Women of the Dunes

by Sarah Maine

  And the cross, if she was right, belonged to the same period. And was valuable.

  The family had been absent at the time of the theft, which had obviously been a professional and targeted job, triggering grumblings in the broadsheets about national treasures being held, inadequately protected, by private individuals. It had never been fully studied, but the few images that existed had led scholars to believe that it was originally Irish, probably eighth century in date, a beautiful vessel of silver and gilt encrusted with semiprecious stones, and well worth stealing. An insurance scam had been suspected until it became clear that the missing item had not been insured, and the art and museum world had groaned again at the hopeless ineptitude of the seventh baronet.

  So Declan’s reference to it had been bound to provoke, and she had said so.

  “I meant it to,” he replied, with the mulish set to his jaw she was learning to recognise. “Shows them no one’s forgotten and that maybe they should cooperate more.”

  “But if they’re still smarting after all that publicity—”

  “Yeah, well. The papers did rather go to town on it, I suppose,” he said, “and speculating about more treasure being out there. I heard a rumour that the estate’s gamekeeper fired at some metal-detectorists soon after.” She must have looked appalled, thinking of the students, and he had turned the subject. “Only a rumour, of course.”

  No wonder the landowner was keeping his head down.

  So against this background, the cross was a problem and it was overshadowing her excitement in being here.

  She’d planned a visit as soon as she’d come to England for university, but it had seemed less pressing then and her new life had taken over. And almost at once she’d become involved with Simon, an economics postgraduate. Involved, looking back on it, to the exclusion of all else. Simon was London-based. Very focussed. Ambitious. And when he’d announced at Christmas that he had the opportunity to go to New York for a year, Libby’s growing concerns with that relentless focus had crystallized. Trailing in his wake was not at all what she wanted from life. She had felt vindicated by his expression of astonishment when she’d tried to explain her decision, and so she had stayed on, completing her studies, and let him go. They’d parted friends, more or less, and she had felt a sort of relief when she saw him off at the airport. She’d chart her own course now, and had no regrets.

  And then the job with Declan had come up, and she was here! A further vindication of her decision.

  She started picking her way back towards the shore. The place had had no real part in her life, of course, and yet it still provided her with the sense of connection she had felt in childhood. Did everyone feel that need? To be able to point to somewhere and say that they had ties there? Since her parents’ divorce, many years ago, she had been passed between her mother in New Zealand and, less frequently, her father, who was constantly on the move. English boarding school had been endured because her summers had been spent, gloriously, in her grandmother’s house in Gosse Harbour. Her father had occasionally touched down there to take her fishing, teaching her to sail and to drive a boat, but it was her grandmother who had been her fixed point, constant, serene, and unchanging, and Gosse Harbour became the closest thing to home.

  So perhaps it was not so strange, she thought, watching the smoke from Sturrock House blow towards the old cottages, that she felt a connection with this place, even one that was generations old and built on the flimsy foundation of an ancient tale.

  She scanned the bay one last time, noting where the estate had said they could camp behind the old manse for the prescribed two weeks in June. Declan would be in overall charge, but she was responsible for the day-to-day smooth running, and she wasn’t sure just how hands-on he would be. He’d said from the start that he’d not be caught dead in a tent but would stay at the local pub, the Oran Bridge, which did bed and breakfast.

  But somehow, between them, they would direct the students who would excavate the enigmatic mound, record their discoveries, catalogue any finds, and then go, leaving absolutely no trace of their stay there. This had all been spelled out in detailed, uncompromising print— Any and all finds remain estate property. Nothing whatsoever is to be removed without explicit agreement.

  And that thought brought her back again to the little cross. She’d left it, still in the package with the sketchbook, in a drawer in her flat, but it couldn’t stay there forever. If it had been Ellen’s, as her grandmother’s letter said, then it surely must have come from Ullaness. And if Libby was right, it was of the same period as the chalice and was hardly something Ellen, who had been in service, would have owned. So how had she come by it?

