As I went into the hall, the angry conversation in the lounge seemed even louder.
“But we’ve got to catch our plane! The CRA, stingy misers, told us we had to pay for ‘any changes in travel plans.’ And I don’t know about the rest of you, but I can’t afford—”
“Honey, the money’s the least of it. I got responsibilities. Who’s gonna take the choir to Indianapolis next week? Who’s gonna take care of my boys? Who’s gonna—”
“This is an utterly pointless discussion. We can hardly be held responsible for the weather. We will leave this island when we are able to leave. Surely the CRA—”
“‘Go to Iona,’ they said. ‘Peace and quiet,’ they said. I want peace and quiet, I should stand in the middle of Michigan Avenue at rush hour—”
“—never get home, never see my church again, the choir, the organ—”
“It’s her fault.”
I walked into the room to Janet’s accusation. The rest of them stopped talking.
“We could have taken the ferry this morning if she hadn’t made us stick around for the cops.”
They all looked at me. I stood where I was. I was soaked through and needed a hot bath, but it was time I asserted myself.
“Janet, that’s nonsense and you know it. You had no plans to leave today until you knew the storm was coming. No, don’t interrupt.” It was my best schoolteacher tone, known to quell a roomful of unruly sixth-graders. No one said a word.
“Furthermore, I had nothing whatever to do with the fact that you were required to be questioned. That’s standard police procedure. And certainly I didn’t cause the breakdown of the ferry. We’ve all been forced together by the storm. It will be easier if we try to be nice to each other.
“I don’t know my Bible nearly as well as Hattie Mae, but I do remember a remark from another source at about the time of the New Testament. I quoted it to Jake when we first met: ‘See how these Christians love one another.’ I recommend we try it.”
And I stalked out.
Andrew had put my suitcase in my same room. I filled the tub, stripped off my wet clothes, and prepared to luxuriate.
It didn’t work.
Oh, I got warm, all right, but my taut muscles wouldn’t relax. It didn’t matter how often I told myself that I was being foolish, that there was no murderer in the building. My mind struggled to believe it, but my nerves stayed tense. Just be careful, something in a hidden layer of my consciousness kept saying. Just watch yourself.
I splooshed out of the tub, put on dry clothes, and plodded down to the lounge.
I wasn’t sure how I would be greeted after that remarkably self-righteous little speech I’d felt obliged to make, but at least they had all calmed down. Hattie Mae and Chris, if I could believe my eyes, were sitting together in front of the fire drinking tea. Teresa, Grace, and Jake, around a small table, were sipping various liquids out of small glasses and talking, while Janet sat alone, reading. Only one electric light had been turned on, but oil lamps glowed all over the room, creating a coziness that belied the howl of the wind.
There is a kind of camaraderie, sometimes, that pulls people together in an emergency. I remembered the winter, long ago in Indiana, when a world-without-end blizzard had struck, and we were all stuck in our houses for days before they managed to get the streets plowed and the stores open. Neighbors Frank and I didn’t even know stopped by to ask if we needed anything from the grocery; they had organized a flotilla of kids with sleds and were walking to the nearest open market, two miles away.
Perhaps the same spirit of “we’re all in this together” had possessed the Chicago group. I hoped so. Given, however, the abrasive nature of their relationships with each other, I was far from confident.
Teresa saw me standing in the doorway and beckoned me over to join them. Jake looked me over as I sat down. “I like that sweater. You feeling better?”
“Yes, thank you. Also in a better temper, you’ll be glad to know.”
And that seemed to be that. Apologies were understood to have been exchanged. I sipped the gin and tonic Grace ordered for me and tried to relax.
We all winced when something struck the house with a loud crash.
“Tree limb,” said Andrew, who was tending the bar. “I reckon. I can’t see for certain with the shutters in place.”
“How bad is it going to be, Mr. Campbell?” asked Grace.
“Bad,” he said, polishing a glass. “The Met says not a hurricane, precisely, but force-eight winds, at the least, and rain enough to swamp the small boats at anchor.”
