Holy Terror in the Hebrides (14 page)

“Yeah. Anyway, we’re leaving today by the two-thirty ferry, so we don’t get caught by the storm. So how about climbing that hill with me before lunch? You know, Dun Eye?”

“Dun Ee, they pronounce it, I think. I thought you climbed it yesterday afternoon.”

“Nah, I waited while everybody else did. It didn’t look too bad, but I was tired already. They did say there was a terrific view, and I thought we could talk. And I could apologize.”

“You’ve nothing to apologize for,” I said warmly.

“Yeah, well. So what about it? You look kind of stiff—can’t let your muscles seize up, y’know.”

I didn’t really want to climb a mountain, or even a little hill, which is all Dun I really is. And it wasn’t wise to go off alone with anyone, even Jake. On the other hand, would a refusal look funny? Or would it hurt his feelings? And it would be a good chance to talk to him, but didn’t I already know his background pretty well? Anyway, if they were all leaving, my suspicions would forever remain academic.

“Well—I suppose—” I had begun, when Andrew came into the hall, very formal, a little tense.

“Mrs. Martin, Mr. Goldstein, would you come into the lounge, please? The police have arrived.”

The other five guests were seated when we walked into the room. None of them looked at us. None of them said anything.

“Ah, good,” said the taller of the two men who were standing. He was wearing a suit and tie; his pepper-and-salt hair was cut rather short, and he had a brisk, businesslike way about him. The other man wore a black uniform and had removed his cap with the black-and-white-checked band. He looked younger and carried a notebook.

“You must be Mrs. Dorothy Martin and Mr. Jacob Goldstein, am I right? I’m Detective Inspector MacLean, from the Strathclyde Police, and I need to ask everyone a few more questions about the unfortunate mishap that befell Mr.—Williams, is it? If you’d just be seated, please.”

We sat, silently. I took a deep breath and told myself to be careful. This could be tricky. I jumped when the inspector addressed me.

“Mrs. Martin.”

“Yes?” It came out as a squeak. I cleared my throat.

“I understand you were the only witness to Mr. Williams’s fall. Is that right?”

“Yes, we were alone in the cave at the time.” I had my voice under control. Now if there were just something I could do about my breathing.

“Could you tell me how that came to be the case? Mr. MacPherson tells me a fair-sized party was visiting Staffa that afternoon.”

“Yes, but the others were all a lot quicker on their feet than I was.” This part was easy. “I have bad knees, and the stairs and stepping stones were hard going for me; I had to take them slowly. By the time I decided I was going to the cave rather than the top of the island, almost everyone else was already coming back, and so when I got to the cave I thought for a moment I was the only one there. It was only when I got well inside that I saw Bob—Mr. Williams.”

“Ah. You knew him well, then?”

“I didn’t know him at all, except to speak to. Americans tend to exchange first names on short acquaintance, Inspector.”

“I see. Please continue, Mrs. Martin.”

I went through it as briefly as I could.

“And you are quite sure there was no one near him, besides you?”

“There was no one near him, period; there was a good twenty feet between us, and we were quite alone.”

“Ah, yes.” There was a pause. “You travel on an American passport, Mrs. Martin, but you give your address as Sherebury, Belleshire?”

“Yes, I’ve lived there for over a year now. I’ve taken no steps to become a British subject; I don’t even know how you do that, and I’m not ready to relinquish my American citizenship. If you want a reference in Sherebury, you might contact Chief Constable Alan Nesbitt. He’s in Brussels just now, however.”

“Yes, we have heard from Mr. Nesbitt.”

I looked up sharply. This was a totally unexpected development. “May I ask—in what connection?”

“In connection with this inquiry.” The inspector’s tone was bland.

“But—this is Scotland, he has no jurisdiction—”

“Precisely, madam. And may I ask how you know the distinguished chief constable?”

“In connection with another inquiry.” I became equally bland; the inspector annoyed me. However, I’d better establish my credibility. “I had occasion, quite accidentally, to help him with one or two troubling matters in Sherebury, and we became friends.” And if that wasn’t quite accurate, it was close enough. My exact relationship with Alan was none of his, or anybody else’s, business.

