by A. D. Scott
The discussions were lively and long, and Calum felt he had nothing to contribute, but just before midday, McAllister said, “Calum, can I have a word?”
As they went to the editor’s office, Calum was more resigned than nervous. Elaine will be disappointed, but I can see I’m not needed here. Not with Lorna being local and so good.
“Calum, tell me what you found at Miss Ramsay’s house.”
He was bewildered, the question so unexpected that he hadn’t an answer. “What we found?”
“We?”
“Me and Mrs. Galloway.” Calum closed his eyes briefly. It was something he’d heard Hector say. Close your eyes and see the picture. Then find the words. “It was a mess, broken windows, smashed-up front door. Mrs. Galloway thought it couldn’t be a local, because everyone knows you’d put a spare key somewhere handy.”
“Good point.”
Calum took courage from the way the editor was looking directly at him. He’s really listening. “The floorboards were raised, and it seemed methodical.”
“As though someone was searching for something?”
Calum sat back. He was bewildered by the implications. “Aye. They were looking for something and maybe got angry because they didn’t find it.”
“Or wanted the police to think it was local louts.” McAllister took a long drag of his cigarette. He directed an equally long outbreath of smoke to the high ceiling, where it settled on the once white, now dirty rust-colored paint.
Calum waited for an observation, a comment, and some sort of enlightenment. None came. “What does it all mean?” he asked eventually.
“No idea,” the editor replied.
The admission made Calum feel better than he had since he’d started the job on the Gazette. He was thinking, I’ll find out.
“Thanks, Calum. I hope you can stay with us this time.” He meant the remark as a last warning. “Now, find Rob. Tell him you’ll cover this week’s hearings at the sheriff’s court.
Calum took the warning as such. At the end of a long Monday, when he called his mother at the promised one minute past six, trunk calls being cheaper then, he told her he would be in court most of the week but would call her at the same time every day. “I won’t be back home for four weeks. Then we’ll have a weekend all to ourselves,” he promised.
“You know what’s best, son.”
The meekness of her reply would have made Elaine suspicious. All Calum could feel was relief. “If you hear anything interesting, you know, stories that might be of use to me, you can let me know.”
“As I canny get out the house on my own, how would I hear anything?”
When McAllister told her of the break-in at Alice’s house and Joanne asked if he thought they were looking for the drawings, it was his turn to say, “I don’t know.”
“Well, whatever it is they’re searching for, and whoever they are, I hope they find it and leave.”
“So do I. Then we can get back to a quiet life.”
“McAllister!” Joanne burst out laughing. “I never thought I’d hear you say that.”
“A quiet life with you and the girls is growing on me.”
CHAPTER 19
I can’t believe they didn’t foresee that I’d take insurance. I took nothing that wasn’t mine, no papers, no documents—that isn’t my way. They always underestimated me, never once looking at the women without whom the Service would not function.
When we were growing up, moving in the same social circles, meeting whenever our families decamped to Scotland for the opening of the grouse- shooting season on the twelfth of August, we were thrown together. They ignored me, me being a girl.
Later, at Cambridge, they ignored me except when they needed a female to accompany them to balls.
After I finished Art College, he heard of my talent for forgery when Daddy made a joke that I could probably forge a five-pound note if I set my mind to it. So he recruited me. “Good girl,” he once said when I produced a pleasing piece of work, that copy of that Cyrillic stamp complete with double-headed eagle. Good girl—how patronizing!
What they also ignored was my almost photographic memory. Can’t take that away from me. I only needed to memorize the details of four documents. That was more than enough to pin down the where, the when, and, of course, the who. The why was, is, a complete mystery to me. Despite the best education, their elite and ancient family, they betrayed our country, and dragged me into their duplicitous plot. Deluded fools.
Not that I care. They are gone now. Yet what kind of life do they now enjoy? One lived at the bottom of a vodka bottle, so I was told. And there is no shortage of vodka in Moscow.
“I’m about to publish an article on the triumph of that great art arbiter Dougie Forsythe. Is there anything I should know?” Sandy Marshall hadn’t said hello or how are you or any of the other opening conventions; he treated his best friend’s wife exactly as he treated his oldest friend.
Joanne appreciated it. “I wish him all the success he deserves. His profit from the sale of the drawing will pay for the lairy cravats and velvet wes’coats,” she joked.
“His dress sense will be forgiven when it comes out he purchased a genuine Leonardo da Vinci at a farm sale in Sutherland.”
“It’s only a wee drawing,” Joanne said, “but very lovely.” She was still disappointed that McAllister had been beaten at the auction.
“Museums in Italy and elsewhere have examples of the artist’s notebooks and sketches, so the drawing is not that rare. But finding it where he did, that’s a story in itself.”
“It was a very profitable purchase.”
“Aye, but it would fetch a lot more if it came in a complete notebook or with other drawings in the series.”
“All I know is what I read in the encyclopedia in the library.” Joanne had looked up as much as she could about Leonardo da Vinci, and there was a surprising amount.
“How about your writing? More stories coming out?”
