“Tell me,” I broke in when she paused for breath, “about your church gardens. I understand that’s why you won this trip, your church landscaping?”
She gave a scornful little wave, and her lined, weathered gardener’s face fell into a frown. “Child’s play, volunteer work. I had to plant things the church volunteers could take care of, and most of them don’t know one end of a spade from the other. Roses. Petunias. Marigolds. And lots of evergreens that only need cutting back to look perfect, but do the idiots do it? Oh, no, come back to me in a year or two and whine about how the greenery is taking over, and what should they do? I swear, most of them never heard of pruning shears. The worst of them all was that Bob, I tell you.”
“You mean Bob? The Bob who—”
“And good riddance, I say. He was a world-class twit. What he wanted was a garden his sweet little darlings could take care of. Now have you ever known a kid you could get to put in a day’s work in the hot sun? Much less when they’ve got a spineless fool like Bob Williams in charge of them. So his flowers would die, and then he’d come back and blame me, and tell me I had to plant something easier for them, and teach them what to do with it. I finally told him nobody paid me for all this, and nobody could pay me enough to baby-sit his little juvenile delinquents, and he should just put down green concrete and with any luck the kids would get buried under it. He went sniveling to his bishop, and I thought I never would hear the end of it. Oh, he’s no loss to the world, I can tell you!”
I heard a cough behind us, and turned. Andrew was standing there holding a kerosene lamp and looking shocked.
“And what’s the matter with you?” Janet demanded.
“Nothing at all, Miss Douglas,” he said stiffly. Plainly, he found Janet’s attitude toward the dead unseemly, but couldn’t say so to a guest. “I’ve come to tend to the lamps. If you’ll excuse me.” He picked up another one and strode out of the room.
“Hmph! Doesn’t want to use his precious electricity, I suppose,” Janet muttered. “It’s true what they say about the Scotch. Cheapskates, every one of them.”
“It’s ‘Scots,’ not ‘Scotch,’” I said coldly. “Scotch is the drink, but over here they just call it whiskey, anyway. If you’re going to be in the country, you might as well get the language right. It’s only courteous.”
Janet turned on me furiously. “And why should I care about being courteous to them? What have they ever done for me, that I should be nice to them?”
I moved away an inch or two, and Stan, sensing the atmosphere, prudently took off. “I see,” I said slowly. “You have a personal vendetta, don’t you?”
Her face closed up. “I don’t know what you mean,” she said in a flat voice.
“Oh, come now. You’ve been rude and uncooperative ever since you came here, and you obviously hate Scotland and all its works with a genuine passion. Why would you have come on the trip, if you didn’t have something to prove? It’s a family matter, I suppose. With a name like Douglas, you probably have Scottish origins.”
I stopped. Her face had turned blotchy, a dull brick red alternating with pasty white. I seemed to have touched a raw nerve.
“And if I do, what business is it of yours?”
“None.”
I let it lie there, and she broke the silence, as I thought she would.
“It was my father,” she began, in an odd, flat tone of voice. “He came from these parts. Or at least that’s what he told my mother. They met during the war. She was from the Lowlands, a farm outside a little village called Dalmellington, but she went to Glasgow to do war work when all the men were called up. There was constant naval traffic in and out of Glasgow, because of the shipyards.”
I nodded. I knew very little about the impact of World War II on Scotland, but I did know that Glasgow had been a world center of shipbuilding.
“He was in the navy, and a good-looking louse, from what my mother said. They met at a dance, and she was swept right off her feet. She used to talk about him sometimes, when she was drunk.”
This story was not going to have a happy ending.
“It lasted a couple of weeks, I guess. Then he was shipping out, and he asked her to marry him, but they couldn’t get a license in time. If he ever intended to.
“When she found out I was on the way, she tried to get hold of him, but it turned out he wasn’t on the ship he had told her he’d be on. Probably nothing he’d told her was the truth, except he was a sailor, for sure. She loved his uniform.”
