by V M Knox
Clement smiled. ‘Who’s in?’
‘Just Robert Wallace and Stewart McCrea now, although Ian McAllister was in earlier. It’s odd really. Robert and Stewart never spoke much before Malcolm died and now they appear to have found a common bond.’
‘Any idea what?’
‘Misery! You know the old adage. And farming. Which, let’s face it, amounts to the same thing.’ Sean’s gaze went to Clement’s arm. ‘You injured?’
‘It’s nothing much. I was lucky. But I’m sorry about your coat.’
Sean glanced at his coat lying on the kitchen table, the torn blood-stained hole obvious. ‘Plenty of clothes nowadays have patches.’
But Clement’s mind was on the men of Canisbay. ‘How long have they been in the bar?’
‘Stewart came in around five. Robert’s been here all day. The weather’s keeping most of them indoors. Bad for business, so I’m told.’ Sean paused. ‘You look done in, man. What about you get a few hours’ sleep in one of the rooms upstairs?’
‘Thank you, but no. I am sorry about your coat. I would offer you mine, but as you see, someone isn’t happy I’m back in Canisbay.’
‘Maybe they thought it was me, Vicar!’
Sean’s remark had been said flippantly, but the thought that whoever had fired at Clement may have believed he was Sean just added to Clement’s already confused assessment of events. Clement reached for his own coat and pulled it on, the dry warmth permeating his bones. It felt wonderful and for one second, he smiled. But the image of the old ladies crashed in on his thoughts and the smile fell from his face. He shook hands with the Irishman. ‘Be careful, Sean.’
Clement walked to the rear door, aware that Sean was watching him. ‘Has it snowed here in the last twenty-four hours?’
‘We did have some flurries overnight.’
Clement nodded and opening the door, peered out. The rear yard was deserted. Pulling his collar around his neck, he hurried away. He had hoped, despite all evidence to the contrary, that the footprints he had seen on leaving the Frews’ house were not fresh. But one thing Clement had learned, if Sean was to be believed, that whoever had fled through the manse’s rear garden, they had not sought refuge at The Bell.
Crossing the rear yard, Clement climbed a fence and using the low hawthorn bushes for cover, made his way north towards the main road and the kirk.
At the intersection, Clement looked back over the fields. Slivers of pale light flicked across the pastures whenever the cloud cover allowed. On the night air he heard the low hum, the sound of a car’s engine coming from the east. As it approached him, Clement wondered if he should stop the car and ask to be driven into Thurso, to inform Inspector Stratton about the Frew sisters. The sound increased as it neared. He couldn’t think. The combination of the pain in his arm, coupled with his weariness and the numbing cold was dulling his senses. He could see the vehicle’s deflected head lights now. Clement hid behind the stone wall adjacent to the intersection. At the last second he stood, and peering over the wall, saw a car pass not six feet in front of him. Stratton was behind the steering wheel; Aidan Heath beside him.
Clement slumped against the wall, his mind racing. He thought Stratton would have returned to Thurso hours ago. And why was Aidan in the car? Rain began to fall. Reaching for the balaclava in his pocket, he pulled it on. Standing, he checked the road in both directions grateful that the hour and the cold would keep most people indoors. Stratton’s car had already disappeared into the darkness. Tom’s warm, dry boat beckoned only a fifteen-minute walk away. But knowing Aidan was not at the Crawford’s, the call to Nora Ballantyne could not wait. Leaving the intersection and keeping to the road, Clement headed east towards Huna.
The village looked as it always did; deserted. Withdrawing his pistol, he lifted the latch on Crawford’s yard gate and slipped inside. In the darkness, he edged his way towards the kitchen door and turned the handle. The door was unlocked. He slipped inside and listened for the voice of Joyce McAllister, but all was silent and dark. He crept through the kitchen into the sitting room. The clock still ticked loudly. The room was warm and in the grate a few coals still glowed in the dark. He smiled knowing that Aidan had, indeed, been there.
