‘He was already on it,’ said Alan. ‘Is anything stronger than tea on offer?’
Oh, dear. Alan was really down in the dumps. And alcohol in the middle of the day would just put him to sleep. Both of us, in fact, since I wasn’t about to let him drink alone. And then we’d wake up feeling logy, and more useless than ever.
‘I have the very thing,’ said Nora, reaching once more into her bag. She pulled out a small parcel and spilled its contents out on the table. ‘Marion’s chocolate tarts. You know Marion, at the bakery? These are a weakness of mine, and quite sinfully delicious. Everyone knows chocolate is the cure when the Dementors strike, and I would say, Alan, that you’re very nearly demented.’
Well, that launched us into a discussion of J.K. Rowling’s wonderful books, and that led to talking about our own Harray Potter and how he might be getting along in Spain, and Alan was eased out of his slough of despond.
‘And I’ll tell you what I’m going to do,’ said Nora as she picked up her bag, ready to leave. ‘I’ll ask Theodore to go and visit Charlie. They’ve not always got on terribly well, because of Charlie’s peculiar theology, but Theodore may be the one person he trusts. Charlie’s not afraid of him. Well, no one could be, could they? It could be that Charlie will talk to him. No promises, but it’s worth a try.’
‘If I weren’t already married to you,’ said Alan, devouring the last chocolate tart after she’d left, ‘I’d marry that woman.’
‘In the interest of selfless love, I’d give you your freedom. Especially since you’ve scarfed all the chocolate. Unfortunately she’s already married, too,’ I pointed out.
‘Drat. And to a clergyman, to boot. Ah, well. What’s on the agenda in that case, my dearest love?’
‘Well,’ I said, going to the front door and locking it, ‘I thought we might take a nap. So to speak.’
We were awakened some time later from our contented slumbers by the tootle of my phone. I had a little trouble finding it, but fished it out of a rumpled pocket just in time. It was Nora.
‘Dorothy? I hope I didn’t wake you.’
Honestly, the woman’s a witch, I thought. ‘Well, actually …’
‘I am sorry. I hope you had time for a nice nap. That was just what you both needed.’
I had the uncomfortable feeling that she knew exactly how our nap had begun, as well. And then I decided I didn’t care. ‘It was delightful, thank you,’ I said demurely, and made a face at Alan, who was leering from his side of the bed.
‘I thought,’ Nora went on, ‘that you’d want to know right away that Theodore has talked to Charlie.’
‘Oh, good! Did he say anything that made any sense?’ I turned up the volume on the phone and held it so that Alan could listen in.
‘Not a great deal, but Theodore did grasp the idea that the poor man is terribly frightened, and not just of his mother. He had to be reassured again and again that no one could get in to see him.’
‘He’s still at Sinclair House, then?’
‘Yes, it seemed best. There are people to look after him there. Of course his mother is also nearby, which isn’t the best circumstance, but she won’t be for long, and she positively can’t get at him. No one can, except the staff, and of course Theodore. The policeman at the door is very large and about as moveable as the Old Man of Hoy, Theodore says.’
‘Well, that’s something, at least. Is there anything we can do to move things along?’
‘I can’t think of a thing, unless you want to put up an extra prayer or two for Charlie’s swift recovery.’
‘We’ll certainly do that. You’ll keep us posted?’
‘I will. Don’t worry too much, Dorothy. It will come right. I can feel it.’
Given her extraordinary ability to see into other people’s minds, that remark reassured me considerably.
TWENTY-SEVEN
‘Who’s the Old Man of Hoy?’ I asked Alan after I ended the call.
‘What, not who. It’s an amazing rock formation on the island of Hoy, very near here. We haven’t seen a lot of Orkney, have we, what with one thing and another. Would you like to take a tour of the islands? There are cruise boats.’
‘I would love to do that! As Nora says, there’s not much else we can do until Charlie is able to talk to us, or at least to Baikie. Let’s do it. Are they all-day cruises, or can you do one in an afternoon and evening?’
We walked down to the ferry building and discovered there was a tour leaving in fifteen minutes. There was just time to go back and let Watson out into the patio (a proceeding of which he took a dim view) and grab my ginger capsules before jumping on the boat.
