If Necessary Alone

by V M Knox

  Clement looked up at the deceased. Why had Crawford gone up to the loft and not waited for his wife? Unless he had been forced to? And the pitchfork had been added to make it appear accidental. Clement’s gaze shifted back to the loft. Or had Donald been killed in the small annex and carried up to the loft? If that was so, then that fact alone exonerated Sarah who would never be able to lift her deceased husband, much less carry him up a ladder and throw him into the window. Such an act would require much force and great strength. He needed to know if Donald had sustained any other injuries which would indicate that death had taken place elsewhere.

  Clement reached for the loft ladder and leant it against the wall beside the broken window and climbed up, the body inches from him. Even though more than two hours had passed since the man’s death, Clement could smell the whisky. His gaze focused on the deep blue-purple colouring around the deceased’s upper lip and cheeks. Diminished oxygen, Clement knew, caused the lips to turn a purplish blue. But it was not just the lips. Placing his forefinger and thumb on Crawford’s cheek, Clement turned the face towards him. Discolouration and a mild degree of swelling extended over the forehead and cheek bones. Clement looked at the man’s hands and fingers. They were covered in rivulets of congealed blood, but there was no sign of broken skin or grazing about the knuckles to indicate a struggle for life with his assailant. There were no bullet wounds, no knife wounds, neither was there any kind of blunt trauma injury about the man’s body that would have caused death prior to the fall. Clement leaned closer to the man’s face. Why, if Crawford had fallen backwards, was his face bruised and swollen?

  Clement returned the ladder to where he had found it, and closing the barn door, walked back along the road towards the kirk. He needed to think. He no longer saw the beauty of the coastline, such was his concentration. He believed Donald Crawford had been asphyxiated, the purple-blue bruising around the mouth and nose suggested it. He had learned the technique in the unarmed combat lessons at Coleshill. The victim was approached from behind. The move usually preceded a dagger to the throat, but in this instance the murderer had not required the final assault. Why? Had Donald Crawford been completely oblivious to his attacker and, once killed, simply slumped forward over the desk? The bruising suggested it. But why had the killer moved him? Donald Crawford was not a small man. Clement began to visualise the murderer; fit and muscular with strong, capable hands and most probably not much older than forty-five.

  At the intersection, Clement left the road. Walking past some headstones, he headed straight towards the large kirk door. Despite the head-wind, the walk from the barn had taken only twenty minutes. He hadn’t passed anyone, either on foot or in a vehicle. He now knew that was not unusual. People didn’t just stroll about in Caithness in winter. Provisions were delivered and other than a visit to The Bell, there was no reason for anyone to be walking along the road. Except Donald Crawford. He had walked from the shop to the barn to attend to the radio schedule. Even that was unusual. Sarah routinely did the schedules to coincide with the daily deliveries. Her lorry parked outside the barn or even driving into it would raise few eyebrows…but Clement’s arrival in Caithness had changed the routine.

  The kirk door swung open. No one was inside. Walking to the first pew, he knelt to pray. The cold bore into his flesh. He had been in Caithness only one day and already his mission had become complicated. In addition to the appalling death of Donald Crawford, the wireless and book had disappeared. Clement stared at the whitewashed walls, his mind searching for answers, but answers required at least some information. As a stranger, especially one who had arrived only yesterday, he felt he was in a whirlpool of ignorance and uncertainty. As was often the case when he was alone, his mind dwelt on Biblical verses; he found they gave him clarity of mind, as if the Lord was giving him guidance with his problem.

  The cover name Johnny had assigned to him drifted into his thoughts. Hope. ‘“For we are saved by hope,”‘ Clement quoted, ‘“but hope that is seen is not hope: for what a man seeth, why doth he yet hope for?”‘. Leaning back in the pew, Clement closed his eyes. ‘“For what a man seeth…”‘ The words reverberated around his mind. What had Donald Crawford seen? Had Crawford seen his killer or learned something that exposed this man? Perhaps something that needed to be passed on? Was he killed only to prevent the radio transmission? Had Crawford even attended to the radio schedule before his killer struck? Somehow, Clement had to speak with Johnny.

