If Necessary Alone

by V M Knox

  ‘Are you alright, Sarah?’

  She was rubbing her right ankle. ‘I’ll live. Thanks to you.’ She looked up at him. ‘I still cannot believe it! Malcolm McCrea wanted to kill me. I think I can understand his prejudices, but this!’ Her voice broke off.

  Whilst he understood the hollow feeling of betrayal, he wasn’t as convinced about the identity of the gunman as Sarah appeared to be. Did Malcolm McCrea, or someone in his clothes, have enough time to cycle to the kirk from where they passed him on the road? If so, then that meant that the weapons were already in the bell tower. ‘Come below so we can look at that ankle.’

  Helping Sarah to her feet, he looked back at the receding black cliffs of Gills Bay. The night had enfolded the boat in its protective darkness. The only sounds now were the waves as they lapped against the sides of Tom’s boat and the slow putt-putt of vessel’s engine. He and Sarah made their way into the wheel house, to its shelter and comfort. As the boat began to roll and pitch, Clement knew they had entered Pentland Firth. Mainland Britain was now behind them.

  He saw Sarah glance up at Tom as the man came below into the warmth of the cabin. ‘What the hell is going on?’

  ‘Malcolm McCrea is a German spy!’ Sarah said.

  ‘What? Never!’ Tom said his gaze shifted to Clement as he checked Sarah’s ankle for any sign of fracture. ‘More than a Vicar going to Orkney, then. And you, Sarah?’

  But it was Clement who spoke. ‘Innocently caught up, Mr Harris. Can you take us to St Margaret’s Hope?’

  ‘Aye. Well. We’re not out of danger yet. I’m not displaying any navigational lighting. We could run into something or worse, have something run into us. And who is going to pay for the repairs to my boat?’ Tom’s eyes fixed on Clement.

  ‘I’m sorry about your boat, Tom and I have no idea who was shooting at us. It seems you have two passengers now. Ten shillings after all.’

  ‘Make it a pound and we’ll call it quits about the damage. I’ll get a bandage for that ankle, Sarah.’ Tom went to a cupboard and retrieved a small medical pouch.

  ‘Not hurt yourself?’ Clement asked.

  Tom shook his head and reached for a torch. ‘I want to check the bilges for any holes, but I think we escaped unscathed. More by good luck, though. We’ll be in St Margaret’s Hope by dawn.’

  The fisherman stared at him before leaving the wheel house. ‘You can get all manner of things in St Margaret’s Hope, you know, Vicar. I suppose it’s because of the large number of naval men stationed around there.’

  The little dog appeared at his feet.

  ‘We could see old Eric. You like Eric, don’t you, boy? Flip likes the dance music Eric picks up on his wireless.’

  Clement smiled at Tom Harris. ‘It could be a good idea, Tom, if you were to wait a week or two in Orkney before returning to Gills Bay.’

  ‘Aye. You could be right.’

  Chapter 10

  The little ship pitched and yawed, taking in water with every roll. Tom told them to stay below and get some sleep but Sarah had been sick and the cabin smelt of vomit. Tom remained on deck the whole crossing, his binoculars around his neck. With morning’s light, Clement thought the ship’s incessant rolling had lessened and he guessed they had entered the sheltered waters of Scapa Flow. He climbed out of the bunk and reached for his watch. It was just after seven.

  Staring through the porthole, Clement could see shafts of pale light penetrating the grey clouds, tingeing them creamy-yellow and piercing the tranquil waters. Despite its natural beauty, the sheltered harbour was a dangerous place and the graveyard of many men as well as ships. He glanced at Sarah who was finally asleep in the bunk opposite, then went to join Tom. Stepping out on deck, he breathed in the cold sea air; it’s freshness a panacea to his lungs.

  Off to his right, the cliffs of South Ronaldsay appeared black, silhouetted against the eastern sky. He turned a full three-sixty taking in the barren, isolated beauty. As they rounded Hoxa Head, the cliffs gave way to treeless, green fields sloping gently down to the sea.

  ‘Can I ask you, Tom, about the men in The Bell?’

  He saw Tom flick a glance in his direction. ‘Before last night, I would have told you to learn about them yourself, but I don’t feel much loyalty to someone trying to kill me. What is it you want to know, Vicar?’

