I found I couldn’t say a word. Tears welled in my eyes as I looked, and looked, and looked some more.
The workmanship was flawless. I had to touch the walls to convince myself that they were not, in fact, brick and carved stone, but a flat, smooth surface. The vaulted roof, the glorious vault of the chancel – all paint. All done with such skill, such love and devotion. And all by men being held prisoners in a foreign land, among people who didn’t speak their language, didn’t worship as they did.
‘Several of them came back,’ said Alan softly. ‘About twenty years ago. The lead artist wasn’t well enough, but some of the others came and spent several days here. There were Masses and celebrations. And when the artist died a few years later, there was a requiem Mass for him here, and everyone who could crowd into the chapel came. There is great love between the Orcadians and those POWs.’
I swallowed the lump in my throat. ‘It’s hard to imagine, isn’t it? Love between prisoners and their captives? I think of the Americans held in Vietnamese prison camps, or for that matter the Japanese-Americans held in our internment camps, and try to visualize any of them coming back to break bread with their captors. This must be unique in the world.’
‘I don’t know if it’s unique, but unusual, certainly. A tribute to everyone involved, I’d say.’
‘And to the human spirit.’ I wiped away another tear.
‘Feeling better?’ he asked.
‘Much. You were right. This was just the medicine I needed. I’m sorry I was so snarky about it.’
‘You’re tired. We both are. Let’s leave the car here and take the pooch for a nice long walk.’
We had, of course, left Watson in the car, but now we invited him out, put on his leash, and started down the road.
We walked in companionable silence for a while, letting him off the lead when we were reasonably sure he was going to behave.
The weather was perfect. It had forgotten how to rain and blow, how to make humans miserable. Blue skies, not too hot, a gentle breeze, birdsong, bright waves in the distance. It was, in short, exactly the same as a couple of hours ago. The only difference was my mood.
Watson got excited about some small creature and took off after it, straight into a ditch. He emerged covered in water and mud, which he proceeded to transfer to us with a vigorous shake.
‘Did you bring a towel?’
I shook my head.
‘Nor did I. We’re going to have to walk until we all dry off, or we’ll never get the mud off the cushions of the car.’
‘It’s all right with me. We have some thinking to do, anyway.’
‘Have you had a brilliant idea?’
‘Not the whisper of one. No, but I’m ashamed of myself for almost giving up.’
‘The chapel?’
‘The chapel. Think of what those guys had to deal with. Enemy aliens, working hard all day, and against their own allies, the Germans. Living in primitive conditions, probably without enough food. Nobody in this country had enough food during the war, did they?’
‘I was only a baby, you know. I don’t remember much until the war was over, but certainly there wasn’t a lot to eat then. My mother had a friend in America who used to send us parcels loaded with food, and we’d get so excited. Real eggs, I remember, instead of the frightful powdered ones. I don’t remember now how on earth they packed them to ship them safely such a long way. And there was tinned ham, and Spam. I always liked Spam, actually. I wonder why one never sees it anymore.’
‘I’ll get you some, dear, and we’ll see if we still like it. It was a staple of my childhood, too. But anyway, I’m assuming the prisoners were on short rations like everyone else. So they’d come home at night, dead tired, and instead of falling into bed, work a little more on their chapel. Begging materials, scrounging, making do, and they created a miracle. Two miracles. A chapel, and a bond of friendship with their captors. And here I am, ready to call it quits when a solution doesn’t just drop into my lap. And losing my temper on top of it. As I said, I’m ashamed of myself.’
Alan just nodded.
TWENTY-THREE
We were quiet on the way home. I was thinking about the chapel and its lovely story, and then as we passed some of the Neolithic sites my thoughts reverted to our problem. Not so lovely, but requiring our attention.
Watson, too, required our attention when we got home, though he indicated that he would gladly do without the bath we found it necessary to inflict on him. He’s not a big dog, but he can certainly fill a room with water and mud. That meant Alan and I needed showers and clean clothes, too, and then we were all three of us hungry. So what with one thing and another, it was mid-afternoon before we sat down at the table with pen and paper to do some serious thinking and planning.
