by Anne Renwick
With or without a lens, they were valuable. If he left without them in his possession, his superior at the Glaister Institute would have his head. How badly did he want her help? A faint wince, a slight hesitation, then he reached into a pocket upon his chest and drew them forth.
“Take care,” he warned. “You know their value.”
Her mouth fell open as he placed the surgical eyeglasses upon her outstretched palm. The liquid microlens was intact! She lifted an eyebrow. “You have much to explain.”
His lips twisted. “As do you.”
~~~
With her small, strong hand upon his arm, Mrs. McQuiston steered him away from the beach and onto the main road.
He’d tipped his cards, turning over those surgical glasses in one piece, but somehow he had to win her trust, or he’d return to Glasgow emptyhanded and unpromotable.
For the umpteenth time that day, Alec wondered at her connection to the Glaister Institute. How had such a stunning woman gone unnoticed in its corridors? Very few women worked within its walls—at least in a scientific capacity—and none had ever been allowed to enroll in the University of Glasgow School of Medicine, from whence the institute recruited bright minds. A shame to arbitrarily dismiss fifty percent of the population from consideration.
As they walked, the man he’d spotted earlier watching her from a distance followed for a while, then peeled away to enter a brick building. Would trouble emerge to stalk them? He expected so. But by the time their silent walk along a dirt road ended before a blackhouse with a single candle burning in its window, there was no sign of anyone trailing in their wake.
“Wait here while I convince the watcher to grant us entry.” She indicated a location distant enough that he would not be able to overhear—or interject—any words into a conversation at the house’s threshold.
He eased himself onto a low, stone wall. Walking barefoot upon the sand earlier this evening, he’d felt something inside his artificial knee shift. Ever since, something felt “off” with each step he took. He’d braced his knee, wrapping a long strip of linen tightly about it, but he would need to visit Dr. Morgan to have him fix whatever was amiss.
With luck, he’d not head back to Glasgow emptyhanded. If Mrs. McQuiston could secure them entry, at the very least he would be able to describe a victim’s injuries.
He was dismayed to again find himself admiring her slender frame and its pleasant female curves. With her feet once more in shoes and stockings, his imagination wandered upward and, unbidden, contemplated the color of her corset. Not that he would ever see such a garment laced about her form. She was another man’s wife. But the mental exercise served to keep him alert. And warm.
Too warm.
An old woman opened the door and peered up at her. Words were exchanged in low voices. Doubt pressed the woman’s lips into a thin line, but then she relented and swung the door wide. Mrs. McQuiston turned to beckon him into a dim, smoky room.
The body, bloated and bruised, lay upon a plank stretched between two chairs. On the floor, a dry rag was draped over the edge of a bucket of water. A bright lantern hung overhead. A pile of clean, folded clothes rested upon a nearby table.
Their arrival was perfectly timed: only one person was in the house, and the body was not yet prepared for burial. Still, from the tension in Mrs. McQuiston’s shoulders, he gathered circumstances could alter in a heartbeat.
Alec bowed. “I’m sorry for your loss. Thank you for allowing us to view him.”
The old woman stared back at him in unblinking silence, then moved to stand beside a wall clock that ticked loudly.
“She has granted us a quarter of an hour,” Mrs. McQuiston said, her voice tight. Already she’d placed her medical bag upon the floor and extracted a rolled cloth of dissection tools, selecting a blunt probe. “Our postmortem is restricted—no cutting is permitted. We need to hurry.”
“Not a problem.” Working under pressure was his specialty, and he’d not argue for the right to wield a scalpel, not unless they located cephalopod tissue that needed to be carefully excised. Setting down his rucksack, he began with an external examination. Dark bands wrapped about an upper arm and marred its surface. “Bruised tissue possibly attributable to an octopus,” he said in a low voice.
“Agreed.”
