'Oh, yes. The camera is working fine. Now let's go to see the Ring of Brodgar.'
A timber boardwalk led them out of the car park and on to the road. On the other side of the road, they followed a trail up the gentle slope to the big circle of standing stones. The individual stones, spaced at intervals of about five yards, were massive slabs of rock. Some were twelve or fifteen feet high, others less than that. One or two had been ruined by erosion, and now were not much more than remnants.
Emma stood with Gregor, and for a few moments they gazed around in silence. Only the wind, now quite strong, disturbed the tranquillity of the place, sighing and ruffling the surface of the grass across the circle.
'What's known about all this?' Emma asked at last.
'Not a lot. There are 36 stones here now, but it's believed there were 60 originally. Erosion has wrecked some of those that remain, as you can see, and all of them are heavily weathered after standing in the wind and rain for five thousand years.'
'Even so,' Emma said thoughtfully, 'to still be here at all, after all that time.'
Gregor nodded. 'I don't suppose anything built in our lifetime will last a fraction of that time – apart from used nuclear fuel dumps.'
'What were the stones used for?'
'Nobody knows for sure. The Neolithic people left no written records, unfortunately. So it's a matter of conjecture. But it's generally believed that this is a place of great spiritual significance, as is the whole of the surrounding area. People must have come from far and wide to be part of whatever went on here.'
'And they must have come from far and wide to build it in the first place?'
Gregor nodded. 'I'm sure that's right. It would have taken a colossal effort to quarry these stones and bring them to this place. I should imagine the work was spread over many generations, rather like the building of York Minster and Canterbury Cathedral.'
They began to walk round the stone circle, mostly in silence again. There was nothing more to be said. Nothing more was known. It was a time for experiencing, not for talking.
'Thank you for bringing me here, Gregor,' Emma said at last, as they headed back down to the car park. 'It's wonderful.'
'I hoped you would.' He smiled and added, 'Now let's find something to eat. There's a good restaurant I know not too far from here.'
Chapter Eight
The next day they met for lunch, in Kirkwall again. This time it was to a hotel facing the harbour that they went. Gregor said the food was good there, even though the place looked a bit run down.
'Lots of choice when it comes to seafood,' he added. 'But we can always go round the corner to a chip shop, if you prefer?'
She laughed and assured him that lemon sole would be her choice, as well as his.
Gregor was very much at home here, she thought happily, watching him as he stood at the counter, waiting to order their meals and drinks. People spoke to him. He smiled and shared a word with one or two. Well, why not? It was his home town. He should feel at home.
For her, it was different. People were pleasant enough. They made eye contact and smiled. They helped when they could, and when she needed help. But she just didn't know anybody. That was the problem, that and not knowing how things worked and where things were. There was no going to Bainbridge's or Fenwick's, she thought with a smile, if you ran out of make-up or knicker elastic!
How on earth had Aunt Freda managed? Mail-order, probably. It would be different now, though, with the internet. Much easier.
Even so, simple matters were surprisingly difficult – or different, at least. Calling into the newsagent's shop that morning here in Kirkwall, for example, looking for a newspaper. That had been an eye opener. She hadn't been able to spot the paper she wanted. In fact, she hadn't been able to see any of the usual national newspapers, or Scottish papers either.
When she inquired, the woman behind the counter said, 'They're not in yet. Twelve o'clock is the time.'
'For what?'
'For when they arrive,' the woman said with a weary smile, as if she was well used to visitors imagining it was the same here as in London or Edinburgh.
Emma smiled herself now, thinking she was on a steep learning curve.
'What?' Gregor demanded, as he arrived back at their table. 'What's funny?'
'Oh, I was just thinking how different it is here to what I'm used to. Buying a newspaper in the morning, for example.'
'Can't be done.'
'So I've discovered!' she said with a chuckle.
'It was even worse the other day.'
'Oh?'
'The papers had missed the boat. It was half-three in the afternoon when they arrived.'
She laughed. 'Thank goodness for the internet, eh?'
'Indeed.' He handed her the glass of wine she had asked for. 'Now, what have you decided to do about the house?'
She shook her head. 'Nothing, as yet. I'm still looking around it, and still thinking about Freda.'
Gregor nodded. 'All day, every day?'
'Basically,' she admitted. 'It's supposed to be a bit of a holiday, as well, but I can't get Aunt Freda out of my mind.'
'What about tomorrow?'
'What about it?'
'I'm planning on spending an hour or two on the Brough of Birsay. Fancy coming with me for a look around?'
'What is it? Where is it?'
'It's a part-time island just off Birsay. When the tide is out, you can walk across a causeway to it.'
'That sounds interesting. Yes, I'd like to see it. I won't be interfering with your work, though, will I?'
He shook his head. 'I need to call on my brother, as well. What if I do that first, and then pick you up about two? That would be just right for the tide.'
'Lovely. You do know where I'll be, don't you?'
'Broch House? Oh, yes. I know where that is.'
'If you forget, ask your brother. He knows,' she added with a giggle.
