A Rhanna Mystery

by Christine Marion Fraser

  It was a lyrical way of speaking and lulled Dodie into silence as they left the harbour and headed east. Then he had looked up and seen all the familiar landmarks that he knew and after that there was no stopping him. He had pointed and exclaimed and grown very excited till Hector had taken the pipe from his mouth to tell him to, ‘Shut up, you’re frightening the fish,’ whereupon Dodie had fallen silent, spellbound by the sights and sounds they encountered as they puttered peacefully along.

  When eventually Hector brought his boat to a halt and cut the engine, Dodie continued to be entranced by all that he saw and showed no signs of moving one finger for fear the Queen o’ Scots would start to ‘rear up and drown him’.

  ‘It’s no’ a horse you’re talking about,’ Hector pointed out witheringly, ‘it’s a boat in case you didny notice and we didny come here to admire the scenery. You’d better get busy before your erse attaches itself to that seat so just you ease yourself round a bittie and get to work wi’ these pots.’

  Gingerly, Dodie did as he was told and was soon engrossed in the task set before him, though he wasn’t too busy to pause occasionally and examine the pieces of flotsam that were bobbing about in the water.

  Dodie loved flotsam. In the course of his beachcombing sojourns he was forever finding things of interest washed in by the tide, some of which he would take home to use as bits of furniture or to make into gifts for those he considered to be suitably deserving. There was quite a lot of debris floating about that day in the Bay of the Caves and with one thing and another Dodie’s attention was greatly taken up.

  Hector, a satisfied smile on his face, puffed contentedly at his pipe as he sat back to observe Dodie working. Every so often he removed his pipe to aim a gob of spit overboard, or to give Dodie a bit of advice on the best way to handle the pots. It was very pleasant sitting there in the bay, the wavelets gently rocking the little craft, the sun growing warmer on his back as the morning progressed.

  Hector’s eyes idly panned the immediate vicinity, coming to rest on the caves that pitted the cliffs above the beach. The bigger ones were like cathedrals with fantastic columns of basalt rock that receded back from the mouth of each cave to disappear into yawning dark depths. In these vaults the seabirds drifted and screamed and raised their young, yet, despite their picturesque appearance, they could also be spectacularly wild places, especially in the high seas of winter or during the equinoxes when the tides washed right into the caves in heaving, foaming splendour.

  There was one cavern in particular that had always fascinated Hector. It was known as An Coire, the kettle, the spout being a strange formation of hollow rock into which the sea forced itself at high tide and came spuming out of a blow-hole in the cliffs far above.

  As a boy Hector had delighted in perching himself on a ledge inside the cave to watch the sea come thundering in and blowing itself out of the spout, falling like a great white curtain down the cliff face and back into the sea from whence it had come. It had been a dangerous game but he had known exactly which ledges were safe when the cave was filling up with water.

  He gazed at An Coire now with affection, and his watery blue eyes grew dreamy as he remembered those far off, boyhood days when such adventures were part and parcel of his life . . .

  He was startled out of his reverie by a movement inside the cave, where a shadowy, indistinct figure seemed to rise up out of nowhere and remain suspended for a few brief moments before it appeared to melt away as if it had never been. Hector gaped, his heart accelerated, and his pipe hung from his slackening mouth. All the hags of myth and folklore came leaping into his mind and for quite a few moments he was paralysed into complete and utter stillness with his eyes glued to the spot.

  But nothing further happened to cause him alarm, all was as it had been; the seabirds wheeled and cried and glided, looking like fragments of windblown white paper against the black cliff face, the oyster catchers whistled, and the sandpipers darted. Gradually Hector calmed down, it had been nothing, just a trick of the light; so he convinced himself till a thin, wailing cry came floating out of the cave, sounding just like the hobgoblins that Hector’s mother had warned him about when he was just knee high. In all of his life Hector had never heard a hobgoblin, talking, crying, or otherwise, but to him the eerie cry was exactly how he imagined a hobgoblin would sound and so startled was he that he let out a small strangulated scream of his own.

  Dodie, immersed in his task, looked round enquiringly, and Hector quickly pulled himself together. It would never do to frighten the old eccentric at this stage in the game, not when he was just getting to grips with the art of lobster fishing.