Janet laughed, a bitter sound with no mirth in it. “I don’t remember much about the war, of course. I was too little. Mother had to take me back home to the farm, but her parents were hard people, and as soon as the war was over she took me to America. Some people from the village kirk had relatives in Chicago who were willing to sponsor us, and her parents scraped together the fare somehow.
“I do remember the trip. I was sick the whole time, and so was my mother. Then we had to get on a train to get to Chicago, and it was crowded—oh, I just remember it was all awful, and I cried and cried. I was only five, but I remember that.
“The rest is the usual story. Mother found work, but there weren’t good day care centers then, so if I was sick and couldn’t go to school, she’d have to stay home. One job after another lost, no money—you’ve heard it all before. It happened to thousands of gullible girls. She was thirty-two when she died and I had to go to an orphanage. But eventually I got an education and found a place to live where I could have a little garden—and that’s my life story. Dull, isn’t it?”
Her voice dared me to express any sympathy, so I kept my face as neutral as I could. “So you’ve come to Iona to try to find your father? He’d be a very old man now, wouldn’t he?”
“Seventy-five, eighty. If he’s still alive. I didn’t think I’d find him actually on Iona. I knew it was a very small island. But I thought there might be relatives, someone who could put me on the track. I’d like to meet someone related to him, so I could tell them to their face what a gold-plated son of a bitch they had in their family.”
“And were you successful?” I was sure I knew the answer.
“His name was MacLean. Do you have any idea how many MacLeans there are in the Edinburgh phone book? Or Glasgow? It was a stupid idea from the start. I’ve done a little scouting around here, but no one remembers a Bruce MacLean who went to war in 1942. That was a lie, like everything else. Or else they’re lying. I wouldn’t put it past them. Sneaky, as well as stingy.”
So that explained her fight with the farmer. “Janet,” I said cautiously, “your mother was a Scot, too. How can you hate the Scots so much, when it’s your heritage on both sides?”
“That was what that wimp Bob tried to tell me, too. Crap about loving your neighbor, and forgiveness, and that gentle Jesus meek and mild line. Well, he’s dead, so I don’t have to hear it from him anymore, and I don’t have to hear it from you either, thank you very much.” She stalked out of the room, and after a moment I rose, wearily. I had been forcibly reminded of why I preferred the solitude of my cottage.
And, although heaven only knew what my poor little domain must look like after the storm, it was time I headed back to it. I did open the kitchen door a crack to see how Teresa was doing, and saw the doctor putting away her instruments. Teresa lay very still and white on the table.
“Is she—?” I was afraid to finish the question.
“She’s alive,” said the doctor brusquely. “There’s pressure on the brain; she could go either way. We’re off to hospital in Oban.” She turned to the paramedics. “Back on the stretcher,” she barked.
They went off with their burden. Several of us watched out the front door as the men picked a careful path up the road, between the downed trees and the deep puddles. It wasn’t an easy job, and we were all relieved when they got her into the helicopter. I breathed a quick prayer for her and went back inside.
Grace was in the hall.
“Did you get some re
st?”
“A little. It doesn’t matter. How is Teresa?”
I gave her the doctor’s brief report. “It sounds pretty iffy, but at least she’s in good hands now. I don’t know what this will do to your travel plans—”
“We can’t leave till the ferry’s running, can we? I asked Mr. Campbell. He said the problem is with the boat’s computer, and the part to repair it has to come from Glasgow, so . . .”
“You seem to be taking it very philosophically.” I looked at her curiously.
“Dorothy, as I’ve tried to tell the others, I learned long ago that there is very little point in butting one’s head against a stone wall. The wall does not yield, and the head suffers. When I can do something about a difficult situation, I act. When I cannot, I don’t waste time fretting about it.” She nodded her head sharply by way of farewell, and left.
I gathered up the few belongings I had brought with me and slipped out the door. I could pay my bill later. Just now I needed some peace.
