A Double Death on the Black Isle (44 page)

“How exciting,” she trilled. “Mrs. Ord Mackenzie arrested! Who ever would have thought it?”

It took Joanne a fraction of a second to register what Betsy had just said.

“How do you know that?” she asked. “Have you been listening in to my phone calls?” She stood. “How dare you!” She stepped towards Betsy, standing so close it seemed to Hector their bosoms might collide. She raised a finger and waved it in Betsy's face. “You
have
been listening in to my personal calls. . . .” She had Betsy backed up against the wall. “If I ever catch you doing that again, I'll . . .”

“I'll fire you,” Mrs. Smart spoke without raising her voice but her resolve was as clear any general issuing an order on the battlefield.

Betsy fled. Joanne turned to thank Mrs. Smart, who was sitting at her place at the top of the table, notebook open, pen in hand, neither moving nor changing her expression of calm efficiency until Joanne said, “Thank you, Mrs. Smart.” Then Mrs. Smart nodded back, acknowledging the thanks with a dismissive wave in the manner of Queen Elizabeth The Queen Mother, and said, “Now, where were we?”

The men, and Hector, who had sat through the episode in various degrees of astonishment, were staring at Joanne. Unable to help herself, she licked her forefinger and drew an imaginary mark in the air. “Joanne—one. Betsy—nil.”

She joined in the laughter and, pink with embarrassment, it hit her—this was her place, this was her future.

“So, where were we?” McAllister looked around, desperate to continue the news meeting. It amazed him how much effort it took to appear nonchalant. When he was watching Joanne sit back at her typewriter after dealing with Mrs. Betsy Buchanan, watching her flushed face, seeing how she pushed a stray strand of hair behind her ear and let out a deep sigh of satisfaction, he felt his knees tremble in panic. He lit a cigarette, knowing he could no longer deny to himself that he was in love with her.

“Janet Ord Mackenzie,” Rob smiled. “I never thought I'd be thanking that woman, but the Ord Mackenzie clan have supplied us with another great front page.”

The adrenaline buzz ran around the table and they settled down to chase the story and compose another edition of the
Highland Gazette.

It was not an easy phone call to make. Joanne waited until late afternoon, when the reporters' room was empty, before she dialed the number.

“I knew it wouldn't take you long to call back,” Patricia said.

“I'm calling because I'm concerned about you.” Joanne hated the way Patricia made her feel guilty.

“Are you sure you're not calling for the inside story so you can impress your precious editor?”

“Patricia, if it's a bad time, I'll call back.”

“Of course it's a bad time. In a few days it will be worse as the news spreads around the community. But at least I won't ever again have to share a house with my mother. She is having difficulty finding a solicitor to represent her, so she is being kept in custody overnight. With any luck, she won't be given bail.”

“I see.” Joanne didn't know what to say. “No, sorry, I don't see, but it is none of my business.”

“Oh Joanne,” Patricia laughed, “you're hopeless. If you're going to do that job of yours, you must
make
it your business.”

Joanne didn't know how to reply.

“Tell you what,” Patricia said, “I will be at the hospital in town tomorrow for a checkup, let's meet. I will tell you all I can. I'd rather you tell the story than have some other newspaper make it up. Agreed?”

“Thank you.”

Joanne walked across the landing to McAllister's office. The door was half-open and she knocked.

“Enter.”

He had his back to her and was reading some reports typed on yellowing bits of paper that looked old enough to be papyrus sheets from the time of Moses.

“I've spoken to Patricia Ord Mackenzie. We're meeting tomorrow.”

“Good,” he said, indicating she take a chair, “and I've been reading a report from forty years ago on the marriage and settlement of marriage between Janet Ord and her Mackenzie husband. It seems she brought a substantial amount of land and Achnafern Grange to the marriage. He contributed a largish and prosperous farm to form the estate, but she kept her share in her name only.” He handed the papers to Joanne. “This
was
all about the land and estate, wasn't it?”

