Shadows of Death

by Jeanne M. Dams

  ‘Hmm. But then who did kill the cat? And where’s Mr Norquist?’

  ‘About the cat, I fear I have no idea. As for Norquist, if he doesn’t turn up soon, I’ll begin to fear an accident. He isn’t strong, as I said, and if he were on a beach and was caught by a strong wave, I doubt he’d be able to swim away.’

  ‘If he’s drowned, they might never find him.’

  He nodded sadly. ‘These seas don’t always give up their dead.’

  I sighed, gathered up the books I wanted, paid, and left the shop, mulling over what Mr Brown had said.

  I had moved only a few steps down the street when the rain began. It was the devious kind of fine drizzle that falls with almost no fuss but can soak you through in seconds. I hadn’t thought to bring my umbrella. Clutching my books to my breast, I ran for the nearest shop, which happened to be the pharmacy.

  There were several others seeking shelter like myself, and among them I recognized the woman from the cat charity. ‘This place,’ I said to her ruefully, ‘has the most changeable weather I’ve ever seen. The sun was shining brightly with not a cloud in the sky when I set out this morning.’

  ‘That’s why I always carry a brolly,’ she said. ‘We’ve some for sale cheap at the shop, if you left yours at home.’

  ‘Thank you, but mine is back at the flat. I was just too optimistic to bring it with me.’

  ‘Come back with me, anyway, and I’ll lend you one. Mine is big enough for two.’

  The shop wasn’t far away. Nothing is far away from anything else in Stromness, which is one of its great charms. The woman’s umbrella didn’t really provide much protection from the persistent rain, but I couldn’t get much wetter anyway, and I was happy with the gesture of reconciliation. I had apparently been well and truly acquitted of felicide.

  She found me a faded and decrepit umbrella with one broken rib and a chipped handle. ‘Here, take it. Someone left it behind years ago, and no one will ever buy it. It’ll help a bit, and you can put it in the rubbish when you’ve finished with it.’

  I expressed suitable thanks, and then bent to pet a cat that had rubbed up against my legs. ‘Poor baby, you’re going to get all wet. My slacks are soaked through.’

  ‘Oh, her fur is so thick, she won’t even notice. She’s just hoping for a hand-out. She tries that on with everyone who comes in.’

  ‘And from the look of her she must be successful.’ The cat was a lovely long-haired tortoiseshell, but so fat that her belly nearly rubbed the floor. She mewed pitifully as I stroked her head.

  ‘Don’t you dare give her anything! I’ve put her on a diet, but she’ll never lose weight if she keeps on cadging treats out of everyone. My name is Isabel, by the way. Isabel Duncan. You’re Dorothy Martin, and I understand you’re coming to Ruth’s little drinks party this afternoon.’

  ‘I am indeed. You’ll be there then?’

  ‘Half the town will be there. Ruth serves good drink, and everyone is panting to meet you and decide for themselves about you.’

  I laughed a little uncertainly. ‘Well, thanks for warning me. I’ll be on my best behaviour.’

  ‘And bring your dog, if he’s good around other dogs. There’ll be several there, and most of the women trust people who own dogs.’

  ‘Watson’s very well behaved. He’s only a mutt, but I wouldn’t say that in his hearing. He’s a sweetheart, and I say that as a life-long cat lover. I never thought I’d fall in love with a dog, but he’s been a great joy to Alan and me ever since he came into our lives.’

  So then I had to tell the story of how he came to our holiday cottage during a raging thunderstorm when we were vacationing in the Cotswolds, walked in, shook muddy water all over the room, and made himself at home. ‘We were worried about how our two cats would react when we took him home, but they became the best of friends in nothing flat. I suppose everyone thinks their dog is the best in the world, but ours really is.’

  Isabel laughed, and the tortoiseshell rubbed against my ankles more forcefully. Enough talk, she seemed to say. Feed me.

  ‘No, beautiful. Your mistress would never forgive me.’ She gave me a look that reminded me of the old saying about dogs having owners, while cats had staff, and left me for a couple who had just entered the store. The pickings might be better there.

