Beneath the Abbey Wall (30 page)

“Search me.” Don shrugged, but the flicker in one eye—as though a light had suddenly been switched on in the periphery of his vision—alerted the advocate.

“There must have been a reason Smart snapped—if he did.”

“Not that I'm aware of.”

Mr. Brodie knew Don was lying and knew there was no point threatening him with prison—the death of the woman he loved was a life sentence. “What about the Gurkha, Mr. Bahadur? Is he a likely candidate? He has inherited a large sum of money. He knows how to use a knife. ”

“Never. That man loved Joyce, protected her like she was his sister.”

“I've never found love stops people from killing each other.”

The way Mr. Brodie said this made Don look closely at him. The lawyer looked back.

“I didn't do it,” Don said.

“Glad to hear it, Mr. McLeod. Now, defense strategy. I will do everything I can to discredit Smart. I will also do everything I can to cast doubt that you rose from your bed in a postprandial state, followed her, then killed the love of your life in a neat, cold, calculating manner, with your own knife, which you then returned to its usual niche in the wall.”

“The fiscal will argue I was drunk.” Don gave a bleak smile, knowing everyone would believe that.

“If you can tell me why the sergeant major was blackmailing her, that might help establish a clear motive.”

“No.”

From that emphatic negative, the advocate knew he would gain little more from the interview.

“I'll be back, Mr. McLeod,” he said as he put his papers into a folder and tied it up with red ribbon. “You won't tell me now, but I'm sure you will, when faced with a life sentence.”

Don doubted that, but when he was returned to his cell, he spoke to Joyce, a habit he had fallen into, as what he missed most about her was the conversations, having a person to talk about anything and everything to. That and having someone to put your arms around. “I promised, lass. So don't worry. I'll keep my word.”

Don had told McAllister most of the conversation with Mr. Brodie, but left out Sergeant Major Smart's blackmailing Joyce McLeod née Mackenzie into a bigamous marriage. He did not want McAllister in the cell next to his.

*  *  *  

McAllister told Rob most of the conversation between himself and Don, but left out the end.

“How is everything at the paper?” Don had asked.

“Muddling along,” McAllister replied.

“How's the Canadian shaping up?”

“He's good at his job.”

Don heard the unsaid. “What's he like?”

McAllister could only shrug. “He's intelligent, interesting, good-looking, gets on well with everyone.” The bitterness in his voice alerted Don.

“Beech has been helping him in his research. He's playing harmonica in Rob's band. He has Betsy charmed. He is seeing Joanne outside of work. They went away to the west coast together.”

Don heard the pain. He reached for a Capstan Full Strength. He offered one to McAllister, who took it and produced a lighter, then choked on a cigarette that, even to him, was one stop short of old rope.

“You know, I have one huge regret that will never go away.” Don was speaking to the wall. “I sent her away. I let my stupid pride . . . ” He turned. “Listen to me, McAllister. Don't make the mistake I made. Don't be so bloody Scottish. Tell her how you feel.”

“It's too late for that.” McAllister radiated defeat. His shrug, his wave of the cigarette, his stretching his legs out and exhaling through his mouth as he said
It's too late
 . . . made Don furious.

“Do something. Tell her. Never ever leave it unsaid until it really is too late.”

The heartbreak and the sheer frustration coming from Don penetrated McAllister's despair. And even though he had no intention of confronting Joanne, he had heard Don's cry of pain.

Rob was sitting at the table with a cup of tea, hearing McAllister's spoken and unspoken recount of the visit with Don. When McAllister finished, he sensed something important had been left out, but didn't ask.

“Well,” Rob said, “at least Don is communicating.” He started fiddling with his pencil, beating out a drum solo on the table. “I have some information—though how it helps I don't know.”

McAllister raised his eyebrows. Rob stopped drumming.

“Sergeant Major Archibald Smart is from Sutherland. His father was a gillie on the late Colonel Ian Mackenzie's estate before moving to Perthshire.”

“So Archibald Smart would have known Joyce Mackenzie when they were children?”

“More than likely. She went to the local school until she was eleven.”

