Wilde caught the barman’s eye. ‘Help him,’ he said, pointing to Quayle, who wasn’t moving. He turned back to the two assailants. ‘Now what is this?’
‘He’s a bastard queer, is what he is,’ the older one said. ‘Tried it on with my boy Malcolm.’
‘Aye, I just came out for a piss. Just pissing against the wall here and the bastard queer came and stood beside me, real close, took out his thing, but he wasn’t pissing. Playing with himself, the dirty queer bastard. Then he reached across and touched me. That’s when I smacked him one. Bastard queer.’
Jimmy Orde stepped forward and stood beside Wilde. ‘All right, lads, we’ve had our fun for the day. Whatever happened out here, I don’t want anyone getting their neck stretched for murder, let’s all just cool off.’ The barkeep and one of his customers were tending to Walter Quayle. ‘How is he, Davy?’
‘Not good. He’s taken a hammering.’
‘We need to get him to the hospital,’ Wilde said.
‘Aye,’ Orde said. ‘We’ll get him there and call out the doctor.’ He turned to the assailants. ‘You two get home and pray yon man’s not badly injured or worse.’
The fight had already gone out of them. Their aggressive stance had been replaced by slumping shoulders and downcast eyes. The father made a move and motioned with his head for his son to follow, then together they slunk off down the street.
*
An hour later, Quayle was in hospital. He had concussion, a suspected fractured rib and a broken nose. He had a room to himself. Wilde stayed with him for half an hour then said he would see him in the morning and went back to his lodging with Jimmy Orde and his wife.
‘I’m sorry about that,’ Orde said as they sipped cups of tea in his kitchen. ‘You’ll be going home with bad thoughts about our hospitality in these parts.’
‘Not your fault, Jimmy. That sort of thing could happen anywhere.’
‘Aye, well, all three of them could end up in prison – one for importuning an indecent act, the other two for assault.’
‘But that’s not going to happen, is it?’
‘Not as far as I’m concerned, no. I’ll say nothing to the constable and I doubt anyone else will either.’
With the drama all but over, Wilde had other matters on his mind. ‘You mentioned something – the direction of travel of a Sunderland flying boat at about the time the Duke’s plane crashed into Eagle’s Rock.’
‘Aye, so I did.’
‘Do you want to tell me more about it?’
‘There’s no more to tell. I saw what I saw, but I couldn’t tell you that it was the Duke’s plane, if that’s what you’re thinking.’
‘But you’re certain that plane wasn’t coming up the coast from Invergordon?’
‘Impossible. It was coming out of the North Sea, from the direction of Scandinavia.’
Wilde liked this man. He liked his doubts and his honesty. ‘Who have you told about the plane you saw?’
‘No one, except you.’
‘Why not?’
Orde shrugged. ‘Who should I tell? Why would anyone be interested?’
‘Because you don’t believe the version of events you’ve read in the papers, do you, Jimmy? You don’t believe the Duke of Kent was going anywhere – you think he was coming back from somewhere. So why keep it to yourself?’
He looked uncomfortable. ‘There’s a war on. Doesn’t pay to be too nosy, does it? If the powers-that-be want to give out their own version of events, who is Jimmy Orde to gainsay them?’
‘Perhaps the powers-that-be aren’t being told the whole truth.’
‘Now you’re getting into tricky waters, Tom. Any herring man will tell you to stay away from the shallows and the rocks.’
Wilde didn’t like it, but he understood Orde’s point of view. ‘You may be right, Jimmy.’
Orde was picking up the cups. ‘I think we’ve both drunk enough and said enough, don’t you, Tom? And so I’ll bid you good night. There’s a basin in your room with hot water, and Jeanie will have put a chamberpot under the bed. The privy’s out the back.’
The cups rattled as Orde carried them out to the kitchen, leaving Wilde with questions which he would somehow have to answer himself: firstly, wherever the plane was coming from, why did it crash? And if it was coming back from a flight instead of embarking on one, then where had it been? And why was the government so keen to keep it secret, and keep the Americans – and, indeed, the British people – out of the loop?
