They headed towards the ship’s wheel, with Maman pausing to greet Cat, who was already up on his bench, watching the harbour with the benevolent gaze of the highest-ranking cat in town. ‘A very well-behaved animal,’ Captain Sigurd said, ‘and an asset to the ship.’
I grinned at Dad behind their backs. ‘I think it’s safe to book those flights.’
They were an odd couple, my parents. Oh, not in looks: Dad’s height and handsome Irish looks were a great foil for Maman’s French elegance. It was just that you wouldn’t have expected the son of a builder to fall for an opera singer. All through my childhood they’d struggled with making the marriage work, until the call of her music world had finally been too strong for Maman, and she’d taken flight back to France, to her old director, and a cameo part that had dazzled the critics. It had taken her fifteen years to swallow her pride and return to the marriage that they’d never quite ended; and so now here they were, with Dad proud as a cormorant on its rock to have his beautiful wife on his arm again. He joined her for her shows, and they’d spent most of last winter in France, with him running his business empire by computer and phone, while she, work permitting, had returned to Shetland for the theoretical warmth of the summer. They’d been back together for a whole year now, and I was daring to believe it would last. Dad was even trying to speak French …
By the end of the tour of the ship, Captain Sigurd was practically human. It turned out that he was a particular fan of Rameau, the composer Maman specialised in. Not only had I got my leave for Glyndebourne, but Captain Sigurd was pressing her to remain on board for the voyage to Fetlar, ‘To see how well your daughter discharges her duties aboard.’ As Maman was seasick on the flattest of crossings, there was no chance whatever of her taking him up on that, but she disclaimed convincingly and accepted an offer of a cup of coffee in the officers’ mess. I glanced surreptitiously at my watch as we headed below. Quarter to eight. Gavin should have landed, if his flight had been on time. He’d be here soon. My heart gave a joyful leap. Ten minutes or so.
I’d noticed Alain watching us as we’d gone round, so I wasn’t totally surprised to find him already in the officers’ mess, cup in hand, standing by the shelf as if he was just consulting a reference book. He’d never met Maman; she’d been gone by the time I’d started going round regattas. He might remember Dad, but I didn’t think Dad would remember him, one of the flock of life-jacketed teenagers rigging boats before the race and coming ashore after it, hair streaming with water.
Alain set his cup down and began to retreat in a wave of apologies, but of course Captain Sigurd introduced him: ‘Rafael Martin, our third officer, who joined the ship at Kristiansand.’
‘I follow Cass’s watch,’ Alain said, and made a continental bow over Maman’s hand. Her dark eyes looked him over thoughtfully.
He moved on to Dad, and I saw straight away that I’d underestimated Dad’s memory for faces, a business asset he’d cultivated until it was second nature. His brows drew together, his eyes sharpened to Siamese-cat blue. ‘Rafael Martin,’ he repeated, as he shook hands. I could see he knew it wasn’t right; I hoped his computer brain wouldn’t come up with the true answer.
I should have trusted his discretion. The conversation flowed normally: the weather, where we were headed after Shetland, our plans for the rest of the summer. It was only once I was discharged for the day, and we were safely in the middle of the car park, with Cat grumbling about being put on his lead when he’d been contemplating a foray ashore, that he turned to me. ‘Cass, who was that young man?’
‘In the officers’ mess?’ Maman asked. She returned to French. ‘He’s too charming, my Cassandre. Stay with your Gavin.’
‘I intend to.’
‘Rafael Martin,’ Dad repeated. He turned from my genial Irish dad to the ruthless businessman. ‘I recognised him straight away, though it took me a moment to place him. He’s that French boy from Yell who used to go round the regattas. His father was a teacher there. I’ll come up with his name in a moment. What’s he up to pretending to be a Latino?’
Dad had been in the Gulf when Alain had died. Maybe he’d never linked the French boy from Yell with my dead lover. Maman, too, was looking puzzled. ‘You’re not going to let him draw you into trouble, are you, Cassandre?’
‘No,’ I said. I couldn’t tell them everything. ‘I told the chief officer I’d known him under another name, so she’s keeping an eye on him.’
I wasn’t sure how much longer I could stall, but just then a taxi pulled into the pier and Gavin got out of it.
