A Double Death on the Black Isle (23 page)

She climbed the steps to Castle Wynd. Five minutes to spare, before she was needed as the star witness in the inquiry into the death of Alexander Skinner.

A stranger watching her or a friend looking at her—even Mrs. Munro—could never see how sick she felt. The death of her husband was an escape from certain disaster, but he was the father of her child, a man she had once been passionate about.

The inquiry took an hour and a half, not the whole morning
as Joanne had expected. She was covering the hearing for the
Gazette
. Not her idea, but McAllister had told her to go, and she was aware Rob was contributing much more column space than her.
The boatyard story, John Skinner's arrest—Rob discovers stories—he is a real journalist. I cover events already in progress.

With her confidence suitably low, Joanne took her seat on the bench in the Sheriff's Court.

The proceedings opened. WPC Ann McPherson gave the account for the police. The medical report was read out. The sheriff noted that the blood-alcohol level was unusually high for so early in the morning.

“Mrs. Patricia Skinner.”

When her name was announced, Patricia felt a flash of annoyance. She hated being a Skinner and would change that as soon as respectable.

“Please excuse me if I feel faint,” Patricia smiled around the court. “It is all very distressing, and I am in a delicate condition.”

How does she do that?
Joanne thought,
make all these men melt like that?

“Of course. We will be as brief as possible,” the procurator fiscal told her. Then he led her through that morning's events.

“We left home early, before dawn. It was the first day of May, so we went to the Clootie Well. Silly I know, but I love the old traditions.” Again that sweet smile. “We intended to drive to Fort Augustus the long way round.

“After we left the town, I had a bout of horrid morning sickness, so we stopped at the Dores Inn.” Patricia told the story well. There were no interruptions, no questions. “After a cup of tea I felt better, so we drove on, but we had to stop again as I was sick.”

“Sandy came from a village a mere thirty miles or so from some of the most beautiful places in Scotland and had never
visited them,” she told the court, as though this was a fault, an idiosyncrasy, forgetting that most people did not have a car, could not travel on a whim to see scenery.

“We stopped near the track to the Falls of Foyers. I said I'd sit in the car until I felt better. Sandy said he'd go down to see the Lower Falls.” She took a sip of water from a glass the clerk of the court handed to her. “I waited nearly an hour, then I began to worry.”

She didn't mention his last words to her, “You stupid cow.” He had yelled when she leaned out to be sick. She would never tell anyone she was crying.

“I went down the track to find him, but it was so slippery, and there is a drop on one side of the track. I was scared, so I turned back. I called out many times, but the noise of the water was really loud.”

Patricia paused, looking down at her hands. The procurator paused, waited.

“Would you like a break?” he asked.

“No, thank you. I'd like to finish.”

“So you went for help?”

“Yes. I drove back to the inn. The landlady and her husband were most helpful. They said they would try to find Sandy. I waited, I fell asleep for a while, then . . . I'm sorry.”

“Hankie time,” Joanne muttered. Sure enough, both Patricia and a lady on the visitors' bench pulled out handkerchiefs.

There was only one point that Patricia faced any pressure over.

“The Falls are immediately outside of the village of Foyers. Why did you drive all the way back to Dores, almost twenty miles away, to report your husband missing?”

Patricia looked directly at the sheriff as she answered.

“I ask myself that constantly. I have no idea why. Perhaps
it was because I was feeling so wretched. Perhaps I wanted the comfort of a place I knew, where I could take a room.”

There is a hotel in Foyers,
Joanne remembered. But no one commented.

“Perhaps it was because Sandy was cross. . . .”

“You'd quarreled?” the fiscal asked.

“Not at all. It was the smell of sick that Sandy hated.”

There goes the hankie again,
Joanne thought.

“I have no explanation. I deeply regret my panic. I should have gone straight into Foyers . . . perhaps he could have been saved.” Patricia looked into her lap. This time she tried no theatrics with the hankie, letting the tears run silently.