“I see. Thank you, Mrs. Martin. I believe that’s all.”

I rose. “May I be excused, then?”

“Just a few minutes more, if you don’t mind.”

I sat back down again.

Inspector MacLean went through all the routine questions with everyone in the room. He learned exactly nothing, so far as I could tell. Everyone had been elsewhere, had seen nothing. They had noticed nothing unusual in Bob’s behavior, he had been, perhaps, a little moody, but he was often moody. In short, their evidence agreed exactly with what I had so carefully said. Nobody mentioned the wet rocks. It was obvious that they thought he was making a great deal of fuss over nothing, and obvious, too, that they blamed me for their ordeal. If you hadn’t been there, their looks seemed to say, if you didn’t have important friends in the police, friends you never told us about . . .

“Has anyone anything to add?” he asked finally. I thought he looked especially hard at me. I smiled at him and kept my lips firmly shut. Later, if I could speak to him privately . . . but just now I wanted urgently to get out of the room before their anger could be unleashed upon me.

“Very well,” the inspector said at last, when his apparently pointless questioning had ground to a halt. “You are entitled to know that the search for Mr. Williams’s body has so far been fruitless. It is continuing today, and will continue, as weather permits, until the body is found or the search is abandoned as useless.” He paused for a moment, appeared to make a decision, and continued. “It appears that Mr. Williams’s death was an unfortunate accident, and that is the way I shall report it to my superiors. Unless you wish to wait for the recovery of the body, which I must tell you is problematic at best, you are free to leave when you wish. Of course, if anyone recalls anything further about the matter, you are welcome to ring me in Oban.” He gave us a phone number, bowed slightly, and left, his unnamed assistant in tow.

“And that’s that,” said Chris in an oddly satisfied tone of voice. “I was afraid they might make us stick around.”

“They could hardly have done that,” said Grace, as cool as ever. “We were merely witnesses, at second hand, to an accident. Mrs. Martin, perhaps, but even then . . .”

She looked at me and I seized my chance. “Yes, well, I’m glad you’re getting to leave before the storm. It was—nice meeting all of you. Excuse me, I left something in the oven.”

I escaped, waiting until I was out of sight of the hotel before breaking into an unpracticed run.

The police were in a car, of course, and got to the jetty long before I did, but the ferry wasn’t there yet. I caught up with them, breathless, and knocked on the car window.

“Inspector, there is something else. I didn’t want to tell you in front of the others.”

He looked annoyed, but stepped out of the car. “Yes, Mrs. Martin?”

I told them about the water. I had the sense not to go into theories of what it might mean.

“Indeed. You were how far away from Mr. Williams?”

“Twenty feet or so, I suppose. I’m not good at estimating distances.”

“No. And you say it was dark in the cave?”

“Well—there was a cloud over the sun just then. It was darkish, but—”

“And you did not examine the path at any time to determine whether it was, indeed, wet?”

“Of course not! I had to try to get help—”

“Certainly. Pity, though. Because none of the others mentioned it, and, of course, there is now no way to know, is there?”

His manner was condescending. I glared at him, unable to find a response.

“Ah, the ferry has arrived. Thank you, Mrs. Martin, for being so conscientious, but I think if you search your memory, you will find that you were deceived by a trick of the light. Good afternoon!”

He sat back down in the car, and I watched as the car drove onto the ferry. The hatch was slow about closing, sticking a few times, and I had the crazy idea of running aboard and trying to make my point, but then the hatch was secured, and with a series of toots, the ferry was off.

With it went my only hope of advice or support.

I
GOT TO
my cottage the minute I could and tried to call Alan. Of course he was in a meeting. I left an urgent message for him and sank onto a chair at the kitchen table, my head in my hands.

I’d cast away my lifeline, in the shape of Inspector MacLean—or perhaps he’d dropped it. I knew, of course, why he’d paid no attention to me. Even though my information was vague in the extreme, a good policeman would still have listened, if he hadn’t already been prejudiced against me. He’d snubbed me because he wasn’t about to be given advice by some English policeman.

Why
was
Alan having conversations with the police in Oban? I didn’t understand the exact relationship between England and Scotland, but I did know that their laws are different and their constabularies separate. An English chief constable has, in Scotland, no authority whatever.