It was a wonderful day. The way to see Orkney, I became convinced, was by water. Our other water trips had been accomplished in a hurry, in iffy weather, and for the purpose of getting someplace. This time the weather was perfect and our object was to relax and see what was to be seen.
The first thing was the Old Man of Hoy, which stands over four hundred feet high and looms over the sea like a primitive cathedral tower. Then we cruised around the Mainland, seeing magnificent beaches and bays, ruins of medieval defences, seals and otters playing on rocks, puffins and so many other birds I couldn’t identify. We sailed close to Shapinsay, where I caught a tantalizing glimpse of Balfour Castle. ‘We have to come back,’ I said over and over to Alan.
We had a sandwich supper on the boat, so when we finally got back to the flat, tired and sated with sun and sea air, we had no appetite for a real meal. ‘Cheese and biscuits and some wine?’ I offered, and Alan helped me set it out. We sat and munched contentedly.
‘Alan, it was lovely to get away from it for a day, and it helped clear my head,’ I said when I’d nibbled all I wanted. ‘I’ve been thinking.’
Alan chuckled. ‘So have I. You first.’
‘Well, it’s nothing very spectacular, but it’s occurred to me that we have three principal suspects, all of them with at least partial alibis for the presumed time of the murder. Right?’
‘Right.’ Alan was almost purring. I looked at him suspiciously, but went on, ‘But the trouble is, all their alibis depend to some extent on each other. X alibis Y, who alibis Z, who alibis X, in a neat little tail-chasing circle.’
‘Exactly.’
I sighed and took another sip of my wine. ‘You’re way ahead of me, aren’t you? So if one of the three is an unreliable witness …’
‘And that, dear heart, is why we have a police guard over Charlie Norquist. He’s about as unreliable as anyone could be. I don’t mean that he’s untruthful. On the contrary, I think he’s almost painfully honest. It’s just that his grasp of reality is problematic.’
‘And that’s throwing roses at it. Alan, I do feel so sorry for that man!’
‘As do I. That mother of his has twisted him in to a corkscrew, and I don’t know if all the psychiatrists in the world can straighten him out.’
‘All the king’s horses. Yes.’ I stood. ‘Have you had all you want?’
‘And more than I need.’
‘Then let’s go for a little walk to work off some of it. There’s still nearly an hour of daylight left.’ We cleared away, snapped on Watson’s leash, and set out.
The village had its own special charm late at night. All the shops were closed and very few people were abroad. What gulls could be seen were perched with their heads tucked beneath their wings, ignoring any humans or dogs that came their way. We startled a cat or two, abroad on the prowl, but they were apparently of a more amenable temperament than poor old Roadkill, and passed by Watson with no more than a disdainful sneer.
I stopped to look in one shop window, where one light glowed softly on a display of paintings. Most of them were Orkney scenes, but one caught my attention. ‘Look, Alan. That’s one of Penny’s, isn’t it?’
Our friend Penny Brannigan, a Canadian ex-pat living in Wales, was a talented amateur artist in water colours. She loved painting the Welsh countryside and the occasional castle, and here befor
e us was a splendid view of Conwy Castle, one of my favourites. ‘It’s great that she’s in a gallery here. I wish she were here right now. She’s given us valuable hints in the past.’
Alan nodded and yawned. ‘Sorry, love. Too much fresh air. Let’s call it a day.’
Watson was disposed to argue the point, but he gave in to force majeure and trailed after us, the picture of an abused, unloved dog.
I woke the next morning from a dream of freight trains, wondering if something had gone wrong with my bedside clock. The room was gloomy, about a three-in-the-morning (for mid-summer Orkney) shade of grey, but the clock read eight-thirty. Then I heard the pounding of the rain on the roof, what my dreaming mind had turned into the roar of a train. Neither Watson nor Alan was in the room, and I couldn’t hear, above the rain, any sounds of habitation from the kitchen below. I would happily have curled up under the covers again, but I already had that logy, headachy feeling that comes from sleeping too long. I heaved myself out of bed and into the shower.
