Publisher's Weekly Review
Scott's solid sixth novel set in 1950s Scotland (after 2014's The Low Road) revolves around enigmatic artist and herbalist Alice Ramsay, who lives in deliberate seclusion on an isolated Highlands estate and has been accused and acquitted of witchcraft. Scenting a story, freelance journalist Joanne Ross feels an immediate kinship with the older woman when she takes the three-hour drive to make an unannounced visit, but Alice severs all communication after Joanne inadvertently violates her privacy by leaking details of her life to the national press. When the artist is later found hanged in her barn, Joanne's guilt drives her to probe the verdict of suicide. With her second husband, newspaper editor John McAllister, she buys some of Alice's paintings and papers, among which appears to be coded information. Scott ably integrates the period's Cold War intrigues into a story about the power of small communities both to sustain and to sabotage lives. Agent: Peter McGuigan, Foundry Literary + Media. (Oct.) © Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved.
Kirkus Review
A woman's feelings of guilt over the death of someone she admired enmesh her in a dangerous search for the truth.Joanne Ross still suffers from low self-esteem caused by a bullying father, an abusive former husband, and a near-death experience at the hands of a colleague. Now married to John McAllister, editor of the Highland Gazette, she's given up her job, but not her curiosity, to stay home with her two girls and work on a novel. In 1959, life in the Scottish Highlands remains old-fashioned in many ways, so Joanne's not entirely surprised to read about a woman tried and acquitted for witchcraft. Determined to write an article about the woman, Alice Ramsay, she sets off for Sutherland. Alice is an artist in her late 40s, and though she tells Joanne that she doesn't want an article written about her, she kindly invites her into her house for tea. Joanne is enchanted by the ambiance of her cottage and the quality of Alice's artwork. Unfortunately, a colleaguethe local art criticcajoles Joanne into speaking unwisely. When he publishes a story about the witch trial, with details about Alice's house that only Joanne could have known, Alice is furious and refuses to speak to her again. Then Alice is found dead, an apparent suicide, though Joanne is convinced there's more to the story. She and McAllister buy some of Alice's paintings, sketches, and books at the auction of her property, a purchase that brings them afoul of one of Britain's secret agencies, desperate to regain its reputation after the Burgess/Maclean case has made them a laughingstock. Although they're threatened with the Official Secrets Act, McAllister, anxious to see Joanne become whole again, does not demur when she stubbornly insists on investigating Alice's background and tries to find what the nameless secret agency is so desperate to hide. Scott (The Low Road, 2014, etc.) skillfully uses the beauty of the Highlands as a backdrop for an entrancing mystery whose characters repeatedly and pleasurably upstage its action. Copyright Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.
Booklist Review
*Starred Review* The sixth mystery in Scott's Highland Gazette series goes far afield, both to the far north of Scotland and back to the remnants of witch-hunting. Series heroine Joanne Ross has developed quite a bit over the span covering the early to late 1950s. In the debut novel, A Small Death in the Great Glen (2010), Ross had a precarious hold on the world, having recently fled an abusive husband and obtained a job as a part-time typist at the Highland Gazette. Over the last few novels, she has gained in confidence, moving from typist to journalist. Now, Ross is married to her editor, no longer in the newsroom, and eager to write a book. When she learns that a woman artist in the far north has been accused of, and tried for, witchcraft, Ross travels north to interview the woman and, later, reveals details about the woman's cottage and paintings, which an unscrupulous art critic publicizes. The woman is found hanged in her cottage, and Ross, trying to assuage her guilt, investigates the woman's life. A marvelous series of twists and turns follows. Series readers will miss the deadline frenzy and in-house printing press pounding in the Highland Gazette offices, but this is still a riveting read starring one of the genre's most entertaining new leads.--Fletcher, Connie Copyright 2015 Booklist
Library Journal Review
Joanne Ross is a modern woman in 1950s Scotland. When she sees a headline about a woman charged with witchcraft, the freelance writer can't resist the urge to investigate. After meeting the accused, Alice Ramsay, Joanne inadvertently reveals private details about Alice to another journalist. Soon after, Alice is found dead. Wracked with guilt but convinced someone from the woman's past played a part in her death, Joanne can't seem to accept what everyone else accepts as fact. VERDICT In Scott's sixth series outing (after The Low Road) masterly storytelling weaves a complex plot while vivid details add authenticity to the setting and bring characters to life. Joanne is expertly portrayed as a woman wanting to find her own place in a society that isn't quite ready for her, while her husband is a man ahead of his time. Despite the beautiful writing and characterizations, the book's conclusion fails to connect several minor plot lines to the main story. Still, series fans will enjoy.-Vicki Briner, Westminster, CO © Copyright 2015. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.