  ‘How many people around Canisbay and Huna can use a gun?’

  Tom turned to face him. ‘All farmers can use a gun. It goes with the job. But I’ll tell you this for certain, I don’t know anyone who has a machine gun and regardless of you and Sarah seeing Malcolm on the road last night, I cannot see Malcolm McCrea being an accomplished assassin, likewise Stewart. Accomplished horsemen, aye, but not killers.’

  From the corner of his eye, Clement saw Sarah sit up in the bunk below deck, but she remained there, her foot raised on a cushion.

  ‘We’re nearly in,’ Tom said. ‘Once we’ve tied up, I’ll introduce you to Eric Fraser, the shipwright here. I want him to look over my boat anyway.’

  Clement glanced at the hardened fisherman. Conversation hadn’t flowed as easily with Tom as Clement had hoped. It wasn’t surprising; the crossing had been long and rough and Tom would have been preoccupied with the possibility of enemy shipping especially with his ship partially damaged. Or perhaps he just didn’t speak to Wise Man from The South. Yet he had noted that neither Tom nor Sarah volunteered information. Neither had they chatted about the events of the previous night. Even the subject of Donald’s death had not been raised. Surely that was unusual between friends?

  ‘What do you know about Sean Mead, Tom?’

  ‘Not much. He’s not much of a sailor, though. Told me he feels sick just looking at the sea.’

  ‘What brought him to Caithness?’

  ‘Some trouble in Ireland.’ Tom paused. ‘Ask Jean Buchanan. She seems to know him better than anyone.’

  ‘You mean she knew him before, in Ireland?’

  ‘No. I don’t think so, but she is, like him, not born and bred in Caithness.’

  ‘Any idea where she does come from?’

  Tom shrugged.

  ‘How long has she been the publican?’

  ‘A few years.’

  ‘And the Irish lad?’

  ‘Danny O’Reilly?’

  Clement nodded.

  ‘Comes from Wicklow, same county as Sean. He’s not a bad worker. Strong lad, for his size.’

  Clement stared out over the flat silver bay as the early morning light turned the white sky to the palest blue. His eye fell on the grey silhouettes of Royal Navy ships some miles distant to the north and west, their hulls like enormous, dark whales against the snow-covered shores beyond. Several barrage balloons floated above them. As comforting as the sight should have been in a time of war, it reminded him that even in beautiful and remote places, the enemy is never too far away, forever lurking and ever watchful. Was that also true for Sean’s fellow countryman?’

  Tom followed his gaze. ‘Can’t go there. Get fired on. And I’ve had enough of that for one war.’

  Clement’s mind was still on Danny O’Reilly. Regardless of the lad’s supposed strength, Clement believed the boy was too small to be physically able to suffocate then lift the deceased Donald Crawford. Dead men are heavy, Clement knew that first hand from the trenches, but the lad would be capable of carrying rounds of ammunition and a machine gun. That could make him an accomplice and there was only one man for whom Danny would do such things. Clement shook his head. He considered it unlikely. Sean chatted too much while on his bus routes. Despite his murky past, the man didn’t have the freedom of unobserved movement necessary to commit murder. Of the other men in The Bell last evening, there remained Robert Wallace and Ian McAllister. Clement assessed Wallace to be a loner: strong and fit, with a temper and a liking for a fight.

  ‘Tell me about Robert Wallace?’

  ‘The man’s a hero. True, he does resort to his fists quicker than
perhaps he should, but he was decorated in the first war. Dropped a grenade into a German trench then killed five more of the bastards with his knife.’

  Tom’s fervent remarks surprised Clement. Were they spoken too ardently? An attempt to defray suspicion? Tom Harris wasn’t completely off Clement’s list but his presence on his boat last night made it highly unlikely that he was complicit in Crawford’s murder.

  They passed the headland and Clement could see the snow-covered roofs of St Margaret’s Hope. A hunched line of grey stone dwellings clung to the shoreline. In the centre was a large barn-like building with slip rails rising up out of the sea and disappearing into the tall shed. Scanning the shoreline with his telescope, he saw no movement of any kind. He sighed. He had always thought the name St Margaret’s Hope sounded romantic, but in reality it was cold, remote and small. He replaced the instrument, his mind on the men of Canisbay and Robert Wallace in particular. Could this man have been trained and placed as a sleeper among them? It seemed unlikely in view of what he’d just learned from Tom. Clement stared at the line of dismal buildings that grew larger by the second.