17
MY SENSE OF unease drove me as far as the jetty, where, suddenly, I could go no farther. I sat, wet, cold, and miserable, gazing across the Sound.
Waves rose and crashed, their white tops whipped off by the wind. Swells driven by titanic forces deep at sea made the water into a living thing, roiling, writhing, demonic in its power and terror. I shivered. What it must be for any lost soul in a boat . . . or for Bob . . .
No, I didn’t want to think about Bob, about his body, tossed and battered by the waves, cold . . .
Romantic nonsense! Bob was neither cold nor wet. Wherever he was, whatever his state, he was undeniably beyond mortal sensation. It was I who sat foolishly shivering in the rain. I willed myself to my feet, picked up my suitcase, and made my way through the ruins of gardens and roofs spread over the village street.
Dove Cottage looked, superficially, as if it had survived the storm reasonably well. The window boxes with their bright geraniums were gone, vanished, as if they had never existed, but the roof was intact and the windows, miraculously, had survived. It was cold and dark inside. The radiators were electric, but surely there was something to burn in the front-room fireplace, and I vaguely remembered seeing at least one oil lamp somewhere. I dragged myself to the kitchen, trying to think what to do. The lamp, fuel, matches, try to remember how to light it . . .
My energy lasted long enough to make light, and then sheer inertia took over. I abandoned the search for firewood. I left my suitcase where I had dropped it. I couldn’t even find the strength to change into warm, dry clothes. There was an afghan draped invitingly across the back of the couch; wrapping it around me, I sat.
The lamp shed a warm glow. I only wished I felt as cozy as the room looked. I had reached that extremity of weariness—mental, physical, and emotional—that frays the nerves to their breaking point. I wasn’t sleepy; I’d just had a nap. I was used up, done.
You’re going to catch pneumonia if you sit there all wet, said my sensible voice.
I ignored it. Pneumonia might be a boon. I could go to a warm bed in a warm hospital, where people would look after me. No one would be drowning around me, and there would be no hurricanes, no emotional scenes . . .
I had settled myself into a thoroughly maudlin mood when I heard a knock at the door. I considered ignoring it, but I was obviously at home. People may leave the house with the electric lights still on, but no one with sense goes off and leaves a kerosene lamp burning in an empty house.
I went to the door, muttering under my breath several expressions Hattie Mae would have disapproved of.
Of course I was ashamed of myself the minute I opened the door, for there stood Hester Campbell, dripping wet, and carrying two large plastic bags.
“Goodness, come in! I’m sorry it’s so cold in here; I haven’t gotten around to finding anything to burn. What in heaven’s name brought you out?”
She headed for the kitchen and put down her parcels.
“You. When I realized you’d gone without telling us.”
“Oh. I’m sorry about that, but I did intend to come up tomorrow and pay my bill. I just—”
Hester laughed, a little hysterically, I thought. “Och, it’s not the bill we’d be worrying about! And I do understand why you came away. To tell the truth, I wish I could do the same. No, we just—Andrew and I—we didn’t know how you’d manage down here alone, with no electricity. So I brought you some food you can eat cold if needs must, and some charcoal you can burn for warmth, and candles. But there’s a wee camp stove here, I think, for heating the food. And did you know your water heater runs on Calor gas, like ours? Here, let me show you.”
She bustled about and in ten minutes had the water heating for a good bath, a small charcoal fire burning in the grate, and the kerosene stove dusted, filled, and ready to light. I followed humbly in her wake, holding a candle, accepting instructions, handing her matches.
“There now! That’s you settled! I’ll just be off; Andrew’s waiting with the car. He got as far as the jetty, but the road is too badly littered after that.”
I finally found my voice. “Wait. Hester—how can I thank you? I’ve been such a nuisance—”
“Nonsense. If we can’t help one another in an emergency, what were we put here for? You’ll come up if you need anything.”
With that clear command, she was off, leaning into the wind, her hair blowing out from under her scarf, and I was shaken out of my lethargy, feeling like a particularly low variety of worm.
