A Double Death on the Black Isle (30 page)

Another half mile and Rob couldn't look either. “Stop, Hector, pull over. I'll drive.”

“No you'll no. It's my car and I'm driving.”

“Pull over then. I'm getting in the back with Joanne, and we'll both keep our eyes shut.” He climbed in the back, and he and Joanne held hands and tried not to look on the final mile to the ferry ramp.

The little black car stopped at the top of the jetty. They tumbled out of the backseat.

“I feel sick,” Joanne said.

“Me too.” Rob's face was white with a distinct green tinge. “I've never been so scared.”

Hector was shouting and waving his tourie. One of the crew walked up, took the keys, drove up the metal ramp onto the boat, and parked the car. Joanne and Rob looked at each other.

“That's not usual,” Joanne said.

“Neither is he,” Rob pointed to Hector in his lime tourie with oversized pom-pom, his Clachnacuddin football scarf, and his leather schoolbag.

After the intrepid trio had crossed the firth and driven the final eight miles, “no faster than twenty-five miles an hour,” Joanne had told Hec, they reached the village hotel.

“That was the longest eight miles of my life,” Rob told Joanne.

“Never, ever again—I have children.” She opened the door, glad to be standing on firm ground.

After a tour of the car park, and a discussion of what photos might be needed, Joanne said she'd walk to Achnafern farmhouse.

“It's only two miles,” she told Hector, who was insisting on giving her a lift. “You have work to do, I'll enjoy the walk.”

As she strode up the hill through the village, Hector was torn between taking photographs, running after her, or listening to Rob, who was calling him into the hotel. He compromised by taking a shot of Joanne striding past the village cemetery. He knew it was where Fraser Munro and Sandy Skinner were buried and wanted pictures . . .
just in case
, he thought.

The reception from the occupants of the hotel bar was cold to the point of arctic.

“We might as well have landed from Mars for all we have in common with the people over here,” Rob said, as they sat with a half of shandy apiece. Hector was used to this treatment, so he hadn't noticed. No one even took up the offer of a free drink. So they talked to each other, which surprised Rob—he hadn't had a conversation with Hector since primary school.

“The best way to figure it out is to look at the map,” Hector suggested. “I've got one in the car.”

Rob was trying to ignore being ignored when the landlady
brought over an unasked-for beer. She put the glass down, then leaned over to pick up the empties. “If you want to know anything, ask at the post office.”

“Oh. Right. Thanks.”

Hector returned with an Ordinance Survey map showing the countryside at half an inch to the mile. All the farms were named, cottages marked, even standing stones were noted.

Rob's finger traced the road to Culbokie. The turn-off to the private farm road was clear.

“Fraser Munro was found at the Devil's Den—here. The McPhees would have had to go well out of their way to follow him.”

Hec pointed to the large expanse of forest marked on the map. “I bet it's scary in the dark with all them trees.”

“Not to mention the risk of meeting a bogyman. Or the Devil.” Rob made horns above his head like a bairn at Halloween.

“He met the Devil at the Devil's Den.”

“Hey! That's good, Hector. I'll use that.”

Rob folded the map. “No use hanging around here, no one is going to talk to us.”

He paid, and leaving Hector to take shots of the hotel, the car park, the road, the church, anything that caught his magpie eye. Rob walked across the road to the post office, a small wooden shed that could only accommodate two customers at a time. He did a double take when he saw the postmistress.

“Aren't you the landlady, or are you her twin?”

“No, it's me. I help my husband out in the bar when I'm not in here.” She came out from behind the counter and turned the sign in the door to C
LOSED
. “Now I don't want you saying you got this from me but . . .”

“I promise.”

“There's a lot more to Fraser Munro's death than anyone's
willing to say. Maybe you should ask about the fight farther up the road with the other boys on the farm.”

“Fight?”

“Maybe no a fight as such. But definitely a falling out. No one's going to say anything because they all grew up together, work together, live right next to each other. I not overfond o' tinks, but it's no right they're getting all the blame. There's times I might have hit Fraser maself, but he was the kind o' man who'd hit even a woman back.”

“So who
will
talk to me?”