As he turned the arm over, he noticed jagged scars running down the inside edges of the fingers. Scars much like the ones he’d noted on Mrs. McQuiston’s hands. Not relevant to the current investigation, but intriguing nonetheless. He caught the hitch of her breath when he studied them and decided to save his questions for later.
More bruises disfigured the torso, but it was a ragged hole in the man’s chest, located just below the left clavicle, that drew his focus.
“Did I not hear the word tentacle spoken aloud when his body was discovered?” He directed his question at the old woman.
“I ripped that abomination out with my bare hands and saw it destroyed,” she said, pointing her chin at the peat fire that burned in the center of the room.
He lunged, grabbing a stick to knock a narrow tube of metallic wire from the flames. “Let it cool. I’ll remove it from the premises.” He smothered a curse at losing such important evidence and turned his attention back to the body.
Mrs. McQuiston had donned his surgical eyeglasses and was peering into the wound. “There’s something resting inside.” Without looking away, she held out her hand. “If you’ll pass me a blunt probe and forceps.”
He blinked, then dropped the requested tools into her palm. Years had passed since he deferred to another in the field when medical matters arose. Save, of course, when he himself was the wounded. “If you’ll describe what you see…”
“Yes, of course.” She glanced up, looking contrite. “My apologies. Most do not wish to hear spoken details.” Using the blunt probe, she moved aside the damaged tissue. “Something has pierced a blood vessel.”
“An artery?”
“Yes. The subclavian artery.” She slid the forceps in and attempted to pull the object forth. “It’s lodged rather tightly.” Leaning back, she offered him—with only the slightest hesitation—his own captive surgical glasses. “Perhaps you should take a look before we wrench it free.”
Bending close, Alec slid the forceps into the hole and immediately felt metal grind against metal. A close look confirmed her observation. The object was firmly lodged in the artery just past where the subclavian artery branched from the aortic arch. He took a firm grip and pulled out half an inch of…
“Finely braided wire.” Rotating the outer ring of a lens a notch, he brought it into sharp focus. “Seven wires, their tips fused into a sharp, triangular point. A barb points backward.” He passed her the surgical glasses and their discovery, letting her gape at it while he dug a glass vial from his chest pocket.
“The hole was manmade,” Isa whispered, looking up from the wire, her eyes made enormous by the magnification effects of the lenses. “Deliberately manmade.” With a shake of her head, she dropped the wire into the collection vial.
Together they scanned the corpse, passing the surgical glasses back and forth as they identified and studied more bruises, scrapes, and cuts. All to be expected when a body spent hours rolling and pitching in the surf of a rugged coastline. Except…
“Another hole,” he said, pointing at another half inch perforation bored into the skin of the ankle. No octopus he’d ever heard of attacked its prey in such a manner. He leaned closer. “It decreases in size, tapering to a fine point. I don’t detect any wire. Without dissection, it’s difficult to be certain, but it appears to penetrate either the anterior tibial artery or vein.”
Mrs. McQuiston took the surgical eyeglasses from his hand. “Curious.” She leaned closer. “And most disturbing.”
Balancing a glass vial upon the plank, he extracted a syringe from his pocket. The old woman standing quietly in the shadows of the blackhouse squeaked in pro
test.
He glanced in question at Mrs. McQuiston who wore a pained expression. She shook her head. “We can’t. I promised we wouldn’t remove anything from the body.”
“We removed the wire. Why not a small sample of whatever blood remains?”
“There’s a world of a difference between the foreign object and the tissue of the deceased. Local tradition dictates he be buried intact.”
Her pointed stare declared he ought to know better. Indeed, he did, but concrete evidence to support the rumors lay before him. Not a chance he was leaving without samples.
He lifted a cotton-tipped swab. “There may yet be foreign tissue in the wounds that could prove instrumental to understanding what happened and why. Octopus blood is copper-based—unlike our own iron-based blood. Would you throw away the chance to confirm the rumors?”
Her forehead wrinkled. “All valid points.” She turned and addressed the old woman. Words were muttered in the strange tongue he’d heard earlier, one that only bore the faintest of resemblance to Gaelic.
