Paying the Piper

by Sharyn McCrumb

  Elizabeth and Denny looked at each other with raised eyebrows. Luck?

  "Right," Leath said. "I won't go into too much detail on the radio. Just that mere's been a suspicious death, and ..." His voice trailed off into silence. He frowned at the radio and began adjusting knobs, but the usual crackle of static from the instrument never sounded. "What the hell ..."

  Dennv went over to the radio. "Need some help?"

  "The thing acts as if it were dead, but it was switched off just now. I can't understand . . . Help me get the casing off.''

  For several silent minutes, the two of them worked at the screws on the front of the radio. Elizabeth stared into her mug of tea, trying not to look frightened. Cameron is going to come and get me tonight, she thought to herself over and over. Derek Marchand did not seem to realize that he was drumming his fingers against the wooden table, but no one seemed to notice. Callum was staring at the wall, the tea still untouched between his hands.

  Two voices swore in unison, and the others looked up sharply.

  "It has been tampered with," Tom Leath said grimly. "Somebody has disconnected the wire to the off-switch, so that even when the radio is turned to the exposition, it continues to run."

  "The batteries are dead," said Denny.

  "I'll get the spares," said Leath. He pulled the supply crate toward him and began to rummage inside it among the tools, boxes of chalk, rolls of film. "Where did we put the batteries?"

  "In there," Denny insisted. "Let me look."

  They all looked, handing the items round one at a time and even looking inside the chalk boxes. The batteries were gone. Nor were they in the food boxes or the medical kit.

  "Why has somebody stranded us here on this island?" Denny wondered aloud.

  Elizabeth shivered. "What if somebody is killing us off one by one?"

  "Nonsense!" Marchand said. "Alasdair's fall was an accident, and we don't even know what killed young Gilchrist!"

  "Hadn't we ought to try to find out?" Denny asked.

  "No!" said Leath. "That could be much more dangerous than not knowing. I say we get off this island as soon as possible and let the authorities sort it out.''

  "We won't get far in that boat," Callum said. "Not in this storm. It would take us quite a long time anyway, even in good weather. There's only one pair of oars, and navigation might be tricky."

  Leath shrugged. "Head east. You're bound to hit land soon enough."

  Elizabeth sipped her tea with a thoughtful expression. Marchand could be right, of course. Alasdair most probably slipped and fell on his own, and Owen might have died of the flu. But the sabotaged radio told her otherwise. And if she were right about there being a connection between the deaths, then one of the people in the hut was very dangerous indeed. She wished that she could confide in Denny and ask him what he thought of it all. Surely, he was not the killer.

  CHAPTER

  14

  On Tuesday the storm did not lessen, and the five people in the Nissen hut said very little to each other. They had lost interest in bridge. Elizabeth sat huddled at the wooden table writing in her traveler's diary, and Derek Marchand made notes about the stone circle to accompany his diagram. Leath had abandoned his earlier discretion about his private stock of alcohol, and he sat sipping straight Scotch out of his china tea mug. Even Denny seemed more subdued than usual.

  "May I have some tea, Elizabeth?" Callum asked hoarsely. "I caught a chill out there last night."

  "Sore throat?" she asked.

  "Mostly a cough."

  She nearly said that she was surprised at his asking her to fix him anything. The others had tried to be nonchalant about fixing their own food, but the unvoiced suspicion was obvious. Only Denny had eaten from anything that had already looked closer at Callum. He had not shaved, and he was wearing the same jeans and sweatshirt he'd slept in. She thought he looked pale and tired. The shock of the night before had not worn off. Without another word she fixed him a cup of tea.

  "Elizabeth, what are the chances that Dawson will turn up in midweek?" Marchand asked, trying to sound offhand.

  Elizabeth looked up from the card game she had started. "None," she said. "I asked him on Saturday, and he said he hadn't time."

  "A pity," Marchand said softly. "Still, I suppose we will manage without him. Er, how is your patience coming along?"

  "My what?"

  Marchand pointed to the seven rows of cards spread out on the table. "Your game. We call it patience."

  Elizabeth sighed. "Americans call it solitaire," she told him. "And that's the best explanation for the difference in our cultures that I have ever heard.''

