Shadows of Death (23 page)

Shades of the Empire, I thought, and tugged at Watson, who had located an interesting smell and wanted to linger.

The vicarage was small and cosy. Watson trotted in with no hesitation and set about sniffing out the cats he knew were there. We followed him and our hostess into a sitting room furnished with soft squishy chintz-covered furniture and, sure enough, two soft squishy cats asleep in a window seat. They opened their eyes at Watson’s advance, yawned, stretched, and went back to sleep again.

‘No trouble there,’ said Nora. ‘Now tell me.’

We told her, omitting no nasty detail. The mud and excrement in the cairns, the smells, the horrid confinement of the interiors that nearly drove me mad, even when it was Alan venturing in. ‘And it was a complete waste of time and effort,’ I finished morosely. ‘Norquist wasn’t in any of them; hadn’t ever been there.’

‘But it wasn’t a waste, was it?’ she said. ‘You’ve crossed one possibility off your list.’

‘Larsen said there are a few more cairns,’ I reminded her.

‘But even smaller and less convenient. I think you can say you’ve eliminated the cairns. And you’ve eliminated Larsen as a suspicious person.’

‘He could have taken us to the cairns because he knew perfectly well Norquist wasn’t there,’ I said without much conviction.

‘He could, but is it likely he’d spend an evening at a fruitless endeavour, an evening, moreover, when he had other responsibilities?’

‘Probably not. I suppose not.’

‘You’re tired,’ she said charitably, ‘and no wonder.’

‘We both are,’ said Alan. ‘Tired and discouraged. We don’t seem able to make any progress at all.’

‘You will. The great thing is not to give up. For a start, you may remember that I suggested one other possible hiding place for Charlie.’

‘You did? Oh, I remember. You said it would have something to do with his mother. But she’s incommunicado right now, and probably not very helpful at the best of times. I don’t mean to seem ungrateful, but I don’t see how that line of reasoning leads anywhere.’

‘Nor do I. At the moment. But bear it in mind. And my dears, do know that several of us are racking our brains trying to think of anything that might help. Ruth, Isabel, even Celia Freebody.’

‘Oh, has she finally decided I didn’t kill Sandy?’

‘She’s accepted that. I don’t say she’ll ever be your best friend, and she certainly isn’t a great friend to Charlie, with his fear of cats.’

‘You said he didn’t have any real friends.’

‘Nor does he. But he’s one of ours, and we stick together. People do, in a village. In any case, nearly everyone feels a certain sympathy for him, because of what he’s had to put up with from his mother. So you’ve lots of support in your endeavour, my dears.’

‘I wish,’ I said, ‘that made me feel much better. We don’t know what to do now.’

‘What I think you should do is forget all about it. It’s a lovely day. Go on a sightseeing tour.
Not
the Neolithic sites. They would keep your mind on your troubles. Have you seen the Italian Chapel?’

‘I have, years ago. Dorothy hasn’t,’ said Alan. ‘That might be just what’s wanted. And when we get there, we can take Watson for a lovely long walkies.’

He thought Alan meant now, and trotted to the door. ‘No, darling,’ I said firmly. ‘You’ve had your walkies for this morning. Later.’

He understood the tone, at least, and walked the short distance back to the flat in resignation.

When we got there I sank down on a kitchen chair. ‘Alan, I don’t think I want to go anywhere. You were polite to Nora, but I’m just not up to it.’

‘Yes, you are. You’ll enjoy it. Wash your face and brush your teeth, or whatever you need to do, and come along.’

I was nettled. Alan almost never tries to force me into anything. ‘Look, I’m tired and depressed and
I
do not want to go
!’

‘Dorothy.’ He ran a hand down the back of his head. ‘I understand exactly how you feel, and of course you’re free to do as you like. But this might be our only opportunity to see the Italian Chapel, and it would be a great pity for you to miss it. And Nora is quite right. It’ll be good medicine. If you stay here all by yourself you’re just going to brood.’

There are times when an understanding husband can be a great trial. I remember once, as a child, when I was furious about something and had a temper tantrum. With me a tantrum consisted not of screaming and kicking, but of sulking. My two older sisters tried to snap me out of it by making me laugh. They succeeded, against my will, and then I was madder than ever, because I
wanted
to sulk.