“Do they say how long it will last?”
“The worst may be over by tomorrow.”
He seemed calm enough, but then, as he implied, there was no point in worrying about a situation over which we had no control. He and Hester had done what they could to prepare for the storm; now we would all just have to sit it out.
Teresa spoke the question we were all thinking. “Will this house be safe?”
“Well, now, that’s in the hands of God, isn’t it? It’s survived for two hundred years, now. Likely it’ll see this storm through, as well.”
I shivered. “Well, I don’t mind admitting I’m scared. We don’t have hurricanes in Indiana. And I worry about the search for Bob’s body, too. They won’t be able to get back to it until the wind and waves go down, and who knows if they’ll ever find it by that time.”
Andrew shook his head. “Aye, it’s worrisome. I’m hoping they won’t need to climb about in Fingal’s Cave. The basalt is dangerous when it’s wet, very slippery.”
Oh, dear heaven! Now they all knew! I looked around quickly, to check reactions, but everyone was tense; I could see nothing on any face that seemed to indicate guilt. I shivered again as Hester came into the room.
“Dinner is ready, if you’d like to come through.”
13
HESTER, OR PROBABLY Andrew, had pulled the small dining room tables together, forming one long table. It was sound psychology, I thought, meant to foster the communal warmth that was beginning to establish itself. People like to huddle together in the face of danger.
Only Janet seemed unhappy with the arrangement, seating herself at one end and establishing an invisible, but obvious, barrier. I sat next to her, but I didn’t try to talk. Whatever chip she was carrying on her shoulder, she wouldn’t be any more cordial if I tried to knock it off.
No, I was perfectly happy when Chris, who sat on my other side, made polite conversation.
“How is the music in your English church, Mrs. Martin?”
“Dorothy, please. And it’s wonderful. My church is a cathedral, you know; Sherebury is a very old cathedral town. The church dates from shortly after the Conqueror, and a bit of the original building is still there, although most of it is late fifteenth, early sixteenth century, perpendicular style. The acoustics are incredible, and while the choir isn’t in the very top rank—I mean, it isn’t King’s College—it’s very, very good. The organist/choirmaster is Jeremy Sayers. I don’t suppose you happen to know him?”
Chris raised his eyebrows. “I know of him, and I’ve heard some of his recordings. But he’s marvelous! You’re lucky.”
I agreed. “Have you had a chance to hear any good music on this trip? I know you were traveling in Scotland for a while before you came to Iona.”
He scowled. “Just Edinburgh, Glasgow, and Inverness. And they had us so tightly scheduled there was no time for side trips. We went to a couple of church services, Presbyterian mostly, but the music was mediocre. I had great hopes for Iona, because it’s so old—plainsong, maybe, perhaps even some ancient Celtic music, but . . .” He spread his hands and I laughed.
“No, music doesn’t seem to be a principal interest here, does it? I don’t suppose you got a chance to play any of the organs, either, did you?” I asked innocently.
“No.” He looked at me curiously. “Am I imagining things, or have you got something up your sleeve?”
“Oh, dear, and
I thought I was being so subtle! No, I just had an idea, that’s all. The storm is so loud and scary, I thought maybe you would agree to play the piano for us after dinner. And maybe— well, maybe Hattie Mae could sing? She’s really good.”
“I know. But have you talked to her about this?”
“No, I told you I just thought of it.” I ate a forkful of boeuf bourguignon and waited, a little anxiously, for his answer.
“Oh, well, I don’t mind. I’d rather enjoy it, to tell the truth. Gospel is quite a change from the sort of thing I usually do. But you’d better check with her. She can’t stand me, you know. She can’t stand any of ‘my kind.’”
He sounded bitter, and I couldn’t leave it alone.
“Chris, shut me up if I get too personal, but do you get much of that kind of prejudice? I mean, in a profession where so many men are gay, I’d have thought . . .”
“You’d be surprised,” he said with a brittle laugh. “Not among musicians, usually, but there are a lot of rednecks in the Midwest. And they tend to show up in churches, good Christians thinking they have a mandate from God to hate me.”