He’d seen our ship, of course; you could hardly miss her, with her three masts rising up to the height of the town hall on its hill. His head turned towards her, admiring first, then looking for me on deck. I gave Cat’s lead to Maman and started towards him, in that awkward crossing-the-space way, and he saw the movement and began walking towards me too. We maintained a measured pace, ending with a kiss on the cheek. As I put my face to his, the taxi air freshener (pine forest) overlaid his natural smell of Imperial Leather soap. He swung his bag into his other hand, and tucked my arm through his. His hand was warm as our fingers meshed together. ‘I like the cap.’
‘I don’t.’
‘Do you have to keep it on all the time?’
I made a face. ‘There’s a muster tomorrow at eight-thirty. Maman and Dad are taking us home for dinner.’
We clambered into Dad’s black Range Rover, Gavin and I in the back, hands linked. Cat settled into that elbows-folded pose of a cat who wasn’t going to like this, even for the sake of a skulk round the beach and some sparrow watching in the bushes. ‘We’re going home,’ I told him.
I settled back into my seat and turned my head to look at Gavin. I loved his face. He wasn’t handsome exactly, with his nose benkled from a rugby-playing youth and his long mouth set in a solemn Scots line, but there was an intelligence about it, his grey eyes giving the air of noticing everything. He’d had his hair cut since last I’d seen him; if he let it, it would cluster in curls round his head, the dark russet of a stag’s ruff. Now it was police-style inch-long, neat around the ears, and just wrinkling at the ends. The hand which held mine was tanned, square, made for strength and use, not beauty.
He turned his head to smile at me; his fingers tightened. We didn’t need words.
It was the height of summer around us. The verge was knee-high with cauliflower-topped cow parsley and the first puce spires of rosebay willowherb. A field of waving grass rippled like the sea, turning from rose to grey as the light caught the feathered heads. The sheep were the creamy white of Sørlandet’s sails, marked in stripes with the long sweep of clippers. A foal the colour of toffee lay stretched out dozing while his mother grazed beside him. The field was yellow with buttercups as high as her knees.
Looking at the horses reminded me. I turned back to Gavin. ‘Did you ever hear from Rainbow, about a foal from her stallion?’
He nodded. ‘She put him to the mares this year, and I’ve to get first pick of the foals next June.’ His thumb tensed on the back of my hand, but his voice remained casual. ‘Ideal children’s ponies, if you’d consider it.’
I’d been considering it, these long two months since I’d lost the baby. The grief and shock I’d felt at the time had subsided, but there was still a sore place in my heart for the child that had never had the chance to grow. I turned my hand in his. ‘Black, like the stallion, or chestnut, or broken coloured?’
He smiled. ‘A good horse is never a bad colour.’
We’d been talking too quickly and softly for Maman to follow, but Dad had heard. I saw a quiet curve of satisfaction touch his lips, quickly suppressed. I had no doubt Maman had impressed on him that settling down, marriage and children were all taboo subjects. She didn’t want Dad to turn me contrary; she and Gavin approved of each other.
We’d passed the blue sea of Laxfirth and Catfirth, the shining loch of Girlsta. Now we’d come to Sandwater, the otters’ loch, and the moorland in th
e heart of Shetland’s cross shape. The hills closed around us, their heather slopes mottled olive among the jigsaw outlines of peat banks and brighter green fissures of burns, then opened again as we reached Voe, and the blue glimmer of Olnafirth. These waters had filled my youth, from Brae, at the head of the voe, out to the Rona, the gateway to the wide Atlantic. Across the water, as we drove on, Busta House stood serene above its pier, white crowstepped gables picked out by a sudden glimmer of sun. Cat’s nostrils twitched and he stretched his neck upwards, as if he was recognising home. ‘Nearly there,’ I told him. ‘You’re doing well.’
We came into Brae proper, and passed between the houses to the boating club straight. Now I was craning my neck for a glimpse of my Khalida. There was just time to pick out her mast from the others, then the car swung around onto the single track road leading above the west side of the voe to the bridge and island of Muckle Roe. I felt a pang at my heart, and leant back to catch my last glimpse before the hill hid her. Gavin’s fingers tightened on mine. ‘Just a couple of hours,’ he murmured.
