by Doug Walker
“You children,” she said through the bars. “After lunch you’ve earned a walk.” She had prepared potted meat sandwiches slathered with mustard, plus canned tomato soup for their noontide meal. There were also crackers and a cookie treat. It was hard to imagine Mama being in cahoots with a band of kidnappers. Perhaps they were unfortunates who fell back on this type of enterprise as a last desperate resort.
At any rate, they did not want to appear overeager to leave the house, yet they brimmed with excitement over the chance to get out and make a desperate escape. They had detected no guards lurking nearby, but their view of the outside world was seriously restricted by barred and shuttered windows.
Finishing their lunch and returning the plates, silver and napkins to the window pass-through, they carefully cleaned crumbs from the table and donned light jackets and stocking caps and told Mama they were ready to go walking.
“Now you kids don’t overdo it,” Mama warned. “And be back well before dinner so you can take a rest. If you wander too far and get caught after dark, well, just don’t do that. The coldness creeps in at dark and a body could freeze during the night, especially when the wind rises and it usually does. Now be good and don’t get lost.”
They assured her they would be the best of children and she buzzed them out the front door.
Eloise couldn’t suppress a muted “Whoopee” as they walked away from the house, slowly at first in case Mama was watching, then faster as they turned a corner out of sight. They saw another house down the dirt road and went into a jog to reach it quickly.
“Deserted,” Mark said sadly. “And has been for years. No windows. No doors, the roof mostly gone. There’s something else on down the road.”
Now walking closer, Eloise finally said, “It’s the foundation of an old house. This whole area seems to be deserted. Do you hear something?”
Mark listened intently. “The sea. We’re near the seashore.” Just beyond a line of stunted trees and brush they found the ocean, wild waves splashing on the shore, the wind cut their faces like a knife and chilled their bodies through the light jackets. Only their heads were warm under the wool hats.
“There’s no swimming here,” Eloise said.
Mark sighed. “I’ve got an idea where we are. My only year of college included British history and geography.”
“What an odd thing to study,” Eloise said. “Eastern Europe or the Middle East would be so much more interesting.”
“Not if your forefathers are from these islands. Anyway, Mama was right. If we stay out here we freeze. This island is deserted except for the one house. If we return we each get a pint of beer and a bottle of wine to split with dinner. Which do you prefer?”
“And snuggling together in a warm bed. Ah, the joys of genteel captivity. I was born for this life.”
“So we can have our walks and we can please Mama and maybe I’ve learned something. I’m guessing the Outer Hebrides and maybe I can zero in even closer.”
Eloise laughed into the sharp wind. “And phone good old Dad in London to send the fleet.” A mewing seagull came close, seeking food. “We can bring bread next time for the birds.”
“It must be a devil of a job to resupply the house occasionally.”
“For fifty thousand quid a month, it seems possible. You suppose this is a life sentence?”
“Let’s start back, I’m chilled through and we’ve been gone less than half an hour. We can dress warmer next time. If we look at this sojourn as paradise, it’s bound to end soon.”
Smiling broadly, Eloise said, “Let’s enjoy it while we can. I love Mama.”
“Me too.”
They joined hands and plodded back to their home.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
“We’ll never crack this case by watching the messenger. He could be told to slip down into the tube and switch trains for half a day, jumping on and off at the last minute. Then go to the Oak and Crown and give the package to the old man with the red hat. Walking into the pub he would find five old men sipping pints, each wearing a red hat. So what do you think?”
“We have to do something and I’m still trying to think,” I replied.
“I have a grand theory,” Sylvia announced. We were drinking our second cup of coffee and had just finished watching the news on the telly. More suicide bombings in the Middle East. “And it’s not just a crackpot theory, either.”
She seemed proud of herself, and I asked her to unveil her advanced thinking.
“Well, we know the parents are opposed to the two marrying, each for their own reasons. Right?”
“Check.”
