Wilde was aware of northern Scotland’s strategic importance – even a limited invasion of German troops from Norway could isolate and threaten the fleet in Scapa Flow in the Orkneys and cripple Britain’s airborne operations over the Atlantic. It would also divert British troops from other theatres of war. An elite German division would be able to bed down quickly in the Highlands and would take a great deal of winkling out. So best not to let them land in the first place, which was why this area was stiff with military outfits on land, air and sea; as Bill Phillips had pointed out, this was not a place to dig for information unless you had authority.
Half an hour later, the road descended into the hamlet of Berriedale, where the stream of the same name flowed into the sea, then on past the hamlets of Borgue and Ramscraigs on the coast, before turning inland along a narrow track to the small settlement of Braemore. The haze had dispersed and the day was warm and clear now. As Corporal Boycott parked the car, Wilde pulled out strong leather walking boots from his bag and changed into them. It had been raining during the night, and the paths were boggy.
‘I take it you know how to get to the crash site, Quayle?’
‘Yes, I paid a brief visit early yesterday, but it’s not easy. Even without last night’s rain, parts of these moors are a swamp all year round.’
They left the corporal with the car and trekked southwards and westwards across moorland. They saw men in uniform at various stages, but didn’t bother to approach them. Scruffy sheep roamed the hills. They crested a rise and stopped for a breather, looking to the west with the North Sea at their backs.
‘I thought it would be more mountainous,’ Wilde said.
‘It’s rough enough – but this is pretty much the last of it.’ Quayle picked off the peaks. He pointed to the south-west. ‘That’s Donald’s Mount with the Scaraben range behind it, then that lovely tit of a mountain with the nipple on top is Maiden Pap. No secret as to how that got its name. And then, if I’ve got this correct, that ridge ahead of us is Eagle’s Rock, which is no more than 800 feet at its highest. That’s where the Sunderland hit.’
‘That’s a hill, not a mountain! How in God’s name did they not clear that ridge?’
Quayle smiled grimly. ‘Pilot error, old boy. Just like Wing Commander Frayne said. Come on, let’s go and have a look at the wreckage.’
‘Who owns this land?’
‘It’s the Langwell Estate, the old Duke of Portland’s place. Over 50,000 acres of nothing much – unless you like grouse shooting, deer stalking and salmon fishing, all of which I loathe. Oh, and there are sheep, too, as you might have noticed.’
‘Is he here now?’
‘Portland? I’m not sure, but his son Lord Titchfield is certainly in residence up at Braemore, the estate’s hunting lodge, close to where we parked. I believe they were fishing at the time of the crash and organised a search party.’
‘Were they first on the scene?’
‘No, that was a shepherd named James Gunn and some locals. Then the special constables from Dunbeath arrived – Willie Bethune and Jimmy Sutherland – and they realised that the Duke was among the dead.’
‘And they knew that how?’
‘His air commodore’s insignia, and the dog tags attached to his wrist. Then along came old Dr Kennedy, the local physician, and he pronounced everyone dead. But, of course, that was before they realised Andy Jack was alive.’
‘I’d like to talk to all those people.’
Quayle’s brow knitted with puzzlement and scepticism. ‘What exactly are you looking for, Wilde? Bombs? Enemy action? You’ve been reading too much Ashenden.’
‘I’m not going to interrogate anyone. I just want to thank them and perhaps get some explanation – a reason for this senseless tragedy. Something I can tell Roosevelt.’
Quayle affected a weary sigh. ‘No one saw a damned thing, Wilde. Thick fog, remember.’
‘I know, I know . . . I’m clutching at straws.’
‘I can see that, but I’m not really sure why.’ Quayle hunched over further, dug his hands deeper into his trouser pockets and shook his head with a resigned air. ‘All right, Wilde. You do whatever you need to do. But be careful.’
Was that a warning? Or a threat? Wilde gave him the benefit of the doubt. ‘Caution will be my watchword.’
‘Come on, we’ve still got a trek ahead of us.’
