldom spoke and never intervened. John loved him. Then he was swept off the deck by a freak wave. Sandy took the boat, took everything. There was nothing his mother could do to stop him. Then she burned down the boat.

  “You’ll take some tea?” Mrs. Munro interrupted his silence. He hadn’t noticed her make it, but said “thank you, two sugars.”

  “I had no idea.” Patricia was thinking of Sandy. “No wonder he found it hard to really care for anyone.” She looked at John and saw a quiet, almost scholarly young man, who was obviously miserable. “What will you do now?” she asked quietly.

  “When things are cleared up, I want to go to sea, but no as a fisherman. I’ve always wanted to get into the institute in Stornaway and join the merchant navy as a navigator. But Ma . . .” He was going to say, “Ma won’t let me,” before realizing that did not matter anymore.

  “An excellent idea.” Get away from that poisonous mother, Patricia thought. She gave him a brief pat on the hand.

  John didn’t move, but it felt strange to feel a woman’s touch.

  “I know I’m not popular in your family,” she continued, “but if I can ever do anything to help, come and see me here at the farm.” Bending down to reach into her bag, she came up with a white envelope. “When I heard you were here, I brought this to pay your fine. Now it can help you start a new life.”

  She would never say how, before knowing about Mrs. Skinner’s arrest, she was planning to give John Skinner the money in the hope that he would desert his family.

  John took it, too surprised to refuse. He held it, staring as though it was a magic trick that would transform into a white rabbit.

  “Put it in the bank,” Patricia advised. “Perhaps use it to study at sea school. And John, good luck.”

  “Aye,” John said, standing, “thank you.” He knew he was dismissed. “Good luck to you too.” He made for the kitchen door, said one more thank-you, and was gone.

  “That was right good of you,” Mrs. Munro said.

  “I’ve accepted an offer for my share in The Good Shepphard II.” She didn’t tell Mrs. Munro that the offer made for the new boat was enough to clear the debt to the boatbuilder and put another substantial sum into her bank account. “And John Skinner deserves some help.”

  “All the same . . .”

  “One hundred pounds will give him a good start and I think he will use it wisely.”

  To Patricia, the payment closed the whole episode of the Skinners. In time, she would come to believe her baby had been conceived if not by divine intervention, then by power of her own longing.

  “One hundred pounds.” This was more extraordinary information for Mrs. Munro to digest. The amount was enough to buy a wee but and ben or a coble fishing boat or . . . “That was right generous of you,” was all she could manage to say.

  “I have more good news, Mrs. M. My new car is to be delivered next week. Won’t that be wonderful?”

  “A car of your own? That is good news. I’m pleased for you, lass.”

  No more begging the missus to use hers, was what she meant.

  Patricia gave Mrs. Munro a hug good-bye and as she was walking back to the big house, she thought about the money from her share of the sale of the boat, plus the money in the bank, and knew that one hundred pounds to John Skinner, although substantial to a young man, made only a small dint in the total.

  She went to the study-cum-farm-office, making sure her mother was not around. She dialed the number.

  “Patricia Ord Mackenzie here. Mr. Sinclair, please.” She waited. “Hello, you will have heard the news, I take it?”

  “No?” She smiled. She was enjoying herself. “John Skinner came to the farm to tell me his mother has been arrested for throwing the Molotov cocktail.” She laughed. “Yes, I was as surprised as you are.”

  She listened again. “I will have to come to your office to settle the account, so perhaps we could talk then. Yes, tomorrow morning is fine. I look forward to it.” As she put down the phone, she realized she was indeed looking forward to seeing Calum Sinclair.

  EIGHTEEN

  He’s a perfect witness.” Calum Sinclair was as pleased as he would be if Ross County ever scored a goal.

  “How so?” Jimmy McPhee asked. “I grant you, Duggie the Dummy is a good laugh. Problem is, he’s dumb.”

  “No, he’s no,” his mother intervened. “He just canny speak.”

  “Mr. McPhee, Jimmy, the witness’s name is Mr. Douglas Donald.” Calum was determined to have the name right. “If you’re sure he will appear in court as a witness, we can request an interpreter.”

  “Yon schoolteacher from Culbokie can follow his hands and his sounds,” Jenny McPhee smiled. “I know Duggie will agree to testify. I told him it meant a trip to the town. He’s never been there in all his fifty-two years.”

  “Aye, I knew some like that in Sutherland,” Calum nodded. “Never been to the town, even though it was only fifteen miles away.”

  “The Black Isle to town is a matter of a few miles,” Jimmy observed.

  “The point is that Mr. Douglas, no Donald . . .” Calum was confused.

