Did You Declare the Corpse? (24 page)
Read Did You Declare the Corpse? Online
Authors: Patricia Sprinkle
“Does Joyce know, I wonder?” Marcia wondered.
“She must,” I replied. “If Watty planned the tour, she must be working for him. But I wonder if she ever met him, or if they communicated like she did with us, by e-mail?”
Marcia chuckled. “In that case, maybe she’s part of his inspection tour.”
“Somehow I doubt Joyce will care whether she passes. After this trip, she already knows there are easier ways to support a writing habit. But speaking of habits, when Morag said Watty always stays with her mum when he’s in Auchnagar . . .” I let the sentence dangle like the thread from Eileen’s needle as she finished one flower and started another.
“Aye. They’re very close.” Eileen seemed to have no more problem with that than Morag had. “Watty’s dad was from Auchnagar, you know. He left before the war, of course, and went down to Paisley. That’s where he got started in the hotel business. But the old man used to bring Watty as a lad, and Watty keeps poppin’ up quite often now, since his wife died.”
It took a bit of adjustment, but perhaps I could picture Watty as the stepfather of little Morag. If that was what Watty had in mind . . .
I remembered our conversation at the ceilidh. “We met his dad on Skye, and he and Watty were talking about someone named Alasdair Geddys, who Joyce says also came from here. I suppose Watty’s dad would have actually known him?” I tried to remember exactly what they’d said, but it was muddled. Or maybe I’d been a bit fuddled by that pint of stout.
“Och, all the men knew Alasdair,” Eileen said comfortably. “He had a still up in the hills behind his place that was famous for miles around.”
I stared. “A still? I thought they said he was a fiddler.”
“Aye, but fiddlin’ doesn’t put food on the table, and although Alasdair inherited a good many acres, neither he nor his bairns ever took to farming. He grew grain and made whisky, using the good water in the burn runnin’ through his land. Nowadays, Barbara grows a wee patch of vegetables each year and lets out the rest to the laird for sheep. The rent and her work at the post office keeps the roof over their head.”
“Barbara down at the post office is Alasdair Geddys’s daughter?” It hadn’t occurred to me to connect that old woman with the famous fiddler, even though they had the same last name and Joyce had said his son and daughter still lived in Auchnagar. “She looks too old,” I said before I thought.
“She’s had a hard life, Barbara.” Eileen finished with the purple thread and reached for yellow. “And she aged something terrible after her dad drowned and her older brother disappeared, leavin’ her to take care of wee Ian. She wasnae but sixteen, poor lass.”
“That’s Ian, the joiner?” I was beginning to put it together.
“Aye. He’s much younger, of course. There’s nine years or more between them. Their mother died when Ian was born, so their dad raised the bairns, such raising as they got, but he worked the older two very hard. Barbara was four years behind me in school—”
“Surely not,” I interrupted. “She must be years older than you.”
“She’s four years younger, right enough, and their brother, Hamish, was a year older than me. From the time Barbara was nine and he fourteen, he was workin’ with his dad and she was doing all the cooking, washing and scrubbing that ever got done in that house. After Hamish disappeared, she had to find work to feed herself and wee Ian, as well.”
“What do you mean, ‘disappeared’?” Marcia asked. I was glad she did. I love a good mystery.
“He just didn’t come home to dinner one night,” Eileen explained, “and nobody ever heard from him again. The accepted explanation was that he’d gone on the hills that mornin’ and gotten lost in a dreadful storm that blew up midday. He was aye a strange lad, Hamish—kept himself to himself, if you understand what I mean. And he was a great one for walkin’ the hills alone. But that storm came up all of a sudden, with lashing snow and fierce winds, and the hills can be treacherous in a storm, even to those who know them well. We didn’t have a mountain rescue team back then, but men from the village combed the hills for days after. They never found a sign of him.” She made a French knot for the center of a flower, then went on. “Afterwards, there were some who said he was in such despair over his father’s death, he could have done away with himself, but my mum aye thought he didn’t want to be saddled with a sister and a bairn at twenty-one, and took advantage of the storm to disappear. Don’t mention that to Barbara,” she added quickly.