‘When I was a working policeman,’ said Alan, ‘before the chief constable days, I often found it useful to sit down with my team and talk about everything that had happened on a knotty case, even things that seemed irrelevant. Sometimes we found some surprising connections.’
‘Let’s try that, then, bearing in mind that we’re apt to forget some things. My memory isn’t what it used to be.’
‘And you think mine is? Never mind, we’ll reinforce each other. Where shall we start?’
I pulled out a pocket calendar. ‘Let’s see. We arrived here on a Sunday. That is, I don’t think our car trouble in Edinburgh can have anything to do with anything, do you?’
‘Nothing except a whopping bill for repairs, I shouldn’t think. Which reminds me. I need to call the garage and ask about the prognosis. Make a note for me, will you?’
‘Right. So on the Sunday here, we got settled in and then Andrew took us out for dinner.’
‘Don’t forget the cat.’
Watson was snoozing quietly in a sunny corner, but at the word, or more probably Alan’s tone of voice, he looked up and whined.
We smiled at him. ‘It’s okay, sweetheart. But how could I possibly have forgotten Roadkill? Sandy, I mean. I said I wouldn’t call him by that mean name anymore. All right, what’s next?’
‘Monday Andrew took us to the dig. Did anything odd happen there?’
‘Not unless you count my being struck dumb by the mystery of it all. But that evening – was it that first evening – the meeting?’
‘And all kinds of fireworks!’
‘Andersen’s tirade,’ I wrote on my pad. ‘Carter hustling him out. Norquist’s quiet little fuss. That reporter, whoever she was, who challenged Carter, and the ripples that raised. Quite an interesting evening.’
‘And don’t forget Fairweather, trying to handle it all diplomatically. Now, can we draw any inferences from all that?’
I tried to think back to the impressions I got at the time. ‘I was favourably impressed with Fairweather. He acted intelligent and knowledgeable, and I thought he did handle the disturbances well. But he also seemed … well … maybe a little less disturbed by all of them than he should have been. I can’t put my finger on it, but there were hidden agendas. That could just be hindsight, of course.’
‘I don’t think so,’ said Alan. He stood to open a window. It was getting quite warm in the room. ‘I’m going to have some beer. Shall I get you some?’
‘No, I’ll pass, thank you. Why do you think my impressions are real memories?’
‘Because I shared them. You’re more intuitive than I, but feelings were running high in that room. I knew that, though I didn’t understand it all at the time. Not sure I understand it still, or not all of it. But I noticed that Fairweather was rather calm throughout it all, and I wondered why.’
‘Of course now we know about the bequest, and know he was already aware of it. That’s why he wasn’t worried about the funding.’
‘And that puts another nail in his coffin, or would if we still had capital punishment. Obvious obstacles came up at the meeting, Andersen for one, and the question of how far down they were going to dig. If I’d been the chap in charge of it all, I’d ha
ve been sweating. Not only did the problems exist, they were laid out in public, and with the media in attendance. There’d be no hushing anything up. And yet Fairweather dealt with it as befitted his name. Smooth sailing all the way.’
I shivered. ‘Do you think he was planning Carter’s murder even then?’
‘I’m afraid I do. Are you cold, love? Shall I close the window?’
‘No, I’m only cold inside. Darn it all, I liked the man. He impressed me. Never mind. Let’s go on.’
‘Your President Truman is said to have remarked of Stalin, “Damn it, I liked the little son of a bitch.” Likeable characters have been murderers before now.’
‘I know, I know. Now, did anything else important happen at the meeting? I can’t think of anything.’
‘Well, we were treated to Andrew’s assessment of Carter’s character, motives, and lineage.’
‘It’s a pity Andrew’s at the back of beyond right now. He could probably tell us a lot.’
