"I wonder if I'd be the same way if I were trying to
"I shouldn't think so," said Denny. "You're the competent sort, aren't you?"
Elizabeth sighed. "I wonder if I am. Look at this." She held up a forefinger with a small jagged cut just beginning to scab.
"How did you do that?" Denny asked. "That's bad-looking."
"I was walking along the shore just before lunch, and I saw something metal in the sand, so I ran and pulled on it." She grinned. "I guess I had caught some of Owen's madness! I was expecting to find the Lord of the Isles' crown, at the very least."
"And it was . . . ?"
"A rusty old piece of metal. Probably off a shipwreck, or even an old tin can! And I got cut trying to retrieve it. That will teach me to go chasing treasure!"
"It's more than a scratch," Denny said, inspecting her hand. "What have you done about it?"
"Well, I dipped it in the ocean. And I did think of showing it to Alasdair, but he didn't turn up for lunch. Besides, I'm not sure I'd like the idea of being his patient —not after listening to Gitte run on about him by the hour. Anyway, it's not that bad."
"Well, I can see how you wouldn't want Alasdair putting on his doctorly airs for you, but I don't think you can risk getting it infected. Not with us grubbing about in the dirt and all. You'll fetch up with lockjaw if you're not careful. Here, I tell you what—" He fished in the pocket of his trousers and brought out a small plastic bottle. "I'll share my antibiotic tablets with you. They're strong stuff; ought to keep the finger germs at bay."
"Oh, I couldn't take your medicine."
"Go on!" he urged. "This is my second bottle. I'm nearly well, I swear it. This is just my doctor making sure. Go on—take one!"
He shook one small white tablet out of the bottle and put it in her hand. "Okay," Elizabeth said. "I guess it couldn't hurt to take one."
"One a day," said Denny. "We'll give it a week, and if your finger doesn't fall off, we'll pronounce you cured."
Elizabeth laughed. "If I remember to take them."
Owen Gilchrist wondered if the British had ever heard of snipe hunts. More specifically, he wondered if sending him in search of a rowboat had been a British variant of the wild goose chase, because he had not found any sign of a rowboat. He had spent the entire morning wandering around the island like Banquo's ghost, and he hadn't accomplished anything, except to get his month's quota of exercise and more fresh air than he ever wanted.
The dig was beginning to strike Owen as rather a closed shop. Callum was the photographer; Alasdair tested soils; Denny did the surveying. Owen felt that he and the two women were afterthoughts, but he wasn't sure what he could do about it. He was not familiar with British archaeology, and he did not have enough experience to handle any job without supervision, but surely they should be teaching him something. He ought to be good for more than chasing nonexistent boats.
He was afraid that, as usual, he was getting a reputation as an eccentric clown. The bagpipes—they all enjoyed ragging him about that. And perhaps he'd been too enthusiastic about his fascination with crime. But he wasn't stupid, or even incompetent. Owen decided that his fellow workers' attitude was their problem. He certainly didn't intend to alter his personality just to conform with their dull conventionality. Of course, he reflected sadly, he wouldn't have any friends—but he was used to that.
That evening, while they were waiting for their dinner to complete the interminable process of heating up on the Camping Gaz stove, Derek Marchand insisted that each of them give an account of his day.
Alasdair explained in considerable detail exactly what sorts of soil samples he had taken and added that he could use another day or so to complete his testing.
"What did you find?" Owen asked.
Alasdair favored him with a cold smile. "The soil is acidic, of course. Peat bogs on top of limestone. I'm afraid I can't get much more specific than that. We send the samples back to the mainland to be analyzed."
Owen reddened. "Yes, I knew that! I just wondered if you'd found anything of interest."
Another smile. "A cache of Celtic gold, for example?"
Tom Leath pointed out that there had been gold found from that era on other Scottish islands.
"In the Orkneys," Alasdair reminded him.
"I read about a legend once concerning a French ship that left thirty thousand pounds in gold for Bonnie Prince Charlie," Denny said. "No one has ever found that, have they?"
