by V M Knox
Clement stepped forward.
The woman’s surprised reaction lasted no more than one second. Putting a tray of dirty glasses on the sink, she turned to face him. ‘He’s not here. I told you he wouldn’t be before nine. But Stewart McCrea is.’
Clement nodded. ‘Who’s been in this evening?’
‘The usuals. And Stratton.’
‘Did Inspector Stratton say why he is here?’
Jean emptied the tray and reached for some clean glasses. ‘Brought Reverend Heath back. Stratton isn’t staying though. Says he has to be in Thurso for an early appointment.’
‘Do you know what about?’
She met his eye. ‘The Inspector and I are not on such friendly terms. Anyway, why did you leave the room? Don’t trust me, eh?’ Jean lifted the tray of clean glasses and swung it onto her hip.
‘I didn’t think it right to expose you to any trouble.’
The woman held his gaze. ‘You anticipate trouble here?’
‘I’d rather not involve others. Safer all round.’
Jean shrugged and left the kitchen.
Clement stared after the woman. He thought she wouldn’t be so disdainful if she knew a killer stalked Canisbay, but he had neither the wish to alarm her nor the time for discussion. Dismissing it, he left the kitchen and slipped outside.
Sean stepped forward from the shadows. ‘Well?’
‘Brought Reverend Heath back. But Stratton’s not staying.’
Clement was glad Aidan was back. He wondered if the man had discovered his dead chickens. Clement looked up across the darkened fields. Perhaps he should tell Aidan about the Frew sisters. They deserved to be buried honourably and not left bound to their earthly indignity. He ran the idea around his mind, but until this night was over, and McAllister was safely in custody, Clement’s presence had to remain secret from all but Sean and Jean. There was nothing to be done for the old ladies now.
‘What now, Vicar?’
‘A few hours in the belfry, I’m afraid, Sean.’ Somehow the long cold hours ahead had lost their sense of dread now that Sean was with him. Besides, even though Sean didn’t know it, within two hours Clement needed to be in Crawford’s sitting room to receive the call from Nora Ballantyne. Pulling his coat collar high around his ears, they struck out across the fields making for the kirk.
‘Makes you feel young again, doesn’t it, Vicar?’
Clement recalled Johnny’s words about young men with death wishes. If there were young men who routinely did such work for “C” then Clement admired their stamina as much as their bravery. But perhaps, for Clement at least, it wasn’t so much bravery as escapism. He wondered if it was the same for others who worked for “C”. He had agreed because he didn’t want to face a life without Mary. Right now, he would settle for just staying alive.
Scaling a flagstone fence, Clement paused and peered over the stone wall at the manse. Even in the limited moonlight, he could see the outline of the building and smell the burning coal. He smiled, visualizing Aidan fanning the flames into life. He envied the warmth and he felt an odd sense of satisfaction that Aidan had returned.
Five minutes later they were in the bell tower.
Clement lay on the floor with his arm under his head and closed his eyes. It was just before eight o’clock. Forty minutes rest would be welcome, even in the cold, draughty belfry. In the distance, he could hear the steady rhythm of the waves crashing into the cliffs below in Gills Bay. So much had happened in so few days and he had to remind himself that it was only Friday. He had been in Caithness less than a week, but it had been like no other week he had ever known. Everything had seemed so confused. But now he knew the identity of his enemy, his mind and his mission were clear. He listened to the insistent rhythm of the waves; coming, going. He drew in a long breath and listened to his own breathing. It was only a matter of time now, he thought.
Heightened nerves and uncertainty with every step, coupled with the bitter cold, was an exhausting combination and they eroded resolve. Was he right about McAllister? Clement chastised himself. It was the numbing cold that confused, he told himself. A frown creased his forehead and in the freezing air a realisation dawned that almost made him stop breathing. Everything really was confused. Every time he thought one way, something would happen to bewilder which inevitably led to procrastination and delay. What plans he’d had, had been abandoned until he no longer had a plan. Events moved rapidly and kept changing. Had he been so reactive to events around him that his enemy had been controlling his movements from the beginning?