*
Wreckage was scattered over a wide area. Wilde estimated it at a full quarter mile or more of debris. Thousands of fragments of metal of all sizes covered the hillside, as well as softer materials – the canvas of seats, scraps of clothing and bags. The shredded interior and exterior of a plane almost identical to the one in which he had flown less than twenty-four hours earlier. It was a sight to make a man weep.
A piece of the fuselage caught his eye. It bore words stencilled in red: DO NOT CLOSE BOMB DOORS WHILE TROLLEYS ARE OUT.
The heather and sheep grass were scorched, but the fires had long since died out in the rain. Along the slope below the ridge, four blackened and bent propellers cast incongruous shapes like abstract sculptures. It was not high here – probably no more than 600 feet, Wilde estimated – and it seemed ridiculous to him that a sound and well-maintained aeroplane should have come to grief in such a place. Eagle’s Rock wasn’t a mountain, it was a slope. Why wasn’t Short Sunderland 4026 flying at 3,000 feet or more by the time it reached here from the Cromarty Firth?
There were about two dozen men in military uniform and others in civilian countrywear, all picking about among the debris, searching the scarred land and gathering in the remains of the plane, loading smaller pieces on to carts. The bigger parts – the twisted wings and fuselage – would have to be dragged away by heavy vehicles, if they could be brought up here.
‘They never stood a chance,’ Quayle said.
‘And yet you say one man survived.’
‘That’s because the rear gun turret broke away on impact, missed the worst of the explosion.’
‘Are any of the men who found the wreckage here?’ Wilde asked.
‘No, this is a military operation now, clearing the site.’
‘Is that necessary? Hell of a lot of work.’
‘Oh yes, orders from on high, professor – they don’t want souvenir hunters coming up here to collect bits of royal memorabilia.’
Wilde nodded. That made sense, of course. But an intelligence man might wonder if there were another reason for their diligence: what if there were something up here that they didn’t want to fall into the wrong hands?
‘But it’s difficult. A tracked vehicle – tank or armoured car – might just about be able to traverse these bogs, but ordinary trucks would not be easy. They had to bring horses and carts up here to take the bodies down to the ambulances.’ Quayle cupped his mouth and moved closer to Wilde’s ear. ‘And a little bit of information – you might hear that quite a lot of money was found up here. Well, that’s true – there was some Icelandic currency littered around. Quite normal to take a stash on trips like this because you never know what’s needed. But of course a discovery like that will set tongues wagging among the locals, and it will inevitably get distorted in the telling.’
‘Where is it now, this money?’
‘Safely gathered in.’
‘Nothing to worry about then.’ He stretched his arms and feigned a yawn.
‘Indeed not. Tired, Wilde?’
‘It’s been a long journey. Do you mind if I walk a little on my own, Quayle? I’d like to gather my thoughts.’
‘Commune with the Holy Spirit?’
Was Quayle mocking him? Wilde did not rise to the bait. ‘I was asked by the President to pray for the dead.’
‘You go ahead.’ The Englishman pulled out his flask, which had been miraculously refilled, and sat down on a metal cylinder. ‘Snorter to put a spring in your step?’
‘Later, perhaps. You realise you’re sitting on an unexploded depth charge, don’t you, Quayle?’
&nbs
p; Quayle looked down at the grey container full of high explosives. ‘Why, so I am, old man. Why don’t they make these damned things more comfortable?’
*
As Wilde walked, he picked up occasional pieces – the sad detritus of tragedy: a solitary shoe, scraps of clothing, a few coins, an opened bottle of whisky that had somehow survived the impact. He found a Bakelite ashtray, identifiable as such only by the stubbed ash in its core. He looked at each article in turn then either put it down where he had found it or handed it to one of the uniformed men.
The stench of the fire still lay heavily across the moor. Parts of the plane were half-buried in a foul black brew of mud, sodden moss and burnt furze. He found himself thinking about the men aboard and wondered whether they had even known they were about to crash. Perhaps in the dense fog none of them knew their fate. That was some sort of blessing.
He stood still, bowed his head and mouthed the words of the Lord’s Prayer. Even though he was not a believer, it was somehow appropriate. Perhaps the childhood churchgoer was still there in some part; once a Roman Catholic, always a Roman Catholic. His mother would expect no less of him. Anyway, what else was one to do when confronted with such appalling and senseless loss of life?
