Shadows of Death

by Jeanne M. Dams

  The kettle whistled. Alan filled the pot and brought the tray to the table. ‘The others could see it, too, and they united in opposition. It was a bit funny, actually. They expressed themselves differently, of course. Larsen and Fairweather were trying diplomatically to suggest that the project would suffer greatly from any adverse publicity, in addition to the financial blow of their principal donor’s death. Norquist, predictably, fulminated. I’m having a very hard time trying to like that man.’ He poured the tea, with plenty of milk and sugar in mine.

  I sipped gratefully, cleared my throat, and essayed a question. ‘What’s Baikie going to do?’

  ‘He didn’t confide in me. In his place the first thing I’d do would be to confine Andersen to quarters. He’s the obvious suspect, though there are a good many questions about the whole situation. But he hated Carter, he has a filthy temper and considerable strength, and he was presumably here last night.’

  ‘Do we know that?’

  ‘No,’ Alan admitted. ‘But where else would he be? He doesn’t seem the gad-about type. Besides, he has livestock to tend.’

  ‘I don’t know. Getting himself polluted in a pub somewhere, maybe. Alan, I can’t think. My head’s booming like a drum. I’m going to bed.’

  I found a couple of elderly cold tablets in my traveling bag, swallowed them, and drifted off into deep if somewhat uncomfortable sleep for the best part of the next twenty-four hours.

  EIGHT

  My method for dealing with a minor respiratory illness has been the same for at least forty years. At the first sign of a sore throat or stuffy nose, I take myself to bed. The theory is that, given rest and fluids, the body will heal itself. I have to admit that it doesn’t always work, but this time it did. When I woke on Wednesday afternoon, I was hungry, able to breathe, and more or less in my right mind. I got out of bed and wandered into the sitting room.

  ‘Ah,’ said Alan, who was sitting with newspapers on his lap and a cup at his elbow. ‘It’s the Sleeping Beauty.’

  I looked down at my crumpled nightgown and ran a hand through my unkempt hair and over my unwashed face. ‘Sarcasm is the tool of the devil. Is there anything to eat?’

  ‘You’re feeling better.’

  ‘Much. And I’m starving.’

  ‘How’s the throat?’

  ‘Better. I’m not quite ready to address Parliament or sing Madame Butterfly, but I think I’m up to some comfort food.’

  ‘Good. If you want to get cleaned up a bit, I’ll have some scrambled eggs ready when you are.’

  Dear man! He didn’t quite wrinkle up his nose, but I was aware that I badly needed a shower.

  I felt nearly normal when I had showered. I poked my head out of the bathroom. ‘What’s the weather like? Sunshine, I can see, but what about the temperature?’

  ‘Probably a little chilly for a pampered American,’ he called back from the kitchen. ‘I suggest layers. And hurry up. The eggs are almost done.’

  I hurried. Cold eggs are an abomination unto the Lord.

  One of Alan’s many virtues is that he can cook. He was a widower for many years and learned to fend for himself. It’s true that scrambled eggs aren’t terribly taxing, but they can be awful if badly made. These were soft and creamy, perfect for a touchy throat, and he’d served them with a bit of smoked salmon that melted in the mouth.

  ‘Wherever did you find this? I wouldn’t have thought the co-op would run to this standard of luxury fare.’ Stromness boasts two grocery stores, one (called a co-op for reasons I could not discern) a mini-supermarket with a good selection of most necessities, the other the glorified convenience store. Neither seemed a likely source.

  ‘Andrew gave me a brochure when he took us out to dinner. He smokes the stuff himself. May catch it himself, for all I know. Yesterday when you were dead to the world I decided to visit his shop in the village. You’d like it, by the way. It’s tiny, but full of mirrors that make it look a lot bigger. The window sign giving hours of operation reads: “9.48 to 5.53 weekdays, Sundays 1.53 to 5.57”.’

  I chuckled as Alan went on. ‘So I bought some of the salmon. I also bought …’ He performed a bit of legerdemain and brought from behind his back the most beautiful wine goblet I’d ever seen. It was made of pottery, beautifully shaped with a pattern incised in the clay, and finished in a lustrous black glaze. It was breath-taking.

