Beneath the Abbey Wall (21 page)

Without asking, McAllister put out an extra plate, broke two more eggs into the frying pan, then cut more bread for toast. “Help yourself to tea.”

“Did you see Joanne yesterday?” McAllister asked, hating himself for being so greedy for news of her.

“No. Have you seen Don?” Rob knew Joanne was not in town but he was not going to be the one to tell McAllister.

“Seen him, spoken to him, but got no answers.”

“If the sergeant major killed Mrs. Smart, he's had a long time to plan it.”

It did not surprise McAllister that Rob went straight to the very point he had been thinking himself. “Aye, sobut why now? What changed?”

“I've no idea.” He had not asked his father about the will, he knew there was no point, but something about it bothered him. “Do you know when the will was drawn up?”

“No,” McAllister said. “Why?”

“I've no idea why I asked the question,” Rob said. “It's just that murders are often to do with who inherits what . . . in books and films at any rate.”

“Another point, how would whoever did it know about Don's filleting knife?”

“Unlikely the sergeant major knew.” Rob was annoyed when he said this. He wanted the man to be guilty, especially as he was causing his father all sorts of problems, pestering him, setting another solicitor onto him to question his handling of Mrs. Smart's will. “Eilidh—I told you about her, the nurse who lives next door to Don—she might know. I'll ask her.”

“As soon as possible. Do you know if the sergeant major has an alibi?”

“He's legless, I would imagine that's his alibi.”

McAllister couldn't help it. He laughed. And he couldn't remember the last time he had laughed. “No seriously, what alibi . . . ”

“McAllister, I know it's serious, but we have to laugh occasionally or else we'll all try to hang ourselves.” Rob was speaking through a mouthful of toast. “Alibis.” He swallowed. “Right, the sergeant major; he was at home—alone, or so he told the police; the Gurkha, let's not completely dismiss him as a suspect, he was out, walking he says, alone, in the dark, on a brisk Sunday night.”

“He was a friend of Mrs. Smart and her father . . . ”

“And he inherited a sizable sum of money. How much was it?”

“Two thousand pounds.”

“That much?” Rob whistled. “That's a fortune, especially in Nepali terms . . . ”

“We have so much to check up on, and not nearly enough time.”

“You'd better tackle the Gurkha man, and maybe ask Beech's sister, Countess Sokolov, if she knows whether the sergeant major really was at home that night. I'll talk to Eilidh.” He stood. “I'll try to track her down today.”

“Good, and I'll call round to see Beech and his sister.” McAllister turned to the sink and ran the hot tap for the washing-up. His back to Rob, he said, “I hear you and Neil met with Jenny McPhee and Jimmy recently.”

“I'd hoped to shock Neil by taking him to the only louche place in town, but it didn't bother him”—Rob grinned—“I'm sure he's seen worse. And Neil's sitting in on our next gig, he plays a mean blues on the mouth organ.”

Don't ask, don't ask,
McAllister was telling himself. “Joanne was with you?” The words absconded like a rat from wreckage.

“Yes, but we didn't stay long; Jenny wasn't in form so Neil didn't get to hear the legendary McPhee songs and stories. He was a wee bit disappointed; he's hoping to pick Jenny's brain for his book.”

“Then where did you go?” The minute he said this McAllister regretted it.
I sound so petty
.

Recognizing jealousy even from this unlikely source, Rob was tactful. “Joanne went home and Neil and I made an early night of it.” His voice was light, his face casual, but he understood what it had cost McAllister to ask.

“Do you want that last piece of toast?” It was all Rob could think of to change the subject. And it worked.

McAllister sliced off two more pieces of bread, set them
under the grill, and no more was said about Joanne Ross, Neil Stewart, and Saturday night.

*  *  *  

McAllister waited until early afternoon before calling Rosemary Sokolov. It was her brother who answered the telephone.

“Come for afternoon tea,” he replied in answer to McAllister's question.