He sat up. ‘Only a matter of time.’
Time. Not weather. Or was it time and weather?
Was that the reason for McAllister’s delay in leaving the region? Since the day Clement arrived in Huna unusual things had been happening around him. Secret liaisons. Clandestine comings and goings. People, for the most part unseen, leaving their footprints criss-crossing the district, confusing the everyday with the covert. Was that how his enemy remained one step ahead? Clement stared at the bell ropes in front of him. His presence in the district was known by the one man Clement had hoped to evade. Should it also be presumed that McAllister knew his true purpose in being the district? Clement blinked several times. Was he being kept alive for fear that another more able would replace him before his enemy’s planned escape? Better the devil you know. But how much did he know? Clement realised that while his opponent knew everything, he, Clement, knew almost nothing. And what he did was mostly conjecture. Clement could feel his shoulders drooping. He felt like an amateur. Doubt again had taken hold of his thinking. He needed to remain focused or he and Sean were dead. That, too, was probably only a matter of time.
Clement rolled his head to the right. He guessed Sean was not asleep. ‘How well do you know the people here?’
‘How well do we really know anyone, Vicar?’
‘Indeed.’ Clement said, knowing the truth of Sean’s remark.
‘Anyone in particular?’
‘It occurs to me, Sean, that I have been led on a wild goose chase from the moment I arrived in Caithness.’
‘Is that what you think?’
He turned to face Sean. ‘Yes. What do you and others in Canisbay and Huna know that I don’t?’
The Irishman paused. ‘Small communities, Vicar. When they fall out amongst themselves it is usually pretty vitriolic. Heated words. Long held resentments. But that is about the strength of it. But when someone from outside rattles the chain, enemies become friends.’
‘The enemy of your enemy?’
‘Something like that.’
‘You think Donald Crawford and Ian McAllister became friends?’
‘There are two people hereabouts with the surname McAllister. Just as there were two with the surname Crawford.
‘Sarah Crawford and Ian McAllister, you mean?’
‘There is another combination.’
‘Joyce McAllister and Donald Crawford? Are you’re saying that Donald Crawford’s death was a crime of passion?’
Sean shook his head. ‘I’m not saying anything of the kind. But you, like me, are not the only one who isn’t, or wasn’t, local. It takes time to build trust. You should know that, Vicar, if you lived in a small village.’
‘What are you saying, Sean?’
‘The Crawford’s came to Huna ten years ago. About the same time I did, if you catch my drift.’
‘The Crawford’s are still considered outsiders?’
‘Aye. Although they had a head start.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Joyce McAllister is, or rather was, Donald Crawford’s sister.’
Clement felt Sean’s words like a blow to the head. ‘What?’
‘They fought like only relatives can, but I don’t believe it includes killing kin.’
Clement looked into the space before him. If McAllister wasn’t his enemy then who was? ‘What about the Frews?’
‘I don’t k
now about that. A terrible thing, what happened to them. But I do know they weren’t well liked. Kept to themselves. Considered themselves superior and wouldn’t hear any argument about transferring the barn to the McAllisters.’
‘But you said Joyce was a Crawford.’
‘Didn’t matter. She married a McAllister and as far as the Frews were concerned, that was enough.’
‘And where do you stand in all of this, Sean?’
There was a long pause before Sean responded. ‘Why did you choose me, Vicar?’
‘I pegged you as an outsider. And someone who, and perhaps I got this wrong, was not loyal to anyone?’
‘It’s true I don’t get involved. But all that aside, what I know is second hand. And we all know not much truth is spoken in a pub. But for what it’s worth, Vicar, I don’t think Ian McAllister is your killer.’
‘So I ask my first question again, Sean; what do you and others know that I do not?’
Sean stared at the roof above them. ‘It would be best coming from Sarah.’
‘Sarah?’
‘They’ll be here soon enough, if you are correct about the third member being McAllister.’
The Irishman turned on his side.
