A Rhanna Mystery

by Christine Marion Fraser

  ‘And were you – philandering?’

  ‘Och! For heaven’s sake, girl! You’re as bad as she is! Fern isn’t here, she went off last night and I don’t know where she is!’

  Shona flashed him a repentant smile. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it to sound like that, though in some ways I wasn’t joking. Any man might be tempted to flirt wi’ the likes of little Miss Innocent. She’s all sweet and helpless on the outside but I have the feeling she’s a lady who knows how to manipulate men in order to use them for her own ends.’

  ‘You know, you’re getting to sound like that witch Behag,’ he said with what Shona called his ‘black look’, and with a laugh she kissed the top of his head and told him he would feel better after he had eaten.

  ‘Just the same,’ she turned from the stove, ‘I think you should tell Kirsteen about her when next you phone. It would look bad if you didn’t and if she hears it from other people it would really set the cat among the pigeons.’

  Bob, coming in that moment in a gust of fresh air and a flurry of curses aimed at his dog, put paid to further family discussions. Fern’s name was not mentioned once, as steak and kidney pie, followed by home-made apple tart, was dispensed and eaten with the greatest gusto and enjoyment.

  That very evening however, Fergus paid a visit to Lachlan, who, deep in his first article about island doctoring, wasn’t inclined for company.

  ‘Go you ahead and phone, man,’ he told Fergus, without looking up from his typewriter. ‘I’m at a sticky bit here and can’t leave it. I’m doing a piece about my years here as G.P. and I was just wondering what to call everybody. It’s all very well to mention place names but I don’t know if it would be wise to pinpoint people in the same way, particularly beings like Behag and Elspeth, they might end up suing me.’

  Fergus gave a wry smile. ‘I know what I would call those prying old bitches, Miss Nag and Miss Yowe, ancient crones wi’ barbed tongues and long noses that have been poked in everywhere except the one place that might cure them o’ meddling for all time.’

  Lachlan threw back his head and roared delightedly. ‘How about you doing this article for me?’ he suggested cheekily. ‘You’ve got the imagination for it and I could be doing wi’ some help.’

  ‘You’re the man wi’ the fancy words,’ Fergus returned quickly. ‘I’m only a farmer who’s never had much to say and never will. Talking o’ which . . .’ He glanced at Lachlan appealingly, ‘Could you dial this number for me? I’m as much good wi’ telephones as I am wi’ fine speeches and to tell the truth – I don’t trust the damned things.’

  ‘Och, alright then,’ In his obliging way Lachlan abandoned his typewriter and went to dial Aunt Minnie’s number. It was Phebie who answered it and husband and wife held a long, animated conversation before Lachlan handed the instrument to the impatiently waiting Fergus.

  Kirsteen was delighted to hear the deep, lilting voice that she loved and he was equally pleased when her light melodious tones came over the line.

  ‘I’m missing you, mo cridhe,’ he told her quietly.

  ‘Fergie,’ she murmured softly, ‘I miss you too, every minute, and I think about you, all the time. I hope you’re lonely without me and that the house is so unbearably quiet you can’t wait for me to get back.’

  ‘Ay, that’s true enough.’ He took a deep breath, ‘But the house isn’t so quiet. In fact, since you went away I haven’t had a moment to myself. It’s been like Sauchiehall Street. The womenfolk of Rhanna seem to have joined forces and are never away from the place, cooking, cleaning . . . doing their nosy.’

  ‘Oh, is that all,’ she sounded relieved. ‘Well, at least I know you’re being looked after.’

  ‘It isn’t so much that, though of course Shona and Tina between them are spoiling me. It’s just – well – you’ll never guess what I found in the barn after you left.’

  ‘Mmm, let me see, a litter o’ kittens? Or of pups? A broody hen sitting on a golden egg?’

  ‘No – not exactly, something a bit bigger than any o’ those. A young woman in fact, sheltering in the hayloft.’

  ‘A young woman? Who is she?’

  ‘Well, that’s just it, nobody knows. She was in a bit of a state when I found her, she must have knocked herself out on a beam and had a few cuts and bruises. I got Lachlan to help me carry her into the house.’

  ‘But, last time you phoned you didn’t mention her,’ Kirsteen sounded puzzled.