It wasn’t surprising that Hester knew the accoutrements of my cottage better than I did. Many parts of the British Isles are still places where neighbors know each other, visit each other, help each other. No, it was that matter of helping that stuck in my throat.
“If we can’t help one another . . .” And I’d deserted the hotel the moment I could get out of it.
It wasn’t quite that easy, was it? There were things I still had to do. I unpacked, took a bath that was at least tepid, and put on the warmest clothes I had, long underwear and all. There was a great deal of cleaning to do up at the hotel, and I ought to help.
It’s annoying, when you’ve gone all high-minded and made up your mind to do a good deed, to be thwarted before you’ve even begun. When I went downstairs, I looked out the window and realized no more cleaning was going to be done today, at least not outside. The rain was worse again, coming down in torrents. Although the wind had subsided still more, nobody could get any work done in this. There would come a time for me to be of use, but evidently it wasn’t now.
Part of me was immensely relieved. I was so utterly, world-with-out-end weary. I sat down on the couch, in front of the small but warming fire, pulled the afghan over my lap, and felt how wonderful it was to do nothing but sit.
But the other part of me, the part that inhabited most of my being when I wasn’t feeling my age so devastatingly, wanted to be up and doing. I remembered a small great-nephew of mine who had once come upon his mother and me when we were sitting on her California patio, luxuriating in the sunshine and stillness. “What are you doing?” he asked.
“Nothing,” was my reply. “Just enjoying doing nothing.”
He considered for a moment. “But isn’t that awfully boring?”
He was right. It was.
And then there was the other, more insidious scourge of idleness. For when you’re busy, when you’re fully occupied with busy-ness, you can put off unpleasant thoughts for a long time. When you’re doing nothing, thoughts come thick and fast, and it’s hard to beat them off.
There were many thoughts I didn’t want to think, and they were all centered around Bob Williams, a young man I had never really known and had certainly never liked. But he was dead, and I wanted, needed, to know why.
I also wanted to know what Teresa Colapietro meant when, in her delirium, she kept repeating the word “water.”
Finally, I wanted to know why Teresa was so much worse in the middle of the night than she had seemed just
after the blow to her head.
Because, no matter how hard I tried to shut out the picture, I kept coming back to that fall of Bob’s, that horrific, slow-motion fall, and the water-glazed rocks where no water should be. And I knew the nightmare would haunt me until I knew for certain whether or not he had been murdered.
I had to accept the fact that no one was going to help me with this. With no telephone, possibly for several more days, I couldn’t call Alan. The local police didn’t believe a word of what I’d tried to tell them, and were, in any case, unavailable except for a dire emergency.
No, if anyone was going to do anything about the situation, it would have to be me.
It was perhaps just as well, I thought grimly as I pulled the afghan a little closer, that I was stuck in this cottage with nothing to do but think. A great deal of thinking needed to be done, and the result of it had better be cogent and correct.
Very well. The time had come to make the list I’d never gotten around to. The only paper in the house, as far as I knew, was the telephone pad, so I struggled out of my woolly cocoon, got the pad from the kitchen and a pen from my purse, and began, snuggled up again, to think in earnest.
Means, motive, opportunity. The classic three points of investigation. I’d already decided that everyone had, or could have had, both the means—a bottle or two of water—and the opportunity. Bottled water was ubiquitous, and anyone could have managed to be in the cave alone for a few seconds.
The risk, though! Not to the murderer, really; he—or she, there was no reason it couldn’t have been a woman—could, with clever use of his or her body, have shielded the critical actions from anyone just entering the cave. Or if he—the single pronoun was easier—had been observed, he could have exclaimed over his carelessness, warned everyone, and sat down later to figure out a different method.
No, it was the sheer disregard for anyone else’s safety that took my breath away. What if someone else had stepped on those deadly, wet rocks, someone who had no idea of the danger? Anyone could have died that day.
Holy Terror in the Hebrides Page 16