As he squeezed himself into the narrow cot bed that must have once been a child’s, there was another thing that bothered Wilde. Assuming that Orde was correct and that the plane was returning to Scotland, why was it flying so low, and in thick fog? If it was in trouble, then why didn’t it simply come down on the sea? Flying boats didn’t need runways; they could find safe harbour on almost any stretch of water if it was calm enough.
Chapter 10
In the morning, Wilde paid another short visit to Quayle. He was sitting up in bed in a room next door to the surviving tail gunner from the Sunderland. Quayle’s chest was swathed in bandages and a large strip of plaster was taped across the centre of his face, covering his damaged nose. He also had a black eye. The nurse had told Wilde that he would need to stay in hospital for at least one more day, perhaps two.
Wilde shook his head. ‘You’re an idiot, Quayle.’
‘Nice to see you, too, Wilde.’
‘This isn’t the back streets of Soho, you know. That boy could have ruined your career, you realise that? He could have had you charged in a court of law. But you’re lucky – none of it will come out.’
‘Oh, the boy wanted it – he just didn’t know he wanted it.’ Quayle laughed, then clutched his chest. ‘Jesus, that hurts – my bloody rib.’
‘I didn’t even know I’d said anything funny.’
‘Do you think I care a fig what some Scottish fisher boy might say about me? He was quite pretty, though, don’t you think? In a coarse sort of way.’
‘Was he? I don’t really share your interest in boys.’
‘I realised that as soon as I met you. You don’t know what you’re missing. Anyway, you’re a bit stuck now. You won’t be able to go anywhere without me to escort you.’
‘If you say so.’
‘You can’t go off on your own – you know that. This whole area is under military control.’
‘Then I’ll sit in the Orde house and read my book until you’re up and about.’
‘You do that, Wilde.’
*
Wilde had no intention of obeying Quayle. He knew that Corporal Boycott would have orders not to drive him, so he asked Jimmy Orde to organise a car. ‘I’ll pay good money. I only want it for the day. Quarter of a tank of gas should see me right.’
‘That’s very irregular, Tom.’
‘So are you, Jimmy.’
Orde laughed. ‘It’s a shame you live in bloody England. If you lived up here, I could teach you fishing and make a man out of you. In another life, we might have been brothers.’
‘Make a man out of me? I’ll take you on in the ring any day of your choosing.’
‘Yes, I noticed you were a pugilist. Anyway, I’ll get you that car.’
‘Can I use your phone while you’re gone?’
‘Aye, of course.’
Wilde called Lydia. ‘Has anyone been hanging around outside?’ he asked.
‘Not that I’ve noticed. Why?’
‘Nothing. Just developing paranoia, that’s all.’
‘You’ve got me worried now.’
‘Forget I said anything.’
‘Where are you, Tom? When are you coming home?’
‘Scotland – and soon, I hope. Are you both OK?’
‘Actually, there was something . . .’
‘Go on.’
‘The phone . . . there was a click on the line when you called. I noticed it when I spoke to Edie last night.’
*
Orde brought
back a small Morris 8, which belched black smoke from the exhaust. Wilde thanked him then drove himself to the scattered hamlet of Ramscraigs, on the coast a little south of Dunbeath. He asked at the first house he came to and was directed to the mean crofter’s cottage that Gregor McGregor and his mother called home. A tiny woman, no more than four and a half feet tall, with the same red hair as her son, opened the door and gazed up at Wilde as though he was some undiscovered species. ‘Yes?’
‘You’re Gregor’s mother, I think.’
‘He’s not in,’ she said, attempting to close the door even as she spoke.
Wilde’s foot shot out and held the door open. ‘It’s you I wish to speak to, Mrs McGregor.’ He towered over the woman. He estimated she must be in her late thirties or early forties, though it was difficult to tell. Her hair was thin, her face was webbed with blue veins and her hands were ravaged and clawlike. Wilde took her for a heavy drinker and smoker.
‘I’ve nothing to say to you, whoever you are. Now get your foot out of my door and away with you.’ Her voice was rasping.