  ‘Och, you know me, mo cridhe, I never know what to say when I’m on the telephone and only remember what I should have said when it’s too late to say it.’ He was gabbling a bit and to cover his confusion he went on, ‘Her arrival caused a bit of a sensation but she’s gone now anyway, just upped and left last night without a word to anyone and nobody’s seen her since.’

  ‘Oh, the poor girl,’ Kirsteen’s voice was warm with sympathy, ‘I hope she’s alright, maybe she’s suffering from loss o’ memory. Anything could have happened to her. I’m surprised you didn’t go out to look for her, Fergus.’

  ‘I – did.’ He felt a dreadful pang of guilt as he spoke, remembering how anxiously he had searched for Fern that morning. ‘But I couldn’t spare much time, Donald’s still laid up wi’ the flu and I couldn’t leave all the work to Bob.’

  ‘Well, you’ll have to look for the girl again, as soon as possible, she might be anywhere and needing medical attention.’

  ‘Alright, Kirsteen, I will.’ His voice was husky; in those moments he appreciated his wife more than he had ever done. What other woman would have shown such sympathy for a girl she had never even met? There had been no hint of suspicion, no awkward questions, just complete trust and understanding.

  ‘Goodnight, mo cridhe,’ he said softly, ‘don’t worry about anything here, I’m fine and so is everybody and everything else.’ Long after he had rung off he stood there, staring at the phone, thinking about Kirsteen and how much he loved her.

  A hand on his shoulder made him jump. ‘Good for you, Fergus,’ Lachlan said approvingly. ‘Talking of Fern, has there been any sign o’ her yet?’

  Fergus shook his head and Lachlan looked slightly worried. ‘She really shouldn’t be wandering about on her own like that. She took quite a knock on her head and would be better off resting in bed for a day or two.’

  ‘What makes you think she’s still on Rhanna? She could be anywhere by now. She seemed worried about staying at Laigmhor and begged me to let her go.’

  ‘I know, I know.’ Lachlan frowned. ‘But she didn’t seem to have any money on her and if she is still here she might have collapsed somewhere and be in need of help.’

  ‘That’s what Kirsteen said. She advised me to have a hunt for the girl.’

  ‘Maybe we should call in the police,’ Lachlan suggested. ‘They might organise a search party and ease our minds a bit. The girl is certainly behaving in a very mysterious fashion and I myself am damned curious to know what’s going on in her head.’

  ‘No, no, leave the police out o’ it just now.’ Fergus rejected the idea quickly. ‘She was adamant about not wanting them involved and she isn’t likely to have changed her mind now. Let me do it my way and if I don’t come up with anything you can send for Clodhopper – though for all the good he ever does he’d be better at home steeping his feet.’

  Lachlan laughed. ‘Ach well, time will tell all. Meanwhile, I’m relieved you told Kirsteen about Fern. It’s one little weight off your chest and no doubt you’ll feel the better for it.’

  ‘Ay,’ Fergus agreed, and then wondered why he still felt burdened down with guilt and anxiety.

  Chapter Ten

  Fergus stood on the headland of Burg, buffeted by a howling wind that tore at his clothes and threatened to sweep him off his feet with its relentless power. In front of him, the Sound of Rhanna was a tumble of blue-grey waves, crested by foaming white horses that rode and bucked and boomed against the stark black fingers of glistening reefs rising sheer out of the icy wet confusion of the ocean.
Of all the bays on Rhanna, Burg was perhaps the most terrible, slashed as it was in winter by fierce Atlantic storms that caused havoc to the tiny pockets of fragile habitation along the shoreline.

  Fergus had always hated the sea, its might and its power frightened him. The only boat he ever felt safe in was the steamer that plied between the islands, though even then he was never fully at ease and was always glad to step ashore. He had lost his arm in an accident in the dark relentless waters that swirled ceaselessly round the jagged finger of Port Rum Point. It had happened many years ago, but the deep sickening fear he had felt at that time gnawed at his belly and brought him out in a sweat whenever he thought about it. Even so, he never failed to be impressed by the ruthless strength of the ocean, just as long as his two feet were planted firmly on dry land.

  His gaze travelled to the awesome spectacle of Burg, shearing starkly above the waves, a great gleaming fortress of treacherous cliffs, pocked with dank caverns, joining with the ragged bastion of Port Rum Point to protect the sheltered little harbour of Portcull.