Our house was almost at the end of the road, with only Inga’s further on. It was an eighties single-storey with picture windows looking over the voe. A smell of rabbit-and-olives casserole greeted us as we opened the door. I sniffed appreciatively. ‘Maman, you’re a star. Wait till you taste this, Gavin.’
‘And neither of you are driving,’ Dad said. ‘Wine, Gavin, or whisky?’
We both opted for wine, which turned out to be a velvety Burgundy. Cat accepted a plate of rabbit trimmings, and smoothed down his ruffled fur and feelings on the Chinese rug in front of the peat fire, while we sat at the table and shared dry-cured sausage and plump white asparagus straight from France.
‘The last of your cousin Thierry’s,’ Maman said. ‘He gives his wishes, and you are to have the eggs the next time you visit, Gavin, to … to … couver, Cassandre?’
‘To set.’
‘Yes, to set under a hen. He has a new breed, I can’t remember the name, but he thought you would like them.’
‘Mother would,’ Gavin said. ‘She’s the poultry woman.’ He turned his head to smile at me. ‘Unless Cass could be tempted to set up a cage along at the cottage?’
I gave him a horrified look. ‘Me, hens?’
‘And your mother is well?’
‘Very well.’ He spread his hands. ‘I don’t know if Cass mentioned how late a baby I was. She’ll be eighty-four next birthday. We’ve cut down on the milk cows, to save her work, and one of the factor’s boys helps with the garden, but she enjoys still being in charge of the dairy and bossing Angus about over where to plant things. Her brain’s as sharp as ever, God be praised.’
‘And your brother?’ Dad said. ‘Kenny, isn’t it?’
Gavin nodded. ‘Very busy, between the sheep and the cows. He’s been doing some judging of Highland cattle for the shows, so that’s got him out and about.’ He smiled at me. ‘No sign yet of him bringing home a wife to take over the farm.’
‘He is your older brother?’ Maman asked. ‘No, do not rise yourself, Dermot. Have more saucisse.’
Gavin nodded. ‘He’s bred a bull calf which he says has star quality. Charlie, he’s calling him. I’m no judge, but he looks good to me. It’s not just looks, though – he’s got a cheeky way with him. Eye-catching.’
‘So he has his own …’ Maman paused to find the word. ‘His own place to star. He breeds these Scottish cows with the long fur.’ She went into the kitchen and came back with the casserole and a ladle. ‘He is not jealous of his clever little brother who is soaring in the police.’
Gavin shook his head. ‘Soaring’s far too generous – but no. Kenny’s a happy man. The farm’s all he’s ever wanted. He’s sorry for me, having to work in the city.’
‘It could be hard though,’ I said. ‘Having a younger sibling who outshone you.’ I was reminded of Oliver the golden. Was he older than Laura, or younger? It was hard to tell; she had a maturity that he lacked. I suddenly wondered how I’d have turned out if the baby brother Maman had miscarried all those years ago had lived. I’d have had to take second place to the boy …
‘Wake up, Cassandre.’ Maman tipped a ladleful of rabbit on my plate, the meat tenderly pink, garnished with green and black olives. I helped myself to tatties, and took a mouthful. It was meltingly soft.
‘Mmmm. Wonderful, Maman.’ I resolved to get the recipe before I went to stay with Gavin. It was the sort of dish that would cook well in a haybox.
‘Ah,’ Dad said, ‘I fell in love with her beautiful face, and discovered I’d married a woman who could cook as well as she sang.’
Maman laughed. ‘So what was distracting you from your food, my Cassandre?’
‘I was just thinking,’ I said. It would be unethical to ask Gavin to investigate the Eastleys, but Dad had business contacts everywhere.
‘The ship?’ Gavin said. He was quick. I nodded.
‘People I’m not sure about. A charming brother with no staying power, whose sister looks worried about him all the time. Watches him.’ I wondered about mentioning this morning’s fall in the broch, but decided it was too sensation-seeking. ‘The other thing … oh, I’m beginning to sound as if I’m paranoid.’ I explained about Daniel, and the uneasy feeling both Agnetha and I had about him.
‘Agnetha’s on top of her job,’ Gavin said. ‘You too. If you say he’s not the usual type, I’m happy to take your word for it.’
I looked across at Dad. ‘I don’t suppose you could tug your grapevine? I don’t know what the firm’s called, but it’s accountants, and their surname’s Eastley.’