  Tom cut the motor. ‘We’ve been lucky with the crossing. We’ve had some bad weather lately. Last Saturday’s gale was particularly bad.’

  Tom’s words lingered in Clement’s mind. Last Saturday, Stroma lighthouse had been bombed. Why would a German fighter even be flying in a gale? He needed to speak with Johnny. The mission was no longer straight forward. In fact, Clement believed he was drowning in a web of possibly unrelated complexities. His mind returned to the men he had seen at The Bell and to the other man he considered fitted the profile; Ian McAllister, and his large lorry. Unless, or until, Clement could learn from Inspector Stratton about each man’s whereabouts yesterday between approximately ten o’clock and midday, all it could ever be was conjecture. It also assumed Stratton would share the information. Clement also did not expect the killer to tell the truth. The man would be hiding in a labyrinth of lies.

  Tom manoeuvred his boat into the wide harbour and tied up at the jetty. ‘That’s Fraser’s Shipyard, along Front Road, there.’ Tom pointed to the tall, wooden building. ‘Eric Fraser is the shipwright on South Ronaldsay. His wife, Shona, will look after Sarah.’

  ‘Thank you, Tom.’ With both men supporting Sarah, they left Tom’s boat and walked towards Fraser’s shipyard. A large man with wild red hair came out to meet them. ‘Didn’t expect to see you again so soon, Tom.’

  Tom introduced them.

  Clement shook the massive hand. ‘I understand from Tom that you have a wireless, Mr Fraser. I wonder if Mrs Crawford could use it to send a message? It is important and won’t take long.’

  Fraser’s deep-set eyes flicked to Tom who nodded his approval and within minutes Sarah was sitting at a desk in the shipwright’s office sending out a coded message to the Royal Naval Base in Kirkwall. All Clement could do now was wait.

  ‘My wife can look at that ankle,’ Fraser said and lifting Sarah under her arm he led her across the quay, towards a house opposite.

  Clement turned to Tom, two ten shilling notes already in his hand. ‘Thank you for the passage, Tom. And, please, remember to stay away from Gills Bay for a week or so.’

  ‘Aye. I’ll say goodbye, Vicar. Good luck to you.’

  Clement patted Flip’s head and watched Tom and his little dog walk towards The Bellevue Inn. Alone now in the shipwright’s office, Clement sat at the desk, his gaze taking in the disordered space. He swivelled the chair, so that he could see out to the waterfront and beyond to the bay.

  Ten minutes became twenty and he began to worry that his message had been deemed too unimportant for Captain Winthorpe. Clement stood and stared at nothing, breathing in the aromas of fresh sea air, sawdust and pitch. Standing in the doorway, he stared at a round-hulled ship on the slipway, his ears straining for any voices emanating from the wireless.

  At zero eight thirty-five hours, he received the reply. Johnny was coming personally to St Margaret’s Hope and would be there before noon.

  Leaving the shipwright’s yard, Clement walked towards the door of Eric Fraser’s house. Entering the kitchen he saw Sarah, with Eric and Shona Fraser, sitting around a table drinking tea, an old dog lying beside the stove. It looked so natural. So every day. In his mind’s eye he saw Mary sitting at their kitchen table peeling beans, the knife moving adeptly over the vegetables. He felt his heart thump. It caught him off-guard; it always did. Blinking the image from his mind, he drew in a deep breath and sat down as Shona Fraser reached for another cup. ‘How far can your wireless pick up traffic, Eric?’

  ‘It depends on the frequency used and the time of day. And on the weather. With favourable conditions, about five hundred miles.’

  The distance surprised Clement. ‘Do you ever just listen to the traffic?’

  ‘Never. It is always turned to the emergency channels. That is the reason I was permitted to keep it. In any case, even if it was tuned to other frequencies, you would have to be in the office to hear anything and I cannot afford that luxury with ships in dock to repair.’

  ‘Have you ever overheard a transmission that you do not understand?’

  ‘You mean in a foreign language?’

  Clement nodded.

  ‘Plenty before the war, of course. Less so recently. However,’ Eric paused. ‘I have heard what I can only describe as gibberish. Jumbles of letters and strange sentences that mean nothing.’

