Holy Terror in the Hebrides

by Jeanne M. Dams

  The MacPhersons, as soon as they were free of their charges, began to move the boat out. I watched in horror. “But—but they mustn’t go out again in this!” I wailed to no one in particular.

  Chris, the last passenger ashore, put a hand on my shoulder to steady me. “There’s a good harbor across the Sound, between Mull and a fair-sized island. I heard them talking about it just now. They call it the Bull Hole. The Iolaire should be safe there. Whether the skipper and his son can get back across the Sound in a dinghy, or even a launch . . .” He shook his head.

  “I hope they don’t even try.” I shuddered.

  “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine.” In fact I was just about at the end of my rope. It was time I headed for the hotel, which seemed impossibly far away. I put my head down and trudged, Chris courteously supporting one elbow. I was too fargone even to thank him. Atleast the wind was at our backs. Drearily I put one foot in front of the other, heading up the hill.

  By the time I dragged myself through the heavy front door I had begun to shiver again, and I couldn’t seem to stop. Even when I’d settled myself in front of the electric heater that was beaming brightly on the hearth, I shook. The other guests hovered around me, making ineffectual suggestions that I barely heard.

  “She’s in shock,” said Hester, the proprietor, who came into the room, concerned about the commotion we were creating. “Something’s happened?”

  Four women began to talk at once.

  “Never mind.” Hester held up her hand. “Get her up to bed. I’ll bring hot water bottles.”

  It was odd to be talked about as if I weren’t there. I tried to say I’d be all right if I could just get warm, but in the end it seemed easier to let someone else deal with the problem. I’d help when I felt more like myself. With no very clear idea of how it happened, I found myself in bed, surrounded with hot water bottles and covered with a thick duvet.

  As I began to feel warm, the roar and tumult of the wind receded. I slept.

  5

  WHEN I WOKE the room was dark and the wind was howling like a banshee. The old house shook and creaked like the Iolaire running on high seas. I sat up and turned on the lamp next to the bed; it was almost eight o’clock. I’d slept past suppertime, but I wasn’t hungry; I made no move to get out of bed.

  My sleep had not been peaceful. Nightmares were only to be expected, of course. It wasn’t, though, the repeated vision of Bob sliding off the rocks of Fingal’s Cave that had wakened me, over and over again, bathed in a cold sweat, my heart pounding. It was something much more insidious, something, I realized, that I probably should have told the police.

  I kept hearing Maggie McIntyre’s voice. “It’s a good dry day for Fingal’s Cave . . . the rocks are slippery when they’re wet . . .”

  Where had the water come from?

  The rocks had been dry as bone at the entrance to the cave, and all along the outer pathway, as well. The whole path was far above the waterline; even the spray from powerful waves didn’t reach that high.

  But up at the top of the path, far into the cave where Bob had been, it had looked wet. Why?

  I could have been mistaken in what I thought I saw. I’ve seen enough mirages along roads in the blistering sunshine of an Indiana summer to know that it’s easy to see water where none exists. But it had been cold in the cave, with no direct sun, and this hadn’t had the shimmery look of a mirage. It had just looked darker than the other rocks, and a bit shiny.

  And besides, as I watched once more my mental tape of Bob’s fall, I saw what looked exactly like someone trying to keep his balance on a slippery surface.

  So again I asked myself: If it was wet, how did it get that way?

  That was when I remembered the plastic bottle I’d seen floating in the water far below. Was it a water bottle? Suppose Bob had taken a drink of water out of a bottle like the ones so many people carried in their backpacks. Suppose he had dropped it and it had spilled, the water falling on the rocks and the bottle plunging on down into the sea. Bob sounded like a nitpicky sort of guy, and not overly bright. Would he have leaned forward to see if the bottle was within reach? Tried to catch it as it fell?

  Probably. That sounded characteristic.