‘Heavens, woman, how far away do you think Spain is? As the crow flies, Madrid is quite a lot nearer to Orkney than Los Angeles is to New York, and you Yanks think nothing of flying that every week or so.’
‘I hate flying, but I take your point. I always forget how teeny Europe is. Shall we call him, then?’
‘The only difficulty would be that I don’t have his mobile number. When he called earlier it was from his home. And I have no idea where he might be reached by landline.’
I sighed elaborately. ‘Like I said. Back of beyond. To get back to the matter at hand, I think it’s important that we noticed how light it was that night. Remember, we went for a walk and I mentioned wishing I could see the stars, and you talked about the summer solstice.’
‘With no moon, though. And that leads us directly, though not chronologically, to the question of what on earth Carter was doing at the dig that night.’
‘If he was ever there, alive, that is. Is it even remotely possible that he was killed elsewhere and taken to the dig? You thought so at one time, remember?’
‘Anything’s possible. Given the nature of his injuries, and where he was found, I’ve just about given up the idea. Moreover, it would be far easier to kill the man in a remote, nearly unpopulated place than in Kirkwall at his hotel.’
‘Who said anything about Kirkwall?’ I argued. ‘Anyway, Kirkwall isn’t exactly Grand Central station. And most of the rest of Orkney is pretty deserted, even in the daytime.’
‘Very well, for the sake of the argument, let’s assume he was killed somewhere on Mainland. You’ll agree to that stipulation?’
‘Yes, since it was on this island that he was last seen alive.’
‘Not only on this island but in Kirkwall, at his hotel.’
‘Do we know that for certain? I know that’s what Fairweather told you, but we can’t take his word for anything.’
‘You’re right about that, but Baikie confirmed it. I thought I told you. Of course one of the first things he did was check everyone’s whereabouts, as best he could. That was before the terrorism business came up, if you recall. The men who live alone have no alibi, as would be expected. But Carter definitely went back to his hotel, had dinner and then a drink or two in the bar, went up, and presumably went to bed.’
I pounced on that. ‘Aha! “A drink or two.” Does that really mean five or six? Enough to make him easy to bop on the head?’
‘Not according to Baikie. They checked the body’s blood alcohol level. I don’t recall what it was, but it was consistent with what the barman told the police. Two to three ounces of whisky.’
‘Hmmm. That wouldn’t put him out, unless he was normally a teetotaller.’
‘Grasping at straws.’
‘You’re right. Very well. So he goes up to bed at – when?’
‘My dear, the concierge didn’t personally tuck him in with his teddy bear. He went up about eleven. No one in the hotel saw or heard anything more of him. The assumption is that he went to bed.’
‘But he didn’t, Alan. Or at least he didn’t stay there. Because when next seen he was dead of a head wound at High Sanday, and had been dead for some time. So we get back to where we started. Who or what took him out there between eleven and – when do they think he died?’
‘Probably before two, but you know how cagey the medicos are about time of death.’
‘Well, say between eleven and two, anyway. Because it would have started getting light again at around two-thirty. The morning was beautiful and clear; it was only later that it started to pour. Actually, it was still light at eleven, too. So he must not have been killed before twelve or so … wait a minute!’
‘What?’
‘Don’t talk! Don’t say a word – I’ve almost got it – yes!’ I raised both arms in relief and triumph. ‘Alan, you know I’ve been trying to catch a stray idea, something to do with May Day?’
‘If you say so, my love.’
‘And I just made the connection! Listen.’
That was one of the less necessary remarks. Alan’s attention was riveted.
‘All right. It started with May Day, and something someone said about it being a very old, very primitive celebration. And then poor Mr Norquist was accused of sacrificing that hen. That started my brain on a path littered with primitive celebrations and ancient rites, and you know I’d been sort of haunted with the idea of sacrifice anyway. And then just now the summer solstice came up again.’
