The Orkney Scroll (13 page)

I went out again late in the afternoon. There was a very fine little art gallery in a converted warehouse or two down on the pier, with some rather splendid twentieth-century British artists, Barbara Hepworth and Ben Nicholson, for example. I also found a pleasant bistro down by the ferry docks for dinner, and stuffed my face with local seafood. As I climbed up to the third floor to my little attic room overlooking the harbor, I decided Orkney couldn’t be the cultural backwater that Trevor had always implied his birthplace was, not with art and food like that. I thought the place was splendid. Even my little room was lovely, in pink and purple and white, and best of all, I had a rather fine view. I could see the street, the harbor, the ferry docks and the sky, clear now and filled with stars. I curled up on the window seat in my bathrobe, the shot of lovely single malt scotch Mrs. Brown had offered in hand, and watched as a ferry sailed in. The street was almost deserted except for the odd person or two, probably leaving the pub down the street.

For a while I sat and thought about Blair and the Mackintosh, and all concrete evidence to the contrary, I decided once again that everything was going to be all right. I suppose it was the place that made me feel this way, Mrs. Brown’s quiet hospitality, the view, the sheer beauty that lay before me. It was one of the nicest places I had ever been, and therefore I was going to find the source of the writing cabinet, my reputation would be restored, to say nothing of my sense of personal worth, and somehow I was going to get Blair Bazillionaire, who really was a nice guy despite his temper, out of jail. I could almost hear him apologize for yelling at me both at his home and the police station.

I spread out the map I’d purchased at the airport and found St. Margaret’s Hope. It was a town on an island called South Ronaldsay, but it looked to me as if I didn’t need to sail or swim to get there. It was attached to the island on which I found myself, called rather quaintly the Mainland, by a series of causeways called the Churchill Barriers. The town itself was much smaller than Stromness and therefore entirely manageable. I also found Hoxa where the Alexanders holidayed. I would go there in the morning, visit any antique dealers there might be, inquire if need be in the local pub for a furniture maker, and presto I would find the source of the fake Mackintosh. Either that or I would make inquiries and find the former owner of the real Mackintosh. Doubtless either or both of these people would, like everyone else here, be terribly polite, honest as the day is long, and even possibly glad to see me in their quiet, reserved way.

It was once again, I’m afraid, a feeling I was unable to maintain for long, because as I sat there feeling positively mellow, passengers began to disembark from a ferry and make their way coward the town. One moment the spot under a streetlight between me and the ferry docks was empty. The next moment, a woman I could have sworn was Willow stood there. She was wearing jeans and a leather jacket, almost identical to what she’d been wearing when I had found her snooping about Trevor’s store. I did not know what Willow would be doing standing under that particular light in that particular place. I’d told her I would go to Glasgow and if necessary on to Orkney, and she had seemed content with that. I had been completely open about my plans. If this really was Willow, she had not shared my candor.

I pulled on my jeans and a sweater, intent on getting a closer view and to berate her if it indeed was Willow. I made it down to the street just in time to see a motorcycle ridden by a man in snappy red and blue gear and helmet pull up beside her and the two of them speed off. I was to spend the next forty-eight hours trying to convince myself I was mistaken, that it wasn’t Willow. If it wasn’t she, though, then Willow had a double in Scotland.

I had no such doubts about the second sighting. As I stood there completely frustrated, someone else came off the ferry. This time I knew who I was looking at. It was Percy Bicycle Clips. He was walking his bike toward the street when I intercepted him.

“You!” he said. “Stop following me.”

“I’ve been here for several hours, Percy,” I said. “You just got off the boat. That means you are following me!”

“I live here,” he said.

“Does your grandmother live here, too, because I’d really like to talk to her. What is your name, anyway?”

“Go away!” he said, leaping on to his bicycle. I tried to stop him, but he eluded me and before I knew it was pedaling furiously away from me. It was a scenario that was becoming a tad repetitious, because once again the outcome was the same. I chased after him for a minute or so, but I knew I wouldn’t catch him. I watched his back disappear over the top of the hill from whence I’d entered the town. He appeared to know his way around the place rather better than I did. I still didn’t know his name.

As I mounted the stairs to my dear little attic room, it occurred to me than while twenty-four hours ago I barely knew where Orkney was, I was acquainted with a lot more people on this island than I would ever have dreamed. Orkney was getting just a little crowded for my taste.

