A Rhanna Mystery

by Christine Marion Fraser

  ‘Indeed, she is beautiful just,’ agreed Jessie McKinnon, her bright beady eyes devouring Elspeth’s apparel in one fell swoop. ‘If I didny know better I might have thought she was a gentry lady in all that finery.’

  ‘Ay, she has excelled herself,’ nodded Aunt Grace Donaldson, now Mrs Bob Paterson, having quietly married that gentleman the week before. ‘Of course, she always did have good features, all they needed was a wee bittie encouragement to bring them out.’

  Behag, herself outstanding in a heather-hued tweed suit and a Robin Hood hat sporting a green and purple duck feather, had different opinions. ‘Hmph!’ she snorted. ‘She has certainly done that wi’ her legs! Imagine, at her age! Her skirt halfway up her backside! And the only lady she will ever be is the landlady who managed to hook her lodger! As for looking bonny, her face is plastered wi’ make-up, anybody wi’ half an eye could see that! I myself would look a different body altogether wi’ all that powder and paint on my face.’

  Kate looked her up and down consideringly. ‘Ach no, Behag, make-up alone wouldny do that, it would have to be combined wi’ a miracle. And why can you no’ just admire Elspeth like the rest o’ us? I know I’ve been critical o’ her in the past but I aye give credit where it’s due and today is no exception. The cailleach deserves a bit o’ praise on her wedding day, even though she’s a sour old prune on every other occasion.’

  ‘No doubt that young woman o’ McKenzie’s had a hand in it.’ Behag, determined to have the last word, glowered at Fern as she too alighted from Lachlan’s car. ‘She’s been hanging on to Elspeth like a tick to a sheep for weeks now, and to my way o’ thinking it’s just no’ healthy for a strange lass like that to make friends wi’ a strange body like Elspeth. No good will come o’ it, they’ll end up doing one another a mischief, that girl is out for what she can get, she’ll rob and cheat whoever she can and when she’s had enough she’ll just up and leave the island, as quickly and as slyly as she came.’

  Elspeth was beyond caring about the opinions of beings like Behag. She had taken another ‘wee drop o’ the cratur’ before leaving the house and her silvery head was floating on a cloud of pure delight mixed with unequal proportions of whisky and champagne.

  Nothing mattered, not even Nellie with her critical eyes and Gus with his soup stains. She was in a small, private world of her own where all the good things in life seemed to be happening to her all at the one time. It didn’t even matter that her new white court shoes were pinching a bit, everybody was watching her, everybody was admiring her, she was the envy of every other woman there and she knew it.

  Fern was at her side, as she had been most of the morning, whispering words of encouragement and humour into her ear, telling her how good she looked, how well she was doing. The girl was a prop in more ways than one and placed a supporting hand under her arm when she stumbled on a cobblestone on her way to The Arian.

  Everything at the harbour was light and bright and airy that glorious day in early summer. The ship itself looked proud and shining, decked out as it was with flags and bunting and little banners proclaiming messages of greeting and goodwill. Much of this was due to Grant, who had had a big hand in arranging everything. He was there at the foot of the gangway, smart and handsome in his captain’s uniform, saluting Elspeth as she went by. The rest of the McKenzies were there too, even Fergus, because Mac had insisted on it.

  ‘Let bygones be bygones,’ he had said cheerily, ‘for one day anyway,’ he had added, with a mischievous twinkle in his eye.

  Mac was waiting for Elspeth in the flower-bedecked main saloon, resplendent in his McIntosh kilt and black Prince Charlie jacket, his fine hairy legs encased in cream wool hose, his feet in black kilt shoes with laced-up fronts. White hair and beard brushed and shining, ruddy face glowing, manly chest bulging, he was the epitome of Scottish manhood and Elspeth, her head whirling with whisky and happiness, was so glad to see him that the tears sprung to her eyes and she could have hugged him there and then.

  Mark James, in his robes, was tall and dark and wonderfully calm as he waited for the coughings and the rustlings to die down in the packed room. Mac glanced at Elspeth, she at him, he winked, she smothered a giggle, silence descended, and the ceremony began.

  Mark James said his piece, Mac said his, it came to Elspeth’s turn . . .