“Aye, that's your problem, isn't it? The way people round here see it, charging the McPhee boys is better than charging them on the farm.”

“Maybe I'll ask Beech,” Rob said, more to himself than to the landlady.

“Is that Mr. Beauchamp Carlyle?”

“It is.”

“That's fine company you keep.” The landlady-cum-post-office-mistress looked impressed.

Rob realized he had gone up a minimum of five notches in the woman's estimation. He made a mental note to add her to his Black Isle contact list—so far a list of two, the others being the vet and of course Beech.

Next, Hector drove them to the scene, stopping at the turnoff to Achnafern Farm to take pictures. On one side was the forest, on the other the fertile agricultural land that gave the Black Isle its prosperity.

Worth marrying Patricia to become laird of all this,
Rob thought.
Nah, nothing would make it worth marrying Patricia.

Half a mile farther on, the farm road made a sharp left turn. The road dropped steeply, made a right turn to a set of two stone bridges with a narrow island between, then rose from the gloom
of the fern and forest to the brightness of skylarks and open farmland above.

Hec stopped the car between the two bridges.

“This is why it's called the Devil's Den,” Rob informed Wee Hec. “The island is between two streams, where the Devil can't get to you, as he doesn't cross water.”

“Like ‘Tam O' Shanter.'” Hector loved that poem.

Taking his cameras from the car, Hec scrambled around the banks of the twin streams, looking for angles to maximize the shafts of light dappled by reflections from the water. The burns were swift and noisy, the water divided by a large rock at the top of the small valley, funneled into narrow channels under each of the small bridges. The keystone of the larger one, covered in rust-colored moss, would photograph beautifully.

The sun disappeared. The now-heavy light, the thick forest, the ferns, dark green and moist from the tumbling burn, made Rob shiver. It was indeed a place of the dead, and perhaps the Devil.

Hector jumped onto the parapet of the bridge. “I'm a troll, fol-de-roll. I'm a troll.”

Rob watched Hector giggling like a thing demented, and was grateful for the diversion.

“Aye, I can see the resemblance, but you're not scary enough.”

The funny thing was, Hector did look like a troll with his bobble hat and his wee, short legs.

“Hurry up, Hec, I'm cold.”

“Me too.”

Rob walked a few yards up the road. “That isn't where Fraser was found, you know, it was farther up, in the ditch.”

“Aye, but a ditch is ditch, and this here looks great. Very spooky.” Hector was putting the lens cap back on. “Besides, Devil's Den reads much better than roadside ditch.”

Rob stared at Hector. “I never knew you could read.”

Watching Hector chortle at the insult, Rob started laughing too.

“Let's get the heck out of here, Hector,” Rob said in his best John Wayne voice. “Come on . . . Hector. . . . It's not that funny.”

Still chortling, they got into the car.

“Right,” Rob decided, “let's collect Joanne from Achnafern Farm.”

It took a long ten minutes to drive the car out of the Devil's Den—Hector had never mastered the skill of hill starts.

Joanne had walked up the garden path to the farmhouse noticing that the daffodils were finished, the narcissus too. But there was a fine display of violets, lilies of the valley, and the azaleas were in fine bloom.

She noted how prosperous Achnafern Farm was: the neat cottages, the well-kept byres and steadings, the very shiny new-looking tractors, and, in the distance, the cows fat and gleaming. A lot of them too, she thought.

Joanne had knocked on the front door and waited. She had knocked again after a minute or so. It was not unusual. People seldom used their front doors—they were reserved for formal guests, visitors of importance, so she walked round the back.

The door to the porch was open, the door to the kitchen ajar. Voices could be heard, not clearly, drowned out by the sound of clattering pots and pans and running water.

“Mrs. M, I hate seeing you upset, but we can't interfere . . . Joanne. Hello.”

“Hello,” Joanne's voice was loud, embarrassed she had walked in on an argument. “I knocked, but you mustn't have heard.”

“Goodness, I lost track o' the time. Come in, come in.” Mrs. Munro was upset that a visitor was seeing her in a state.

“Patricia, how are you?”

“Couldn't be better. It's Mrs. Munro who is rather out of sorts.”

“That's no' fair, Patricia. I can't stand by and let the McPhees take all the blame. . . . This shouldn't be happening.”