  ‘It’s nothing, Dodie,’ he said as calmly as his racing heart would allow. ‘I burnt myself on my damt pipe, that’s all, I’m just no’ at myself since I pulled this muscle in my shoulder and I’m thinking it’s maybe time we had a bite to eat . . .’ He paused, surprised at his own loquacity, then he went on, gabbling a bit in his excitement, ‘I have some sandwiches in my satchel and I know a good place we can go to eat them.’

  ‘Ach, I like it fine here,’ protested Dodie in disappointed tones, for he had been thoroughly enjoying the novelty of the morning and was loath to leave the new-found joys of Camus nan Uamh.

  But Hector wasn’t listening. He had started up his engine and opening the throttle to its full extent he endeavoured to put as much distance as possible between himself, the bay, and the Hobgoblin of An Coire.

  Chapter Five

  ‘Fern Lee!’ Babbie exclaimed, as she and Doctor Megan Jenkins sat in Laigmhor’s kitchen partaking of a strupak supplied by Shona, who had stayed on to ‘supervise proceedings’ after Bob and her father had departed to the fields. ‘Sounds like a figment o’ the imagination to me.’

  ‘I know, that’s what I said,’ Shona nodded as she topped up Babbie’s cup and passed the biscuits to Megan. ‘Father seems to be taken in by her however, and while Lachlan was being very doctorish and cool about the whole thing I could tell he had fallen for her too.’

  Babbie, who was the island nurse, pushed a hand through her mop of red hair and shook her head. ‘She’s young, she’s a beauty, and she looks as if butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth. I suppose any man might be excused for admiring her. The big question is, who is she, and where did she spring from? She has nothing on her in the way of identification so it looks as if we’ll just have to wait till she is recovered enough to explain herself.’

  ‘If she tells us,’ Shona said meaningfully. ‘She came round quick enough when Lachlan mentioned sending her to hospital. She seemed afraid o’ the very idea, like she had something to hide. All she wanted was to stay up there, in my room, as if it was some sort of retreat.’

  Megan looked thoughtful. ‘I’ve carried out a thorough examination of her and have found nothing much except some bumps and bruises. The knock on her head might have caused a slight concussion but otherwise she seems alright and ought to be up and about in a few days.’

  ‘Meanwhile, who’s going to look after her?’ Shona wanted to know. ‘Father can’t be expected to do that and I have my hands full with my own lot.’

  As if in answer to their questions Tina put her head round the door, her plump face wreathing into smiles at the sight of the teapot on the table. ‘Just what I am needing,’ she said approvingly. ‘I came to see was Fergus wanting anything but first I myself am in need o’ a cuppy. It’s a fair walk up from the village and no’ a soul on the road to give me a lift.’

  Plunking herself down at the table she poured herself a large mug of tea and helped herself to a scone oozing with butter and home-made jam. She bit into the tasty morsel with gusto, causing a dollop of jam to roll down her chin. ‘My, my, would you look at the mess, I’m worse than a bairn,’ she observed with mild dismay, mopping the jam from her face while she demolished the rest of the scone in two bites.

  Only when she had drunk her tea did she become aware that everything was not as it should have been at Laigmhor. ‘Doctor Meg
an,’ she acknowledged in some surprise, ‘and Nurse Babbie. Has Fergus o’ the Glen taken ill? If I’m mindin’ right he was the picture o’ health the last time I saw him.’

  In her concern she began to fiddle with her hair, a habit of hers whenever she was upset about something. Fine, flyaway strands departed from their precarious anchorage, and with an impatient, ‘Tch,’ she removed the kirby grips and applied them to her teeth to open them before jabbing them rather viciously back into place.

  ‘It isn’t Fergus,’ Megan began, ‘it’s somebody else.’ She went on to explain to Tina about the girl in bed upstairs, ending, ‘She’ll need looking after for a day or two and we were just wondering who we could ask that would be capable enough to take on such a task.’

  Tina, utterly enthralled by the doctor’s description of the stranger, sat up straight and pushed out a bosom that had the appearance of a well-upholstered cushion. ‘Look no further, doctor, I have been caring for people all of my life. First it was my very own Matthew and my bairns when they were little, then it was the minister before he became your husband, the fine good man that he is. And, as you know, I nursed my own dear Otto when he was dying, God rest him. Forbye all that I have Grandma Ann and Granda John to see to, and not forgetting any o’ the others who are needing a bittie comfort in their old age.’

