Shadows of Death (6 page)

‘Well,’ I said when we had closed the door behind him, ‘I need a drink, after that. I don’t know that I’ve ever attended a more uncomfortable meeting.’

‘There were cross-currents, certainly. And I don’t think I understood all of them, either. Why don’t we take Watson for a walk before we settle down to our libations? It’s still quite light, and a lovely evening.’

The clock on the big electronic sign board outside the ferry building read 22:47, but it was indeed still light. I clipped the lead on our eager dog, and we set out. There weren’t a lot of people about at that hour, and the harbour was very quiet. We walked down to the edge of the jetty and listened to the waves lapping gently against the wall.

‘Do you know,’ I said after we’d stood in companionable silence for a few minutes, ‘one of the things I was hoping to do up here was some star gazing. There are so many lights around the Cathedral, we can’t really see them at home. I thought on a remote island there’d be lots of stars to see. It never occurred to me that it wouldn’t get dark enough to make even the moon very bright.’

‘We’re very near the top of the world here, and this is the longest day, remember? I suppose it’ll be twilight for a few hours, but no darker than that. Sorry, love. We’ll have to come back in winter. It’ll surely be dark enough for you then.’

I shivered at the thought. ‘No, thank you. It’s quite cold enough in the middle of summer. Oh, it’s nice just now, but I’m wearing two sweaters and a jacket. And in fact, I’d like to get moving. It’s chilly standing still.’

We walked toward the end of the harbour road and on up into the town. ‘I hope Roadkill is safely asleep somewhere,’ I commented. ‘I’ve had enough conflict for one day.’

‘That really was an extraordinary display of discord,’ Alan said, and I knew he wasn’t talking about Watson’s run-in with the cat.

‘Yes, and I’d have said Andrew was the last person to lose his temper, but he was really upset with that man Carter.’

‘You’re developing an almost English talent for understatement, my dear. Andrew was not upset. He was in a blazing rage, and you’re quite right. That isn’t at all like him. He’s normally the mildest of men. It comes of being a potter, perhaps. He can take out all his aggression on the clay. But I do think if even half what he says about Carter is true, he may be justified. The man sounds like someone both stupid and stubborn. It’s a dangerous combination.’

‘And don’t forget to add in, wealthy and therefore powerful. That can be a lethal combination.’

‘As some recent politicians have demonstrated. But after all, it’s nothing to do with us. We’re here on holiday, to soak up some lovely peace. Just listen.’ He put a hand on my arm. We stopped. Watson sat obediently at my side.

We had climbed up to The Street, a street now devoid of traffic, human, animal, or mechanical. Somewhere in a cottage on up the hill a radio or television was playing soft music. That was the only sound to be heard.

I sighed happily. ‘Peace. Let’s enjoy it while we can.’

One of the Fates was listening then. In the quiet surrounding us, we ought to have heard her mocking laughter.

‘D
orothy.’

Alan’s voice was quiet, but there was a quality in it that brought me instantly out of my pleasant dream. ‘Um. What time is it?’ The sun was streaming in brightly through our east-facing window, but then it had been doing that for hours. Sunrise happened on an entirely different schedule than the one I was used to back in southern England.

‘Just past six. I’m sorry to wake you so early, but Andrew called. There’s been a terrible accident.’ He handed me a cup of coffee, but I didn’t really need the caffeine to bring me to full wakefulness. A ‘terrible accident’ that called for a six a.m. phone call could mean only one thing. At least it wasn’t one of our family. That kind of horrible news would have come straight to us, not through Andrew.

‘Tell me.’

‘Henry Carter was found at the dig this morning, half-buried under a wall that had caved in. Apparently he went there late last night or early this morning and missed his footing.’

I sipped my coffee, my brain working at double time. Alan stood watching me, saying nothing.

I put my coffee down. ‘You’re thinking the same thing I am, aren’t you?’

Alan grimaced. ‘It could be a nasty accident, pure and simple.’

‘And that was a pig I just saw flying by the window. Alan, everybody who was at that meeting last night hates the man. Hated. Are you trying to tell me his death, his very convenient death, wasn’t engineered?’

‘I’m not trying to tell you anything. I’m stating the facts. I quite agree, they are open to any number of interpretations. And now that you’re thoroughly awake, how would you like to take Watson for a walk while I see what I can do about breakfast?’

‘And then we’ll go over to the dig.’

