Shadows of Death

by Jeanne M. Dams

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  The Dorothy Martin Mysteries from Jeanne M. Dams

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  The Dorothy Martin Mysteries from Jeanne M. Dams

  THE BODY IN THE TRANSEPT

  TROUBLE IN THE TOWN HALL

  HOLY TERROR IN THE HEBRIDES

  MALICE IN MINIATURE

  THE VICTIM IN VICTORIA STATION

  KILLING CASSIDY

  TO PERISH IN PENZANCE

  SINS OUT OF SCHOOL

  WINTER OF DISCONTENT

  A DARK AND STORMY NIGHT *

  THE EVIL THAT MEN DO *

  THE CORPSE OF ST JAMES’S *

  MURDER AT THE CASTLE *

  SHADOWS OF DEATH *

  * available from Severn House

  SHADOWS OF DEATH

  A Dorothy Martin Mystery

  Jeanne M. Dams

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  First published in Great Britain 2013 by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

  9-15 High Street, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM1 1DF.

  First published in the USA 2014 by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS of

  110 East 59th Street, New York, N.Y. 10022

  eBook edition first published in 2013 by Severn House Digital an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited

  Copyright © 2013 by Jeanne M. Dams.

  The right of Jeanne M. Dams to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

  Dams, Jeanne M. author.

  Shadows of death. – (The Dorothy Martin mysteries; 14)

  1. Martin, Dorothy (Fictitious character)–Fiction.

  2. Excavations (Archaeology)–Scotland–Orkney–Fiction.

  3. Murder–Investigation–Scotland–Orkney–Fiction.

  4. Women private investigators–Great Britain–Fiction.

  5. Americans–Great Britain–Fiction. 6. Detective and mystery stories.

  I. Title II. Series

  813.5'4-dc23

  ISBN-13: 978-07278-8280-6 (cased)

  ISBN-13: 978-18475-1491-2 (trade paper)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-465-2 (ePub)

  Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

  This ebook produced by

  Palimpsest Book Production Limited,

  Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland.

  Acknowledgements

  There are two real people in this book. Andrew Appleby, who kindly gave me permission to introduce him into my fiction, is a splended potter and a delightful person. He resembles my fictional character in both appearance and personality, though my character’s thoughts, words, and actions are not to be imputed to the real Andrew.

  I first met Roadkill (who counts as a person) at the door of the cat charity shop in Stromness. He demanded loudly to be let in, though the shop was not open. I tried to tell him I couldn’t do a thing about it, but he was not impressed. He certainly did not give me permission to put him into the book, but I dared do it anyway. I should stress that not a hair of his ornery head was harmed in the writing of this book. So far as I know, he still roams Stromness terrorizing the human and animal population, and daring cars to run him over.

  All the other characters are fictitious, especially members of the Orkney Area Command of the Northern Constabulary, and if they resemble any real persons living in Orkney or elsewhere, I didn’t mean it. I have tried to use typical names, so if I have hit upon someone’s real name, be assured that it was by accident. I have arranged ferry and excursion boat times to suit myself. Some of the shops are real and some are not, some of the Neolithic sites are real and some are not. In particular, the site I have called High Sanday is fictitious, as is the island of Papa Sanday, and though its resemblance to the marvellous dig now going on at the Ness of Brodgar can hardly be denied, I must state firmly that none of the characters involved in my dig are at all like the dedicated archeologists at the Ness of Brodgar site. I would strongly urge readers to look up the real one. It’s awe-inspiring.

  I owe so much to so many people it’s impossible to list them all, but besides Andrew, I especially need to thank my friends Tuck and Janice Langland for insisting I must come to Orkney, and serving as my hosts there for several days. On the island of Shapinsay, which Dorothy and Alan didn’t get to visit on this trip, I had a lovely time with my hostess Lesley McKeown at Haughland House and then at Balfour Castle with David McCowan Hill and his superb staff.

  Orkney is a magical place, a place unlike anywhere else on earth. Visit it. You’ll never be quite the same again.

  ONE

  ‘How much do you know about archaeology?’

  I looked up, startled. I was deep in a new Alexander McCall Smith book, miles away in Edinburgh. Alan’s question had come out of nowhere. ‘Um … archaeology?’ I said brilliantly.

  ‘The study of ancient civilizations and so on.’

  ‘I do know what the word means, dear. I suppose I know pretty much what everyone knows. What brought that up?’

  ‘I wondered if you might enjoy a visit to Orkney.’

  I shook my head to clear it. ‘Alan, my love, I’ve barely heard of Orkney. I know where it is, more or less. Way north. What does it have to do with archaeology?’

  ‘The whole island group is an archaeologist’s dream. The oldest evidence of human occupation in all of Britain is in Orkney. There are stone circles that predate Stonehenge by a thousand years or so, and houses that were built long before the Pyramids. Helen and I visited briefly, many years ago when the children were in their teens, and I read just now –’ he waved his newspaper – ‘that they’re doing new excavations that may prove to be very exciting. It might be worth a visit, if you’re at all interested in that sort of thing.’

