‘Do you have any ideas about what happened, then?’
‘It certainly looked like an accident, didn’t it? Carter took a fall in the dark, hit a wall, it caved in on him. But there are problems with that scenario, too. What was he doing there at dead of night?’
‘I’d wondered that, too,’ I put in. ‘Surely he couldn’t have expected to see or do anything in the pitch dark.’
‘Well, of course it was never quite pitch dark, was it? That was the night of the solstice, and it was a lovely clear night. There were a few hours of twilight, that’s all.’
‘Oh, yes. Remember, Alan? We took Watson out when it was nearly eleven, and we could see perfectly well.’
‘Ye-es.’ Alan sounded doubtful. ‘But they think Carter died around two. That would be the darkest part of the night, surely. Was there a moon?’
‘Not much of one,’ I said eagerly. ‘I remember seeing that it was just a sliver.’
‘Well then, I still maintain it would have been too dark to see anything meaningful at High Sanday, and I don’t understand what the man was doing there.’ Alan ran a hand down the back of his neck.
‘He had a boat, didn’t he?’ I asked.
‘Oh, lord, yes. A huge, luxurious cabin cruiser with a galley and bar and God knows what. Named Vanderbilt, after the American tycoon. Carter used to boast that she could sleep six. “Eight, if they’re good friends,” he’d add. Nudge, nudge, wink, wink.’ Larsen finished his tea. ‘I’m sorry, but he was an odious man. I can’t feel much grief at his passing.’
‘But back to the boat, Jim. Oh, yes, I’ll have some too, love.’ Alan handed me his cup as I refilled Larsen’s. ‘I don’t remember seeing anything that big when we all converged on the island after Carter’s death.’
‘No. She wasn’t there. I told that police inspector, and I suppose they’re looking for her. She isn’t berthed at Kirkwall, either, because I looked. You can’t miss her, really.’
‘Goodness! That’s important! I hope the police find it – her. There might be some important evidence on board. Did he have a driver – er, pilot?’
‘No, he fancied himself as a boatman and carried no crew. Of course, when he gave a party he’d hire someone to cater, while he swaggered about in a yachting cap and blazer.’
‘But no pilot who could have taken the boat away,’ Alan mused. ‘So how did he get to Papa Sanday?’
‘Obviously someone else took him there,’ I said. ‘Someone who owns a boat. At least, I wouldn’t want to hire a boat if I were planning to kill someone, would you?’
‘Never having planned to kill someone, I couldn’t say.’ Larsen was looking at me rather oddly. ‘You must be – er – a reader of crime novels.’
‘I am,’ I admitted. ‘The Golden Age, mostly. I do love Miss Marple and Lord Peter and the rest.’ I shut my mouth firmly and smiled. Let Alan tell him there was a little more to my interest in crime. Or his, for that matter.
‘And I,’ Alan said with a grin, ‘am a retired policeman. I thought I might as well tell you, since you’d probably find out anyway. You’re good at digging, aren’t you?’
‘Passably. Also fairly good at a synthesis. Am I to conclude that you are investigating Carter’s murder, and view me as a possible murderer?’ He gestured at the tea things. ‘Was this not quite the friendly, innocent invitation you would have had me believe?’
I chose to answer that. ‘You’re right, in part. We are investigating the crime, originally at Mr Fairweather’s behest. He felt that a man with Alan’s experience might have a few more ideas than the local police. My husband is too modest to tell you that he was a chief constable for some years. I don’t know exactly what that’s equivalent to in the Scottish ranks, but—’
‘Never mind. I get the idea. But you said “we” are investigating?’
‘I’ve assisted Alan from time to time, in a purely amateur capacity, so yes, it’s “we”. And as for the invitation, we wanted to get to know you better, and I for one have lots of questions about the dig. So do you think we could leave the subject of murder for a while? I’ll brew another pot of tea, and we’ll finish all these sinful things and just talk.’
The kitchen and dining area were really one, so I went on talking as I put the kettle on. ‘The first thing I want to know is, how in the world do you determine the age of an artefact, or even its use? I mean, a piece of stone could be an axe head or a tool for working leather, or even just an oddly shaped stone. How do you know?’