  ‘My word! It looks like a chalice! Andrew made this?’

  ‘And a whole set like it. I bought eight. I hope you don’t mind, but I couldn’t resist.’

  ‘Mind! They’re gorgeous. I had no idea he did this sort of thing. One thinks of pottery as rather more … I don’t know … earthy, I guess.’

  ‘My dear, he does every sort of thing. You cannot imagine. The man’s not only a genius, he’s an incredibly prolific genius. You must come with me, and I think you’d like to visit the pottery, as well. The woman in charge of the shop says there’s a far greater variety out there.’

  I polished off every bite of my meal, drank every drop from the big pot of tea Alan provided, and sat back, replete. ‘You, my dear, are the answer to a maiden’s prayer. Also a superannuated matron’s. Now, tell me what’s been going on in the world of crime while I did my Rip Van Winkle routine.’

  Alan had been tidying the kitchen, clearing away dirty dishes, putting things in their places. Now he sat down at the table and sighed. ‘I’m not sure you want to know. For a start, they’ve arrested Duncan Andersen for the murder of Henry Carter.’

  I considered his words, and his attitude. ‘And you don’t think he did it.’ It was not a question.

  ‘The evidence is there, Dorothy. He was seen at the meeting to utter threats. He fetched up at a pub in Kirkwall after he was hustled away, and drank enough to fell an ox, if reports are accurate, growing more and more bellicose. His last words before the landlord threw him out were: “I’ll kill the wee bastard before I’ll see him take another foot of my land!”.’

  ‘Baikie and Co. have been busy. How did Andersen get to the pub? Kirkwall’s a good long way from the meeting hall.’

  ‘An FAO member drove him. He’d brought him to the meeting from the harbour in Kirkwall, and was taking him back there when Andersen decided he needed some refreshment. The driver tried to talk him out of it, but not too strenuously, one gathers. Anderson was in a fury, and not quite safe to argue with.’

  ‘Indeed. What did Andersen do after he left the pub?’

  ‘They haven’t been able to trace his exact movements. He had come to the meeting in his own boat, and presumably he took it back home. It was a dark night; it’s a miracle he made it safely.’

  ‘God is said to watch over fools and drunkards. But they don’t know when he got home?’

  ‘Dorothy, you’ve seen the place. He has no near neighbours, and even if he did, he’s such a surly fellow, I’d think everyone on the island would keep clear of him.’

  ‘And there aren’t all that many people living there, are there? I didn’t see any sign of a village or anything like that. Although it’s true I didn’t do much looking around.’

  ‘The only village is the tent village for the excavation people, and even they aren’t there all the time, as you discovered yesterday. I gather they hole up in rooms here and there when the weather is intimidating. The permanent population of the island is about twenty, I gather, and diminishing all the time.’

  ‘Sad. The era of the small farmer is gone for good, isn’t it? But anyway, just what is the evidence against Andersen? Beyond the fact that he was breathing fire and destruction at the meeting.’

  ‘The watch is one of the most damaging bits. It was Carter’s, for certain, and the blood found on and around it was almost certainly his blood. There hasn’t been time for sophisticated tests, but the experts say it’s extremely likely, and Carter had abrasions on his wrist, which indicated the watch might have been removed by force. Well, anyone might have done that. It’s a valuable little piece of property, with the diamonds an
d all.’

  ‘Diamonds?’

  ‘Diamonds. Instead of numerals, the thing is set with twelve diamonds. A flashy sort of man, Carter.’ Alan, who dresses very conservatively, made a little grimace of distaste. ‘But the truly damning bit came to light only this morning. They got a warrant to search Anderson’s house and outbuildings, and found blood in the pigsty.’

  ‘Carter’s?’

  ‘Human, for certain, and possibly Carter’s. It was on the edge of a stone trough, and was just about the right size and shape to have caused one of Carter’s injuries. So they took Andersen in and charged him.’

  ‘But you still don’t think he did it. Why?’