I felt quite a lot better once I was clean and dressed, and could smell toast and coffee in preparation. Alan greeted me with a kiss and a smack on the rump. ‘Glad to have you back among us, Sleeping Beauty. Scrambled, boiled, poached, or fried?’
‘Scrambled, please, with some of that lovely salmon if we still have any. Have I mentioned lately that I think I’ll keep you?’
‘No, but I’m glad to hear it. It’s a filthy day.’
‘I can tell.’ Watson lay in a corner, still damp from his morning outing, with Alan’s wet shoes beside him. ‘I’m glad we got our sightseeing in yesterday. Oh, that’s heaven.’ I sipped from the steaming, fragrant cup he handed me. ‘I don’t know who first figured out that you could take some red berries and do a lot of unlikely things to them and come up with this magic brew, but I owe them a great debt. Have there been any developments while I was doing my Rip Van Winkle act?’
‘Yes, as a matter of fact. I called Baikie this morning. Apparently the terrorist threat turned out to be a tempest in a teapot, a hoax gone wrong. Of course the police are incensed about the waste of time, and are doing their best to find those responsible, but Baikie does have time now to deal with High Sanday matters, and he had quite a lot to tell me. The most important is that Norquist is back in his right mind, or what passes for a right mind in his case.’
‘That’s terrific! And what does he have to say?’
‘That’s not so terrific. Apparently he’s still so afraid of his mother that he’s not talking much. There’s something on his mind, but Baikie says he, Norquist, that is, seems to think his mother wouldn’t want him to talk about it. So far no one has been able to persuade him that Mum is safely out of reach of her son. He becomes so disturbed when pressed that they’ve had to stop questioning him. I understand they’re seeking medical advice, hoping there’s something they can give him to ease his anxiety.’
‘I know what I’d take, if I were suffering from anxiety,’ I said. I finished my coffee and held out my cup for more.
‘What’s that?’ said Alan with a slight frown. I’m not much for any drugs more exotic than ibuprofen, and he knows it.
‘A strong dose of Nora Tredgold,’ I said. ‘I’m not sure she ever tried it, but I’ll bet she could have subdued old Roadkill if she’d wanted. Surely she can calm down Charlie Norquist, for whom she obviously has a lot of sympathy. As soon as we’ve had breakfast, I’m going to call her.’
Nora was delighted to hear that Charlie was doing better, and agreed gladly to go and try to talk to him. ‘You’d like to come with me, wouldn’t you?’
‘You know I’m panting for the opportunity. What about Alan?’
‘Unless he particularly wants to come, I think it might be better not. Charlie might view him as an authority figure, and he rather fights shy of those.’
‘As well he might, considering his mother. All right, I’ll tell Alan he has to stay here. Given the weather, I don’t imagine he’ll mind.’
‘Good. Now don’t you even try to walk up here. I’ll pick you up there in ten minutes.’
It was raining harder than ever, with a brisk wind, when Nora’s car stopped outside the flat. My umbrella was nearly carried away, which wouldn’t have mattered much, since I was pretty well soaked in the few seconds between house and car. ‘Heavens, can you see to drive?’
‘Not terribly well, but the car knows the way. Close your eyes if you get frightened on the roundabout.’
‘How did you know I think they’re an invention of the devil?’
She shrugged.
‘You know, Nora,’ I persisted, ‘there’s a character in a series of old mysteries to whom, as someone in the books remarks, “the human race is glass-fronted”. I think you must be related. How do you do it?’
She smiled gently. ‘I suppose it comes from living with a priest for so many years. Theodore has to be good at hearing the things people aren’t telling him, and I seem to have picked up the trick. As for you and roundabouts, however, I suspect your white knuckles might have been my first clue.’
That made me laugh, and I deliberately relaxed when we got to the devil’s invention. I don’t think my unclenched hands fooled her a bit.
I was half afraid we’d find some new horror when we got to Sinclair House. Charlie would have been abducted, or Mrs Norquist would have escaped and got into his room, or something equally awful. But nothing of the kind had happened. The policeman on duty outside Charlie’s room was plainly bored.