  Despite his feelings of relief at Fern’s departure, Fergus had nonetheless experienced a strong compulsion to look for her, and for the last two days he had searched the island, scouring the moors from Nigg to Croy, the woods and copses surrounding the lochs and the hills. He had even tried the abbey ruins at Dunuaigh and the tiny islet on Loch Sliach, but had come up with nothing. Burg was his last resort and as he stood there, staring down at the crashing breakers, his stomach turned over and he found himself praying that her footsteps hadn’t taken her to a Godforsaken place like this.

  With Heinz romping along at his side he began to move down the cliff, following one of the numerous sheep tracks that led to Burg Bay. Here he wandered along, bent into the wind, knowing in his heart that no one in their right mind would seek refuge in such a wild and lonely spot.

  He gave up looking when a brilliant watery sunset was spreading its light over the sky from the east, turning the Sound into a vast sheet of gleaming gold, and the bite in the wind was so icily intense he felt as if his face was being anaesthetised by it.

  He was glad when he reached the familiar haven of the village. The little white-washed cottages looked homely and safe; Merry Mary was just locking up her shop and she and Aggie McKinnon went off along the road, their voices high and fragmented as they shouted to one another above the wind. Ranald, whose craft shop was quiet in the off-season, was standing aimlessly in the shelter of his porch, but abandoned it with alacrity when Tam McKinnon and his cronies came noisily along, heading for the comforts of the Portcull Hotel, where it was their habit to consume a pre-dinner pint of Bull Bull McManus’s draught beer, and maybe another for the road if funds and time permitted.

  ‘’Tis yourself, Fergus,’ greeted Tam in some surprise, as McKenzie o’ the Glen was inclined to keep himself to himself and only appeared in the village when he had to. ‘A grand night for a walk, eh?’

  ‘Ay, especially if it’s only a short one to the hotel,’ Fergus returned dryly.

  ‘Ach well, ’tis the best place to be when it’s cold like this,’ Tam said jovially, blowing on his hands and rubbing them briskly together to emphasise his point about the weather.

  ‘You look as if you could be doing wi’ a dram yourself.’ Todd the Shod eyed Fergus’s wind-stung countenance. ‘You could do worse than come wi’ us for a quick one.’

  ‘Ay,’ agreed Ranald affably, all the while trying to calculate whose turn it was to stand a round. ‘It would be an honour just, McKenzie o’ the Glen, sharing a drink wi’ his pals.’

  ‘Thanks, but I’m busy,’ Fergus said shortly.

  ‘Oh ay,’ Erchy tapped the side of his nose and winked. ‘Hunting the highways and byways for that wee lassie who was biding wi’ you, eh?’

  Fergus’s brow darkened. ‘You could have had a go at looking for her yourself, instead o’ wasting your time supping beer in the Portcull Hotel.’

  The men shifted uncomfortably and Tam, acting as spokesman as was his wont, said rather lamely, ‘Ay, well, Fergus, we had a mind to do that and had a wee bit o’ a discussion about it. After a good bit o’ argy bargy we came to the conclusion that she knew what she was about when she arrived on the island and would know where she was going when she went.’

  ‘As simple as that, eh?’ Fergus said heavily.

  The men squirmed at his tone and when eventually they went on their way they did so in an awkward silence that wasn’t broken till they had entered the well-loved portals of the hotel where a peat fire was leaping up the chimney in the Snug Bar.

  Bull Bull McManus, named so because of his enormous head and rotund figure, padded up on slippered feet to take the order. He didn’t mind being addressed by his nickname and would look bemused if anybody called him Duncan, which was the name with which he had been christened.

  ‘Same as usual?’ he nodded, flicking a damp cloth over the table and flipping open a discarded cigarette packet to peer inside it hopefully. ‘Empty,’ he pronounced dismally. ‘It would be nice, just for once, if somebody left a fag or two, or better still, a bob or two, by way o’ thanks for all the hospitality they get here.’

  ‘Ay, I’ve often thought the same about our visitors,’ Tam pondered thoughtfully. ‘They come and they sup our tea and our whisky, they eat us out o’ house and home and use our toilet paper, and never leave as much as a penny piece in return.’

  ‘Ach, that’s no’ the same thing at all!’ protested Bull Bull, fingering the point of his thick black beard and running his tongue over his full red lips, both of which gestures meant that he was getting annoyed.

  ‘No, it isn’t,’ agreed Tam. ‘You get paid for your food and drink – and you expect to get a tip for doing it.’

