Shadows of Death (12 page)

‘Yes, I hadn’t forgotten that. I wish you could have talked to him about Fairweather’s motive.’

‘I left him a note. I think he’ll like it, once he has a moment to consider the matter. Money is a good solid incentive to murder, much better, one might think, than the fear of losing one’s property, especially such rundown and unproductive property as Andersen’s. And Fairweather is English. Yes, he’s respectable, and yes, he’s brought business and tourists to Orkney, but he’s a foreigner. That makes him almost as desirable a villain as poor old Andersen.’

‘Well, it’s a pity, either way. I didn’t care for Carter, at least the brief glimpse I had of him, but murder is the ultimate crime, the ultimate failure of civilisation. Murder of even the most despicable person is unspeakable, and Carter wasn’t that, by a long shot. That miserable Roadkill is more of a menace to society than Carter, and I don’t wish even him dead.’

Alan looked startled for a moment and then smiled. ‘Sorry, love, I didn’t hear the upper-case R at first. I agree about the menace, but I’m not sure the triumvirate would rank the cat lower on the scale than the capitalist. And speaking of the triumvirate, I hope Larsen is coming to tea, because now that I more or less have free rein, I’m eager to speak with him. Not to mention the fact that I bought enough carbohydrates to send us into sugar shock if we eat them all ourselves.’

‘He is. I had a bit of trouble convincing him, because he’s busy with some project at the university, but he succumbed to my famous charm. And I’m making scones and a few sandwiches to contribute to the feast. That’s why we’re having a salad for lunch.’

Alan took Watson for his afternoon walk, feeling a bit more capable than I of dealing with Roadkill, if necessary, while I fretted over what to say to Larsen. He wasn’t nearly as good a suspect as Fairweather, but I still wasn’t sure how to approach any questions about the murder. Ah, well, I had a good many questions about the dig, and archaeology in general, and doubtless Alan would help with the rest.

The scones turned out better than I’d dared hope, and Larsen arrived punctually at four, looking far more like a professor than a working archaeologist. He was both clean and tidy, and had gone so far as to put on a tie.

‘This is very kind of you, Mrs Nesbitt.’

‘Martin,’ I correctly automatically. ‘I kept my own name when Alan and I married. But I wish you’d call me Dorothy. Surnames are awfully formal. And we’re having our tea comfortably at the table, even if the sitting room is more proper. I hate balancing plates on my lap and dropping things on the floor.’

‘And Watson doesn’t need the goodies that he’d snap up before they even hit the floor,’ said Alan. He extended his hand. ‘It’s a pleasure to see you under less stressful circumstances, and conditions, than the last time.’

‘This is certainly more pleasant, in every sense. The dig is a marvellous place to be when the weather is good. When it isn’t, the wind and rain can scour off one’s skin. And of course … but we shouldn’t talk of the recent tragic events, I suppose.’

‘Not until we’ve had our tea, at any rate.’ I hoisted the teapot. ‘Milk, Mr Larsen? Sugar?’

‘Neither, thank you, and it’s Jim. I prefer informality, too.’

‘Good. Then please help yourself to anything you like, and then tell me about High Sanday. How was it discovered, for a start?’

In between bites of sandwiches and scones and little pastries, Larsen complied. ‘It was found in the usual way. Nothing dramatic like the storm that uncovered Skara Brae. A farmer was ploughing a field, and the plough ran into something so unyielding that it broke the ploughshare. The farmer wasn’t best pleased, of course, and when he got down to examine the damage, he saw the stones just under the surface.’

‘I’ve been wondering how often that happens, and the farmer ignores the whole thing and goes on about his business. Surely no one wants his land overrun by archaeologists. Look at Mr Andersen.’

Larsen uttered what would have been a guffaw if he hadn’t been so polite. ‘Andersen doesn’t really give a fig about his land. He’s bone lazy. He’s let that farm ruin itself for lack of maintenance. He’s just interested in screwing as much cash out of the Friends as he possibly can. That’s why it surprised us so much when he was arrested for killing Carter. One, he was too drunk that night to kill a fly, and two, with Carter gone he didn’t have a prayer of getting any money at all.’

‘But now he does,’ said Alan quietly.

‘I grant you that.’ Larsen finished spreading jam and clotted cream on a scone and took a bite. ‘These are heaven, Mrs – Dorothy. Yes, Alan, Carter will get his due now. No more than that. Or perhaps a bit more, just because he’s such a nuisance. But he couldn’t have known that before Carter died. No one had the least idea the man was going to leave us all that money.’

