A Double Death on the Black Isle (41 page)

Joanne loved any horse, from the milkman's carthorse to the neighbor's tiny bad-tempered Shetland pony she rode as a child. She would speak to horses, and knew they understood.

It was hot and humid for this year's Black Isle Show. The distant thunder rumbled around Ben Wyvis, but stayed on the mountaintop. It was one of those August days when everything—the trees, the flowers, the crops, the sun, and the air—was overbearing.

Patricia had arranged to meet Joanne at the tea tent, but the queue was too long, the sun too stifling. Mrs. Munro was there, looking miserable.

“I nearly didn't come,” Patricia said. “Now I wish I hadn't—the looks I'm getting, you'd think I should be
inside
the judging ring along with the prize milk cows.” She turned and smiled at Agnes Munro. “I had an impossible time persuading Mrs. M. to come with me, but I'm glad we made the effort. We can't not be here to represent Achnafern Estate.”

Mrs. M. doesn't agree,
Joanne thought as she watched the woman staring at her feet, as though in lifting her eyes she might accidentally meet the stare from a curious passerby—or worse, the sympathy of a well-wisher.

The three women made for the straw bales stacked at the side of the riding ring. The shade from a canopy helped them escape the bronze glare of afternoon sun, the straw, though prickly, made good seats. They settled down.

Joanne kept smiling, forcing a cheerfulness she did not feel.

Mrs. Munro just sat, every ounce of her wishing she were at home in the cool and quiet of her kitchen with only the chiming of the clock to mark the hours.

Patricia felt large. Her body was grumpy from heat and pregnancy. She too wanted to go home, but she had promised to hand out the prizes in the pony-jumping events.

Announcements over the Tannoy kept blaring out the results of various competitions. The sound was pitched at just the right level to agitate even the mildest of souls.

Patricia looked towards the ring. “Mummy is judging this event. I hope she's more generous with her marks than when I was in the Pony Club.”

Later, when Joanne thought back over the conversation, she remembered seeing the heat roll over them like waves on hot tarmac when driving a car on a long straight stretch of road. She remembered watching the trickle of fine moisture on Patricia's forehead, the pink on the back of her neck, and the deeper flush
in the deep cleft between her swollen breasts. It was disconcerting to witness a softer Patricia.

“So how is the new car?” Joanne asked, not particularly interested, but thinking it a safe topic.

“It is lovely, so comfortable after the Land Rover, but I haven't even run the engine in yet. Thank goodness petrol rationing is finished.” Patricia looked at Mrs. Munro, who was leaning against a bale, her eyes closed. “We haven't been out much, have we Mrs. M.?”

“I've no been feeling up to it,” Mrs. Munro replied. What she meant was,
I don't want to see anyone,
but she would never say this to Patricia.

“It's funny,” Joanne said, “one morning in town, early, I thought I saw you in your mother's car, but it couldn't have been, because a man was driving.”

“When was that?” Patricia asked.

“No, I was wrong, it couldn't have been you. I mean I didn't see properly. It was just an impression. Something you see out the corner of your eye and . . . no, I must be wrong, a man driving . . .”

“Joanne, stop blethering.”

“It was May Day morning and we had been out to the Standing Stones . . .”

Mrs. Munro suddenly looked up at her.

“Oh no! I'm so sorry.” Joanne put her hands to her mouth as though that would take the words back, “I'm an insensitive idiot to bring up that day. . . . I forgot it was the day . . .”

“Don't be silly, Joanne. I can talk about
that
day now. . . .”

But perhaps Mrs. Munro can't,
Joanne was about to say before Patricia continued.

“That day was partly why I spent such a lot of money on a new car for myself. I was sick of my mother playing her games—I
had to ask to borrow her car to pop out even for a newspaper. I was sick of Sandy mocking me for asking. That is why I agreed to take her car that morning without asking permission.

“I had morning sickness, I was trapped between Sandy Skinner and my mother, I was desperate to get away, I took Mummy's car. So yes, it probably
was
us you saw.”

“The morning our Fraser died—you were driving your mother's car?” There was a lull in the continuous announcements from the Tannoy and Mrs. Munro's voice, her faint timorous voice, was clear.