Leaving the sitting room, he tip-toed along the corridor to the last bedroom. Edging forward, his hand reached for the bed, his fingers running along the cold sheets. Sarah was not there. Not that he expected her to be. Whilst her whereabouts concerned him, he did breathe a sigh of relief. Had he been wrong about her? That she had left St Margaret’s Hope did not mean she was still on South Ronaldsay, despite what Tom said. Clement thought about the man’s revelation. Sarah’s departure hadn’t seemed to cause Tom much concern. Did that mean he didn’t care about the woman? Or was it that he knew where she was? More questions. Clement pursed his lips. It was time he had some answers. He returned to the sitting room and sat in the chair by the telephone exchange and memorised the current location of the cables. He didn’t know which of the local phones was connected, but he guessed it was The Bell. Removing the cable, he attached it to the one Sarah had previously used for the London call and dialled the number. A disgruntled voice answered.
‘Nora?’
‘Yes.’
‘This is Clement Wisdom. I need some information.’
Chapter 16
Saturday 1st March
The sound of sizzling fat and the distinctive aroma of eggs cooking roused him. Clement’s hand reached under the mattress for his knife, the action unconscious. In that instant between the oblivion of sleep and wakefulness, he had forgotten that he was on the fishing boat. Blinking the sleep from his eyes, he saw Tom leaning over the tiny galley stove, his back to Clement.
‘Sleep well?’ Tom said without turning around.
‘Apparently too well.’ Clement secreted his knife into its scabbard and checked the bandage on his arm. The blood had dried but the dressing needed replacing. He swung his legs over the side of the bunk bed and stood up.
The wind was howling through the little ship’s stanchions, reminding him of the strengthening head-wind he had encountered on his walk back from Crawford’s shop the previous night. Clement stared through the porthole at the grey water. Beyond Gills Bay, the turbulent waters of Pentland Firth were capped with white, while Stroma Island was all but obscured in the mist. He turned to face the fisherman. ‘I thought you might stay at The Bell.’
‘The thought did cross my mind. How’s the arm?’
‘I’ll be alright. Do you have another dressing on board?’
‘Aye.’ Tom lifted the frying pan and slid an egg onto some thick bread on each of the two waiting plates. ‘Eat. I’ll get the bandage.’
Clement sat at the small galley table and unwound the blood-stained compress. Tom put some iodine and a gauze pad on the table, his gaze on the shallow wound. ‘You were lucky, I’d say. Now to answer your questions of last night; no one entered The Bell at the time you asked about and Reverend Heath and Joyce McAllister have been operating the exchange and the shop between them in Sarah’s absence.’ The kettle whistled. Tom went to fill the waiting tea pot. ‘And I understand that Joyce is feeding Aidan. He’s more helpful to the community doing that at present than sitting by his fire reading fishing magazines.’
‘I agree.’ Clement said securing the bandage with a pin. ‘Is Reverend Heath residing at McAllisters’?’
‘Couldn’t answer that, but if he isn’t at the manse, it is more likely he is with Ian and Joyce. It stands to reason.’
It did to Clement too. And it fitted with what he had seen last night. Although where Aidan had been going with Stratton still perplexed him.
Clement lifted his knife and fork and giving silent thanks for the food, cut a slice of egg-soaked bread. The yolk reminded him of another meal; the one he had shared with Aidan on the day Donald Crawford was murdered. Clement thought on the Frew sisters and the ghastly image. What connected the deaths? And why had it been nec
essary to silence the chickens? He visualised himself sitting on the hay bale in the shed, staring at dead fowl and sacks of coal. Even Aidan couldn’t enter that shed without the birds making their raucous cackle. So who had entered the shed and thought it necessary to silence the birds? Something had been hidden there. Or someone. He wanted to see the poultry shed again. ‘Ian McAllister delivers coal on Saturdays, doesn’t he?’
Tom sat down and began to eat. ‘And Wednesdays.’
Clement nodded, licking the thick yellow protein clinging to his lips. ‘Do you know much about farming, Tom?’
Tom Harris laughed. ‘You’re talking to the wrong man, Vicar. What’s your question?’
‘What do Scottish chickens eat?’
Tom stared at him, his knife suspended mid-air, the bushy eyebrows raised in surprise. ‘I didn’t expect that. The same as chickens anywhere I suppose; kitchen scraps and grain. Oats; there is always lots of oats. My mother fed me almost exclusively on porridge.’