  Alan ran a hand down the back of his neck in a familiar gesture of frustration. ‘I have no sensible answer for that. It just smells wrong. Of all the people who hated Carter, Andersen is the most obvious, and the least appealing as a person. It pleases everyone to think that he might be a murderer, given the others in the field. A museum director? The director of the dig? The president of Friends of Ancient Orkney? Respectable men, all of them, and responsible in some degree for bringing new lustre to Orkney. Pit them against one churlish, smelly, drunken farmer, and what are the odds?’

  ‘Trial by public opinion. You’re right. It smells as bad as Andersen. Do you think Baikie is incompetent?’

  ‘I don’t know. He’s the highest ranking officer in Orkney, but I don’t know enough about the policing structure up here to gauge what that means. Politics rears its ugly head everywhere, you know.’

  I sipped my tea thoughtfully before asking, ‘What are we going to do about it?’

  Bless the man. Really, I often wonder how I managed to get so lucky with both my husbands. Frank was a perfect dear whose only real flaw was dying too young, and now Alan was just as much on my wavelength as Frank had been. He could have said, ‘Why do we have to do anything about it?’ Or some variant of Tonto’s ‘Who’s we, white man?’ He said neither of those things, but got up to make more tea, and said, ‘I’m not sure. Do you have any suggestions, or is your head still full of nothing but sinus congestion?’

  ‘It’s clearing, in more senses than one. I can’t suggest anything concrete at the moment. We don’t know enough. But surely we can both do what we do best. That means that I go around talking to people in my artless, wide-eyed American way, and you go around sniffing out the situation like a policeman. You’ve had a lot of experience by now in doing that unofficially, without stepping on too many toes.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know about that. Seems to me there are a good few squashed toes throughout the UK, and even on the other side of the Atlantic.’

  Alan was remembering the murder case back in my home town in Indiana, where his unofficial status had been a source of considerable frustration to both of us. ‘But you saw justice done in all those cases. What are a few trampled egos to that?’

  He raised the teapot in salute. ‘Thank you, madam. I would amend that to say that we saw justice done. So, are you ready to venture out in search of some justice?’

  ‘As soon as I’ve had another cup of tea and made a list, I am.’

  I am never without a little notebook, which I use for all sorts of things, grocery lists, phone numbers (usually with no name attached, so I have to call them to find out whose they are), lists of books I want to read, and my ubiquitous to-do lists. I’ve always found that making a list gives me a spurious feeling of having accomplished something. Once in a blue moon I actually check off most of the items and feel industrious indeed.

  ‘So,’ I said, clicking open my pen. ‘People for one of us to talk to. Norquist, obviously, though I admit I don’t look forward to it. Fairweather. Larsen. I wonder, by the way, where Mr Fairweather is from. That’s a very English-sounding name, and he speaks like an Englishman, too.’

  ‘That’s one of the things you might ask him. Why don’t you tackle him, at least to begin with. You might have a hard time tracking him down, though. With the weather so fine today—’

  ‘Fair weather,’ I put in.

  Alan ignored me. ‘—he’s probably at the dig.’

  ‘Do you think so? Wouldn’t the police still have it sealed off? And anyway, if the funding’s in question, with Carter’s death …’

  I left the sentence unfinished, and Alan gave me a peculiar smile. ‘Oh, I didn’t tell you, did I? That’s the other thing I found out this morning. It’s all unofficial at this stage, of course, but Baikie’s been in touch with Carter’s lawyers, and apparently the man left most of his very considerable fortune to the FAO. The dig’s future is assured.’

  ‘Oh, no! And so all those highly respectable men move way up on the suspect list.’

  ‘Unless one of them killed Carter. Don’t forget that a murderer is not allowed to profit by his crime.’

  ‘And that makes a good reason for all of them, collectively, to make good and sure Andersen’s convicted. Alan, I’m liking the smell of this less and less.’

  ‘Yes, it does reek, doesn’t it? All the more reason for us to help find out what really happened. What else goes on the list?’