“We also know the kids have no marketable skills, would rather not work.”
“Right again.”
“So they kidnapped themselves. Probably sitting in some loft on the Left Bank trying to paint pictures with an income of almost fifty thousand pounds a month, minus expenses.”
“That had crossed my mind.”
“You say that now, but I spoke first.”
“A silent fool will pass for a wise man,” I retorted.
“No more of your silly, meaningless platitudes. Let’s go out and get a real breakfast, the full Monty.”
“Good by me,” I said rising. “But if they did kidnap themselves, we still must solve the puzzle. It’s just another twist of the turn.”
“Or we could fail and disappoint Chet. Then with my looks and your money, the world would be ours.”
“I can see my entire life unfolding before me, the little that I have left. Sadly, man is the only animal who knows he must die.”
“No more philosophy, Andy. Let’s eat.” And off we went.
I did have a theory, which I kept to myself. To my way of thinking, the kids were not clever enough, although they were both bright, but perhaps not criminally inclined enough, to kidnap themselves. They would know that as certain as night follows day there would be consequences. Maybe not geniuses, but the certain penalties would repel them.
Another month passed and another fifty thousand pounds changed hands. As the money was packaged, according to instructions, I suggested we begin writing to the kidnappers. A note on top of the money demanding a videotape, possibly showing a recent newspaper, to prove the two were alive and well. If the video seemed authentic, the flow of cash would continue. If not, we would guess the two were dead.
Then we waited for another month. Such waiting was not intolerable for us. London had become a great food town in recent years. It had also been big on live theater. We even spent a night at the opera to the delight of Sylvia. I slyly remarked, “Anything too stupid to be spoken, can be sung.”
She looked my way and smiled. Was she making fun of me, me in a rented tux, she in a two hundred quid gown. What we would do with all her shopping victories when we were ready to pull up stakes, I didn’t know. But there were play-it-again charity stores.
Then the video arrived, along with the time the messenger would pop in.
We were all to get together for the first viewing. When Sylvia and I arrived the others were already there, and Goldstein was telling a humorous story: “It seems a man in Manhattan ordered a full course meal beginning with soup. After the first spoonful he summoned the waiter and said, ‘This cabbage soup isn’t sour enough.’
“The waiter said, ‘Cabbage soup? This is noodle soup.’
“The customer was apologetic. ‘For noodle soup, it’s sour enough.’”
I chuckled, DuPray smiled, Inspector Cameron looked puzzled. The women comforted one another.
“Shall we begin,” DuPray said, switching on the video.
Mark and Eloise were seated at the single table facing the camera. The room had a comfortable look. They each had a cup, probably tea or coffee. A plate of cookies and a fairly new issue of the Times also graced the table. Mark began:
“Hi, everyone. Eloise and I are fine. Good food, good exercise, clean clothing, we keep the large quarters in good shape. Lots to read, lots of videos to watch, we
’re actually improving our minds, if that’s possible. Daily Scrabble games give us an edge. Your turn, Eloise.”
She beamed a bright smile. “Of course we miss our parents. But what Mark says goes for me too. We are very likely the best treated, least abused kidnap victims ever. And there is hope of release. One item on my mind…” She turned to Mark. “Should I tell them?”
“They’ve got to know sooner or later.”
“OK. I’m pregnant.”
Mrs. Goldstein gasped, “Oy vey. Pregnant, and by a goy. What’s to become of us? No pretty wedding. No cake. No beautiful dresses.”
Goldstein shushed her as the video continued.
“I suggested they kidnap a GYO, but that was rejected. Our keeper, a very kindly woman, who is actually not a kidnapper, but merely a domestic, explained to me that women giving birth is an ancient and very natural practice. Whether it’s done here, in this pleasant captivity, or in some cold, sterile, uncaring hospital.
“Of course Mark and I had no birth control possibilities and we were thrown together.”