I swallowed the last of a smoked salmon sandwich and was careful not to look at Alan, who took up the questioning. ‘So you don’t think Andersen is our killer?’

‘The police thought so, to begin with, didn’t they? But now I hear they’ve let him go, so they must have doubts. Sensible of them. The man’s a lout, but I think he’s more bark than bite.’

‘Do you have any ideas about what happened, then?’

‘It certainly looked like an accident, didn’t it? Carter took a fall in the dark, hit a wall, it caved in on him. But there are problems with that scenario, too. What was he doing there at dead of night?’

‘I’d wondered that, too,’ I put in. ‘Surely he couldn’t have expected to see or do anything in the pitch dark.’

‘Well, of course it was never quite pitch dark, was it? That was the night of the solstice, and it was a lovely clear night. There were a few hours of twilight, that’s all.’

‘Oh, yes. Remember, Alan? We took Watson out when it was nearly eleven, and we could see perfectly well.’

‘Ye-es.’ Alan sounded doubtful. ‘But they think Carter died around two. That would be the darkest part of the night, surely. Was there a moon?’

‘Not much of one,’ I said eagerly. ‘I remember seeing that it was just a sliver.’

‘Well then, I still maintain it would have been too dark to see anything meaningful at High Sanday, and I don’t understand what the man was doing there.’ Alan ran a hand down the back of his neck.

‘He had a boat, didn’t he?’ I asked.

‘Oh, lord, yes. A huge, luxurious cabin cruiser with a galley and bar and God knows what. Named
Vanderbilt
, after the American tycoon. Carter used to boast that she could sleep six. “Eight, if they’re good friends,” he’d add. Nudge, nudge, wink, wink.’ Larsen finished his tea. ‘I’m sorry, but he was an odious man. I can’t feel much grief at his passing.’

‘But back to the boat, Jim. Oh, yes, I’ll have some too, love.’ Alan handed me his cup as I refilled Larsen’s. ‘I don’t remember seeing anything that big when we all converged on the island after Carter’s death.’

‘No. She wasn’t there. I told that police inspector, and I suppose they’re looking for her. She isn’t berthed at Kirkwall, either, because I looked. You can’t miss her, really.’

‘Goodness! That’s important! I hope the police find it – her. There might be some important evidence on board. Did he have a driver – er, pilot?’

‘No, he fancied himself as a boatman and carried no crew. Of course, when he gave a party he’d hire someone to cater, while he swaggered about in a yachting cap and blazer.’

‘But no pilot who could have taken the boat away,’ Alan mused. ‘So how did he get to Papa Sanday?’

‘Obviously someone else took him there,’ I said. ‘Someone who owns a boat. At least, I wouldn’t want to hire a boat if I were planning to kill someone, would you?’

‘Never having planned to kill someone, I couldn’t say.’ Larsen was looking at me rather oddly. ‘You must be – er – a reader of crime novels.’

‘I am,’ I admitted. ‘The Golden Age, mostly. I do love Miss Marple and Lord Peter and the rest.’ I shut my mouth firmly and smiled. Let Alan tell him there was a little more to my interest in crime. Or his, for that matter.

‘And I,’ Alan said with a grin, ‘am a retired policeman. I thought I might as well tell you, since you’d probably find out anyway. You’re good at digging, aren’t you?’

‘Passably. Also fairly good at a synthesis. Am I to conclude that you are investigating Carter’s murder, and view me as a possible murderer?’ He gestured at the tea things. ‘Was this not quite the friendly, innocent invitation you would have had me believe?’

I chose to answer that. ‘You’re right, in part. We are investigating the crime, originally at Mr Fairweather’s behest. He felt that a man with Alan’s experience might have a few more ideas than the local police. My husband is too modest to tell you that he was a chief constable for some years. I don’t know exactly what that’s equivalent to in the Scottish ranks, but—’

‘Never mind. I get the idea. But you said “we” are investigating?’

‘I’ve assisted Alan from time to time, in a purely amateur capacity, so yes, it’s “we”. And as for the invitation, we wanted to get to know you better, and I for one have lots of questions about the dig. So do you think we could leave the subject of murder for a while? I’ll brew another pot of tea, and we’ll finish all these sinful things and just talk.’