‘We don’t, of course. Well, the age part is fairly easy, given carbon dating. Where in the dig something is found is also an indispensable indicator, it being a reasonable assumption that in most cases, the deeper we go, the earlier we go. So dating is more-or-less straightforward.
‘The usage questions are much harder. We can’t get back there into the heads of the people who made that tool, or, as you surmise, even be absolutely sure it was a tool at all. All we can do is make an educated guess. If we can see that the stone has certainly been worked, shaped by a human hand, then it’s reasonable to assume that it had a use. Again, we can’t go back there and ask, but when the only tool you have to work a stone is a harder piece of stone, you probably don’t go to the trouble just to make it pretty. So that part’s fairly easy. As for use, we make guesses the same way you would if you went into a shop and saw a tool you didn’t know, with a head, two flat planes on that head, and a longish handle. You’d conclude it was a hammer or mallet of some sort, right?’
‘And the label that said “Sledgehammer, four pounds ninety” would help, too.’
Both the men laughed at that. ‘Well, your identification task would be a little easier than ours, I agree. Thank you,’ added Larsen, as I poured his tea.
‘I do take your point, though. Once my first husband and I – oh, years ago now – we walked into a hardware store that carried a lot of other stuff, kitchen gadgets and the like. I picked up something and asked him what he thought it was. Neither of us could imagine, and neither could two of the clerks we asked. Finally someone told us it was a ravioli cutter. Now, never having made ravioli in my life, I couldn’t possibly have guessed. And I’ll bet you have some of the same difficulties. As you say, you didn’t live then. Surely many of their chores were quite different from ours. So how do you work out the puzzle when you come across something that would have no modern use?’
‘That’s where the education part comes in. We rely a lot on research done by other archaeologists. Of course their conclusions are based on educated guesses, too, so …’ He spread his hands and we laughed. ‘In all seriousness, though, it’s a fascinating job, this business of identification, and I’m sure we don’t always get it right. But …’
He trailed off. I cocked my head.
‘I’m sure you’ll think this next bit is pure make-believe, a children’s fantasy,’ he went on diffidently, ‘but it’s actually quite true, and any archaeologist will tell you, that sometimes we just … know. I’ll pick up a tool and … oh, no, it sounds too absurd.’
‘Not to me,’ I said. ‘You hold it in your hand, and you do go back. For a moment you’re the man, or woman, who used that tool thousands of years ago. And you know.’
‘It isn’t something I often admit to a layman,’ he said drily. ‘And if you ask me about it in public I’ll deny I ever said such a thing. How did you know what I was going to say?’
‘Because I’ve felt it, too. Here in these islands one isn’t quite living in the twenty-first century. The people who lived at Skara Brae and the ones who put up the standing stones, they’re all still here, somehow. Not ghosts, I don’t mean that exactly. I guess I don’t know what I do mean, but I’ve felt the living presence of antiquity ever since I came here.’ I looked around the very modern kitchen, with its electric stove and dishwasher and fridge, its spotless white cabinets and the sleek modern chairs we were sitting on. ‘And if that doesn’t make any sense, and I admit it doesn’t, then at least I’m glad I’m in good company.’
‘My wife,’ said Alan blandly, ‘is acutely tuned in to the universe.’
‘Oh, for Pete’s sake, Alan, that makes me sound like some New Age type, instead of a plain ordinary Anglican. Speaking of which, I don’t suppose there’s an Anglican church around here, is there, Jim? I think I remember that almost everyone in this neck of the woods is Presbyterian, am I right?’
‘We call it Church of Scotland, but yes, most of us are what you Americans call Presbyterian or Calvinist. But there are at least two Episcopal churches – that’s what it’s known as here – one in Stromness and one in Kirkwall, though I don’t suppose you’d want to go that far.’ He gave us directions, and then stood. ‘This has been delightful, but duty calls. I have to go and mark papers from one of my classes of dunderheads. Thank you for inviting me. If you’re staying in Orkney for a few days, I’d like to show you over the dig, when the police let us have it back.’
We made vague promises to the vague invitation, Jim slipped Watson the last sandwich, and we closed the door behind him.
