If Necessary Alone

by V M Knox

  Five minutes later, he descended the stairs from the belfry and let himself out. Leaving the kirk, he hurried through the graveyard and across the road, checking for any movement. Nothing. And no sound carried on the wind. Breaking into a slow run, he covered the three hundred yards to the manse in minutes. Checking around him, he scaled the low stone garden fence and crouched between the plants at the side of the manse. He could see the sitting room windows. The black-out curtains were drawn and he could smell burning coal. Keeping to the garden beds, he skirted the house and studied the snow-covered rear garden. The footprints from the kitchen door that he had seen on Wednesday had vanished under some recent snow and a fresh set now led from the back door across the field disappearing through the gate. Aidan was evidently visiting his neighbours and would return soon enough. Clement decided to wait, his gaze on the rear gate to the Frews’ house.

  He pondered Aidan’s lie about contacting Thurso Police. Had he just changed his mind? The smell of the burning coal filled the night air. The promised warmth beckoned. Standing, he went to the door and knocked. He waited two minutes but no one came. It confirmed that his friend wasn’t there and he wondered if Aidan would mind if he let himself in. Trying the door knob, Clement found it locked. He frowned. Was that unusual? He reached for his lock-picks then stopped. When Aidan returned, how would Clement explain his presence in the house? He turned, his gaze on the set of footprints that led away from the manse. He decided to wait.

  Sleet began to fall and Clement felt the cold trickle run down his neck, making him shiver. He stared at the poultry shed not five yards away. There he could wait for Aidan to return. And it would be warm. Running the short distance, he turned the handle and let himself in.

  The cold was unexpected. He closed the shed door behind him, and reached for his torch, flicking on the beam. The sight left him speechless. Ten hens sat on their perches, frozen to where they had died, their necks twisted, their heads flopped to one side. A cloud of condensed breath floated away from Clement’s lips. He ran his hand over the dead birds. They were cold but there was no evidence of decay and not a drop of blood had been spilt.

  He stared at them, a frown deepening. Why had the birds been killed? Backing away, he sat on a bale of hay on the floor at the far end of the shed and flicked off the torch. His intention had been to pass the night at the manse, but the bewildering spectacle made him uneasy. Now he wasn’t so sure.

  He stared at them wondering if Aidan knew. Clement had no way of knowing. Neither did he know if Aidan would return this night. A hollowness was developing in his chest, the sinister unseen presence enveloping him once more. He couldn’t stay but shelter was now his major concern. He thought back to the large cattle barns he’d passed on his walk from Dunnet. The closest to the west was at least two miles distant and with night imminent, he would be travelling across fields and bogs in the dark. He shook his head. Besides, cattle are inquisitive creatures and would surely alert the farmer to his presence. Wallace’s farm was closer but as Robert Wallace was one of the two men Clement now suspected, he decided against it.

  He pulled his coat around him and blew warm air over his gloved hands, the gesture reminding him of the trenches. The appalling cold, the dead. Dead not from bullets but from poor shelter and inadequate clothing. But they, poor souls, had had no alternatives. In those days, the penalty for desertion was the firing squad. He chastised himself for becoming maudlin. It was the cold and the loneliness of this mission that tore at the soul. It clouded judgement, sowed doubt in the shadows. He recited the ninety-first psalm, the Lord’s word giving him the comfort it always did. But right now he would have given his right arm to have just one of his former team members from the Auxiliary Units beside him.

  He checked his watch. It was just after six o’clock and Aidan had still not returned. Had Sarah Crawford been at home he would have gone there, but with her away in St Margaret’s Hope, the house would be as cold as the poultry shed. As much as he didn’t like it, he needed to trust someone. His mind went through the people of Canisbay. There was only one whose loyalty to the people of the district was non-existent; Sean Mead…an outsider with a grudge.

  Standing, Clement pushed open the poultry shed door and looked out. The twilight shadows had vanished over the rear garden and the bitter night made him shiver. He closed the door and skirting the manse, ran the short distance to Canisbay village.

  Squatting by the hedge on the opposite side of the main intersection, Clement studied the inn. To one side of The Bell was a narrow passage with a high stone wall. Hurrying, he crossed the intersection and ran down the dark side path, the sound of raised voices audible through the blacked-out windows of the main bar above his head. At the corner of the building he paused and stared into the rear yard.