  ‘For example?’

  ‘“The cushion is on the chair”. Like I said, Vicar. Nonsense. But English nonsense. Or sometimes French.’

  ‘And lately?’

  ‘Quiet. Although, once, there was something I thought could be the Jerries chatting to each other. Or it could have been our boys in Scapa Flow, for all I know. Buster, my old dog, bumped the table and the dial shifted off the emergency channel.’

  ‘Can you remember what you have heard?’

  ‘Easily. It was in Morse code. And it consisted solely of letters. Like JVZQA. All scrambled and random. But now I come to recall it, it was always in groups of either four or five letters.’

  Clement saw Sarah look up, their eyes meeting, but she said nothing.

  ‘Would you mind if Mrs Crawford listened for a while?’

  ‘It’s not supposed to be on anything but the emergency frequency, and then only for a few odd hours each day.’ He glared at Sarah, ‘And no transmitting on other channels, the enemy can get a fix on it and I could be arrested as a spy.’

  ‘It is important. I could vouch for you.’

  ‘Who with? God?’

  Clement smiled. ‘Him too.’

  Eric Fraser’s stern gaze remained on him. ‘Aye, well. If you hadn’t come with Tom Harris I wouldn’t agree.’ Finishing their tea, Clement assisted Sarah to hobble across the quay to the shipwright’s office.

  Away from the house Sarah leaned in towards him. ‘What is it, Clement?’

  Her use of his Christian name surprised him. ‘Would you recognise the touch again, if you heard it?’

  ‘Of course. But it is a long shot, given the restrictions on time.’

  Clement opened the little door into Eric’s boat-shed and they went inside. He felt ambivalent about having Sarah’s arm through his. His mind went where it always did, but Sarah and his Mary were nothing alike. Perhaps it was the domestic scene in the kitchen, or that he could feel her arm through his, or even her use of his Christian name that had jolted him into the past. He felt a smile cross his lips. Maybe now he may get to call her “Sally”. Drawing the chair up to the wireless, Sarah placed the ear phones over her head and reached for the frequency knob, her thumb and forefinger slowly shifting the dial. Lifting Buster’s fur covered blanket from an armchair in the corner, Clement sat and closed his eyes. His mind floated and drifted. It was almost as good as sleep. Ten minutes became thirty.

  ‘This is him!’

  The certainty in her voice wakened him. He w
atched Sarah scribble notes. She removed the headset. ‘It’s different though.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘For several days it consisted of up to forty groups of five letters. Then two days ago there was a transmission morning and afternoon. That was unusual. But it is always in groups of five letters. This is very short. Five groups of five letters.’ Sarah handed the note to him and he read the letters. DEGGO LIBEN HIDNT ELENU RRAWT.

  ‘Does it make any sense to you?’

  ‘None. As I said, you need the key.’

  He leaned back. ‘Why didn’t you tell me about the transmissions on Monday?’

  ‘It was before you arrived and I wasn’t sure I could trust you. I intended to check on you. But then Donald was killed and the wireless was stolen before I could.’

  ‘Do you trust me now?’

  Sarah nodded. ‘Sorry. But I had to be sure.’

  ‘And you’ve no idea what these messages say?’

  ‘No. I take down the letters then send them on to the Y-station.’

  Clement stared at the note. ‘At least he is still in place and transmitting.

  ‘What now?’

  ‘We wait.’

  They sat in Eric Fraser’s ship yard looking down the wharf and out over St Margaret’s Hope harbour. Ten minutes passed, the only sound that of the rhythmic waves hitting the slipways.

  ‘Are you alright?’

  Sarah turned to face him. ‘You mean Donald?’

  Clement nodded.

  ‘I suppose I shouldn’t say this, but I feel wonderful. Odd don’t you think, in view of his death and what happened last night. But in truth, for the first time in years, I feel alive.’

  Clement smiled, but he didn’t really understand it. They both had lost their spouses, but their reactions could not be more different. He would miss Mary forever.

  At nine fifty-three he saw the tiny craft. He reached for his telescope and watched it as it approached. Twenty minutes later, Clement saw the familiar frame of Johnny Winthorpe step ashore and stride towards the buildings of Front Road. Meeting by the large double doors, Clement led Johnny to Eric’s small office where Sarah was still listening to wireless chatter.