  The other three women breathed sighs of relief. Tina was perfect for the job; she was sweet-tempered and placid and was never happier than when she was looking after some lame dog or other. Her ‘own dear Otto’, as she fondly referred to the big Austrian who had come to Rhanna seeking his roots, had left her five thousand pounds in his will but the money had never made any difference to Tina’s way of life. Some of it she had gifted to her son and daughter, the rest she had banked, declaring laughingly that one day she would use it to go on a world cruise. After that she just carried on as before, ‘doing’ for whoever needed her.

  ‘If you’re sure you can spare the time, Tina . . .’ Megan began, when the door opened once more to admit Elspeth, her sharp nose stung to a bright red hue which she immediately attributed to the ‘bitter cold o’ the wind’ as not for one moment would she ascribe it to the ‘welcome home’ drams that she had just imbibed with Mac in the privacy of her own home.

  ‘I just came by because I heard tell that Doctor Lachlan was here wi’ his motor and I thought to save my legs the walk to Slochmhor.’ She imparted this with alcohol-induced flippancy. Elspeth was not a regular visitor to Laigmhor, only appearing if she was specifically invited in by Kirsteen, a rare occurrence owing to her animosity towards Fergus. But curiosity was a driving force in her life and she wasn’t going to miss out on the latest events to have befallen the McKenzies, Fergus or no Fergus. Her eyes roved round the room. ‘I must say, I didny expect such a gathering o’ wimmen. Fergus McKenzie is indeed a popular man.’

  ‘That he is,’ returned Megan coldly, because Elspeth never failed to annoy her with her references to ‘Doctor Lachlan’ as if he was still the practising doctor on the island and she was an interloper who had to be tolerated.

  ‘Is he needing the doctor at all?’ Elspeth fished relentlessly. ‘And the nurse too? If so I am thinking he has taken ill at a bad time wi’ Kirsteen just fresh away from home and never knowing what has happened to him.’

  Shona, Megan, and Babbie glanced at one another. Elspeth, with her self-answered questions and hasty assumptions, was about the most infuriating creature that anyone could wish to meet and not one of them had any intentions of satisfying her inquisitive prying.

  Tina, however, with her artless nature and tolerance of her fellow humans, had no such reservations. In two minutes flat she had spilled the beans, so to speak, and when Elspeth’s spindly legs at last took her from the house she was agog with excitement and eager to pour the latest revelations about ‘the goings on at Laigmhor’ into the ears of anyone who would listen.

  ‘You didn’t offer her a lift,’ Shona remarked to Megan with a mischievous grin.

  ‘I’m going in the opposite direction,’ Megan returned with an equally devilish smile. ‘Besides, she doesn’t need one, she has enough hot air in her to carry her to the moon if she so desired and that’s where she just might end up if she makes more out of all this than is necessary. Scandals can materialise very easily on an island like Rhanna, and I should know what I’m talking about.’

  Both Babbie and Shona turned red, knowing only too well the truth of the doctor’s words, for she had been the subject of much speculation and hurtful rumour when she and Mark James, the minister, had been sorting out their different problems before becoming man and wife.

  ‘All this is bound to be talked about,’ Babbie hazarded, her green eyes flashing a little as occasionally she became annoyed with the virtuous air that Megan had adopted since becoming the wife of Mark James. She was nursing grievances, there was no doubt of that, and in Babbie’s book it would have been better for everyone concerned if she was to bring them right out into the open instead of just hinting at them now and again.

  Shona, sensing an impending disagreement between the two, made haste to gather up her things and depart the scene before she became involved in an argument. With her fiery temper she had long ago learned it was better to avoid trouble if at all possible, and with that in mind she fairly flew up the road to her neglected husband, children, and animals, who were awaiting her at Mo Dhachaidh.

  ‘Have you heard the latest?’ Elspeth marched purposefully into Merry Mary’s grocer shop and banged her shopping bag on the counter. ‘Fergus McKenzie has a woman biding wi’ him and I can tell you this for a fact – she is not his wife!’

  ‘Ach, we know full well that Kirsteen is away in Glasgow, it is common knowledge – and who are you to talk? Captain Mac lives wi’ you and he is not your husband.’ Merry Mary spoke with some annoyance since Elspeth, in her hurry to enter the shop, had left the door swinging open, allowing a wicked draught to swoop in and rattle the ancient blind at the window. ‘Be shutting the door behind you, Elspeth!’ she ordered sharply. ‘The shop is cold enough as it is.’