“I know Mrs. M., it was a disastrous decision on what turned out to be a disastrous day. Goodness,” Patricia leaned towards Mrs. Munro, “are you all right, you're looking terrible.”

“I'm no good in the heat.”

“I'm sorry, Mrs. Munro,” Joanne said. “I should never have mentioned that day. Granny Ross will be here soon with the girls. Perhaps we should leave then?”

“Absolutely,” Patricia agreed. “I've had enough of the heat myself.” She leaned back into the straw and, completely oblivious to Mrs. Munro's distress, Patricia continued, “It's a wonder Sandy didn't scrape Mummy's car on the pillars of the town bridge. When you saw us, Joanne, I was about to pull on the handbrake and get out and walk. Sandy's driving was terrifying! We almost collided with the milk lorry at the bottom of the driveway. . . . I told you about that, didn't I?” Patricia asked Joanne. “I know I told Calum, as it gave me an alibi for . . . sorry, Mrs. M., I'm being my usual insensitive self again.”

Patricia let out a squawk like the laugh of a jackdaw that has stolen a gold ring.

“Sandy and I were up before dawn to go to the Clootie Well, a silly idea, but fun. When I was little, before I was sent away to school, Mrs. M. would take me to the Clootie Well in the old pony trap. Remember?”

Mrs. Munro was so pale Joanne feared she would faint.

“Can I get you a drink or something?” Joanne asked her.

“That's kind o' you dear, I'm fine,” Mrs. Munro said. “Tired, that's all.” But she looked as though she might faint.

“I made a wish,” Patricia chattered on.
It came true,
she thought, but she didn't tell Joanne how quickly her wish had been granted. “Then Sandy and I continued on through town. We were driving to an estate above Fort Augustus. Friends had lent us a cottage for a few days, though goodness knows what Sandy would have made of all that moorland.”

“Well that's that mystery solved,” Joanne said. “Mrs. Munro, are you sure you're all right?”

“I need to get home.” Mrs. Munro was now trembling and a dangerous shade of pale. “I need to get home,” she repeated, and now the trembles became shakes.

“Oh Lord, what on earth is the matter?” Patricia moved over to sit beside Mrs. Munro. She put her arm around her and asked Joanne, “Will you fetch a first-aid volunteer?”

“No,” Mrs. Munro said. “No. Take me home. Please, Patricia. Take me home.”

“I'll go and get your cousin, shall I?” Joanne asked. “I left Granny Ross by the coconut shy, I'm sure I can find her.”

“I just want to go home.”

The tear trickling down the older woman's face scared Patricia.

They stood. “Here, Mrs. M., lean on me.” Mrs. Munro had to reach up to link arms with Patricia. “Let's get you back. A cup of tea will revive you.” They slowly walked towards the field of cars parked in rows as though waiting their turn for the judges and their rosettes. “Come on, it's not far.”

Patricia was smiling and murmuring and holding on to Mrs. Munro as though she was the mother and the older woman the child.

“You can manage. It's only a hundred yards. Another twenty minutes and we'll be home and you can put your feet up. Come on. One step, two steps. Remember how you used to say that to me when I didn't want to leave your kitchen to go back to the big house? Only a few more yards. Mr. M. will be ready for his tea. Mustn't keep him waiting . . .”

Joanne had been following behind, making up a slow procession of three, carrying Patricia's handbag, her own handbag, a hamper, Mrs. Munro's basket, and a picnic blanket. She put them in the boot of the car while Patricia settled Mrs. Munro into the front seat. She watched them drive off before it occurred to her that she and the girls were supposed to be going with Patricia to spend the night at Achnafern Grange.

Mrs. Ross and Annie and Jean were waiting by the straw bales when Joanne returned.

“Hello you two, you're looking tired. Mum, you must be exhausted.”

“It's that hot,” Mrs. Ross replied. “Where's Agnes? I thought we were meeting here.”

“She was feeling faint. The heat. She . . .”

A flash of lightning and a not-too-distant clap of thunder broke the heavy air. Mrs. Ord Mackenzie came hurrying up.

“Where is Patricia? This thunder will spook the ponies. I need her to help me calm them and those foolish girls.”

“Mrs. Munro was feeling unwell, so Patricia has taken her home,” Joanne explained.