  ‘Do you, Elspeth, take this man . . .?’

  ‘Indeed I do,’ she responded with alacrity, ‘and the sooner the better.’

  ‘Just listen to that,’ Nellie hissed into one of Behag’s long lugs, ‘she canny wait to get her clooks into my poor brother.’

  ‘Shameless,’ Behag declared succinctly. ‘Ever since Mac went to lodge wi’ her she’s behaved like a Jezebel and doesny care who knows it.’

  ‘ . . . to be your lawful wedded husband,’ the minister continued in his deep, unruffled voice.

  ‘Have I no’ already said so?’ Elspeth returned flippantly.

  Despite these little interchanges the rest of the ceremony went smoothly and before long Mac and Elspeth were pronounced man and wife. They kissed and cuddled one another before the gathering descended on them to shake their hands and kiss them all over again. Mac’s back was thumped, the womenfolk smiled tightly at the new Mrs McIntosh and said her hair was lovely.

  Phebie, the picture of rosy womanhood in a pink floral dress with a matching hat, took her old housekeeper into her arms and congratulated her profusely, delighted on two counts, one for Elspeth, the other for herself and the freedom she might have in her own kitchen now that Elspeth would be kept doubly busy in hers.

  Elspeth wept, gazing fondly at Lachlan and at Niall and his children; she glowered at Fergus, she grimaced at Shona, and then her eyes came to rest on Cousin Gus. Gus was just recovering from a dose of gastric flu, ‘And no wonder, wi’ all the germs he breeds in his house,’ opined Nellie. He was pale and rather thin but, if one didn’t look too closely, surprisingly smart looking in a somewhat moth-eaten kilt and lovat green jacket which bore a few faint stains of indistinct origin.

  ‘I gave myself a good steep in the sink, Elspeth,’ he hazarded, thinking maybe he had better explain that fact to her in case she should order him home.

  In the sink! Elspeth’s eyes bulged. It didn’t bear thinking about. And he was proud of it! As if the sink was a fit place in which to scrub any portion of the adult human anatomy! And how had he fitted into it anyway! Only children and dogs ever got bathed in a sink. She had done so herself when she had been young . . . at her mother’s instigation, of course . . .

  Her face reddened, and she turned away. As far as she could see, Mac was the only decent surviving member of his family, and it was as well that she had rescued him before he had become too set in his ways.

  ‘Elspeth! Oh, I do love your outfit!’ Prunella Sweet, the wife of a retired lawyer from Portvoynachan, had joined the party and was trumpeting her approval all over Elspeth. ‘You did say anyone could come and as I was passing . . .’

  Prunella Sweet was dressed for a wedding; one did not casually walk about Rhanna in a veiled hat and smart navy suit. Elspeth made no comment however, instead she smiled sweetly at the ex-lawyer’s wife, bade her welcome, and forgot all about Cousin Gus as Todd and Graeme struck up on the pipes.

  The party had begun with a vengeance, the bar had never been busier, and Elspeth graciously accepted a brimming glass of champagne from Mac’s very own husbandly hand.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Dodie appeared halfway through the reception, looking very respectable in a soft hat and clean raincoat and smelling profusely of apple blossom. This was all thanks to Mairi, who had made him soak in bath fragrance before scrubbing him with a long handled brush which had made him yell in protest. After that she had trimmed his baby fine hair and supervised his choice of clothing before shutting up shop for the rest of the day in order to attend the wedding herself.

  Dodie, always uncomfortable in any crowd, was inclined to slink about on the perimeter in the hope that
he wouldn’t be noticed, but on this occasion he made straight for Mac and handed him an untidily wrapped parcel which soon proved to be a delicate little pastel painting of a rather squinty ship with red sails gliding along on a blue and peaceful sea.

  ‘By God, Dodie, it’s the nicest present I ever had!’ cried Mac enthusiastically. ‘Whenever I look at it I will think I’m drunk even when I’m sober and all without spending one penny on “the cratur”.’

  Dodie blinked, unsure of whether he was receiving a compliment or an insult. He looked ready to cry, his big, callused hands went up to his eyes, and Mac hastily threw his arm round the old man’s bent shoulders.