“How does that fit in?” McAllister asked.

“No idea, but Mr. Brodie wants any and every . . . ”

“Mr. Brodie,
QC
.” McAllister grinned as he reminded Rob, making Rob grin back at him.

“I'll keep digging,” Rob continued. “Neil is familiar with researching parish registers, he's promised to look for anything relating to the Smarts and Mackenzies of Assynt.”

“Neil seems to be fitting in well.”

Rob was putting on his jacket and did not catch the sarcasm. “Yes, he's really fast at subbing, and not as pedantic as Don. Good at research too. It was him discovered the sergeant major was from the Mackenzie estate. Plus he's a pretty good musician. I'm impressed. Come and hear the band play, a week today.” Rob picked his keys up from the table. “See you in the office.”

“You're not the only one impressed by Neil Stewart,” McAllister muttered when Rob was gone. He tried not to be bitter—
Joanne has a right to see whoever she wants.
He reached for his cigarettes, decided to wait—his lungs were feeling like the inside of a kipper factory. He knew he needed to force himself back to the
Gazette,
to check on work, to be in the same room as Joanne, to see her face as she tried to avoid looking at him.

What had Don said? Don't be like me?

“You had your time of happiness.” McAllister said this aloud. The words echoed in the almost empty house that was three bedrooms and a sitting and dining room too big for one man. “At least you had that.”

*  *  *  

“Glad you've decided to grace us with your company, Mrs. Ross,” McAllister said when he walked into the reporters' room, and immediately wanted to cut his tongue out when he saw the hurt in her eyes.

“I phoned in to say I would be out at the hospital looking at the plans for a new wing.”

“Sorry.” He was standing close to her. He wanted to reach out, to touch her. To say he was sorry. Sorry about so much. But he didn't know how to begin. He tried to catch Joanne's eye, but she was hitting the keys of the typewriter as fast and hard as a boxer on a punching bag.

He left to hide in his office. He could not bear to be home in a house that was too big. He did not want to be in the office. He had no idea where he wanted to be. So he left. Again.

He walked up past the castle, down towards the river. He walked along the riverbank, past the mansions of Archibald Smart and the Beauchamp Carlyles. He crossed the swaying suspension bridge onto the first island. He tried sitting on a bench, but watching the river flow brought no comfort. He walked through the islands, crossed another suspension bridge, turned left, walked the northern riverbank path under a canopy of the bare creaking fingers and limbs of beech and oak and elm and sycamore. He reached the canal, turned left onto the towpath. And he walked and he walked, mile upon mile, until it was quite dark and he had no idea how far he had come, although he knew it was well beyond the town.

Below, he could hear a faint murmur. The river, he guessed. The silence of the canal did not fool him. There was life there too. And death. He looked heavenward. The sky was clear except for the multitude of stars as cold and as silent as himself. He began to pick out the constellations. The tidal pull of the almost full moon began to tug at him.

For the length of one cigarette he stood and watched the reflection of the stars barely moving in the soft undercurrent of the canal.

What had Don said? Pride—that was it.

What had Rob said? A haircut.

He had the beginnings of an idea, so he turned back and walked out the remains of the evening, and that night, slept soundly.

*  *  *  

Rehearsal was over. Rob and Neil looked at each other. The adrenaline of the music still ran, and they needed to be anywhere but back in their respective rooms, alone on a Saturday night.

“Still looking for the McPhees?” Rob asked.

“Very much so.”

“The Ferry Inn then.”

Neil had no problem being a passenger on Rob's bike. He envied the younger reporter his freedom.

“It's early, but Jenny is usually in by seven,” Rob said as they settled down in the saloon bar to wait.

Deep in a conversation about blues musicians, Rob didn't notice Jenny come in, but Neil did. He stood.

“Mrs. McPhee.”

“Mr. Stewart.”

Jimmy came in behind his mother. He did not look pleased to find company. “Is this aw'right wi' you?” he asked his mother.

“Fine.” She sat down, nodded to Neil. “I'll have a double Glenfarclas.”

