Shadows of Death (26 page)

Alan began to laugh himself. ‘You’re right. It’s utterly insane. I can’t seriously consider the woman, but her disappearance needs explaining. Both times. And certainly she needs to be found.’

‘Haven’t they notified the police? I thought that was standard procedure.’

‘There’s a specified time limit after which they have to do that. They were a bit dodgy about saying how long. They’d much rather find her themselves, as you can imagine.’

‘But they haven’t, at least not yet. Well, then, what are we waiting for? Let’s go in and help them look.’

I brought Watson inside with me. The staff were inclined to be stuffy about that, but I insisted. ‘You’re conducting a search. You’ve used your eyes and ears, and have had no luck. I suggest that a dog’s nose is a much more powerful search tool than any of our senses. Give him something belonging to Mrs Norquist to sniff, and he may be able to help.’

The manager, or matron, or whatever she was called, frowned. ‘Is he a trained search dog?’

‘No. But he’s polite and well-behaved, and what harm can he do?’

‘Some of the patients are terrified of dogs.’

‘Then we’ll keep him away from those patients, won’t we?’

‘But it won’t do any good. Mrs Norquist is not in the centre anywhere. We’ve looked. Exhaustively.’

‘Then if she’s not in, she’s out. And how did she get out, pray tell, with cameras at every exit?’

‘She can’t have got out. Our security—’

‘Mrs … Mrs Graham,’ I said, looking at her nametag. ‘Do make up your mind. If she can’t have got out, she’s here. If she’s not here, she’s out. On which premise shall we operate?’

‘Oh, search where you like!’ she said, her temper rising. ‘You’ll not find her!’ She stalked off, and I looked at the other staff members, who had been standing around looking helpless.

‘We truly don’t want to upset the patients,’ I said. ‘Can one of you tell us where Watson would be likely to create a panic?’

‘There are really only two ladies who are genuinely afraid of dogs,’ said a gentle, quiet-spoken young woman whose nametag read Peters, ‘and even then, this one isn’t a big brute. Does he like people?’

‘He’s a lovely boy,’ I said, hearing in my own voice the doting tone I had so often laughed at in Alan’s. ‘Oh, dear, I sound like an idiotic parent, don’t I? But he really is quite a nice dog, and he almost never barks. I’d think if you’d show me which rooms to avoid, the wary ones would never even know he’s here.’

‘Most of the patients are in their own rooms at this time of day, but I’ll just make sure of the two, and then all the common rooms are at your disposal. Sam, do you suppose you could find one of Mrs Norquist’s shoes for … Watson, is it? Appropriate name.’

So in a few minutes we were ready to set out, and Alan took over. ‘This is an old house, isn’t it?’ he asked the woman who had been so cooperative.

‘Not so very old,’ she answered. ‘Almost none of the lairds’ houses survived from before the eighteenth century, and very few even from after that. This was never a laird’s house, though, as you may know. The Sinclairs were lairds here back in the fourteenth and fifteenth century, and the man who built this house was a great admirer of them, so he named his house after them. It’s probably not even three hundred years old.’

I hid a smile. Back in Indiana, anything over about fifty counted as old. ‘What happened to all the lairds’ houses?’

‘Weather and war and just neglect. Orkney’s been pulled about from one ruler to another for centuries. The Norse and the Scots and the English, coming in to take what they could get and then leaving again. They’d build fine houses and then get murdered in their beds by the next lot, and the houses burnt to the ground, like as not. It’s a long and terrible history we have behind us, sure enough, and a hard life for many of us now.’

She said it as if she were reading the weather report. ‘This was probably the drawing room of the old house,’ she went on. ‘It’s our common room, though few of the patients ever use it. There’s always a draft, for some reason.’

‘Hmm,’ said Alan. He walked over to the windows. ‘These seem to fit well enough. And the fireplace has been blocked up.’

‘Yes, a pity, that. There’s nothing like a good peat fire, to my mind, and our old folks feel the cold. But it wasn’t safe, you see. Some of the old dears can’t be trusted around fire.’

‘What a shame. I love an open fire myself, though at home we burn wood.’

‘Nothing like as warm as peat or coal – but peat’s the best. Mind you, there’s a knack to getting it started, but then it burns forever.’

Alan and Watson had been prowling the room as we talked. ‘Dorothy, let me have that scarf thing you’re wearing, will you, love?’