Well, when Alan called back, he could tell me what was going on. And phone lines be damned, he could also tell me what to do. I’d tried to involve the Strathclyde police. Since they weren’t interested, I needed some sound advice, and Alan was just the man.

For the truth was, I was still far from sure that murder was anything more than a figment of my imagination. Everything I had seen, and it was little enough, could have an innocent as well as a sinister explanation. Nor had I made any startling revelations in the course of my (admittedly unsystematic) poking around. Most of the Americans were simply nice enough people with eccentricities. Janet, to be sure, had revealed herself in unpleasant colors over dinner last night, but a closed mind and a hot temper don’t necessarily add up to murder.

My chair was getting very hard; I got up and paced. I knew why I was getting nowhere. Despite all my pep talks to myself, I was tiptoeing around the genuine questions, avoiding any real, organized investigation, because I didn’t want any of these people to be guilty of murder. However I might feel about any of them individually, they were my all fellow countrymen and -women, and I felt like Judas.

Very well
, said my inner critic.
You don’t want to prove one of them guilty. Try to prove them innocent
.

It’s extremely hard to prove a negative, I thought doubtfully, wanting to be convinced.

We’re not talking hard evidence here, for a court of law. You want to know, in your own mind, that none of them killed Bob. Any of them could have done it, so what you have to do is satisfy yourself that none of them had any motive, and you can stop being afraid of them, or worried about trouble with the police.

I have often had occasion to be very annoyed with my self-critical side, which seems to spend its time keeping me from having any fun and prodding me into doing things I don’t want to do. This time I hugged myself, by way of thankfulness. Prove they
didn’t
do it! Hallelujah, what a wonderful idea! That one I could approach with enthusiasm.

It would be easier, I thought as I sat back down, if I had a friend on Iona to help me think. Even a cat on my lap would have helped. A warm, purring cat aids my thought processes considerably. But failing any assistance, I’d have to do the best I could alone.

I had just pulled the phone pad to me—I love to make lists—when there was a tap at the door.

“You forgot, didn’t you?”

It was Jake. I opened the door wider and racked my brains. “Forgot . . .”

“We’re climbing Dun I.”

I had forgotten, totally, and, in fact, I’d never really promised. “Oh, but Jake, the weather! The wind! And it’s going to rain any minute. Don’t you think we should put it off for another time?”

“Not doing anything but blowing. Up at the hotel they say the rain’ll hold off for another four, five hours, and the hill only takes an hour or so. And there won’t be another time for me, because we’re leaving later, remember? What do you say?”

“Well—”

“Good. You ready to go?”

I wasn’t, actually. I wanted some thinking time. I also wanted to wait for the phone to ring. Surely Alan got some time off, at least for meals!

But since he hadn’t called yet, he probably wouldn’t until lunch. In which case, the sooner I left the better, so as to be back early. I speculated briefly about any possible danger, remembered I had decided not to think negatively and anyway this would be a good chance to ask Jake some pointed questions, and smiled at him. If it was a little forced, I hoped he wouldn’t notice.

“As ready as I’ll ever be, I suppose. I’ll get my waterproof jacket, just in case.”

Equipped with walking sticks someone had left in my umbrella stand, we set off.

“There’s a shortcut if you go this way.” Jake pointed. “I wandered around the Abbey grounds yesterday while everybody else was killing themselves on that hill, and found it.”

I didn’t tell him I knew the shortcut, too. I was actually rather fond of Jake. We turned left out of Dove Cottage, walked past the Bishop’s House, and took the footpath to the Abbey.

“See?” said Jake as proudly as if he’d discovered a new country.

“Well done. That probably saved us half a mile or so. But, Jake,” I went on as we walked past the Abbey up toward the road, “why are we doing this at all? The wind is getting stronger all the time, the rain is coming, it’s as cold as November. Why are you so hell-bent on climbing a hill that’s probably a great deal like other hills?”

“I’m not. The hill’s an excuse.”

“Good grief, for what?” My fears and suspicions rose again, in spite of myself, and I planted both feet on the path and refused to move.