Nora knew him. I wondered if she knew everybody in Orkney. ‘Hello, Ian,’ she said cheerfully. ‘Have you met my friend Mrs Martin? Her husband is Alan Nesbitt, the chief constable who’s been helping Mr Baikie with these puzzling events. How’s Charlie?’
‘Very quiet,’ said Ian. ‘He’s polite when they go in to give him his meals, but otherwise he’s said hardly a word.’
‘Ah, well, I’ll just see if I can cheer him up a bit.’ And with that she opened the door and sailed into the room.
I hoped Ian was more efficient with other people he might know who might want to visit Norquist. Nora was safe, but almost anyone else was suspect.
They had put Charlie in an old wing of the house that was empty of other patients, and at the end of that wing, so his large room had windows on all three sides. On a nice day the view must have been breathtaking, endless hills, a loch, birds, wide sky. Today all was greyness and gloom.
Mr Norquist was huddled in a chair in one corner, looking miserable. He cringed at our entrance and tried to make himself even smaller.
‘Hello, Charlie,’ said Nora with a smile. ‘I understand you’ve been having a bad time. I’m so sorry. I’ve brought you your favourite chocolates to cheer you up.’ She handed him a small bag. He accepted it, laid it on the table next to his chair, and murmured an almost inaudible ‘Thank you.’
‘You remember Mrs Martin, I’m sure,’ Nora went on, sitting in the chair nearest to Norquist. He nodded, but looked away from me.
‘We’ve all been very worried about you, you know, my dear. Where have you been all this time?’
I feared a direct question might distress him, but he simply sat still, saying nothing. Nora waited, and at last he pointed. ‘Out there,’ he said. ‘A sort of shed. Mother said …’
‘She said you’d be safe there, didn’t she? And indeed you were. Not very comfortable, though, I shouldn’t imagine. Hardly the sort of place for a man in your position.’
‘No.’ For a moment the man I had seen before looked out of Charlie’s eyes. ‘It didn’t suit me at all, but Mother said …’
‘Charlie Norquist, tell me something. How old are you?’
He looked surprised. ‘Sixty-two.’
‘And where did you go to university?’
‘University of Exeter. I wanted to go to Cambridge, but Mother needed me at home.’
‘What did you study, Charlie?’
‘Archaeology, of course. I never wanted to do anything except study ancient people
s and their civilisations.’
‘I think I remember your telling me that you received a first-class honours degree.’
‘Yes.’ He straightened a little in his chair. ‘Yes, I was at the top of my year. I was offered a teaching position then, but Mother needed me at home.’
Nora wisely didn’t pursue that recurrent theme. Instead she looked out of the window. ‘Not a good day for an archaeologist, is it?’
Charlie straightened still more. ‘No. I hope they’ve covered the High Sanday excavation properly. Stone that’s been buried for millennia is very vulnerable to wind and water damage. They are not careful enough. But they won’t let me help.’
‘That’s a great pity, Mr Norquist,’ I put in. ‘You are certainly knowledgeable about such things.’
He gave me a look that was almost his old pedantic one. ‘I am, indeed. I know a great deal more than those students. Arrogant young pups! They know nothing about the ways of the people, their beliefs, their practices …’ He trailed off, suddenly uneasy.
‘Ah, yes, their practices,’ said Nora. ‘I know there’s a good deal of controversy about whether or not their practices included sacrifice. Of course most of the ancient religions did regard sacrifice as extremely important. Even the Hebrews, forerunners of my own religion, thought God required sacrifices. In the very early days, of course. Abraham and Isaac …’ She trailed off artistically.
I thought she was treading on dangerous ground, but Norquist steadied. ‘Barbarism! Human sacrifice! The Aztecs and Incas, yes, perhaps. But never the Neolithic peoples of Europe.’
‘What would their sacrifices have been, Mr Norquist?’ I asked ingenuously.
‘Purely symbolic,’ he said. ‘Usually grain, perhaps a small mammal or a … a bird.’ He swallowed hard, but went on bravely. ‘Here in these islands, although their food supply was adequate, it was not so plentiful that they could afford to give valuable food to the gods. And never, never, never a human, no matter what my mother …’ He stopped, a look of panic in his eyes.
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