“Well, to tell the truth, I’m not too sure how I feel about homosexuality myself, but one thing I am sure about is that God never meant us to hate anybody. People’s actions, maybe—but on the other hand, we were told not to judge. And I assume if you want my opinion, you’ll ask. Does an ambivalent attitude offend you?”
“No. You’re honest, anyway, and that’s rather refreshing. It’s people who are trying to save my soul, or the opposite, the ones who try to make a hero out of me because I am gay . . .” He cast a dark look at Teresa, across the table. “And by the way, I’m celibate. By choice.”
“I didn’t ask,” I said hastily. “Okay, I’ll sound Hattie Mae out about a concert. I think she’s mellowing a little; maybe it’s the storm. And surely even she, in the wake of Bob’s death—”
“Are you saying that this is a memorial for Bob, this concert of yours?”
“Well, no, I didn’t particularly—”
“Because if it is, count me out! I couldn’t stand the guy while he was alive, and I don’t intend to make pretty music for him now that he’s dead!”
I waited, with a mixture of surprise and fascination, for him to go on, but he had evidently said all he intended to say, and simply sat there glaring at me.
“No, Chris, I didn’t mean it that way, and there’s no reason the music has to be religious, either. I just thought we needed something to cheer us up. You know, ‘Eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow we may die.’”
It was a shame that the wind rose just then, and I had to raise my voice. The silly remark came out as a shout, and did not exactly serve to lighten the mood.
It was after dinner, however, when we were gathered in the lounge eating our blackberry crumble and drinking coffee, that I utterly shattered our desperate attempts to pretend that it was a normal evening.
I looked around for my familiar little bowl licker. He was nowhere to be seen, despite the quantity of thick, rich cream that the humans were pouring over their desserts.
“Where’s Stan?” I said.
It was a casual question, to begin with, but it started a desultory search. There weren’t many places to look in the lounge. He wasn’t under any of the chairs, nor in either bookcase, nor in the wood box. A prickle of alarm began to rise.
“Stan’s a people cat,” said Teresa, her voice worried. “He ought to be here, where the people are. Where do you suppose . . . ?”
“He’s a greedy wee beggar,” said Andrew, who was serving the coffee. “I’d have thought he’d be after the cream. I’ll check the kitchen.”
He wasn’t in the kitchen. He wasn’t curled up on or under any of the dining room furniture. He wasn’t in the office, nor in the tiny private parlor behind the office that the Campbells used as a hideaway.
The cat lovers in the group were by now thoroughly alarmed. “The bedrooms,” said Chris. “Maybe he got scared of the wind and high-tailed it under one of the beds.”
We searched. Even Grace and Janet, who said they hated cats, joined in. We searched every bedroom, including the ones that weren’t in use. Apart from uncovering some interesting insights into our fellow guests (the extreme tidiness of Grace’s room and the wild disarray of Teresa’s, the stash of Country Life magazines that Chris kept under his bed, the bottled water in Jake’s closet, and the pitiful little stack of comic books on Bob’s bedside table), we were unsuccessful. No Stan.
I tried not to panic. “Cats are very good at hiding, you know. I swear, both of mine dematerialize sometimes. He’s probably just upset by the storm, and found a place to sit it all out.”
But Hester shook her head slowly. “He’s not that way. He likes to be smack in the middle when anything interesting’s going.”
“And when he does hide, he has his favorite places,” Andrew added. “We know them all, and we’ve looked. He isn’t there.”
“All right, then,” said Jake commandingly. “When’s the last time anybody saw the cat?”
There was a pause.
“He came around to see me this afternoon,” I said. “He wanted to share my lunch. I finally chased him off, and I haven’t seen him since.”
“How do you know it was him?” demanded Janet. “There are gray tiger cats all over this island, and your cottage is a long way for him to go.”
Chris, Teresa, and I looked at her pityingly.
“There’s no mistaking one cat for another, if you pay attention,” said Chris. “They’re as different as people.”
