A Kind of Grief (16 page)

“There are two other bidders and no allowance for a building inspection. So he's going to try to find out if it is in good repair and let us know.”

“Good enough.” He knew how Scottish property sales worked, knew the hazards of the sealed-bidding system.

“Angus showed me this. He knows from Rob the story of Alice and . . .” She didn't want to say
her death
. “It was sent to him by a solicitor in Dornoch who's acting on behalf of the estate.” She handed over a document relating to the sale of Alice Ramsay's house and land. There was also an asking price, and the price was low. “How come it's so cheap?” she asked.

“Too remote for most people. Probably gets snowed in in winter. And that track up there will put most potential buyers off.”

“It's all so sad. By the way, don't mention the new house in front of the girls.”

They heard the front door open. When the girls came in, McAllister asked, “How was school today?” It was a question their mother had long given up asking, as the answer was always “fine,” or “the same” or “OK.”

She now knew to be specific. “Did you have PT today?” she would ask, knowing the answer was “today was art” or “singing” or any subject more interesting than English or arithmetic.

Annie said, “I'm top in French class.”

“Well done!” McAllister was delighted; fluent in French, he enjoyed helping his stepdaughter and had promised her a holiday in France next year if she came in the top three in her exams.

Annie secretly thought her new father would take them to France no matter her exam results. But, she thought, maybe not if they bought that house.

What Joanne didn't know was that Annie, with her usual inquisitiveness, had seen the papers describing the house, had jumped to the correct conclusion, and had already gone to Culduthel Road and inspected their potential new home from the outside.

“Milk and a scone?” Joanne asked the girls.

“Yes please,” they chorused.

“Start your homework, and I'll bring a tray into your room.”

Girls fed and watered, she asked her husband, “Did you unload Alice's pictures from the car?”

“I'll do it later.” He had had enough of Miss Alice Ramsay for the time being. “Let's talk about the White House.” That was his name for his dream home.

The House—in capital letters was how Joanne thought of it. She liked the house, just couldn't quite see herself in such a grand setting. The cost of moving would be astronomical. “Fine,” she replied. Then, even though she knew her heart's instinct would overrule the reality, she said, “Let's discuss the practicalities.”

That week, as was true even in wartime, the
Highland Gazette
came out on time, no problems, few letters to the editor, and then only complaints about the chaos and destruction of Bridge Street and the delays from the temporary bridge across the Ness while a new one was being built.

The sports section carried a summary of golf tournament results for the Highlands. Don had used the picture of the cabinet of trophies to illustrate another year of successful results for Dornoch.

In the classified section, a notice had been placed stating that a solicitor in Dornoch was handling the affairs of the late Miss Alice Ramsay and any who might have a claim on the estate should contact the office. As the solicitor was legally bound to place this notice, it was not unusual, but with the connection to the “witch trial” and the subsequent suicide, it would attract interest.

Joanne read it. She felt a sense of desolation at the abandonment of a place of such geographical beauty, a place that Alice had been renovating, turning an ordinary Scottish farmhouse of no heritage value into an enchanting refuge. Joanne remembered Alice's plans for a conservatory, another reason to doubt the suicide verdict. No matter how mistaken it was to see such tragedies as anything other than despair, Joanne couldn't shake her conviction that killing yourself was much worse than any other death.

But in the spirit of Alice Ramsay, Joanne resolved she would create, in the open space of the shiplike house, a refuge as beautiful as the farmhouse far up the Sutherland glen.

Next morning, Joanne helped McAllister lift the boxes of books and papers from the car into the sitting room. Thoughts of Alice once more intruded. But this time, Joanne told herself,
Stop it. You hardly knew the woman. Stop being so maudlin. And forget witches—find something cheerful to write about.

McAllister was leafing through history books, art books, and four books of botanical illustrations, one very old.

Joanne was wiping the dust from the writing box the auctioneer had included in the job lot of books and papers, hoping to finish the auction sale before the pubs shut for the afternoon.

“The box is beautiful. Cherrywood, I think.” She loved the swirl of the grain, the deep red of the wood, the little inkwell, and the groove for the pens, and she appreciated the slope of the writing surface. “The box is old. Sir Walter Scott might have used a traveling desk like this.”

McAllister smiled; his wife's flights of fancy were yet another part of her that he enjoyed.

“What's this?” She unlocked the desk with the brass key still in the lock and took out a thick cardboard folder tied with brown twine. It was heavy. She put it on the floor and sat down on the rug. Opening the folder, and finding a bundle of loose papers, she immediately knew what it was. “It's Alice's manuscript, the one she said was almost finished.”

