Shadows of Death Read online

  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.

  ‘There was no speech about emergency procedures,’ I commented to Alan.

  ‘No. I’m sure there are life jackets somewhere if we should need them.’

  But it was apparent we weren’t going to need them. The air was perfectly smooth, without so much as an alarming downdraft, and the sun, as Alan had promised, came out quite soon after we took off. The sea below us sparkled and I saw the occasional fishing boat. Not that I know a fishing boat from most other craft, but they weren’t sailboats or ferries, so I made the assumption.

  And then we were approaching land, and flying over a field full of sheep that paid not the slightest attention to this odd bird over their heads, and then with a couple of small bumps we were on the ground.

  ‘Well.’ It was almost anticlimactic. I hadn’t realized how accustomed I was to the usual rituals of flight until they were missing. No speeches about seatbelts and tray tables. No tray tables, for that matter. No admonitions about staying in our seats until we’d arrived at the gate, no canned thanks for flying with them. We landed. We got up, collected Watson and our belongings, and got out onto the tarmac.

  Mr MacTavish accepted an embarrassingly small amount of money from Alan, waved us in the direction of the tiny terminal, and there we were in Orkney.

  ‘Well,’ I said again. Watson sat down, not quite sure of the next procedure. I wasn’t sure, either.

  ‘Why don’t the two of you make yourselves comfortable while I find the car I’ve hired,’ Alan suggested. So Watson and I trotted obediently to the terminal café, where I had a cup of coffee and Watson was kindly given a bowl of water, which he disposed of noisily.

  It was all an airport should be, in miniature. Everything was contained in one fair-sized room, including a gift shop and coffee shop. There was one arrival and one departure gate, a tiny baggage-screening area, and a minute lounge. It was charming, and utterly without the impersonally intimidating aura of big airports.

  I had only just finished my coffee when Alan returned. ‘Ready, darling?’

  ‘That was quick.’

  He picked up our bags, I collected Watson, and we went to the car.

  While we drove, Alan gave me a quick geography lesson. Orkney consists of some seventy islands, only seventeen or eighteen of them inhabited. We were on the principal island, called the Mainland, which has two towns. The bigger one, Kirkwall, boasts the airport, the cathedral, and – Alan added with a grin – the important Highland Park Distillery. The smaller Stromness, about twenty miles away, is noted principally for the ferry landing, with huge car ferries from Scrabster coming in several times a day. The population of the whole island group is only about 20,000, in an area of maybe 400 square miles.

  After that dry selection of facts, I settled in to see for myself what Orkney had to offer. I could claim that I was enchanted with the place from that very first drive from Kirkwall to Stromness. It would make a better story that way, but it wouldn’t be true. I was pleased with the bits of Kirkwall that we saw. The cathedral was impressive, and many of the houses were pretty. But when we got out into the rolling countryside I was aware of a vague uneasiness that I couldn’t quite put my finger on.

  The weather was perfect. The sky was that chill, pale blue of a northern country, with wisps of high cirrus clouds making a painter’s dream. The pastures were nicely filled with sheep and cattle grazing together, something I’d never seen elsewhere. Small stone farmhouses dotted the landscape here and there, with their outbuildings sprawled in the manner of farm buildings everywhere in the world. Cottage gardens appeared in front of most of the houses, and neat kitchen gardens at the back. But …

  ‘Alan, there are no trees!’

  ‘No. The winds in winter can be rather fierce, I understand, so trees don’t thrive. Wildflowers, on the other hand, grow in profusion, including a kind of wild orchid that’s found nowhere else.’

  ‘Hmm. I like trees. I need trees.’

  ‘There’s a nice little wood at the castle on Shapinsay, though I don’t know if we’ll go up there on this trip.’

  ‘Castle?’ My ears perked up. I’m a sucker for castles.

  ‘Not a real one. Not medieval, that is. Victorian, or thereabouts. We’ll have to find you a guidebook or two, and you can read all about it.’