“Sort of.” She wondered if she should tell him. “Sandy, this manuscript Alice Ramsay left, it’s lovely—watercolor illustrations of the flora of the glens, birds, their nests and eggs, and landscapes from the northeast. I’ve been working on it, and it’s almost finished, but who would be interested in publishing work like that?”
“You know who would know?”
They said in unison: “Dougald Forsythe.”
“He owes you. Have him look at it. But don’t let it out of your sight.”
“McAllister would rather drink arsenic than have to deal with that man again. I’ll finish the manuscript first; then we’ll see. Anyhow, I’m looking forward to reading how the great Dougald bested my husband at auction.”
“Aye, the subs had to cut his article drastically in case McAllister decided to sue.”
“I’m sure he will read it with great interest.” They knew McAllister didn’t care if he was shown as the loser in an auction; he was only annoyed at not winning the drawing for Joanne.
Returning to the manuscript, she decided it was time to ask for an outsider’s opinion. But who?
She went back into the hall to telephone. Although not yet eleven in the morning, the light was November dark. Only five weeks to the solstice, the short northern days were cold, but as yet, no snow. Seen from the kitchen window, the snow cloaking Ben Wyvis made washing up enjoyable, but from the front of the house, the light gave no pleasure. Nor did the prospect of letting go of Alice Ramsay’s manuscript.
She dialed the office. “Hector, who could we show the manuscript to? It’s ready.” Joanne found herself speaking to Hec in his own shorthand assuming he would know which manuscript.
“I’ll contact that woman who’s always asking me to publish a book o’ ma photos.”
“That’s really exciting. When are you going to do it?”
“I haven’t said yes. But she only wants the pretty ones—you know, castles and glens and such like, calendar stuff.”
“Highland cows?”
&n
bsp; “I do not take pictures of Highland cows!”
“Sorry.” She remembered an almost stand-up fight when some advertiser wanted Hec to provide a picture of a Highland cow to advertise their milk.
“You don’t get milk from Highland cows,” he’d protested. But Don made him take the shot, telling Hec newspapers were a business, not an art form.
Next, she decided to finish emptying the last of Alice’s books and papers. Though her husband had put away all those he wanted to keep, there was still a box filled with bundles of paper of varying age, thickness, and quality.
Pulling out one bundle, she began to sneeze.
I’ll give it all to Hector, she decided. He’s the only person I know who might find a use for it.
She untied the brown twine around a sheaf of documents. Some were very old. “Last century,” she muttered, reading the dates on pages of accounts of parish finances in a village in northwest Sutherland. There was a bundle of lists—extracts from parish registers, she thought. Mostly births and deaths, mostly turn-of-the-century but some earlier, some later, Joanne felt a deep sadness as she read the details of the short lives of children in those times.
Before National Health Service was introduced, many families could not afford to pay a doctor, if they could ever get a doctor to come up to those remote glens and villages. One family up Strathfleet had lost three children in two years.
Knowing how fussy Hector was about dust around his cameras and equipment, she emptied the box, deciding to clean it before handing it over. A stout affair, it was a custom-made document box and still in good condition. And heavy. When she put it down on the kitchen table, she noticed the outside and inside base of the box were different heights, but so skillful was the construction she was reluctant to take it apart.
She jumped at the doorbell ringing loud and long, echoing through the hallway and up the stairs. An outline of a person could be seen through the stained-glass panels.
“Hector?” she shouted.
“Aye,” came the answer.
“The door’s open.”
“No, it’s no.”
“Sorry.” She unlocked the door, forgetting that, in a shiver of unease, she’d locked it.
Hec was at his most ridiculous. He was wearing a rust-colored tweed jacket that matched his hair, which in turn closely resembled the inside of a bird’s nest minus the eggs. A black and white Clachnacudden supporter’s scarf, lurid green bobble hat knitted by his granny and more appropriate on a teapot, a satchel he’d had since Miss Rose’s class in primary school was slung across one shoulder, and one small camera around his neck, the strap being his old Academy tie, completed his outfit.
As she’d worked with him for two years, Joanne took no notice.
“Why’s your door locked?” he asked.
“Oh, you know.” She gestured vaguely to the street, the town, the world.
Looking around at the rhododendron bushes, the lilacs, and the many suitable places for lurking, he said, “Don’t blame you. But if you took down yon gloomy old cypress, it’d make the place much lighter.”
We might be moving to a place of light, she thought to herself.
“I brought you a photograph of one of the pages.” Hec undid the folder, one of the stiff cardboard ones with string tied around a board circle he habitually used. “I’ve costed the color separations for printing.” He reached into his bag and brought out a tiny notebook full of tiny writing. “It’s not cheap to do it properly,” he said as he pushed the notebook at her.
“I need my reading glasses for this, Hector.”
“Times the page costs by—how many illustrations? Thirty?”
“So basic printing costs will be . . .” She named an outrageous sum.
He whistled. “Did you do that in your head?” Hec needed pencil and paper to work out basic arithmetic.
Staring at the amount, she calculated a similar sum should be factored in for manuscript setting, proofreading, binding, covers, all the processes leading to final publication. “We can’t afford to do this ourselves. We need a publisher.”