Today I wanted to brood and wallow in gloom. Alan had no right to walk into my mind, figure it out, and try to amend matters.

Tight-lipped, I followed him to the car, got in the back seat with the dog, and sat in utter silence as he drove east, toward Kirkwall.

I had to fight to hang onto my bad mood as we drove, in silence, through the countryside. It was truly a glorious day, the hills warmed and gilded by the sun, the sea diamond-sparkling. The very sheep seemed whiter and fluffier than usual, the grass greener, the birds more melodious. All nature was inviting me to rejoice, and I wanted to sulk.

Alan began to talk. ‘We’ve talked a little about the Churchill Barriers. It was during the Second World War. Most of the British fleet, what there was of it, was berthed at Scapa Flow, the large basin southwest of Kirkwall. When the Second World War began, it was thought that the ships were safe from U-boats, because a good many German ships had been scuttled there at the end of the Great War, and were lying on the bottom creating a hazard to underwater navigation. However, the pundits were wrong. A U-boat got through and sank a ship, killing hundreds of men. So in 1940, I believe, Churchill ordered barriers built to shut off the eastern approaches, underwater walls from one island to the next, as it were. As most British labourers were serving in the military, someone had the bright idea of using the Italian prisoners of war, housed on Orkney, to do much of the work.’

I opened my mouth to comment, and shut it again.

‘It was probably very hard work, but apparently the men had some time on their hands, because the beauty-loving Italians began to beautify their camp. Their most urgent wish was for a chapel, because of course they were Catholic and the local churches were either Church of Scotland or Church of England. So the officials, who seemed to have been reasonably sympathetic, gave them two extra Nissen huts.’

Quonset huts, I mentally translated. ‘Must have been a pretty ugly chapel.’

‘It happened that one of the prisoners was an artist, and he and the others set out to make a place of worship worthy of its purpose. They lined the walls so the corrugations wouldn’t show and then painted them in trompe-l’oeil fashion to look like carved marble and vaulted brickwork. They made an altar and altar rail of concrete. One of the men was good at metal-work, so he made candelabra and a beautiful wrought-iron rood screen. The artist in charge painted a beautiful image of the Virgin and Child over the altar, flanked with saints and angels.

‘And then something happened. The war ended. The prisoners were free. But the artist hadn’t quite completed his work. He was given permission to remain behind and finish the font.

‘But that wasn’t the end of the story, either. Harsh weather conditions and the nature of the structure combined to allow serious deterioration, but local interest was strong and money was raised for repairs and restoration. And in 1960 the original artist was brought back, at local expense, to supervise the repairs and do some of the repainting himself. At the rededication service, some two hundred Orcadians crowded in to the tiny space to pay tribute to the dedicated and gifted men who built it.’

Alan brought the car to a stop. ‘And there it is.’

Somewhere in the middle of the story I’d forgotten why I was annoyed with Alan. Now I forgot everything except what was in front of me.

The site was austere and windswept. In the fields on either side livestock moved slowly, oblivious to anything except their food. But the chapel …

It was simple. Painted brilliantly white, with red trim, it reminded me a little of the adobe mission churches of the American southwest. A tiny porch, flanked with two narrow windows, was decorated with a bas-relief head of Christ, with his crown of thorns. ‘Made by the prisoners?’ I asked. Alan nodded. And we went inside.

I found I couldn’t say a word. Tears welled in my eyes as I looked, and looked, and looked some more.

The workmanship was flawless. I had to touch the walls to convince myself that they were not, in fact, brick and carved stone, but a flat, smooth surface. The vaulted roof, the glorious vault of the chancel – all paint. All done with such skill, such love and devotion. And all by men being held prisoners in a foreign land, among people who didn’t speak their language, didn’t worship as they did.

‘Several of them came back,’ said Alan softly. ‘About twenty years ago. The lead artist wasn’t well enough, but some of the others came and spent several days here. There were Masses and celebrations. And when the artist died a few years later, there was a requiem Mass for him here, and everyone who could crowd into the chapel came. There is great love between the Orcadians and those POWs.’

