Read Beneath the Abbey Wall Online

Authors: A. D. Scott

Beneath the Abbey Wall (9 page)

BOOK: Beneath the Abbey Wall
10.32Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

“I don't need a tip. Sir.”

Neil saw the friendly face turn cold, registered that the man was offended. “I'm sorry, I . . . ”

The driver slammed the door of the taxi and was off before Neil could finish the apology. There was a note attached to the door.
Please enter and ring bell
. It made no sense, but after ringing the doorbell a few times, Neil went inside, found a small brass handbell on a table, and rang it. As he waited he read the framed list of all things disallowed. Not a propitious start.

Down the green linoleum-lined hallway came a tall grey woman with grey hair, grey dress, and grey demeanor.

“Mrs. Wilkie?”

“Mr. Stewart.” Her inflection was as grey as the rest of her, and Neil felt another of his illusions shatter.
Where is the warm Highland welcome?

*  *  *  

Perhaps comfort is not respectable either,
Neil thought after ten days of chill and damp and excruciatingly bad breakfasts where
even the porridge was horrible, lumpy, and occasionally burnt. Dinners were worse; every meat, fowl, or vegetable was boiled into submission and coated with a grey sludge he presumed was gravy.

Only his research gave him joy. One half of his book, set in the Canadian diaspora, was written. Now he needed to finish researching the Scottish part.

The public library became his refuge. It became a habit to start the day with the newspapers. First he would read the
Scotsman,
the biweekly
Courier,
and finally the weekly
Highland Gazette
. He admired the
Gazette.
Unlike the newspaper he had worked on in Halifax, he saw it as a paper for the times.
They know it is 1957,
was his judgment,
and they must be doing it tough reporting the murder of one of their own.

As he was folding up the
Gazette,
he thought,
Why not? It would help me financially and maybe give me access to their archives.

*  *  *  

Joanne was struggling to proof the pages the printers had set and sent upstairs for approval. “I'll never get the hang of reading upside-down!” she wailed. “And I can't read back to front.”

“I can.”

It was a scene from a romantic comedy except Joanne was a brunette, not a blonde. And the stranger in the doorway was not the proverbial American abroad but Canadian.

“Hello again.” He smiled at Joanne. “I'm Neil Stewart. We bumped into each other at the library. Remember?”

“Aye. I mean—yes. Hello.” She blushed. Then was furious with herself—
The sight of a good-looking, interesting stranger and you're behaving like a schoolgirl fainting over Elvis—grow up, Joanne.

Neil looked across at McAllister, sensing he was the man in charge. “I was wondering if there is any part-time work available.”
Again that North American grin demonstrated his confidence with strangers.

“I'm John McAllister, the editor.” McAllister rose to shake hands. “Are you a journalist?”

“I was on a newspaper in Nova Scotia for ten years. Worked on everything—reporting, subediting, and occasional staff photographer.”

“When can you start?”

Neil stared at McAllister, then laughed. “That's it? No interview? No references?”

“It'll take half a day to find out if you're for real.” McAllister gave his trademark one-eyebrow-raised-lips-tight-shut grin and pushed a pile of copy across the desk. “Right you are, Neil, start subbing these.”

The stranger took in the ancient Underwood, wishing for a moment he had his brand-spanking-new Olivetti, rolled in a fresh piece of paper, then looked up. He saw three faces that had either survived a particularly rough sea crossing or else were in shock. He saw that the phone was off the hook—in a newspaper office. He didn't ask; he'd read the news. He started to type. The others did the same.

The sound of the hooter from the iron foundry bounced off the ring of hills surrounding the town. Most businesses took that as a signal for the lunch break. Most small shops and businesses closed at one o'clock, opening again at two. Most people went home for the midday meal. Others, Joanne among them, brought a flask of tea and sandwiches. She liked having her break alone; it was one of the few times she could enjoy solitude—a rare treat for a working mother.

But she was intrigued; she had never met a man who was not Scottish, except for the Frenchmen who came to town every autumn selling onions tied into long string. Onion Johnnies was
their nickname. But as they spoke little English or Scottish, they didn't count. She had never met a man who seemed so at ease with a woman. And she was vulnerable to charm.

“What are you doing for dinner, em, lunch? Sorry, I don't know what you call it in Canada.”

“My mother called it dinner. But in smart academic circles we call it lunch and right now I usually call it a sandwich—and not a very nice one at that.”

“Do you fancy a coffee and a decent sandwich? There's a great place on Castle Street.”

As soon as she'd asked, Joanne looked away, embarrassed by how forward the questions must seem. Neil hadn't noticed.

This is the second time I've asked him for something. He'll think I'm a loose woman. No, I can pass it off as Highland hospitality.

“Really? Take me there this instant. I've been searching for good coffee ever since I arrived.”

To Joanne, even walking down the flight of steps and through the car park and across busy Castle Street felt daring.
What if anyone sees us
? she was thinking.
So what?
She told herself.
He's a colleague.
But among her first impressions of Neil Stewart was a sense of irresistible danger.

The small café was narrow and long and a favorite amongst staff from the offices in the town. The worst of the lunchtime rush over, a black-aproned waiter, with what was left of his hair combed across his pink skull looking like it had been stuck there with glue, gestured to a window table before whipping out his notepad, to which was tied a pencil on a grubby length of string.

“Can you make an espresso?” Neil asked.

“We certainly
can
.” The man straightened his back and talking down his nose said, “And we
do
.”

“A double then.” When he had gone, Neil leaned across the table and in a loud whisper said, “I think I offended him.”

“You did,” Joanne agreed. “So if you're wanting a decent coffee from now on you'd better tell him how good it is.”

When the coffees arrived, Neil sipped his and declared loudly, “This coffee is exceptional.”

