I wished I could embrace that peace.
9
I’D HAD LITTLE chance all day to call Alan, and now it would have to wait until after dinner. I was late as it was, and it would not only be much easier to make the call from the phone in the cottage, it would also be more private, in case—well, just in case.
When I got into the dining room, I saw that the groupings had changed. Jake was sitting at a small table with Chris, Teresa with Hattie Mae—the mind boggled—and Janet and Grace at a table for four. I could either join them and try to learn something, or eat alone.
“Do you mind?”
Janet looked as though she did, very much, but Grace lived up to her name and gestured to one of the empty chairs. “Please.”
As it turned out, I didn’t talk much to anyone, for the Campbells chose that night to serve haggis. I’d eaten it before, when some Scottish friends of Alan’s had invited us to dinner, and I didn’t mind it. It’s a concoction of ground meat (beef or mutton or other things; I’m told it’s best not to ask), onions, spices, and Scotland’s ubiquitous oats. The classic method of preparation is to stuff the mixture into a sheep’s stomach (duly cleaned, one assumes) and steam it. It comes out like a sort of hash, with the oats substituting for potatoes. It’s the traditional dish for Hogmanay (New Year’s Eve), and is served up with great ceremony, they say, brought in stomach and all, and slit open with a sword if one happens to be handy.
The staff had dished it up in the kitchen, so there was no stomach in evidence, but conversation in the room still came to a halt as the food was served. The aroma was savory, though the gray mess looked rather unappealing.
Grace poked fastidiously with her fork. “What is it?” she asked in her most patrician voice.
I explained, judiciously omitting some of the more colorful details. “It’s Scotland’s national dish, very special. We’re being honored.”
“I see.” She picked up a minute forkful and tasted it, and then without a word began to eat, applying herself diligently and drinking a lot of water.
Janet sat and glared alternately at her plate and at Grace.
“How can you eat that—garbage?” she finally said. I was quite sure another noun had been her first choice.
“It’s a sin to waste food,” Grace replied briefly, and went on with her meal.
“It’s actually pretty good, no matter how it looks,” I said placatingly. “Although mutton is something of an acquired taste, I suppose. You get a lot of it on this side of the Atlantic.”
“You may. I don’t.” Janet shoved back her chair, picked up her plate, and marched to the kitchen door. The young waiter was just coming out with a pitcher of water, and Janet caught him squarely in the stomach with her outstretched plate. Food and water exploded over both of them; the plate went crashing to the floor.
The boy, red-faced and appalled, tried to brush some of the mess off Janet with his towel. “I—I’m sorry, madam—let me—”
“You can keep your hands to yourself! And tell the cook to fix me a hamburger, if any of you nincompoops know how to cook decent food. You’ll get the bill for new clothes.”
She stalked out of the room, bits of meat and onion caught in her hair and clinging to her sweater. Utter silence remained in her wake, broken only by the sounds of the distraught waiter trying to clean up the mess.
Teresa was the first to speak. “That,” she said in a ringing voice, “was inexcusable.” She left her seat and went into the kitchen, returning with a damp cloth and a basin, and began to help. The waiter tried to stop her.
“No, madam, let me—you can’t—”
Teresa glared at him. “This wasn’t your fault. There’s no reason you should have to do all the work. You’d better change into a clean jacket. That one’s hopeless.” She knelt to her task, avoiding bits of broken crockery.
The rest of us were pushing food around on our plates and trying not to look at each other when Hester made her appearance. Her face was white, though whether with anger or apprehension, I couldn’t tell.
“I’m quite sorry dinner was not to your liking,” she said, her voice shaking a little. Anger, then, I thought. “Would anyone else like something special prepared?”
“No,” said Grace, quietly but firmly. “The haggis is delicious. We’re all enjoying it. Aren’t we?” She gave the rest of her group an imperious look, and there was a hurried murmur of agreement. I saw Hattie Mae and Jake each take a large mouthful; Chris shoved a little mound under a pile of carrots.
Grace went on. “I feel we should apologize for Miss Douglas’s behavior, Mrs. Campbell. I hope you understand that your waiter is in no way to blame. The incident was entirely Janet’s fault, although I’m sure she didn’t intend to be disruptive.”
That was a whole lot more than I was sure of, but presumably Grace knew Janet better than I did.
“Janet has not been herself this week. I believe she is dealing with a personal problem. I hope we can all forget this matter when she returns.”
Some hope! But it was a clear directive and the others, as usual when Grace laid down an edict, seemed prepared to submit. As for me, I was glad I was moving away from the contention, though it would make trying to find out anything about Bob’s death somewhat awkward. At least Janet’s behavior had given me a few things to think about. I huiried through the rest of my meal, wolfing down an apple dumpling without really tasting it, and left the dining room before Janet could get back from changing her clothes.
Hester was still busy in the kitchen, but Andrew had my bill ready. He handed it over with the twinkle very much evident in his eye.
“Still thinking you’re going to miss the Iona Hotel, are you?”
“There are aspects I won’t miss. After a scene like that, I admit I’m glad you haven’t told them yet about the storm coming, and the police, and all.”