There was something in the way she settled down, arms folded, face set, that made Rob think of a statue of Queen Victoria, and made Jimmy think the visitors should leave. Now. But Jenny said nothing except
Sláinte,
when Neil put the glass in front of her. Then she waited.

Neil felt like a student sitting final exams. “I was in Sutherland recently. I saw Suilven from the same spot the picture of my mother was taken.”

“Aye, it's right bonnie up there.”

Neil smiled. It was almost the same words Joanne had used. “A friend of mine said the same.” He had a quick flash of her at home, and tried to remember if he had promised to see her tonight.

“How is Mrs. Ross?”

Neil was startled. “She's well.” He sensed an accusation in Jenny McPhee's voice.

“You're here for a reason, Mr. Stewart?” Jenny wanted the conversation at an end. The past was the past. Nothing could be changed. Neil Stewart—she knew who he was, he was doing fine; healthy, educated, prosperous, that was more than enough.
It was all such a long time ago, I don't need ma heart broken all over again.

“I'm curious about my mother.” He produced the photograph, careful not to let the beer stain the cardboard frame. “Did you know her?”

“Chrissie Stewart. Yes, I knew her. She went into service in a big house in the town.”

“Were you related?”

“You mean was she a tinker?” Jenny smiled. “Well, lad, that would be telling, and there's not many folk who would want to know a tinker was their mother.”

“I was adopted.”

“Were you now?” Jenny's voice sounded surprised. Her eyes opened wide. She had on a small smile. But Jimmy wasn't fooled.

Neil was uncertain. Rob looked closely at Jenny as she downed the last of her dram, so he couldn't see her face clearly. Something was not being said, that he knew.

“Chrissie was a nice wee soul. I'm sorry to hear she's no longer with us.”

“Thank you.”

Jenny gestured to her son. “Jimmy, we need to be getting back.”

“I found out recently that Sergeant Major Smart was born and raised on the Mackenzie estate.”

Jenny took her time looking him over. “Ma eldest, Keith, he's like you—always burrowing in the past. And like you, he sometimes doesn't have the sense to leave the past alone.”

“My PhD depends on this—that means a professor's job.”

“I ken what a doctorate is,” she snapped, “my Keith is going for one.”

Neil was reminded this was not an ordinary woman, this was Jenny McPhee. She might not have gone to school, but she knew much.

“Did you know the sergeant major as a boy?”

“Now what would the son of a gamekeeper be doing wi' tinkers?”

“Joyce Mackenzie had no problems with tinkers, nor her father from what I hear.”

“Jimmy.” Her son jumped. Rob jumped too; the voice was like the crack of a whip, the meaning as clear.

“Well, Mr. Stewart, I'm glad to have met you. Glad to see you're well. Though I doubt we'll meet again.” She nodded slowly
at him and he gave an almost imperceptible nod back, which only Jenny saw. “Thank you for the dram.”

Rob saw a frailty in her that hadn't been there when she came in. He saw a sadness in her eyes, a momentary tremor in her chin, which she too noticed. And, matriarch of the McPhees she was, she stretched her neck, held her head high and, shoulders back, dismissed the passing weakness, waved a queenly wave. The audience was over.

Rob saw that Jimmy was looking as though he wanted to hit someone, and when the McPhees were gone, he realized he had been holding his breath. “That was a bit of a disaster.” He laughed.

Neil wasn't laughing. He was playing with his glass, turning it round and around, looking into the remains of the golden spirit.

Rob, leaning back again the wall, was doing all he could not to shiver. “Time I was off too.” His voice sounded unnatural even to himself. “Can I give you a lift?”

“Hey, that would be great.” Neil grinned. “As I'm not too popular here, I may as well go where I
am
wanted.” He downed the last drops of his whisky. “Can you drop me off at Joanne's?”

When Joanne heard the motorbike she thought it was Rob. But the sound of two voices, then Neil saying
Thanks for the lift,
came clearly through the still night.

She tried not to panic.
At least the girls are here,
she thought,
so nothing can happen—
a good thing or a bad thing, she couldn't decide.