  I wasn’t, particularly, but I was extremely interested in Alan. Our marriage, the second for both of us after our respective spouses died, was rock-solid. But there’s always a tiny residual jealousy of the first spouse. If Alan and Helen had enjoyed a visit to Orkney, then I would enjoy a visit to Orkney if it killed me.


  Thus began our part in events that were to change many lives.

  Alan emailed a friend in Orkney, a potter named Andrew Appleby whom he hadn’t seen for many years. Andrew’s reply was an ebullient phone call inviting us both to come and visit the dig and have dinner with him and his wife and stay in the islands for a few weeks. ‘We can’t ask you to stay here with us; the house is being refitted and isn’t really liveable. But I know of a lovely holiday flat in Stromness that’s available. It’ll do you beautifully.’

  ‘The dig is on Papa Sanday, I understand,’ said Alan, on the speaker phone. ‘I don’t think I know that island.’

  ‘You wouldn’t. It’s away up north, a tiny place and very nearly uninhabited, only three or four crofts. And there’s no regular ferry service. Makes it a bit difficult for the crew – they’ve had to build a tent city – but they’re turning up some amazing stuff. Come see for yourself.’

  ‘Andrew’s very active in the Friends of Ancient Orkney,’ Alan said when we’d ended the phone call with vague promises. ‘He’d give us a tour of the dig, I’m sure. And he’s an entertaining fellow. He lives in an area near the Loch of Harray, spelt “a-y” but pronounced “Harry”, so he calls himself the Harray Potter.’

  A remote, nearly uninhabited island somewhere north of nowhere didn’t sound much like my idea of a pleasant spot for a vacation. And if there was no ferry, how were we to get there? Swim?

  Shadowy visions of Helen made me keep my thoughts to myself. ‘Why not?’ I said brightly. ‘Call him back and find out how we book that holiday cottage. For … a fortnight, maybe?’

  Alan knows me very well. His mouth twitched, but he didn’t quite laugh. ‘You’ll like it, love. I promise.’

  I was happy to let him make arrangements for the journey. It’s a long way from the south of England to the northern reaches of the United Kingdom. The Shetland Islands are farther north than Orkney, but Orkney’s plenty far enough. A little research on the Internet told me the climate was ‘temperate’. I’ve lived in England for quite a while, but I’m American by birth, and I know that ‘temperate’, to the Brits, doesn’t mean quite what it does in America. I packed, for the week in mid-June, wool sweaters and fleece pants, with warm, waterproof jackets and hats and gloves. Alan worked out a circuitous route to Aberdeen, where we’d get a car ferry to Kirkwall, the larger of the two cities on ‘the Mainland’, as I found out the principal island was called. ‘It would be simpler just to fly from London,’ he said with a sigh.

  ‘But then we couldn’t take Watson,’ I said firmly. I’ve been a cat person all my life, but our lovable mutt Watson had become so firmly entrenched as a part of our family that a holiday without him was unthinkable. We’d had to leave him behind on one or two occasions and none us had cared for the experience, the dog least of all.

  So we asked Jane Langland, our indispensable next-door neighbour, to look after the two cats. Jane loves looking after animals, even cats, though she’s a dog person. Samantha and Esmeralda would scarcely notice our absence, but of course they’d berate us when we returned, complaining that they’d been abandoned and left to starve. Cats are, I’m afraid, terrible liars.

  After several years of living in the adopted country I love so much, I’ve learned that it doesn’t really rain all the time in England, despite what I thought as an American tourist. There are periods of weather so perfect I think I’m living in Eden. Warm, sunny Mays with a hundred different varieties of flowers blooming in extravagant technicolor. Julys so hot, one can actually enjoy a visit to the seashore and welcome the cool breezes. Mellow Septembers rich with the scent of apples and the golds and rusts of the harvest. Halcyon days.

  However. While all the above is true, it is also true that there often seems to be a particular malevolence that singles out Alan and me when we plan a holiday. Not always, mind you. We’d had a lovely time in Wales a while back, with brilliant sunshine nearly every day. But as if to pay us back, or perhaps to punish me for my slanderous meteorological prejudices of yore, the gods conjured up disgusting weather for our trip north. The roads, once we got past London, were unfamiliar even to Alan, and driving rain made it hard to see anything but the largest signs. And of course Watson required periodic stops. At least he enjoyed the rain as little as we did and took care of his business with admirable promptness.

  We had decided to take it in slow, easy stages, so we spent the first night in York, one of my favourite cathedral cities in England. That leg was only a bit over 200 miles, but it took us all day in the rain, and we arrived far too tired to appreciate the charm of the medieval city. Indeed, Alan’s normally equable temper was visibly fraying as he dealt with the traffic, the inevitable result of modern vehicles – many modern vehicles – crowding streets designed for horses and pedestrians. We reached our hotel at last, and paused only to shake our umbrellas, remove our dripping raincoats, and settle Watson, before heading straight to the bar.

