Shadows of Death (18 page)

‘And when have I ever been known to quail before a monstrous regiment of women? Of course I’ll come with you. It’ll probably be more productive than my morning.’

‘Tell.’

‘The news is almost entirely negative. No trace of Norquist. He didn’t leave Orkney by any of the commercial carriers; we already knew that. Neither he nor his body has been found anywhere. There’s been very little in the way of official search, but the word has got round, and you’d be surprised how many people have been looking, in a casual sort of way. Nothing.’

‘Even the official police couldn’t cover every square foot of every island! It’d take months, and he could dodge around, and they’d never find him.’

‘That thought has not escaped anyone,’ said Alan drily. ‘But volunteers have searched the more likely Neolithic sites and the obvious caves. A divers’ club has even sent people down at some of the more popular suicide spots, like the Churchill barriers.’

I shuddered at the concept of popular places for suicide, but had to ask, ‘And what are the Churchill barriers?’

‘Great chunks of concrete dropped in the water during the Second World War to stop the Germans bringing submarines in to Scapa Flow to destroy our fleet. I’ll have to show them to you before we leave Orkney. There’s quite a touching little chapel nearby, put up by the Italian prisoners of war who built the barriers. But that’s another story. The point is, Norquist wasn’t there, or anywhere else they’ve tried. Frankly, the only good theory left is that he used a private boat, because people at the private landing strips swear themselves blue that no unlogged departures have taken place in the past few days.’

‘Well, they would, wouldn’t they, if they’re ever involved in anything like smuggling.’

‘Of course, but the neighbouring farmers keep a pretty close eye on the planes, and they say the same thing. It’s very quiet at night in the Orcadian countryside. They’d have heard a plane taking off, and no one did. But a small boat can be rowed out quite a good way before they start the motor.’

‘But Alan! If Norquist didn’t steal anything and didn’t do any killing, as Mr Brown would insist he couldn’t, then why would he run away?’

‘It goes back, doesn’t it, to your pet theory about motivation. Because he was afraid of something.’

‘Hmm. Or someone.’

‘But who? And why? I do really believe that the man’s dead, either by accident or by his own hand, and they’ll find his body eventually.’

‘Mr Brown said that sometimes these seas don’t give up their dead.’

On that sombre note we finished our lunch, tidied up the kitchen, and went up for well-deserved naps.

W
e woke in time to give Watson a bath before taking him to call on the ladies, and then of course we needed showers ourselves, so it was nearly seven before we presented ourselves at Mrs Menzies’ door. We hadn’t been sure we’d found the right house, as it was up a flight of stairs off The Street and round a couple of bends, but the sounds of female voices inside reassured us.

‘The door’s ajar. Shall we just go in?’

‘I imagine that’s why it’s been left open. They’d never hear a knock, anyway.’

Alan pushed open the door and gestured me in, with Watson firmly on his lead, and we were greeted first by an assortment of polite but very inquisitive dogs, from a minuscule Yorkie to an Old English sheepdog roughly the size of a Volkswagen. Watson, fortunately, is as friendly with other dogs as with people, and entered into the mutual sniffing with no hint of anxiety.

‘All right, dogs, that’s enough.’ Ruth came into the hallway and spoke commandingly, and the assembled multitudes dispersed, presumably back to their mistresses. ‘Good to see you, Dorothy. And this must be your husband.’

They introduced themselves, and she led us into the sitting room, where there wasn’t a lot of sitting going on, mostly because there weren’t a lot of places to sit.

‘Everyone, this is Dorothy Martin and her husband Alan Nesbitt. I’m not going to give you everyone’s names, you two, because you’d never remember, but you’ll get them sorted out in time. Get yourself a drink – they’re over there – and something to nibble, and I’ll find you some chairs.’

Alan poured himself some Highland Park and me some white wine, and someone shooed a reluctant dachshund out of an armchair. I sank into its embrace and Alan perched on the arm, and Ruth said, ‘Well, now. You’re wondering why I called this meeting.’

‘No, we’re not,’ said the cat lady – Isabel, that was her name – amid the general laughter. ‘Alan is a retired copper, and Dorothy is Miss Marple, and they’re wanting to find out what, if anything, we all know about the goings-on around here.’