‘Of course.’ He spread his hands. ‘We’d have wanted to do that anyway, but as it happens, Andrew has persuaded Fairweather that I might be of some help. I gather Andrew told him I was, or had been, a policeman, and …’ He shrugged, and I smiled to myself.

I kept Watson’s walk short, and stayed on the harbour road, nervous about a possible encounter with Roadkill. It was, I thought, a terrible name for the poor beast, however apt it might be. Or maybe, given his manners – or lack of them – it was a matter of wishful thinking. At any rate, though I adore cats, I sincerely hoped we wouldn’t run into this one.

Alan made good use of his time. When Watson and I returned to the flat, not only had my wonderful husband whipped together a terrific breakfast, he had, he informed me as we sat down, made arrangements to hire a launch to take us to Papa Sanday.

‘Can you – er – drive a boat? If that’s the right word.’ I conveyed a forkful of bacon to my mouth and slipped Watson a small piece.

‘Pilot. If you don’t stop feeding that dog table scraps he’s going to weigh fifty pounds. You forget, darling, that I was brought up in Newlyn. I’ve been messing about in boats since I could walk.’

Newlyn is a fishing community in Cornwall, a stone’s throw from Penzance. We had visited some years before, and I’d heard about Alan’s childhood there. ‘I keep on learning new things about you. And can you find the island?’

‘The boat is equipped with GPS. But I have a second string to my bow. I phoned Andrew back and got the phone number of the museum director, Norquist. He’s coming with us. And that’s probably him at the door now.’

In keeping with standard Orcadian practice, we had not locked the door, but Mr Norquist tapped politely. Alan opened the door, and Norquist sidled in. ‘Do be careful,’ he quavered. ‘That horrible cat is out there, and you don’t want him to come in.’

‘No, we certainly don’t. At least, if it’s the cat I think it is, he and Watson don’t get along at all.’

‘I dislike cats.’ The man was visibly distressed. In fact, he was almost wringing his hands, and he looked ill.

‘I’m sure it’s all right …’ I began, but Norquist shook his head violently.

‘It doesn’t matter about the cat. This is a terrible thing, a terrible thing! I don’t know what will happen now, I don’t indeed. A terrible loss, an irreparable loss.’ He was almost weeping.

Alan and I exchanged glances. I was the one who ventured to speak. ‘I hadn’t realized you were – um – fond of Mr Carter.’

‘Fond of him! Fond of him!’ Norquist’s voice rose to a squeak. ‘I detested the man! He was a charlatan, a poseur, the worst sort of American. I’m sorry, Mrs Nesbitt, but I have to speak the truth.’

Now was perhaps not the time to correct him about my name. I frowned. ‘But, in that case, Mr Norquist … that is, you seem very upset …’

‘My dear woman, the dig! How will it go on without the money? Excavations are quite dreadfully expensive. Where will the funding come from now, Mrs Nesbitt?’

‘Actually, sir, my wife uses her own name, Dorothy Martin.’ Alan sounded rather crisp, and I realized he was annoyed. I, too, was a bit revolted by Norquist’s attitude.

He was quick to sense the frost in the atmosphere. ‘I beg your pardon, Mrs Martin. I didn’t know, did I? And I can see that you’re not happy about my attitude.’ He pulled himself up to his full height. ‘I’m sorry if I offend you, but I can’t pretend to a grief I don’t feel. I will not mourn for Mr Henry J. Carter, but the loss of his funding is a blow, perhaps a mortal blow, to a monumental scheme, one that is dear to my heart. I am English by birth, as you can probably hear from my speech, but my father was born here in Stromness and I have lived here for many years. I consider myself a true Orcadian. I love these islands. A blow for Orkney is a kick in the teeth for me.’

Well, I still didn’t think Mr Norquist was ever going to be my favourite person. But I had to admit there was a dignity to the little man, and I’ve always disliked hypocrisy. I nodded. ‘You certainly have a point. Now, may we offer you some tea or coffee before we set out? Or something to eat?’

‘Thank you, but I’m not feeling at all well. I’ve a dreadful headache. And the weather may be changing, so perhaps …’

‘Yes,’ said Alan. ‘After you, Dorothy.’

I was pleased when Norquist accepted Watson’s company in the back seat without a murmur, and even more pleased when Watson, after sniffing him thoroughly, made an absurd little noise of acceptance and settled down in the man’s lap for a nap. I know, in theory, that there’s no truth to the belief that animals can discern the character of humans. Alan has known any number of criminals who had devoted pets, and Hitler was reputed to be a dog lover. But I do feel better about anyone Watson likes.