“Of course not.” I didn’t figure Barbara and I would ever be on personal terms, anyway. “But surely he wouldn’t have left two children—”
“Och, Barbara was sixteen by then, and had left school. But wee Ian was only seven, and the poor lad grieved for years over his brother and his dad.”
“I thought he seemed to carry a chip on his shoulder,” I remembered. “No wonder.”
Eileen’s sympathy was all for Ian’s sister. “Barbara’s aye taken care of Ian. She went to work the week after Hamish vanished, and she’s aye worked since, even after the arthritis twisted her arms something terrible. That barn of a house takes every penny she makes, I’m sure, because Ian’s not likely to help her much. He’s close with his money, Ian is. He was a quarrelsome, selfish lad who grew into a quarrelsome, tight-fisted man. How did he take the news that somebody put a body in one of his coffins?”
“Not well,” I admitted. “You’d have thought it was a personal insult.”
I didn’t mention that Roddy had taken the order to remain with the body with equally poor grace. Mothers never like to hear such news about their children.
The back-door bell jangled as someone came in, but Chancellor only flapped his tail. Eileen set down her embroidery. “That must be Roddy back.”
He flung the door open with a crash and was half through his sentence before he got into the room. “I’m needin’ my dinner. I’m fair famished.”
Eileen rose. “I’ve kept it warm. What’s happening down the village?”
“Nae much.” Roddy shrugged out of his jacket and dropped it on the floor. “The police from down the way finally got here. They were settin’ up when I left. But I’ve missed the bus, and if I dinnae get to that bike rally, somebody else’ll be getting that motorbike I’ve got my eye on. Can I have the car and money for petrol?”
“I’m needing it. I’ve arranged to take Marcia out to visit your great-auntie this evening.”
I excused myself and went upstairs. I’ve done my lifetime share of that sort of negotiating, and it never goes better with strangers around. Besides, the grandfather clock had just chimed three, so Norwood Hardin ought to be arriving to rehearse Joyce’s play.
I tidied up a bit and put on my coat, gloves, and my new wooly cap, then went back downstairs. On my way out, as a courtesy, I knocked lightly on the kitchen door and stuck my head in to say I’d be back in time for tea.
Roddy sat at the table, attacking a half-eaten plate of food with the desperation of the young male in a hurry. His cell phone rang while I was still speaking, and from the way he yanked it from his pocket and uttered a surly, “Hullo?” I surmised the discussion with his mother had not gone his way, that he was hoping a friend would bail him out, and he wanted his mother to feel his displeasure. Like I said, I’ve done my share of that kind of negotiation. I know the moves.
His face changed. Whoever was on the other end was not the person he had expected.
His eyebrows drew together in displeasure and he started to splutter. “But—but—but I—there can’t be!” He sounded desperate.
Somebody on the other end was equally determined. I could hear the staccato voice from where I stood. Finally Robby gave a sullen, “Right, then, I’ll be down in a jiff.”
He shoved the phone in his pocket, then slammed the table with one palm and shouted for the whole village to hear, “They’ve found another bloomin’ body in t’ other coffin now, and I’ve got to go back doon the hill. At this rate, I’ll nivver get oot o’ town!”
20
“Who is it?” I don’t know which of us asked it, but I know I was suddenly chilled in spite of the warmth of the Aga. My mind ran down the list of likely prospects in our group while we all looked the question at Roddy.
He was determinedly shoveling in the rest of his food before obeying orders. “Dinnae ken. The bobby didn’t say.” He spoke through a mouthful of boiled potatoes. He chewed angrily and flung down his fork. “Why does this have to happen to me?”
If I was to maintain the myth that I am a nice person, that was my exit cue.
At the foot of the brae, beside the church wall, several official vehicles were pulled up helter-skelter. I also saw a dusty Land Rover that looked like the laird’s, and was delighted to see my recent acquaintance, Constable Roy, standing guard inside the gate while a crowd was plaguing him with questions. “Come on, laddie, at least tell us who it is,” one man kept shouting.