“Aye, but who’d be interested in a nice wee book o’ nice wee paintings?”
“And who’d be interested in a nice wee drawing of a bird skeleton?”
They were quiet for a moment, thinking of the two small drawings locked up in Hector’s studio-cum-washhouse.
“Joanne . . .”
From the way he drew out her name, quietly, hesitating, she knew this was not good news. Every time she’d been given unpleasant news, she’d heard this tone, a way of speaking, usually from a doctor or a priest or her mother-in-law, to impart tidings of doom. “The drawings are fake,” she said.
“Are they?” His green eyes flashed greener in surprise.
“Sorry, I just assumed . . .”
“I’ve no idea if they are genuine or not. But I came across this when I was looking at pages from your manuscript.” He opened another folder, this time with green ribbon holding it closed. “Here’s an original painting you gave me.” It was a drawing of a red admiral butterfly on a marsh marigold. “The writing down the left side describes the habitat an’ aa’ that.” He pointed without touching one of the butterfly’s wings. “No detail. Seems it’s no finished.”
“I have another on the same subject, and it’s much more detailed.”
“When I examined it under a light, the heat exposed some more writing.” He paused, before continuing in his lecturer’s voice. “It’s faint, and the writing is tiny, but you can make out a list of numbers and dates.”
“Do you know what they are?”
“No idea.”
“Do you think there is more?”
“Invisible writing? Hope so.” He pulled a face, and, looking like a contestant in a gurning competition, he made her laugh, which pleased him, as he liked her laugh.
“What on earth is this all about?” She was speaking to herself, but Hector heard, and he too had no guesses.
When she later showed McAllister, he knew instantly. During their precious evening talking time, she handed him a copy of the list. He said, “Passport numbers.”
As Joanne had never had a passport, Hector neither, they were unfamiliar with the numbering system. “Is it always similar sets of numbers?”
“Yes. Unless it’s a diplomatic passport. Where did you find this?”
She handed him the pages with Alice’s illustrations, with numbers and names inserted between the lines now visible. “Thanks to Hec,” she explained.
“This is dynamite.” He went to the bureau drawer where he kept his important papers. Deeds of the house, birth certificate, passport, were in a locked metal cashbox in a locked drawer.
Using his battered but still current passport, he compared his numbers with the list. “Four of these look likely. The others might be foreign passports.” He considered the implications. “Alice Ramsay’s role was creating forged identities. Multiple identities are essential in that business.”
Joanne did not need to ask what business; the stories of spies and of defections had been front-page news. Then came the Suez Canal crisis, the Hungarian crisis, the Cold War crisis, and the nightmare of nuclear oblivion, all of which she had tried to shut out. To Joanne Ross, the challenges of postwar life were hard enough without reading, and hearing, of the doom and gloom in the world outside of the Highlands. The Gazette and stories of two-headed sheep were what she preferred.
McAllister was a news addict, fascinated by both national and international concerns. As editor of a local newspaper, he tried to show interest, but his eyes would glaze over when others discussed town and county politics—unless they involved a scandal.
“Hector said there might be more invisible writing on other pages of the manuscript, but I couldn’t let them out of my sight.”
“Not afraid of burglars, then?”
“Don’t say that, McAllister.” She went over to the folder. She opened it to the illustrations. “There can’t be anything hidden in
these.” She went to the kitchen and came back with another folder, this time in a brown paper bag.
He went to take it out and felt a faint tinge of flour on his hands. He smelled it. “Bread.”
“The bread bin was all I could think of. Hector said he can expose hidden writing under studio lights, then photograph the results.”
“Let’s go.” He stood, patting his pockets for the car keys.
“It’s past nine o’clock, far too late for visiting.” She could see how excited he was. “We don’t have a babysitter, and I want to be there with you.”
“Annie will still be reading. Tell her we will be gone for one hour. No more.” He looked at her. “She’s twelve.”
“It’s not that. If we go out now, she will insist on knowing why we’re rushing out. I don’t want to explain. Or lie.”
He smiled. “But I’m desperate to know.”
“Tomorrow.”
“Yes, mum.” He grinned. “Tomorrow.”
McAllister’s patience was sorely tested but as it was deadline day, a visit to Hec’s studio had to wait. As did sharing the information with the photographer. Joanne knew that if Hec was told the plan beforehand, he would pester the editor all day with Can we go now?
Now, Thursday morning, a slack day with only a postmortem on the previous edition, tidying up, and filling in the football pools scheduled, it was the ideal time to check the manuscript. Joanne walked to the Gazette office. She introduced herself to the new receptionist, whose name she promptly forgot, and congratulated Lorna, whom she brushed past on the stairs.
Lorna replied, “Thanks, Mrs. M, must be off, I’ve a meeting wi’ . . .” The rest of the sentence was lost in the clatter of a delivery from the stationery agent.
“How’s young Lorna coming along?” Joanne asked as she went into her husband’s lair.
“A lot brighter than Calum,” he replied.
“Wheesht,” she said. But she was grinning. “Told you you should have hired a lassie.”