“Looks more like a portfolio of paintings.”

“Sort of. But see, the paintings are numbered on the back, and on each painting is a description of the plant's location. It seems she intended it to be an illustrated book on the flora of the Highlands.” She turned over more pages. “Look at this.” She held out a painting of a tiny wild orchid. “It's beautiful and, from what she writes here, pretty rare.”

“It is lovely,” he agreed. “Let's finish unpacking the boxes. Then we can lay the manuscript out and have a proper look. If at all possible, we will do something with it.”

“Have it published?”

“Maybe.”

The idea gave Joanne more pleasure than the thought of having her own work published. “That would be wonderful. It might make up for—” She shook the guilt out of her head. “McAllister, the note, or rather that article and my phone number, will it be part of the evidence at the fatal accident inquiry?”

“Possibly.”

She saw his face close. “What if that was a message to me? What if she was saying she wanted me to question her death?”

McAllister doubted this greatly. But he welcomed anything that made the love of his life feel less responsible for the whole nightmare. “From what we know, the findings of the inquiry are almost certain to be suicide. It would take a professional to fake a . . . that type of method.” Even he balked at the word “hanging.”

The house was silent apart from the rustle and groan and creak of windows and doors and floorboards. Not that it was old, only a hundred years or so since it was built, and the noises were nothing Joanne didn't recognize; the familiar whispers and grumblings made her feel safe. She rolled paper, interleaved with sheets of blue carbon, into the portable Olivetti, then picked up a pencil opening her reporter's notebook to summarize what needed doing to Alice's manuscript.

“People” was the heading. She stopped.
Get on with the manuscript. Stop procrastinating. Stop obsessing with the court case.
But she needed to revisit the trial, if only to clear her thoughts.

She found the envelope of Hec's pictures still in the bureau. She spread the contents over the table and began to list all those she recognized, making note of others she needed Calum to identify.

Humming, she continued with the list. “The auctioneer. Connection to Alice? None that I know. The doctor . . .” On the column opposite his name, she wrote, “hostile witness.” Nurse Ogilvie. Mrs. Galloway. Forsythe. The sheriff.” She crossed out the sheriff. “Now you're being ridiculous,” she muttered.
Right. Now what? OK, cross-reference all those involved in the trial with all those who were at the auction.

That evening, McAllister asked Joanne how her work was progressing with Alice's manuscript.

She smiled. “Early days.”

The tranquillity of working with the color and beauty of the illustrations made her feel a connection to the woman. It also helped her in her own work; enthusiasm, energy, thoughts, and ideas seemingly coming from outside of herself.

Earlier, in that precious first hour of writing time, ideas poured out. The central character was a postman working in a remote community up the glens. The words had flown off the ends of her fingertips onto the keys, onto the paper. This she also kept to herself; more from superstition than logic, she felt that talking about it might make the muse desert her. How to fit in the topic of witchcraft she had yet to figure out.

A letter rejecting a story she had submitted three weeks earlier had arrived that morning. With a ring at the bell and a cheery “How are you today?” the postman she was basing her character on handed it over. For one moment, she was worried he might guess she was studying him.

She smiled. “Thanks, Archie.”

“You look like you're doing well.” His grin and his wind-sun-rain-red cheeks cheered her.

“Thanks for noticing. I am.”

She and all the neighbors knew that he kept a check on anyone elderly or infirm or, Joanne suspected, anyone who might give him a quick cup of tea on winter days.

She read the letter quickly, and the disappointment didn't overwhelm her.
I can do better
, she told herself.

The letter was on the hallstand when McAllister came home for lunch. He would never read his wife's mail but was curious.

“A rejection letter,” she said.

“May I read it?”

“If you like.”

He did. “This is not a rejection letter. It's . . .”

“They don't like my story.”

“No. And yes.” He held out the letter at arm's length. He would never admit he needed reading glasses. “It says he? She? Anyhow, Drummond says this particular story doesn't fit in with the editorial thrust of his magazine, too much in the romantic vein for them, but he likes your style, particularly your characters. He goes on to say if you want to submit stories with more reference to place—I think he means more Scottish—featuring your obvious talent for character development, he'll be happy to consider them. Joanne, this is extremely positive, particularly from this magazine. It publishes some of the best writers around.”

“I know. I thought when I posted it I was being overambitious.”

“You can write. I know you don't believe me, think I'm biased, but you can write. From this letter, the editor thinks so too.”

“So I should write what I know?”

“Start there. See where it takes you. Now, wife, where's ma dinner?” He thumped the table with his fist. She laughed and stuck out her tongue.