‘Yes. Porridge. What about hay?’
Tom laughed aloud. ‘They’re chickens, Vicar, not horses.’
Clement finished the egg and stood. ‘Of course. Silly of me.’ But he knew what chickens ate, he just wanted to know if Tom did. ‘Thanks for the breakfast and the bunk, Tom. And for the information.’
‘I hope you work it out soon, Vicar. Where will you be?’
‘Best you do not know.’
It was nearly nine o’clock, but the dull day and white sky made it seem like early morning and Nora Ballantyne’s return call was not for another twelve hours. Clement glanced up at the imposing kirk as he hurried along the worn stone jetty. No one was firing a machine gun at him today. Leaving the pier behind him, Clement took the track up from Gills Bay to the main road.
At the intersection, he paused and stared across the paddocks around him, the bleakness of the day like a shroud. Off to his left, the old kirk stood mute and omniscient. He stared at it. He began to think that the ancient building was trying to tell him something. Perhaps the cold was colouring his imaginings, but he felt driven to enter it. He glanced across the fields to the manse, checking the chimney. No smoke. Wherever Aidan was, he wasn’t at home. And while Clement wanted to see the poultry shed, there was time for some overdue prayer and reflection.
Lifting the latch on the large door, Clement felt the freezing air of the closed kirk encircle him. Stepping inside, he selected a pew to the side of the entry door and knelt down. Although he recited known prayers, the words came automatically and his mind was not on them. He stopped his prayers and stared up at the white-washed wall in front of him. ‘What is it You want your servant to know, Lord?’
In the silence he stared, unblinking at the wall before him, his mind suddenly calm. ‘The telephone.’ He said the words so silently he wondered if he had actually voiced them. Leaning back in the pew, the idea ricocheted around his brain. Was it just the telephone that linked the deaths? Had it never been about the wireless? Clement leaned his forehead into his palm and rubbed at the deepening furrows. Why had the chickens died? He drew in a sharp breath. He knew now what had been hidden in the poultry shed.
He hurried away from the kirk and crossed the road, his eyes scanning the dwellings of Canisbay some three hundred yards in front of him. Smoke issued from chimneys, but no one came or went. He wondered if people stayed indoors throughout winter or only travelled in vehicles? His mind recalled the car he had seen on his first day. He knew now that it belonged to the Vet from Castletown. But Castletown was too far away from the antennae in Canisbay Kirk. Did that exonerate the Vet?
Clement climbed over the stone fence and crouched behind the cold wall. While his eyes searched for movement in the surrounding fields, his mind was on Crawford’s stolen radio transmitter. Had its theft only ever been opportunistic? Leaning his back against the cold wall, he suddenly felt the grip of sinister realization. He could almost hear the killer laughing. It was pure evil. Donald Crawford’s grotesquely displayed body was a message The killer knew about the Crawfords’ secret wartime role. But it wasn’t why Donald Crawford had been killed. He had died because of a telephone call. Crawford could identify the caller.
Standing, Clement glanced along the road in both directions. Still nothing. He ran along the hawthorn and beech hedges making for the manse. The wind was strong now. Nothing unusual for Caithness, but a blustering westerly made for hazardous waters in Dunnet Bay, if, that is, he was correct about a pick-up and its location.
Crouching beside a low flagstone fence, Clement could almost feel his enemy’s sadistic presence. He stared at his boots, thinking about the telephone call. It was the one thing that only he and the killer knew about. Clement had seen that the red telephone box was empty at the time Donald Crawford connected the call. So how did the killer know that he, Clement, had learned about the call? He felt himself exhale. His presence in the Frews’ house. There was no other reason for him to break into the old ladies’ house. He felt his heart racing. But he also realised something else. Not only could Donald Crawford name the caller; he could also identify the recipient. He may even have listened to the conversation. Clement swallowed hard. He also knew now that because it was a telephone call and not a radio transmission, that recipient was local, not in Germany or on a U-boat in the Pentland Firth. But why, if the killer had a local contact, would he remain in the vicinity? Especially as now, thanks to the encounter in the Frews’ house, the killer knew Clement had not only returned to the district but also had figured out the significance of the telephone call? Why had the gunman not killed him in the Frews’ house?