  An hour later, Clement left the kirk and walked towards the manse, visualizing the roaring fire in the sitting room. He hastened his step. Looking over the meadows, he could see late afternoon descending. The pastures had taken on a colourless greyish-white and the hedges that criss-crossed them now seemed like black ribbons over the fields. The smoke still issued from the chimneys at The Bell, but the grey car was no longer parked at the front. He checked his watch. It was only four o’clock, but the land would be in total darkness within two hours.

  Rain began to fall. It seemed to come directly at him like horizontal daggers. Clement huddled into his greatcoat as the rain turned to sleet, his mind again on Donald Crawford. He didn’t doubt he’d been murdered. A man with strong arms and capable hands had killed Crawford then carried him up the ladder and thrown him into the window.

  Clement looked up, his gaze shifting from one rooftop to the next. Did one of these dwellings harbour a traitor? In the diminishing light of the bleak afternoon, Clement felt the killer’s existence like a sinister shadow. But the proximity of this man did not mean he was a local. In fact, now that the wireless was gone and Crawford had been killed, Clement doubted the murderer would remain in the vicinity. He wriggled his toes, the scabbard of his commando knife digging into his ankle.

  As Clement pushed open the gate to the manse, the beginning of a plan was forming in his mind. Either he could remain in Canisbay and wait for the police to arrive, or he could walk to Thurso and make contact with Johnny through Inspector Stratton. He hoped Aidan was at home, he needed to know when the police were expected.

  Clement knocked and entered the unlocked house, but it was eerily quiet. ‘Aidan?’ he called, to no response. Walking into the sitting room, Clement prodded the dwindling fire, the flames leaping from the warm coals and he sat before it warming his legs and feet. Pulling his note book from his top pocket, he began to compile a list of all the men in the area he knew about. Malcolm and Stewart McCrea were on the top of the list, as was the informative Tom Harris. As farmers and fishermen, they would be fit and strong. Then there was Robert Wallace, a man Clement had not yet met and who did maintenance work at the kirk. Wallace had a reason for frequenting Crawford’s barn. Moreover, if the man’s wife was any indication, Wallace had a temper. Clement pondered the only other local men he knew about. Ian McAllister, who despite his evident strength, had an alibi as he was doing deliveries, and Sean Mead whose bus was apparently not in the region at the time. But whilst their alibis were strong, Clement couldn’t be sure. He added their names to the list and scribbled a question mark beside each.

  Half an hour later he heard the kitchen door open. Aidan came into the sitting room and slumped into the chair.

  ‘Ian and I have lifted him down. Couldn’t leave the man like that.’

  Clement nodded. ‘What did Thurso Police say?’

  ‘In fact, it was the police who told us to take his body down and wrap him in a blanket. We put him on the bed in the annexe now that it is snowing. Ian will board up the window. The Inspector said they can’t get here till Friday.’

  ‘Not before?’

  Aidan shrugged. ‘Investigating some burglary, apparently.’

  ‘Is Mrs Crawford alone?’

  Aidan shook his head. ‘No. Joyce McAllister seems to have taken charge of the widow. I’ll check on Sarah again tomorrow. The funeral will be on Sunday, after morning service.’

  Clement stared into the glowing embers. He was glad to hear that a woman was with Sarah, but the n
ews that the police were not due for two days meant a long walk into Thurso. ‘If there is anything I can do to help?’ he asked, hoping there wasn’t. ‘I thought it best to leave you with your parishioners to grieve. Especially in view of what I said.’

  ‘Thank you. You certainly put the cat amongst the pigeons, Clement. I thought we were going to have our own war there at one stage.’ Aidan paused. ‘Actually, they were pretty incensed about your remarks. With reflection, perhaps it would be best if you took Tom Harris’s boat to Orkney tomorrow. It’s a local matter and in places as small as Huna, it is important to respect their privacy.’

  ‘Of course. If you think it best. Do you know where I can find Tom Harris?’

  ‘His boat will be in Gills Bay, but given the weather, he will probably be at The Bell now.’

  Clement glanced at Aidan from the corner of his eye. While he did not feel hostility, he did perceive that there wasn’t the same warmth and bonhomie he had shared with his fellow cleric on the previous evening. ‘Perhaps I will go now, before it gets too cold.’