  ‘Ach, Dodie, you’re a sensitive soul to be sure. I love this picture, it will remind me o’ happy days sailing the high seas and I’m going to hang it opposite my bed so that I can look at it every morning when I wake up. Cheer up now, this is a wedding, no’ a funeral, so just you come over to the bar wi’ me and let me be getting you a dram.’

  Dodie wasn’t used to strong drink, he didn’t like the taste nor the smell of it, but he enjoyed the feeling it gave him of being on top of a buoyant happy world and Mac was right, this was a wedding, not a funeral, even though a lesser man than Mac, taking on Elspeth, might have chosen to think otherwise.

  Dodie consumed not one, but several drams. By that time he was feeling wonderful and capable of anything, even brave enough to seek out Fern who was having a breather on the deck.

  ‘Tha breeah!’ gabbled Dodie, utterly fascinated by this young creature in her white floaty dress and tiny garlands of wildflowers braided into her blue-black tresses.

  ‘Tha breeah, Dodie,’ she greeted him kindly. ‘It is indeed a marvellous day and I hope you’re enjoying it as much as I am.’

  ‘I have another wee present for you,’ he told her, before his courage deserted him. Rummaging in the recesses of his coat he proudly brought forth an oblong piece of wood, painstakingly cleaned and varnished and bearing the inscription Sea Witch.

  Dodie was always combing the beach and finding small treasures which he could take home. When he had lived in his tiny cottage in the hills it had been almost entirely furnished with fishboxes and bits of driftwood tacked together, but when he had moved into Croft Beag on the edge of the village, Mairi had soon changed all that.

  ‘You’ll be getting a lot more visitors now, Dodie,’ she had told him, ‘and you canny have folk sitting about on smelly fishboxes and planks wi’ nails jagging their backsides.’

  Thereafter Mairi had raked the ‘For Sale’ columns of the Rhanna Roundabout, the local rag printed and published monthly by two brothers from a back room in their cluttered crofthouse in Portvoynachan. The Rhanna Roundabout was a recent innovation and ‘The Brothers Haig’ as they were collectively known, were astounded by its runaway success. Gossip, news items, births, deaths, anything and everything, went into the paper, even, astoundingly, a lonely hearts section, and everybody eagerly turned to it for its comforting sustenance the minute it hit the post office counters.

  Mairi had soon furnished Dodie’s house to a comfortable if haphazard standard and before long Dodie had no more need to rummage the shores for his bits and pieces of home-made furniture.

  Beachcombing was in his blood, however, and when Fern beheld the piece of wood in his hand and asked where he had got it he beamed and replied promptly, ‘In the water, lots o’ things floating on the edge o’ the water. It was attached to a plank o’ wood but I took it home and sawed it off and rubbed it wi’ a wee bit sandpaper before I polished it. Now it’s yours, all for you, nice it will look hanging up on your wall.’ So saying he thrust the thing at her and stood back, hands folded over his stomach, waiting for her approval.

  Fern’s reaction to all of this was startling. Her eyes had grown enormous in a face that had turned white; then she began backing away from him in horror. ‘What – what else did you find, Dodie?’ she stammered through pale lips. ‘You know you said you would tell me if you came across anything . . . unusual.’

  Dodie didn’t answer; a veiled expression had crept into his dreamy eyes, he averted his head and wouldn’t look at her.

  ‘Take it back, Dodie, I don’t want it,’ she told him breathlessly. ‘Take it home and burn it.’ Gripping the cuff of his coat she gazed up at him beseechingly. ‘Please, Dodie, if you care at all for me you will do as I ask of you. It’s bad luck, just look at the name it has on it, you know how afraid you are of sea hags and witches and this piece of wood came from the sea – sent by one of those horrible creatures you and Canty Tam told me about.’

  Dodie’s grasp of both reading and writing was of a restricted nature and he had merely a vague idea of what was written on the piece of wood. He only knew how nice it looked, how hard he had worked to make it that way, and this rejection of it was more than he could bear. He stumbled away, his hands going frequently to his face and nose to scrub away froths of mucus mixed with the tears that were blinding him.

