Shadows of Death

by Jeanne M. Dams

  Now it was the policeman who was taken aback, but I was due certain courtesies as the wife of an important police officer, albeit English and retired. He nodded to the other men in the tent. ‘Gentlemen, if you will retire to another tent, I’ll send for you shortly.’

  ‘Who’s the other one?’ I whispered to Alan as they filed out in varying degrees of disgruntlement.

  ‘Larsen. President of FAO.’

  Oh, yes. That was why he’d looked familiar.

  ‘Now, Mrs Martin. What was it you needed to tell me?’ The police officer sounded indulgent. ‘That is, I beg your pardon. I haven’t introduced myself. My name’s Baikie, and I’m looking into this wee matter.’

  I proffered my hand. ‘You know who I am, of course, and I’m sure I’m very sorry to interrupt, but I thought you needed to know about this right away. I’ve found – that is, my dog has found – a watch, half buried in a cow pasture out there. I believe it to be Mr Carter’s.’

  ‘I see …’ Mr Baikie paused. ‘And what are your reasons,’ he went on slowly, ‘for thinking that?’

  ‘Actually, I’m almost certain. I saw him wearing the watch, or a very similar one, last night at the FAO meeting. And I can’t imagine that there are a lot of men in this part of Orkney who sport extravagant gold Rolexes.’

  ‘Probably not.’ He paused again. ‘Well, we’ll have to go take a look, won’t we? Mr Nesbitt, would you mind accompanying your wife to the – er – location? I need to stay here and speak further with these men. Mrs Martin, I hate to ask you to go out again in the rain, but perhaps you’d like to borrow my waterproof. I don’t know how warm it is, but at least you’ll be dry.’

  I was quite certain I’d never be warm or dry again, but I accepted his offer. It meant getting out of that charged atmosphere, and besides, I wanted to talk to Alan.

  ‘My dear,’ he said when we’d got out of earshot of the tents, ‘you’ve put the cat among the pigeons with a vengeance.’

  ‘Wh-what do you mean?’ I said through chattering teeth. The wind had strengthened still more, and Mr Baikie’s coat was, as feared, not very warm. ‘Surely this is the evidence they need.’

  ‘That depends which “they” you’re talking about. The authorities, Chief Inspector Baikie et al., yes. Sort of. The others, Fairweather and Norquist and Larsen, have made up their mind that Carter’s death was an accident. You must have noticed.’

  ‘I wasn’t up to n-noticing very much.’

  Alan put his arm around my shoulders and pulled me close. ‘We’ll talk about it when we get you warm and dry. Meanwhile, how much farther do we have to go in this ungodly weather?’

  Pointing was easier than talking. Watson was straining at the leash, so I freed him, and he dashed straight under the barbed wire to his discovery. Alan followed more slowly, using the gate, as I had. I sought the shelter of a standing stone near the road. It was too narrow and slender to deflect the wind much, and no matter which side I stood on, the wind seemed to shift around to direct itself at my face.

  Alan was taking forever. I huddled miserably, my face buried in my coat collar, not knowing what he and Watson were doing, and not much caring. I was startled, therefore, when the wind dropped for a moment or two and I heard a man’s voice raised in anger, close by.

  ‘And what the bluidy hell d’ye think ye’re doin’ on my land?’

  I looked up in alarm, but the anger was being directed not at me, but at Alan. The speaker was Andersen, the farmer who’d been so upset at last night’s meeting. He was approaching Alan at a rapid clip, and he had a lethal-looking pitchfork in his hand.

  I screamed. Pure reflex, because there was no help in sight. But the scream was apparently all Watson needed. If he’d been uncertain about the situation for a moment, now he knew what he needed to do. With a full-throated growl, that mildest of dogs sprang for the farmer.

  I screamed again, for my dog, this time. That pitchfork … But Watson’s aim was sure. He caught the farmer’s arm just below the elbow. The pitchfork went flying as Andersen, howling with rage and pain, fell to the ground. Alan managed somehow to catch hold of Watson’s collar and haul him off the farmer in time to prevent serious injury.

  I ran as fast as I could, Watson’s lead in my trembling hand. Alan took it from me and clipped it to the dog’s collar, and helped Andersen to his feet.

  The farmer wasn’t badly hurt, as far I could see. He was, fortunately, wearing a heavy work jacket, and no blood was visible on the sleeve. He was jibbering with rage, though, and that, too, was fortunate, because before he could get out any articulate statement Alan took over.