  Behind the public house was an area of approximately fifty square yards. To one side, and leaning against the side fence, was a stack of empty barrels. On the other was a long out-building. He ran across the yard towards it, but heavy padlocks kept the building closed to the inquisitive. Stacked to one side of the out-building were some empty wooden crates. Squatting beside them, he checked the time; half past six. Beside the rear door to the inn was a bicycle. He hoped Sean was there, for although Clement hadn’t seen Sean’s bus, he knew Sean didn’t need to be driving it to be in Canisbay.

  Clement watched the rear door for several minutes but no one came or went. Taking a leather pouch from his webbing, he withdrew his lock-picks.

  The door opened.

  He stayed behind the crates and waited.

  Sean Mead stood in the doorway, Jean Buchanan behind him. Clement’s thoughts and apprehensions churned. He wasn’t sure about Jean’s involvement, but he needed help and he had no time for philosophizing. Swallowing hard, he stood and crossed the yard.

  ‘Reverend Wisdom? Now I wasn’t expecting to see you again.’ Sean took in Clement’s bedraggled appearance. ‘Something happen?’

  ‘Could I have a word with you? Inside?’

  ‘Perhaps you should not make your return to us widely known, Vicar,’ Jean said, closing the door behind them.

  ‘What makes you say that, Mrs Buchanan?’

  ‘Stewart McCrea is blaming you for the deaths of both Donald Crawford and his brother.’

  ‘And Sarah Crawford disappearing at the same time has all the tongues wagging.’ Sean added.

  ‘Malcolm McCrea is dead?’ Clement asked. ‘That is terrible news.’

  Sean was staring at him. ‘Aye. Found on the rocks below the kirk yesterday.’

  Clement felt the grievous weight of the murderer’s wickedness. McCrea must have heard and seen the gunfire from the belfry and gone to investigate. That chance encounter had cost the boy his life.

  ‘Like to tell us what is going on?’ Jean asked.

  He looked at the woman. ‘I did not kill either Donald Crawford or Malcolm McCrea.’

  ‘But you know who did?’ Sean added.

  Clement shook his head. ‘Sadly, no. But I did see Malcolm on Wednesday night. Well, early Thursday morning, to be precise. I was escorting Sarah Crawford to Tom Harris’s boat in Gills Bay. The lad came out of the darkness. Why was he on the road at three o’clock in the morning?’

  ‘Why were you and Sarah Crawford?’

  He heard the woman’s insinuation but ignored it. ‘Tom was taking me to Orkney and that was when the tide was right.’

  ‘And Sarah?’

  ‘Needed a place to think for a while.’

  ‘Malcolm was on his way to Huna, to call the Veterinary in Castletown about a sick horse,’ Sean told him.

  ‘At that hour?’

  ‘A sick farm horse is a real emergency, Vicar.’

  Clement nodded. ‘Who’s in the bar at present?’

  ‘Danny O’Reilly and Stewart McCrea,’ Jean told him. ‘So you better not go in there.’

  ‘Mrs Buchanan, I understand you have a telephone. Can you tell me who used it last
and when?’

  ‘I did. Last Monday afternoon, to check on a delivery from the brewery. But I haven’t been able to get a line until today given that neither Donald nor Sarah is there to operate the exchange. It’s been a major inconvenience.’

  ‘Did anyone else come into the bar this afternoon?’

  ‘Just the usuals,’ Jean answered.

  Clement watched the publican from the corner of his eye. He wondered why she had chosen not to tell him about Stratton and his unknown companion Clement had seen from the bell tower.

  ‘If that’s all, I have work to do.’

  ‘Yes, thank you, Mrs Buchanan.’

  The woman left the kitchen, closing the door to the rear corridor behind her.

  Sean went to a cupboard and took two glasses from the shelf and retrieved a bottle of whisky from behind the meat safe. ‘Will you have a drink, Vicar? It looks like you could use one.’

  Drawing a chair up to the kitchen stove, Clement sat down. ‘Thank you. Sean, could I ask you something?’ Clement took a deep breath. ‘If I had to call on someone for assistance, could I count on you? As one outsider to another?’

  ‘More than just a vicar, eh, Vicar?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  Sean stared at him for a few seconds. ‘Aye. Why not? I was never one to shy away from a fight!’ Sean swallowed the whisky in one gulp.

