The Language Of Bees Part 38

"It was a lot of money." He made no attempt to hide his bitterness. "Enough to keep a family a year or more. A young man'd be tempted. Young men always think they'll come back safe, don't they? E'en when they have two wee bairns at home. Ach, at least he had the sense to leave the purse with us, in case he's not around to bring it home."

I thanked him and went back out into the wind. What more was there to say?

We were halfway to Magnuson's farm when I remembered the telegraph office. Should I bother to go back, on the chance something had come through? I already knew where my quarry was.

But Mycroft didn't. So I had the driver turn back into the town, and went into the office to compose a telegram. When I had it written down, I took it to the window. The man recognised me.

"Miss Russell, was it? There's two come through for you. Shall I send this for you as well?"

"Wait, there might be an answer for one of these."

I carried the flimsies to one side. The first was from MacDougall: IDENt.i.tY OF TRIO CONFIRMED STOP ATt.i.tUDE.

QUOTE FRIENDLY ENOUGH BUT SOME.

ARGUMENT AND YOUNGER MAN SEEMED.

IMPATIENT STOP MESSAGE FROM LONDON.

QUOTE TWO PIECES ORKNEY NEWS FIRST.

CATHEDRAL STAIN TREATED WITH QUERY.

SODIUM CITRATE TO STAY LIQUID AND SECOND.

CREMATED REMAINS ARRIVED STENNESS HOTEL.

WITH REQUEST TO SCATTER THEM AT BRODGAR.

RING ON FOURTEEN AUGUST STOP.

The other message came from Mungo Clarty in Inverness: TWO ADULT ONE CHILD STEAMER TICKETS.

PURCHASED TUESDAY MORNING ABERDEEN STOP.

SELF WENT ABERDEEN FOUND TRIO BOUGHT.

TICKETS TO KIRKWALL STOPPING WICK FIRST.

STOP FOUR PIECES NEWS FROM LONDON STOP.

ONE CATHEDRAL STAIN TREATED TO STAY LIQUID.

TWO CREMATED REMAINS SCATTERED BRODGAR.

RING FOURTEEN AUGUST THREE GUNDERSON.

RELEASED FOUR PALL MALL FLAT RAIDED NO.

ARREST STOP GOOD HUNTING STOP.

Raided? Mycroft's flat? Had Lestrade completely lost his mind? I did not even want to think of Mycroft Holmes in a rage. Or was something else going on in London, something larger and darker than my current hunt for a religious nut-job?

I tore my eyes away from that part of the telegram, and tried to concentrate on the rest.

The fourteenth of August was the day of the lunar eclipse, the day before Yolanda had died. The news must have come out of London Thursday night-why hadn't Clarty learned of it earlier? Then I remembered the head-lamps racing towards the air field as we took off, and thought that perhaps he had received his wire at dawn that day.

I realised someone was addressing me, and raised my head to see the telegraph gentleman gesture at the form on which I'd written to Mycroft. I shook my head and tore the page across: Anything I sent to Mycroft now would be intercepted by Lestrade. Mycroft. I shook my head and tore the page across: Anything I sent to Mycroft now would be intercepted by Lestrade.

"No," I said. "There won't be a reply." I went slowly back to the car. The idea of Scotland Yard raiding the flat of Mycroft Holmes was as puzzling as it was alarming, but I found it difficult to take it as a serious threat. Would Lestrade be walking a beat when we returned, or just fired outright?

And Brothers: Why had he moved about the countryside so much? Was he afraid they would be spotted if they sat in one place too long? Did he fear that Damian would see a newspaper, and finally learn of Yolanda's death? Had he perhaps felt someone on his tail and hoped to shake them off?

Or-what if the person he had been shaking off had been Damian? What if Brothers had taken Estelle and deliberately slipped away from Damian in Aberdeen, after buying tickets for Orkney but before boarding the s.h.i.+p? That would explain why Damian was here in Thurso by himself, a frantic father who had spent the past three days searching the northern tip of Scotland for his daughter and Brothers. And if Damian knew that something was going to happen tomorrow in Orkney, it would explain why he had been desperate enough to buy the services of a young fisherman to take him across.

Back at Magnuson's farm, I paid off the pleased driver and walked to the door, which opened before I could knock. The odour of roast lamb and potatoes swept over me, poles apart from my bleak mood; it was not made any easier by the cheeriness of the woman who urged me inside, tempting me with a hot meal.

"Thank you," I said. "Mrs Magnuson, is it? I'm not actually hungry, so I won't join you. Can I just ask you for a bit of writing paper and an envelope?"

"Are yeh sure yeh won't have a wee bite?"