‘Need that tot yet?’
Wilde turned to face Quayle, who seemed to have followed him like a faithful hound.
‘Yes, I think I do.’
‘Man’s finest medicine.’ He handed him the flask, then squinted and bent down to pick something up. Something dark and tangled, which at first sight looked like a mechanic’s rag.
‘What have you found, Quayle?’
Quayle unscrunched it and held it by two corners. It was very light and gossamer thin, fluttering in the breeze like a butterfly wing. ‘Flier’s silk scarf, I think.’
‘Can I see?’
Quayle handed the silk square to Wilde. He thought it quite exquisite – black and green with a faint leaf pattern. ‘It’s beautiful,’ Wilde said. He held it to his face. Even with the stench of ashes in the air, he could still catch its fragrance.
‘Perfumed is it, Wilde? Probably given to one of the pilots by a loved one to wear as a keepsake, to give him luck – and to remind of him of all those scented nights in her bed.’ He chuckled before taking the scarf back, sniffing it, then thrusting it unceremoniously into his jacket pocket. ‘Devilishly sad. I’ll try to find out which one owned it and have it returned to the grieving widow or paramour, poor girl. Someone at Invergordon will know, I expect.’
Wilde’s attention was already elsewhere. Along the ridge above the stream – perhaps 800 yards away and on higher ground, a solitary figure was standing watching them, with a dog at his side. From this distance, it was difficult to be sure, but the man seemed to be wearing rough country clothes and cap and was carrying a long stick or crook. Wilde guessed he was a shepherd; he certainly wasn’t one of the official military men.
‘That’s Gregor McGregor,’ Quayle said. ‘The local police identified him to me as one of the shepherds up here, but they said we’d get nothing out of him – and they were right. I’m told he’s been hanging around and watching for the past couple of days. Bloody nuisance, actually.’
‘He must have been among the first at the crash site, surely? I’d like to know what he saw.’
‘So would I. Despite what the local bobby said on the subject, I did try talking to the fellow but he really has got nothing to say for himself. Not quite sure he’s mastered language yet – bit soft in the head.’
‘I’d like to talk to him all the same.’
‘Go ahead. Weave your magic, old man.’
Wilde strolled off. The going began to get steeper and he soon realised that the shepherd was further away than he had thought. As Wilde approached, his objective moved too, as elusive as the end of a rainbow. Wilde was about to put on a surge, but then the shepherd stopped and within a couple of minutes Wilde was standing in front of him.
‘Hello,’ he said. ‘I imagine you work up here?’
The shepherd said nothing, and Wilde saw that he was very young. Perhaps no more than sixteen. His skin was fresh and freckled, his hair a dazzling ginger-red. But his light green eyes were distant; his dog, a collie, seemed the more alert of the two.
‘You’re McGregor, aren’t you – Gregor McGregor?’
Again, nothing.
‘Perhaps I can call you Gregor, and you can call me Tom. Did you see the plane crashing on Tuesday? Perhaps you heard it.’
The boy didn’t reply, but Wilde could swear that there was a change in his expression, a barely perceptible knitting of the brows as though he were thinking.
‘Gregor? It’s OK, you can talk to me. Perhaps you think my voice is strange – well, that’s because I’m American. But I am a friend.’ Wilde bent forward to pat the dog’s head and was rewarded with a wagging tail. ‘He’s lovely – what’s his name?’
Still nothing.
‘Do you live near here? Where’s your home, Gregor?’
He realised this was going nowhere. Quayle had been right. Even if this young man had seen or heard anything, he didn’t have the wherewithal to communicate it. He smiled at the boy. ‘Never mind. I expect this has all been a great shock to you.’
Wilde bent down and patted the dog once more, then he nodded. ‘Thank you for your time, Gregor.’ He turned and set off down the hill. He had gone no more than ten yards when he heard the voice.
‘Mother said I was lying.’
Wilde stopped and slowly turned back. ‘Gregor?’
‘She said I was lying. She said I always lie. But I didn’t lie this time.’
