Mary Daheim - Scots on the Rocks

As the van pulled up in the car park by the Women’s Institute, a small group of protesters held up hand-printed signs accusing Moira and Patrick of murdering Harry. The dozen or so men and women looked dispirited. They moved their feet constantly, but not in marching tempo. It appeared to Judith that they were trying to keep warm.

“Not a sellout crowd,” Renie murmured as they rose from their seat. “Or maybe it is. Some kind of sellout anyway.”

“True,” Judith agreed, “but where’s the media?”

“At the pubs?” Renie retorted.

But as soon as the cousins got out of the van and walked around toward the side entrance of the institute’s brick building, they saw a horde of reporters and cameramen standing behind a wooden barricade.

“Fordyce!” several voices called out, followed by a barrage of questions Judith couldn’t quite catch. Philip kept moving, eyes averted, staring straight ahead.

Apparently no one recognized the four members of the Gibbs family. Unlike Philip, Judith figured their faces probably weren’t known to the out-of-town media.

The meeting room was already packed, but seats had been reserved up front for the Grimloch group. Seated between Renie and Beth, Judith scanned the crowd for other familiar faces: Patrick, sitting with a pretty blonde who was probably his wife, Jeannie; Seumas Bell, looking slightly feral, but alert to every nuance in the room; Jocko Morton, wedging his portly frame onto the folding chair with his narrow, beady eyes fixed on the two vacant places on the dais; his brother Archie, looking pugnacious and untidy in an ill-fitting brown suit; Will and Marie Fleming, handsome and poised, holding hands in the first row.

There was no sign of Moira or Jimmy Blackwell.

“Maybe they’re still coming,” Renie said. “Obviously the police didn’t catch up with Jimmy yet or we’d have heard about it.”

Judith nudged Beth. “Is Moira going to attend?”

Beth shrugged. “I didn’t talk to her this morning. I doubt she can manage. Frankly, I don’t blame her.”

A moment later, the crowd’s chatter was silenced by the arrival of a white-haired man with a solemn expression and piercing black eyes. With an air of authority, he sat down in the chair that had been placed behind the table. Judith assumed that the other chair was for the individuals who would give their findings.

The inquest started with the police constables who had been first on the homicide scene. Alpin MacRae stood off to one side of the room, arms folded, eyes taking in every detail of the gathering.

There was nothing new in their testimony. Judith’s mind drifted, taking in the austere surroundings, including a spinet piano, the flag of Scotland, and the portrait of a grim-looking woman who, judging from the black dress and lace collar, had probably founded the local institute at least a century earlier. Judith also studied the expressions on the villagers’ faces. They were a hardy lot, some of them careworn, a few from the younger set who would seem to be more at home attending a rock concert. An honest bunch, she decided, but perhaps a bit judgmental. Their history of strict, old-fashioned Presbyterianism and their life on the edge of the harsh North Sea lent them an aura of rigidity. Or maybe, she thought, it was just her lively imagination.

Dr. Carmichael gave the medical findings. “Death was caused by pressure to the deceased’s face with an item that resulted in suffocation.” No, Harry Gibbs had not been in the car at the time of the explosion.

A young man in tweeds and an old school tie succinctly described the type of bomb that had blown up Harry’s car. “Ammonium nitrate,” he stated, and not that difficult to make.

The magistrate declared that Harry Gibbs’s death had been caused by the malicious mischief of a person or persons unknown. He immediately adjourned the inquest.

Renie didn’t lower her voice. “No doughnuts? No cookies?”

“Shut up,” Judith muttered as they began to file out of the meeting room. “I just realized we’ll have to give statements at Chuckie’s inquest since we found the body.”

“Then we can insist on being fed,” Renie retorted.

Judith ignored her. The gathering had suddenly stopped halfway to the exit.

“There must be a bottleneck,” Marie Fleming said, turning around. “Where are Beth and Phil?”

Judith tried to find them among the dozen or so people at her rear. “Not anywhere I can see. Is there another way out?”

Will Fleming looked over his shoulder. “Yes. Off of the meeting room on the side of the building that faces the green. I suspect the Fordyces want to avoid the media. The reporters must be causing this delay by crowding at the front.” He put a hand on Marie’s arm. “Let’s duck out that other door, darling. I’d rather not get waylaid, either. I’ll leave that up to Seumas.”

“He doesn’t mind talking to the media?” Judith asked as she and Renie followed the Flemings’ lead.

“Our Mr. Bell can say less by saying more,” Will replied wryly. “He’s a very artful dodger, if a rather good lawyer.”

There was no chance to question Will further. A few others had the same idea, getting in the way and preventing the cousins from staying close to the Flemings. Outside, the rain had turned into a drizzle and the wind had become only a slight breeze. “Do we have a plan?” Renie inquired after they reached the green.

“Unfortunately, no,” Judith replied. “But I really don’t want to spend the day at the castle.”

“Gosh, no,” Renie said in an ironic tone. “It’s much more fun standing here getting soaked.”

“Okay, okay,” Judith said impatiently. “Maybe we should find a way to get to Hollywood House and see how Moira’s—” She stopped, spotting a familiar figure entering the churchyard next to the green. “Kate Gunn,” Judith said. “I didn’t see her at the inquest.”

“Why would she be there? Harry had no ties to her,” Renie pointed out. “As I recall, we heard Kate and Moira weren’t close even when Frankie Gunn was alive.”

Again, Judith didn’t say anything immediately. Instead she kept walking toward the church.

“Swell,” Renie grumbled. “Getting soaked and having a chinwag in a cemetery. Isn’t there a nice gallows around here someplace where we could stand with a noose around our necks and eat lunch?”

“You don’t mind the rain,” Judith said, leading the way to the lich gate. “Kate’s by the Gunn family plot. If she’s praying, we’ll wait.”

“I’m praying for cozy comfort,” Renie asserted.

Judith stopped by a guardian angel statue that was patchy with moss and missing a few fingers. “Kate’s lips are moving,” she said softly, “but not exactly like a prayer—more like conversation.”

“Talking to Earwig?” Renie suggested.

“Eanruig,” Judith corrected. “Yes, maybe. Hunh. She’s wagging her finger and acting agitated.”

“Does she really expect Earwig to answer back?”

“Maybe,” Judith allowed, signaling for Renie to hush. Before she could hear any words, Kate turned in their direction. Judith poked Renie. “Pretend to study this tombstone,” she whispered.

“It’s David Piazza’s,” Renie murmured. “The roses Moira brought last week look pretty beat up.”

“Speak to Kate,” Judith urged. “She thinks you’ve got the sight.”

“Half the sight,” Renie retorted. “She’s better off with Marie playing the part of a medium.”

Judith grabbed Renie’s arm. “Do it.”

With a sigh of resignation, Renie walked over to the Gunn family plot. Judith trailed behind.

“Hi, Kate,” Renie said. “The spirits must be on vacation.”

Kate gave a start and turned around to scowl at Renie. “You! What happened? Your eye!”