  The trouble was, he hadn’t. I had been watching him for a few seconds before he fell. He hadn’t dropped anything, leaned over to look for anything. He had just looked at me, stepped backward, lost his footing, and fallen, the best part of sixty feet, crashing against rocks as he went, until he landed in a small, roiling, angry piece of the Atlantic Ocean.

  That didn’t mean he hadn’t spilled the water, of course. He could have, earlier. He wouldn’t have known about the hazard of the wet rocks, probably. I hadn’t known until a few hours ago, and Bob had been on the island exactly as long as I had. That was almost certainly what had happened. Only an accident.

  I tried to punch my pillow into a more comfortable position. The prickling at the back of my neck wouldn’t go away.

  What if somebody else spilled that water? What if somebody else knew that the rocks would be dangerous when wet? What if there was someone behind me in the cave, watching, waiting . . .

  The prickles got worse. I had thought I’d seen something disappear around the corner when I’d looked frantically for help. What if it hadn’t been my imagination, after all?

  The real trouble, I told myself, was that I’d had too many encounters with bodies in the past few months, and most of them had been murdered. There was no question of murder here. I’d been there; I’d seen exactly what had happened.

  All the same, I’d have been happier if so many people on the island—in this hotel—hadn’t hated Bob.

  I was frightening myself, after the manner of children who pretend too much and too vividly, and the knock at the door scared me nearly into fits.

  “Mrs. Martin? Are you awake?” Mrs. Campbell’s voice came gently through the door.

  “Oh! Yes, I—wait a second.” I struggled out of the clutches of the duvet and opened the door. “Come in.”

  “And how are you feeling?” She came in, closed the door, and perched on the edge of the bed. “We’ve all been that worried about you, having to see such a terrible thing.”

  “I’d never want to see it again,” I said with a shudder, “and the worst part was not being able to help at all. I’ll probably have nightmares about that for the rest of my life. But I’m fine, really.”

  She looked at me, brow furrowed. “If you don’t mind my saying so, Mrs. Martin, you don’t look so well. You’re white as that sheet, and you’re shaking. You’d best sit down.”

  I sat on the hard chair that was all the room afforded, more because my legs gave out than at her suggestion. “I wish you’d call me Dorothy. And I do feel a bit wobbly, I admit. I didn’t know it until I stood up.”

  “Well, then, Dorothy, it’s my opinion you need food and drink. I came up to see if you’d like a tray in your room. Andrew and I would be happy to—”

  “No!” I was still worked up enough to not want to be alone. “No, indeed. I don’t want to put you to the trouble. I’m sure you’re right, Mrs. Campbell. I just need something to eat. I’ll get dressed and come right down.”

  “It’s Hester, please. We did a buffet tonight, in the lounge. Everyone was a bit upset, and it seemed more fitting than a formal meal. There’s plenty of food, if you’re sure you’re able . . .”

  I protested once more that I was perfectly all right, and shooed her out. I needed a little more time to think.

  Of course my theories and fears were absurd. Bob’s death was undoubtedly pure accident. All the same, those prickles weren’t going to go away until I could figure out where that water had come from. I’m cursed with a larger bump of curiosity than most people.

  I dressed quickly and went down to the lounge. A man I assumed was Hester’s husband, Andrew, was tending the buffet, although all the other guests were sitting finishing their meals. All the lamps were lit, and th
ey’d replaced the electric heater with a real fire in the vast fireplace, roaring and crackling and flickering madly as wind blew down the chimney. It added an element of cheer, which was undoubtedly the point. Stan, tail held high, was working the room, exercising his considerable charm in hopes of some tidbits of salmon. The scene, in short, looked cozy, and perfectly normal.

  I took a deep breath to relax, took the plate Andrew filled for me at the buffet table, and found a chair near the fire, next to Jake.

  Nobody was talking much. I ate a little, and began to feel slightly better. When I had finished, and put my still full plate on the floor for Stan, I turned to Jake.

