Shadows of Death (2 page)

‘Two large Jack Daniels, please,’ said Alan to the barman. ‘And some nuts or crisps or whatever you have in the way of snacks.’

‘Right you are, mate,’ said the man in a voice straight from London. ‘And would the lady like some ice?’

I’ve given up trying to figure out how I am still instantly recognizable as an American, before I even open my mouth. I’ve lived in England for years. I buy my clothes here. What little make-up I wear comes from Boots. I even wear hats. I sighed. ‘No ice, thank you, just a very little water.’

The bourbon helped. The crisps didn’t do much to allay our hunger, but the barman offered a plate of smoked salmon, which did take the edge off. Although it was scandalously early, we went on in to dinner and worked our way through a solid meal, satisfying if somewhat unimaginative. Then, without so much as an exchange of glances to confirm our decision, we went up to our room.

‘Not the evening to explore York,’ I said as I got into a flannel nightgown. It was still light outside, a wet, depressing sort of half-light glimpsed through the rain that coursed down the window panes.

‘No,’ Alan agreed. ‘One of the benefits of old age is that one can go to bed in the daylight without apology to anyone.’

‘Amen to that,’ I said with a yawn. ‘Watson, move over. I’m allowed some of the bed.’ I yawned again. ‘I don’t think I’m even going to unpack my book. Good night.’

‘Good night, love. A better day tomorrow.’

But it wasn’t much better. The rain continued. We thought half-heartedly about a walk through the Shambles, the somewhat self-consciously quaint part of Old York, or a brief tour of the Minster. On a nice day both those things would have been high on my to-do list. In the rain, with another long drive ahead of us, not so much. An early start seemed the better idea. We were making today for Edinburgh, where, the TV weatherman said, the sun would be shining.

Weathermen lie as often as cats.

We did pass through some sunny patches of pretty country on our way north, rolling hills dotted with sheep in the delightful English manner. Watson, who apparently has some sheep dog in his eclectic mixture, wanted to chase them and sulked when we wouldn’t let him. I began to think about ‘England’s green and pleasant land’. Except by then we were, I thought, in Scotland, whose residents would not have been happy about the quotation. We stopped for lunch at a pub where the accents confirmed my guess. The rain began again, harder than ever, just as we were heading back to the car where we’d left our brollies. Watson waited until we were safe in the car to shake himself dry.

At least the traffic abated as we ventured farther and farther north. It was bad around Edinburgh, of course, but once we found our hotel and settled in, we wouldn’t have to drive any more until morning. The rain had slackened to a mere drizzle by the time we’d fed Watson and unpacked the necessities for a one-night stay.

‘What do you say, Dorothy? Shall we venture out?’

‘Definitely. I haven’t seen Edinburgh in years, and besides, I’m tired of being cooped up. Two long days in a car without a walk have left my joints stiff as old leather.’

Watson heard the magic word ‘walk’ and was ecstatic. He was usually happy about whatever his humans wanted to do, but a walk was high on his list of favourites. He’d get wet, of course, but not drenched. We decided to take him along.

Our hotel, the Glass House, was a few streets away from the centre of town, but a short walk brought us to Princes Street, what I would, back in Indiana, have called ‘the main drag’.

The street had changed since I’d seen it last, or maybe my memories had painted it in brighter colours. No city looks its best in the rain. But certainly there hadn’t been huge holes in the street when I was there last, nor had the sound of pneumatic drills poisoned the air. ‘What on earth?’ I shouted to Alan above the din. He shrugged, but a passer-by answered me. ‘New rail line to the airport,’ he shouted. ‘Bloody nuisance!’

Well, at the moment it was all of that. The construction added to the dirt I hadn’t noticed in earlier visits, rubbish blowing about and gathering in corners. Traffic was crawling snail-like, spewing fumes into the already rain-saturated atmosphere. Even pedestrians were finding it hard going, with many of the sidewalks (pavements, in Brit-speak) closed, and the streets slippery with mud.

But when the inevitable jostlings occurred, everyone was polite about it. And the Castle still loomed at the top of its amazing hill, protecting or threatening the city, depending on one’s point of view.

‘It’s changed,’ I said to Alan when we had moved away from Princes Street and I could make myself heard. ‘But it’s still a great city, isn’t it?’

Alan smiled and squeezed my arm. I paused to try to wipe off Watson’s muddy paws (which he didn’t appreciate), and we sauntered on happily under our umbrellas.