I swallowed the lump in my throat. ‘It’s hard to imagine, isn’t it? Love between prisoners and their captives? I think of the Americans held in Vietnamese prison camps, or for that matter the Japanese-Americans held in our internment camps, and try to visualize any of them coming back to break bread with their captors. This must be unique in the world.’

‘I don’t know if it’s unique, but unusual, certainly. A tribute to everyone involved, I’d say.’

‘And to the human spirit.’ I wiped away another tear.

‘Feeling better?’ he asked.

‘Much. You were right. This was just the medicine I needed. I’m sorry I was so snarky about it.’

‘You’re tired. We both are. Let’s leave the car here and take the pooch for a nice long walk.’

We had, of course, left Watson in the car, but now we invited him out, put on his leash, and started down the road.

We walked in companionable silence for a while, letting him off the lead when we were reasonably sure he was going to behave.

The weather was perfect. It had forgotten how to rain and blow, how to make humans miserable. Blue skies, not too hot, a gentle breeze, birdsong, bright waves in the distance. It was, in short, exactly the same as a couple of hours ago. The only difference was my mood.

Watson got excited about some small creature and took off after it, straight into a ditch. He emerged covered in water and mud, which he proceeded to transfer to us with a vigorous shake.

‘Did you bring a towel?’

I shook my head.

‘Nor did I. We’re going to have to walk until we all dry off, or we’ll never get the mud off the cushions of the car.’

‘It’s all right with me. We have some thinking to do, anyway.’

‘Have you had a brilliant idea?’

‘Not the whisper of one. No, but I’m ashamed of myself for almost giving up.’

‘The chapel?’

‘The chapel. Think of what those guys had to deal with. Enemy aliens, working hard all day, and against their own allies, the Germans. Living in primitive conditions, probably without enough food. Nobody in this country had enough food during the war, did they?’

‘I was only a baby, you know. I don’t remember much until the war was over, but certainly there wasn’t a lot to eat then. My mother had a friend in America who used to send us parcels loaded with food, and we’d get so excited. Real eggs, I remember, instead of the frightful powdered ones. I don’t remember now how on earth they packed them to ship them safely such a long way. And there was tinned ham, and Spam. I always liked Spam, actually. I wonder why one never sees it anymore.’

‘I’ll get you some, dear, and we’ll see if we still like it. It was a staple of my childhood, too. But anyway, I’m assuming the prisoners were on short rations like everyone else. So they’d come home at night, dead tired, and instead of falling into bed, work a little more on their chapel. Begging materials, scrounging, making do, and they created a miracle. Two miracles. A chapel, and a bond of friendship with their captors. And here I am, ready to call it quits when a solution doesn’t just drop into my lap. And losing my temper on top of it. As I said, I’m ashamed of myself.’

Alan just nodded.

W
e were quiet on the way home. I was thinking about the chapel and its lovely story, and then as we passed some of the Neolithic sites my thoughts reverted to our problem. Not so lovely, but requiring our attention.

Watson, too, required our attention when we got home, though he indicated that he would gladly do without the bath we found it necessary to inflict on him. He’s not a big dog, but he can certainly fill a room with water and mud. That meant Alan and I needed showers and clean clothes, too, and then we were all three of us hungry. So what with one thing and another, it was mid-afternoon before we sat down at the table with pen and paper to do some serious thinking and planning.

‘When I was a working policeman,’ said Alan, ‘before the chief constable days, I often found it useful to sit down with my team and talk about everything that had happened on a knotty case, even things that seemed irrelevant. Sometimes we found some surprising connections.’

‘Let’s try that, then, bearing in mind that we’re apt to forget some things. My memory isn’t what it used to be.’

‘And you think mine is? Never mind, we’ll reinforce each other. Where shall we start?’

I pulled out a pocket calendar. ‘Let’s see. We arrived here on a Sunday. That is, I don’t think our car trouble in Edinburgh can have anything to do with anything, do you?’

‘Nothing except a whopping bill for repairs, I shouldn’t think. Which reminds me. I need to call the garage and ask about the prognosis. Make a note for me, will you?’

‘Right. So on the Sunday here, we got settled in and then Andrew took us out for dinner.’

‘Don’t forget the cat.’