  Learn wished that the rain would stop drumming on the tin roof. It was beginning to give him a headache. Well, perhaps the Scotch had been a contributing factor, but the rain and the tension were chiefly to blame. He had tried to read a paperback spy novel, but each time he started a new page, he realized that he had no idea what he had read on the last one.

  "Farthing, will you stop coughing?" he snapped, without looking up from the page.

  "How do you propose that I do that?'' Callum asked wearily.

  Elizabeth, now in a game of gin with Denny, touched Callum's arm. "Would you like one of Denny's pills, Callum?"

  He smiled bitterly. "Denny's clap pills? That isn't what ails me, thanks. What I need is a bit of cough syrup."

  "I could make you some more tea. We don't have any cough syrup, but my mother used to put honey in things when we were sick. Is Owen's jar of honey still around?"

  "Thanks, I'll have my tea straight," Callum croaked. "And I think I'll have a lie-down. The light hurts my eyes, and talking makes me cough."

  "He's got the flu from being out last night," Elizabeth whispered to Denny when Callum had stumbled off to a sleeping bag in a far corner of the hut. "And between this rain and the cold, we'll all have it before long."

  Denny frowned. "Are you not feeling well, hen?"

  "I'm fine," said Elizabeth, measuring out the tea. "But it's only a matter of time."

  "They'll come and get us soon," Denny said cheerfully.

  "Have you got a chance of fixing the radio, Denny?"

  "Not a hope."

  She looked around for inspiration. "What about using the batteries from the surveying instrument?"

  Denny yawned. "I thought of that. Wrong size. Not enough power anyhow. Maybe somebody more electronically inclined could make that work, but I doubt it. Anyhow, it's beyond Leath and me, I'm afraid."

  Elizabeth looked at him with troubled eyes. "I'm afraid, too," she said.

  She told herself that Cameron would when he tried unsuccessfully to contact them by radio. But of course he would blame that on the storm. He might think that they were cold and miserable in their damp tin hut in the middle of nowhere, but he would not consider it enough of an emergency to take him out into rough seas in his small launch. She was not even sure that she wanted such heroics from him. There had been enough tragedy already without risking the sacrifice of Cameron as well.

  Leath and Marchand had put on their rain gear and announced that they were going out to have a look around. Elizabeth, feeling very much alone, was trying to read Withering Heights again, but she had reached the part where Catherine was dying, and she couldn't bear to go on with it.

  Denny, who had been taking a nap in the corner, wandered over and sat beside her. "Do you think we ought to check on Callum?" he asked.

  "I did. While you were asleep. He said he wasn't hungry. I suppose we ought to let him rest."

  "I wish he'd do the same for us. His coughing gave me nightmares. Me being chased by the Gabriel hounds,'' Denny smiled. "Or maybe it's the wee folk sent me that dream, letting me know that the island is cursed."

  "It certainly seems to be. First, Alasdair is hurt messing about with the babies' graves, and then Owen is working on the menhir and he dies.'' Elizabeth took a deep breath. What did she have to lose by talking to him? "Do you think it's a coincidence?"

&n
bsp; Denny looked puzzled. "How do you mean? Are you saying you believe in fairy curses?"

  "No, of course not! I mean, do you think somebody is making this happen?" She lowered her voice to the barest whisper. "One of us!''

  He shrugged. "I can't think why anyone would."

  "I know. That's had me worried all afternoon. Suppose . . . suppose Alasdair found something? I know he was taunting Owen, but suppose he wasn't kidding? If he really found treasure, and somebody wanted it. . ."

  "Enough to try to kill all the rest of us?" Denny said lightly. "That would have to be quite a treasure."

  "I realize that. Something on the order of Sutton Hoo."

  "A Viking ship full of golden artifacts? Yes, that would do nicely. But wouldn't it look a bit odd to have all of us die on the expedition, except for one lone survivor, and then he suddenly purchases a castle and a Bentley? People would get suspicious."

  Elizabeth nodded. "Besides, from Callum's description, Owen didn't die violently. He was just sick."

