The Good Deed

by Doug Walker

  “This is the stuff dreams are made of,” Eloise remarked. And Mark agreed.

  But that morning, on the way from the old village to the cove, they had seen a few sheep and speculated that, if there were sheep, could the shepherd be far behind?

  When they returned they asked Mama about the sheep.

  “Yes, there are sheep, but there is no shepherd. They are set free to be on their own like wild beasts. In the spring the farmers will come and shear their heavy winter coats and gather the lambs.

  “It will be a long stormy winter and when they come for the sheep in the spring, if we’re still here, they’ll not bother us. We are just past Michaelmas now and the winter before us.”

  “What’s Michaelmas?” Eloise inquired.

  “The Feast of Michael and All Angels,” Mama replied cheerily. “There was a time when it involved a special cake, and I believe I know that cake. It’s called St. Michael’s bannock. And we’ll feast on that tomorrow.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  Sometimes I wondered who was looking out from my eyes. Thoughts turned to the stars vanishing with the rising sun and other wonders. And Bella and Oumou and my first wife, the first love, cloud my thoughts. Why am I here and what have I gotten into? But on I plod with remarkable good cheer.

  Bound for the Outer Hebrides, we made our way to the Inner Hebrides, the Isle of Skye to be exact and Portree, the largest settlement with its quaint harbor. Surely this is the place where one would take a vessel to confront the stormy sea on the way to Mingulay.

  For two days I graced the bar at the Clan of Leod, nursing pints and chatting harmlessly to locals. At the same time, Sylvia, camera in hand, plied the docks, chatting up fishermen and others, dropping the name Mingulay here and there.

  Comparing notes over dinner on the second night, a warm haggis and a dry red wine, we had struck the same mother lode. It was no secret among the locals that a Captain Donald McDiarmid of the vessel The Piper was supplying some eccentrics who inhabited the lone livable house on Mingulay.

  The next morning, after coffee, we broached this McDiarmid who lived aboard The Piper with a small terrier named Rat.

  “We’re a couple of bird watchers, Americans, thinking about our fine feathered friends on Mingulay. We understand you’re familiar with the island.”

  “Late in the season, my friends. Rough seas and howling winds. Bone chilling on that island. No inns, nowhere to stay. Perhaps next summer. You could camp.”

  “But we’ve heard you supply a household out there. Figured you would do it through the winter.”

  “Aye, that’s the truth. Hermits, I suppose. But I leave the supplies at the edge of the harbor, near what is called the Village, but a ruined village, save for one snug dwelling. They have a small truck, actually not a truck, just a farm utility vehicle. I never see them. Have never seen them.”

  “Hermits?”

  “I suppose.”

  “But hermits live alone, don’t they.”

  McDiarmid patted Rat on the head. “Would you and the missus care for tea? I have little to do at this season. When the weather allows I have a crew and we fish, but it’s stormy these days. And hermits they may not be, if that is an occupation, but they are an odd lot to spend their time in such a place.”

  Sylvia said she would like tea and I agreed. The cabin was large and cozy, an electric heater buzzed in one corner. Three stairs forward, likely to a sleeping area.

  When the three of us were seated with our steaming cups, I asked if ten thousand pounds might persuade him to take us to the island.

  A crackling grin traced his weathered face and his bright blue eyes fairly danced. “You must be as daft as those on the island.”

  “Perhaps,” Sylvia agreed. “But if we are daft, we are rich daft.”

  “And would it be birds you’re after?” the captain inquired.

  “A type of bird,” said I. “But legal.”

  “If legal, I’d be interested.” He opened a sack of doggy treats and dropped one on the floor for Rat who gobbled it down and begged for more. “It’s no satisfying this animal. A dog will eat itself to death. A cat knows better.”

  “The reason for the isolation and the supplies and so forth is that a young couple are being held there, kidnap victims, held for a continuing ransom. We hope to free them,” I explained.