‘Just shove him off if he’s a nuisance,’ I said, to test the man. ‘He sheds dreadfully.’

‘Certainly not!’ Norquist sounded shocked, and I was satisfied.

The trip from Tingwall to Papa Sanday seemed shorter this time, though the sea was a good deal rougher. I had forgotten to take my ginger capsules and was grateful that Alan had remembered to bring some along. Nevertheless, I retired to the cabin for almost the whole trip, and so did Norquist. The air was quite brisk, and I thought I might have a cold coming on, and he was presumably nursing his headache. So my first intimation of what the day was going to be like was an odd buzz of sound as Alan throttled back the motor to drift in to the dock.

A swarm of bees? Surely not. I poked my head out of the hatch.

No, a swarm of boats. Boats of all descriptions, from sleek launches to fishing boats to row boats to, I noted in disbelief, a jet ski. A police launch was darting about, trying to control the traffic. One of the men aboard turned his megaphone toward us. ‘Turn back! No landing!’

Norquist shouted back, ‘I am the director of the Ancient Orkney Museum! I have a reserved berth here!’

I doubted he was heard over the cacophony, but apparently someone on shore recognized him, because frantic signals were exchanged between the police boat and the quay, while Norquist fumed and shouted imprecations which were, I hoped, inaudible. At last the police boat came nearer to ours.

‘Follow us, sir,’ said the policeman with the megaphone, and we sidled around to a narrow inlet where there was, barely, room for us to pull in and approach the pier.

Norquist staggered out, one hand to his head, but when Watson and I attempted to follow, a uniformed constable stopped us. ‘I’m sorry, madam, but this area is restricted.’

Norquist turned around. ‘Don’t be a fool, man. These people are with me.’

The constable stood his ground. ‘That may be so, sir, but this is a crime scene, and I can permit only authorized personnel. I have orders to admit you, Mr Norquist, but no one else.’

I looked at Alan. He had no official weight to throw around, of course, but he had, after all, been asked to come. I could see his internal debate: produce his old identification, or not? He was saved the decision. Robert Fairweather appeared at the constable’s elbow, looking exhausted and distraught, but in command.

‘This man is here at my invitation, Watts. He is an experienced investigator and, not so incidentally, the retired chief constable of Belleshire. My apologies, Mr Nesbitt. I forgot to tell the authorities you were coming.’ He offered his hand first to Alan and then to me, to help us disembark. Watson needed no help or encouragement. He scrambled up and stood at my side, obediently waiting, but panting eagerly for something exciting to happen.

‘Nice dog,’ said Fairweather, patting his head. Watson’s tail wagged even more energetically.

I clipped on his lead. ‘He is, but I know he isn’t allowed at the dig, and I imagine you want to talk to Alan privately. Is there some out-of-the-way place where I could let Watson run off some energy?’

‘Anywhere away from the dig, actually.’ He waved a vague hand. ‘So long as he leaves the sheep alone, he can have a good run in any of the pastures.’

‘I’ll keep him away from the sheep. Alan, I’ll see you later.’

Of course I wanted to stick around, to see and hear everything to be seen and heard, but I have some sense of responsibility, and an active dog, with a crowd of people to excite him further, wasn’t going to help anyone. He was as reluctant as I to leave the scene, but we both knew our duty. We headed away from the noise and activity toward the other side of the island, where a few farms still clung tenaciously to the hills.

Sadly, they didn’t look very prosperous. A few cattle grazed in one field, a few sheep in another, but they were rather too lean to look happy and healthy. The farm buildings, too, were in need of attention. Peeling paint on window and door frames spoke of a shortage of both money and time. Roofs had been repaired; fences were in order. Those were matters of necessity. Appearances had to take a back seat to the essentials of life.

When we’d got far enough away from the dig that we could no longer hear voices, I let Watson off the lead, and he gambolled happily, chasing here a seagull, there a rabbit, sometimes his imagination. He didn’t catch anything, but he fondly imagined how wonderful it would be when he did.

I ambled down the road, shivering a little. The wind had picked up, and although the sun still shone, the high overcast was thickening perceptibly. We would have rain, and sooner rather than later, if I knew anything about weather. The darkening sky made the landscape even bleaker than before. No trees. Just hills and sky with a few disheartened houses.