When hunger began to be an issue, we looked around for a cab back to the hotel, but decided in the end that we’d get there just as quickly on foot. That was when our noses led us to a very nice Indian restaurant, where we had a leisurely meal (leaving poor Watson to languish outside) and then discovered, to our delight, that the theatre across the street was playing
Oliver
. So we established Watson back in the hotel room, spent a pleasant evening at the theatre, and then got a good night’s sleep to prepare for what promised to be a long day.

The actual distance from Edinburgh to Aberdeen isn’t that far as the crow flies, but the roads unfortunately cannot fly like the crow. Edinburgh sits on the southern coast of the Firth of Forth, at a point where it’s very wide, so there are only two bridges, the old Forth Bridge for rail traffic only, and the sixties-vintage Forth Road Bridge, for vehicles. We had planned to take the road bridge to pick up the M90 near a place with the unlikely but delightful name of Inverkeithing, on to Perth, and thence to Aberdeen.

Although it was Sunday, we were unfamiliar with Edinburgh churches and eager to be on our way, especially since we were traveling unfamiliar roads, and the rain had strengthened again. We’d take the most direct road out of Perth, rather than the scenic one.

Humans plan, says the old adage, and God laughs. We packed quickly and went down to breakfast, and happened on the way to glimpse the television in the lounge.

A news programme showed a massive traffic jam. I thought at first they were showing the Golden Gate Bridge and wondered if there’d been an earthquake in San Francisco. I stopped to look.

Behind me, Alan muttered something.

I turned. ‘What?’

‘That’s the Forth Road Bridge,’ he said glumly.

‘Not headed north, were you?’ said one of the desk clerks cheerily. ‘They reckon it’ll be hours before that lot is cleared away.’

It seemed a lorry had overturned on the bridge, strewing its load of liquid detergent over all four lanes. In heavy fog and rain, a multiple-car accident had quickly ensued, with three people killed, several others hospitalized, and debris everywhere.

So much for Inverkeithing. Alan rummaged in one of the bags he had brought down, pulled out the road atlas, and took it in to breakfast.

There was another bridge about sixteen miles west of the Forth Road Bridge, across a much narrower part of the River Forth. The village on the other side, Kincardine, had a road leading to Perth, not a motorway, and therefore slower, but possible. Or we could go along the river back to Inverkeithing and take up the route we had planned, but the traffic would probably be frightful, given the backup of people trying to get off the bridge. The waiter, asked for advice, was newly arrived from Pakistan via London and had no suggestions.

‘We’d better be on our way,’ said Alan with a sigh. ‘The trip just became at least an hour longer, and we’ve the ferry to catch.’ So we finished our meal hastily, stowed Watson and our bags in the car, and Alan got behind the wheel and turned the key.

Nothing. Not so much as the hint of a purr. Not even a click.

I kept still. The day was already going badly, and there are moments in married life when almost any comment is the wrong one. Alan, not a profane man, muttered something under his breath, made various adjustments to this and that, and tried again.

Nothing.

At home the car sits in a tiny garage, just big enough that Alan can explore under the bonnet in moderate comfort. Here we were in a large exposed car park and the rain was coming down like stair rods. He sighed, got out, and began to peer at the mysterious workings. I lowered my window a crack so I could hear Alan if he asked for help.

‘Spot o’ trouble, eh?’

The man appeared apparently out of nowhere, but really, I thought, from the little ticket-taker’s shed. He held a huge umbrella and wore a rosily cheerful expression.

‘The battery seems to have given up the ghost, but it shouldn’t have done,’ said Alan in what for him was almost a testy voice. ‘New just months ago.’

‘Ah.’ The stranger reached in and did something I couldn’t see. ‘Connections all tight, right enough. Have ye far to go?’

‘Aberdeen, and then the ferry to Orkney.’

‘Ach, then ye’ll need to get it put right. Ye’d not want to be stranded in Orkney!’

The man made it sound like the wilds of deepest Nowhere. I shivered. If even a Scot thought that of Orkney …

But he was continuing: ‘There’s a garage in the next street with an honest mechanic. If ye like, I can give him a ring and ask him to have a look.’

‘We’d be most grateful,’ said Alan immediately. ‘Very kind of you.’

‘But it’s Sunday,’ I said in a low voice.

Alan shrugged. ‘Maybe he’s Jewish. A lot of Jews in Scotland, you know. And let’s not cavil, shall we?’