  ‘Och, keep your breeks on, Mary.’ Aggie McKinnon, a young woman of ample proportions and an exceedingly good nature, ambled over and closed the door with a snap.

  Merry Mary allowed a smile to split her homely features. ‘In this weather I have no intentions o’ taking them off – for anybody.’

  ‘Ay, well, there’s those on the island who might no’ share your views.’ Elspeth, choosing to ignore the remarks about herself and Captain Mac, spoke cryptically. ‘It seems Fergus McKenzie found a young woman in his barn, half naked and half dead. He got Lachlan to help lift her into the house and in no time at all she was wrapped up in one o’ Shona’s spare goonies and tucked into bed.’

  ‘And how did you come to know all this, Elspeth?’ asked Aggie.

  ‘I had reason to visit Laigmhor yesterday and there was Doctor Megan and the nurse in the kitchen, drinking tea wi’ Shona, as cosy as you like and none o’ them giving much away. But Tina was there too and she just couldny hold her tongue. It all came out, except of course the identity o’ the woman. With the exception o’ her name, none o’ them seems to know who she is. As to where she came from, that’s anybody’s guess, she was soaked to the skin when they found her – and it wasn’t caused by rain or anything normal like that – it was sea water!’

  ‘There will be a simple explanation,’ Barra McLean spoke up, her eyes flashing. Idle chit chat had always worried her and she liked to try and be open-minded whenever possible.

  ‘Nothing is simple where Fergus McKenzie is concerned,’ pronounced Elspeth, gazing malevolently at a tin of peas which looked as if it had been lying in the shop since the year dot. ‘He was aye a one for the wimmen, him and his brother both, ever since they were lads chasing after the girls in school.’

  Her words were met with silence and, gathering up her bag without buying anything, Elspeth left the shop and made for the post office, hoping to find a bigger and mor
e interested audience than the one she had just left.

  As it was almost dinnertime there was quite a crowd in the post office, all wanting last minute ‘messages’, and Elspeth, her eyes flickering in satisfaction, went briskly inside. In two minutes flat she had delivered her bombshell and stood waiting for results, lips folded primly, hands clasped firmly over her stomach.

  ‘Oh, ay, and before I forget . . .’ she shot home the final bolt with the utmost enjoyment, ‘ . . . her name is Fern Lee – and that’s about the only thing anybody knows about her so far.’

  ‘Fern Lee!’ snorted Totie Little Donaldson, the postmistress. ‘If that’s the case then I’m the Queen o’ Sheba! Fern Lee indeed!’

  Old Sorcha, who had turned down her deaf aid to save the batteries, hastily turned it up again, causing it to emit a loud, penetrating whistle. ‘Eh, what was that?’ she demanded while everyone screwed up their faces and held onto their ears. ‘Hernia did you say, Totie? Ay, well, you’ll just have to learn to live wi’ it. I myself have had hernias and piles all my days and I’m still here to tell the tale.’

  Hector the Boat was staring at Elspeth. ‘Strange things are happening on the island,’ he hazarded in a throaty whisper, his pupils darkening as he remembered all that he had heard and seen in the Bay of the Caves. He gulped and was about to say something but changed his mind. No one would believe his account of the Hobgoblin of An Coire. He had always made up ghost stories with a marine flavour and they would just think this was another of his tales.

  ‘Here! It is just like one o’ they whodunnits,’ Ranald commented eagerly, his mind on the latest murder mystery he was reading.

  ‘How could it be a whodunnit when nobody’s done it yet? Somebody has to be murdered before questions can be asked.’ Totie, who was of the opinion that Ranald read too much ‘trash’ for his own or anyone else’s good, spoke scathingly.

  ‘Ach, I didn’t mean it that way,’ Ranald remained unperturbed. ‘It was the way she was found in McKenzie’s barn, all nicely arranged in the hay like she was acting in a stage play. It could all be a trick.’ He lowered his voice to sepulchral tones. ‘She must have come on that night o’ mist and fog, the kind o’ night just ripe for high jinks o’ all sorts. For all we know she maybe had it in her mind to lure Fergus back to the ocean wi’ her.’