This, I concluded, was pure mischief and right enough Mr Black’s white face began to change to a mottled purple and he struggled with himself in silence for quite some time before he spoke again.
‘And what can we expect fae the common fowk when their meenister and their masters see Satan comin’ and jist wink at him?’
‘What masters are these?’ said Mr Tait.
‘They feckless eejits up by Luck Hoose,’ said Mr Black. ‘Sodom and Gomorrah on our very doorstep, Mr Tait. I saw it with my ain eyes last nicht.’
‘You went up to Luck House?’ said Mr Tait. ‘You should know better than that, Dick. You’ve overstepped yourself there.’
‘Steeped in it,’ said Mr Black. ‘Soaked in whisky, the pair o’ them. I wasted my time even tryin’. And I see I’m wastin’ more of it here today.’ He stood up and glared down at Mr Tait.
‘You are that, Dick,’ said the Reverend. ‘That you are.’
Cramming his bowler back onto his head as tightly as before, Dick Black stalked from the room without a goodbye and without so much as a glance in my direction.
‘I’m sorry you had to witness that, Mrs Gilver,’ said Mr Tait, when he had gone. ‘Our Bible tells us that “whom the Lord loveth He correcteth” but He hasn’t worked His way round to Dick Black yet as far as I can see.’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ I said. ‘It was rather useful. I’ve learned – if Mr Black can be believed – that the Howie brothers are in the clear, as is Mr Fraser, although I suppose we knew that, since Mrs Fraser has “seen the licht” and given up the meetings and her husband could hardly be out without her knowing. But, it seems, other husbands have no alibis for yesterday evening and countless other evenings too. And of course, I’ve learned that Mr Black himself is wont to prowl around on Rural nights.’
‘Oh come! Mrs Gilver!’ said Mr Tait.
‘Well, I’m sorry,’ I said, ‘I know he’s one of your flock but you can’t deny that he’s… peculiar enough.’
‘He’s not peculiar at all,’ said Mr Tait. ‘He’s all too common, him and the likes of him. And anyway, Dick Black was born in Luckenlaw and lived here all his days. If he was the stranger, he wouldn’t be a stranger, would he?’
I had to admit that there was a great deal of sense in this, but still I determined to mention his name to the victims.
To the victims, I now turned my thoughts once more. I said goodbye and, with no more encounters on my way, I left the village and strode out along the farm lane, a pad of writing paper and a pencil clutched in my hand, all practicality and purpose, all thoughts of secret chambers and snaky strangers far from my mind. The going was not nearly as dirty as Lorna had feared and the view was, if anything, better: a long sweep of flat fields all the way to the coast where the Forth lay glinting like a bolt of grey silk held in place by the great stud of the Bass Rock. Or was that the Isle of May I could see? Before I had decided I found myself past the Hemingboroughs’ place and turning away from the sea, around the bottom of the hill, to Easter Luckenlaw Farm beyond.
It was an agreeable spot. The square, grey farmhouse faced to the south with its long garden laid out before it and the yard and buildings, as was usual, tucked away behind out of sight. In the sunshine this afternoon, the drying green and vegetable patch inside the garden wall were a feast of cheerful ordinariness to my eyes and I thought I recognised from the Rural meeting of the evening before the woman who was busy at the washing-line, pressing the clothes against her lips to see if they were drying. I stopped and watched her for a while, hoping for her to notice me and let me strike up conversation in an unobtrusive way, but she was intent on her task, working her way along, smoothing, stretching and repegging the succession of petticoats, winter camisoles and knickers, woollen stockings and jerseys, all in strict order on the line. When she was finished, she turned to seize a stretching pole and spotted me at last. She nodded politely.
‘I hope the wind picks up for you,’ I said.
‘I doubt it will,’ she called back. ‘And the sun’ll be ahint the law soon enough.’ She gestured and following her pointing finger I could see she was right. The outline of the hill was already dazzling a little and it would not be long before the afternoon, here at least, was over.
‘I was at Mrs Hemingborough’s this morning,’ I called to her. ‘She has a contraption in her kitchen and she was ironing already.’
‘Aye well, she’s the lucky one,’ Mrs Palmer said, coming down the garden. She was a red-complexioned woman in her thirties, plain and rather severe in her dark dress and apron with her hair pinned tightly off her face, but there was a sturdy charm about the way she strode towards me and her face was frank and friendly-seeming. ‘Jimmy cannot stand wet cloots about his ears in his kitchen,’ she said. ‘I’ve seen it Thursday before it’s all pressed and away again wintertimes. But there, it’s best out here getting a blow about, isn’t it?’ We both looked at the washing, hanging straight down with not a wisp of a breeze to move it, and laughed.
‘It’s Mrs Gilver, is it not?’ Mrs Palmer said. ‘You’re a friend of the Howies?’
‘No!’ I blurted out, far too decisively for politeness. ‘A friend of the Taits.’ Mrs Palmer smiled broadly at me.
‘And so what can I do for you?’ she said, suggesting that any friend of the Taits was a friend of hers.
‘Well, yes, you can help me actually, as a matter of fact,’ I said, and cleared my throat. I was rather proud of my little plan and had further refined it while walking here, but as always when the moment came my heart was in my mouth. ‘As you know, I’m talking at the Rural next month on household budgets and rather than just spout on I thought it would be a splendid idea to find out what would be most useful to you. I mean, not just to you, you understand, but to everyone.’
Mrs Palmer was blinking at me, her mind clearly an absolute blank as I am sure mine would have been if someone had asked the same of me.
‘I don’t mean to put you on the spot,’ I assured her. ‘The idea was to come back in a few days perhaps and see what you’ve come up with. If anything. If you care to.’ I began, as I so often do, to babble. ‘I mean to say, things have been very different recently for all of us. Why even the ladies at Luckenlaw House were saying as much this morning. And farming, gosh. Farming is never the most… My husband farms and so I know.’
‘Well, as to the farm,’ said Mrs Palmer, ‘we’ve been lucky. I tell Jimmy that, time and again. There’s no need to go fussing and fretting. We’re fine as we are.’ I thought I could discern a kindred spirit here, for clearly ‘Jimmy’ was another Hugh and how I wished I could prevail upon him to stop ‘fussing and fretting’ about his farms.
‘And we should count wur blessings,’ Mrs Palmer went on. ‘The Hemingboroughs have had a terrible time with the blight down at Hinter Luck these last few years and I cannot begin to tell you the troubles over at the McAdams’. Some long fancy name for it, but fifty good cows dead and gone for dog meat was the upshot. And then there’s the kind of troubles, there’s just no name for.’ On that cryptic note she stopped at last, with a shudder.
‘It was more the household side of things really,’ I said hastily. That was bad enough, but I could not have worked sick cattle and blight into my address if my life depended on doing so.
‘If anything,’ Mrs Palmer said, ‘off the top of my head…’
‘Yes?’ I prompted, with real eagerness. For not only was this exercise in reconnaissance my cover story but also there was, actually, the talk. I had a month, it was true, but already every time I let my imagination stray towards it my mouth went dry.
‘I mean to say if it was my man you were asking…’ said Mrs Palmer, ‘but I’m not sure if that’s the kind of thing you mean…’