Once more McAllister found himself taking the path along the river. Once more he found himself peering over the wall into Sergeant Major Smart's garden, or rather Mrs. Smart's garden—it was only her husband's by dint of her death, and if he were to be found guilty, he would not inherit it. McAllister was thinking this as, finding the garden deserted, he walked around to the main road to come in the street entrance to the Beauchamp Carlyle residence.

“Which tea do you prefer? Earl Grey or Lapsang souchong?” Rosemary Sokolov asked.

McAllister would have preferred Typhoo, extra strong, but he replied, “Lapsang, please.”

And once more he marveled at the vast contrast between his life as the son of a Glasgow fireman, a scholarship boy, a man who had made his own life, and that of the Beauchamp Carlyle siblings, born into aristocracy and wealth and the divine right to command outposts of empire.

But this is 1957,
he reminded himself,
and all is changing, especially after the debacle of Suez.

McAllister discovered he liked the tea, and he said so.

“I don't drink, and I certainly don't smoke.” This, Countess Sokolov said to her brother, who was sitting opposite her on the sofa at right angles to a generous fire. “So tea is my passion. I send for it from a tea merchant in London. I'll give you some if you'd like.”

“I would like that very much.” McAllister was also finding he liked Rosemary Sokolov, which was good, as he admired her brother, had great respect for his humor and intellect. “I was hoping you could ask Mr. . . . Bahadur, is it, a few questions.”

“Why don't you talk to him? His English is fluent.” The countess was not going to intervene.

“I'd also like to ask you about the night Mrs. Smart . . . ”

“Was killed.” She did not believe in euphemisms; having seen much of death, she saw death as a natural process, except in this case. “What would you like to know?”

“Was the sergeant major at home that night?”

She hesitated.

“He says he was,” McAllister explained, “but he has no one to vouch for him.”

“He has a car,” she told him, “one of those new three-wheeler machines for the disabled, the ones with hand controls. It has rather a distinctive engine noise. It went out early that evening, but I have no idea when it came back.”

McAllister noticed the pronoun. “
It
went out?”

“I have no way of knowing who was driving.”

“The logical supposition would be that Sergeant Major Smart was driving.” McAllister said this quietly, politely, in no way questioning her choice of phrase, echoing her open-mindedness.

“Mr. McAllister, I have always made it my business to mind my own business; what went on in the house next door is not for me to discuss.”

“Mrs. Sokolov, our friend and colleague Mr. McLeod's life depends on finding out who murdered Mrs. Smart. The police believe they have their man, they are looking no further.”

Brother and sister looked at each other. “I can tell you the
little I know,” Beech offered, “and, my dear, the rules of civility have been broken by a murderer. We must help if we can.”

She nodded once and started speaking with barely a pause between sentences. “Ever since the sergeant major came back to the Highlands to live in her house, there was always a terrible commotion early on Sunday evenings when Joyce went to visit Mr. McLeod.”

She did not think it pertinent to recount the numerous other times when the sound of the sergeant major's cursing could be heard clearly over the garden wall—particularly in the long summer evenings, when the nastiness of the language drove her indoors, away from enjoying her beloved garden and herbaceous borders and the sounds and scents of the river.

“He would follow her up the pathway out into the street, screaming abuse, calling her terrible names. Anyone passing by would clearly hear him. Often he would follow her, walking as close as he could and as far as he could. When he bought the car, he'd follow her, but she told me she always took the steps between the churches and the abbey wall. She had a key to the gate into the courtyard where Mr. McLeod lives, and they always kept that gate locked.”

Joyce had told Rosemary this in a joking, despairing conversation one afternoon when it all became too much and she had stayed with her friend and neighbor for a week, needing a refuge and a good night's sleep.

“So the sergeant major knew where Don McLeod lives? He knew they were friends?”

“Joyce Mackenzie and Mr. McLeod had been friends since just after the Great War. They resumed their friendship when she came back from India. She made it clear to the sergeant major that she would not give up the friendship, but agreed to contain it to one meeting every week. She agreed not to . . . ” She
looked across at her brother, who nodded. “Joyce agreed to continue living with Sergeant Major Smart, in her house next door, but on the Sunday-evening meetings she would not give way.”