Mrs. Goldstein gasped again, talking directly to the video. “Haven’t you ever heard of oral sex? What’s wrong with you young people?”
Again she was shushed by her spouse, who put his arm around her and stage whispered, “Lamb Chop, we’re going to be grandparents. It’s a time of joy.”
“Joy and a goy no grand wedding,” Lamb Chop replied as the video continued.
The two of them asked that the money flow be continued, pointing out that a portion of it was used for their own wholesome standard of living. I had detected some humming throughout the video, which continued as the couple held hands and waved goodbye. I wondered if they had made this video in one sitting. There would have been serious warnings about what they could and could not say.
Goldstein seemed pleased that the daughter was pregnant and thought that might lead to early release. Mrs. Goldstein and Mrs. DuPray were not the happiest of campers. DuPray himself seemed unmoved. Inspector Cameron had muttered two words – “By Jove.”
The Inspector would take the tape to the Yard for analysis. I asked if I might have an audio copy.
“Just sound?” he questioned.
“Just sound,” I replied.
“Another one of your dotty clues? Like the sniff test.”
“Exactly.”
Then we were off with the promise of the tape that very afternoon to be delivered to our flat by special Bobby. Calling Chet, I told him I might have a break in the case and asked, because of the ambassador’s involvement, whether it might be possible to get the help of a few U.S. Marines, or even Royal Marines.
He said he would do his best and I asked him to keep the information in strictest confidence. No CIA involvement, please.
That evening, eating in, playing the audio tape several times as we enjoyed cocktail hour, then hake in lemon sauce with asparagus, lingering over a trendy little Chablis, my theory was confirmed to my satisfaction.
“We meshed,” I announced to the world, which consisted of me and Sylvia. “Mark and I came together in triumphant fashion and I’ll bet my pink pajama I know where they are.”
“Where?” asked Sylvia with a slight smirk. Skeptics!
“The walls have ears,” was my retort, then I made the mistake of reciting a little verse: Men have many faults, women have but two. There’s nothing good they say, there’s nothing right they do.”
Sylvia bristled.
“It’s just a bit of verse I heard once, stuck in my mind. Nonsense of course. Shall we crack another bottle?”
“That might help, plus your groveling around on the floor for maybe half an hour. Men!”
The following morning, even before coffee, the man who called himself Dick was at the door.
Enter he did and announced grandly, “I’ve learned from Langley that there’s a break in the case. So now the professionals will take over.”
“Who are they?” I questioned.
“I’m the point man in London. I’ll organize this mission. So, what do you have?”
Sylvia suggested coffee, but Dick was in no mood to tarry. I told her I’d like coffee if she’d make it, and flopped into a comfortable chair.
“I have a hunch. Nothing more. If it comes together, we will each have a role to play.”
“Then tell me your hunch and I’ll evaluate,” Dick demanded.
“You may have heard that a rooster makes more racket than the hen that lays the egg. I am but a rooster, crowing about my hunches during this long dry spell. Until something comes to fruition, I am loath to speak of it. How about some coffee?”
“So, it’s idle boasting. Well, good day, Sir. Madam.” Dick quit our luxury flat in a snit and we enjoyed coffee and then out we went for breakfast. There are cooks in England, particularly the morning variety.
After breakfast, certain that the sun had risen in the States, I called Chet and indicated my displeasure of Dick learning about our conversation.
“This is a CIA matter,” he replied. “Quite delicate. High-level U.S citizens involved. Dick will give you a role in the recovery.”
“Chet, I’m not going to let the CIA bollocks this up. You’re out of the loop.”
“I can fire you, Andy. Have a care.”
“Fire me? Fire Sylvia? You haven’t hired us. How can you fire us?”
“You’re dealing with the CIA, you know. Also Homeland Security. We have our methods.”
“I’ve seen your methods. If you’re smart, you’ll stay out of it and let the two of us handle the situation.”