‘I want five minutes of your time, Mrs McGregor, nothing more.’
‘I told you, mister, I’ve nothing to say. My boy’s getting the sheep in for the dipping. And even if he was here, he’d not say a word to you.’
‘Five minutes.’ Wilde pulled out his wallet and held up a banknote. ‘Ten bob for your time.’
She hesitated no more than a second before reaching out and snatching the note. Wilde took the opportunity of her lapsed concentration to push the door open.
‘Do you mind?’ he said, stepping into her tiny front hall without waiting for her permission. The house was very small, no more than two rooms on the ground floor and another two above. The ceiling was low, the walls were damp and stained, and the smell that hit him was of boiling cabbage, burnt fat, and rotting rubbish. He gagged. It seemed to him that there were no colours in the house: little light came through the filthy windows, only shades of grime and mould.
‘Here, mister, I didn’t say you could come in,’ she said, stuffing the ten shillings into her apron pocket.
‘As I said, I won’t keep you more than a few minutes. It’s about what Gregor saw up at Eagle’s Rock. He told you he saw a dead woman.’
‘Well, he tells me a lot of things, but I take no note of the numpty.’
‘But what if he did see a woman? He should tell the police, shouldn’t he? He told me that you told him not to tell anyone.’
‘I don’t want no more trouble than I’ve got, mister, and I certainly don’t want no more police. I have enough to do with him as it is. The sheep have more brains . . .’
He looked at her closely; her pursed mouth had clamped shut like a vice after her tirade and she was standing ramrod stiff, as though terrified of something. ‘He should say what he saw,’ Wilde insisted. ‘If the police don’t believe him, that’s their business – but it’s his civic duty to say what he saw.’
She snorted with derision. ‘Civic duty! Someone pissed in yer whisky, mister?’
‘Mrs McGregor, I think you’re hiding something from me.’
‘Well, I’m not hiding the door, so you know where that is – and you can sling your hook. Go on, away with you, out of my house.’
‘Five minutes of your time and I’ll give you another ten bob.’
She was thinking, her cunning eyes flicking between Wilde and the door. Ten shillings was difficult to pass up. ‘Who are you, mister? You’re not English with that accent, that’s for certain. German spy, are you?’
‘I’m an American citizen and I’m here on behalf of President Roosevelt. He was a good friend of the Duke of Kent.’
‘Then if you’re American you’ll have a lot more than ten shillings in your pocket, now won’t you?’
‘No. Ten shillings it is – or nothing. Your choice, Mrs McGregor.’
‘Fifteen.’
‘Of course, if you discover that you have something interesting to tell me, then of course I could pay fifteen shillings, maybe a little more. A pound, perhaps.’
‘Well, I can tell you that Gregor is a lying, thieving numpty.’
‘Thieving?’
She shifted awkwardly. ‘Lying, I said – lying.’
‘You said thieving, Mrs McGregor.’
‘Well then, I spoke out of turn. Anyway, what’s it to you?’
‘I want to know what happened up on that hill two miles from here. He said he found a dead woman. He was quite specific about that. And he said you told him he wasn’t to mention it to anyone. But he did mention it – he told me. Now why would you want it kept secret?’
She was small, but she had strength in her wiry arms, and she pushed him towards the door with determination. He didn’t resist; what would have been the point?
‘Go on,’ she said. ‘Get away with you and keep your filthy Yankee money.’ She stood on her step, arms crossed over her apron. ‘And you know what you’ve done? You’ve earned the boy a beating, that’s what.’ She reached out and pulled a heavy cane from just inside the doorway. ‘He’ll have the hiding of his life, thanks to you.’
Wilde reached into his wallet once more and removed a pound note. He dropped it in front of her and watched it flutter to the ground at her feet. ‘Here,’ he said. ‘Take the money, but don’t beat the boy. If I hear any harm has come to him, I’ll get the police on to you.’ He spoke forcefully, though he had no idea whether the police would act on such a complaint. It was, however, the only threat that came to mind.