I slipped it off, with raised eyebrows. Alan took it and stood next to the bookcases on one wall, where Watson’s attention was centred. ‘There’s your draft,’ he said, holding the scarf by one corner. We could see it flutter.

‘Wheeel! Whit a wonder! Who’d hae thowt it!’

It was the first time Miss Peters had spoken broad Orcadian, and I couldn’t follow it all, but the astonishment was obvious.

‘The house was built in a time of political instability,’ said Alan almost apologetically. ‘I thought there might be concealed doors and passages, and a bookcase was often used to conceal such features. I’d be very surprised if there isn’t a door behind these panels. Would anyone object if I moved a few books?’

Watson was becoming more and more agitated. I snapped on his leash. ‘Hush, now, it’s all right,’ I said soothingly. ‘You’re a wonderful dog, but you must stay quiet.’ He shook his head im patiently and strained at the leash, but at least he didn’t bark. ‘Alan, I’d better take him out. He’s not going to behave much longer.’

‘Yes, fine.’ Alan’s mind was elsewhere. He was pulling books off the shelves and handing them to Miss Peters, who was stacking them neatly on tables. I wanted to stay and see what happened, but Watson was growing more and more restless. I headed for the door just in time to encounter the starchy Mrs Graham. She looked beyond me into the room. ‘And precisely
what
do you think you’re doing?’ she demanded.

Watson uttered a low growl. I grasped his leash firmly and fled.

‘I don’t like her either,’ I assured my dog. ‘Let’s go around the outside and see if we can look in the window of that room.’

The house had a sizable foundation, which put the windows too high for convenient peering. Watson wanted to go somewhere else, anyway. He tugged me around a corner, put his nose to the ground, and barked sharply. Once. Then he sat back and looked at me with that silly doggy grin.

‘What? What have you found?’ I examined the patch of ground that so interested him, and could see nothing extraordinary about it. ‘No gold watches this time? No bloodstains? Oh!’

My startled cry was occasioned by the sight of my husband emerging through what I had thought was a solid wall.

‘And this,’ he said, ‘is how Mrs Norquist leaves the house whenever she wishes.’

Behind him, Miss Peters looked scared and Mrs Graham furious. ‘But that means she could be anywhere!’ said Miss Peters. ‘We’ve got to find her!’

‘Yes, of course,’ said Alan, ‘but it’s a job for the police now.’

‘The police!’ Miss Peters was so white I was afraid she was going to faint, and Mrs Graham was sputtering with rage.

‘They have dogs trained for the search,’ said Alan before Mrs Graham could get a word out. ‘Or at least I presume they do,’ he said with a hint of doubt in his voice.

‘Calling in the police would ruin us!’ said Mrs Graham.

‘As would losing a patient,’ he reminded her. ‘In any case, I believe it’s your legal responsibility.’

‘Alan, she has a point, though.’ Much as I disliked the woman, I had to admit it. ‘Police would mean publicity. Anyway, they may not have trained bloodhounds, or whatever. Can’t we just let Watson try a little longer? He picked up her scent just outside the door here. At least I think that’s what he found. He sniffed at the ground and barked and looked very pleased with himself.’

‘Really!’ said Mrs Graham. ‘A dog is not a person!’

Whose side are you on, lady, I thought but did not say. ‘Perhaps you have never had a pet,’ I said, the frost in my voice almost matching hers. ‘Animals have quite obvious emotions, and display them for any human with any sensitivity. Of course it’s a matter of no importance to me whether you allow Watson to search, or call in professionals, but you seemed upset at the idea of the police.’

She turned red. That woman hates to back down, I thought. She’d cut off her own nose to spite her face, but surely she can see the advantage to staving off the police for a little while.

‘Very well. Keep the dog quiet, if that’s possible, and away from windows. I don’t want the patients to know he’s here. Already his barking will have disturbed them.’ She looked at him, dislike in her eyes. He responded with a low growl.

Attaboy, I thought. So much for animals not displaying their emotions. ‘I can’t promise to keep him away from windows. He’ll go wherever the scent leads him.’ Of course, the scent he was following might well be that of a rabbit. I didn’t say that, either. ‘Alan, do you still have that shoe, so he can smell it again?’

Miss Peters had it. I held it in front of Watson’s nose. He sniffed at it ecstatically and then put his nose to the ground in established bloodhound style.