Excerpts
A Kind of Grief CHAPTER 1 Joanne Ross remembered the morning she'd first encountered the name Alice Ramsay. As she'd unwrapped a halved cabbage she'd bought at the market, the veins and cells and hollows had thrown up an image of a brain, making her shudder, making her hand stray to the scar above her left ear. But she'd snatched it away. Leave it alone. It's still healing. She'd been terrified she would never recover, never be herself again. But in increasingly frequent optimistic moments, she'd decided it was no bad thing to have lost part of her old self. That same day--four days after she'd posted the manuscript--she'd started a vigil for the postman. In the idle waiting moments, she'd smoothed out the crumpled newspaper the cabbage had been wrapped in. "Woman Accused of Witchcraft." The headline was large, the article a quarter of a page of the newspaper that covered Sutherland and Caithness in the far north of Scotland. It was a newspaper she had never come across before. Then again, why would she? The northernmost counties consisted of a strip of small towns on the eastern side and inhospitable mountains and glens and peat bogs stretching westwards and northwards, with only two major roads connecting them to the south. News from there was scant and uninteresting--unless you were of the Scottish diaspora researching the ancestors. Joanne scanned the first few lines. She didn't recognize the name of the accused woman. Probably a poor old soul who makes home potions, has a black cat, and has crossed some local worthies, therefore is branded a witch, Joanne was thinking. Heaven help anyone who is different in these parts. She knew this from bitter experience. Although newly remarried, she understood that the stain of being a divorced woman could never be eradicated. Plus, she wore trousers. The cabbage, balanced on the rounded side of the table, fell splat to the floor. Joanne jumped. The chair legs screeched on stone. Some witch has cursed the cabbage. Then she laughed at herself. But the fright had shaken her. And reminded her that even now, superstition was all too common in the Highlands of Scotland. Next day, the headline and the cabbage still haunting her, she went to the library and took out two books. One was a history of witches and witch trials, the other a more general book on Scottish lore, The Silver Bough. "I liked thon story o' yours in the magazine," the middle-aged woman with the unlikely marmalade hair color said as she checked out the library books. "I'd love to marry a man wi' a castle--as long as it has heating." "Thank you." Joanne smiled, but her cheeks were burning in embarrassment. And as she walked down Castle Wynd, past the Highland Gazette offices where her editor husband was putting together that week's edition, Joanne Ross--now McAllister, but as yet the married name hadn't stuck--dreamed of writing a book. One book was enough; becoming a writer was too lofty an ambition. She gave herself little credit for the acceptance of six short stories in the Scottish romance genre by a well-known ladies' magazine. But one book--that she felt she could do. Witchcraft was intriguing, and history was her passion, and it was a topic that would rile the locals, this being a town of many churches. But the oft-felt ghost of her father whispered, Who do you think you are? You'll never amount to anything. She shivered. Shaking her thick chestnut hair, she pulled a headscarf with a print of Paris landmarks from her bag and tied it under her chin. Autumn in Scotland was capricious--one minute southern sunshine, the next Arctic winds. But she knew it wasn't the cold making her shiver. Grow up, she told herself. There's no such thing as ghosts and witches. "McAllister," she said to her husband, "there's a woman in Sutherland accused of being a witch. Would a story like that be right for the Gazette?" They were at the kitchen table, and as usual, he was reading the morning newspapers. "Absolutely. Nothing sells newspapers like a bit of controversy. But I'll let you deal with the letters to the editor from the Holy Jo brigade, as I'd throw them in the bin." He smiled at her. She smiled back but had an uncomfortable thought that her new husband would be enthusiastic about almost everything she suggested. "Witches," said Annie, "Great. I love stories about real witches." "Don't know about real," Joanne replied to her elder daughter. "When people call a woman a witch, it's . . ." Here she stopped; to explain the viciousness of small-town gossip to a twelve-year-old was not appropriate. But she had an idea that her daughter already knew that. Having a father who had deserted them and a twice-married working mother, the girl had overheard more than enough from the fishwives of the town. "I'll follow it up," Joanne said. Then, seeing the time on the gold watch McAllister had bought her as a wedding gift, she started the usual morning shepherding-children-out-the door-to-school routine. When she had the house to herself, she started making notes. Her handwriting had suffered after years as a typist, and the scrawl in her notepad offended her. But later, sitting back, rereading the opening sentences, the jottings of notes, she felt a tug of real interest in the idea. And it had been many months since she had been interested in much. Yes, she thought, McAllister was right. Witches were an antiquated notion in the soon-to-be-1960s. Might make an amusing short story, though. The Sutherland newspaper had been five days out of date when she'd read it, but she knew that for the locals, the story would still be fresh. Probably even less happened up there than down here. She telephoned and asked for the chief reporter. "Sutherland Courier." It was a male voice. Young. "Yes, I covered the trial. I'm Calum Mackenzie, senior reporter." He didn't say he was the one and only full-time reporter, but having worked on the local newspaper, Joanne assumed this. She explained. He listened. "Oh, aye, the trial made a big commotion up here. Went on for two days, and everyone was talking about it." "My idea is to do a longer piece--the background, the trial, the verdict, belief in witchcraft in the twentieth century . . . you know." Eager for a chance at the bigger time, Calum replied, "I think I can see where you're coming from, and I don't think there'll be a problem. Of course, I'll have to ask my editor first. Give me your number. Right, Joanne Ross, Highland Gazette. Thanks. Be in touch." When, two days later, Joanne received newspaper clippings covering the trial and a summary from Calum Mackenzie, she called again, asked a few more questions, and asked if he would mind if she used his report. "We can share a byline," she said. Calum was delighted. "You should come up and visit," he said, as they wound down the conversation. "Maybe meet Miss Alice Ramsay. Even though she's older--she's my mother's age--she's an interesting woman. Different. And she's an artist." Joanne heard the implication that older women were not often interesting and smiled. She also heard the emphasis on artist, as though being an artist indicated louche behavior and made it more likely that Alice was up to no good. "I don't know the far northeast coast of Scotland," Joanne replied, "but in the summer, I went camping in Portmahomack and couldn't miss the monument above Golspie." "The statue to the Duke. The Big Mannie, us locals call it, him up there lording it above us all for dozens o' miles around." "Maybe I will come up someday. It'd be nice to explore a different part of the Highlands." He told her if she did visit, she should give him a call and he would show her around. Then he went back to writing a piece on the price of sheep at the local livestock auctions, and she went back to thinking about witches past--and perhaps present. Next morning, Joanne was again waiting for the postman. Again at the kitchen table, she straightened out the newspaper cutting to reread the story. She jotted down "To Do" notes: Interview Calum Mackenzie of local paper. Interview the woman Alice RAMSAY??? Check spelling. Talk to someone re the trial. Local police? Procurator fiscal's office? The clock in the hallway chimed ten. No mail. Not for the first time, she wanted to smash that clock, knew she wouldn't, knew she did not even have the courage to stop the pendulum; any explanation would seem ridiculous, especially to her elder daughter, whose constant "why?" exasperated her mother. Thank goodness for McAllister--he always has an answer. She pushed her notebook across the table, opened the folder with two stories she was working on, glanced at the first page, and closed the folder. She thought of making another cup of tea. Didn't. She thought of all the ironing. But didn't move. Maybe I should stick to light romance. But I want to impress him, show him I can do more. She knew she was being unfair, attributing thoughts