  “That no sounds like a task for a simple fisherman,” McDiarmid said grimly. “I’d best keep out of it.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. I had hoped to keep the entire thing quiet. You see they recently sent a video to their parents, quite rich parents, and their keeper was described as a simple domestic and a good person. We had hoped to send her home too, Scot free if you don’t mind the term. You must have ferried someone across to make that video.”

  The captain agreed. “An odd duck he was, said almost nothing. Carried a camera and a tripod. I waited in the cove. He was gone maybe half hour or so.” Patting Rat on the head, he finished off his tea to indicate the interview was over.

  “So, you won’t help us.”

  “I’ll not get involved.”

  “Then it’s the Crown. You’ll be arrested, of course. Your boat seized by the Crown. If you’d like, we’ll take Rat to a shelter. Without a master, they’ll put him down.”

  McDiarmid stared in confusion. “I’m not a criminal. I’ll not be taken.”

  “Of course you are. You’ll be rolled into custody and surely convicted. You’re an important link in a criminal chain of kidnapers.”

  “I’ve no knowledge of that,” he insisted, rising to his feet. He was flushed with anger.

  I nodded to Sylvia. “Cover him.” She pulled her revolver from her purse and aimed it at his chest. “We’re American law officers. Authorized to carry weapons. If you give us trouble, you will be shot down.

  “Innocent, or guilty, there’s no court that would not convict you of kidnapping. Possibly your attorney can enter a plea of gross stupidity and your sentence might be reduced to say twenty years. I’ve no idea about Scottish law.”

  McDiarmid squinted at Sylvia and her weapon, but took his seat. “I’m flabbergasted. And you say they’ll take my boat and Rat?”

  “Of course. Boats and dogs have no place in prison. But you’ll meet new people. Probably some from right here in Portree.”

  “But if I help you, the whole thing goes away and I’m better by ten thousand pounds. Is that the situation?”

  Sylvia finally spoke and lowered the revolver. “You’ve summed it up very nicely.”

  “Count me in. When do we sail?”

  “Sylvia and I are both armed. So we don’t need any more guns. And there should be only one fairly pleasant keeper. But to be certain, I’d like to take four strong men at one thousand pounds a head. We go out, we get the three people, we return. We pay you off. We’re gone. And nobody talks. Can you find four?”

  “At a thousand a head, for a trip like that I can find twenty.”

  “True and trusty men. Trusted to keep their mouths shut at least for a month of two.”

  “Damn right,” the captain rose and shook hands with us both. “Stout Scots.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  If the Scots can survive their meals, they can survive anything. This thought crossed my mind after a breakfast of leftover haggis and kippers. We were gathered at the dock. Sylvia and me, the captain and four hardy Scots, fishermen all, smiling and joking.

  The weather was, as usual, gray with low clouds scudding across the sky, a troubled sea, white caps even in protected areas, the good ship Piper rocking at its moorings. A raw wind filled the air with water, blowing from the sea. Was it rain, or simply mist carried from the crests of the angry waves. No matter, the dampness and chill was ubiquitous.

  The cruel sea was never more alive than at this moment on the dock, so what might we expect when we breast the chop outside of the harbor. The jolly Scots continued their carefree banter as we clambered aboard the Piper and were cast free of the
dock. The engine churning, digging into the cold sea water and then moving toward the open seas, slowly at first then with mounting speed.

  Clearing the mouth of the harbor, we pitched and yawed and struggled for calmer seas, a futile hope. Sylvia was the first to lose color and flop down listlessly in a canvas chair. Within minutes, I followed. Captain McDiarmid laughed and slapped me on the back.

  “Stout heart,” he chortled, “there are bunks in the forward cabin. You and your lady might be wise to sack out for a time. Me and the lads will share out kippers and have a drop against the cold.”

  Helping Sylvia into the forward cabin, down the three steps, we each collapsed on a bunk with thoughts that death would be a welcome adventure. We were in for a long voyage with no respite from the stormy sea. How the Norsemen and other early settlers survived in vessels propelled by wind and oars remains a mystery. Two thousand years of history wrapped up in these hostile islands.