There was more laughter, and Alan said, ‘That’s actually a very fair summation, Mrs …’

‘Duncan. But call me Isabel, everyone does.’

‘Thank you. However, I’d characterize my wife more as Sherlock Holmes and Peter Wimsey rolled into one. You need to understand that she’s the brains of this partnership. I’m Constable Plod, finding clues for her to interpret – brilliantly, I might add.’

Well, of course after that they were eating out of his hand. Alan can charm a bird out of a tree without half trying, and this time he was trying. If I’d won Ruth over because of the Langland connection, Alan’s self-deprecation and deference to me pulled in the rest of them.

‘All right then,’ said a woman I didn’t know, ‘you’ve come to the right place. Between us, we know most of what goes on in Stromness.’

‘And most of Mainland, if it comes to that,’ said another. ‘What do you want to know? We’ll help if we can.’

‘Do any of you,’ asked Alan, serious now, ‘have any idea, however far-fetched, where Charles Norquist might be? Inspector Baikie is extremely concerned.’

‘You’ve heard the rumours that he’s scarpered, I suppose,’ said a woman I recognized from behind the counter at the pharmacy.

‘We have. And I can say quite definitely that he did not steal anything from the museum. Nothing is missing from the museum. The police have checked thoroughly.’

‘When?’ demanded a grey-haired woman with a formidable bosom who had just come into the room.

‘Oh, dear,’ said Ruth under her breath. ‘I might have known she’d turn up.’

‘I beg your pardon?’ Alan asked the newcomer.

‘When did the police check?’ she said impatiently.

‘Yesterday, as soon as it became apparent that Norquist was among the missing.’

‘Ah. Then they’d better check again.’

Ruth quieted the babble that arose. ‘Alan, Dorothy, this is Janet MacKenzie, who is a volunteer at the museum. Janet, I think you’d better explain yourself.’

‘It’s clear enough, I’d think. The police had better check again. Because I walked past the museum on my way here. I’d intended to go in and do a little work on the records, but someone’s changed the lock. Shiny new Yale. Classic case of locking the stable too late.’

‘Janet, what
do
you mean?’

‘I mean I looked in the windows, and the case closest to the door is empty. Someone’s rifled the place.’

Stunned silence, then pandemonium. ‘But who … how could anyone … why would they … who … how … why …?’

Alan rose and spoke to Ruth. ‘I’ll have to ask you to excuse me. I must get in touch with the police, and I may have to go to Kirkwall.’ He was pulling out his mobile as he spoke. Signalling me a ‘stay here’ with his eyebrows, he left the room. Watson stirred at my feet and looked at me for instructions. I patted him, and he settled down.

‘Still so sure Norquist didn’t steal anything?’ the volunteer called after Alan, with a cackle.

I tried to follow the discussion that ensued, but with everyone talking at once, it was difficult. I gathered only that there was considerable difference of opinion, with about half the room laying everything including the weather at Norquist’s door (‘Who knows but what he does rain dances in those weird rituals of his?’) and the other half claiming he was just a harmless nutter who hadn’t the physical strength to do anything more violent than utter imprecations.

I gave up trying to sort it out after a little, and tried to think. This rather abrasive woman was evidently the chief volunteer, the one who had a key to the old lock. Whoever stole from the museum had to have a key to the new lock. Unless the woman had done it herself, before the lock was changed. But why would she have done that, and then called our attention to it? And who had changed the lock? Larsen, as president of the Friends? The police? And when? And when exactly had the theft taken place?

If it was a theft. I was more and more doubtful that anyone would steal the artefacts in order to sell them. The money they’d bring would scarcely be worth the risk. Norquist might have had some crazy idea about ‘saving’ them. But save them from what, or whom? And in any case, he’d disappeared before the artefacts did.

Maybe someone had simply moved them. A rearrangement of the museum, now that it would certainly be taken over by a new curator. That would seem possible, if hardly likely. Undoubtedly the police would be in touch with Larsen about that. Eventually.

I turned my attention back to the gathering, which had now reached a different topic of disagreement: where was Norquist?

The strident tones of the volunteer rose to drown out the others. ‘I say he’s hiding somewhere on this island, and has been the whole time.’

I ventured to speak. ‘But where, Mrs … um, I’ve forgotten—’

‘MacKenzie, and it’s Miss, thank you very much. How should I know where? Some cave, probably. He dotes on caves.’