  ‘You asked, sir, what I am doing on your land. I am Chief Constable Alan Nesbitt, and I am collecting important evidence in a murder case. Had you been successful in attacking me, I would have charged you with assaulting a police officer. Luckily, my dog is trained to protect me. Now, what have you to say for yourself?’

  At least one word of that speech got through to Duncan Andersen. ‘Murder? Are ye accusin’ me of murder? By God, I’ll—’

  ‘I have made no accusation as yet. I will have some questions for you later, however. Meanwhile I must caution you not to leave this island. And I suggest, sir, that you endeavour to keep your temper in better check, or you’ll find yourself in serious trouble. Good day.’

  The three of us left him standing in the field, wet, muddy, furious, and with what was doubtless a very sore arm.

  ‘That was,’ I said, after I’d recovered a little, ‘the stuffiest speech I’ve ever heard from you.’

  ‘Also probably the biggest string of lies,’ said Alan. ‘Your teeth aren’t chattering anymore.’

  ‘No, I’m not cold anymore. Adrenaline, I suppose. Lies?’

  ‘I’m no longer a chief constable. This is not yet officially a murder case. I was, in fact, trespassing on Mr Andersen’s land, and I have no power to charge anyone. In fact, he would have every reason to charge me with both trespass and assault, not to mention impersonating a police officer.’

  ‘He won’t, will he? Try to have you arrested?’

  ‘I doubt it. I think he’ll go back and think about a murder charge and keep mum.’

  ‘What I think he’ll do is go back and get roaring drunk. Anyway, did you get the watch?’

  ‘I did. I also took a good many pictures of it, in situ. Of course, you and Watson had disturbed it somewhat, but I couldn’t help that. I wish I’d known before I started that it was Andersen’s farm. I’d have sent you for backup. But it worked out well enough, thanks to our friend, here.’ He bent down to pat Watson, who was trotting along with a satisfied smirk on his face. ‘You’re a good dog, and you’re going to have a nice chunk of steak as soon as I can find you one.’

  ‘He’s a silly dog. I can’t figure out why he was interested in a watch, of all things.’

  ‘Oh, that’s an easy one.’ Alan plodded on.

  I stopped dead. ‘Well, are you going to tell me?’

  ‘I thought I’d wait until we got back to the good Baikie. But if you insist …’ He reached into his pocket and pulled out a plastic bag. Inside, covered in mud and looking rather humiliated, was the watch. ‘If you’ll look closely, my dear …’

  I peered at it, trying not to tip rain from my hair onto the bag. ‘I don’t see anything unusual. For a Rolex, I mean. Gold all over the place.’

  ‘Perhaps the conditions aren’t the best.’ He put the repellent object back in his pocket. ‘But when I dug it up, I was reasonably sure that there was, mixed in with the mud, a fair amount of blood.’

  SEVEN

  I looked at him sharply. ‘Should you have dug it up, then?’

  ‘No. I should have left it to be examined properly by a forensics expert. In an ideal world. But I’m not a miracle worker, woman, just a plodding ex-policeman trying to do the best I can in less than ideal circumstances. The rain is pelting down and has already washed away who knows what evidence. Then there’s Watson, here, and doubtless other animals around
who might take an interest. Sheep are odd animals and can be very curious.’

  ‘And there’s Duncan Andersen, panting to dig up the whole area in search of Viking gold. He caught a glimpse of that watch, I’m sure, at least enough to see the colour. All right, I take your point. If we had all of Scotland Yard here we – that is, you – could conduct a proper investigation. As it is, shall we get back to the tents? I’m freezing again.’

  The rain had settled down to the sort of steady drizzle that can go on for days. Even Watson had lost his enthusiasm for a walk and splashed along as disconsolate as the rest of us. When we got to the tents, I ducked into one that was unoccupied, so Watson could shake himself without getting yet more rain and mud on the group in the big tent. I should have been interested in what was being said, in the reaction to Watson’s find. At the moment I was interested in nothing but getting warm and dry. I sat on a miserably uncomfortable camp stool and shivered, trying to wipe my streaming nose with a sodden tissue from my pocket. Watson sat on my feet and shivered, whining now and then in sympathetic distress. Once or twice I sneezed.

  When Alan came to find me, he took one look at the pair of us and held out his hand. ‘Mr Norquist will stay here for a bit, but I’ve organized transport back to the boat landing for us,’ he said. ‘Not deluxe, but it’ll keep you from getting much wetter.’