  Sylvia moaned from time to time. My head, buried in a pillow, swam with sea green demons and purple snakes. If I could but make my way through the cabin and out onto the fantail I could hurl myself into the sea and find everlasting peace!

  We were far up in the bow and the noise of the waves smashing against the hull in that maelstrom was enough to fill a landlubber’s heart with terror. The sea was relentless, but despite the pounding and pitching, eventually I fell into a deep sleep.

  Hours must have slipped by before I woke. Feeling refreshed, even though the wild sea hadn’t abated, Sylvia still slept, and the four other bunks were filled with the burly Scots. Stumbling up the steps into the main cabin, I found the captain at the wheel, alert and still jocular.

  “We approach Mingulay,” he reported. “It’s a bit of a trick to get into the cove, but never fear, man, the Piper will come through.”

  “And I’ve come through,” I replied. “After the sickness, I feel like an old sailor man, or at the least, a reasonable passenger.”

  “Think nothing of it,” McDiarmid replied over the noise of the sea and the wind, “there’s fisherfolk who still have bouts with the sickness. Now we turn into the cove. You’d best roust the lads forward.”

  There was a chop, but the sea was much calmer inside the cove, and the four Scots had us safely tied to the jetty in no time. Then, with Sylvia also awake, everyone clad against the weather, we set out to what had been the village and the one good house. On the way up, I spotted a stout log and had the lads bring it along as a battering ram. We would assault the house and hope for the best.

  The light was dull, but still good. Heavy clouds overhead pushed along by the wind. Certainly enough nasty weather to keep the wise closed up and secure. We cased the house.

  Whispering hoarsely to McDiarmid, I suggested the prisoners would have the front of the house while the keeper would be in the rear with the kitchen. There would be two bathrooms and a stout wall between keeper and prisoners.

  With that in mind we prepared to charge the rear door. The lads drank it all in with joy. This was a great lark for them. They grasped the log securely, let out a great shout and charged forward, hitting the door with a force that saw it flying off its hinges and banging across the kitchen.

  Fortunately for Mama, her cot was off to one side. Sylvia and I were quickly in the room, weapons drawn.

  “Holy Jesus, what’s going on!” Mama cried out sitting up on her cot.

  “Not to worry,” Sylvia replied. “We’ve come for the prisoners. We mean you no harm.”

  She looked around in disbelief. Five Scots and the two of us, plus a log and a broken door, all in her well scrubbed kitchen. “Am I to be arrested?” she asked.

  “No,” I told her. “You will be sent home, forgiven. You’re but a pawn in a felonious scheme. Now let’s get the prisoners and get out of here.”

  Mark and Eloise had gotten up instantly with the crash of the door and were now at the barred window taking in the scene. Sylvia approached them and told them the news. “We want you in warm clothing, then we’ll all get out of here. A boat is waiting in the cove.”

  “What about all this wine and the case of beer?” one of the Scots asked.

  “Take it with you,” I said. “Take anything you like.”

  “That’s right,” the captain added. “There’ll be nothing but sheep on this island until after Easter. Take what you can carry boys. It’ll be party time back in Portree if the potables survive the voyage home.”

  Back on the Piper we were a right jolly group, an even ten of us in all, with the beer and wine making the rounds. McDiarmid navigated out of the cove, then gave the wheel to one of the Scots.

  Sylvia too, was feeling OK. But Mama became a bit green in countenance and retired to a bunk, while Mark and Eloise were in high spirits. “I really want to see a gynecologist,” Eloise confided to Sylvia, while both balanced cups of wine to keep them from spilling in the pitching vessel.

  How long the trip lasted, I lost track, with the short winter days and long nights, sometimes full daylight never showing through the gloom, probably close to thirty-six hours.

  Back in Portree, I paid off the captain and the lads. I had carefully collected the stack of pounds beforehand. So we said goodbye and the five of us set off for a hotel, with Mark and Eloise comforting Mama and constantly telling her how much they loved her and would care for her in the future.

  I suggested that no one make any phone calls until I called the embassy the following morning. We were all in agreement and piled into our rooms for a deep night’s sleep.