  Denny smiled. "Fairy curse, I tell you. They're protecting their stone circle. And speaking of the bad luck of Banrigh, how's that finger of yours?''

  She glanced at her bandage. "I ought to have had stitches,'' she said.

  "You were the first casualty of the island, weren't you?"

  "Yes." She smiled. "And I assure you that nobody sabotaged me. I was quite alone on the beach when I cut my finger. It was my own stupidity.''

  "Was the seal there at the time?"

  Elizabeth closed her eyes and tried to remember. "He might have been."

  "There you have it!" Denny smiled. "Everybody knows that seals are magic beings in disguise. He probably wants us off his island. Well, at least you've been taking the pills.

  Modem science thwarts wee folk. It's time for another one, isn't it?"

  She reached for the bottle that sat on the table beside the cup of sugar. "I suppose so. And for you, as well."

  "Nag, nag, nag," said Denny. "My symptoms are quite gone away now. I think I'll cut back to one a week. I feel fine."

  "What we really need is some good old American liquid cold medicine."

  "Check the medical chest. Surely there's cold capsules in there. They'd be counting on somebody coming down with catarrh, what with all the wet and the cold out here."

  Elizabeth set the white metal box on the table. "Bandages . . . scissors . . . iodine. Ah, what's this?" She held up a bright yellow box. "Nonprescription cold capsules. One every eight hours. Yeah, this sounds like the stuff we take at home to dry up a runny nose. As soon as Callum wakes up, I'll make him take one."

  Denny frowned. "How many capsules are in there?"

  "Twenty-four. No. One is missing. Twenty-three. Why?"

  "I think we should all start taking them."

  Leath and Marchand came back in less than an hour, stamping their wet boots in the doorway and peeling off anoraks shiny with rain. "It shows no sign of letting up, I'm afraid," Marchand said. "We went down to look at the boat."

  Denny stared at them openmouthed. "You're not going to try anything in that boat?"

  "It isn't very seaworthy,'' Marchand agreed, "but we can't be more than ten miles or so from another island."

  "And if you miss it, there's always New Jersey!"

  Marchand forced himself to smile. "I thought I might give it a try tomorrow. The weather should be better by then, and perhaps I shall feel more up to the task."

  Elizabeth shook her head. "You should not have been tramping around in the rain like that. But never mind; Denny and I have found the cold capsules, and we are all going to take them." She waited, hands on hips, for an argument.

  Marchand said gravely, "Thank you, my dear. I think that is a very good idea."

  "So do I," Tom Leath said. "I'm having one now with my Scotch. Would anyone care to join me?"

  About seven o'clock Elizabeth took a cold capsule to Callum, who was still sleeping. Shaking him gently awake, she put the cold capsule in his hand. "Take this," she said. "It's one of the cold capsules, and I've brought you some water. How do you feel?"

  Callum's shrug turned into a cough. "The same, I guess,'' he said. He tossed the capsule into his mouth and gulped most of the water from the tin cup. "I hate the flu.''

  Elizabeth nodded. "We'll probably all get it. The rest of us took these cold capsules at dinner."

  Callum looked up at her with red-rimmed eyes. "I've been trying not to think about Owen," he said. "I didn't stay long enough to get a good look at him, but. . . suppose he died of something contagious, and suppose that when I went into his tent, I caught it. . . ."

  Elizabeth laughed gently. "In Britain they immunize babies against things like smallpox and diphtheria, don't they? They do in the States."

  "Of course we do."

  Elizabeth nodded. "I thought so. Have you had shots for typhoid?"

  "Sure. As an archaeologist, of course you—"

  "Tetanus?"

  "Yes, but—"

  "Okay, let's get really way out. Cholera?"

  "Actually, yes. I took a holiday in Turkey last year."

  "God, you're better off than I am," Elizabeth said. "They don't make you take cholera shots to come to Scotland. Anyhow, you see my point. You have been protected against everything we can think of. I mean, what else is there?"

  He tried to smile. "Leprosy?"

  "Right. That takes two to seven years' incubation, and it causes numbness. Take two aspirin and call me at the turn of the century." She relaxed a bit when he laughed. She was worried about him, and she wanted to be reassuring. She wanted them both to feel safe. It sounded logical enough. But she was still frightened.