Mrs. Ord Mackenzie was not pleased. “How inconsiderate! Patricia promised to help me. Now I will have to deal with everything myself.” She glared at Joanne as though it was
her
fault. “They could have waited. There are plenty of first-aid people around.”

“No, Mrs. Ord Mackenzie, they couldn't wait. Patricia's first concern was to Mrs. Munro.”

Mrs. Ord Mackenzie didn't bother to say good-bye; she strode off to take out her frustration on the juniors of the Pony Club.

Joanne saw the look of satisfaction on her mother-in-law's face—a “that's telling her” look. She winked at Mrs. Ross, who smiled in return.
I'm learning more than journalism from Don McLeod,
Joanne thought,
I can now wink with the best of them.

Their big day out ended in shambles. It took Joanne a good while to reassure Mrs. Ross that Agnes Munro was not ill, only overcome by the heat and the day.

And it took sixpence each, payable immediately, and the promise of a weekend in a caravan in Nairn for their summer holiday to placate Annie and Jean. Not that they were too upset at not spending the night at Achnafern Grange, the sight of Mrs. Ord Mackenzie having reminded them of the disadvantages.

Joanne and her family stayed under the canopy, sitting on the dry bales, watching the spectacle. The gaps between lightning flashes grew shorter, the thunder grew nearer, the rain started, a few drops then a downpour. The sounds of lowing and bleating and the cry of a terrified pony could be heard through the drumming of rain on canvas.

A particularly loud thunderclap boomed overhead. The sounds of distressed cattle and men shouting came from the enclosure where the prizewinning bulls were.

Everywhere people were running towards cars and vans and buses, yet the fairground loudspeakers kept churning out songs and the hurdy-gurdy noise of the merry-go-round did not cease.

Joanne turned to her mother-in-law. “What should we do?”

“We'll wait,” Mrs. Ross replied. “It might clear. Then maybe
we can get a lift with Granddad Ross and his friends on the British Legion bus.” But she didn't sound hopeful. It would take more than thunder and lightning to shift the old soldiers from the beer tent.

Twenty minutes passed, the rain let up a little. Joanne and Mrs. Ross were despairing of a lift back to town when McAllister appeared behind them.

“Afternoon, ladies.” He lifted his hat. “You look like camp followers after the battle of Borodin.”

“McAllister, you really talk nonsense sometimes,” Joanne told him. Ignoring the look from her mother-in-law, she added, “If you have your car here, you can take us home before we get completely droochit.”

“I'm hungry,” Annie grinned. “All I've eaten all day is candy-floss and ice cream.”

“Me too. An' I feel sick,” Wee Jean said. She looked shyly through her thick fringe of hair and, with pink-rimmed-candy-floss lips, she smiled and asked McAllister, “Are you my Mum's fancy man?”

Joanne stared at her mother-in-law, who had the grace to look away. Annie sniggered. McAllister didn't bat an eyelid.

“I work with your mother,” he told her, “and she is my friend.”

“Can I be your friend too?” the child asked.

“You can that,” he replied, but his smile was for Joanne. “Follow me, ladies, my car is over there. I will give you a lift home,” he said, bending towards Wee Jean, “but promise to tell me if you are going to be sick so we can stop.”

“Promise,” the little girl said and took his hand to walk to the field of cars.

On the bends on the stretch of the road along the firth, the little girl went a pale shade of green and Joanne worried that the child might break her promise. But they made it back home safely.

Friends,
Joanne thought as they neared the town,
I like that.

Friends,
McAllister was thinking all along the drive back,
I suppose I will have to settle for that.

Mrs. Munro did not say a word on the way home from the Black Isle Show. Patricia helped her into the farmhouse kitchen, where Allie Munro was dozing in his chair, the wireless on, unheard.

“Mother, are you all right?” he jumped up when they came in.

“It's the heat, Mr. M.,” Patricia explained, “thank goodness the rain is here.”

Mrs. Munro wouldn't sit down. Not till she had told her husband. She grabbed his sleeve.

“Patricia wasn't in the Land Rover, she was in her mother's car.” Her voice was rasping as though her throat hurt. “It wisney her.”

Mr. Munro was staring at his wife as though she was speaking in tongues, so she said it again.

“Patricia wasn't driving the Land Rover on May Day morn when our Fraser . . .”