by Josh Lanyon
“Let me ask you something. Are you in a steady, committed relationship?”
He looked unexpectedly defensive. “Not at the moment. That doesn’t mean—”
I put my hand up. “Your Honor, I rest my case.”
His eyes narrowed. “I’m not sure what point you think you just proved.”
It was my turn to grin. “Maybe I just wanted to find out if you’re spoken for.”
John stared at me in surprise and then got a funny, sheepish look. “Oh. Okay.”
“Now I’ve made my point,” I said.
He considered and laughed. “Fair enough.”
That little exchange went a way toward distracting me from my initial alarm over Sally’s sudden departure.
A sudden departure was not sudden death. A second death would have been all but impossible to explain. But being called home to the States? It was possible. It was definitely more probable than a secret murder plot spanning the length of a year.
John had to be right. I was letting my love of mysteries run away with me.
Chapter Sixteen
Scotland looks small on the map.
It looks like you could drive its circumference in a couple of days—maybe less. But that’s forgetting the very long and uneven coastline—and the narrow roads that follow that sweeping coastline. It’s forgetting the lack of divided highways, let alone freeways. It’s forgetting the wild and winding mountain roads of the highlands—which occasionally turn into single tracks where most traffic comes from the occasional lost cow. It’s forgetting how much time is spent slowing down or pulling over to let oncoming traffic pass—or how many bathroom breaks a busload of middle-aged people require in the course of a day.
At one of our stops I wandered out of the restroom looking for somewhere to buy a bottle of juice or soda and rounded the corner of the building to find Alison and Daya Bittywiddy arguing.
“You already agreed,” Alison said.
“I’ve changed my mind,” Daya said. “I don’t need to explain myself to you.” Alison was speaking quietly. Daya not so much.
“But you can’t! It’s too late to change course. What are we supposed to do?”
“That’s not my problem—” Daya looked up and saw me.
Alison had started to reply but fell silent. It was cold enough for breath to hang in the air, but in her case, I wasn’t sure if it wasn’t steam coming out of her ears. “Carter!” she said with false cheeriness.
I gestured toward the door behind her. “Just stepping inside to grab an apple juice.”
They were silent as I passed them, and when I stepped out again, they had disappeared.
It was only about one hundred and twenty miles from Strathpeffer to John o’Groats, but it was nearly two o’clock when we arrived in time to grab a late lunch before traveling on to Gills Bay to catch our ferry.
John o’Groats was a lonely little spot, rocky and wind-scoured, famous for being the most northerly point on the island of Britain. Wild dogs skulked on the outer edges of the café parking lot, ever hopeful for scraps, while tourists from some of the other buses posed for photos beneath the famous Land’s End sign.
“I’ve got to phone my office anyway, and it’s got to be a landline,” John told me as we disembarked. “I’ll see if I can get through to Sally or reach someone at her home number.”
I was a little disappointed we weren’t going to investigate this lead together, but had to agree. I watched him walk briskly off down the road toward the village proper until his trench-coated figure disappeared over the rise, and then considered my limited lunch options.
In the end I had an unexpectedly gorgeous cheese plate for lunch at The Storehouse. Half an apple, a small bunch of grapes, flatbread and generous portions of sharp and pungent Stilton, wax-wrapped cheddar, an Orkney cheese and a firm but creamy cheese from Dryfesdale. I washed it all down with a pint. It was delicious. I drank my beer and watched the porpoises in the bay through the café’s picture windows.
When I walked outside, Ben called to me and asked if I’d take a photo of him beneath the iconic sign, which I did.
“I wouldn’t mind living someplace like this,” he said, taking back his camera. The cold had whipped color into his face, and his eyes sparkled. “It would be an adventure.”
“It would, yeah. You’d have to get used to the rain.”
“I live in Seattle. I like rain.”
According to my guidebook, the area was sometimes used for surfing, but on that cold, windy gray day it was hard to imagine the weather conditions ever being right.
“Well, you’re thinking of making a new start.”
His smile faded. “Yes.” He looked past me toward where our bus was parked. “We should be boarding, I suppose.”
The drive west to Gills Bay was short and hilly. Heather bloomed purple and the rocks were yellow and gray and green with lichen.
The bay had an unbroken stretch of low-lying rock coast featuring a small harbor where brightly colored little boats bobbed on the choppy water. The large concrete pier was used as the mainland terminal for Pentland Ferries.
It was a one-hour crossing, but unexpectedly rough. I leaned over the railing next to John, who had already delivered the bad news that he had tried twice but been unable to reach Sally or anyone at her home number, and had to settle for leaving a message on the answering machine.
I gazed out at the endless blue horizon, breathing in the sea air. Unfortunately, the sea air was heavily laced with the diesel exhalations of the ferry engines. I don’t typically have a problem with seasickness, and I was fine until we were passing the treacherous whirlpool known as the Swelchie—caused, according to legend, by a massive magical quern churning salt beneath the sea—when all at once I began to regret that cheese plate.
A lot.
“Jesus, it’s beautiful out here,” John said with quiet sincerity as a seabird swooped within inches of the railing and winged away, briefly silhouetted against the white sun.