to her husband, who was always encouraging. But he was a journalist, a former war correspondent, respected in the publishing and newspaper industry. He was a reader of books with words even he occasionally had to look up in a dictionary. And although she would never acknowledge the thought, he intimidated her with his worldliness. "You give people pleasure," he'd said when, yet again, she'd made light of her own modest success. She couldn't accept that, longing instead to write serious, intellectual work; articles, essays, a short story--anything that he would admire and be proud of. But, she reminded herself, what filled her imagination and what came out of her fingertips did not often match. "McAllister," she said to her husband, "the woman I was telling you about . . ." He looked up from his newspaper. The headline was once again about the upcoming general election. A Labour man, as was most of Scotland, McAllister feared the Tory Twits, as he called them, might win. She saw the question in the raised eyebrow. "The woman in Sutherland they're calling a witch?" "Oh, aye?" "I was thinking I might go up there, maybe interview her." "Great idea." He loved stirring up controversy. "Take the car. Maybe ask someone to go with you . . ." "I'm fine by myself." That came out harsher than intended. She smiled. "I'll set off early, and I promise I'll look after your precious car." That was unfair. McAllister had no pride in cars. Or in much else in the way of possessions, except books and gramophone records. "Mum, I could take a day off school and come with you," Annie offered. "Stop fussing. All of you." Her eyes felt hot and she blinked away unshed tears. "Sorry. Maybe I'll just see if I can interview her on the phone." "Can I have more custard?" Jean asked. Seeing the anxiety in her younger daughter's eyes, Joanne apologized. "Sorry, I didn't mean to snap." Later that night, before going to bed and abandoning McAllister to his book and a jazz record she found too discordant a background for her reading, she again apologized. "Sorry. It's just I don't like fuss." "I know. But it's a long drive, and . . ." He was about to say I worry about you. Didn't, appreciating it would upset her. Instead he told her the deeper truth. "I couldn't bear anything to happen to you ever again." "Me neither." He nodded. She hesitated. "Night night." "Sleep tight." A particularly tortured passage of free-form saxophone began. She grimaced. Then fled. Whereas her husband was a reluctant driver, Joanne was a natural. It was indeed a long drive, skirting around two firths, navigating through the twists and bends of the landscape, but the solitude, the warmth--like being snuggled up in a linen cupboard with clean washing--opened up thoughts and fancies and songs. A bonnie singer, she drew inspiration from the hills and rivers and the North Sea. On the three-hour drive, through song after song, mostly Scottish apart from an attempt at an aria from Don Giovanni, she sang loudly, and with no passenger to chide her, she would occasionally steer with one hand, making operatic gestures with the other. After crossing the Dornoch Firth and into Sutherland at Bonar Bridge, the town was a short distance farther. Parking in the Cathedral Square as Calum Mackenzie had advised, she walked to the newspaper office, asked for him, and was offered a cup of tea by a young woman who looked like she should still be at school. Joanne was about to say yes, when Calum arrived. She was taken by his outdoors-in-all-weather tanned face, his smile, but taken aback at his short stature. Everything about Calum was miniature. She fancied he would fit into the school uniform of a twelve-year-old. His sandy-colored hair, in kinks no wind would ever ruffle, could have been set with a curling iron. But it was his eyes, kind and considerate eyes, that made her immediately like him and trust him. "Mrs. Ross." He held out his hand. "It's Mrs. McAllister, actually." She shook his hand back. "But I thought you were . . ." He was checking the small foyer for another woman. "Sorry." She knew she was blushing and hated it. "Yes, I'm Joanne Ross, but I'm also a McAllister, and . . ." "You have a pen name. Me too. But mine's a secret, and only for when I'm pretending I'm a real writer." She almost said, me too. "Maybe you are a real writer." "One day." They were smiling at each other now, comfortable. "Listen," he said, "there's a wee tea shop I go to--full of old