  “Better call him Duggie like everyone else.” Jimmy laughed.

  “The point is, he was in the woods that night.” Calum was sure thi
s would help their case. “He saw and heard your brothers on their way home.”

  “How does that help?” Jimmy was still to be persuaded.

  “Your brothers were on the road to Culbokie. About ten minutes later, the farm lads came along with Fraser following on behind. Duggie can testify to that.”

  “So, Duggie will say that Fraser Munro was alive and well about half an hour after the fight?” Jenny asked.

  “Please use the word ‘scuffle.’ Fight sounds serious.”

  Jenny McPhee saw the sense in this and nodded.

  “It might be argued that your sons doubled back to get at Fraser when he was alone.” Calum would have tried that argument if he were prosecuting. “But Duggie was there most of the night and is certain the lads were not around. There are slight problems with him as a witness—it was estate land, and I’ve been told Allie Munro warned him off the estate for poaching.”

  “That’s more a joke than anything,” Jenny McPhee told Calum. “Everyone catches a few rabbits. Allie Munro warns everyone so as to keep thon auld bat Mrs. Ord Mackenzie happy.”

  “I have also been told that Fraser Munro was known to tease Duggie about his disability.”

  “Aye,” Jenny said. “I remember. It was more than teasing. When we were working at the tatties, all the lads would play-fight with the rotten tatties, but Fraser threw stones, pretending they were tatties. He was always picking on Duggie, laughing at the noises the poor man made. Mind you, Allie Munro gave Fraser a good clip round the earhole when he caught him at it.”

  “That’s what I mean. It could be said there is animosity between Duggie and the Munro family.” Calum wanted to cover all possibilities. “So I hope Mr. Donald won’t back down.”

  “He won’t when I’ve had a word with him,” Jimmy said.

  “I didn’t hear that, Mr. McPhee.”

  “Jimmy! Haud your tongue, you’ll no say nothing.” Jenny glared at her son. “Now, Mr. Sinclair, you were saying . . .”

  “It’s important to emphasize the time of death and question the cause of death. Fraser didn’t die directly from the kicking, but the procurator fiscal is saying the earlier injuries contributed to his death, hence the lesser charge of involuntary manslaughter. If we can prove he knocked his head against the bridge, or when he fell into the ditch, or even establish that possibility . . .”

  Jimmy folded his arms, sat back in his chair saying, “This is nonsense. Fraser Munro was completely pished. He fell over, hit his head, then he died. My brothers are on trial because we’re tinkers. Simple as that.”

  “Perhaps,” Calum agreed.

  Jenny looked closely at the young solicitor when he said that. She was pleased and surprised. That one word did it—“perhaps.” Here he was, an educated man, but a man of the north, born and bred, and he wasn’t disagreeing with the idea that a tinker could be charged just because he was a tinker.

  Calum caught the look from Jenny McPhee.

  “Do you have a question, Mrs. McPhee?”

  “I hope you won’t be offended, Mr. Sinclair, but can I ask if you have any Traveler blood in you?”

  He laughed. “I’m not in the least offended, Mrs. McPhee. As far as I know, I am not related to any Travelers. Nor have I any prejudices against your clan. My father brought me up on Robert Burns and his favorite is ‘A Man’s a Man for Aa’ That. ’ I’m sure Rabbie included Travelers in his sentiments.”

  “Why is no one questioning the farm boys?” Jimmy wasn’t interested in this conversation. Books and poets were for his older brother, not him. “They could just as easily have turned on Fraser. I heard he was giving them a right hard time that night—calling them big lassies and worse.”

  “Their story is that they left him not far from the village. They say he was fine then. Not too drunk to see himself home.”

  “Aye, they would say that, but didn’t the dummy write that he heard them together?”

  “Mr. McPhee. The witness’s name is Mr. Douglas Donald.” Calum sighed. Thank goodness Jimmy is not needed as a witness, he thought, or his brothers would find themselves locked up for a long time.

  “Mr. Sinclair,” Jenny intervened. “I’m trying to get this right in ma head. Can we go over it once more, then we’ll leave you to get on?”

  Calum was liking this woman more and more. He smiled at her, then summarized the case.

  “Your sons had an altercation with Fraser Munro outside the hotel. They left straight after that and walked home.

  “Next, the men from the farm accompanied Fraser part of the way home, but he became abusive and they left him behind. Then they too went straight home.”

  “So they say,” Jimmy interrupted.

  “I agree it is possible they pushed him or hit him, but three men with the same story? Hard to dispute,” Calum pointed out.