  “I wish people were sorrier Bob is dead,” I said quietly. I felt a little shy with him, not certain what to say after Teresa’s sad story. But we were both caught up in the same trouble now, and he was an easy sort of person to talk to.

  “Hmm? Sorry, I wasn’t listening.”

  “I keep worrying because nobody’s mourning. I know Bob wasn’t exactly a pleasant person, but surely we ought to be having a—a kind of wake.” I looked around the room. “Only nobody seems to care much.”

  Jake shrugged fatalistically. “There’s no family here, no friends. What do you want, weeping and wailing for a guy we hardly knew, and would have been as happy not to know at all?”

  All the same, Jake wasn’t eating much, and neither was anybody else. Apart from the tumult of the wind, the room was quiet; the silence thickened. I cleared my throat. “I suppose,” I said tentatively to the room in general, “someone ought to let his family know. Or will the Coastguard do that, or the police?”

  “Don’t know if he had kin,” said Hattie Mae. “Never talked about his family—that I heard.”

  There were nods and mutters of agreement around the room.

  “Well, then, his church,” I said, trying again. “Someone should call his church. What time would it be in Chicago? I’ve forgotten how many time zones away they are.”

  That at least sparked a brief discussion, since the United Kingdom had just switched back from Summer Time to Greenwich Mean Time, whereas America was still on Daylight Savings Time, and no one was sure whether that meant Chicago was now five hours or seven hours earlier than Scotland, rather than the usual six-hour difference.

  “Look, why don’t I just try to make the call?” I finally said, impatient with them. “It might be easier for me, since I didn’t really know him. I don’t suppose anyone knows the number?” Of course they wouldn’t. Why would anyone carry around the phone number of somebody else’s church?

  But Grace stood up and went to the bookshelf where she had laid her elegant leather purse. “It’s in my church directory. I always carry it, and unless I took it out for the trip—no, here it is. St. Paul’s United Methodist Church on Taylor Street.” She handed me the book, a small personal phone directory. It listed dozens of churches by denomination, with addresses, phone numbers, and staff names, all in tiny, precise handwriting.

  I must have shown my curiosity. “It’s for my work,” Grace said with a shrug.

  “Excuse me?”

  “I coordinate soup kitchens all over Chicago,” she explained briskly. “I learned long ago that I never know when I may need the help of someone from a neighborhood church, so I compiled this. Please give it back to me as soon as you’ve finished; it’s extremely valuable to me and would take some time to duplicate.”

  “Yes, of course.” Whew! Formidable lady.

  “Please use the phone in the office,” murmured Andrew, who had been standing by unobtrusively. “Come with me.”

  Jake followed me, and when I was about to sit down at the desk, he laid a hand on my arm.

  “You want maybe I should make the call? I didn’t have to see it happen.”

  I hesitated for only a moment. I felt some responsibility, but it was foolish, I knew. Jake was being a dear. “Thank you so much, Jake. Of course I’d rather you did it. But I’ll stay here, in case they want—well, whatever.”

  “The details they can wait for,” said Jake with a frown, and punched in the long series of numbers for an international call.

  He was efficient on the phone, very much the important rabbi. “Hello? This is St. Paul’s? Speak up, I’m calling from Scotland. Scotland! This is Rabbi Jacob Goldstein, from Sinai Temple. Is your minister, um—” he consulted Grace’s directory “—is Dr. Allen available?”

  There was a pause.

  “Never mind, then, this is costing money. When he gets back, tell him there’s some very bad news. Are you sitting down? I have to break something to you. Yes, it’s about Mr. Williams. An accident, yes. I’m afraid it’s the worst news—yes. A drowning accident, this afternoon.”

  Another pause. Jake shook his head impatiently.

  “This connection isn’t good. I’ll fax the details as soon as I can. Look, is there anybody else who should know?” Pause. “Okay, you do that. Yes, we’re all very—shocked. Well, I guess he can maybe call if he wants, but it’s almost nine o’clock here—no, at night—and we’ll be going to bed pretty soon—we’re wiped out after all the trouble. Tomorrow would be better. You’ll notify the family? I see. Sure. Good-bye.”