  ‘A good idea, Clement.’

  He walked into the front hall and reached for his coat and hat. As he opened the door, a flurry of snow blew into the house. Hurrying, he closed the door and wrapping his coat around his body, started to walk up the road towards the village of Canisbay and The Bell.

  A lorry was parked at the side of the building and several bicycles were leaning against the brick columns that formed the porch of the inn. Clement pushed open the door. A stale warmth greeted him as all conversation stopped. In the bar were four men and a prodigious woman with a broad face who he guessed was the publican, Jean Buchanan.

  ‘You must be the visiting vicar, Reverend Wisdom.’

  Clement smiled and nodded at the woman.

  ‘The Wise Man from the South!’

  It was a voice Clement didn’t recognise.

  ‘Never mind him, Reverend Wisdom. He’s a heathen, so he is,’ a familiar voice added. Sean Mead stuck his head around the booth and smiled at him.

  Clement smiled back, but it surprised him to see the Irishman, whose bus wasn’t parked outside. Sean was definitely back on his list.

  ‘How are you Sean? I was wondering, is Tom Harris in tonight?’

  ‘I’m Tom Harris.’

  The fisherman was a short, muscular man of about thirty-something with dark hair, large calloused hands and a two-week-old beard.

  ‘Can I buy you a drink? Allow me to buy the next round for everyone.’ Clement said.

  ‘I’ll have a whisky,’ a chorus of voices responded.

  He smiled. ‘Do you have any whisky, Mrs Buchanan?’

  ‘Well, I might have some put aside for a birth. Or a death.’

  ‘Small places, Vicar,’ Sean said.

  ‘Yes. A tragic and dreadful accident.’ Clement stared at the faces. Looks were being exchanged.

  ‘We hear you think it was murder?’

  ‘Introduce yourself first, so the vicar knows who he’s talking to,’ Sean chastised.

  ‘Malcolm McCrea.’

  McCrea was about twenty, well-built with thick red hair, pale blue eyes and a surly expression. An identical boy beside him spoke next. ‘Stewart McCrea.’

  ‘Robert Wallace,’ the oldest man among them said. It had been Wallace who had labelled him the Wise Man from the South. Clement stared at the face; a mature, more robust version of the adolescent Billy stared back at him. Wallace was sitting alone at a table by the window, the glass in his hand almost empty, but the man’s grip on the glass was tight. Firm enough for the knuckles to be turning white. Clement stared at those fingers. Across the man’s knuckles were grazes and Clement could see the power in that fist.

  ‘And this is Danny O’Reilly,’ Sean was saying, indicating a dark haired, black-eyed youth sitting beside him.

  A door opened into the bar from behind the counter and Ian McAllister walked in. McAllister was wearing a long oil skin coat that was covered in black dust. Their eyes met, McAllister doing little to disguise his contempt.

  Jean Buchanan poured a drink and left it on the counter. Without speaking, McAllister drunk the liquor down and left the bar by the front door.

  Clement sat at a table by the door. ‘I was wondering if I could speak with you, Mr Harris, about a passage to St Margaret’s Hope?’ Harris and a small Jack Russell dog joined him at the table a little away from the others.

  ‘I had a Jack Russell when I was a boy. What’s his name?’ Clement asked patting the dog’s head.

  ‘Flip. He appears to like you, Vicar. He doesn’t usually take to strangers.’

  ‘Your good health,’ Clement said, raising his glass to the room. ‘And to you, Flip.’

  Tom sat down, the dog at his feet, and the conversation in the room recommenced.

  ‘When, Vicar?’

  ‘Tonight.’

  ‘How many passengers?’

  ‘Just the one. Where is your boat?’

  ‘In Gills Bay, tied up at the jetty.’

  ‘When could we leave?’

  ‘It won’t be till late. There is almost no moon and the tide is low. Next high tide is around two. Make it three o’clock at the jetty.’

  ‘You can’t make it any earlier?’

  Harris shook his head. ‘The tide runs fast around Stroma Island. A sea-going boat makes little headway on an incoming tide. Besides, Pentland Firth is littered with ship wrecks and I have no intention of being the next one.’

