Michael Ridpath - Amnesia

‘I have a little idea,’ said the old man, with a grin.

Agnes gave them a lift into Dingwall, which was lucky because although it was only a mile or so, Clémence wasn’t sure the old man could walk much further. Agnes herself would be out for the rest of the day, but she said that her guests could use her lounge if they wanted, and suggested that if they needed a taxi to pick up their car at Loch Glass, they could find one at the station.

Dingwall was the old county town of Ross and Cromarty, and lay adjacent to the Cromarty Firth. The snow had been much lighter at sea level, and was already melting to a thin slush. Agnes drove around the outskirts of the town and dropped them at the front door of the Ashwood House Nursing Home. Clémence had told her they had promised to visit a friend of a friend while they were in Dingwall.

She was nervous about Jerry Ranger, but willing to play along with the old man for three hours or so. If they got a taxi directly from the nursing home back to the farm, then it was hard to see how Jerry could possibly find them. And once Madeleine was packed off to Inverness, Clémence would speak to the police.

The nursing home was an imposing Victorian house with half a view of the firth, but inside it was tatty and unloved. The staff were friendly and good-humoured, however, and one of them led them up to Pauline Ferguson’s room.

She was a sturdy old lady, with bright-blue eyes and curly hair of steel grey. She was in bed, and a wheelchair and walker suggested mobility problems.

‘Ah, Dr Cunningham! Sheila said you would be in to see me! How are you after your fall?’

The old man smiled politely. ‘Good morning, Mrs Ferguson. As perhaps Mrs MacInnes explained, I seem to have lost almost all my memory, so I have no recollection of you at all. I do hope you will forgive me.’

‘Och, of course I will! And who is this lovely wee lassie?’

The old man smiled with what Clémence suspected was pride. ‘This is my...’ he hesitated. With a surge of pleasure, Clémence realized that the old man was about to say ‘granddaughter’, but had stopped himself. Mrs Ferguson seemed to assume it was a touch of senility — a trait she was no doubt used to.

‘My friend,’ the old man said. ‘Clémence Smith. She’s a student at St Andrews University and has kindly agreed to look after me.’

Mrs Ferguson gave Clémence a cheery smile. ‘You seem to be doing a good job with that.’

Clémence couldn’t help laughing. ‘Not that good a job, Mrs Ferguson,’ she said.

‘Well, I’m glad you came to see me. After Sheila told me about your wee accident, Dr Cunningham, I thought you’d mebbe not be able to mind what we said, and it seemed gey important to you at the time. So I thought mebbe I’d repeat it.’

Excitement shone in the old woman’s eyes. This was clearly gossip of a high order, and she was going to enjoy it. Clémence had read to old people at a nursing home herself, and was familiar with residents like Mrs Ferguson: a sharp brain craving stimulation, desperate to break free of a worn-out body.

‘Please do, Mrs Ferguson,’ said the old man. ‘One of the things Clémence has been doing with me is trying to piece together my past.’

‘The idea is to jog his memory, and help him recall things himself,’ added Clémence. ‘The doctors insisted on it.’

‘Aye, they’re not daft,’ said the old lady. She hesitated. ‘Now. Tell me what you’ve jaloused?’

There was a brief silence. ‘What’s “jaloused”?’ asked Clémence. She thought she was used to Scots by now, but this woman was something else.

‘Oh, I’m sorry, lassie. What you’ve suspected, I mean.’

‘Well, we know about Sophie Trickett-Smith’s murder,’ said Clémence. ‘We’ve read Death At Wyvis. ’

‘So we know I killed her,’ the old man said. ‘And we know you were cooking at Wyvis Lodge that night.’

‘We think we know he killed her,’ Clémence corrected quickly. The moment she said the words she was surprised at them. She was losing objectivity; she realized she was desperate to believe that the old man wasn’t a murderer.

Mrs Ferguson’s eyes caught Clémence’s. She had noted the doubt in her voice.

‘It was that night you were asking me about, Dr Cunningham. You were wanting to ken any wee thing I could mind about it. It was a long time ago, but my certes, it was certainly a night to remember!’

‘And what did you tell me?’

‘Not much you didn’t ken already,’ said Mrs Ferguson. ‘Or that wasn’t in Death At Wyvis .’

‘Oh.’ The old man was disappointed, and so was Clémence.

‘But then, just as you were leaving, you were speiring me about my son Iain. He was there that night too, helping out in the kitchen, and you wanted to ask him a few questions.’

‘And did I?’

‘No. Well, at least not then. You see, Iain bides in America now. In New York. He’s in property, or “real estate” as he calls it. He has done well for himself, with him leaving the school at fifteen.’

‘That’s impressive. You must be very proud of him.’

‘Och, away you go! You see, I’m not sure our Iain is just the clean potato, if you see what I mean.’

‘Oh,’ said the old man. ‘Do you mean in business, or in other matters too?’

Clémence knew the old man was referring to the night of Sophie’s death. And so did Mrs Ferguson.

‘You see, Iain was set up in business in New York by an old friend of yours. Nathan Giannelli.’

‘Uncle Nathan?’ said Clémence.

‘Aye. First he got him a junior office job with a real estate developer friend. Then, a few years later, he lent Iain some money to get started. Iain did the rest himself.’

‘Why would Nathan do all that?’ the old man asked.

‘You asked me that question before, and I couldn’t answer it. But I could see what you thought. You thought that it was to get Iain not to tell the truth about whatever he had seen that night.’

The old man and Clémence sat in silence as they digested this information.

‘Did you speak to your son about this?’

‘No,’ said Mrs Ferguson. ‘At least not at first. I think you must have visited me about September last year. I got a call from Iain a month later saying that you had been to see him in New York. Iain was angry at me for telling you about Mr Giannelli helping him. It was the first time he had called me since Christmas.’

Mrs Ferguson’s cheer had left her voice. She seemed upset by her son’s reaction, but more sad than angry.

‘Did he tell you what I had asked him?’

‘No. He wouldn’t. But, as I said, he sounded upset. And worried. Can you remember talking to him? Surely you would remember flying to America?’

‘You would think so,’ said the old man. ‘But no, I don’t remember anything about that at all. So that would be October last year?’

‘That’s right.’

‘And I didn’t visit you again?’

‘No,’ said the old woman. ‘I wish you had; I was fairly wanting to know what you had discovered.’

‘Sorry,’ said the old man with one of his comforting smiles. ‘I will when I find out what’s going on this time. I promise.’

‘You do that,’ said Mrs Ferguson.

‘It was a big move from Wyvis to New York,’ said Clémence.

‘Aye, it was. But it was good for Iain. He was a bright wee laddie at school. I wanted him to stay on, but he was desperate to leave and become a stalker like his dad. At least that’s what he thought when he was fifteen. But as he got older I think he wanted to leave the Highlands and go to the big city: Edinburgh or even London. He was wanting to get on in the world, ken? I was pleased about that, but my husband thought he should stay working on the estate as a ghillie. I’m not surprised that he jumped at the chance to go to New York. Nor that he did well once he was there.’