  We drove on. There was almost no traffic, which was a good thing, because the road was quite narrow. The landscape was beautiful, no denying it. The sweep of hill and sky made me wish I were a painter. But it all seemed much of a muchness, the same pattern of fields, livestock, farm, road repeating around every—

  ‘Alan! What’s that?’

  Alan slowed the car to a stop by the side of the road to let me gape to my heart’s content.

  Quite close to me, a piece of stone rose out of the ground. More than three times as tall as it was wide, and quite flat and thin, it looked like a piece of modern sculpture. The top slanted at a perfect forty-five degree angle. Nearby, three other stones thrust against the sky, one nearly a twin of the nearest one, another appearing to have been damaged, and the third more like a petrified tree trunk.

  ‘What is it?’ I repeated. I had edged a little closer to Alan. Something about those stones …

  ‘It is what remains of an ancient stone circle, a henge, probably around five thousand years old.’

  ‘Something like Stonehenge?’

  ‘A bit, but much older.’

  We sat in silence. Even Watson seemed struck dumb, until someone walked down the road with a dog in tow, and our dog barked, breaking the spell.

  ‘I took us a bit out of our way to show you that,’ said Alan as he turned the car around. ‘It’s far from the most impressive monument on the islands, but I wanted you to have a glimpse of Neolithic Orkney straight off.’

  ‘It’s … uncanny, somehow. I’m …’ I couldn’t finish my thought. I wasn’t sure what I felt, or what I wanted to say. If I remembered what I thought I remembered of high school French, I was bouleversée.

  If this was the effect of a few minutes at one of the less impressive sights, I wondered whether I’d have any wits left at the end of a week.

  TWO

  We found our holiday flat without the slightest difficulty. It would, indeed, be a little difficult to get lost in Stromness, which has only two principal streets, the one skirting the harbour, by which we entered town, and the one above it (above in the literal sense: the town is built on a hillside). Our modern flat faced the harbour, almost across the street from the ferry landing. It had an attached garage, which was an important consideration, since parking is always at a premium in old towns.

  ‘Where will we get the key?’ I asked as Alan pulled the car up in front of the garage door.


  ‘Andrew said the door would be open. No one ever locks doors in Orkney.’

  Sure enough, the door was unlocked. It opened on a minute entrance hall and thence directly into a lovely, well-equipped kitchen. There was a pot of flowers on the table.

  ‘From Andrew,’ I said, reading the card. ‘How nice of him! Is that one of his own pots?’

  ‘Probably.’

  ‘It’s beautiful! And look,’ I said as I continued to explore the kitchen, ‘he’s given us some food, as well. Cereal, bread, butter, milk, tea, coffee … even a couple of bottles of wine!’

  ‘He’s a good chap. I’ve not seen him for years, but we’ve corresponded. I’m looking forward—’

  There was a knock at the door, but before either of us could get there, it opened and a man walked in.

  If he’d had a beard, he would have made a perfect Santa Claus. White hair, rosy cheeks, little wire-rimmed glasses, and the most delightful smile I think I’ve ever seen.

  ‘Andrew! What a pleasure! It’s been too long, my friend.’ They shook hands heartily. ‘Andrew, this is my wife, Dorothy Martin.’

  I held my hand out, but Andrew enveloped me in a hug.

  ‘And a bonny wife you are, indeed,’ he said, kissing me on both cheeks before releasing me.

  ‘Goodness! Thank you for that, and for all you’ve done to make us welcome.’ I gestured around the kitchen. ‘Flowers, food, even wine. I’ll pour you a glass if there are any glasses.’

  ‘Not just now, thanks, but I’ll take a rain check. I just stopped in to welcome you to Orkney and invite you to dinner tonight. Sigrid can’t come; she’s at her weekly mah-jongg tournament, but I’d love to have your company. Alan, you remember the Royal Hotel up on The Street?’

  ‘I can find it.’

  ‘Splendid. I’ll see you at seven, then.’