Dad reflected, and shook his head. ‘But I know someone who will know. You just want a few quiet questions?’
I nodded. ‘Nothing that’ll get back to them.’
‘Just the general feel of them.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Not too late yet … I’ll give Richard a phone while you’re having your coffee.’
Dessert was lemon souffle – ‘The Co-op has nothing like the cakes from Délices de St Michel,’ Maman sighed – and after it, Maman and I headed through into the kitchen to do the dishes while Dad made his phone call, Gavin deliberated over a shelf of malt whiskies, and Cat went out to check on the sparrows in the garden. Dad had installed the latest in dishwashers for Maman’s return, but she wasn’t going to trust a machine with the plates which had belonged to her great-aunt in Tours. I was given the dish mop and Marigolds, while she wielded the dishcloth.
I could see she wanted to talk to me. She gave a flick of her dark eyes towards the sitting room and went into soft, rapid French. ‘My Cassandre, Dermot remembered the young man’s name. It didn’t mean anything to him, but I knew it.’ She gave another quick check over her shoulder, in a way that would have had First Conspirator written on her brow in any opera house. Luckily Gavin was back-on to us, considering the respective merits of a 1995 Ardbeg and a thirty-five-year-old Old Pulteney. ‘What’s going on?’
‘I don’t know,’ I said. I passed her one of the plates, dripping with soap suds, and was given it back.
‘Rinse it, darling. But he is who Dermot thinks he is?’
‘A dead man. Yes.’ I turned to look at her. ‘Except he’s behaving as if he’s never seen me before.’
‘But he knows you?’
I shook my head. ‘He must know me. But what can I do, Maman? It’s no crime to use another name. Maybe he’s still angry. From his point of view, I knocked him overboard and left him to drown.’
She glanced at my cheek. ‘You had reason.’ She stacked the last plate on the pile and lifted them into the cupboard. ‘So what will you do?’
I began on the knives and forks, fishing each one dripping out of the soapy water, rinsing and laying them on the draining board. ‘Wait. Watch.’
Maman made a face. Waiting and watching was her least favourite reaction to a difficult situation. ‘He behaved as though …’ She paused, and shot another glance sitting-room-wards. ‘They will wonder what we are t
alking about so earnestly.’
‘I’ll say you were telling me to turn respectable.’
‘That’s what I do want to tell you.’ She put an arm around me. ‘My Cassandre, you and Gavin could be very happy. He could be your rock, the home you would sail back to. Don’t let this charmer lead you astray.’ She frowned. ‘Or make misunderstandings. I tell you, he is mischievous.’
‘I know.’ I spread my hands. ‘But I have old loyalties too.’ I glanced towards Gavin, then back at her. ‘How can I tell this one, if I don’t know what the other one is up to?’
It gave her pause. ‘Yes,’ she said reluctantly. ‘But don’t leave it too long.’ She hung the drying cloth over the cooker handle, and laughed. ‘Don’t be the lady in the ballad, who ran off with the gipsies.’
I turned to stare. ‘Maman, where on earth have you been hearing ballads?’
‘Oh, my mother was a great fan of an American singer, Joan Baez.’ She sang a couple of lines: ‘The gipsies came to the castle gate, And oh, but they sang merrily …’
The song jingled on in my head, ‘They sang so sweet and so complete, that they cast their glamourie ower her.’ Glamourie. It was a good word for Alain’s brand of charm.
Gavin turned his head at Maman’s singing. ‘The Earl of Cassilis’s lady, and the gipsy?’ He stretched his hand out to me, smiling. ‘Now if it had been a sailor …’
I hoped he wouldn’t remember this conversation when he met Alain.
Dad came back in then. ‘Did I hear you singing, Eugénie?’ He sat down on the couch. ‘Well, Gavin, what’s it to be?’
‘The Old Pulteney.’ Dad handed him a glass, and he took a long breath of the smell. ‘Ah, that’s a treat.’
Dad poured himself a generous measure and settled back. ‘Well, now, Cass, I got some interesting information on your firm. Ryder and Whittingham, it’s called. Richard knew the mother well – her maiden name was Whittingham, and it was her great-grandfather’s firm, founded back in the 1880s. The office is in Queen Street, the heart of the New Town.’
Death on a Shetland Isle Page 7