"Not officially," Callum Farthing said. "But I can promise you that it didn't last much past 1745. The MacDonalds probably spent the lot."
"Be that as it may," Derek Marchand said, "we are not here to hunt treasure, but to find knowledge. I personally would rather confirm the existence of a megalithic yard than uncover a trunkful of gold trinkets from some ancient lady's boudoir.''
"How very noble of you," Alasdair drawled.
"Right," said Tom Leath, taking his cue from the expedition leader. "Let's get back on track, then, shall we? We were in the midst of discussing our day's activities."
Callum produced a list of the photographs that he had taken. He and Marchand discussed what other ones might be necessary.
Denny discussed the results of the day's surveying without any mention of Gitte's incompetence.
"I didn't find the boat," Owen said when his turn came. He explained that he had searched most of the shoreline, the huts in the village at the other side of the island, and even among the trees, looking for a hidden rowboat, but there was none to be found.
"That's odd!" said Marchand. "I was told there was one kept here."
"Did you try the cave?" Callum Farthing asked.
Owen frowned. "Cave?"
"Yes. If you walk along the beach below the cliffs, and then climb over the rocks, you'll find a small cave cut into the cliffs. I imagine the sea goes well into it at high tide, but when I went in this afternoon, it was dry enough."
"Sounds like Sawney Bean's place," Owen grunted. "What makes you think the boat would be in there?"
"It seems a logical place to put it to protect it from the elements. Anyhow, that's where it is. I saw it there this afternoon, up on a sort of ledge about twenty yards back from the mouth of the cave."
"I didn't check along the beach," Owen muttered defensively.
"Well, perhaps it did take a bit of finding," Marchand said soothingly. "But now that we've located it, you can start checking that heelstone on the little island. I think that can wait until day after tomorrow, though. I want everyone to pitch in at the main site tomorrow."
"Okay,'' Owen said. "I think I'll go off and read now.''
After a few more minutes' conversation around the camp fire, Elizabeth decided to go and check on Owen. It wasn't that she felt any kinship with him because they were both Americans, but she did feel sorry for him, because he seemed to be the underdog of the camp. Besides, she told herself, if I can only dislike one member of the expedition, it's going to be Gitte, so I have to be nice to poor Owen.
She found him sitting at the long table in the Nissen hut, studying his crime books.
"I thought you were going to feed your bagpipes tonight, '' she said, pulling up the other chair.
"I can do that tomorrow," Owen grunted. "I might want to play some later tonight. Anyhow, I wanted to read up on these cases."
"Who's Who of British Murderers. Very wholesome, Owen."
He scowled. "I'm not reading this for fun. Not this time anyhow. Remember what the policeman told me?"
"As I recall, nobody told you anything. I believe you were eavesdropping—"
Owen waved away this detail. "Whatever. I found out, if you insist on being technical, that Keenan was researching a piece on paroled killers. Where are they now? Obviously one of them was in Edinburgh."
"I agree with that," Elizabeth said, "since Keenan was apparently there to interview somebody, but I don't think you can assume that whoever it was murdered him."
Owen sighed. "If the police are as nai
ve as you are, I'd better hurry and figure this case out, because otherwise there'll be no hope of finding the murderer."
Elizabeth decided that arguing with somebody, even if he was wrong, did not constitute cheering him up. "All right, Owen," she said. "I'll keep an open mind. What have you got so far?"
Owen brightened. "I ruled out all the famous criminals because I'd know if they had been paroled, and they haven't been. I also ruled out the mundane ones, for obvious reasons."
"It isn't obvious to me. What, exactly, is a mundane murder?''
"Someone who kills while burglarizing a house, or hits somebody too hard in a bar fight or kills his wife in a drunken rage. Those people wouldn't make very interesting reading in a tabloid story. Usually they are just poor and trapped."
"There is a certain logic there," Elizabeth conceded. "You assume that Mr. Keenan would have been looking for sensational cases to sell newspapers. Somebody famous enough for people to remember the crime, but not so famous that people have kept up with him. Did you find any murderers who fit the bill?''