  ‘Who was on the bus from Wick, the day I arrived here?’

  Sean leaned back in the seat. ‘If I remember correctly there was old Graham Nesbitt, a tenant farmer from Brabster. He falls asleep almost as soon as he is on board. Then there was the young constable and his wife from Thurso who had been to see the doctor. She’s expecting. And the Veterinary from Castletown, Doctor MacGregor and his wife. Although, I don’t know why he was on board. He’s got his own car. Saving petrol, I suppose.’

  ‘The Vet from Castletown, you say?’

  ‘Aye. So you’ve heard about the theft. It happened while Doc MacGregor was in Wick.’

  ‘Does he know what was taken?’ Clement asked, hoping that Sean couldn’t see he hadn’t known about the theft.

  ‘Chloroform.’

  Clement heard the words like an explosion in his head. Donald Crawford’s blue lividity, the fresh smell in the barn annexe. The lack of any sign of a struggle. It all made sense now.

  ‘Do you know who drives a grey car?’

  ‘Aye. Doc MacGregor.’

  ‘Anyone with Stratton this afternoon?’

  ‘Know him, do you? Why doesn’t that surprise me?’

  Clement smiled but he didn’t answer.

  ‘Aye, Aidan Heath. The Reverend and Joyce McAllister are taking it in turns to operate the telephone exchange and open the shop in Sarah’s absence.’

  Despite learning who owned the grey car and the revealing news about the theft of chloroform, Clement beamed. It was the first genuine smile that had crossed his lips since the death of Donald Crawford. Aidan’s whereabouts had concerned him but now his relief was as heartening as the man’s hearth.

  ‘Well, if that’s all, Vicar, I better put that empty barrel out or the landlady will start charging me board.’

  ‘Mind if I stay here a while?’

  ‘You can have a room, if you like. But I thought you would be staying with Reverend Heath, now that you’re back.’

  ‘It’s been a long day and I wouldn’t mind a few hours to myself. Besides, I think Aidan has enough on his plate without a house guest.’

  ‘I understand. A man needs his solitude.’

  Sean opened the rear door, the icy wind filling the kitchen. Lifting the barrel onto his shoulder, he disappeared outside.

  Clement removed his boots and wriggled his toes, staring at the combustion stove, the heat seeping into his near frozen feet. The chloroform had been stolen on Tuesday, the day he’d arrived in Huna. Donald Crawford had died the next day, the same day Clement had seen the Vet’s car outside The Bell. That surely was no coincidence. But while he knew the theft and the murder were linked, he didn’t understand the motive. Was the Vet involved in some way? With the growing warmth, Clement’s body began to feel the tiredness washing over him. Fatigue always clouded judgement and made rational analysis difficult. It had been a long walk from Dunnet to Gills Bay, especially in bad weather, but now that he knew beyond any doubt that Donald Crawford had been murdered, he couldn’t ignore it. He also realised something else of importance; Donald Crawford had connected a telephone call, but as no one was in the red telephone box at the time and it had not been placed from The Bell, that left only one other place.

  The back door opened as Clement slipped his feet back into his boots and retied the laces.

  ‘It’ll snow tonight, that’s for sure.’ Sean closed the door and removed his coat.

  Clement stood. ‘Thank you, Sean.’

  ‘Going out? I thought you wanted a warm place to sit for a while.’

  ‘I do. But I have to check something.’

  ‘Here, take this then, Vicar.’ Sean removed his sturdy green and brown tweed coat and tossed it to Clement. ‘You’ll catch your death in that poor excuse of an overcoat you wear.’

  ‘You won’t need it?’

  Sean winked. ‘I’m sure I’ll be warm tonight. And Vicar, I’ll leave the rear door unlocked for a few hours, if you want to come back here. The key cupboard’s there.’ Sean pointed to a small cabinet inside the pantry. ‘There’s no one in this evening, so take any key.’

  ‘Mrs Buchanan won’t mind?’

  ‘What the eye doesn’t see, the heart doesn’t grieve over.’ Sean opened the door to the main bar and left him.

  Leaving The Bell by the rear door, Clement ran into the dark, side passage.