“I know.” Their waiter, who was also part owner of the café, replied, honor satisfied.

Waiting for the toasted sandwiches, Neil said, “Tell me about working on the
Gazette
.”

“Well . . . ” Joanne began. To her frustration, tears welled up.

“Idiot!” He smacked his forehead. “I'm so sorry. I read the news about your colleagues.”

“Mrs. Smart's death was horrible. Don McLeod's arrest doesn't feel real. He would never have—” She shook her head as though tossing her hair around would dislodge the memories. “I walk into the office and expect to see Mrs. Smart sitting at the head of the table, pen in hand, ready to take notes . . . ”

“After my mother died, I kept seeing her out the corner of my eye.” Neil was staring out the window, not seeing the passersby. “More than once I thought I saw her disappearing round a corner, shopping bag in her hand. Or I would imagine I could hear her climbing the stairs to bed—after she had checked the front and back doors twice to see if they were locked—something she said she never did when she lived in Scotland.” He leaned forward slightly. “And something I've never told anyone—I still talk to her, especially at night. I tell her about my day, I tell her of my achievements, knowing how proud it would make her. Some would think I'm mad, but it's comforting.”

It was this more than anything that made Joanne warm to this stranger, drop her guard; the way he confided in her, the way he told her the small things in his life; it made him vulnerable, human, more of a man. He was intelligent, an attribute she
admired, and knowledgeable. It was what attracted her to McAllister, but with Neil she did not feel intimidated.

“Heavens, we'd better get back.” Joanne was surprised that the time had passed so quickly. She put a half a crown on the table. Neil pushed it back and laid a ten-shilling note down. The waiter appeared and took Neil's money, saving the embarrassment of a discussion. “Thanks.” Joanne smiled.

“You're welcome,” Neil replied.

She hurried across the road. For a woman who went to church on Sundays, who was reared on the Ten Commandments, who had known no one but her husband, even being alone in the company of an unknown single male was not the done thing; for a woman from this town, this society, it was verging on sin—and she knew it.

His long strides easily kept up with hers. They climbed the steps back to the office, back to the deadline, back to sorrow and a difficult edition of the
Highland Gazette,
reporting the tragedy and naming one of their own as perhaps a murderer.

C
HAPTER 6

M
ortimer Beauchamp Carlyle had instructed Angus McLean to find the best Queen's Counsel available for the defense. Who was to pay for this, Mr. McLean did not know, nor did he ask. It would be an expensive legal bill, that he did know. Along with a QC, an assistant advocate would have to come north as part of the team.

The trial was ten weeks away. Then the full panoply of the High Court of the Judiciary would convene at the trial of Donal Dewar McLeod for the murder of Mrs. Archibald Smart, née Mackenzie. The lack of cooperation from the accused journalist made Angus McLean believe the likelihood of a guilty verdict being passed.

As promised, he telephoned the Procurator Fiscal to ask permission for McAllister to visit Don McLeod.

“Mr. McLeod has no close relatives. Mr. McAllister is a friend as well as a colleague . . . ” Angus had told the fiscal, whom he knew well, the legal fraternity of the town being small and what might be described as incestuous—the families having intermarried for generations.

A half-hour visit granted, he next phoned McAllister, hoping that he could persuade Don McLeod to help in his own defense.

*  *  *  

The only good thing about the prison, although the neighbors would dispute this, was the location, a short walk from the middle of town and a short drive from the courts.

McAllister had gone through the red stone arch of the main prison gate before and again felt a cerebral drop in spirit and, he fancied, a physical drop in the temperature of the mid-autumn midafternoon.

“Mr. McLeod is waiting in the visitors' room.” The lilt in the guard's Scottish English placed his antecedents as west coast, or perhaps Western Isles. McAllister could never tell the difference.

The guard had left them alone with an ashtray. McAllister knew this was against regulations, but he had caught the murmur in Gaelic between them.

“I'm right outside the door,” the guard said, “but I have to leave it open.”

“How are you? I've brought cigarettes.” McAllister rushed his words, the sight of the sunken eyes and the deep lines etched into his deputy's forehead, as if drawn in printer's ink, disconcerting him, making him remember that Don
was
past retirement age, although never before had seemed more than sixty.

“Whisky?” Don asked.

“Not allowed.”

“Aye, that'll be right.”

They lit up.

“We're getting a paper out,” McAllister started, “it's adequate . . . ”

“Aye, I saw it.” Don was deep in a cloud of smoke and looking at the faint light from a window set so high prisoners could see the sky but not have the joy of a view.

“I want to help but I can't help unless you help me first.” McAllister knew there was no room for fancy talk with Don.

“I didn't kill her.”

“I know that. So I have to find who did.”

“Her husband.”

“Why? And why now?”

Don shrugged.

“Come on, man.” McAllister was exasperated. “This is serious.”

“You listen to me, McAllister. I will never say anything that will blacken the reputation of . . . ” He couldn't bring himself to say her name. “She married Archie Smart in India and soon found out he was only interested in her money. He treated her like dirt their whole marriage. She came back to the Highlands to get away from him. He stayed on in India with his regiment, only returning after his accident climbing out of a whorehouse window. And it wasn't girls he was visiting. His smashed legs went bad and by the time the ship docked in Southampton, they couldn't be saved. He survived the amputation, more's the pity. Joyce nursed him until he could get about, with him treating her like his slave. Then her father, Lieutenant Colonel Ian Mackenzie, just before he died, came up with the idea of employing a Gurkha from his regiment to look after Archie Smart.”

BOOK: Beneath the Abbey Wall
10.32Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

Other books

Dirty by Lucia Jordan
Family Ties by Nina Perez
Spiral (Spiral Series) by Edwards, Maddy
Return to Eden by Ching, G.P.
The Light Tamer by Devyn Dawson