“Mmm-hmm.”
He glanced at me, then took another look.
“Whoa,” he said. “So, here’s what you do in this situation.” He put his hands on my shoulders and faced me toward the prow of the ship. Which, coincidentally meant also facing him. “Keep your eyes on the horizon and breathe deep. Slowly.”
I kept my eyes on his and took a couple of deep breaths. We were standing close enough that I could see where he had missed shaving a small patch beneath his ear. I could see a tiny, almost invisible scar beneath his bottom lip. “I think I’d be better sitting down.”
He looked past me, averted his gaze, and said, “No, you really wouldn’t.”
Sounds of distress wafted on the breeze. I swallowed and nodded.
“It’s maybe another fifteen minutes,” John promised. “At most.”
“Great. I think I can do that.” Barring physical torture—real physical torture, like having your fingernails torn off—anything was doable for fifteen minutes. Hopefully.
John’s expression remained suitably sympathetic, but it felt as though he was smiling at me. I had noticed before how twinkly his eyes were. Now I noticed there was no meanness, no mockery. He was a good-humored man—and a kind one. The scent of his aftershave mingled with the chilly sea breeze. A refreshing change from the oily diesel stink of ship engines.
“I’ve never been seasick,” I protested. “I don’t get it.”
“Maybe it’s what you had for lunch?”
I shuddered, and John said, “Sorry. Don’t think about that. Think about...falling into deep, cool water.”
“If that’s a suggestion I throw myself off the boat, I’m considering it.”
“No, no.” He did smile then. “We’re almost there. Look starboard.”
I cautiously turned my head and to my relief I saw land. White rock, white sa
nd, gray-green hills beneath smoke-colored skies. It was starkly, almost ominously beautiful.
A rainbow arched across the green hills as we harbored in the crystal blue water.
The voice over the loudspeaker made some unintelligible announcement. Unintelligible being the native language of announcement-makers the world over. Anyway, there was only one possible message being communicated, and our group gathered their belongings and began to totter their way down the opposite side stairways to the vehicle deck.
As we filed down the narrow metal steps to the bus in the hold, I happened to catch sight of Trevor. He looked very green, and Vance was guiding him along with his fingertips as though he didn’t want to get too close.
“In seasickness and in health,” John murmured, and I gave a shaky laugh.
The bus was about half full as we made our way back to our seats. As I passed Ben and Yvonne, I smiled hello.
Ben gave me a stony look.
I did a double take. He stared straight ahead as though I were invisible.
What was that about? He’d been fine at our lunch stop.
I hit rewind on the last hour. Recognition dawned. Hell. He’d probably seen John and me on deck. And while nothing remotely romantic had been going on, I could see how our interaction might have looked...intimate. To be honest, it had felt sort of intimate. As though John and I were used to looking after each other.
I had nothing to feel guilty about. I liked Ben and had been open to getting to know him a little better. Open. Not eager. There was a difference. Even so, I felt guilty. I knew Ben was more attracted to me than I was to him, and that the kiss the day before had probably been meaningful for him in a way it had not been for me.
Also, though I was not naïve enough to think that having casual sex with John automatically equaled the start of a grand passion, it did feel like something had altered between us. So, while I had been honest when I denied that there was anything between me and John, times had changed.
“Something wrong?” John studied me. “You want the window seat?”
“No. That’s fine.”
“You take the window. That way you can open it if you decide you need fresh air.”
I wasn’t used to even this level of attention, let alone solicitude. It was kind of embarrassing, but kind of nice too. Besides, the bus did smell kind of...lived in.
I sat down without further fuss. John said in a voice intended for my ears only, “How many people on this tour would you guess were aware of the rumor that something went wrong on the last trip?”
I was happy to consider a topic other than Ben’s hurt disappointment. “I’m not sure. Daya, certainly, although I don’t know that she thought anything of it until Rose began insinuating foul play. Rose started dropping hints that very first morning at the Caledonian Inn. I’m not sure why she was so convinced something was wrong, but it seemed to me that she talked to everyone who would listen.”
“And of those people, do you think any of them suspect that something suspicious happened to Rose?”
“Sally, obviously. And me, I guess. And Trevor. Which probably means Vance. And maybe you. Or maybe not you.”
His expression was neutral. I asked, “Do you think something suspicious happened to Rose?”
He shook his head, but it was not as a negative so much as an I don’t know. He said, “And how many people do you think suspect Sally was deliberately got out of the way?”
“Sally wasn’t discreet about her suspicions, that I can say for sure. She was like Rose in that respect. She shared her belief that someone knocked Rose off, in the shuttle to Strathpeffer that morning—she said it right in front of the van driver, along with everyone else.”
“My God,” John said.
“I know. I don’t think anyone took it seriously though. In fact, mostly people seemed to think the discussion was in bad taste.”
“Really? That’s interesting. Especially since you’re all primed to see mystery in every delay and detour. Of which, I might add, there have been a hella lot.”
“I guess Daya might have taken it seriously. She wasn’t in the van, but according to Ben, she seemed to believe there was something to her friend’s story about the accidental drowning.”