Andrew looked me straight in the eye and lowered his voice. “Why, Mrs. Martin, I can’t imagine what storm you’re talking about. Thank you for staying with us, and I hope you’ll feel free to book dinner here so long as you’re on the island.” He shook my hand, smiled blandly, and excused himself.
So he’d told them the police were coming, but apparently didn’t intend to tell them about the weather. I wondered if that decision had been made before or after Janet’s little tantrum. Should I drop a hint in Jake’s ear, or Grace’s? They seemed the most sensible of the party, and might be able to keep the rest from exploding.
On the other hand, since I still had no idea who was on the side of the angels and who wasn’t, maybe the best idea was to mind my own business, at least until I could talk to Alan. I fished in my purse for my flashlight, slipped out the door without saying good-bye to anyone, and made my way home through the deep darkness.
Once safely inside my door, I found that, most unexpectedly, an odd shyness had taken possession of me. Did I really have the nerve to try to call Alan at his conference?
Well, why not? The worst that could happen was that he’d be out and I’d have to leave a message. I’m not much good at languages, but surely most people in a cosmopolitan city like Brussels would speak English. Although why we should expect them to, when we make no attempt to learn their language . . . what arrogance! Anyway, assuming it was an hour later in Belgium, which I thought was about right, Alan ought to be just getting back from dinner himself.
The operator in the hotel in Brussels, once I had remembered its name and obtained its number, spoke better English than I do. So much for my American prejudices.
“I believe Chief Constable Nesbitt is out at the moment, madam, but I will ring his room.”
There was a frustrating interval before the operator spoke again.
“There is no answer, madam. I have checked the conference schedule, and he would be chairing a dinner meeting just now. May I take a message?”
“Oh. Well. No, it’s nothing important, really.”
“I’m sure he’ll want to know who rang.”
“Um—you can tell him Dorothy called, but I’ll try to call back.”
“Thank you, madam. According to the schedule, he has a full day until six o’clock tomorrow, but of course I have no way of knowing his plans for the evening.”
“Of course not. Thank you.”
I hung up the phone bleakly, and thought about Alan’s plans for tomorrow evening. At a glittering hotel in a big city. Dinner, dancing—could he dance? We’d never done that. A concert, perhaps. While I would be sitting around wondering who might be a murderer.
Why couldn’t he ever stay close to the phone?
Now that was unfair. He wasn’t out carousing tonight; he was working. What could he do, anyway? He couldn’t solve my problem for me, and, in any case, I could hardly give him details over the phone. In fact, there was no point at all in talking to him.
That made me feel even lonelier.
I wandered around my tiny domain, looked at an old copy of Country Life someone had left in the living room, and wished, uncharacteristically, that the owners of the cottage had seen fit to equip it with a television. Oh, well, the reception would probably be awful in this remote part of the world. They might at least have had the forethought to provide a decent selection of reading material. I wondered whatever had possessed me to come to a place like this, anyway, all by myself, with nothing to do, no one to talk to, not even a cat . . .
Oh, for heaven’s sake! And what would a cat have done for the last two days while I had myself locked out like a simpleton? In a thoroughly bad temper I double-locked the doors, turned out the lights, and went to bed.
In the morning, as is the way of mornings, things looked better. True, the weather was deteriorating, if the gathering clouds were any indication, but it wasn’t yet threatening; the wind was no more than one might expect on any autumn day. Perhaps the ferry would be running today, and the police would get here early, and they would decide Bob’s death was an unfortunate accident, and the Chicago contingent could get off the island and on their way home. Perhaps I’d hear from Tom and Lynn. Perhaps Alan would call.
Well, no, he wouldn’t, would he?—since I hadn’t given his hotel my phone number. I debated calling them again and decided against it. Probably the same operator wouldn’t be on duty, but after refusing to leave a message last night, I certainly didn’t want to seem like—no, I wouldn’t call.
But I could call Jane. I should, in fact. Why hadn’t I thought of that last night?
Because I was too busy feeling sorry for myself, that was why. Self-pity has the most devastating effect on common sense.
Jane answered on the first ring.
“I got your letter, Jane, and the key. Thanks so much for all your trouble. I’m settled in, and I love the cottage, it’s tiny and cute and—”
“Are you all right?”
“What do you mean? Of course I’m all right. For heaven’s sake, it was only an accident! I’m sure it was an accident. Why does everybody think, every time I’m incidentally involved, it has to be a murder?”
There was a long pause at the other end of the line.
“Oh,” I said in a subdued tone. “What were you talking about?”
“Never mind what I was talking about. What are you?”
“Nothing that matters. I mean, it does, of course, but surely not much to me. Someone I didn’t know died—fell off the cliff in Fingal’s Cave—and I saw it happen. And it had to have been an accident. Anything else is—let’s start over. Why did you want to know if I was all right?”
“Weather. Mother and father of all storms headed straight for you. Hatches battened?”
“Well, I think the cottage is reasonably weather-tight. The roof seems to be sound, and so on.”
“Hmmm.”