  She knew that there was a darker side to Ellen’s story—but had Ellen also been a thief?

  Chapter 2

   Libby

  Libby had told no one that she was coming up here this weekend, not even Declan, and the journey had taken longer than she’d imagined. Driving away from the shore she was conscious of weariness, and she moved to straighten her shoulders. Eight hours it had taken her to get here, seven of them at the wheel. That was alright, though, she liked driving, it gave her time to think, but she was ready for bed. She’d stopped only once on her way north to the border, and then got lost in road works approaching Glasgow before being slowed to a frustrating crawl by a caravan on the Loch Lomond road. The pasty she’d eaten while waiting for the little ferry to cross back over a great sea loch now felt like a long time ago. A few cars and a delivery van had disembarked as she sat there, and then she and three other vehicles had been waved on board. Once across the loch, she’d still had an hour to travel, following the ever-narrowing roads towards the coast until she reached the tiny community of Oran Bridge.

  She’d passed through it on her way to Ullaness, and it amounted to little more than a clutch of cottages, a shop, and the Oran Bridge Hotel where she would stay tonight. She retraced her route now and pulled up outside where a soft light fanned out a welcome onto the road.

  Food, and then bed. She took her bag off the back seat, locked the car, and went inside. The hum of conversation broke off as she entered, but resumed a moment later while the landlord fetched the room key. The clientele was mostly middle-aged or old men, except for three young boys who were doggedly tucking into plates of sausage and mash over by the fire, and the sight reminded her again that she was hungry. “Can I still order food?” she asked, and the landlord nodded her towards a menu. She ordered, then went up to her room to dump her bag.

  Returning a moment later, she bought a drink and headed for a free table near the fire, conscious of eyes following her, a woman alone, a stranger, but the scrutiny felt curious rather than hostile. She threaded her way through the tables to a long wooden pew which looked as if it had once served Sabbath duties, and sat down next to the boys. The grey-bearded man beside them nodded at her. “Shift along there, lads,” he said, “make space for the lady,” and she smiled her thanks. He was a big man and had a good face, she thought, weather-worn with laughter lines etched deep beside his eyes. Their grandfather, perhaps? He was nursing a pint, dividing his attention between the boys and a companion on his right, and his eyes rested on her for a moment.

  The boys looked like brothers, ranging from about seven to eleven years old, she guessed, and they studied her in that open way that children have. Their focus switched abruptly, however, as her plate of fish and chips arrived. “Wish I’d had that,” the smallest of them muttered, earning himself a jab in the ribs. “I said I wanted chips.”

  “They do look good,” she agreed, and the boy blushed and turned away to chase the last of the peas around his plate.

  The outside door opened a moment later and a man entered. The boy beside her leapt to his feet, chips forgotten. “Dad! I caught a cod!” he called across the room. The man lifted a hand in acknowledgement and went over to the bar. “A cod, Dad! The only one, all day, the others just got mackerel.” The newcomer ordered a drink, and stayed chatting a mo
ment to the landlord. “Did you hear me?” the boy demanded, clearly affronted, and a low laugh went around the room. Someone said something to the man at the bar and he gave a wry smile.

  “I did, Charlie, I did,” he said, and came towards them, pocketing his change. “You’d no call to feed them, Angus. Alice’s left us a pie.”

  “But we were starving,” said the middle-sized boy, and the old man chuckled.

  “And that would never do.”

  “A cod, Dad!” the boy called Charlie insisted, tugging at his father’s sleeve, and the man ruffled his hair and smiled down at him.

  “Well done! And what about you two?”

  “Five mackerel and a crab,” said the eldest. “But we threw the crab back.”

  The man nodded and took a long drink, then set his glass down, and moved his neck and shoulders as if to ease their stiffness.

  “How was the event?” the older man asked.