  ‘I couldn’t get any wetter if you threw me in the sea,’ I croaked. ‘I thought you said we were supposed to have good weather all week.’

  ‘The weather chaps lied. And you’re coming down with a cold. Come along, wench. There’s a thermos of coffee in the boat, and Baikie insisted I take his flask of whisky. I know you prefer bourbon, but for medicinal purposes one form of alcohol is as good as another.’

  ‘Any Scotsman would boil you in oil for classifying good single-malt as medicine, but I’ll take a dose with pleasure.’ He handed me the flask, which I put in my back pocket as I followed Alan to the vehicle he’d found somewhere, a sort of golf-cart thing with a canvas awning over the top. It afforded little protection against the rain and none at all against the wind, but at least it kept our feet out of the mud. Watson sat on the seat next to me, seized with occasional spasms of hard shivering. We were both feeling exceedingly sorry for ourselves.

  The boat wasn’t much warmer, but at least the cabin was out of the wind. I dried myself and Watson as best I could with a rough blanket I found in one of the bench seats. Neither of us was very dry when I’d finished, and the blanket was a whole lot muddier. We’d have to buy a replacement.

  ‘You said something about coffee?’ I called up to Alan at the helm. The boat was bobbing about a good deal, but I was too cold and achy to worry about seasickness.

  ‘In one of the cupboards in the galley,’ he called back. ‘There are only plastic cups, sorry, but there are sugar packets somewhere.’

  ‘I’ll pour you a cup, too, shall I?’

  ‘Too windy up here to drink it. I’ll be fine until we get to dry land.’

  He didn’t sound fine. He sounded tired and cross, but there was nothing I could do about it. I poured myself a half-cup of coffee, laced it with plenty of sugar and the Scotch, and took a cautious sip of the pseudo hot toddy.

  It wasn’t actually too bad. The smoky taste of the whisky went rather oddly with the sweetened coffee, but it was hot, and my sense of taste was diminishing as my sinuses filled. I don’t really like Scotch, much preferring good old American corn likker, but any port in a storm …

  And speaking of ports, I wondered where we were, but I felt too sluggish to go up and look, and had the sense not to call up and ask. ‘Are we there yet?’ is an extremely annoying utterance, even when it comes from an adult, and it’s virtually impossible to keep the whine out of one’s voice when uttering it. I curled up on the deck, my back against the bench and Watson planted firmly at my stomach to keep me from rolling, and tried to nap.

  But the coffee, or my aching sinuses, or something, kept me from settling. It didn’t help when Watson resettled himself with his tail in my face. And the boards of the deck weren’t designed as a mattress. I gave up, shoved Watson away, and managed to get up off the floor (not my best act, ever since my knee surgery) and back to the bench.

  I tried to think, though my head seemed to be stuffed full of cotton, hay and rags, as ’Enry ’Iggins claimed was the case with all women.

  What had Alan and the others talked about, there in the tent? How had they reacted to the discovery of Carter’s watch?

  If it was Carter’s watch. I had seen it for only a brief second last night at the meeting. Was it only last night? It felt like a week ago.

  But if it was his, what was the significance? Well, it proved he’d been on the island. But his dead body proved that beyond any need of verification. The watch didn’t prove, necessarily, that he’d been in Duncan Andersen’s pasture. A watch is readily removable, and might not even be missed by the owner for a while. Although a big, heavy Rolex, not only weighty but very expensive, and a status symbol, moreover …

  I gave it up. When we got back to Stromness, Alan and I would talk it over. And I hoped that would be soon, because the motion of the boat was becoming increasingly erratic, and my stomach was beginning to vie with my stuffy nose and achy muscles for attention.

  ‘Dorothy!’ Alan’s call was loud and urgent. ‘Wake up and put on your life jacket!’

  ‘Alan! Are we in trouble?’ I tried to stave off panic.

  ‘Not yet, but it’s rough out here, and this is an unfamiliar craft. Find a life jacket and put it on, and then bring me one.’

  I was absurdly reminded of the routine safety announcement on an airplane. ‘Put your own oxygen mask on first and then assist others.’ Inappropriate humour, I told myself firmly, is the beginning of hysteria.