He was not, of course, a trained searcher. He wasn’t even a hound, or not by appearance, though there could have been almost anything mixed in with the dominant spaniel. He led us all over the grounds, showing a tendency to chase the gulls or dig for something interesting. Mrs Graham, to my relief, became disgusted after only a few minutes and went back inside. Miss Peters stuck it out, but I could see the hope in her eyes dimming with each passing moment.

Alan was the one who set Watson back on the right path. My husband is, of course, a trained searcher, though he uses mostly his eyes. He caught the trace of a path in a few broken blades of grass, a smear in a small patch of mud. ‘Someone’s walked this way, and recently,’ he said quietly. ‘Watson, come here and tell me what you smell.’

The dog came, obediently, and stiffened at what he scented. Then he was off, pulling at the leash and whining.

‘Here, let me take it.’ Alan took the leash from my hand and lengthened it a bit. ‘Let’s give him his head.’

This time there was no chasing, no play. This was serious business. He headed straight for an outbuilding of some sort.

‘The old dovecote,’ said Miss Peters. ‘It’s not used now, and it’s kept locked. Supposed to be kept locked,’ she added, as we approached and could inspect the door closely. The padlock was still firmly attached to the hasp, but the screws holding the hasp had been pulled out of the rotting wooden door frame.

Alan reeled Watson in and approached the door cautiously. The dog gave one sharp bark, as he had back at the house.

The door swung slightly ajar, and a face appeared out of the gloom.

‘Good morning, madam,’ said Alan with utmost courtesy. He would have doffed his hat if he’d been wearing one. ‘Mrs Norquist, I presume?’

‘I
ndeed you do, sir,’ she replied, in the best Restoration comedy manner. ‘I am not aware that we have been introduced.’

‘Alan Nesbitt, at your service.’ He came up to the door and offered his hand.

‘No! You can’t come in! Go away!’ All mannerisms had fled. She let out an eldritch screech and tried to pull the door shut.

Alan hadn’t been a policeman all those years for nothing. His sturdy foot was in the door, which he wrested from her grasp and pulled fully open.

A form behind her attempted to retreat into shadows, but the room was very small, and the sun was shining brightly.

‘Mr Norquist,’ said Alan calmly, ‘I’m very glad to see you. We’ve been considerably worried about you.’

The man fell into Alan’s arms in a dead faint.

Mr Norquist, we could see once we got him safely into the house, was a wreck. He hadn’t shaved or washed for days, and his clothes would probably have to be burnt. His mother, for all her ninety or so years, was in far better shape.

At least physically. She could still wield her cane to some effect. Alan was going to have bruises from the blows she’d managed to land before Miss Peters and I took Mr Norquist from his arms and Watson helped him subdue the mad woman.

For mad she undoubtedly was. Her tirade made little sense, but one could trace the underlying theme of sacrifice and blasphemy, mixed with abuse hurled at an ungrateful and disobedient son.

Abuse in plenty was hurled at us, too, along with the staff who subdued her and took her away from Mr Norquist. ‘They need a straitjacket,’ I said.

‘They probably haven’t one. This isn’t a home for the insane, merely for the confused. She’ll have to be taken to a secure institution.’

‘I wonder how poor Mr Norquist will react to that.’ For he had shown fear akin to terror of his mother, but had wept when she was taken away. ‘I can’t tell whether he wants to escape from her or be with her.’

‘He probably doesn’t know, himself. It’s possible, once he’s free of her presence, that a psychiatrist might help him regain some semblance of a normal balance, but …’ Alan spread his hands. ‘He’ll still be under her influence. One doesn’t erase overnight the impact of sixty or so years of venomous manipulation. It’s a pity. He’s an intelligent chap.’

‘Do you think he’ll be able to answer questions any time soon? Because there’s so much we need to know.’

‘I have no idea. They’re sending for the doctor who deals with the residents here. He must know a thing or two about mental disturbance, and of course he knows Mrs Norquist and probably her son, as well, since Charlie visited so often. We’ll hope he can restore the poor man to a degree of normality. Meanwhile, let’s get out of this place before I go round the bend myself.’

I heartily concurred. So did Watson. He was tired of being looked at askance, and when Mrs Graham hove into site, he couldn’t get out of there fast enough.

We took him back to the flat for something to eat, and had a bite ourselves, and then I took my phone out of my pocket and called Mrs Tredgold.