I waited for him to get it, and he didn’t disappoint me. He smacked his forehead. ‘Of course! The solstice. Ancient rites, perhaps even sacrifices. Good grief, Dorothy, why did it take us so long to think of it? The people of Britain have marked the solstice in one way or another since well before we called ourselves Britain. And in this land where the ancients are so much in evidence … good grief, half Orkney might have been up that night dancing around dolmens or some such nonsense!’
‘Mr Norquist wouldn’t like you calling it nonsense,’ I said soberly.
‘Ah. Norquist.’
‘Are we back to him, then? Alan, I don’t want it to be him.’
‘We don’t want it to be anyone we know, do we? But let’s look again at the facts. Someone sacrificed the cat, at the dig.’
‘Someone killed the cat,’ I corrected.
‘In a ritualistic way, don’t forget.’
I shuddered at that. ‘Don’t remind me. Did the police find out anything about the knife that was used, or didn’t they bother, since it was just a cat?’
‘They might have done, but they were fully occupied by that time. Anyway, Fairweather had disposed of the poor moggie’s body by the time anyone else got there. Didn’t I tell you? He said he thought a burial at sea was appropriate.’
I shuddered again. ‘I can’t stand the idea of a cat, who hates water and hates being cold, tossed into the cold unforgiving sea. Okay, yes, I know he was dead and couldn’t feel anything at all. Still, I hope he haunts Fairweather, along with his murderer, if they’re not the same person.’
Alan tactfully ignored this and went ahead with the case against Norquist, ready to tick off points on his fingertips. ‘As to the cat, Norquist hated cats and believed in ritual sacrifice.’
‘But he has a heart condition, remember?’ I persisted in speaking of him in the present tense. ‘How could he have caught Sandy? I wouldn’t want to try it unless I were wearing a full suit of armour and had a platoon of dog-catchers for back-up.’
‘There are such things as tranquilizers and sleeping pills, my dear. But in any case, the cat is a side issue. The matter at hand is Carter’s murder, and there I think we have a pretty good case. I have a possible scenario.’
He tented his fingers in his lecturing mode. ‘It’s the summer solstice, a very holy time in the Old Religion. Norquist, whose mental balance is somewhat questionable, has been upset by Carter’s behaviour at the meeting. He has already planned a ritual activity of some sort for later in the evening, probably midnight, at one of the ancient site
s. He would want a place where he could be alone, without others to profane the purity of his rites. He has chosen, perhaps, one of the cairns known only to him. But as burial sites, they aren’t quite appropriate. Then he has a much better idea.’
‘High Sanday, with its huge temple. But does he have a boat to get there?’
‘No, but he knows who has a beautiful one. And he has the perfect lure. “There will be a sacrifice ritual tonight at the temple. If you will take me there, I will explain to you what is happening.” Or words to that effect. He probably phones Carter and arranges to meet him at the boat. Carter doesn’t know that he’s the sacrifice until he gets a building stone swung at his head.’
‘Probably he never knows. I’d think he died immediately. Alan, it’s horribly plausible, but there are a couple of minor problems. Such as, where did Norquist get the strength to manhandle the murder weapon? And what happened to the boat? And where is Norquist now?’
‘That, of course, is the sixty-four dollar question. If he’s the murderer, you realize the suicide theory becomes a good deal more plausible.’
‘Yes.’ I sighed. ‘We seem to have talked ourselves into a corner again. I’m still not convinced Norquist is the villain. And I’m not sure it’s Fairweather, either. They both had motives, even if the one is pretty crazy. But there’s no clear indication either way.’
‘No smoking gun? One seldom gets them in cases like this, you know. One builds up a theory based on tiny shreds of evidence, hearsay, and plain intuition. Then one goes hunting for the proof. That can be the sticky part. And that’s why there are always a few instances of the villain getting away with it. The police know beyond a shadow of a doubt who did it, but they can’t get enough evidence to take the scoundrel to court.’
I stood up and stretched. ‘Well, that’s not going to happen this time. We’re going to pursue this. If the police can’t find enough evidence to put somebody behind bars – anybody! – we’ll do it for them. Of course the trouble is we don’t know who – whom – we want to convict.’
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