  Sylvia and I and Mama had breakfast together during the following days; the young couple was sleeping in, which Mama said was their usual routine.

  “And where is your home?” Sylvia questioned Mama.

  “Aberdeen. I have a room there in a cousin’s house.”

  “We will find you transportation on this very day. And I’m certain the youngsters will be in touch. You’ve made quite an impression on them.”

  “They’re a fine couple. And they’ll have a fine wee bairn.”

  With that, I excused myself to call the embassy and was put through directly to Ambassador DuPray.

  “Andy Blake, checking in,” I said cheerily.

  “Good news, Andy. The very best. Dick says he expects the children to be free by the end of the week.”

  To say that the news was startling would be telling it mild. Wheels spun in my head. Dick had guessed that we had learned something and were off to find the pair and he was making a preemptive strike to take credit for it. What a sinister thing to do.

  “Dick must be one crack detective,” I replied. “Where are the children and how is he freeing them?”

  “All very secret. These CIA types. They play it close to the vest.”

  “Probably have good reason. Well, congratulations to Dick. Sylvia and I will bow out. We have other items on our agenda.”

  “Good show, old boy. I’m certain you’ve made a contribution. Drop around to the Embassy if you get to London.”

  I had registered the five of us at the hotel under my name and was very glad that I did. Mark and Eloise had just entered the breakfast room after my call and I explained the situation and my very personal vendetta.

  “You two are in no hurry to return to London, are you?”

  “Not really,” Mark said. Eloise repeated her wish for an OB-GYN.

  I told her we could easily take care of that, then added, “I thought we might fly to America for a couple of weeks holiday. I’d like to give the famous CIA man, Dick, adequate opportunity to free the two of you.”

  “You are a sly one,” Mark said, “with an evil and devious mind.”

  “No more so than Dick’s. I thought we might start in Charleston, South Carolina, a really neat vacation spot with at least one good seafood restaurant, plus a barbecue place called Sticky’s.”

  “How could we beat that?” Eloise asked, squeezing Mark’s hand.

  “I’ll charter a plane, I don’t believe we’ll need passp
orts. You pick out a couple of fake names, maybe Sam and Sheila, and we’ll be off. First to get Mama headed for Aberdeen.”

  Eloise sipped her coffee and poked at her omelet. “I think Bob and Jane, or Jack and Jill. Too obvious?”

  “Heathcliff and Fiona,” Mark tossed in.

  “If you have anything to pack,” I said, then was off to call the charter service.

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  We had a high old time touring the sites and markets and restaurants of Charleston. The horse-drawn carriage ride was such fun we took it twice. Very likely our jaded bodies and minds were easily amused.

  Almost a week slid by and we rented a car and moved down the coast to Savannah with stops at quaint fishing villages and high-end B&Bs. It was there that, according to plan, I called Chet on my cell phone.

  “Where have you been?” he demanded.

  “Of course we laid low when the Ambassador told us Dick had cracked the case and the couple would be freed within a week. Did that happen?”

  “Hell no. You knew that.”

  “Why no, Chet. We have heard rumors, though, disturbing rumors. But maybe Dick has kept you up to speed.”

  “Dick has told me nothing.”

  “He’s a secretive so-and-so. Typical CIA. Is he your star agent?”

  “Enough about Dick. What have you heard? They’re frantic at the Embassy. Dick had their hopes up.”

  “Well, Chet. You’re a smart CIA executive. So you are savvy enough to know this is an inside job.”

  “What do you mean? Inside job?”

  “Just that. Cooked up and fully digested in the Embassy. That’s where Dick works. So he put out the story that he had cracked the case and was ready to move in. Right?”

  “Something like that.”

  “So the kidnapers panicked.”

  “And did what?”

  “What would you do? Destroy the evidence of course.”

  Chet didn’t seem to be following me, so I made it clear. “The two young people.”

  “They were killed?” He was incredulous.

  “What would you do? We all must die. But you know there are different ways of dying.”

  “I can’t believe they were killed. They were valuable.”