ladies, usually--but it should be quiet now. Not that you're an old lady . . ." "Lead on, Mr. Mackenzie." "After you, Miss Ross." "Joanne. We're colleagues, after all." That did it. Calum Mackenzie became devoted to Joanne Ross. He remained so for years, long after what he later thought of as "the old days," when the so-called witch's trial was consigned to distant memory. And history. Over a pot of tea and cheese scones, then a second pot of tea, Calum told Joanne of the trial before the sheriff of Miss Alice Ramsay. His account was confusing. He started in the middle part of the trial, reliving the most memorable moments of a witness the likes of whom Calum had never before encountered. "Calling in thon art expert did Miss Ramsay no good at all. Many of the locals, the police, the procurator fiscal, and aye, the sheriff included, were none too pleased at being shown up for teuchters. Only Mrs. Ogilvie, the district nurse, enjoyed the professor's testimony." He saw Joanne's bewilderment and said, "Sorry, got it back to front, haven't I?" He had, but his mother's constant indignation at the not guilty verdict and her implication that Miss Ramsay had tricked the court were most fresh in his mind. "You know how I wrote that Miss Ramsay was accused of giving thon poor woman"--his mother's words again--"the herb tea that made her lose her baby?" Joanne nodded, not interrupting but with encouraging nods and the occasional "aye." Letting people tell the tale in their own way, listening to what they said rather than waiting for a pause to put in her opinion, was a talent Joanne had, a talent that made her a good journalist. Calum continued, "Most of the case was about what the police found when they came to interview her at her house up the glen: skulls and animal skeletons, birds' eggs--some still in their wee nests--loads of flowers and leaves hanging from the clothes pulley above the kitchen stove. For teas and herbal remedies, she told the court. And it was a tea--raspberry leaf, she said--that got her into trouble. It is an abort--" Joanne saw him struggle with the word. Whether from embarrassment or because he did not know the correct pronunciation was not clear. "Abortifacient," she said. After having read the word earlier, she'd looked it up in the dictionary. "Aye, that. But Nurse Ogilvie testified the woman had previously lost two babies." "Poor soul." "Then the art expert, he told the court about thon painter mannie Leonardo and some ancient called Culpepper or something like that. He brought art books to prove it. Aye, the professor really got up the noses of the folk there. I only caught a glimpse of Miss Ramsay's drawings and pictures that they showed in court. I've seen a painting of hers, a nice big one, she donated to the local Old People's Home. Right professional her work looks. Even the sheriff thought so." The town clock struck one. Calum knew his mother would have had his dinner on the table at twelve thirty, and it would take days to placate her, his being this late. "Sorry, I have to go, but it's all here in my report." "One final thing--a map to Miss Ramsay's farm?" "Not that she'll see you," he said as he tore a sheet from his reporter's notebook. "And not that it's really a farm anymore. Most of the land was sold to the Forestry Commission when her family gave up the big estate and the castle. Here. It's easy. But the track has seen better days, so watch out for your sump." "I will, and thanks." "If you end up needing a tow, my father has the local garage. Here's his number. Not that Miss Ramsay has a telephone, but there's a phone box at the turnoff." He stood, saying, "Tea's on me--expenses." She knew he was trying to impress her, and accepted. "Thank you." Saying "Good luck with Miss Ramsay" and "Nice meeting you" and "Be in touch," he almost ran out the door of the tea shop, taking a shortcut through the cathedral graveyard, knowing his mother would harp on about his lateness for the rest of the week. I was about to call the police was one of her catchphrases whenever her son was more than five minutes late for anything. Joanne sat in the car studying Calum's map, then drove to the main road and the few miles to the turnoff for Alice Ramsay's home in the high glen. "I'm dying to meet this mysterious artist," she said to herself, "even if she's not a real witch." Excerpted from A Kind of Grief by A. D. Scott All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.