“No, I don't think so,” Joanne said. “I think it was all about preserving their name and reputation. Plus Janet Ord Mackenzie seems to believe in the divine right of the landed gentry to own her workers in much the same way as she owns the livestock.”

“Not an uncommon attitude.”

“No,” Joanne replied, “but as you have often pointed out, we are in the middle of the twentieth century, and no longer a feudal society.”

“It's highly unlikely we can publish the feudal complexities of this story, but talk to Patricia, write a news story, then take your time and write it up with the background nuances explained. Then I will see if I can place it in a national newspaper.”

“No! Really? I couldn't. No. I mean—yes, I'll try. But I'm not a writer.” Joanne stared at him, marveling at the very idea of it.

“Never know till you try.”

She had the distinct impression he wanted to say something more, but he didn't, so she left saying, “Thanks, McAllister. I'll do my best.”

Patricia and Joanne met in Arnotts tearoom. They took a table in the window and watched the Tuesday morning traffic along Union Street, mostly pedestrian, mostly coming and going from the covered Victorian market. Joanne was glad of the view—it gave her somewhere to look when Patricia's story became too embarrassing.

“I didn't think one way or another about the Land Rover,” Joanne said when Patricia finished explaining about the car.

“Neither did I,” said Patricia, “but that was where the whole debacle started: Mr. M., seeing the Land Rover disappear round the corner, believed I was driving and covered up for me; Mrs. M. eventually found out, thought I could have . . . Oh God, it is horrible! How could my mother do that to me?” Patricia shuddered as though a ghost had passed by.

“But Mr. and Mrs. Munro now know the truth,” Joanne reminded her, “and Mr. Munro must care for you very much to cover up for you.”

She looked up and Joanne saw the dark smudges under her eyes. “It helps to know that, especially after your own mother has declared how much she hates you.”

“Your father cares.”

“I know. It was Daddy who told the police.”

“Really?”

Patricia's lips narrowed imperceptibly. Joanne remembered the expression well. She remembered it as the face that was about to deliver some cruelty or cutting remark.

“Isn't this the moment you whisk out your little notebook and write down everything I say? Or haven't you mastered shorthand yet?”

Joanne blushed.

“Sorry, sorry, it has been an exhausting few days.” Patricia reached for the pot and poured a second cup of tea, her sandwiches, on the silver tray in the middle of the small table, still uneaten and beginning to curl at the edges.

“I wish I smoked,” Patricia began. “Right, yesterday. After the confrontation on Sunday, I went back to the farmhouse and stayed there. Early on Monday morning, Daddy arrived. He told me that he and Mr. Munro had an appointment with Calum Sinclair. Daddy said I needn't come with them, but I wanted to. So we went in my car.”

The journey to Dingwall was as though they were off to the cattle market or any other everyday farm business. Her father had chatted about the Alvis, admiring it, telling her what good judgment she had in cars, as in everything else, and she remembered that all she could think of was the road, concentrating on a road she knew so well she never had to think of the turns and twists and blind corners.

“Calum Sinclair listened to Allie Munro,” Patricia told Joanne. “Mr. M. had trouble at first, he kept hesitating. Daddy urged him on, told him to tell Calum every little detail, everything he had seen and heard. I told Calum—and Daddy confirmed it—how controlling my mother was over her car. How it would be easy for Mr. M. to believe I was the driver.

“Then Calum called the police, and a sergeant came over to take our statements. By then it was late morning and when they said they were going to Achnafern to arrest my mother, we all stayed in Dingwall until the police telephoned Calum and said my mother was in custody. For some odd reason, I called you. I needed to tell someone. It was only after I put down the receiver that I regretted the call. But it was done. You would have found out anyway, as Mrs. Munro told your mother-in-law.”

“Do you mind if I write this up for the
Gazette
?”

“Honestly, Joanne? I am so tired I am beyond caring. All I ask is that you protect the Munros as much as possible.”

“I will do what I can.”

“And please get word to Mrs. Jenny McPhee, will you? I'm not up to that either. I want to keep on the right side of the tinkers. It would be hard to harvest the tatties without them.”