The kitchen and dining area were really one, so I went on talking as I put the kettle on. ‘The first thing I want to know is, how in the world do you determine the age of an artefact, or even its use? I mean, a piece of stone could be an axe head or a tool for working leather, or even just an oddly shaped stone. How do you know?’

‘We don’t, of course. Well, the age part is fairly easy, given carbon dating. Where in the dig something is found is also an indispensable indicator, it being a reasonable assumption that in most cases, the deeper we go, the earlier we go. So dating is more-or-less straightforward.

‘The usage questions are much harder. We can’t get back there into the heads of the people who made that tool, or, as you surmise, even be absolutely sure it was a tool at all. All we can do is make an educated guess. If we can see that the stone has certainly been worked, shaped by a human hand, then it’s reasonable to assume that it had a use. Again, we can’t go back there and ask, but when the only tool you have to work a stone is a harder piece of stone, you probably don’t go to the trouble just to make it pretty. So that part’s fairly easy. As for use, we make guesses the same way you would if you went into a shop and saw a tool you didn’t know, with a head, two flat planes on that head, and a longish handle. You’d conclude it was a hammer or mallet of some sort, right?’

‘And the label that said “Sledgehammer, four pounds ninety” would help, too.’

Both the men laughed at that. ‘Well, your identification task would be a little easier than ours, I agree. Thank you,’ added Larsen, as I poured his tea.

‘I do take your point, though. Once my first husband and I – oh, years ago now – we walked into a hardware store that carried a lot of other stuff, kitchen gadgets and the like. I picked up something and asked him what he thought it was. Neither of us could imagine, and neither could two of the clerks we asked. Finally someone told us it was a ravioli cutter. Now, never having made ravioli in my life, I couldn’t possibly have guessed. And I’ll bet you have some of the same difficulties. As you say, you didn’t live then. Surely many of their chores were quite different from ours. So how do you work out the puzzle when you come across something that would have no modern use?’

‘That’s where the education part comes in. We rely a lot on research done by other archaeologists. Of course their conclusions are based on educated guesses, too, so …’ He spread his hands and we laughed. ‘In all seriousness, though, it’s a fascinating job, this business of identification, and I’m sure we don’t always get it right. But …’

He trailed off. I cocked my head.

‘I’m sure you’ll think this next bit is pure make-believe, a children’s fantasy,’ he went on diffidently, ‘but it’s actually quite true, and any archaeologist will tell you, that sometimes we just … know. I’ll pick up a tool and … oh, no, it sounds too absurd.’

‘Not to me,’ I said. ‘You hold it in your hand, and you do go back. For a moment you’re the man, or woman, who used that tool thousands of years ago. And you
know
.’

‘It isn’t something I often admit to a layman,’ he said drily. ‘And if you ask me about it in public I’ll deny I ever said such a thing. How did you know what I was going to say?’

‘Because I’ve felt it, too. Here in these islands one isn’t quite living in the twenty-first century. The people who lived at Skara Brae and the ones who put up the standing stones, they’re all still here, somehow. Not ghosts, I don’t mean that exactly. I guess I don’t know what I do mean, but I’ve felt the living presence of antiquity ever since I came here.’ I looked around the very modern kitchen, with its electric stove and dishwasher and fridge, its spotless white cabinets and the sleek modern chairs we were sitting on. ‘And if that doesn’t make any sense, and I admit it doesn’t, then at least I’m glad I’m in good company.’

‘My wife,’ said Alan blandly, ‘is acutely tuned in to the universe.’

‘Oh, for Pete’s sake, Alan, that makes me sound like some New Age type, instead of a plain ordinary Anglican. Speaking of which, I don’t suppose there’s an Anglican church around here, is there, Jim? I think I remember that almost everyone in this neck of the woods is Presbyterian, am I right?’

‘We call it Church of Scotland, but yes, most of us are what you Americans call Presbyterian or Calvinist. But there are at least two Episcopal churches – that’s what it’s known as here – one in Stromness and one in Kirkwall, though I don’t suppose you’d want to go that far.’ He gave us directions, and then stood. ‘This has been delightful, but duty calls. I have to go and mark papers from one of my classes of dunderheads. Thank you for inviting me. If you’re staying in Orkney for a few days, I’d like to show you over the dig, when the police let us have it back.’

We made vague promises to the vague invitation, Jim slipped Watson the last sandwich, and we closed the door behind him.

‘W
ell,’ said Alan. ‘Productive? Or not?’