TWELVE
‘Well,’ said Alan. ‘Productive? Or not?’
‘We didn’t learn a lot about Carter’s murder, did we?’
‘Except the bit about the boat. That’s very interesting. It’s almost certain that Baikie knows about her, but of course he’s not going to be able to do anything about a search, at least for the present. I noticed you didn’t mention that we’re the principal investigators for the nonce.’
‘No. They’ll probably figure it out soon enough, but meanwhile it’s useful to be a little less visible. Unfortunately we don’t have the resources to go scouring the islands for the Vanderbilt.’
‘No, and even if we did, there are such a lot of islands, and some of them have sea caves where a boat could be hidden with ease. And of course the easiest way to hide a boat—’
‘—is to scuttle it,’ I finished, nodding. ‘But I can’t work out why someone would hide this one. Seems like it would be less conspicuous just to leave her wherever Carter usually berthed her.’
‘But if Carter’s murderer went to Papa Sanday in the Vanderbilt, with Carter, and then came back after he’d done the deed, he might be afraid he’d left damning evidence behind. In fact, he probably would have. Hair, fibres from his clothing, even fingerprints if he was really careless. My guess is that they won’t find the boat, because by now she’s at the bottom of the sea.’
‘But Alan! It’s not that easy to scuttle a boat, not out in deep water, unless you have some way to get away safely. And I don’t know about you, but I wouldn’t want to try to swim in these waters. They’re deep and they’re bitterly cold, and I’ll bet there are currents.’
‘The Vanderbilt probably had a dinghy. Anyone who knew how to pilot a boat that size would know how to launch a dinghy.’
‘Maybe, but I’m still not convinced. I think as soon as they have time to search, they’ll find the Vanderbilt someplace, and when they do, they’ll be able to nab the murderer.’
‘If this fine theory I’ve spun will hold water.’ Alan began to clear the table. ‘I hope you haven’t planned anything for dinner. I couldn’t eat a thing.’
‘There’s leftover curry, if you change your mind. We may not have learned a lot about the murder, though I do think the boat business is important, but we learned a lot about Larsen, don’t you think?’
‘For a stolid Calvinist, he certainly has a turn of fancy. Was that bit about your feelings of … er … empathy with the ancients genuine, or were you just trying to get his reactions?’
‘Oh, no, it’s entirely genuine. I hadn’t mentioned it to you because I knew you’d think I’d gone off my rocker, but it’s real. You know I’ve always believed in atmosphere, and been sensitive to it, and there’s an atmosphere in Orkney that’s almost tangible. It isn’t spooky, or at least I don’t find it so. For me, it’s just the conviction that those ancient people never really left, that they’re still here somehow. I can’t get closer to it than that, but I have to admit I can sympathize with poor old Norquist in his love for the antiquities. To hold in one’s hand a pitcher that a woman used for water four or five thousand years ago is to confirm a connection with her and her way of life. It will be really sad if he loses his job and they hire someone efficient who treats the artefacts like numbers in a catalogue. Here, you dry.’
We ended up finishing the curry for supper, after all, and turned on the gas logs in the sitting room fireplace while we sat and read and talked. It had turned very chilly indeed, and the warmth was welcome, although the fire itself was a poor substitute for a real wood fire. Tidier, yes. Safer, undoubtedly. But I wanted the scent, and the crackle, of wood, and the lovely glowing embers as the fire died. ‘I like real things,’ I commented, and Alan nodded with full understanding.
We went to bed early. I still had the remnants of my cold and thought rest was a good idea. Once I was settled, though, nice and warm and cosy, next to Alan’s comforting presence, I couldn’t seem to get to sleep.
What was the source of the feelings of awe I’d experienced ever since I saw the first standing stones? Was awe even the right word? Was there a word in the language to describe those sensations?
I think of myself as a sensible, down-to-earth woman, not prone to hearing things going bump in the night. My religion is middle-of-the-road Christianity. I’m not a mystic, but neither do I pooh-pooh the Biblical miracles. Not all events have a practical, scientific explanation. I have a tendency to believe in ghosts, at least in the medieval churches and homes of England. But I think spiritualism is a gigantic scam, and I’ve never gone in for astrology or palmistry or the Tarot. In fact, psychically speaking, I’m dead boring.