“I can’t imagine what you’re worried about. The weather’s perfectly ordinary. It’ll probably rain later on, but what else is new? This is the UK. Let me give you my phone number, just in case.” I recited it to her. “How are the cats?”
“As usual. Sure you’re going to be ready for the storm?”
She made it sound like a full-fledged typhoon. “Of course. Look, this line isn’t very good and I need to make another call. I’ll call you again tomorrow.”
I hung up before she could worry some more. That was unlike Jane; there must be something on her mind.
I had deliberately downplayed the weather forecast to my worried friend, but I’d better play it straight with the Andersons. They were planning to arrive in a couple of days, after all, and they needed to know what they were getting into.
“. . . please leave a message at the tone.”
Of all the infuriating devices the twentieth century has spawned, the answering machine must be one of the worst. When I make a call, it’s because I want to talk to somebody, and to be greeted by that somebody’s mechanized voice is maddening. And I invariably spend the first few seconds casting imprecations at the machine instead of composing my own message, so that I then waste some of my allotted time stammering.
“Umm . . . this is Dorothy, and—oh, for goodness sake, I hope you’re not on your way to Scotland! Because I’m calling to tell you not to come. I mean—not right away. Because there’s a storm coming, and you might not be able to get here anyway. Oh, I can’t talk on one of these things, just call me if you get this before you leave London.”
I left the number and hung up, and immediately felt a pang of guilt because I hadn’t inquired after Tom. I had assumed they’d already left for the trip north, but it was really too soon for that. What if Tom had had a relapse, and was in the hospital? Or—worse?
I called back.
“Lynn, do call me right away, will you? Sorry to bother you twice, but I wasn’t very coherent before. I hope everything’s all right.”
That wasn’t much better than the first message. Thoroughly annoyed with myself, I burned some toast on the unfamiliar grill, overcooked the oatmeal to a sodden mass, and threw it all away in a fine temper. Unlike the great chefs (or so their reputation has it), I can’t cook when I’m in a snit.
I was certainly having a good time all by myself, wasn’t I?
There was, I reminded myself, a cafe in the village. Presumably they served breakfast. If not, one of the shops might run to scones. I prudently put on my raincoat, picked up my purse (making sure the key was in it), and stalked off.
10
I HAD A very good breakfast, at a very reasonable price, at the little cafe with the imposing name of Martyr’s Bay Restaurant, and left feeling more like myself. It is humbling to realize how much one’s emotions are ruled by the state of one’s stomach.
It was a glorious day, for anyone who doesn’t absolutely require sunshine. After more than a year of living in England, I’ve learned to appreciate weather in many of its less placid varieties. Today was decidedly chilly, and the wind had picked up a bit, sending the clouds scudding. I was blown up the road rather briskly myself, glad my bright little tam was close-fitting. A wide-brimmed hat would have sailed to Loch Lomond by noon.
I got back to my cottage in record time, bowled along by the wind, but I was too exhilarated to go inside. This was Scotland the way I had expected it to be, and I wasn’t going to waste time moping indoors or pondering horrors. I went on up the road; it had looked like a private drive once you got past my house, but I decided that it might not be, and, in any case, I wasn’t going to do any harm. Iona seemed the sort of place where, so long as you shut the gates behind you and kept out of people’s crops, nobody would pay much attention to you.
There wasn’t anything very exciting along the road, which had disintegrated into a track, except one rather odd-looking three-gabled house on the right. Still, I hadn’t explored this part of the island; I might find a shortcut to the Abbey.
When I came to the gate of the house, I stopped in surprise. The signpost in front referred to the Bishop’s House, but there was also a small notice board with the shield of the Episcopal Church, the name St. Columba’s
Chapel, and a listing of service times. The place was evidently a church, and of my own kind at that. I boldly opened the gate and went up to the door. There was a faded sign saying that the church was always open for prayer, so I lifted the latch and went in.
I was in a little hallway with doors to either side and one straight ahead. Voices and cooking smells came from somewhere, but no humans were in sight, so I walked through and opened the door in front of me.
I found myself in a minute chapel, a dollhouse of a chapel. Made of stone and virtually unadorned, it could probably, in a pinch, seat a dozen people on its hard, upright wooden chairs. Scotland’s prevailing Calvinism was apparent even here; there was an austerity that spoke of sternly puritan influences.
But the kneelers were padded, and I sank to my knees in gratitude. Here was rest and peace. I could pray for Bob, and those who mourned him, for Jake, for my other unhappy countrymen at the hotel, and, indeed, for myself, my worries and fears.
Some time later the door behind me opened quietly, and someone came in. I stood to go, bowed to the altar, and turned to find an elderly, rather stooped, but kindly-looking man in thick glasses and a clerical collar.
“Good morning. I didn’t mean to disturb you.”
His accent was English; I figured he hadn’t been on Iona long. “Good morning. You didn’t; I was just about to leave anyway. You’re the rector here?”
“The vicar, yes. And you’d be the American lady staying in Dove Cottage. Our neighbor, in fact.”
The hat again! “Dorothy Martin.” I shook his hand. “I’m doing a little exploring today. Is there a way to the Abbey from here?”
Holy Terror in the Hebrides Page 10