  He turned to me, looking a little gray. “The girl took it hard, wanted to talk about it. I hope her minister knows what he’s doing; she’s going to need a shoulder to cry on. She said they don’t know if he has any family—none in Chicago, anyway. But they’ll try to find out.” He sighed.

  “Well, at least someone is sad about his death. It’s almost—obscene—that no one here cares.”

  Jake shrugged again. “He wasn’t an appealing man. The Scriptures talk about casting your bread upon the waters—well, his was soggy and moldy even when it started out.”

  That was neither a pleasant nor a reassuring thought, however you looked at it. Depressed and apprehensive, I went back to the lounge. It was going to be a long evening.

  Andrew appeared at my elbow. “Mrs. Martin, would you perhaps like to finish your wine? We put it away for you; there’s a good half bottle left.”

  I smiled at him gratefully. “That’s just what I need. And I’m Dorothy, please. Here, Jake, let’s share it and drink it up.”

  Jake grunted again. “Not me, thanks. Such a headache I had last night! I’ll stick to water.” He lifted his eyebrows at Andrew, who obligingly brought him a bottle of mineral water and a glass.

  So I drank my wine by myself and listened to the wind. It was beginning to fray at my nerves, which were none too steady anyway, and from the electric quality of the silence in the room, I realized I wasn’t the only one ready to jump out of my skin. Something had to be done.

  And I still wanted to know more about our unpopular preacher.

  “I wonder,” I said, my voice, raised against the wind, sounding too loud. I lowered it a bit and tried again. “I wonder if anyone can tell me anything about Bob. I know only that he’s—he was—a youth minister. Somehow it seems wrong not to—to be able to talk about him.”

  Teresa spoke first. She sounded oddly angry, but then Teresa nearly always sounded angry.

  “He worked at St. Paul’s Methodist Church, as Grace told you. It’s a very large church, probably about two thousand parishioners. Or whatever Methodists call them. Anyway, it’s in a transitional neighborhood. Some of the oldest parts have been gentrified.” She spat out the word as if it tasted bad, and Stan, who had fallen asleep in her lap, woke abruptly. She stroked his head, but her tone remained bitter. “Lot of rich people moving in, forcing out the people who lived there. Other parts have gone downhill fast, areas where the gangs are starting to take over. And in the middle there are a bunch of students and young couples with kids in the cheaper houses.”

  “How you know all that?” asked Hattie Mae, her lower lip jutting out. “Ain’t your neighborhood.” We could all clearly hear her unspoken postscript, And you ain’t poor or black, and I held my breath, but Teresa only glared.

  “I did a paper on the changing face
of Chicago, for graduate school. I wasn’t born a nun.”

  “Yes, well, what is important,” put in Grace in her crisp business-executive voice, “is the work Mr. Williams put in to try to make that area a decent place to live in again. He was tireless. He started the youth center on Rush Street, just around the corner from the church, to give the young hoodlums something to do besides dealing drugs on the street corners or killing each other, and he used to spend a lot of his own time there, playing basketball with them, teaching them soccer, that sort of thing. He welcomed everyone, children from all backgrounds and from all over the city. He was a lay worker, you know, not an ordained minister, and I believe he wasn’t paid a great deal. And he worked with some of your people, Teresa, to set up the day care center down the street.”

  “My people? Catholics, you mean? Or Italians?”

  Teresa didn’t even try to sound polite, and Grace bit her lip. “I meant an order of nuns. I don’t know which one. I am not familiar with the more byzantine structures of the Catholic Church.”

  “An’ what none o’ you seem to’ve figured out,” Hattie Mae broke in before Teresa could retort, “is that the kids couldn’t stand him.”

  It was a flat statement, falling like a stone into the room, and the undertext was again clear: I know about ghetto kids and what they’re thinking. You don’t.

  Teresa opened her mouth and shut it again.