Did You Declare the Corpse?

by Patricia Sprinkle

  Brandi gave a bored sigh. “Well, I thought Norwood was delightful. He acted out a couple of scenes from the play, Joyce, and they were hilarious. He kept us in stitches. I can’t wait to see it, can you, Jimmy?”

  Joyce, across from me, choked on her tea. While Laura was pounding her on the back, Kenny mused, “So Aunt Rose’s former broker is now the laird’s brother-in-law?” He sounded like he was trying to figure out how to parlay that into a dinner invitation of their own.

  Joyce shuddered and pressed her hands to her temples. Poor thing, nobody wants to be told your historical drama is hysterical and the lead actor used it to keep folks in stitches. But when she stood, she told Eileen, “I think I’m starting a migraine, and the actors are driving out from Aberdeen for rehearsal at three, so I’m going back to bed. I won’t want any dinner.”

  “Shall I bring you up a wee tray at half past twelve?”

  “Please don’t. The only thing that helps is to take a pill and lie perfectly still for hours. Can you all get along without me?”

  We assured her we could and she hurried out the door. “I was afraid that woman was gonna break sometime,” I murmured to Laura. “I hope she’s okay in time for her play.”

  Eileen went to phone her neighbor and returned to inform Sherry she could have a ride to the next village between ten and eleven. Sherry left. Jim and Brandi got up and Brandi and Laura arranged to meet in the downstairs hall at nine-thirty. When they’d gone, I felt like a third wheel, so I left Kenny and Laura sitting at different tables, obviously waiting to be alone.

  I wrote a few postcards before setting out for the village around nine-fifteen. As I started down the stairs, I heard Kenny shouting, but couldn’t distinguish his words. When I rounded the landing, he came storming out the dining room door and hurried past me up the stairs, his face puce and his eyes pink with tears.

  “Kenny!” Laura stood in the dining-room door holding the frame, her face pale. Her eyes, too, were pink and wet. When she saw me looking at her, she glared. “Don’t ask, Mac. It’s none of your business.” She, too, strode up the stairs and I heard our door slam.

  I headed for the village greatly disturbed. Laura hadn’t been rude to me since she was fourteen. Not until I was well down the brae did I realize that Kenny hadn’t said a word at breakfast about how he planned to spend the day.

  The woman at the post-office counter was the woman Dorothy had thought looked like Jim. There was a slight resemblance: white hair, bushy eyebrows, and a certain look around the eyes, but if you travel at all, you know there are a finite number of faces in the world. I’m forever running into people who look like somebody I know. And as Jim had pointed out, it was their noses that looked the most alike.

  She waited on me with courtesy but little warmth. As she handed me stamps and change, I saw that her hands and wrists were twisted with arthritis, and she wore no wedding ring on her poor swollen fingers. I hoped she could soon retire in a modicum of comfort.

  “I met a little girl on the bridge today who said she feeds your hens and pets,” I told her.

  Her stark face brightened. “Wee Morag. Aye, she loves animals, but her mother cannae have them in the hotel, so she comes up and takes care of mine. She’s a right wee dear, that one.” Which differed slightly from the “wee terror” Eileen had described. “Are ye over from America, then?” She thawed enough to lean on her counter.

  “Yes, hoping to find some trace of my ancestors in Auchnagar. I thought I might look in the cemetery, for a beginning.”

  “Aren’t ye wi’ Watty’s tour? Ask Joyce, then. She stayed a week last spring readin’ kirk records and gatherin’ information. I’d think she knows what there is to know.”

  “She was researching a play,” I told her. “She had accidentally run into the laird’s wife—I think it was in your very doorway—and the laird’s wife said if Joyce would write a play, perhaps she would put it on in the community center. It’s going to be Saturday night.” I stopped when I remembered the post office had a notice for the play in its window.

  Her lips twisted in what I suppose was a smile of sorts. “Is that how Joyce tells the story?”

  “How would you tell it?”

  “That she researched the village, found out Mrs. MacGorrie comes in here every morning at ten, and hung around to bump into her. She had to come twice—the laird’s wifey was out of town the first day.” Her chuckle was deep and infectious.

  I chuckled, too. “I guess writers get desperate at times.” I picked up my stamps and turned to go. “Until I can talk to Joyce, maybe I’ll try the cemetery. Is it next to one of the churches?”

  “Och, no. Cross the burn, turn right, and go three-quarters of a mile. Ye cannae miss it.”

  As I passed through the village, I saw Sherry in a pricey-looking wool shop, fingering a plaid cape like the one she had on. She rubbed the material between her fingers, then nodded and handed the clerk her charge card. If she didn’t stop buying, we were going to have to tie a storage container to the back of our plane on the way home.

  Barbara Geddys had failed to mention that there was only a narrow verge between the road and a barbed-wire fence, or to remind me to walk on the right to face oncoming traffic. Having nearly been struck by a car whizzing up from behind, I crossed the road and walked close to the fence, wondering how many cemetery occupants had arrived there after taking that very stroll.