  “Not bad. Not brilliant, but not bad,” he replied, dragging a chair over and sitting down. He was dark in colouring, like the boys, and he too had an outdoor sort of face. He was leaner than the older man, his face more angular, more drawn. Late thirties, Libby reckoned. “Alice was pleased, at any rate. Seems anything that’s smoked will sell these days, as long as it says wild on it somewhere and has a saltire on the packaging. Made some useful contacts too.” He glanced briefly in Libby’s direction, then away, and gave his attention to the boys: “So tell me about this cod, then. And the rest.”

  Libby half listened as the anglers’ triumphs were described in detail and ate her fish and chips. Once she looked up and saw that the man was considering her. Not many visitors came here, she thought again, or perhaps not at this time of year.

  The food was good, hot and well-cooked, and slowly the warmth of the room crept into her muscles, reminding her that it had been a long day. Having eaten her fill she put down her knife and fork. Time for bed. She turned aside to gather her bag and scarf and stood, but unwittingly the newcomer rose at the same time, and they jostled for a moment in the restricted space.

  The man sat. “You first,” he said, and watched her as she eased herself past the table; then he stood up again and addressed his sons. “Say your thank-yous, you two. And what do I owe you for the food, Angus?”

  “Away wi’ you, sir.”

  A good-natured dispute ensued as she crossed the room and she turned to see a note being anchored under Angus’s glass. Then the man bid the company good night and ushered just two of the boys through the door, leaving the third, the eldest, with the older man.

  The pub’s bedroom was papered in a faded chintz and rather cozy, she decided as she unpacked the little she had brought and then climbed into bed, pulling up the flannelette sheet and wool blankets. When had she last slept under blankets? Probably not since her last visit to her grandmother a year ago. And who else came here, she wondered, other than walkers or passers-by? Oran Bridge was well off the beaten track.

  But this summer they would have Declan to stay, and she looked again at the pink chintz, and smiled.

  They had begun recruiting students for the summer’s excavation a couple of weeks ago, once permission to excavate, and funding, had been assured. Declan was to give a lecture setting out the importance of the site to whet appetites and get volunteers to sign up. Competition for student labour might be fierce, as alternative fieldwork options in Sicily and Jordan were on offer. Scotland, and midges, could be a hard sell.

  She’d almost been late for the lecture and the lights were dimmed as she slipped through the door and found a seat, and watched Declan stroll across the front of the lecture hall with his hands in his pockets. Black jeans, a white open-necked shirt, and the inevitable black leather jacket; his trademark image. His career had gone well and he knew it, the youngest professor in the department, the cool one.

  “So!” he began, pivoting on his heel to face his audience. “Ullaness.” He played out the syllables one by one. “Ul-la-ness. Ulla’s headland. The enigma of the west. How many of you have heard of it?”

  One or two hands went up, followed by others who hoped not to have to confirm their claim. Libby smiled. Chancers— But it was a good turnout. About thirty or thirty-five students, more than she’d expected, and far more than they could take if all chose to apply. Declan usually attracted a good audience though, and, inevitably, the front row was entirely female.

  “Some of you, eh? And the rest are here to find out—if you manage to stay awake, that is. Heavy night, Danny boy?” A titter went through the hall and his victim grinned as he shuffled upright in his seat. “Don’t worry. I’ll be brief.” He touched the remote and an image flashed onto the screen of a breathtakingly white sand beach fringed by dunes which followed a perfect curve out to the rocky headland where she had stood this evening. “Ullaness has a history which encompasses four or five thousand years, with everything from prehistoric shell middens to a grand estate house, not to mention”—he paused for effect—“The Mound.” A pale turquoise sea lapped over the sands on the screen, but this evening it had been steely grey, flecked with white. Declan’s pointer hovered over a low, irregular mound set in the dunes behind the beach. “And there it is, peppered with rabbit holes, eroding away with every storm, but apparently, and miraculously, undisturbed.”