Heaving a great sigh of forbearance, the old woman crossed her arms, frowned and tipped her head at the clock. “Take your samples. You have seven minutes.”
While Mrs. McQuiston’s capable hands drew blood, Alec swabbed both puncture wounds and an odd-shaped, deep wound on the man’s shoulder. Straightening, he dropped the samples into vials and screwed on the caps. “Will you help me roll him over? We ought to examine his—”
The door slammed open. His head jerked up. Two red-faced individuals stormed into the dwelling. He recognized them from the oceanside wedding where their disapproving frowns had cut deep grooves into their stern faces. Yet they’d been the ones to take control when the body was found, organizing transport and comforting weeping family members. He pegged them for community leaders who disapproved of the marriage.
Mrs. McQuiston—all five and a half feet of her—stepped in front of Alec. “Mr. and Mrs. Carr, allow me to introduce—”
“Shame on you,” the red-faced woman interrupted, planting her hands on her hips. “To think I encouraged Elias to consider you as a potential wife. Thank goodness he followed you. Do you think a young woman can wander along the quay at midnight and not be observed?”
His body tensed as a question darted through his mind. Was Mrs. McQuiston a widow? He brushed it aside. Not the time.
A vein throbbed at Mr. Carr’s temple. “You have no right, allowing a stranger—a Scot!—to examine one of our own.” Mr. Carr threw a nasty glance at the old woman who cowered in the shadows. “No one here has the authority to grant anyone such liberties.”
“Direct your anger where it belongs, Mr. Carr,” Alec said, grasping Mrs. McQuiston by the shoulders. She stiffened at the contact, freezing as he leaned close to quietly breathe the words, “Secure the samples and the surgical glasses.”
She gave a slight nod.
He released her shoulders and stepped sideways, drawing away Mr. Carr’s ire. “I insisted. Mrs. McQuiston and I merely conducted a cursory examination.”
Behind him was the faint clink of glass vials being collected.
“City life has made her forget who she is, where she belongs.” Eyes narrowing to flinty slits, Mrs. Carr peered at him. “I’ve seen you about town. What kind of doctor pretends to be a fisherman? And why?”
“One who’s up to no good,” Mr. Carr answered.
The man’s nostrils flared as he cracked his knuckles. Spoiling for a fight, he’d found his target. Though the man appeared strong, Alec could take him down with a single, well-placed punch. But he did not wish to make enemies in a community where potential informants lived. Civil discourse, however, wasn’t looking promising.
“As you wish.” Alec held up his palms. “I’m leaving.”
“Not on your own two feet, you’re not.” Mr. Carr’s hands balled into fists.
He sighed. A fight it would be. He ducked the first swing with ease. As the man lashed out again, Alec caught the man’s wrist, twisting it behind his back. The man howled his displeasure at finding himself immobilized. “Best if you depart without me, Mrs. McQuiston. I’ll settle this.” He jerked his head toward the door.
To her credit, she didn’t hesitate. Snatching up her medical bag, she was out the door in a heartbeat.
“You let him go!” Mrs. Carr ordered.
Loath to injure Mr. Carr—it would only further complicate the situation—he shoved the man against the stone wall and eased the pressure on his elbow joint. “I’d be happy to, for I’m only here to help. Might we discuss, like civilized men, the steps that need to be taken to discover what creature hunts your people and why?”
“We want no help from the likes of you.” From the corner of his eye, he saw Mrs. Carr approaching, hoisting a heavy, cast iron frying pan over her head. So much for reason.
Enough. He’d disarm her and make his departure. Perhaps Mrs. McQuiston could shed light on this unreasonable behavior and propose a better approach. Then again, she was the one who had suggested a clandestine, midnight meeting.
He stepped and twisted, reaching… Snap! Deep inside his artificial knee some unknown internal mechanism shattered. Metal grated against metal making a most disturbing sound. Muscles and tendons struggled and strained to hold him steady, but he wobbled.