“But why?” He saw the question was too vague. “Why would she agree to continue living with a man who so obviously hated her? She was wealthy enough to leave him. And the house belonged to her.”

“Yes. Her father made certain that the deeds were in her name only. If the sergeant major made a claim on it, the property would revert to the colonel's regiment as a rest home for retired officers.” She leaned forward and lightly touched the teapot. “I'll make a fresh pot.” It was clear that she was not going to say more.

“Let's go onto the terrace.” Beech stood, holding an empty pipe in one hand, reaching for the tobacco tin with the other.

McAllister was grateful. It had been nearly an hour since his last cigarette, and he was restless.

“I saw the sergeant major smoking a pipe. Strange-smelling tobacco he uses.”

McAllister saw Beech's reaction and, afraid Beech might think he had been spying, he quickly added, “I was out for a walk, I happened to catch a glimpse of him over the wall.”

Since Beech was six foot five, it did not occur to him McAllister might be spying on his neighbor. “Didn't you recognize the smell?”

“It wasn't Turkish tobacco.”

“Ah yes, you've never been to India.” He smiled at McAllister's confusion. “Our neighbor is rather partial to opium. A habit he picked up in the East. Probably a good thing. Keeps the pain away. Keeps him subdued.”

“Subdued?”

“He has a temper.”

“Would he have killed his wife?”

“Would he? Possibly. Could he? Possibly.”

McAllister was becoming frustrated with the conversation, one that was lacking long joined-up sentences, and shedding more mystery than light.

“On Sunday nights . . . ” McAllister started.

“Joyce Mackenzie would visit with Mr. McLeod. Gurkha Bahadur had a night off. Sergeant Major Smart sometimes followed her, but more often of late he would entertain friends, mostly ex-servicemen, in a game of cards, and from the noise, it would appear that a large quantity of drink was consumed.”

“Why was this never mentioned before?”

“Probably irrelevant.” Then Beech added, “And some of the participants were policemen, or at least one, to my knowledge. Sergeant Patience,” he added, reading the question in McAllister's eyebrows.

“What time did Mrs. Smart return?”

“I don't know. Late, I presume. On one or two occasions over the years, she would stay a night or two with my sister. Not that I know Joyce's household arrangements; it is only in the last year that I have taken to staying more frequently in town—to work on my small contribution to the
Gazette
.”

“Much appreciated.” McAllister meant it. The presence of Mortimer Beauchamp Carlyle was reassuring, not just to McAllister; the younger staff, especially Hector, were always asking casual questions of Beech, always receiving helpful answers.

“So, what do we have?” Beech continued. “A relationship between Mr. McLeod and Joyce Mackenzie that began circa 1919, 1920. Why would Don want to end it now after all that time? Why would Smart want to end it now? Who else would want to end her life?” The light was fading. A light but chill northeast wind was blowing upriver. The men did not notice.

Rosemary Sokolov watched them through the French
windows and left them to it, going into the kitchen; she did not want to see or hear anything about her friend's death, it hurt too much.

“It must come down to the will,” McAllister said.

“Why?”

“Money is the classic motive for murder.”

“And passion.”

And again McAllister was feeling the frustration of not getting anywhere; all these meetings, all these conversations, nothing being resolved, the questions remaining the same or throwing up more questions. And the “start at the beginning” that Jenny McPhee had thrown out—he'd done that, he now knew how long Don McLeod and Joyce Mackenzie, Mrs. Smart, had known each other . . . Mrs. Smart,
Joyce Mackenzie—was that it?

He suddenly knew where he would be looking tomorrow, first thing, or at least first thing after the news conference.

“One final question; how well do you know Neil Stewart?”

“Neil?” Beech was surprised at the change in subject. “He has been researching in our family archives. He seems an intelligent, likable man, and he's been a godsend to the
Gazette
.” Beech looked at McAllister but could read nothing in his face. “Is there any reason I should believe different?”