  The burial ground was marked by a tall monolith rising above a high stone wall that framed a square of land cut from surrounding fields. A small parking area sat in front of the cemetery and a simple wrought-iron gate was set in the center of the wall. Inside, the cemetery seemed small to hold all the people who had died for centuries, and the earliest grave I found was from 1845. This cemetery, then, must have been started during the dismal preoccupation with funerals of Victoria’s reign. Where had villagers been buried before that?

  The only MacLarens were a small family that had died out in 1935 with an apparently single woman named Margaret. Disappointed—and annoyed that Joyce hadn’t supplied me with information she might have about MacLarens, since I’d said on my questionnaire I wanted to know about them in Auchnagar—I copied down the names and dates and wished my family had done its research in time to meet the last MacLaren.

  I was bent over an adjoining plot, peering down at the flat stones in the grass and trying to make out the name, when I heard a whoosh behind me and something large and furry landed on my back. I sprawled across the grass with a yell, and felt hot breath on the back of my neck.

  “Godfrey! No! Down!” Feet came running. I struggled to get out from under the heavy animal, which was now licking me like a favorite toy. I was making little headway when I suddenly felt myself freed in one strong jerk. I looked up to see a man in a kilt standing above me, holding what looked like a brown and tan rug by the collar. The rug lurched back at me, long tongue lolling, ready for another lick. “Godfrey! No! Down!”

  It collapsed at his feet into a large English sheepdog, watching me hopefully.

  I did not see what that Scotsman wore under his kilt. I was too flustered getting to my feet.

  “I do beg your pardon!” Godfrey, encouraged by the man’s friendly tone, started up, but his master shoved his haunches. “Down!” The dog fell to a crouch and stayed, his tongue lolling, ready to play at the slightest signal. “Did he frighten you? He has no manners whatsoever.” The man’s face was full of distress. “I’d have come sooner if I’d realized you were here.” His accent was different from Watty’s or those of the villagers, precise and easy to understand. “You were behind the monument, you see.” He pointed.

  I turned, and did see. The base of the monolith was between me and the gate.

  “But, of course, he isn’t supposed to be inside.” The man cast an anxious look toward the road and rubbed an ear in embarrassment. “We share the cemetery with the Catholics, you see, and Father Ewan is very strict about this being consecrated ground. Not that we Presbyterians don
’t respect graves,” he muddled on with an expression that said he knew he was digging his own grave deeper the longer he talked, but felt compelled to try and make me understand, “but they take these things so much more seriously than we do. I mean, not more seriously, but they won’t let dogs—” He came to a full stop.

  “I’m a Presbyterian,” I said, in case that might help.

  It must have, for he brightened. “Godfrey, on the other hand, is a bundle of original sin. He sees any forbidden place as a challenge. As soon as I opened the door and he spied the open gate, he leaped out.” He frowned down at the dog but when Godfrey sat up and gave him a happy smile, his owner’s frown turned into a reluctant grin. “You old rogue.” He bent and rubbed the big dog’s head. “Just like a child spying an open biscuit tin.”

  “It’s okay. I have a beagle back home.” I held out a hand to let Godfrey sniff me. He rewarded me with a lick, and I scratched him behind one ear.

  “I do beg your pardon,” the man said. “I haven’t introduced myself. I’m Gavin MacGorrie.” He stuck out one hand and looked down at his other in bewilderment. “I had some flowers here somewhere.”

  “I think you dropped them near the gate.” A clump of red lay beyond the monolith.

  “Thank you. Stay, Godfrey!” he commanded, and went to retrieve his bouquet. The dog whined, but remained beside my feet.

  So this was the Laird of Auchnagar. He looked nothing like I would have expected. I had pictured a man of commanding height and bearing, more like Jim Gordon, who would stride down the village street while everybody watched with pride. This man, who couldn’t be more than forty, had thinning dark hair lightly touched with gray at the sideburns and eyes as brown as Godfrey’s. He was of insignificant height and build, with a diffident air and a scholar’s stoop. And his kilt looked as worn and comfortable as Joe Riddley’s favorite pair of corduroys.

  “It’s the anniversary of my mother’s death, you see,” he explained as he returned with a bedraggled bouquet. “I always bring flowers. But I’ve ruined this lot, haven’t I?” He looked down at them in dismay. “My wife arranged them so all I had to do was stick them in the vase, but look at them now. Kitty will kill me, Godfrey, and it’s all your fault.” He bent again to fondle the dog’s head. Godfrey made little happy noises in his throat. Apparently he feared his mistress far less than his master did.

  Remembering the woman I’d seen the night before, I calculated that the laird’s wife was as tall and somewhat heavier than he, and must be at least ten years older. I had no doubt that she wore the pants in the family, in more ways than one.

  “Let me see what I can do with the flowers,” I offered. I arranged them as we walked together toward the monolith.