'The last thing I'd do is ask Ally for advice about anything. If it was directions I wanted, he would soon be arguing that I should be going somewhere else instead.'
'You seem to know him very well?' she said mischievously.
'Oh, yes! Yes, indeed.'
'Then I shall hope he doesn't deter you from visiting me tomorrow.'
'No fear of that,' Gregor said with a grin.'
*
The next morning she devoted to further exploration of Broch House, and she made some interesting discoveries. She found a small room, more a big, walk-in cupboard really, that she hadn't been in before. It contained floor-to-ceiling shelving full of box files and cartons. Some of the files she opened had records to do with the house. She nodded with satisfaction, and continued looking.
It was soon clear that Aunt Freda had been meticulous in recording and keeping information to do with repairs and maintenance, as well as the bills for such things as electricity and the telephone. Over the years, an awful lot of documentation had built up : bills and invoices for roof repairs, plumbing problems, rewiring, extra electrical sockets, and so on.
All the usual items, Emma supposed, that any house owner would need to tackle. It made her feel guilty about never taking much interest in her parents' home. Somehow it had never really occurred to her that things had to be done, and paid for. All she was used to doing was phoning the landlord when there was a problem in her rented flat.
Other shelves contained a lot of pamphlets, booklets and even a few bigger books that Aunt Freda herself had apparently authored, giving substance to Gregor's comments about her status as a distinguished observer of the local scene. Emma smiled, intrigued by the idea of being related to an author. What would her parents have to say about that! It was astonishing that Mum, at least, hadn't known.
One booklet by Freda Nicholson was about the Stones of Stenness, where Emma had been with Gregor. She laid that aside to read at her leisure. There were also other archaeological sites that Freda had taken an i
nterest in. Goodness! There were so many of them. She hadn't realised that Orkney was such a rich stomping ground for archaeologists.
There were plenty of photographs, too, some in albums and others loose, waiting to be filed. Many were to do with archaeological sites. Pictures of people scraping away in trenches, and some of people triumphantly holding up for camera what they had found. Freda had obviously spent a great deal of time and effort on the ancient history of Orkney.
One album of photos seemed spectacularly out of place, as well as out of time. Young men in some sort of uniform gazed at the camera with smiles. They were not Orkney men, though. Far from it. These were dark-haired men, quite possibly with a darker complexion than anyone she had seen on the island.
Studying the photographs, she wondered if they were holiday snaps, perhaps taken in Greece, or Spain. Somewhere like that. The Mediterranean, anyway, or possibly the Middle East. North Africa even? Possibly foreign archaeological digs. There was no reason to think Freda had confined her activities to Orkney.
Yet, and yet, what she could see of the landscapes in the background didn't look very much like anywhere she had been on her holiday travels. There was a lot of grass, for one thing. And a lot of cloud in the sky.
Then she found photos of what looked like a construction site. Men were working, hauling and carrying, hammering and sawing. What on earth? This certainly wasn't a holiday scene. Or an archaeological dig either. It was more like a construction site. She stared hard, wondering what had interested Freda in this scene.
A few photos were of one man in particular. Why did he seem so familiar? She frowned. She thought she had seen that photo, that face, somewhere else. Perhaps in a frame hanging on a wall somewhere in the house?
It occurred to her that she still had no idea what Freda had looked like. She began to hunt along the shelves for an album that might have shown her. At first she had no success. At least, she didn't think so. Freda couldn't have been a vain woman. There were none of the usual portraits that young women liked to have taken of themselves.
But then she did notice that the same woman appeared in many of the photos of archaeological sites. She was tall and slim. Quite old – perhaps a woman in her sixties. Grey hair. Spectacles. Very upright. Not exactly stern looking, but not jolly either. A serious woman, who took what she was about seriously. It had to be Freda, Emma decided. Freda in her mature years. There no photos that might have been of her as a young woman.
She put some of the photos aside for further study. Then she glanced at her watch and saw with astonishment that Gregor would be here any moment. She had better leave all this and get ready for him.
Chapter Nine
The Brough of Birsay was a fifteen minute walk from Broch House. To save time, bearing the tide table in mind, they drove to the car park overlooking the island.
'It looks wonderful,' Emma said, eyeing the pedestrian causeway cautiously. 'How long have we got?'
'A couple of hours. Time enough for us to get cross and walk around the island. The cliffs on the seaward side are worth seeing. Come on!'
They made their way down to the little beach, and the start of the causeway. The path was still wet from the withdrawal of the sea and care had to be taken to avoid slipping on the greasy surface of the stones.
'I'd noticed this island from a window of the house,' Emma said. 'Does anyone live here?'
'Not now, but they used to. There's the remains of a Pictish settlement just over there. Then the Vikings came and built their own village on top of it, complete with a cathedral. Later, the Earls had a place here, before one of them built his palace in the village on the mainland.'
The Earls, she gathered, had been the Norse nobility who for many centuries had owned and occupied Orkney.
'That's the place that's now in ruins? The Earl's Palace?'
Gregor nodded and grinned. 'It's just been one thing after another, in this part of the world!'
'So it seems.'
They reached the end of the causeway and headed up a broad track onto the island.