The sheriff had three daughters; he could never cope with tears—not a good quality for a man in his position. He looked over to the fiscal, who said he had no more questions, and proceeded to sum up the case.

The sheriff listened to the recommendations. He concurred. The finding was accidental death by drowning. Recommendations—the construction of a guardrail at the viewing point above the falls.

The hearing into the death of Alexander Skinner was over.

Joanne met Patricia on the steps outside the Sheriff's Court.

“How are you?” she asked.

“I couldn't bear thinking about that day,” Patricia answered. “It was horrible.”

“Patricia, I'm sorry, I have to ask, can I have a comment for the
Gazette
?”

“You must know how I'm feeling.” Patricia looked at Joanne with an expression too hard to read.

I don't,
Joanne thought,
and I seldom know what you are thinking. That is the problem.

“Just say I am still in shock, but relieved the hearing is over.”
Patricia had another of her sudden switches of mood. “Let's meet in Arnotts for lunch, twelve-thirty? I'll have recovered by then. My treat. Bye-bye.”

She was off down the wynd, picking her way carefully over the cobblestones, certain the reply to the invitation was “yes.”

Joanne was left feeling like a fish—hooked, landed, and floundering on dry land. She didn't know what to think—or write.
The facts,
Don always advised,
the bare, simple facts.
But a life was gone. The sheriff's recommendation that a guardrail be erected didn't seem much of a memorial for a life. No,
she corrected herself,
he will be remembered. Sandy Skinner left behind a baby, a boat, and a story, which, given time, will become part of local folklore.

“Sit down. Let me get tea. Or would you prefer coffee?” Angus McLean asked.

“Coffee?” Patricia was surprised at her solicitor's modern tastes.

“I send out for it from the café where Rob spends half his life.” He smiled at her. He had known her since childhood and was one of the few not intimidated by her mother. Patricia always appreciated that.

“Thank you, I'd better not. This is a brief visit, as I have rather a lot to do today.”

Angus waited.

“The verdict was accidental death.”

“I see.”

“Thank you for offering to be there. But as I said, there was no need.” She gave him her full regal one hundred watt ingratiating smile.

Again he waited.

“I also wanted to apologize for being difficult over the
Gazette
; I had no right to take out my hurt and frustration on you. All this business of Sandy, Fraser Munro, and everything else, has been a great strain. I now see they were only doing what a local newspaper is supposed to do, report the news.”

“Think nothing of it. Forgotten already.” He found the apologies rather fulsome and suspected a tinge of insincerity.

“I'm here to ask about my legal position now Sandy is . . . gone.”

Looking at her, knowing she had come straight from the Sheriff's Court, Angus McLean noted how businesslike she appeared.

“Your late husband left no will as far as you know?” Angus said.

“No, there was no will. My concern is his debts. According to the
Gazette
, the amount owing to the boatbuilder is substantial. Am I responsible? Could the boat be sold? Can I recover part of the original payment?”

“I will look into it for you.”

Patricia had a final question. “That solicitor in Dingwall . . . thank you for the recommendation.”

“Calum Sinclair.”

“Yes. He has agreed to represent Sandy's brother over the fire on the boat.”

“I have heard only good reports about him.”

“After all this mess with Sandy is cleared up, would you mind if I took my personal business to Calum Sinclair? I'd like to separate my legal affairs from the estate's business and from Mother and Father.”

Another dazzling smile was switched on.

“I quite understand and am not offended in the least. Tell Sinclair to give me a call and we will sort out the formalities.”

Angus McLean was a solid man, solid in weight and
reputation. He had been a solicitor for thirty years. He knew a schemer when he saw one.
What is she up to now?
he wondered after Patricia had left, certain there was another reason behind the decision. Whatever the reason, he meant what he said, it did not bother him in the least to lose her as a client.

“Arnotts, twelve thirty, my treat.” It had almost been a command, Joanne thought as they waited for their first course.