  Callum closed his eyes. "Then what killed Owen?"

  Elizabeth took a deep breath. "Callum, I think he was poisoned."

  "What—by one of us? That's insane."

  "I've been over and over it. Nothing else makes sense. So I think we ought to be very careful."

  "And not take capsules offered us by fellow diggers?"

  "It isn't me!" she hissed. "And you'll need those capsules to get your strength back. Somebody has to get us off this island fast, and you're the best sailor we've got."

  "What if I'm a killer?" he teased.

  She patted his hand. "Then you're too sick to be dangerous, aren't you?"

  Elizabeth lay huddled in her sleeping bag that night with her copy of Wuthering Heights and a dwindling stack of tissues beside her. She told herself that with a runny nose, she could not afford to waste her few tissues on tears. Tomorrow would be Wednesday . . . wouldn't it? Cameron was coming on Saturday. And if it kept raining so hard until then, the seas would be dry and they could walk away from the island, she thought, half-asleep. The sound of coughing kept her awake far into the night, but she finally fell into a fitful sleep sometime past three o'clock. What woke her up again a few hours later was silence. She realized that she could no longer hear the clatter of rain on the roof.

  Pulling her sweater on over her T-shirt, Elizabeth eased out of the sleeping bag and crept to the door. She pushed it open a few inches and saw the graying sky of dawn. There was mist, but no downpour. She took a deep breath of sea air and stretched. No more endless days cooped up in a tin can listening to war stories and British jokes! She decided to take the bucket down to the burn. The endless cups of tea had depleted their supply of water.

  Tucking the metal handle into the crook of her arm, she made her way over the rocks and down the path to the meadow. She thought that it might be nice to stay out for a while, despite the cold, and perhaps to watch the sun rise over the stone circle. She even thought of offering up a prayer from within the confines of that ancient temple. Surely it had been meant for worship of some sort; man reserved his greatest efforts for offerings to his gods. And she felt that a prayer might make her feel better, if nothing else. Or a thank-you to somebody. Because the rain had stopped, so that they could try to escape by sea and the nightmare was over.

  She washed her fac
e and hands in the cold water of the burn, glad of the stinging numbness it brought to her skin. She would heat water and have a proper wash later, but this she needed to celebrate life. She scooped water to the brim of the bucket and, after a moment's thought, let it rush back into the stream again. She could leave the bucket there and get water when she was ready to go back to the Nissen hut. No need to carry a heavy bucket all the way to the standing stones, she thought, smiling. Water would be no offering to a god of Celts!

  She did not know which way the ancient builders had intended for the circle to be entered. They had created a north-south avenue of small stones leading up to the circle, but no one seemed to know what its purpose had been. Some of these small stones were still visible, half-buried in the peat. The stones themselves made her think of black-robed figures gathered around a grave. She hesitated for a few minutes before walking into the circle, feeling afraid of the place for the first time. How different it was from before! How casual they had been only a few mornings before, when everyone had come down in a pack, intent on work and chattering among themselves after a hearty breakfast. The majesty of the stones had been there even then, but it had not been so imposing. Back then, even a word could have broken the spell. Now that she was alone and frightened in the early hours of dawn, she felt as if she were expected to say something. To whom? To the stones, or to those long-ago islanders who built them? Or to the old gods themselves?

  She shivered. Stop it, she thought. It is peaceful here. And the day will be fine. You are safe.

  She spent a long time walking inside the circle, looking at the slant of light over the mountains from first one stone and then another, and once she tried to find an alignment with the just-visible stone on the far island, but that made her think of Owen, and she turned her back on it, determined to think of something else.

  As the sky grew lighter, she began to feel warmer and more at ease, and she was leaning against the largest stone, thinking of Cameron and of spending a few days on Skye after this was over, when she heard someone calling her name.

  She felt a clutch of coldness, and her first thought was that it was Owen, not dead after all, who had staggered to the menhir and was calling to her for help, but a moment later she recognized the voice. It was Denny, trotting across the meadow, shouting for her.