  ‘I’ll see you later, then.’ I waved and went out into the rain, which was pelting down harder than before. I was glad, after all, of the bedraggled umbrella. It at least kept the worst of it off the books and my glasses, as I headed for the flat.

  Alan hadn’t returned yet, so I luxuriated for a while in a lovely hot bath, dressed in dry clothes, and made myself some tea. I’d wait for Alan for a little while before I scrounged some lunch.

  Meanwhile I decided it was time for another list. This time I thought I’d adopt the method from Dorothy L. Sayers’s Have His Carcase, where Harriet and Lord Peter listed ‘Things to be Noted and Things to be Done’.

  There were several new Things to be Noted:

  The whole town thinks Norquist is crazy. There are three theories about where he is: Dead by suicide

  Dead by accident

  In hiding somewhere off the island either because he stole from the museum, or simply because of his unbalanced mind

  The bookseller thinks that he didn’t kill the cat, because: He didn’t have the strength, with his heart trouble, and;

  If he was crazy enough to think a ritual sacrifice a good idea, he wouldn’t have chosen a cat.

  Ruth thinks that he killed someone or something. (I mean to find out more about that this evening.)

  His mother frightened at least some people in the town, talking strangely and brandishing her cane like a weapon.

  I put my pen down and looked over my list. There were a few suggestive points, but nothing that could be considered a real lead. I sighed, considered heating up some soup, and decided to wait a little longer for Alan. I headed a second sheet ‘Things to be Done’:

  1. The cocktail party. Ask about both Norquists, and the cat, and Carter, and anything else that comes into my head or Alan’s, if I can persuade him to go.

  2. Go and visit Mrs Norquist. She may be crazy as a coot, but even the craziest people sometimes make a kind of sense.

  I chewed on my pen and tried to think of anything else Alan and I could do that would be in the least productive. I finally added:

  3. Check on Norquist’s heart condition. The first principle of good investigation is verify, verify, verify.

  I couldn’t imagine why Mr Brown would make up something that was so easily checked, but I’d check anyway.

  Except that the police might already have looked into that – or no, probably not, with the current crisis taking all their attention. Oh, well, it wouldn’t hurt to check it out anyway. Because he could have had a heart attack somewhere and be lying helpless, out in this weather, waiting to be rescued …

  I shook my head, hoping to clear it. I was beginning to feel sorry for the man again. What I needed was some lunch, or coffee, or something to get my mind working properly.

  I had just heated up some canned soup and made a grilled cheese sandwich when Alan and Watson came home. I ran for a towel. ‘Don’t let that dog in here till he’s dried off,’ I called, but it was too late. He pushed into the kitchen, shook himself, and padded with muddy feet over to his water bowl.

  ‘Why did we ever want a dog?’ I asked.

  ‘I can’t imagine. I’ll clean up, if you’ll make a sandwich for me.’

  Once we were seated around the reasonably clean and dry table and had a little food in us, I asked, ‘OK, who goes first?’

  ‘After you, madam.’

  I pulled my notebook over to make sure I didn’t miss anything. ‘Let’s see. I didn’t learn a lot, but the most interesting bits are that Norquist has, or had, a serious heart condition and couldn’t do anything at all strenuous. And he was a stickler for authenticity with respect to anything ancient, so he wouldn’t have killed the ca
t.’ I gave him the bookseller’s reasoning. ‘And Alan, I hate to say it, but I think that makes sense. I was so sure he did it, but now I’m almost certain he didn’t. I’m even beginning to feel sorry for him again, because absolutely everybody in town thinks he’s totally out of his mind, and the woman at the knit shop, Ruth Menzies, thinks he killed someone or something. She was interrupted before she could finish saying who or what.’

  ‘“What” as in a cat?’

  ‘I don’t know. We think of a cat as a “who”, but not everybody does. I was thinking more of a plan or a project or an idea, that sort of thing. People do sometimes refer to those things being killed. But we’ll have a chance later today to hear what she meant. We’ve been invited to a little party at her house. Because, listen to this, Alan, she knows Jane Langland!’

  ‘Good heavens!’