A moment of weakness that was his undoing.
Mr. Carr shoved him to the floor, and his wife wasted no time. Stars exploded in his head, and he pitched into a dark abyss.
~~~
He woke to the familiar sound of waves lapping at the hull, to the clang of ropes and metal in the wind, to the ringing of… No. That was his head. He touched a few fingers to the back of his skull, and they came away bloody. Wincing, he sat up. He—and his rucksack—were aboard a fishing boat.
“We’re bound for Harris,” a callous voice informed him. “Mr. Carr ordered you off the island.”
“Not fed to the fish? Or the octopuses?”
“Aye, that was suggested,” the fisherman said. “Luckily they thought someone might miss you.”
In the distance was a small cluster of lights. He dug through his bag. Good. Nothing classified lay within. Everything he needed was stowed in his pockets.
“How far out are we?” He pulled off his boots with regret and stood, testing his knee. It hurt, but it still functioned. Mostly.
“Almost a mile. But don’t you be getting ideas. Water’s cold. And you’re not a—”
Whatever the fisherman compared Alec to was lost as the cold water of the Atlantic Ocean closed over his head. He’d swum longer distances in worse conditions. And he certainly wasn’t going to leave behind the clues he’d unearthed just to avoid a short stretch of unpleasantness. Besides, there was a beautiful, young widow he’d abandoned. He needed to be certain she was safe.
As to the mechanics of his knee… that could be fixed. Later. Once he’d retrieved the samples and his surgical glasses.
He was in luck; the tide was with him. The storm had passed, the waves were minimal and the cold water soon numbed the pain. Sometime later, he treaded water beside the rusty hull of her houseboat. Pulling himself out of the water and onto a small ledge beside the door, he raised a fist and knocked.
A minute passed before a small door opened and a faint light threw a female form wearing nothing but a pale blue, ruffled dressing gown into relief. Wide, silver eyes stared down at him as if he were a merman intent on dragging her to a watery grave.
“Apologies for the delay.” He grinned his reassurance. “Our business is unfinished. May I come in?”
“You’re bleeding,” she gasped. Her hand darted out and touched his head. “Badly.” She waved him inside. “Sit and tell me what happened.”
It boded well that she cared about his health, given the earlier events of the night. He hauled himself upright and limped inside. Water streamed off his clothing. “Mrs. Carr took advantage of a… weakness. Hit me
with a frying pan.” Aether, it hurt to admit to one. “The Carrs dumped me aboard an outward-bound fishing boat.” The boat rocked, and his rump landed on a chair with a thunk.
“You swam here?” Her voice rose with incredulity. She wrapped a warm, woolen blanket around his shoulders and threw linen towels at his feet to sop up the seawater. “From a boat?”
“A mere mile or so.” A casual reply, but his knee was beginning to throb again. He rubbed a hand over its surface, all too aware nothing could be done to set it right, not here in the Outer Hebrides.
Her living space was tiny, its furnishings minimal. A small table and two chairs. An iron cookstove. A sea chest. A raised bunk with a thick feather mattress partially shielded by curtains. All illuminated by canning jars hung from hooks, their swirling contents emitting the blueish-white light of phosphorescence. Lucifer lamps.
Her medical bag landed on the small table in front of him as she began to dig out suture materials. Was he about to trial the sharksilk? Cold ethanol followed by the sharp bite of a needle through the skin of his scalp made him flinch, but he held still.
Well, almost. For he leaned ever so slightly backward, soaking in the delicious body heat she radiated. For a female, she ran unusually hot and her dressing gown, now damp, had clung to her form as she circled behind him, revealing far more than he had a right to look at. A pleasant distraction, nonetheless.
“I should collect my samples and depart,” he offered. Given her community’s response to a simple postmortem, he hated to think how they’d respond to learning she’d taken up with him. Next time he’d end up tossed overboard with a bucket of chum.