  ‘Two large Jack Daniels, please,’ said Alan to the barman. ‘And some nuts or crisps or whatever you have in the way of snacks.’

  ‘Right you are, mate,’ said the man in a voice straight from London. ‘And would the lady like some ice?’

  I’ve given up trying to figure out how I am still instantly recognizable as an American, before I even open my mouth. I’ve lived in England for years. I buy my clothes here. What little make-up I wear comes from Boots. I even wear hats. I sighed. ‘No ice, thank you, just a very little water.’

  The bourbon helped. The crisps didn’t do much to allay our hunger, but the barman offered a plate of smoked salmon, which did take the edge off. Although it was scandalously early, we went on in to dinner and worked our way through a solid meal, satisfying if somewhat unimaginative. Then, without so much as an exchange of glances to confirm our decision, we went up to our room.

  ‘Not the evening to explore York,’ I said as I got into a flannel nightgown. It was still light outside, a wet, depressing sort of half-light glimpsed through the rain that coursed down the window panes.

  ‘No,’ Alan agreed. ‘One of the benefits of old age is that one can go to bed in the daylight without apology to anyone.’

  ‘Amen to that,’ I said with a yawn. ‘Watson, move over. I’m allowed some of the bed.’ I yawned again. ‘I don’t think I’m even going to unpack my book. Good night.’

  ‘Good night, love. A better day tomorrow.’

  But it wasn’t much better. The rain continued. We thought half-heartedly about a walk through the Shambles, the somewhat self-consciously quaint part of Old York, or a brief tour of the Minster. On a nice day both those things would have been high on my to-do list. In the rain, with another long drive ahead of us, not so much. An early start seemed the better idea. We were making today for Edinburgh, where, the TV weatherman said, the sun would be shining.

  Weathermen lie as often as cats.

  We did pass through some sunny patches of pretty country on our way north, rolling hills dotted with sheep in the delightful English manner. Watson, who apparently has some sheep dog in his eclectic mixture, wanted to chase them and sulked when we wouldn’t let him. I began to think about ‘England’s green and pleasant land’. Except by then we were, I thought, in Scotland, whose residents would not have been happy about the quotation. We stopped for lunch at a pub where the accents confirmed my guess. The rain began again, harder than ever, just as we were heading back to the car where we’d left our brollies. Watson waited until we were safe in the car to shake himself dry.

  At least the traffic abated as we ventured farther and farther north. It was bad around Edinburgh, of course, but once we found our hotel and settled in, we wouldn’t have to drive any more until morning. The rain had slackened to a mere drizzle by the time we’d fed Watson and unpacked the necessities for a one-night stay.

  ‘What do you say, Dorothy? Shall we venture out?’

  ‘Definitely. I haven’t seen Edinburgh in years, and besides, I’m tired of being cooped up. Two long days in a
car without a walk have left my joints stiff as old leather.’

  Watson heard the magic word ‘walk’ and was ecstatic. He was usually happy about whatever his humans wanted to do, but a walk was high on his list of favourites. He’d get wet, of course, but not drenched. We decided to take him along.

  Our hotel, the Glass House, was a few streets away from the centre of town, but a short walk brought us to Princes Street, what I would, back in Indiana, have called ‘the main drag’.

  The street had changed since I’d seen it last, or maybe my memories had painted it in brighter colours. No city looks its best in the rain. But certainly there hadn’t been huge holes in the street when I was there last, nor had the sound of pneumatic drills poisoned the air. ‘What on earth?’ I shouted to Alan above the din. He shrugged, but a passer-by answered me. ‘New rail line to the airport,’ he shouted. ‘Bloody nuisance!’

  Well, at the moment it was all of that. The construction added to the dirt I hadn’t noticed in earlier visits, rubbish blowing about and gathering in corners. Traffic was crawling snail-like, spewing fumes into the already rain-saturated atmosphere. Even pedestrians were finding it hard going, with many of the sidewalks (pavements, in Brit-speak) closed, and the streets slippery with mud.

  But when the inevitable jostlings occurred, everyone was polite about it. And the Castle still loomed at the top of its amazing hill, protecting or threatening the city, depending on one’s point of view.

  ‘It’s changed,’ I said to Alan when we had moved away from Princes Street and I could make myself heard. ‘But it’s still a great city, isn’t it?’

  Alan smiled and squeezed my arm. I paused to try to wipe off Watson’s muddy paws (which he didn’t appreciate), and we sauntered on happily under our umbrellas.

  When hunger began to be an issue, we looked around for a cab back to the hotel, but decided in the end that we’d get there just as quickly on foot. That was when our noses led us to a very nice Indian restaurant, where we had a leisurely meal (leaving poor Watson to languish outside) and then discovered, to our delight, that the theatre across the street was playing Oliver. So we established Watson back in the hotel room, spent a pleasant evening at the theatre, and then got a good night’s sleep to prepare for what promised to be a long day.