  I explained. ‘So once we had established that, I was firmly enrolled in her good books, so she invited me, or us if you want to, to come round to her house after she closes the shop, and talk to a bunch of her friends. I’m told the drinks will be good, but the other guests will all be women, I’m afraid.’

  ‘And when have I ever been known to quail before a monstrous regiment of women? Of course I’ll come with you. It’ll probably be more productive than my morning.’

  ‘Tell.’

  ‘The news is almost entirely negative. No trace of Norquist. He didn’t leave Orkney by any of the commercial carriers; we already knew that. Neither he nor his body has been found anywhere. There’s been very little in the way of official search, but the word has got round, and you’d be surprised how many people have been looking, in a casual sort of way. Nothing.’

  ‘Even the official police couldn’t cover every square foot of every island! It’d take months, and he could dodge around, and they’d never find him.’

  ‘That thought has not escaped anyone,’ said Alan drily. ‘But volunteers have searched the more likely Neolithic sites and the obvious caves. A divers’ club has even sent people down at some of the more popular suicide spots, like the Churchill barriers.’

  I shuddered at the concept of popular places for suicide, but had to ask, ‘And what are the Churchill barriers?’

  ‘Great chunks of concrete dropped in the water during the Second World War to stop the Germans bringing submarines in to Scapa Flow to destroy our fleet. I’ll have to show them to you before we leave Orkney. There’s quite a touching little chapel nearby, put up by the Italian prisoners of war who built the barriers. But that’s another story. The point is, Norquist wasn’t there, or anywhere else they’ve tried. Frankly, the only good theory left is that he used a private boat, because people at the private landing strips swear themselves blue that no unlogged departures have taken place in the past few days.’

  ‘Well, they would, wouldn’t they, if they’re ever involved in anything like smuggling.’

  ‘Of course, but the neighbouring farmers keep a pretty close eye on the planes, and they say the same thing. It’s very quiet at night in the Orcadian countryside. They’d have heard a plane taking off, and no one did. But a small boat can be rowed out quite a good way before they start the motor.’

  ‘But Alan! If Norquist didn’t steal anything and didn’t do any killing, as Mr Brown would insist he couldn’t, then why would he run away?’

  ‘It goes back, doesn’t it, to your pet theory about motivation. Because he was afraid of something.’

  ‘Hmm. Or someone.’

  ‘But who? And why? I do really believe that the man’s dead, either by accident or by his own hand, and they’ll find his body eventually.’

  ‘Mr Brown said that sometimes these seas don’t give up their dead.’

  On that sombre note we finished our lunch, tidied up the kitchen, and went up for well-deserved naps.

  SEVENTEEN

  We woke in time to give Watson a bath before taking him to call on the ladies, and then of course we needed showers ourselves, so it was nearly seven before we presented ourselves at Mrs Menzies’ door. We hadn’t been sure we’d found the right house, as it was up a flight of stairs off The Street and round a couple of bends, but the sounds of female voices inside reassured us.

  ‘The door’s ajar. Shall we just go in?’

  ‘I imagine that’s why it’s been left open. They’d never hear a knock, anyway.’

  Alan pushed open the door and gestured me in, with Watson firmly on his lead, and we were greeted first by an assortment of polite but very inquisitive dogs, from a minuscule Yorkie to an Old English sheepdog roughly the size of a Volkswagen. Watson, fortunately, is as friendly with other dogs as with people, and entered into the mutual sniffing with no hint of anxiety.

  ‘All right, dogs, that’s enough.’ Ruth came into the hallway and spoke commandingly, and the assembled multitudes dispersed, presumably back to their mistresses. ‘Good to see you, Dorothy. And this must be your husband.’

  They introduced themselves, and she led us into the sitting room, where there wasn’t a lot of sitting going on, mostly because there weren’t a lot of places to sit.

  ‘Everyone, this is Dorothy Martin and her husband Alan Nesbitt. I’m not going to give you everyone’s names, you two, because you’d never remember, but you’ll get them sorted out in time. Get yourself a drink – they’re over there – and something to nibble, and I’ll find you some chairs.’

  Alan poured himself some Highland Park and me some white wine, and someone shooed a reluctant dachshund out of an armchair. I sank into its embrace and Alan perched on the arm, and Ruth said, ‘Well, now. You’re wondering why I called this meeting.’