John said disapprovingly, “The bathtub drowning.”
“Yes. And, yes, your objections have been duly noted. Statistics tell us that most drowning deaths occur within four miles of a bathtub.”
He snorted.
“Why do you ask?” I asked.
“Just trying to get the chronology straight in my mind. How was Alison at lunch?”
“Okay, as far as I could tell. She seemed like her normal self. She and Daya had some kind of argument at the rest stop, but she seemed fine at lunch.”
“She didn’t try to speak to you or anything?”
I shook my head. “Looking back, I don’t think she gave me a thought.” I considered that for a moment. Yes, for all the malign stares on the bus that morning, Alison seemed to have forgotten about me by lunchtime. How was that possible? I either posed a threat or I didn’t.
I said, “This is going to sound odd, but... I’m not sure if what we think is wrong is the real problem.”
“I’m not following.”
“Something is wrong. I do believe that. I feel like there’s something happening that we don’t see. An...undercurrent running beneath the surface interactions.”
“That makes sense if someone really did do away with Rose.”
“Right. Yes. Except, I’m not sure that’s it. It’s hard to explain.”
John’s gaze was curious.
“I know,” I said. “I’m not making sense.”
“I wouldn’t say that. Actually, I think your instinct is right. I sense it too. That, for lack of a better word, undercurrent.”
“Do you?”
He nodded. “Maybe there’s always a lot of tension on trips like this. I’ve never been on one, so I wouldn’t know. You’ve got a lot of different personalities here and there’s bound to be friction.”
“It doesn’t feel like that though,” I said slowly. “It feels...different.”
Darker. Dangerous. I didn’t want to say it aloud because it sounded melodramatic. Besides. What could be darker than doing away with Rose and possibly Sally in order to cover up an earlier crime?
By that point the bus had bumped and ground its way off the ferry and across the sand and rock to a graded dirt road that wound its whimsical way into the heather-blanketed hills. The drop on the other side of the road was steep. Below, we could see sleek, fat gray seals basking on the rocks. Seabirds took turns diving straight into the choppy blue water.
Alison had been staring glumly out the front window, but she rose and took the mic. It magnified the tail end of her sigh.
“Welcome to Samhradh Beag, the Short Summer. This is a 766-acre island with a full-time population of fifteen, including Vanessa, her household staff and all other employees.
“When Vanessa first purchased the island, there was still a salmon farm, several holiday cottages—you’ll see them when we get closer to the castle—a small sailing school, a café and a post office. Vanessa continues to maintain the salmon farm, but everything else is long gone. There are no shops and no paved roads. There’s a helicopter pad for occasional use or in the event of an emergency. Mail and essentials are delivered weekly from mainland shops, and left secured near the jetty.”
“What happened to the people who used to live on the island?” Bertie asked.
Ben asked, “How often does the ferry come?”
“The ferry only makes the trip twice a year. To bring our tour group across and then carry them back again four days later. There is no regular ferry service to the island. Only invited guests are welcome. Vanessa owns her own boat, of course, but it’s easier to charter a helicopter whe
n she wants to travel to and from the mainland. She rarely leaves home these days.”
Daya gave one of those disapproving sniffs.
Each lazy curve in the road offered another breathtaking view of hills carpeted in wildflowers, distant tawny mountains, crystal blue bays. Cell phones and cameras clicked away.
“Vanessa’s ethos is that she’s simply the caretaker of the island, and that it’s her job to interfere as little as possible with the natural ecology. Over the past fifteen years, she’s planted nearly two hundred thousand native trees as part of a woodland regeneration scheme.”
The bus labored up a rise in the road, gears straining. We topped the crest and the castle came into view.
There were several gasps.
Edie whispered, “It really is a castle.”
“Castle Dìomhair likely dates to the mid-sixteenth century. It served as a hospital for casualties of Dunkirk in 1940, but afterwards fell into disrepair until it was renovated and converted into a hotel by a local family. In 2003, Vanessa purchased the island, made the castle her home, and four years later began inviting readers to visit as part of Tours to Die For.”
“What does the name mean?” Nedda called.
“There’s a difference of opinion. Some people think it means secret castle and others believe it means castle of secrets. It’s probably the same thing in the end.”
Not really. But I kept my inner librarian quiet.
“Is it haunted?” Bertie asked. “It looks haunted.”
“Absolutely,” Alison said cheerfully. “Through the years there have been numerous claims that Castle Dìomhair is haunted. Visitors and hotel staff used to regularly report witnessing apparitions in the forms of a small girl and a middle-aged lady.”
“What about a teenage boy?” someone said.
Who? The voice sounded thick, unfamiliar. Who had spoken?
No one said a word. I don’t think anyone moved a muscle. I’m not sure we didn’t all hold our breath.
After a sharp pause, Alison said, “No. Nor have the middle-aged lady and small girl been identified, although descriptions of their clothing indicate that they might date back to the 1920s when a fire destroyed much of the structure. The roof was replaced at that time, stonework around the windows was repaired and electric lighting was installed.”