Clement closed his eyes. He felt like he was in a maze, where everyone was outside in the sunshine and only he remained on the inside feeling trapped and frustrated. What had Mr Churchill said in his speech to the parliament? That Britain would fight on, if necessary, alone. Alone. A wave of desperation, or was it defeat, swept over Clement. He felt cold and weary, more weary than he had felt in years. Since the trenches. But he had come through that and it had been life changing for him. He had pledged his life to the Lord’s service. He had returned from the mouth of hell on earth and found life and love. Defeat was not what he wanted. The people of Caithness may be collectively thwarting his mission, but a more sinister enemy lurked within their midst, even if they did not know it. He needed Sean. And he needed the man to understand.
‘Sean. I am only interested in one man. Or perhaps two. They are German infiltrators, enemy spies and murderers. These men are the enemies of your community and of our nation. What I am not interested in are local disputes. If you are here to mind me, or to thwart me, then I would ask you, as the decent man I believe you to be, to leave now.’
The Irishman rolled over and faced him. Clement could see the blue eyes weighing up options. ‘Alright, Vicar. But I’ll fight for the King of England if McAllister is your man.’
‘Talk to me, Sean.’
Chapter 21
Clement should have realised what they were doing. Everyone in Canisbay and Huna knew. It was how Jean always had whisky and how Aidan had more coal than his ration and the Crawford’s shop had fresh fish and meat. Clement hadn’t seen sugar or bacon, but he guessed it was there. And he also should have guessed when he saw the contents of the barn. No wonder it was always locked. It surprised him that he had not made the connection. His home town of Rye in East Sussex had, in centuries passed, been a haven for smuggling, but dealing in the black market in wartime was a punishable offence and one which carried a severe sentence. Small surprise, then, that he had been treated with suspicion and labelled The Wise Man from the South.
‘And if they knew about the Frew ladies, there would be a mob on the look-out for you, Vicar. They don’t believe you are a man of the cloth, by the way.’
‘Well I am. What I am not is an excise man. But why did no one mention that Ian McAllister and Donald Crawford were brothers-in-law?’
‘Perhaps they didn’t think it your business or maybe they didn’t want you prying any more than you are.’
Clement stared at the stalactite bell ropes. While getting people to talk was a skill he had learned as a vicar, it had always been because those people had wanted to tell him about themselves and their problems. But eliciting information from unwilling sources was another matter entirely and he felt a sudden admiration for the men who worked for “C” who could. As bad as black-marketeering in wartime was, their deceit had not only complicated matters, it had very nearly cost Ian McAllister his life.
‘But if not McAllister...’ Clement’s voice trailed off…he thought of the ammunition drum in McAllister’s lorry. The evidence was compelling. The complexity of subterfuge astounded.
‘You can ask him, soon, if you are right about his involvement with Sarah and Tom.’
Clement checked his watch, the call from Nora Ballantyne due in less than half an hour. ‘I have to go. I want to check something.’
Sean sat up. ‘Go? Where? Why? What happens if they come before you return?’
‘Best you do not know where,’ he said standing. ‘If they are neither traitors nor murderers, as you believe is the case, then you have nothing to worry about.’ Clement checked his pistol. ‘I’ll be as quick as I can.’
Clement hurried down the steps and out of the kirk. He guessed Sean was watching him from the belfry window but he knew the night would engulf him within minutes and the strong westerly wind would carry any sound of his footsteps away in seconds.
Keeping his feet on the solid road surface, and with the wind at his back, he headed east. It was dangerous; the night, the road, Caithness and its people and there was a real possibility that he would walk straight into McAllister coming the other way. If he was correct about McAllister being the ring-leader. It was a risk Clement had to take. As he ran, he thought of Sean’s words about people. It was true. People are never quite what they seem, even people you think you know. This war, even more than his twenty odd years as a vicar, had taught him that.