The change of subject threw Joanne and she agreed.

“I'll ask Rob to find Jimmy and let him know.”

“I knew that the whole idea of going on a honeymoon with Sandy was ridiculous,” Patricia began. “That morning, before it was even light, we had a dreadful fight. And on the drive from the Black Isle, and on the drive to Dores, he kept on and on about money. He refused to believe we don't have limitless amounts of cash. He'd never heard of money being locked up in investments. He thought you wrote out a cheque and that was that. When he realized I was telling the truth, he said we could sell off a field or some woodland, we'd never notice he said, as the estate is so big. Also his driving was scaring me senseless, and he blew up when I asked him to stop and swap places.”

“Patricia, I am so sorry you've had to endure all these terrible events, especially in your condition.”

Patricia looked at Joanne. “The difference between us is that
when you found out what your husband was really like, you put up with him for what, ten years?”

“Bill is not a bad person—he's too fond of the bottle, that's all.”

“For heaven's sake, Joanne, you don't have to pretend with me.”

They were both quiet for a moment.

“Go on, ask me.” Patricia was angry in a quiet simmering anger. “You been dying to ask, haven't you?”

“I have no idea what you are talking about.”

“Here we go again, Miss Goody Two Shoes, or should I say Mrs. Perfect, hiding all your troubles, putting on a brave face. You, who were off to university, destined to marry a minister of the church . . . having to marry a common soldier . . . a man completely beneath you in class and education . . . disgracing your family, running away to the Highlands so you wouldn't have to face the shame of a baby after six-months of marriage. You are so self-righteous.”

“Patricia!” Joanne was appalled at such a bald, but factual summary of her life.

“You think I killed Sandy, don't you?”

“No matter what anyone else has implied, I have always defended you.”

“Joanne. Don't you see?
That
is what is so unbearable about you. You are always so
nice
! And by defending me, you're implying I
need
defending. Joanne, please, I don't need your condescension.”

“Mr. and Mrs. Munro defended you even when they thought you had killed their son.”

Patricia waved dismissively. “They had good reason to think I was guilty. They thought it was me driving the Land Rover.”

“I have never thought you had anything to do with Sandy's death.” Joanne was reeling after Patricia's accusation and could
not manage any conviction in her voice. The words came over as lame—even to her.

“Really? Well, whatever happed to Sandy Skinner was an accident and I really don't care if you believe me or not.” Patricia reached into her purse and took out her share of the bill with nothing allowed for a tip.

Joanne would never forget Patricia's parting words.

“Joanne, stop being such a martyr, I'm sure I'm not the only one who can't stand it.” She rose to leave. “I know my family's story is all over the front page of the
Gazette,
but don't expect me to read it.”

They didn't know it, but this was the last time Joanne would meet with Patricia, apart from the usual Christmas cards and the occasional phone call. This was their last real conversation. Friends since they were seven and alone and abandoned at their boarding school, this was the last time they would ever really talk.

As Joanne walked back to the
Gazette
, taking the shortcut through the lanes, although Patricia's words would never leave her, she realized she was not upset at the passing of the friendship—she was relieved.

The freshly printed copies of that day's
Highland Gazette
lay scattered on the reporters' table. Joanne was looking at Hector's photograph of Achnafern House. He made it look like a Black Isle version of the House of Usher. And seeing the Ord Mackenzie name on the front page, seeing the story as others would see it, Joanne knew that the scandal would pass down through the generations, or as long as the Ord Mackenzie name was remembered—exactly what Janet Ord Mackenzie had been fighting to avoid.

Rob was cutting out his writing to paste into the portfolio of
work he was accumulating, ready to show future employers when he made his break for the big time.

Hector was sorting through various envelopes, some small, which he used for negatives; some medium, which he used for proof sheets; and one large one, which he kept for prints to be filed in the
Gazette
photo library.

“Here,” Rob reached into his drawer and took out a manila envelope. “You might as well have this back.” He pushed the envelope towards Hector. “It's the photo of the Falls of Foyers I was going to have framed for Joanne.”