  ‘Very well. How much?’

  ‘Ten shillings.’

  ‘Two weeks’ wages for some!’

  ‘Five shillings then. But only because Flip likes you. Pentland Firth is not for the faint-hearted, Vicar, especially at night.’

  ‘Agreed.’ Clement stood. He knew the crossing would be dangerous in the dark, but Flip’s acceptance of him aside, Clement still believed Tom Harris was taking advantage of him. He would pay because there was no alternative, something the fisherman knew all too well.

  Clement left them to talk about him and stepped outside, the cold wind hitting his chest and face. Ian McAllister’s coal delivery lorry had gone, but Clement could hear the gears as McAllister drove away through Canisbay village, turning left onto the inland road.

  As Clement walked back through the snow to the manse he went through the faces of the men he had just met. The McCrea boys were fit, strong, young men. Identical twins made for an interesting situation. No doubt the locals could tell them apart, but that required years of familiarity. It had surprised Clement to see McAllister. It was likely that Donald Crawford’s death had delayed the coal deliveries to the vicinity. McAllister had been in the public bar for no more than a few seconds, but the large man managed to come and go without drawing much attention. And McAllister was strong. Clement thought back on the body of Donald Crawford. There had been no evidence of coal dust on the man’s clothing, but perhaps McAllister wasn’t wearing the all-encompassing coat at the time. The barn was the closest building to McAllister’s garage, so the man would have to pass it even before the first delivery. Sean Mead also moved around the district easily enough, with or without his bus. And Clement had no idea about Sean’s young friend.

  It was Robert Wallace who worried him most. From Clement’s experience men whose quick temper resulted in sarcasm and brawling usually had something to hide. Clement stared at his feet as he often did when walking. Small places. And small places close ranks. Especially from a Wise Man from the South.

  Chapter 9

  Thursday 27th February

  Lifting the blankets, Clement switched on his torch and checked the time. It was just after one o’clock. He slipped out of bed and dressed quickly. Going to the window, he pushed the curtain aside and stared into the rear garden. With almost no moonlight, darkness engulfed the scene. It would make for slow progress but at least he now had some familiarity with the terrain. His gaze lifted and settled on the thinnest slice of moon th
at flickered behind invisible clouds.

  Clement let the curtain fall. He reached for his knife and secured it as usual to his left calf, then inserted the long barrel of his pistol into the holster on the left side of his vest. He then placed four magazines of ammunition into his webbing and pulled on his over-shirt, jacket and greatcoat. Collecting his boots and pack, he tip-toed across the room and opened his bedroom door. All was quiet. He’d said good bye to Aidan the previous evening. He glanced back at the room. Nothing of his remained.

  Descending to the ground floor, he crossed the sitting room. A few coals in the grate from last night’s fire were still alight, their low orange glow stark in the dark room. He closed the door to the front hall and put on his boots. Standing by the door, he stopped to listen. Nothing stirred either outside or in and Aidan had not woken. Opening the front door, Clement let himself out.

  Wrapping his scarf around his face, he pulled his hat down hard against the biting wind and walked across the garden to the road, his breath condensing, his footprints leaving long stride marks in the snow. Where Aidan’s front garden met the roadway, Clement turned and staying behind a hedge, cut back across the fields heading east towards Huna.

  Twenty minutes later he stood beside the red telephone box, studying his surroundings. Nothing but the wind moved in the bitter early hours of morning. Before going to Tom’s boat, he wanted to speak with Johnny and the only place he could do that was in Crawford’s sitting room. He crossed the road and lifted the latch on the gate to the rear yard. Once inside, he scanned the space. Crawford’s lorry sat parked in the centre. Passing it, he hurried towards the kitchen door and turned the handle. The house was unlocked. Frowning, he stepped inside. In the next room a clock ticked loudly. Checking the black-out curtains, he made his way to the telephone exchange. Within minutes his eyes had grown accustomed to the darkened room. Sitting in the worn chair, he flicked on his torch and studied the switch board, but of all the skills he had learned at Coleshill, switch board operation hadn’t been one of them. He stared at the scramble of cables in front of him.