“I can’t do that. There’s too much at stake. I’ve got the word from upstairs. Dick is taking over the case.”
“OK. Please let Dick know that we’re at his service. What sort of task will he set for us?”
“That’s up to him. Time will tell.”
Hanging up, I asked Sylvia if she got the gist of the conversation.
She laughed. “We’re working for that moron Dick now?”
“No. I just hoped they wouldn’t put a tail on us. You know they were watching me in Monaco.”
“Just when it pleased them. Apparently they didn’t accompany you and that nice Muslim gentleman on your midnight ride. Or see him reveling in the pre-dawn sunrise on that lookout pinnacle where he clumsily went over the side.”
“Yes, I believe they missed that episode. So we must trek north at our best pace. If we move with alacrity, Dick and his chums will have to have a couple of organizational meetings before the thought of watching us crosses their mind. So, let us flee.”
“And what is your fabulous clue?” Sylvia demanded.
“The humming,” I responded. “Did it not sound melodic?”
“Indeed it did,” said she. “I detected a haunting note, a very nice tune, but what of it?”
A wicked smile traced my countenance. My knowledge of obscure songs and Mark’s knowledge of geography had come together. “It was the Mingulay Boat Song,” I proudly announced.
“What of it,” said she, a trace of scorn in her voice.
“They are being held on the island of Mingulay, uninhabited for almost a hundred years. So off we go, with proper stealth, of course.”
“Of course.”
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
After their first outing with its frustrated goal of escaping, Mark and Eloise settled into a series of walks not far from the house with Mama’s blessing. Their keeper pointed out that wholesome exercise was a key to successful childbirth; also that they were blessed in not having access to facilities that might disclose the sex of their child.
“What has happened to the mystery of childbirth?” she would ask. “Selecting names for a child of either sex, or one name for both, like Pat, and the surprised and happy parents on the date of delivery, the thrill of that first cry.”
It was almost as if she were the grandmother. She cautioned Eloise to go easy on the beer and wine, though she never stopped supplying those two precious commodities.
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Mark would raise his glass at dinner each night and repeat, “I wonder what the vintner buys one half as precious as the stuff he sells?” A little something from the tentmaker.
It had at first dawned on Mark, what with the wild sea, the raw climate, the taste of Scotland, that they were in the Outer Hebrides with its splendid isolation, a place where Scottish Gaelic is still spoken. He had always been a geographer, his leaning in that direction bolstered in prep school and his one year of college.
There were people on many of the islands, but others were uninhabited. So it boiled down to an island that had once been inhabited, now abandoned. In his mind that left Mingulay, a wild place once inhabited by the Vikings more than a thousand years back, then the Scots, and finally abandoned. It was the subject of a beautiful, melodious tribute song that had been performed over the years by four or five folk and semi-folk groups. The song coursed through his brain and he struck up on his plan to hum when he learned a video would be made.
Would anyone pay attention? One could hope. But anyway, he and Eloise were quite happy here with a baby on the way. Mama had promised to lay in supplies and get how-to pamphlets when the time approached.
Meanwhile, with the books, the videos, the frequent walks and the good food and drink – life was good. Both Mark and Eloise had suffered during their early years with birder fathers. The lessons, boring at the time, blossomed during their wholesome walks.
Puffins, of course, were easily identifiable. And there were many. It was Eloise who first spotted the razorbills flying in devious patterns from their nests in the sea cliffs. Both of them knew the Black-legged Kittiwakes, but only from the bird books they had been forced to pore over endlessly. Of course there were gulls of several varieties.
Huddled on the only beach on the eastern side of the island, protected from the savage wind, but in sight and sound of the boisterous sea, they drank coffee from a thermos and munched a type of French donut Mama had prepared for their outing.
Smiling at one another, they reveled in their good fortune at being kidnapped and landing in such a place. They had found many common interests, not only in birds, but also in books, videos, verse and the love of life itself.