“I'm sorry I've been snappy these past few weeks,” Patricia apologized. “I've been under a great strain. I had to apologize to Angus McLean too. My tactlessness has been worse lately, and as I never had much tact to start with . . .”

“I won't comment on that.” Joanne laughed.

“This is for you.” Patricia handed over a small gift-wrapped parcel. “Open it, I'd like to see if the color is right.”

“Pure silk. You shouldn't have.” Joanne felt a rush of embarrassment.
I've been so uncharitable to her lately—it's this job, we see the worst in everything.

Patricia leaned over and draped the scarf around Joanne's shoulders. “You deserve it. Besides, who else is going to treat you if not your best friend?”

As with so many remarks from her friend, Joanne immediately felt defensive.
Patricia doesn't mean to hurt,
she told herself.

“Have you recovered from this morning's ordeal?” she asked.

“Thank you. You are one of the few to recognize what an ordeal it was.” All the cheerful, “I can cope, I'm doing fine” façade slipped, and Patricia's sudden change in spirits went a long way in mollifying Joanne.

They ate their lunch, both in a subdued mood, and when Joanne said she had to get back to work, they were both relieved—though neither showed it.

“Heavens, I must dash too. Lovely to catch up with you. Must do this again soon. I'll call. Love to the girls. Bye. Bye-eee.”

A rustle of bags, a hug for Joanne, a waving off of the change brought by the waitress, Patricia negotiated her way through the tables in the dining room, like a sturdy tugboat sailing against the tide. Joanne sat in the wake of her friend's departure, amused, perplexed, and vaguely wondering what Patricia wanted.

Not one word had been spoken about the inquiry. Nothing had been said about Sandy Skinner, his life, the marriage, his death.

Maybe it is life on a farm that makes her seem callous,
Joanne thought,
you learn not to become attached to the sweet little lambs that you bottle-fed, knowing you will have to send them to market, knowing they will end up on your plate for Sunday dinner.

The bank was a typical, heroic, Scottish stone building—tall, grand, with a Grecian façade, complete with columns, decorative urns, and an imposing frieze atop—a perfect monument to the power of money.

Patricia had not made an appointment, but when she asked for the bank manager, it was in the firm expectation that the name Ord Mackenzie would change anyone's schedule.

The bank manager, who always saw his title in capital letters, led Patricia to his office, which was equally grand. A sleek, seal of a man, he carefully adjusted his suit jacket and trousers before sitting at a desk constructed in the same grandiose scale as the bank.
Look
, the building shouted.
See
, the fabric and furniture said.
This is the power of money.

They waited for an underling to fetch the file. He asked after her father and her mother. He murmured all the correct sentiments when she told him the sheriff's verdict. She handed
over the death certificate, she took out a small leather-bound dairy, and they got down to business.

“It is all straightforward. As you quite rightly stated, this is an account that allowed you to operate either individually or jointly.”

“Sandy was insistent on that, and it turned out to be a wise decision.” Patrica spoke quietly. It would be bad form to speak in anything other than hushed tones in a temple of money. “Your letter said the funds from the bank cheque have cleared.”

“Yes. I am sorry we were unable to forward your late husband an advance against this payment. It was a substantial sum of money he requested. I had to be cautious, as a promissory note is only a piece of paper until the funds are deposited.”

Patricia thought for a moment, then asked, “Do I need to do anything? Legally I mean.”

“Not as far as the bank is concerned. The funds in the account are legally yours.” He cleared his throat in a clichéd signal of a question—for he was a cliché of a bank manager.

Patricia saw the man was nervous. “Is there anything else?”

“The transfer of the funds from the Achnafern Estate account to your joint account is still waiting on your mother's co-signature.”

“I don't think we need bother with that anymore.” She smiled.

“Quite.” He smiled back.

“Should I close this account and open one in my name only?”

“That is what I was going to suggest.”

They finished the paperwork. Patricia was given a statement. She glanced again at the amount written clearly on the bottom of the page, making sure she had not mistaken the number of zeros.