'This is where the Vikings used to launch their boats,' Gregor told her, 'and then pull them back out of the water to safety, after they'd finished raiding and pillaging – or whatever it was they did.'
All a long time ago, Emma thought, but Gregor spoke of such things as if they had occurred just yesterday. People here seemed to have long memories. Gregor wouldn't be the only one.
They wandered through the remains of the Norse village, past the ruined church and what some believed had been a monastic building. Then they set off along a path around the perimeter of the island, cliffs appearing and getting bigger the further they went. The island was tilted, Emma realised, sloping upwards from the causeway, so that the cliffs on the seaward side were a good couple of hundred feet high.
There were birds seemingly everywhere : overhead, standing in groups on the grass, sweeping out over the wild waves crashing onto the rocks below. In the distance, to the south, there were even higher cliffs on the mainland. The views in all directions were breathtaking, stunning.
'How are you getting on at the house?' Gregor asked suddenly.
'Oh, I'm still exploring the place, and discovering what's there. It's a big house, especially for just one person. I can't believe Aunt Freda lived there all alone.
'It's also very interesting. I had come to think there was no longer anything of a personal nature in the house, but just this morning I found a storage room full of paperwork – accounts, bills, and so on. I don't believe Aunt Freda ever threw anything away, bless her.
'There are photographs, too. Lots of photos of what look like archaeological digs. Perhaps you could look at them when we get back? You might be able to shed some light.'
'Any of Freda herself?'
'Some, I assume are of her. Freda, and friends and colleagues, I suppose. Maybe you'll recognise some of them. Mind you, they're mostly from years ago. None of them look very recent. None that I've found so far, at least.'
'I'd be interested to take a look. Now, if you'll excuse me, I want to take some photos from here of the sea cliffs. I want them to illustrate an article I'm working on for a birding magazine.'
'Oh? You're a writer, too?'
'After a fashion.' He grinned and added, 'When I can't avoid it. Jack-of-all-trades, me. But photography's my main thing. That and camera work, of course.'
She watched as Gregor got to work, moving perilously close to the edge of the cliffs. From there, she could see, there was a good view of a neighbouring cliff wall with extraordinary rock formations. The wall was like a multi-layered cake, with thin horizontal slabs of sandstone piled high on top of each other, all the way from the sea-washed bottom to the mist-wreathed summit.
'They're flagstones,' Gregor explained, when he rejoined her. 'Caithness flags. In the nineteenth century there was a roaring trade in exporting stone from this part of the world, all of it destined for people to walk on in the growing English towns and cities.'
'It's extraordinary – and quite beautiful, in its own way,' Emma said thoughtfully. 'I've never seen anything like it.'
Gregor smiled, and took more photographs. He knew this land well, and seemed to be enjoying showing her it.
*
They completed their circuit of the island and headed back down to the causeway.
'How much longer have you got here?' Gregor asked.
'A few days. Another week, perhaps, but I have to be back at work a week on Monday.'
'Are you going to be able to get everything done in that time?'
'I'll have to!' she said with a laugh.
It was a question she hadn't really considered. So far, she had been on a voyage of discovery, and after a rocky start had begun to enjoy herself. Orkney hadn't been a place she had really wanted to come, but now she was here it was proving to be surprisingly interesting.
Gregor was helping a lot, of course. She would have had no idea wher
e, or what, anything was without him. It was very good of him to spend so much time showing her around. She sensed that he was as happy in her company as she was in his. Beyond that thought, she didn't let herself go. A week on Monday was much too far into the future.
*
As they set off back to Broch House, Emma gave voice to something that had been puzzling her. 'I wonder why Aunt Freda never married,' she said thoughtfully.
'She can't have met anyone she liked enough, can she?'
'No, probably not.'
'Perhaps she was happy with her life just the way it was.'
'Mm. You're probably right,' Emma mused. 'She must have been. Otherwise she wouldn't have stayed here, would she?'
She considered further, and added, 'I mean, she didn't belong here, did she? Not originally.'
'I don't think so. Unless any other members of the family are from Orkney?' he said, glancing sideways at her.
'That's a point.' She frowned. 'I've not heard of anyone else in the family living here, or coming from here. No, I don't think there's a family connection. I'm not aware of one, at least.'
Gregor changed gear and slowed down, while he encouraged a wandering cow to leave the road and hurry back through an open gate into its field.
'So how did your aunt end up here?'
'Do you know,' she said slowly, 'I really have no idea. None at all. But it's an interesting question.'
'Another one,' Gregor added, ' is how Freda is related to you? Do you know?'
'Well, I think she was my mother's aunt, really, not mine. So she must have been my great-aunt.'
'Then why wasn't the house left to your mother?'
Emma shook her head. 'I have no idea. But it's something to think about, isn't it?'
Chapter Ten
'You've never been inside Broch House before, I take it?' Emma asked.
Gregor shook his head. 'No. I didn't really know your aunt in a personal, or social, sense. She was just someone who's name and face were familiar, and who I used to bump into and chat with from time to time.'
Orkney Mystery Page 4