The next morning it was kind of hard to know where to begin. Should I look for Willow, ask her why she’d come to Orkney without telling me? Should I try to find Percy and shake him until he told me who he was and what he was doing? Should I go to this town with the lovely name of St. Margaret’s Hope (what did St. Margaret hope for, I wondered) and try to locate the dealer who sold Trevor the other cabinet, or should I seek out Hoxa and the Alexanders’ palace?

What I really wanted to do was wander the lovely streets of Stromness and gaze out at the water, and indeed I did permit myself a short walk along the pier. The morning was clear and the town was perfectly reflected in the absolutely still waters of the harbor. I could have stood there forever, but finally I told myself to get moving. I made a half-hearted attempt to consult the local phone directory for Wylie, but there were a lot of them, and Willow had said Trevor had never mentioned any relatives, and he’d left Orkney a long time ago if one were inclined to believe what he said.

I decided to take a more direct route back to Kirkwall, reasoning that the capital city with its hotels and shops would be a likely place to find Willow and possibly Percy. It would also take me back to a place where I could pick up my missed route to St. Margaret’s Hope. The highway, again loosely defined, was much busier than the Ophir road. I swear I saw at least five other cars. The island had a rather gentle typography, rolling farmland more than anything else, although I could see dark cliffs off in the distance. As I was whipping along at a stately forty miles per hour, I noticed, at the side of the road, a rather pathetic-looking creature, thumb out, a decidedly damaged bicycle at his feet. It was my pal Percy again. I pulled over and got out.

He was a mess, shirt sleeve badly torn, hair definitely askew, has hands cut up, and his pants were covered in mud. I don’t think he recognized me at first, because he was trying to keep broken glasses on his nose and not particularly successfully. When he did realize who it was, though, he did the predictable. “Go away,” he said.

“Have you noticed how few cars there are on this road?” I asked. “I wouldn’t be so hasty. What happened?”

“I fell,” he replied sadly. “Straight into a ditch and then into a barbed wire fence.”

“I’ll give you a lift,” I said. “If you’ll tell me your real name.”

“It’s Percy,” he replied. “Just Percy.”

“Then why does Rendall Sinclair, the publican at the Stane think that it’s Arthur? I’ve never known Rendall to get a name wrong.”

“Arthur Percival,” he said after a long pause, as another car sped by. “Everybody calls me Percy.”

“Put your bike in the back and get in,” I said.

He hesitated. “How do I know you won’t kill me? Maybe you killed that antique dealer.”

“Do I look like an axe murderer to you?” I said.

“I don’t know what an axe murderer looks like.” I glared at him. “Perhaps not,” he agreed.

“You could be the axe murderer,” I said. “You were there when Trevor was showing the writing cabinet, and you were there again when I arrived the time that, well, you know, that unpleasant business with the axe.”

“Do I look like an axe murderer to you?” he said, looking morosely down at his stained and rumpled pants and his torn shirt sleeve.

“Perhaps not,” I said. “Anyway, we’ve had this conversation before. Put your bike in the back, and let’s go.” I watched him fumble around a bit peering at the back of the car for the latch, and realized he could hardly see a thing. I got my bag out and found a safety pin. “Here,” I said. “Give me your glasses.” I managed to attach the arm to the rest of the frame, and I cleaned them up a bit. “These will do until you get home.” He put them on. If anything he looked more comical than ever, but I tried very hard not to laugh.

“Thank you,” he said. “This is good.”

“Where to?”

“Kirkwall, I suppose. I will have to try to find somebody who can fix my bicycle right away or maybe rent me one in the meantime. Just please don’t ask me questions.”

“I don’t think that’s fair. I’ve told you everything I know or suspect in this matter. In fact, I’ve poured out my heart to you, and you have told me nothing.”

“I can’t,” he said. “For one thing you would think I’m crazy.”

“Try me,” I said, but he wouldn’t.

“Your first trip to Orkney?” he asked in a conversational tone after a few minutes of silence.

“Yes. It’s wonderful.”

“It is. Have you seen that?” he said, pointing to a small hill a few hundred yards from the road.

“What is it?”

“Maze how,” he said.

“Maze who?”

“M-A-E-S-H-O-W-E,” he spelled. “Maeshowe. You don’t know what it is, do you?”