She was scrabbling on the ground, picking up the banknote, spitting on it, then dusting it down before pushing it into her pocket alongside the ten shillings. Without another word, she went back into her house and slammed the door closed.
*
Wilde walked back to the car then drove a little way north before turning inland along a narrow road that amounted to little more than a farm track. This was the road he and Quayle had taken the day before, but now he went a bit further, reaching a scattering of houses known as Braemore, part of the Duke of Portland’s 50,000-acre estate. He asked a woman walking a pair of dogs for directions to Braemore Lodge and was pointed towards an area of woodland.
The house was large and made of stone. Quite grand, but not palatial; most notable perhaps for the dozen or so chimney stacks, which suggested warmth was valued over stateliness in these climes. He parked in the shade of some trees and approached the front door. An old gardener was standing next to a flower bed watching him, trowel in hand. Wilde nodded to him but got no acknowledgement, so he carried on to the main door and knocked twice. There was no reply.
‘They’re no here,’ the old gardener called out.
Wilde walked over to him. ‘Do you know where I can find them?’
‘Who wants to know?’
Wilde introduced himself. ‘I was hoping for a word with the Duke of Portland’s son, Lord Titchfield. I believe he has been staying here.’
The gardener neither confirmed nor denied this, merely tilted his grey head to one side.
‘Is there any way I can get a message to him? Is he out fishing or stalking?’
‘Write a note and stick it through the letterbox.’
‘I’d much rather talk to him in person. Do you think he might be down at the house in Berriedale? Langwell House, is it?’
The old gardener shrugged. ‘Go to Berriedale and ask them.’ He got down to his knees to continue his weeding.
‘One more thing,’ Wilde said. ‘Did you go up to the site of the Duke of Kent’s plane crash? Were you part of the search party?’
‘What if I was? What’s it to you? Reporter from the big city newspapers, are you?’
‘No, I’m not a reporter.’
‘Well, I’ve nothing to say either ways.’
Wilde felt the anger welling up. What was the matter with these people? Yes, there was a war on – but this defensiveness was becoming ridiculous. He sighed and turned away to walk the short distance to his car. He heard
the growl of another vehicle approaching. An open-topped military car came into view and slowed to a halt beside his own little Morris. Two armed soldiers emerged, one an officer with a holstered service revolver, the other a private with a rifle.
‘Thomas Wilde?’ the officer said.
‘That’s me.’
‘I’m Lieutenant Hague. We’ve had complaints about you.’
‘Oh really?’
‘You have been observed wandering around these parts asking questions. You have been taken for a spy.’
‘Would you like to see my papers? I have full accreditation from the government.’ He removed his documents from his jacket pocket and handed them over to the officer, who examined them closely then returned them.
‘Thank you, Professor Wilde. That all seems in order. But it doesn’t explain your present movements. Nor the fact that you are operating without your designated escort.’
‘What movements? Is there a law against calling on people?’
‘That very much depends.’
‘Look, I want to find out exactly what happened up at Eagle’s Rock so that I can report back to the President of the United States. You do realise, perhaps, that we are allies . . .’
The officer was a stern young man with a cut-glass accent and sharp, athletic cheekbones. He reminded Wilde of a particularly cruel monitor from his early days at Harrow. ‘Your point is well made, professor. But you will desist from asking further questions. The local people have been warned to look out for enemy agents – and I’m afraid that is how you are seen.’
‘I don’t suppose Walter Quayle has anything to do with this?’
Lieutenant Hague stiffened. ‘Mr Quayle did indeed suggest we look for you up here. It appears he was correct.’
‘Well, you can go back to Mr Quayle and tell him that I will see him within the hour and if he is worried about my movements, he can tell me so himself. Good day to you, lieutenant.’ Without another word, Wilde opened the door of the Morris.
He felt the hard stab of a gun muzzle in his lower back and arched his body. Turning, he pushed the private’s rifle barrel aside, then fixed his gaze on the officer. ‘Do you think this is wise, lieutenant? Threatening a representative of the President of the United States of America?’
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