  ‘Well, so far there isn’t much. You’re going to talk to Norquist, and I’m going to talk to Fairweather, if I can find him. I’ll need somehow to get to where he is, don’t forget. And if it’s the dig—’

  ‘But you’ve convinced me that he’s probably not there, for one reason or another. And why do you have to go to him? Why couldn’t you simply ring him up and invite him for tea, or supper, or a drink, or whatever sounds – er – inviting? He involved us in the investigation, after all. He’ll hardly turn you down.’

  ‘Alan, that’s brilliant! Does he have a wife, do you know?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. But I do have his phone number. Somewhere.’ He rummaged in his pockets and handed me a crumpled piece of paper. ‘I don’t know if that’s his home, or a hotel, or his mobile, but it ought to reach him somehow.’

  It reached him on the first ring. He answered as though he’d been waiting for a call. It certainly wasn’t mine, but I pretended I didn’t know that. ‘Mr Fairweather? I’m so glad I caught you. You must be frantically busy just now. This is Dorothy Martin. How are you coping with all this?’

  ‘Oh, Mrs Martin. Er – how nice to hear from you.’

  ‘I hope you’re managing, with all that’s happened.’

  ‘Yes, it’s a bit – I’m a bit – but of course I can’t work at the dig just now, so I’m actually …’

  He ran down, and I jumped into the breach. ‘I called, really, to see if you’d like to relax for a while over drinks this evening, and perhaps supper to follow if you have the time. I’d like to meet your wife – if you have one, that is – and I’ve so many questions about the dig that I never got the chance to ask.’ I winked at Alan, who made a face back.

  ‘That sounds … well, my wife is back at home in Surrey. I was expecting a call from her, actually. But if I’m welcome by myself …?’

  ‘You’re most welcome. About six, then, if that’s convenient? And do stay for supper, if you don’t have other plans. It won’t be anything fancy, just a simple supper.’

  He made appropriate noises, and I told him where to find us and punched the phone off. ‘There, that’s my good deed for the day. I’ll need to do some shopping and some cooking for the rest of the afternoon, and I’ll need you to help me carry the doings. Once we have them back here, you can go off and beard Norquist in his den.’

  Not knowing what Mr Fairweather preferred in the way of drink, we laid in a varied supply, from sherry to Highland Park Whisky, Orkney’s own liquid gold. Then, assuming that an Englishman would enjoy curry, we found lamb and various other ingredients at the co-op and lugged it all home, where I settled down to some cooking while Alan set off for the museum and the acerbic Mr Norquist.

  NINE

  The problem in conducting an investigation as a detective without portfolio is always how to begin. A policeman can approach a suspect, or a witness, and say, ‘I
’d like to ask you a few questions about XYZ.’ Then even the first reaction of the person being questioned is instructive. He or she may refuse to answer, may answer so prolifically that it might be a smokescreen, may be glib with obvious lies, may be nervous or combative, and all these responses tell the investigator almost as much as the words he hears. But someone like me, having no conceivable excuse for asking questions at all, must be a good deal more devious about the task.

  I thought about that as I chopped onions and browned chunks of lamb, discovered I didn’t have several of the spices I needed and made a quick run to the co-op for them. Watson was delighted to come with me. He was getting distinctly bored with his regime, which involved a good deal less freedom than he enjoyed at home. He was well enough trained to stay close to the flat if I let him out, but I was nervous about Roadkill. I’d never before met a cat that frightened me, but this one did. So I kept Watson on a short leash during our little errand, much to his disappointment.

  The flat had a little patio area, securely walled in. When we got back I surveyed the height of the walls, decided that any cat able to scale them would belong in a circus, and let Watson go out. At least he could breathe fresh air out there, even if it wasn’t real freedom.

  I resumed my curry preparations, musing about fear. Fear for Watson’s safety was causing me to take actions he didn’t like. For his own good, I reasoned. I was the responsible party in this relationship. I was the human, able and indeed obliged to make decisions for my dog’s welfare. But he didn’t look at it that way. He saw my decisions as arbitrary, and although he obeyed my dictates like the good dog he was, he made sure I knew he didn’t like them. He didn’t understand the fear that motivated me, nor did he realize that the fear was in turn motivated by love.