“Obviously not,” I said. “As we’ve already ascertained,
I’ve
never been to Orkney before.”

“You still should know what it is,” he replied.

“But I don’t, so why don’t you enlighten me? I can tell you’re dying to.”

“Pull over,” he said pointing. “There, beside that building. You buy two tickets, and I’ll go clean myself up a bit,” he said. I did what I was told. Before I knew it we were across the highway and walking toward a hill. Percy definitely looked better with the blood washed off, and his hair slicked down. We were greeted by a perky tour guide at the entrance of what looked to be a big hill of grass.

“Welcome to Maeshowe,” she said. “One of the world’s greatest Neolithic chamber tombs.”

“Wow,” I said. Percy looked smug.

“You are in what UNESCO calls Orkney’s Neolithic Heartland,” she went on. “It’s a World Heritage Site, actually a combination of sites, most of a ceremonial nature. Over there in the distance you can see the Ring of Brodgar, and the Standing Stones of Stenness, and, of course, farther north, you can visit the ancient town of Skara Brae.”

“You mean a ring like Stonehenge?” I said peering off into the distance in the direction of the guide’s pointing finger. Percy gave me a “Don’t you know anything?” look.

“Not identical, but yes, a henge ring of standing stones,” she said.

“Why didn’t I know about this?” I said to Percy. “I love this kind of thing.”

“Shush,” he said, so I did. I soon found myself bent over and entering a long passageway, the walls of which were made out of the most amazingly large stone slabs, and thence standing in a large, somewhat beehive-shaped stone chamber. It was extraordinary, very sophisticated in design and construction, and dating apparently to almost five thousand years ago! It must have been one of the greatest architectural achievements of those times. First Vikings and now this! Who knew?

Maeshowe might date to Neolithic times, the most important but not the only chamber tomb to dot these islands, but apparently it had been reused by Vikings, possibly as the tomb of some important person in the ninth century, then looted three centuries later. There were inscriptions on the walls, Viking runes that had been translated, and if you judged the Vikings by these runes, they were a lusty lot. There seemed to be several claims to sexual exploits. There was also a reference to well-hidden treasure, but apparently none had been found there.

“You mean to tell me that Orkney is just covered with Neolithic tombs?” I said to Percy when we’d finished our tour.

“There are lots of them,” he said. “They’re still finding them on a reasonably regular basis. They just look like hills or mounds of earth, and they’re often found by accident. Mine Howe in Tankerness, for example, was found because a cow fell through the roof of it. Others are found when somebody’s sitting out admiring the scenery and the leg of the stool breaks through or something like that. There are lots here as yet undiscovered, I’m convinced of it.”

“And you want to find one?”

“Yes, I wouldn’t mind that at all.”

“I got the impression you knew how to read those runic inscriptions.”

“Sort of. I can’t do it without a textbook in front of me, but yes, with some effort I can.”

“That’s amazing. Can we go see these standing stones, seeing as we’re in the neighborhood?”

“I guess,” Percy said. He sounded a bit resigned, but when we got there he proved to be an able and enthusiastic tour guide.

The Ring of Brodgar is simply astonishing, a perfect circle of megaliths or stone slabs that measures something over three hundred feet in diameter, the slabs themselves up to about fourteen feet high. It is surrounded by a ditch, and has as its backdrop the lovely water of a loch. Purple heather blooms in and around it. There are thirty-six stones now, but apparently there were sixty, and this monument, too, dates back to the Neolithic Age. The Stones of Stenness, part of another stone circle that was in use beginning about five thousand years ago, are very tall stone slabs, a little under twenty feet. Sheep graze amongst the stones, the circle empty except for them and Percy and me. I was absolutely enchanted. What ancient ceremonies would have taken place there? What deities did these people believe in? When had the Vikings arrived? I wanted to know.

Percy insisted we drive farther north to a place on the coast called Skara Brae, site of a Neolithic village. It was an extraordinary place. You could actually see how people lived thousands of years ago, with their built-in box beds and their hearths. There were several layers of homes built over time, covering many, many centuries of habitation. I had thought, I suppose, that Stone Age peoples lived in ghastly huts, and was surprised by how sophisticated these houses were. Skara Brae was another of those serendipitous finds, having been revealed in 1850 when a terrible storm stripped the surface away.