Twenty-five minutes later, Clement opened the rear door into Crawford’s house and tip-toed into the sitting room. All was dark. He listened but there was no sound. Checking the house, he returned to the sitting room and sat at the exchange waiting for Nora Ballantyne’s call. Right on nine o’clock the phone rang. Even though anticipated, the sound of its insistent call made him jump in the still air.
‘Hello?’
‘Who is this?’
‘Hope.’
‘It has taken us some doing to compile this in the time, Major. I hope it has been worth the effort.’
‘Thank you. Please go ahead.’
‘Donald Crawford was in the Merchant Navy in the last war as a Signals Operator. He was medically discharged. No history of any criminal activity. In fact, other than the Irishman, Sean Mead, who is wanted in Ireland for beating a man to death in a bar room brawl, no others on your list have a criminal record of any kind. But there are some anomalies.’
‘Go on, Miss Ballantyne.’
‘Robert Wallace does not have a medal for bravery. Or anything else, for that matter. He was in the first war in France, but he disappeared at the Somme. Believed missing or dead, he resurfaced in ‘19 claiming he had been a prisoner of war. It seems Mr Wallace returned to Britain on a fishing boat. As we are not in a position to check his claim with the German authorities, we are none the wiser. However, there is no record of any case brought against him for either desertion or cowardice, but as I said, there is no medal.’
‘And Doctor MacGregor?’
‘A well respected Veterinary Surgeon and a Justice of the Peace. No record of any wrong doing.’
‘Anything else?’
‘The registered publican of The Bell is not Mrs Jean Buchanan.’
‘Who is?’
‘Allan Stratton.’
Clement sat back.
‘Concerning Mrs Jean Buchanan; we have checked with the Scottish Records Office but I’m sure you can understand that without anything to go on, like a place of birth, it is well-nigh impossible to identify her. There are over two hundred Jean Buchanans living in Scotland currently. Some information is necessary, Major, even for us. But regardless, it will take more time than you have given me to conclusively identify her. If this information is vital I can send someone to Scotland to wade through censuses and parish records. One more thi
ng, Major, Reverend Aidan Heath was born in Denmark, but was educated in Scotland and attended Seminary School in Glasgow. It appears he never returned to Denmark. Other than these, everyone else seems rather normal and home grown.’
Clement thought for a moment. With all he’d heard he needed time to think. ‘Don’t worry about Jean Buchanan at this time. If it is important I will call again. And thank you, Miss Ballantyne. You have done wonders.’
‘It’s what we’re here for, but you don’t need to be so formal, Major. After all, we have been introduced.’
Clement heard the line go dead before he could respond. Her final comment had taken him by surprise and he wasn’t sure if Miss Ballantyne was endeavouring to show she was human after all. He severed the connection and reset the exchange cables then left by the back door, slipping out of Crawford’s rear yard.
He checked the road in both directions, the wind tearing at his coat. The red telephone box stood mute in the night. Behind him, McAllister’s garage was closed and dark. He pulled his balaclava over his head and stared to walk. Robert Wallace. The heroic story had been an invention. A lifetime of covering up the disgrace of desertion would make a man solitary. It could also explain his quick temper and liking for the bottle. As Clement walked, he thought back to those years, to the first war with Germany. The penalty for desertion then was the firing squad. While Clement knew the trenches and understood why a man would desert, he couldn’t condone it. Indeed, those who had been injured in a non-life-threatening way, like himself, were considered the fortunate ones. He remembered it all too well, the gasping agony of torn flesh that produced pain like he had never before experienced. He had seen what happened to men who had been in the trenches for months on end without respite. Was this why Robert Wallace, the soldier, had disappeared into the night? Or had the man found refuge in Germany and been converted to the Nazi cause?
Clement stopped walking. Away to his right Wallace’s farm stood silhouetted against the starry night sky. If he applied his original criteria, then Robert Wallace was a perfect match. Clement visualised the man’s white knuckles, the hands wrapped around the beer glass. Had they also been wrapped around Donald Crawford’s neck? Anger was a dangerous force. He resolved to question Sean on his return to the bell tower about Robert Wallace.