  But when he got home he didn’t burn the precious nameplate. He had put too much of his loving labour into it to even think of destroying it and carefully he placed it in his bedside drawer, next to a waterproof wallet containing a bundle of papers which he had fished out of the water that memorable day with Hector at the Bay of the Caves. The wallet, together with a bulky little drawstring bag, had attached itself to one of Hector’s little marker buoys and Hector had been so preoccupied staring into the caves he hadn’t noticed Dodie stowing his find into one of his ample pockets.

  Dodie paused for a minute, remembering that day, then he extracted something from the packet to gaze at it with reverence. ‘Lovely photy,’ he murmured, and raising one large finger he touched the spot on his cheek that Fern had honoured with her lips when he had stopped her in Glen Fallan to give her the stone he had painted.

  He gazed again at the picture. The face that looked out at him was that of Fern Lee, serious and unsmiling – not at all like the real, live, young woman that he knew – the one that he had privately christened Kalak Dubh, which was the Gaelic for Dark Maiden.

  There were other items in the wallet, mostly documents with a lot of writing on them, none of them holding any interest for Dodie since he couldn’t understand much of what they said. There was also another picture, that of a ruggedly good-looking young man with crisp dark hair, snapping black eyes and a wide, cruel, unsmiling mouth.

  Dodie hardly gave him a second glance. It was Kalak Dubh he loved to look at, only Kalak Dubh who held his interest, and as he stood there gazing at her photograph a sob caught in his throat as he wondered what he had done to make her behave so strangely in rejecting the gift he had prepared for her with such tender devotion. Yet he was still enchanted by her and he felt he had every right to keep some of her things. When first she had come to Rhanna she had spoken to him a lot and had asked him to keep an eye open for any unusual items he might find on the shore. But to his way of thinking there was nothing extraordinary about a few papers and a couple of photos. Besides it was too late now, he had held on to them for too long; Clodhopper was soon due to pay one of his visits, and Dodie daren’t risk him finding out about the wallet. It would only get him into trouble, Kalak Dubh would be involved as well, and Dodie couldn’t bear the thought of that.

  He stood there for a long time, the picture of Fern Lee held gently in his big callused fist, his mind roving hither and thither, his breath catching in his throat as he suddenly remembered something.

  She hadn’t wanted the piece of wood, but she would want one of the other things he had found when he had been with Hector at Camus nan Uamh. Something nice and shiny, oh, ay, Kalak Dubh would like that alright, she was such a sparkly lady herself.

  It would all depend on Hector the Boat. He had showed no inclination to go back again to Camus nan Uamh and that was where Dodie had to go if he was to get the things he wanted for Kalak Dubh. Somehow he had to try and persuade Hector to take him back to that lonely wild place with the cliffs and the caves all around, e
ven though Hector had said something about being afraid of a hobgoblin that lived there.

  Dodie didn’t know what a hobgoblin was, it sounded a bit scary, but he would do anything, anything at all, if it meant pleasing the dark-haired maiden who looked at him from the picture he held.

  ‘Nice and shiny.’ Dodie whispered the words to the empty room and felt much, much better.

  Elspeth was having an ecstatic time; never before on Rhanna had anyone held their wedding reception aboard a ship and the novelty of it was fully appreciated by one and all, the credit for it given wholeheartedly to both herself and Mac. Not only that, everybody had congratulated her on her appearance, even the menfolk had been most complimentary, with an inebriated Jim Jim going as far as to wink at her and remind her slyly of far off days when youthful romps in the haysheds had been part and parcel of growing up.

  ‘Ay, those were the days, Jim Jim,’ Elspeth nodded reminiscently, ‘too bad we all had to grow older and wiser and lose all those nice wee innocent ways we had as bairns finding out about life.’

  ‘Ay, ay, but no’ always as innocent as you make out, Elspeth,’ Jim Jim pursued wickedly. ‘I mind that time you and me . . .’

  His voice droned on but Elspeth was no longer listening. Her attention had been diverted to the buffet table where sat Cousin Gus with several of his dreadful cronies. Most of them were deaf and they were talking in loud voices, criticising everything and everybody, oblivious to all but themselves, blowing obnoxious billows of pipe smoke all over the food, doing rude things with their noses and other parts of their anatomy, in Gus’s case picking crumbs from his beard and absently fidgeting with himself in a most alarming fashion under cover of his rather bald sporran.