‘What did you tell her?’
‘I told her about the lassie.’
Chapter 8
‘What did you say?’
‘Mother said I was lying.’
‘The other thing – you said something about a lassie. You mean a girl?’
‘Aye, a lassie. I found her up here, dead. I told Mother, but she told me I should keep my dirty mouth shut and not say anything to anyone. She said I was a foolish boy and a liar.’
‘Can you show me the body?’
‘No, it’s gone. Been took away.’
‘But it was among the plane wreckage, with the other bodies?’
‘Aye, sort of.’
‘I don’t understand.’
The boy’s light green eyes began blinking rapidly. ‘If you tell Mother I spoke to you, I’ll get a beating and no supper.’
‘I won’t tell her. Where does she live?’
A tinkle of laughter emerged from the boy’s throat, as though Wilde had asked the stupidest question imaginable. ‘Where do you think she lives, mister? Ramscraigs, of course, where she’s always lived. Where else would she live?’
‘Can you tell me a bit more about this girl – this lassie? What did she look like?’
‘She looked like a lassie, of course.’
‘What was she wearing?’
‘Clothes.’
‘A skirt? Trousers?’
‘Just clothes. Big clothes, like she was in bed. And a pack on her back.’
‘You mean a Mae West and parachute?’
‘A big pack. She was dead.’
‘What colour was her hair? Was it long or short, Gregor?’
‘I don’t know. She had a thing on her head and sort of glasses. You’re asking all these questions. Mother said I should keep my stupid mouth shut.’
Wilde realised he was unsettling the boy. He crouched down and stroked the dog again. ‘You’ve got a lovely dog. Does it have a name?’
‘Kite.’
‘Hello, Kite, you’re a fine fellow, aren’t you, eh? Does he bring the sheep in, Gregor?’
‘I’ve got to go now. I shouldn’t be talking to you. I’ll get another hiding.’
‘Look, it’s OK to talk to me – really it is. Why don’t I come with you? We could go to your house and I’ll talk to your mother, tell her that you’ve been helping and that you’re not ly
ing. How does that sound?’
‘No, no, no, no, no!’ His distress was obvious; he was so agitated, Wilde wondered whether he might strike out. The boy turned and ran, then fell over a rock, but picked himself up and ran on, the dog following eagerly, ranging from side to side as the boy disappeared downhill in the direction of the little stream.
*
‘What happened, Wilde? Did you get the boy to talk?’ Quayle languidly ran a hand through his windswept grey locks.
‘Yes, I did.’
‘Gibberish, was it?’
‘He said he found a dead girl.’
Quayle’s brow tightened. ‘Are you serious?’
‘That’s what he said.’
‘Well, I told you he was a simpleton.’
‘Is that impossible then – that there was a woman aboard the Sunderland?’
‘Well, of course, nothing’s impossible, but why would there have been a woman with the Duke? And why didn’t the RAF release the fact if that was the case?’
‘Perhaps they wanted to save royal blushes.’
‘What are you suggesting, Wilde?’
‘I’m not suggesting anything. Merely wondering.’
‘Look, whatever you’ve heard about Georgie and his crazy days, that was all behind him years ago. He has been as straight as a die and perfectly respectable since Marina came along.’
‘I have no reason to doubt you, but the McGregor boy insists there was a dead girl among the bodies.’
‘Well, all I can say is that he’s an idiot. He probably couldn’t tell a woman from a sheep anyway. Utterly preposterous.’
‘How long did it take for the first search party to find the wreck?’
‘An hour and a half. Good God, man, you sound like the CID!’
Wilde ignored the reprimand. ‘So if Gregor McGregor was already up here he might have found the crashed plane and the bodies first, but not known what to do.’
‘Anything’s possible, but that doesn’t mean it happened. It certainly doesn’t mean there was a girl on the plane. For pity’s sake, Wilde . . .’
‘Do these questions bother you, Quayle?’
‘I’m just astonished that you would listen to a half-witted shepherd boy. I was told you were coming here to pay your respects, not to play Maigret. You’re making yourself seem ridiculous.’
A Prince and a Spy Page 6