Roddy brushed past me with no sign of recognition, spoke roughly to the constable, and was sent in the direction of the front door. I inched through the crowd until I was close enough to Constable Roy to ask, “Who is it this time? Surely not another member of our tour group?”
He stared over my right shoulder with a wooden expression and spoke in an equally wooden voice. “I cannae release any information to the public at this time.”
“I’m not just the public,” I reminded him. “I was in on the finding of the first body.”
“Sorry, mum, but I cannae give out information at this time.”
“But is it one of our group?”
“Sorry, mum.” He looked staunchly ahead.
Miffed, I turned and headed down the brae toward the village. As a judge and a lifelong resident of Hopemore, I was used to getting more information from the police than other people did. Still, like I’d reminded Dorothy, I had no authority here.
I did have enough experience with small towns to know where news was most likely to be spread, so I headed for the post office. The place was full of women and a solitary man, chattering at the top of their lungs, and Barbara Geddys was harassed and irritable behind her counter. I heard her snap at a customer in the hush that fell when I entered.
One of the women fixed me with washed-out blue eyes and demanded, “Are ye the one that was wi’ the priest when the first body was discovered?”
I gave her a friendly smile and the answer I’d worked on, coming down the brae. “People keep asking that. I guess we look alike. Do they know who the second victim is?”
A babble arose around me. I couldn’t understand half of what was said, but what I gathered was that the new body was a man, the police hadn’t said yet who he was, and every family in the village was taking a frantic poll of all their relations to be sure they were alive and well. I also heard that he’d been put in the chapel while Roddy was absent from his post long enough to walk up through the village to the paper shop for a pack of cigarettes.
What worried folks most was that nobody had seen a thing. How could anyone carry a body through the village without being seen? Or drive it to the chapel and wrestle it out of the car? People were beginning to murmur about a Phantom Murderer, which was not good. Panic breeds violence.
I left without buying stamps—which I didn’t need, anyway—and headed across the bridge and along the road to St. Catherine’s, steeling myself for my conversation with Norwood Hardin. I didn’t relish confessing that I’d overheard his private quarrel, but it had to be done. I also wanted to talk with Joyce. She had gone down the hill and through the village after I came up. Had she seen anything or met anybody on her way?
When I came to the gray building that had once been a church and now was a community center, I was glad to find the front door unlocked. I crept quietly into what had once been a sanctuary, a high, dim space lit by tall arched windows with opaque glass and inadequate chandeliers. White paint and a stone floor contributed to the general atmosphere of unrelieved chilliness. I kept on my hat and gloves.
Given that the play was sure to be cancelled, I was surprised to see three people onstage, talking quietly among themselves. One of the men was short and square with a bristling dark beard. The other was taller, thinner, with fair hair and a sharp profile. The woman had a mane of hair that streamed down her back like melted caramel.
Joyce sat halfway back on a dark wood pew, her parka draped over the pew in front. As I slipped into the very back pew, the woman called out to Joyce, “We’re ready with Culloden.”
And as if nothing at all had happened to affect the play, Joyce called, “Right.”
They weren’t in costume, of course. All three wore corduroy jeans and heavy sweaters. But in spite of that, I found the scene compelling. It depicted not the battle, but the return of a son after the battle. The mother was frantically trying to make sure her son wasn’t found by English supporters scouring the region. He was desperate to know what he should do, how he could live, if he couldn’t set foot outside his own home. I couldn’t help thinking of my ancestor Andrew MacLaren, and realized for the first time that for him and others who left Scotland after Culloden, emigration was only one in a series of wrenching experiences. They had wrestled with the decision of whether to heed Prince Charlie’s call, had traveled miles from home, had fought in a devastating military defeat where brothers, sons, and comrades were hacked to death beside them, and had crept back to their own villages and towns in terror of being ambushed. But home was no longer safe. They were forced to dodge and hide while they tried to decide what to do next. I wondered if the long sea voyage came as something of a relief.
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