‘The police have searched all the likely ones and found no sign of him.’

‘Well, then, they’ll just have to search the unlikely ones, won’t they?’ She stood. ‘The rest of you may have time to sit around and tittle-tattle all the evening, but I have not. Good day.’ She strode for the door, heedless of the paws and tails in her path, and slammed it on her way out.

‘Well!’ Isabel, the cat lady, said with an expressive gesture. ‘I’ve always said that Janet MacKenzie is the rudest person I’ve ever known, but this is too much!’

‘I didn’t invite her, you know,’ said Ruth, ‘but of course she knows everything that goes on in this town.’

I cleared my throat. ‘Is she …?’ I began nervously. ‘That is … does she … er … take liberties with the facts?’

‘Is she a liar, do you mean?’ That was Isabel the forthright again. ‘I’ve never known her to tell a lie. “Tell the truth and shame the devil” is her motto. She especially enjoys spreading unpleasant truths about other people.’

The others nodded. A quiet woman I didn’t know at all said, ‘Her other favourite expression is “I thought you ought to know”. What follows is always something nasty. “I thought you ought to know that your husband’s seeing a lot of that new woman at the co-op” or “that people are talking about that short skirt you’ve been prancing about in” or “the things they’re saying about that cake you brought to the last fête” or … you can supply others.’

‘But is it always true?’ I persisted.

‘It’s always true that people are saying what she passes on. Of course it’s usually just ill-natured rumour with no basis, but on occasion she hits the nail on the head.’

‘The one about the woman at the co-op?’

The women looked at each other. Finally Ruth said, ‘I suppose we can tell you. They’ve all left now, and you don’t live here. Yes, a new couple moved to Stromness from … Aberdeen, was it?’ She looked around, and there were nods. ‘A young couple. He came to work on the construction they’re doing down at the harbour. She wanted something to do herself, so she got a part-time job at the co-op. She was very pretty, in a flashy sort of way. Lots of hair, lots of make-up, tank tops a size too small, you know the sort of thing.’

I groaned. ‘And her husband was working long hours and leaving her alone a lot. I see where this is going.’

‘And spending a lot more time and money than he should at the pub after he finished work for the day,’ said one of the other women. ‘So, of course, she was bored and went looking for other amusement.’

‘She didn’t have to look very hard,’ said Isobel. ‘Half the men in town had their eyes on stalks from the time she first sashayed down The Street. Most of us know how to keep our menfolk home nights, but – I’d better not say her name – the librarian was a strait-laced sort who didn’t … well, anyway, she was a plain woman, poor thing, and hardly ever at home, and her husband—’

‘Had a taste for candy,’ Ruth finished. ‘He started doing all the family shopping. And his wife thought he was being considerate of her, taking some of her work off her shoulders.’

‘She should have known,’ someone snorted. ‘First time he’d ever volunteered to do anything for her.’

‘But she was a trusting soul, and never suspected a thing. Everyone else in Stromness knew, but we weren’t going to tell his wife. And then Janet told her one day. After chapel, too, right in front of everyone. She didn’t believe it, but she wasn’t a stupid woman, and she started paying attention. He admitted it in the end, didn’t even act guilty about it.

‘And then the other husband, the young man, came and told him … well, said he’d better get out of it or he’d be sorry. And all of them moved away, and I don’t know what happened to poor Anne.’

‘And the saddest thing of all is, it all would have blown over if it hadn’t been for Janet’s meddling.’ That was Isobel again. ‘You can’t tell me that young trollop would have kept her eyes on a middle-aged man like Jack for much longer. She’d have found greener pastures soon enough.’

‘Miss MacKenzie doesn’t seem to be a very popular person in the village,’ I ventured.

‘Oh, the woman is pure poison,’ said Ruth, ‘but we’re used to her. And she does work hard at the museum.’

‘And we’re all afraid of that tongue of hers,’ said Isobel, with that call-a-spade-a-spade frankness. ‘She’s a snoop and a meddler and we all know it, but we don’t dare cross her. Everyone has a few secrets.’

‘That reminds me,’ I said, snapping my fingers. ‘Ruth, this morning at the shop, you were about to say something when the vicar came in. Something about Norquist killing … but you stopped there, and you’ve been killing
me
with curiosity ever since.’