"Quite a few. But the snag is that I don't know where they are now. Boy, I would love to have read Keenan's article. What a great story! Too bad he didn't get to write it."
Elizabeth shivered. "I should think you'd have had enough horrors watching someone actually die."
"It didn't seem very real, did it? Anyway, it all happened so fast, and it isn't as if we knew him. Don't you think he'd be pleased that I'm trying to track down his killer?"
"He was a reporter. I suppose he might."
"I think so, too. Here are the ones I've considered so far.'' He pulled a small sheet of paper out of the back of the book and showed her a list of names. "I kind of like this one. Fifteen years ago a little boy was strangled in Newcastle, and the killer turned out to be one of his playmates—an eight-year-old girl! She was sent to a mental institution, but supposedly she was released at age twenty-one."
Elizabeth shivered. "Cured, I hope?"
Owen shrugged. "You never know. She sounds like a psychopath to me. Someone who doesn't feel the difference between right and wrong, but who just has to learn to obey the laws through fear of society's retribution."
"Thank you. I know what a psychopath is," Elizabeth snapped. "I have a bachelor's degree in sociology."
Owen smirked. "Guess you know what poverty is, too, then."
"I'm going to grad school."
"Wise move. Okay, next case. This guy would be pretty old now. He was a soldier in World War II, and he was engaged to this girl, and then he found out she was a local prostitute, so he killed her and hid her body in a tank on the army base. Pretty weird, huh? At the trial they claimed he'd been visiting the body for a couple of days and fixing its makeup and changing its clothes."
"Ugh!" said Elizabeth. "I suppose he went off to Valium Village as well?"
"Oh, yeah. Broadmoor, I think. But when these old geezers pass sixty, they usually get released quietly. Unless the crime was too notorious. That sort of killer is pretty safe after sixty. Diminished sex drive, you know. Remember Ed Gein, the cannibal murderer in Wisconsin?"
"No."
"Oh! Weil, he's the guy that the movie Psycho was based on, but the real case was much more interesting. Ed died in a mental institution, because people stayed grossed out about his crimes for decades, but I'm sure he wouldn't have done anything if they'd let him out."
"I can understand their being unwilling to risk it, Owen."
"Oh, sure. The publicity is deadly. Once they make a TV movie of your case, you're in for good. John Wayne Gacy . . . Ted Bundy . . . Charlie Manson ... no way they're getting out."
"Do they have TV movies in Britain?" Elizabeth asked.
Owen shrugged. "Not that I know of, but they have the same kind of publicity. The Yorkshire Ripper isn't coming out, I can tell you that. But this guy here, I bet he's out, or soon will be. Alec Evans."
Elizabeth took the book and read aloud the entry that Owen had marked in red. " 'Glasgow. Poisoned his entire family with thallium in the sugar bowl. Considered a brilliant young man, very good in chemistry.' "
Owen snickered. "Well might they say so. Thallium was a very good choice. It's slow, and it hits everyone in different ways so that the causes of death appear different: meningitis, pneumonia, and so on."
"He poisoned his whole family!" said Elizabeth, still reading. "And he was only fourteen years old."
"Kids don't have a lot of self-control anyway," Owen said. "I guess he got angry with them and booby-trapped the sugar bowl. Probably too immature to know the finality of it."
"I think fourteen is old enough to grasp the concept of death."
"Well, so do I," Owen agreed. "And I'll bet he's another psychopath, but I'll also bet you that he gets out. Because he was so young when he did it."
"How do you sleep at night, Owen?"
He grinned. "Oh, these guys are pretty rare. Most of them don't kill men anyhow. Now the last one here is the best bet, I think."
Elizabeth consulted the book. "Hmm. From Edinburgh. Malcolm Allen. At age sixteen, he raped and killed a nine-year-old girl in a public park. In Scotland}"
Owen grinned. "It's a bad old world these days, even in sleepy Scotland."
"I guess it always was, what with Sawney the Cannibal
wandering around a few centuries ago. You just don't think of things like that when you see the travel posters. All the castles and kilts and all that."