  “Next,” the solicitor continued, “Mr. Donald saw and heard your brothers a good mile from where the victim was found. In order to have attacked him, they would have had to turn back and walk a mile or so along the private estate road. From studying the map, there are no shortcuts except through thick woodland.

  “Fraser Munro was found in the ditch a short distance from the bridge. There was blood on the stonework, so he probably fell there first. Also, someone—probably Fraser Munro—had been sick.

  “Finally, the medical report. There was bruising, but no broken skin on Fraser’s legs and thighs. That ties in with your sons’ version of events. There was bruising to Fraser Munro’s upper arms, as though he had been defending himself. There was also bruising on the back of his neck, just below the skull.

  “The prosecution will say that the earlier scuffle with your sons left Fraser weak and injured, causing him to fall against the bridge, and as a result he died. They might also say they came back and hit him sometime later, but that we can disprove. The most important point is the time Fraser died. Duggie will put his death much nearer dawn than midnight. He may not know the time by the clock, but he can tell who was where when the moon set.”

  “So Duggie’s testimony is important. He may no be able to speak, but he can hear a mouse a hundred yards away.” Jenny saw the sense in all of Calum’s points, but not how they improved her sons’ prospects.

  “That reminds me,” Calum said. “Patricia Ord Mackenzie has volunteered to be a character witness for your boys if needed.”

  Jenny looked at him, surprised, then suspicious. “Has she now?”

  “If they are found guilty, it would help a lot to have someone of her standing speak up for them before they’re sentenced.”

  “I hope it doesn’t come to that, Mr. Sinclair.” Jenny stood, pushing an obviously heavy handbag up her arm. Calum was surprised yet again at how short she was. Her presence made her seem a much larger woman.

  She thanked Calum for his time. He shook hands with Jimmy and ushered them out, ignoring the stares of the secretary and her assistant.

  Jimmy and his mother were halfway down the street before Jenny voiced what they had both been thinking.

  “That was nice of Patricia.”

  “I wonder what she’s up to?” Jimmy did not catch the irony in his mother’s voice.

  “We’ll never know what the likes o’ an Ord Mackenzie thinks. Speak o’ the Devil . . .” She nudged her son.

  They watched Patricia maneuver into a tiny parking space. It took an effort—the turning circle of a Land Rover was reputed to be half a mile. Mrs. Munro climbed out the passenger door, collected her basket, had a brief word with Patricia, then walked off in the direction of the Co-op. Patricia crossed the road and went into the solicitors’ office.

  “We have the same solicitors as the Ord Mackenzies,” Jimmy laughed. “We must be coming up in the world.”

  Allie Munro and his younger son Alistair always had tea on the stroke of five o’clock. But not today. When Mrs. Munro came back from town, she found policemen in the farm office, using it to reinterview everyone on the farm. She found the change in routine more upsetting
than their presence.

  “But why?” Mrs. Munro asked Allie. “They’ve already spoken to everyone.”

  “I don’t know, lass. But the trial is only three weeks away and they wanted to go over the statements again. Just being careful, I suppose. It was either here or at the police station in Fortrose. I said here to get it over with.”

  The words of Jenny McPhee kept swarming around Mrs. Munro’s brain like wasps after the jam. “. . . Even more trouble,” Jenny had said. So if the McPhee brothers weren’t responsible, then who?

  Her grief intermingled with worry, making a tight knot in her chest as impossible to untangle as a pack of fighting dogs.

  Something about the morning of Fraser’s death was bothering Allie. What was it? She remembered she had been asleep, but awakened when Allie rose half an hour before usual, as they were going to start on an early cut of hay.

  Allie had gone to wake Fraser. There had been harsh words the day before, when Allie told his son he had to work. He told his son they were shorthanded and Fraser couldn’t keep turning up to work only when he felt like it.

  Nothing out of the ordinary had happened until later.

  It was May Day. Some of the women in the district who still believed in the old ways had been out and about even earlier—washing their faces in the morning dew, hanging rags at the Clootie Well. A right bonnie morning it was, Agnes Munro remembered.

  So what was it that was worrying Allie? Why was he was kicking and turning in his sleep? Why was he exhausted before putting in a day’s work? Worse still—he wouldn’t tell her.

  “No lass, I’m fine,” he had said.

  “I’m just a wee bitty tired,” he had answered.

  “Don’t you be worrying about me,” he had reassured her.

  But the more she considered it, the more she felt the shadow of trouble hanging over them.

  There had been a schoolteacher in her young life, a lovely woman, from Falkirk, she remembered, and this teacher was always saying these wee sentences, ones that stuck in your head, ones that the teacher said were good to remember, to help you through life. “A trouble shared is a trouble halved” was one of them.