“Well, they all look alike to me,” said Janet stubbornly. “Anyway, this cat, or some cat, was hanging around the garden this afternoon. I was trying to show these people the way to protect their plants from the storm. I didn’t get very far, I must say, but you can’t be nice to some people. And the blasted cat was getting in our way, playing with the rags I was using to tie up the mums. I finally threw a turnip at him, and he took off down the road, toward the Abbey.”
She folded her arms defiantly and stared us all down. “I didn’t hit him with the turnip.”
That was as close as she was going to come to an apology, and all the dirty looks in the room weren’t going to make her open her mouth again.
Apparently that was the last anyone had seen of Stan; at least nobody could remember catching sight of him later in the afternoon. By about four o’clock all the guests had been helping Hester and Andrew prepare the house for the coming storm, putting up the shutters, taking in the lawn furniture. Stan hadn’t been in evidence, inside or out.
We looked at each other. The wind howled. The cries of a cat could never be heard over that uproar.
Jake and Chris moved as one man. “Back door first?” asked Jake.
“It’s the one he uses most,” Chris agreed.
Grace caught their meaning and moved to bar their progress. “Are you out of your minds?” she demanded. “Do you intend to open that door to look for a cat? A cat? Do you realize you may never be able to shut it again? He’d be drowned by now, anyway!”
The men said nothing, but gently pushed past her and went down the hall.
It wasn’t until they had checked the back door, wrestled it shut again with Andrew’s help and started for the front, that Teresa made up her mind.
“I’m going to look for him,” she announced, and headed for the front door with them.
This time Grace’s wasn’t the only protest. A chorus arose, my voice among them.
“Teresa, Grace has a point. He’s probably right here in the house somewhere, but if not, either he’s found shelter someplace, or he’s already . . . anyway, there’s no point in risking your life. You do realize that’s what you’d be doing? If you got hit by a branch, or a roof tile, you’d—”
She turned to me, eyes blazing. “And who’s to say my life’s worth more than his? Most animals are a lot nicer than most people. Anyway, St. Francis is my patron saint.”
&nbs
p; “What’s that got to do with it?” demanded Hattie Mae from the edge of the nervous group, but I thought I understood. If it had been one of my cats out there in that torment of wind and rain . . . but Teresa was being either more heroic or stupider than I, depending on your point of view. Stan wasn’t her cat.
Jake and Chris stood by the door, unwilling to open it lest Teresa dart out. Hester and Andrew looked at each other, a succession of emotions chasing across their faces—fear and worry and exasperation and indecision. Finally, Andrew cleared his throat.
“He’s our wee moggie. If anyone’s daft enough to go looking for him in all this, it ought to be me.” Hester, whose hands were clasped, white-knuckled, at her waist, opened her mouth, but Andrew went on. “And I’m not going, and I’m not allowing any of you out of the house. That’s flat. He’s a fine wee friend, and if he never comes back he’ll be missed, but he’s safe or he’s not, and we’ll have no lives risked.” Andrew had already locked the back door. Now he took a key out of his pocket, turned it in the front door with a sharp little click, and stomped into the kitchen.
THERE’S A LOT to be said for Italian family influence. Teresa recognized authority when she heard it. She didn’t like it, and her eyes blazed, but she went back to the lounge, indignation in every stiff line of her body, and sat as far away from Janet as she could get.
I sat next to her. She turned her head away. “It was a brave thing you tried to do,” I said mildly. “I love cats, too.”
“That’s not the point!” she said furiously. “It’s the principle—”
“Teresa, actions taken to defend a principle are dangerous. That’s the sort of thing that leads to horrors like holy wars and the Inquisition. And you know perfectly well you did it out of love. Or tried to. If it was a stupid idea, at least it was nobly stupid.”
“Are you calling me Don Quixote?” She was outraged.
“Of course I am. Now don’t slam your fist down on that table; it’s an antique, and fragile, I should think.”
“You’re worried about a piece of furniture when that poor cat is out there dying?”
Holy Terror in the Hebrides Page 13