A Kind of Grief by A. D. Scott Page B

Miss Ramsay was doing . . .” Calum hesitated. “It was rumored that girls who wanted rid of their babies could go to her for help.”
    â€œWas there evidence of that?”
    â€œNo,” Calum said, “but that didn’t make the stories go away.”
    â€œThe defense witnesses, tell me about them.” Joanne needed to hear the positives of Alice’s trial.
    â€œMr. Dougald Forsythe.” Calum grinned. “He took up so much time no further witnesses were called. A right bit of entertainment he turned out to be. But first up was Mrs. Galloway telling everyone what a good person Miss Ramsay was. How Miss Ramsay looked out for her old mother, made her smile, how she’d made tea that was good for the nerves—calmed her mother right down, Mrs. Galloway said. Next and last was Mr. Forsythe.” Calum paused. “I told you about his testimony, how he annoyed the sheriff an’ all.”
    â€œI know,” Joanne said. “It’s just that I’m trying to find how—”
    â€œHow it connects with her death?”
    â€œHow it could lead to her death.”
    â€œNo idea.” Calum then recounted how Forsythe had first made sure his name was spelled right. Then he’d had the ushers set up an easel with the drawing of a bird skeleton and a bird’s wing. Then he’d made certain the sheriff had the portfolio of numbered references to hand.
    â€œI hope this won’t take long,” the sheriff told him. Forsythe paid no heed.
    â€œHe went on and on,” Calum said. “Boring everyone wi’ lectures about art and the like, mostly talking about himself and how much he knows. Didn’t go down too well with the locals, being called ignoramuses.”
    â€œAnd she was found not guilty.”
    â€œAye. Only took Sheriff Anderson a few minutes to decide.”
    â€œThanks, Calum.” In spite of the verdict, Joanne knew, as Alice probably did, in the eyes of some she would always be guilty.
    â€œHow does knowing about the trial help?” he asked.
    It was Joanne’s turn to say, “No idea.”

C HAPTER 7

    A lice decides to re-hang the skeleton drawing, this time above the sideboard where she keeps the crockery. After the derision the small delicate bird skeleton sketch had caused in the courtroom it felt tainted by the memory.
    Every time I need a cup or a plate, every time I look across, it will remind me I was once the best, she tells herself. Here in the glens, no one knows how valuable my talent made me, how they sought me out, asking for my help, because I was the best of the best.
    Of course, when he asked, I said yes, without thinking of all the ramifications. I have to admit I was flattered. I never thought this one small favor could be so disastrous.
    She hammers the picture hook in without measuring, her eye sure.
    Alice notices the light darken, and seeing the purple bruise across the skyline, she knows that one of the frequent fierce cloudbursts typical of the glens is imminent. A bird is huddling on the windowsill. She opens the kitchen door to throw out a crust. But the sparrow has flown.
    She steps out, gathers an armful of logs. A flash—she counts the seconds to the thunder-roll, watching as the storm moves towards the mountains. Something moving on the edge of the Forestry plantation registers in the corner of her eye. Another crash of thunder startles her. And the dog; he hates thunder.
    She looks again but sees nothing. “Probably some deer,” she tells the Skye terrier. Deer hate thunder too.

    The weather had been abysmal for days—sky collapsed, drained of color, no wind, no breaks in the suffocating canopy of persistent rain.
    Joanne was trying to write at the kitchen table; keeping two fires burning in two rooms was too hard. In these dreich days, fetching coal and logs from the shed chilled her, making her fear in her weakened state she’d catch a cold. The kitchen