Clement lifted his head, the manse in the centre of his vision. Running beside the hedge that bordered the road, Clement paused, crouching in the entangled branches. From his position, he could see that the black-out curtains on the sitting room windows were still drawn. Aidan, it appeared, was not at home and hadn’t been for some time.
Keeping to the rose beds, he crossed the garden and skirted the house. Glancing up, he saw the Frews’ home. He felt his body shudder. Looking away, he ran towards the poultry shed and opened the door.
It surprised him that the smell was not greater. His gaze shifted from the birds to the deep shelves at the other end of the shed where garden implements were stored. Two coal bags sat propped against some stacked bales of hay. Another hay bale, the one he had sat on, was in the middle of the small floor.
Turning the bale over, he could see that handfuls of hay had been removed. Pushing his fingers into the straw, his hand searched the hollowed-out cavity. Nothing. Withdrawing his hand, he knelt down and studied the space. Straw lay all around the shed. It covered the floor and the chicken perches. Had he been wrong about the wireless? He didn’t believe so. Despite it not being there now, he believed it had been. He pondered who could have removed it; but there still were no definitive answers.
He needed to hear from Nora. Looking up, his gaze fell on the pipe that channelled the heat from the house. Aidan. He thought of the cleric. The footprints in the snow between the manse and the old ladies’ house, the hay bale which, even though he couldn’t prove it, had been used to hide Sarah Crawford’s wireless, his instinct told him it had. And there was the antennae in the kirk as well as Aidan’s lie about telephoning the police. Everything else could be circumstantial or completely innocent, but not that. Yet despite this, the wireless wasn’t there. If Tom’s information was correct, Aidan may not have even been at home for some time. Clement stared at the stone slab floor. Was it the killer’s intent to implicate Aidan?
Once more Clement went through the list of men in the area. Of all the people in Huna and Canisbay, only three men knew he was again in the vicinity; the killer, Tom Harris and Sean Mead. And, both Tom and Sean could have killed him already, if that had been their intention. Therefore, neither was the murderer.
Clement sat staring at the floor, blowing warm air into his gloved hands as he thought. Was it possible that the person he’d e
ncountered in the Frews’ house was not the killer? Of the regular attendees at The Bell, those that remained were Danny O’Reilly, Robert Wallace and Duncan McCrea. But he already knew enough about Duncan McCrea to know that the man would be incapable of carrying either a corpse or a machine gun up a spiral staircase and would surely not have killed his own son. That left Robert Wallace and the young Irishman. Danny O’Reilly he had already discounted. And, given that Tom had said Wallace was a war hero, Clement believed it unlikely. He shook his head feeling the frustration. He needed to hear from Nora. Lifting his gaze, he stared at the two full hessian bags of coal leaning against the wall of the shed. Ian McAllister was certainly capable of lifting heavy weights. If he delivered coal on Wednesdays and Saturdays he could easily have hidden the wireless and then retrieved it at a later time and Aidan would be none the wiser. Standing, Clement opened the shed door, his mind on McAllister.
On the wind he heard the deep hum of a vehicle. The noise increased then stopped. Assembling his Welrod pistol, Clement left the poultry shed, and using his lock-picks slipped into the manse by the rear door. Glancing around the kitchen, he saw that nothing appeared disturbed. He paused in the doorway between the kitchen and sitting room and listened for any movement on the upper floor. Tip-toeing across the sitting room, he waited beside a front window. A lorry was parked in the lane beside the manse. A second later the driver’s door opened and McAllister jumped out.
Clement stared at the man. It had been McAllister who had come to the manse to inform them of Donald Crawford’s death. And it had also been McAllister who had helped Aidan take Crawford’s body down from the window in the barn. McAllister had also been in The Bell the night Clement arranged his passage with Tom for Orkney and Sean had told Clement that McAllister had been in The Bell last evening. The man’s mobility raised no eyebrows. McAllister could have placed the weapons in the bell tower at any time, especially as the man was one of the two church maintenance men.