And yet here I was mooning on about atmospheres and other-worldly, or at least other-timely, presences. Was I going off my nut? Alan thought Norquist was at least part-way round the bend. Was it catching?
I turned over and scrunched myself deeper into the pillow to try to shut out the voice that was saying, quite firmly, But they’re real, those feelings. There truly is something uncanny about this place.
I liked real things, I’d told Alan, and it was true. Real fires and real flowers and good, honest, real food, not something out of packages with twenty unpronounceable additives. The sky here was real. The sea was undeniably real, and sometimes dangerous. The sheep and cattle were real. Duncan Andersen was certainly all too real. You could smell him coming.
But, the standing stones were real, too. They had really stood there for millennia. The other monuments I hadn’t seen yet were real, like the Ring of Brodgar. Alan had told me about that and I’d seen pictures. A henge far bigger than Stonehenge, and far older, it had been built by those people who lived in Skara Brae, or High Sanday, or the other ancient dwellings dotted all over Orkney. For what purpose? Why had those people gone to great trouble to shape those huge, thin stones and stand them up so securely that many of them stood to this day? An astronomical calendar? A place for religious celebrations? A place, possibly, for sacrifices? Even human ones?
Probably not. Probably not. I thought I remembered reading that the idea of human sacrifices at Stonehenge had been pretty well discounted by the experts. Sacrifice possibly, but of birds or other animals, most likely.
But suppose the experts were wrong? Could it be that the spirits of men and women who had died in agony were crying out for pity, or for revenge? Was that what I was feeling?
The door to the bedroom creaked a little, and my heart was in my mouth before I realized that Watson had found it insecurely latched, and had decided our bed would be the best place to sleep. He gave a joyous spring and landed squarely on my stomach.
So much for thoughts of hobgoblins. Watson was unmistakably real, and very solid. I gave him an ineffectual shove, sighed, and moved into the small space left to me.
I slept.
In the morning I remembered enough of my late-night musings to ask Alan, ‘Could we go see the Ring of Brodgar today? And may
be Skara Brae? I’d like to take a breather from murder, maybe clear my head.’
‘Why not? It’s a fine day, even warm. And the two sites are quite close together. How are you feeling?’
‘I think I’m well. And what do you mean by warm?’ I’ve learned that weather terms have entirely different meanings to the Brits.
‘Warm. Ten, at least.’
‘Ten!’ I yelped. ‘Oh, Celsius. Right. That’s about fifty Fahrenheit. Fifty, my dearly beloved Englishman, is not warm for late June.’
‘It is for Orkney, my pampered Yank. Put on your snowsuit, and we’ll be off.’
It was, in fact, quite nice in the sun. I thought I might be almost too warm later, but I had no intention of saying so.
The hills were beautiful in the sunshine, and the grazing animals looked sleek and contented. ‘Quite a contrast to Papa Sanday,’ I commented.
‘Yes, this is rich land and supports the livestock generously. Orkney is famous for its beef. There are fields of barley, too.’
‘Which goes straight to the distillery, right?’
‘Right. Now, just coming up round this next bend, if I remember correctly … there!’
I despair at even trying to describe the Ring. Don’t think Stonehenge. Those stones are massive, and rough, either because they were terribly hard to shape or because the weather hasn’t been kind to them over the years. Many of them have lintels, making pairs of stones into doorways. Stonehenge is undeniably impressive – but this!
There are no lintels at the Ring. The stone, I learned later from the guidebook, fractures naturally into slender slabs with parallel sides and a consistent angle at the ends, so it would have been possible to flatten them for lintels only with incredible effort. The ancient builders chose not to do that, but left them in their natural state, pointing, it seems, to the sky.
Twenty-seven stones stand alone, aloof, in a circle over three hundred feet in diameter. They are widely spaced, so the sky forms as much a part of the Ring as the stones. Thirty or so more used to be there, so the circle would have been more complete when it was new, but it’s hard to imagine that it could have had more dignity, more sheer impact.
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