  ‘No, we’re not,’ said the cat lady – Isabel, that was her name – amid the general laughter. ‘Alan is a retired copper, and Dorothy is Miss Marple, and they’re wanting to find out what, if anything, we all know about the goings-on around here.’

  There was more laughter, and Alan said, ‘That’s actually a very fair summation, Mrs …’

  ‘Duncan. But call me Isabel, everyone does.’

  ‘Thank you. However, I’d characterize my wife more as Sherlock Holmes and Peter Wimsey rolled into one. You need to understand that she’s the brains of this partnership. I’m Constable Plod, finding clues for her to interpret – brilliantly, I might add.’

  Well, of course after that they were eating out of his hand. Alan can charm a bird out of a tree without half trying, and this time he was trying. If I’d won Ruth over because of the Langland connection, Alan’s self-deprecation and deference to me pulled in the rest of them.

  ‘All right then,’ said a woman I didn’t know, ‘you’ve come to the right place. Between us, we know most of what goes on in Stromness.’

  ‘And most of Mainland, if it comes to that,’ said another. ‘What do you want to know? We’ll help if we can.’

  ‘Do any of you,’ asked Alan, serious now, ‘have any idea, however far-fetched, where Charles Norquist might be? Inspector Baikie is extremely concerned.’

  ‘You’ve heard the rumours that he’s scarpered, I suppose,’ said a woman I recognized from behind the counter at the pharmacy.

  ‘We have. And I can say quite definitely that he did not steal anything from the museum. Nothing is missing from the museum. The police have checked thoroughly.’

  ‘When?’ demanded a grey-haired woman with a formidable bosom who had just come into the room.

  ‘Oh, dear,’ said Ruth under her breath. ‘I might have known she’d turn up.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ Alan asked the newcomer.

  ‘When did the police check?’ she said impatiently.

  ‘Yesterday, as soon as it became apparent that Norquist was among the missing.’

  ‘Ah. Then they’d better check again.’

  Ruth quieted the babble that arose. ‘Alan, Dorothy, this is Janet MacKenzie, who is a volunteer at the museum. Janet, I think you’d better explain yourself.’

  ‘It’s clear enough, I’d think. The police had better check again
. Because I walked past the museum on my way here. I’d intended to go in and do a little work on the records, but someone’s changed the lock. Shiny new Yale. Classic case of locking the stable too late.’

  ‘Janet, what do you mean?’

  ‘I mean I looked in the windows, and the case closest to the door is empty. Someone’s rifled the place.’

  Stunned silence, then pandemonium. ‘But who … how could anyone … why would they … who … how … why …?’

  Alan rose and spoke to Ruth. ‘I’ll have to ask you to excuse me. I must get in touch with the police, and I may have to go to Kirkwall.’ He was pulling out his mobile as he spoke. Signalling me a ‘stay here’ with his eyebrows, he left the room. Watson stirred at my feet and looked at me for instructions. I patted him, and he settled down.

  ‘Still so sure Norquist didn’t steal anything?’ the volunteer called after Alan, with a cackle.

  I tried to follow the discussion that ensued, but with everyone talking at once, it was difficult. I gathered only that there was considerable difference of opinion, with about half the room laying everything including the weather at Norquist’s door (‘Who knows but what he does rain dances in those weird rituals of his?’) and the other half claiming he was just a harmless nutter who hadn’t the physical strength to do anything more violent than utter imprecations.

  I gave up trying to sort it out after a little, and tried to think. This rather abrasive woman was evidently the chief volunteer, the one who had a key to the old lock. Whoever stole from the museum had to have a key to the new lock. Unless the woman had done it herself, before the lock was changed. But why would she have done that, and then called our attention to it? And who had changed the lock? Larsen, as president of the Friends? The police? And when? And when exactly had the theft taken place?

  If it was a theft. I was more and more doubtful that anyone would steal the artefacts in order to sell them. The money they’d bring would scarcely be worth the risk. Norquist might have had some crazy idea about ‘saving’ them. But save them from what, or whom? And in any case, he’d disappeared before the artefacts did.