  ‘Oh, so, you’re grudging me an honest living,’ Bull Bull began argumentatively. ‘I work from morning to night for my bread and butter.’ He eyed Tam speculatively, ‘Pity I canny say the same for some people I know.’

  ‘Ay, ay, right enough,’ Todd, anxious to be served, spoke in a soothing voice. ‘You do work hard, Bull Bull, and as well as all that, you keep the best cellar on the island.’

  Since the Portcull Hotel was the only establishment of its kind on Rhanna, keeping the best cellar, as Todd put it, was not a particularly difficult achievement, but it was enough to mollify Bull Bull and he lumbered off to get the order.

  A few minutes later, Bull Bull’s wife, young, saucy, and as fat as a butterball, waddled over to the table with the drinks, bending low as she set them down so that her cleavage was exposed to full advantage. ‘There you are, lads,’ she said in her plump, hopefully seductive, voice. ‘Nice and cold, the way you like it. If there’s anything else I can do for you, just be letting me know.’

  ‘Margie!’ roared Bull Bull. ‘Don’t be taking all day at that table! There’s a mountain o’ glasses to be washed.’

  Margie giggled. ‘Would you listen to him. Never lets me out o’ his sight for a minute. He thinks all the men are after me for my body, as if I’ve ever encouraged anything o’ that nature.’ With a deep throaty chuckle she went off, teetering on high heels and wiggling her bottom for all she was worth.

  ‘Would you look at the arse she has on her?’ observed Tam, taking a hasty gulp of his beer.

  ‘Ay, and those bosoms,’ supplemented Todd, ‘it’s like looking down the sunny side o’ the Clyde tunnel.’

  ‘When were you in the Clyde tunnel?’ Erchy asked obliquely.

  ‘Quite a few times,’ Todd asserted himself quickly. ‘Glasgow is just teeming wi’ relatives o’ mine, and Mollie’s too for that matter.’

  ‘I didny know the tunnel had a sunny side,’ Erchy continued to deviate in a most infuriating manner. ‘Both ends always looked the same to me.’

  Tam wasn’t listening to any of this. ‘By God! She certainly has got some arse on her,’ he repeated meditatively. ‘Like the rear end o’ a suckling sow. I wonder if she would be like that naked – Margie, I mean, no’ the pig, all pi
nk and smooth and wobbling a bit.’

  ‘Well, she wouldny have a wee curly tail for a start,’ Erchy said decidedly, ‘and you’re never likely to find out about the other things, Tam, no’ wi’ Kate on one side, keeping her eagle eye on you, and Bull Bull breathing down your neck on the other.’

  ‘Ach, well, never mind all that,’ Tam’s mind had switched to other matters. ‘I was just thinking about our conversation wi’ Fergus regarding that lassie who is lost.’

  ‘God, he’s a dour bugger is McKenzie,’ Todd grumbled as he settled himself more comfortably into the dented green leather of his favourite seat and proceeded to poke into the depths of an ancient briar with a pipe-cleaner that had seen better days.

  ‘Ach, he was maybe right,’ Tam said, sipping contentedly at his beer as he thoughtfully eyed the display of bottles in the gantry. ‘We could have spared a bit o’ time to look for that young woman. It would be terrible just if she was maybe lying somewhere, all twisted and bloody and McKenzie the only one caring if she lived or died.’

  The others eyed one another uneasily. ‘Ach, it’ll no’ be as bad as he’s making out,’ Erchy said hastily. ‘The McKenzies were aye ones for a drama. She’ll be in a city somewhere, living it up, glad to get away from the wind and the rain and the sheeps.’

  ‘Ay, it might no’ be as bad . . .’ Ranald’s tongue came out to mop up a moustache of frothy beer, ‘ . . . on the other hand, it could be a lot worse. A similar thing happened in a book I read once. A lassie had a row wi’ her parents and she went fleering out o’ the house, saying she was going to lose herself in the hills. Everyone said she was just doing it to get attention and she would come home soon enough when her belly started to rumble. Well, she never came back, no’ on that day, or the next.’

  Ranald lowered his voice to a hoarse whisper. ‘A search party was organised, but by that time the snow had covered the land, the winter winds were howling like ghosts in the corries, and the wild cats were so hungry they were baying like wolves in the wilderness. It was the worst winter that anyone could ever remember – and when it was over . . .’