"Your boyfriend is from Edinburgh, isn't he? I wonder if he knows anything about these cases? Especially the Malcolm guy."
"Don't bet on it." Elizabeth smiled. "Unless one of the killers is a seal, he will have escaped Cameron's notice."
"I wish we could have stayed in Edinburgh longer. I'd like to check newspaper morgues about these cases. See if there were any articles on release dates for these four.''
"You can always do it when we go back," said Elizabeth. "That is, if the police haven't solved Keenan's murder by then."
Owen brightened considerably. "That's right. I might as well give them a sporting chance."
"That's very kind of you, Owen," Elizabeth said with a straight face. "Now, why don't you go and annoy the others with a bagpipe concert?"
CHAPTER
10
TRAVELER'S DIARY
Friday
Cameron is coming tomorrow. For the past three days die sea and sky have been an unbroken line of gray, barely visible through a curtain of rain. The air is wet and smells of salt and kelp, and I am chilled from the inside out. I do not think I am being very successful in my efforts to capture the spirit of the ancient island Celts, unless cabin fever was a problem in the Highlands. Unless one of them once wanted to stand out on the cliff in the rain screaming, "Get me off this island!"
Three days in a Nissen hut with these people ... At least Owen has not played his bagpipes anymore. Denny has been teasing him about playing an American Indian rain dance by mistake, and saying that the rain is all Owen's fault. Owen sulked for most of the day, but since then most of his conversation has been about famous murderers, and he has been pumping the other diggers for their recollections about the cases. Of course, Denny instantly claimed to be one of them, which annoyed Owen still further, and the others made no secret of their disinterest. Actually, of course, no one remembers anything except in a vague jumble, the way we remember the Corn Laws, and I'm afraid Owen is becoming less popular by the minute. He is not the endearing sort of eccentric. He is a bit of a show-off.
Alasdair and Callum (true Scots?) profess not to be bothered by what they call "a little rain," and they spend much of the daylight hours out of the hut, supposedly tramping about the island. I suspect that Callum is exploring the sea cave. Alasdair seems to be indulging his preference for solitude as much as anything, although he does occasionally allow Gitte to go with him, for which I am grateful.
And I have spent most of the leisure time (apart from mapping and so on) as close to the camp stove as I can get,
in a nonstop bridge game against Leath and Marchand. Denny overbids. He cannot seem to grasp the idea that the object of the game is to win.
Gitte talks incessantly, which she calls "practicing her English." I don't see why Alasdair doesn't just buy a cocker spaniel and be done with it! Why do some intelligent men like unintellectual women? Is it restful for their egos, or just an answer to the servant problem?
Thank God, I'll be seeing Cameron tomorrow. That thought has enabled me to be civil to everyone throughout this interminable downpour. Cameron seems so pleasant and normal, now that everyone else I know is grating on my nerves.
I am beginning to imagine this island in winter. No wonder the old Scots thought of hell as a cold, wet place. It must have been a grim life. It makes you understand why Celtic and Norse mythology is so pessimistic compared to Greek myths. The Northern people simply couldn't imagine a carefree existence, even for the gods. I just wish the rain would stop.
By the wee hours on Friday morning the drumming of rain on the hut's tin roof had begun to subside, and when Elizabeth peeped out the door just past six, the sky was an encouraging shade of blue. She ran her hand through her jumble of curls, and hoped that one day would be enough time for the frizz to go away.
Denny Allan rounded the corner of the Nissen hut carrying two tin cups of spring water and Tang. "Pill time!" he announced.
Elizabeth took the cup and the capsule, trying to smile. She always felt like a gorgon in the morning, and she wished people wouldn't expect her to be civil before she had lipstick on. Some women could manage the disheveled look, she thought, but she was not among them.
"How's the hand today?" Denny asked.
Elizabeth gulped down her medicine. "Fine," she croaked. "I mean, it isn't infected, but the cut is rather deep. I suppose I could have used stitches, but I'm not very brave about things like that. Anyhow, I put a fresh bandage on it. Is anyone at the burn now? I want to wash up."
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