This scene of domesticity did appear to calm Morag down, and finally, duster in hand, she made her way upstairs to do the bedrooms.
Later, when both Ross and Morag – still muttering to herself – had gone home, Ally walked down to the shop. On the way, she decided to see what she could find out at the temporary police station, but the constable at the door was the height of discretion.
‘No, Detective Inspector Kandahar is not here today,’ he said firmly.
‘Any idea when he might be back?’ Ally asked hopefully.
‘I’m afraid not. He’s questioning a suspect.’
‘What, here in Locharran?’ Ally asked, knowing full well that he wasn’t.
‘No, madam, in Fort William.’ He pursed his lips and Ally knew that she’d get no more out of him, so she walked on to the shop.
As might be expected, there was a cluster of women around the counter, all talking at the same time. Queenie motioned them to be silent when she saw Ally approach.
‘Ah!’ she exclaimed. ‘Here comes Mrs McAlly!’
‘Her name’s McKinley!’ said Mrs Jamieson, the earl’s cook, who was one of the crowd.
‘I’m Ally McKinley, but Queenie got a little confused whenI suggested she use my Christian name,’ Ally said by way of explanation, well aware that this was still unlikely to register with Queenie.
‘Well, at least poor Angus is off the hook,’ Mrs Jamieson said, going back to their conversation. ‘The police were all over the place for a couple of hours after the break-in was reported, and then Angus came into the kitchen and said he was needin’ a cup of tea when they were done making him fill out all that paperwork. We gave him a wee drop of whisky in it to make him feel better, and then he had a few more and fell fast asleep! We had to wake him up at six o’clock because we had to get started on the dinner.’
‘We were just sayin’,’ said Queenie, ‘that they’ve taken away poor Micky McConnachie and arrested him! But ye’ll know that, won’t you, what with Morag workin’ up at the malthouse?’
‘So far as I know they’re just questioning him,’ Ally said, picking up a box of teabags.
‘Aye, but he’s forever gettin’ drunk and sayin’ daft things,’ said a woman with golden curls framing her old, wrinkled face.
‘He’s almost as daft as yersel’ with that wig!’ exclaimed a younger woman with a green beret.
‘Nothin’ wrong with my wig!’ protested Golden Curls.
‘Except that it’s meant for a twenty-year-old,’ said the woman with the green beret.
‘Which is absolutely none of your damn business!’ snapped Golden Curls. ‘But we live just across the road, and we saw itall, so we did! Him shoutin’ and screamin’ and the wife and kids howlin’ and cryin’…’
‘How’s Morag takin’ it?’ Mrs Jamieson asked.
‘Well, she’s naturally upset,’ Ally admitted.
‘You know what?’ said Mrs Jamieson. ‘Morag and Murdo McConnachie brought up a real good Christian family who knows right from wrong!’
Ally nodded, desperate to pay for her teabags and get out of there.
‘Unfortunately,’ continued Mrs Jamieson, ‘sometimes the demon drink takes over!’ She raised her eyes to heaven.
‘Aye, but the French have a word for that,’ said Green Beret.
‘I daresay they do,’ snapped Mrs Jamieson. ‘They have a word for most things!’
‘What about the Auld Alliance?’ asked Golden Curls, apropos of nothing.
‘You’re probably thinking of “in vino veritas”,’ Ally said helpfully, ‘which only means that alcohol can loosen the tongue.’
‘Aye, that’s right,’ said Golden Curls, ‘and that’s no’ French, that’s Latin! Anyway, poor Micky’ll no’ be guilty.’
‘But he was awful mad about Armstrong winnin’ everythin’,’ Queenie pointed out.