Joanne had no idea what Mrs. Munro was talking about, but she had clearly taken offense at Patricia's dismissal of her unease. The phrase “high dudgeon” came to mind. Joanne loved the word “dudgeon,” but had never quite known what it meant—until now.

“I'll make the tea.” Mrs. Munro went to the sink, her shoulders still carrying her anxiety.

Patricia and Joanne discussed Patricia's health, the weather, the best place to shop for wool. The conversation was running down. Mrs. Munro rescued them with tea and Dundee cake.

“Oh for heaven's sake,” Patricia shook her head like a pony tossing away bothersome flies, “we may as well tell Joanne. She will find out sooner or later.”

“I don't want you putting this in the newspaper,” Mrs. Munro warned. The unexpectedly fierce voice surprised Joanne.

“Joanne, this is completely confidential. It will come out at the trial, but . . .” Patricia turned to Mrs. Munro, “it is better Joanne writes it nicely than some horrid reporter in another rag.”

“I know,” Mrs. Munro sighed. She knew there was no avoiding more newspaper headlines.

“Calum Sinclair, the solicitor, informed Mr. and Mrs. Munro that he asked for another opinion on the postmortem report. It seems Fraser was injured a second time, and some time after he left the hotel.” She spoke in one long stream, in a factual, head-prefect-giving-a-speech voice. “It is possible Fraser died as late as six o'clock that morning.”

Joanne didn't know what to think. “How will this affect the case against the McPhee brothers?” she asked.

“This is only one expert's opinion. It doesn't change anything. Not yet anyway,” Patricia said.

“Our Fraser was always one for fighting. . . .”

“Best not tell anyone that, Mrs. M.” Patricia said it lightly, but her glance was towards Joanne.

“More so since the army.” Mrs. Munro was off on a tangent of her own. “It was an accident, I'm thinking—too much to drink, he fell, he hit his head, then he . . . Forgiveness . . . that is what the Lord teaches us.”

Joanne and Patricia looked at each other. Patricia gave a slight shrug, but said nothing.

“It's terrible no one found our Fraser earlier. Maybe then he'd be alive . . . but only us uses the farm road . . . and no one went looking for him until morning.” Mrs. Munro had said the same to Allie, and to her cousin Mrs. Ross. It was a thought that she couldn't leave alone.

“He was a grown man, Mrs. M., and a soldier. You couldn't look after him all the time.” Patricia leaned over and covered the older woman's hand with hers.

Joanne watched the tenderness between them. She envied that touch. She could not remember when last someone had touched her with love.

The sound of Hector's car meant the end of the conversation. All three women, all for different reasons, were relieved it was over.

“Bye, thanks for the lift.” Joanne waved at Hector from the ferry.

“I hope nobody sees me on the bus,” Rob grumbled when the ferry was halfway across. “Not good for my image.”

“You could have gone to the football with Hec.”

“Never!” Rob shuddered at the thought of another mile with Hector Bain at the wheel. “So, a worthwhile trip?”

“Yes, but with more questions than answers. You?”

“The same.”

“Patricia was there,” Joanne said casually.

“How is she?”

“Getting big. She said it's a sure sign it's a boy.”

“Really?” Rob said carefully, not wanting to put his foot in it again. “If she does have a son, it will be the first time in many generations for that family. Maybe that's why Patricia went for Sandy—to stir up the gene pool.”

“Oh Rob!” Joanne elbowed him, laughed, then ran ahead towards the gangplank. “Race you to the bus stop.”

They arrived at the office. Everyone had gone except Mrs. Smart. Joanne fetched her bike, Rob wheeled out his motorbike.

“Fancy a cup of tea, swap notes?” he asked.

“Love to, but I have to get home. Granddad Ross will be dropping off the girls.”

“Tonight?”

“A Saturday night? Haven't you got better things to do than sit with a middle-aged married woman and drink tea?”

“I could steal some of my mother's gin.”

After the girls had gone to sleep, and that took much longer than usual because they loved seeing their uncle Rob, he and Joanne settled down to talk. Rob had tried tuning in to Radio Luxembourg to hear the latest music, but there was so much static he gave up.