The next couple of hours went as most such times go. The man from the garage came, assessed the situation, and gave the opinion that the car would have to be towed in for a more thorough inspection. The result of the inspection was not encouraging. At least that was what I gathered from the gloomy expressions and head-shakings. I have difficulty following some Scottish accents, and when nearly all the words have to do with the innards of an automobile, I’m easily defeated. Time was when I knew a bit about the internal combustion engine, when there were carburettors and distributors and the like, but once everything became computerized I gave up.

Alan, who understands me, came to where I was sitting disconsolate in a corner. ‘It’s not so good,’ he said. ‘I don’t think you’d understand what’s wrong, and I’m not sure I do, but something’s gone adrift in the electrical system, and the car’s not going anywhere for several days.’

‘Oh.’ I pondered for a moment or two. ‘A train for home, then?’

‘That’s one possibility. But there is another. We could continue our journey to Orkney.’

‘A rental car? But would we be in time to catch the ferry at Aberdeen? It’s getting later and later, and the weather doesn’t seem to be improving.’

I suppose I sounded as depressed as I felt, because Alan took both my hands. ‘You’re cold, love. No, we probably couldn’t catch the ferry now, but there’s a better way. We can fly from here to Kirkwall and get there hours sooner than we would have done by ferry, and hire a car there.’

‘But what about Watson? That little airline that flies to Kirkwall won’t take him, remember?’

Watson, who had behaved admirably during the delay, looked up from the corner of the garage where he had gone to sleep, and whined. He knew quite well that he was being discussed, and he didn’t altogether like my tone of voice.

‘That’s just it. Mr MacTavish here knows of a man with a private plane who would give us a lift, Watson and all.’ Alan gestured toward the mechanic. ‘His brother, in fact. He’ll give him a ring if you agree to the plan.’

I was beginning to feel rather strongly that my determination to follow in Helen’s footsteps was foolish. I would very much have preferred to board a nice, comfortable train back to my own hearth and home.

Alan, as usual, read my face. He’s told me I must never try to play poker. ‘It’s quite warm in Kirkwall, and the sun is shining. Meant to carry on that way for several days.’

Alan’s moods are not as easy to read as mine, but it was quite obvious that he was pining to get to Orkney. I suppressed a sigh. ‘Well, then, let’s head for the sunshine.’

Alan smiled and Watson wagged his tail. Or else Alan wagged his tail and Watson smiled. Either way, it was evident that I had pleased the males in my life.

Alan phoned Andrew to tell him we’d arrive a day sooner than expected. Mr MacTavish the mechanic made the arrangements with Mr MacTavish the pilot, who picked us up at the garage and drove us to the airport.

I was a little surprised by the Edinburgh airport. Edinburgh is, after all, a city of major importance in the United Kingdom, but the airport is small and almost homey. We didn’t have to jump through all the usual hoops, of course, since we weren’t boarding a commercial flight. No elaborate security scans, no tickets, no boarding area. Mr MacTavish parked his car near the tarmac, walked us out, helped us and our luggage (and Watson, of course) aboard, and we taxied out to the runway.

The plane was very small indeed. I’d never flown in anything smaller than the smallest commercial prop plane with about twenty seats. This one had two, in addition to the two up front in the cockpit. ‘No co-pilot for a short hop like this,’ said MacTavish cheerfully. ‘No catering service, either, ye’ll understand, but there are some crisps and a chocolate bar or two about somewhere. I’ve no got a crate for your wee beastie, so you’ll want to keep him on the lead and close by your side, in case we run into any weather. We’d no want him to be tossed aboot.’

No, indeed. Nor did I want myself to be tossed aboot. I looked for one of those discreet little paper bags just in case, but there was no seat in front of me with a pocket to hold such an amenity.

Very well, Dorothy, I admonished myself. This is an adventure. Stop being a wimp and go with the flow. I sat down, strapped myself in, said a quick prayer, and prepared to be terrified.

Have you ever had a medical procedure that you dreaded so much you worked yourself into a real stew, only to have it turn out to be such a nothing that you felt like a fool for getting all worked up? Then you’ll understand my reaction when the flight turned out to be so smooth and pleasant as to be almost boring. We flew at quite a low altitude, so we could see the terrain we were flying over. At least, it wasn’t terrain for very long. I don’t know what the word is for the watery expanses that soon formed our underpinnings. They weren’t very interesting, once I stopped being convinced we were going to end up down there trying to avoid being drowned.