  I looked around frantically, having no idea where to find a life jacket. It was no more than a few seconds, I suppose, before I saw the prominent sign. Life jackets, flares, life preservers, a raft, a boat hook, all were neatly together at one end of the cabin. I put on a jacket, with some difficulty, and then staggered up with Alan’s, nearly falling on the wet steps.

  ‘Here,’ said Alan. ‘Take the wheel a minute while I get into this thing.’

  ‘I don’t know a thing about steering a boat! And I can’t see through the wind and rain!’

  ‘Just keep it steady. We’re all right for a few seconds.’

  Almost as soon as he had taken his hands off the wheel, he had his jacket on and was prying my hands off. ‘No need for the death-like grip, darling,’ he said with the hint of a smile. ‘But do you think you could bear to stay up here for a few minutes? We’re quite close to Tingwall, but as you say, the visibility’s a bit tricky, and I could use a second pair of eyes.’

  Well, that terrified me almost as much as taking the wheel, but I took a firm grip of the rail, made sure my lifejacket was securely fastened, and tried to see my way through the driving rain.

  Oh, how I wished I had a hat, one of those lovely broad-brimmed rain hats. Of all the days for a dedicated hat-wearer to go out without one! But I put my hand to my brow as a visor and peered.

  Alan had cut the engine back to dead slow, which left us pretty well at the mercy of the wind and waves. On the other hand, any faster would have been extremely risky in the limited visibility. Everything looked grey to me, but some of it began to seem thicker, somehow, more solid.

  ‘Alan, there’s a boat ahead, just on the left. Port, I mean!’

  ‘I see it. Can you see any lights anywhere?’

  ‘No-o – yes! A green light! The green light at the end of the pier!’ I was getting light-headed and irrelevant again.

  ‘Thank you, F. Scott. Where, exactly? I don’t see it.’

  I sobered. ‘Just ahead and slightly to the right – starboard. At about not quite one o’clock. I can’t tell how far away.’

  ‘All right. I see it. You can relax, love. We’re here.’

  I could barely stagger out of t
he boat, and for a few awful moments I was sure I was going to be sick right there on the pier, but Alan took my elbow in a firm grip and said, ‘There now, you’re going to be fine,’ and somehow I was, not fine exactly, but functional. Watson seemed relieved to be back on land, too.

  ‘You might want to leave your life jacket in the boat,’ he said gently. ‘All the gear belongs to the hire firm.’

  ‘Oh, I suppose we should stow them back where they belong,’ I said feebly. ‘And there’s a blanket – it’s all muddy—’

  ‘Tomorrow will do for that. I’ll ring them up. Right now we both need some hot soup and a hot bath as soon as we can get them.’ Alan returned my life jacket to the boat while I watched Watson, and then we all climbed into the car, which was going to need a thorough cleaning before we turned it in.

  The drive back to Stromness was a nightmare, but after several eternities we arrived, had our baths, and sat down at the table in our jammies and robes in front of bowls of steaming chicken noodle soup, courtesy of Campbell.

  ‘Good Scots name, that,’ said Alan, pointing at the familiar red and white can.

  ‘Mm,’ I agreed wordlessly. My throat was getting sorer by the moment, and anyway I was busy absorbing the soup.

  ‘You’re feeling dreadful, aren’t you?’

  I nodded and put down my spoon. ‘I think,’ I croaked, ‘that I’ll have some tea and go to bed.’ Not that I have anything against chicken soup, but the universal remedy in my childhood had always been sweet, milky tea.

  ‘I’ll make the tea.’ He got up to suit the action to the word. ‘Where did I see the pot … oh, there. Nothing like an unfamiliar kitchen to sharpen one’s powers of observation. Do you want to know what Baikie and the rest said about the watch?’

  ‘As long as I don’t have to talk,’ I whispered.

  Alan put the kettle on to heat and found the tea bags. ‘The reaction was mixed. Larsen and Fairweather agreed that the watch was almost certainly Carter’s. Norquist said it was too dirty to draw any conclusion about it, and was all for cleaning it up then and there, which of course Baikie wouldn’t allow. He, Baikie, did tell me privately that there was no watch found on Carter’s body.’ He assembled milk, sugar and cups on a tray and rummaged in the cupboards for biscuits. ‘The varied conclusions drawn, though, were most interesting. Baikie, who is somewhat inclined to treat Carter’s death as a murder case, thought his watch – if it is his watch – being found so far from the body strengthened that view. He didn’t say so, but I was a policeman too long not to see it in his manner.’