  If it was undisturbed, it would indeed be miraculous, especially given the recent talk of treasure, she thought as she pulled the blankets up under her chin, relishing the softness of their satin edging. But the mound had only been recognised as a man-made feature after last winter when a high tide had leapt over the protecting dunes and uncovered the setting of round white stones she had stared down at this evening.

  “There’re also the remains of what is thought to be an early Christian cell or oratory out on the headland,” Declan had continued, “associated traditionally, though spuriously, with Saint Oran, to whom the church is dedicated and for whom the nearby village is named. Oran was an Irish saint who apparently spent his life dashing along the Celtic fringes sticking his moniker on every island, headland, or skerry.” Another unctuous titter ran through the students. “And then there’s the church itself. An early monastery, perhaps? Who knows, but there’s some fine sculpture associated with it, and fragments of a tenth-century high cross now in Edinburgh.” She’d not had time to explore the church this evening, but tomorrow she would.

  “The estate passed into the hands of the Sturrock family,” he had continued, “following the 1745 Jacobite rebellion. They’d chosen the boring, but winning, side, so a baronetcy was created and the incumbent family got the push. A couple of generations later the third baronet got swept up with the Romantic movement and went mad on his home-grown legend, did an architectural makeover, and wrote some ghastly poetry. We’ll never know how much of the original legend he preserved and how much he made up, but he put Ullaness on the map, so to speak. And feudalism is still alive and well up there, my friends, believe me.” The remark had been unnecessary, as well as unprofessional, and Declan had avoided her eye. “Until recently they’ve resisted any suggestion that work be done in the area. But now, with erosion threatening to destroy what had previously been thought to be a dune, they’ve rather belatedly started to pay attention to what they have. And I’m happy to tell you today that not only have I got permission to dig there this summer, but I’ve secured the funds to do so.” He had paused for an appreciative splatter of applause while Libby thought wryly of the hours that she had spent poring over grant application forms, ticking boxes, and jumping through hoops, and then the nail-biting delay in getting his signature on them before the deadline passed. Such was life.

  “Some of you will remember,” he continued, “the furore over the theft of the Ullaness chalice about a year back? Other artefacts were allegedly found, but they too have disappeared over the years.” This was before the parcel had arrived. “The loss of the chalice is tragic, as it was one of the finest examples of Irish art discovered in Scotland, and all we�
��ve got to go on is a handful of black-and-white photographs and some old drawings. But perhaps its loss triggered a latent sense of responsibility in the estate— Yes, Paula?”

  “Where was it found?” the student asked.

  “Somewhere on the estate, but no one knows precisely where. It came to light in the nineteenth century after the third baronet had pumped life into the old legend of Ulla.” He paused. “For those of you who don’t know, the legend describes the antics of a beautiful pagan Norsewoman called Ulla and Oran or Odrhan, a masochistic monk, one of those fanatical types who hung out on draughty headlands and islands.” His audience laughed. “A ruin on the headland is traditionally associated with him but it’s never been investigated, although I have plans, my friends, I have plans . . . Anyway the legend first surfaced in the seventeenth century although earlier fragments are known, and then it was almost certainly garbled by the third baronet, who milked it for all it was worth. Great cachet, you know, having your own legend to draw on. Walter Scott was said to have visited Sturrock House to discuss its place in Scotland’s literary heritage. It’s got all the right ingredients, though, I’ll give it that—vengeful Vikings, pillaged loot, a hot temptress, and an anguished celibate. Oh yes, and a complicated paternity issue. Sex, murder—and a reckoning. There’s probably a kernel of truth in all of it, but folklore has a way of twisting things, so we’ll put the antics of Ulla-the-fair-maiden and Odrhan-the-naughty-monk aside for the duration of the project, and stick with the concept of research. Time to consider connections later. What we have to work with is a mound, an early church, a ruin on a headland—and a very careless baronet. Next question—”