  He went to his car for a plastic jug of water and filled a stone urn by the base of the stone, then took the flowers from me and stuck them in with little ceremony. “There you are, Mum.” He stepped back and rubbed his hands together with a dry papery sound. “They look fine. I cannot thank you enough. Kitty takes this annual ritual very seriously.” He leaned over and cupped one hand around his mouth to confide (although we weren’t in earshot of a soul except Godfrey), “Far more seriously than Mum would, if she knew a thing about it.” He seemed very pleasant, as lairds go. I hoped I wasn’t supposed to curtsy or something.

  He whistled and Godfrey came bounding from where he had obediently remained. “Will you accept a ride back to the village by way of an apology for Godfrey’s lack of manners? And mine!” he exclaimed. “I never asked your name.”

  “I’m MacLaren Yarbrough. I was looking for ancestors’ graves, but I only found modern stones here. Where are the older graves?”

  He looked around the churchyard, puzzled. “You know, I have no idea. We have a family plot on the estate, but—” He looked distressed again, as well he might. Not to know where the peasants are buried would seem a serious breach of lordly responsibility.

  “I’ll ask in the village,” I said, letting him off the hook. He looked relieved.

  “Where are you from, Mrs. Yarbrough?” He was at least socially proficient. He had remembered my name and looked for my wedding ring before he spoke.

  “Georgia.”

  “My wife is from Georgia!” He rubbed his hands together again in pleasure. “Have you ever been to Albany?”

  “Several times. We live not too far from there.”

  He beamed. “Now, I insist. You must let me give a fellow Georgian a ride.”

  I looked at his ancient Land Rover and thought of all the hair and drool Godfrey had deposited over the years. “No, thank you, I’m enjoying my walk.”

  I was declining what might be my only lifetime offer to ride with nobility, but at least I could brag that a laird once made me a proposal and I turned him down.

  “Well, I will certainly tell Kitty I met you. We have quite a contingent of Georgians in the village just now, did you know? They’re on one of Gilroy’s tours.”

  “I’m with them. I believe you already know one member of our group—Jim Gordon?” I wanted to see his reaction. Would he look furtive?

  Not at all. “Oh, yes. Jim, Kitty, and her brother, Norwood, were friends back in Albany. He brought his wife to dinner last evening. Pleasant woman.” He didn’t sound the least bit attracted by Brandi’s charms.

  I grew bolder. “Jim said he has some business in Auchnagar.” I have found that making a statement is often better than asking a question.

  He beamed as if I’d brought up his favorite subject. “Oh, yes. He and I plan to build a first-class hotel just down the road.” He gestured away from the village. “We hope to get it up and running in a year or so. Skiing is big business in this part of Scotland, but Jim also wants to build a golf course adjacent to the hotel, to attract summer visitors.” He looked about him at the brown fields and bare hills. “It will spruce the place up a bit. At this time, we only have the one hotel, Gilroy’s. And while it’s clean and comfortable, it doesn’t attract—”

  He let that trail off. I suspected he’d been about to say “the best people” and then had remembered I was on a Gilroy’s tour.

  He whistled for Godfrey, who came bounding our way with delight. “I will probably see you again, for I believe Kitty has arranged a little get-together for your group tomorrow evening, following a dramatic performance written by one of your number.” He cupped his hand again and confided, “My brother-in-law is highly pleased with the piece. He used to act in amateur theatricals, you know, and he’s appearing in the play. He quite fancies himself as the laird.” The droll look he gave me before he headed to his Land Rover left me smiling as he drove away.

  I still had time before dinner to cruise the shops looking for a special souvenir for Joe Riddley and one for myself. I found a bookstore and hoped for a book on the MacLarens, but settled for a small book bound in Stewart tartan silk and titled The Clans and Tartans of Scotland. When I carried it over to the counter, the clerk asked, “Are you with Gilroy’s tours, then?”

  When I admitted I was, she asked, “Did your friend make the bus all right?”

  Sherry must have been there, too. “I don’t know. I thought she was getting a ride. She and Eileen were talking about somebody who might drive her.”

  “Och, that’s all right, then. She was in here asking about taxicabs, but we dinna have any in Auchnagar. I hope she remembers to catch the late bus, or she’ll need to stay the night.”

  “I’m sure she’ll be back long before that,” I assured her. “Thanks for asking.”

  The shop that eventually caught my eye had a window filled with oils and watercolors of Scottish scenes. Several small framed watercolors depicted scenes from Auchnagar, and would be perfect souvenirs. I could not only get them in my extra suitcase and enjoy them daily, but also leave one to each of my sons to remind them of their own heritage. Not that they’d care much about that while they were still middle-aged, but they eventually might. The less future you have, the more you value the past. “Welcome!
” called someone from the back room as the bell tinkled over the door. Alex Carmichael came through to the shop. When he saw who I was, his smile widened until his eyes almost disappeared. “One of Eileen’s guests,” he exclaimed. I heard a rustle from the other room, like a small mouse had scurried to its hole.

  I explained about the watercolors, and he spent time helping me choose from several that were similar, pointing out details in each. We finally settled on a scene of the bridge I had just crossed and the mountain I could see from my window.