  Chapter 14

  Clement paused at the corner. Pressing his back against the inn wall, he peered around the edge of the inn and studied the intersection in front of him. Nothing stirred and no lights were visible from any of the houses around Canisbay. He sniffed the air. The distinctive odour of burning peat came to him on the wind. Just off to his right was a confusion of footprints in the snow around the front door. Two bicycles were leaning against The Bell’s front porch, their tracks disappearing into the night. Stratton’s car had long gone but Clement could see the slush where the vehicle had pulled off the intersection to park outside the inn. He stared at his feet. The damp was beginning to penetrate the cracked leather of his old boots, but his mind was not on his increasingly numb extremities. He was annoyed with himself for letting slip that he knew the Thurso police Inspector. It was a mistake. Careless. Such inattention could cause his death. He stared again at his muddy and sodden bootlaces, praying his decision to confide in the Irishman would be vindicated.

  Clement lifted his gaze, his eyes resting again on the car’s tyre tracks. Although still well-defined, they were not fresh. Stratton couldn’t have stayed long. But why had the man gone to The Bell? Had he gone to interrogate others who were at the inn? Stewart McCrea, Sean or Jean? Clement felt his head nodding. It made sense. Especially in light of the tragic news of Malcolm’s death. It also explained Aidan’s presence. And investigating the lad’s death had delayed Stratton.

  Clement lowered his head, thinking. Why had Jean not told him about Stratton and Aidan’s visit? And what about MacGregor, the Vet? Questions and few, if any, answers. Perhaps it was another lesson learned about solo missions. There was no one with whom to share doubts. And even if Sean proved to be the asset Clement hoped for, he couldn’t confide in the man. Neither could he count on Sean keeping his return to Canisbay secret. People talk. Things slip out in conversation. He was guilty of that. He bit his lip wondering if his lapse about knowing Stratton would adversely affect him. But one thing was certain; as warm as The Bell was, he couldn’t stay there now. Not only could his whereabouts become widely known, it placed Jean in danger. He looked around. All was quiet. But finding a warm place to rest would have to wait, at least until he had
seen the Frew sisters. They held a vital piece of information. He turned his mind to the pair. He knew almost nothing about them. Were they completely innocent, or implicated in murder? He had to know. But one thing he did know; the call that had preceded Donald Crawford’s death had been placed from their house.

  Scanning the street once more, Clement crossed the road and, opening a gate into the fields opposite, headed overland towards Huna. Keeping to the hedges, he crossed the paddocks. From time to time, he looked back over the ground he had just covered, but in the darkening night his presence and his footprints were concealed. So, of course, was anyone following. The realisation only served to heighten his nerves. It was, he guessed not yet eight o’clock and what there was of the waxing moon was low in the sky. Unseen clouds came and went, casting their brief but long, flickering shadows on the ankle-deep snow. Hugging the waist-high beech rows, he approached the elderly ladies’ house from the front. He squatted by the dilapidated wooden front gate and studied the building. It was a large house, three storeys, with several chimneys. Squinting, he stared at the stacks. No smoke was visible from any of them and no smell of burning peat or coal lingered in the air. No light was visible in the front rooms. It looked neglected and bleak.

  Hopping over the low, stone, garden wall he walked up to the front door and listened. Silence. He knocked and waited. No one came. Leaving the front porch, he skirted the house. The manse stood silent over the rear fence. He couldn’t see any lights there either. Clement glanced up at the rear door of the Frews’ house. Beside it was a window. He surmised the door led into a scullery or kitchen and wondered why the black-out curtains over the window weren’t drawn. He stared at it, an uneasy feeling beginning to take hold. He reached for his lock-picks when a noise, like something being dropped, came from one of the upper storey rooms. Glancing up, he waited, but the noise was not repeated.

  Putting the lock-picks back in his pocket, Clement returned to the front of the house and knocked loudly, the uneasy feeling increasing. This time he heard the rhythmic fall of footsteps but still no one came to the door. Returning to the front gate, Clement stood facing the house, his eye scrutinizing the windows. All appeared to be closed, but he could see a distorted reflection of moonlight on the glass pane of the last window on the upper floor. Warped from years of rain and melting snow, Clement surmised that the window no longer closed properly. He thought for a moment. Despite not wanting to frighten the old ladies whom he had never met, breaking into the house had now become a necessity.