"It smells delicious, but no." Actually, the rich aroma was making me queasy, and I wanted to be alone. She showed me into the cold, disused parlour, lit the fire, and left me with stationery and pen. I warmed my hands in front of the flames, and eventually removed my coat and hat, taking up the pen. warmed my hands in front of the flames, and eventually removed my coat and hat, taking up the pen.

Dear Holmes, I write from Thurso, about to set off for Orkney. Something must have delayed Brothers on the way-they were seen in Edinburgh on Monday, yet Damian was here just this morning, hiring a local fisherman to cross them over. The wind is powerful, unusually so, and the reproving locals were not sanguine about their chances of success. If I do not make it home, would you be so good as to locate the family of the man whose boat Damian hired, and see that they are recompensed?

R.

I looked at the inadequacy of that ending, and added: P.S.: I do not know if Damian is acting alone and against Brothers, or if he was under duress as the man's agent. If the latter, I can only believe he had good reason.

Again I hesitated, tempted to black the postscript out, or change it for something more affectionate, less bleak, but in the end I sealed the flap and wrote the Suss.e.x address, leaving it with a coin for the stamp and a note instructing Mrs Magnuson not to post it until the end of September. It felt like one of those letters soldiers were encouraged to write before a battle. I regretted the melodrama, but I did not wish to take chances with the young fisherman's family.

I sat in the slowly warming room until I heard voices in the hallway, then went to join Captain Javitz for the final a.s.sault north.

The Stars (2): It is no secret that the stars note greatness: It is no secret that the stars note greatness: A star drew the sages to the infant Jesus, as the sun went dark at His death. A comet brought William the Conqueror to the throne. The sun lingered to give Joshua time to complete his conquest.

Testimony, IV:7

JAVITZ AND MAGNUSON HAD CLEARED THE FUEL LINE, the culprit in our faltering engine, and used the farmers horse to drag the aeroplane back to the start of the rough field. The laundry was still veering wildly back and forth, but I thought it was not quite so rigid in its pull.

Perhaps that was self-delusion: I decided not to ask.

Once airborne, we turned east, so as to be over land as long as possible, and battled the wind until we ran out of mainland. When there was nothing before us but sea until Scandinavia, Javitz turned due north across the Pentland Firth, and the wind seized us, shaking us in its teeth like a dog with a rat.

I do not think there were ten feet on the five miles between John o'Groat's and the first island when we were flying still and steady. When Javitz turned to study the rudder, his face had a greenish tint. I found after a while that I was reciting, over and over again, a pa.s.sage from Job that I hadn't thought about since my mother died. Clouds scudded across our windows, pus.h.i.+ng us lower and tempting us off-course until Javitz returned to the compa.s.s and corrected our line of flight. Glimpses of land teased at us, seeming no closer, although the white wave-caps grew ever nearer. Then suddenly with a moment of clarity, land lay below us again. When Javitz turned to study the rudder, his face had a greenish tint. I found after a while that I was reciting, over and over again, a pa.s.sage from Job that I hadn't thought about since my mother died. Clouds scudded across our windows, pus.h.i.+ng us lower and tempting us off-course until Javitz returned to the compa.s.s and corrected our line of flight. Glimpses of land teased at us, seeming no closer, although the white wave-caps grew ever nearer. Then suddenly with a moment of clarity, land lay below us again.

Javitz dropped further, seeking protection from the wind, and followed the little island's eastern coast. At the end of it, we pa.s.sed over a brief stretch of sea to another, even smaller, island, then a landscape that indeed resembled mainland came up underneath us. He directed the nose west again, skimming above countryside that looked surprisingly like England-I don't know what I expected of an island nation ruled by Vikings for seven hundred years, but placid green fields bordered by hedgerows was not it.

In a few miles, a dark steeple rose up in the distance: the cathedral in the centre of Kirkwall, on whose altar chemically liquefied blood had been splashed on the July full moon. Javitz began to examine the pa.s.sing fields, in an expectant manner I had seen before. Soon, on the outskirts of the town, a length of pasture beckoned. He aimed at it, but it seemed to me he was high-too high, I started to exclaim, then realised that he was making a deliberate pa.s.s over it. It was as well he did: Three s.h.a.ggy cattle grazed in the intended landing strip, solid as a dry-stone wall. As we roared forty feet away from the adjoining stone house, a small boy came running out. Javitz raised the nose and wrestled the 'plane back in a wide circle; when we aimed again at the field, the boy was driving the cows through a gap in a wall.

We hit the ground, rose up, then settled down into a landing as smooth as could be had on uneven terrain. Javitz ran the plane into a wide place at the end of the field, made a wide circle, and shut down the motor.

With quivering fingertips, I uncovered my watch: a quarter past two on Friday, 29 August.

The day before the sun would darken in the north.

"Captain Javitz," I said, my voice loud in the echoing silence, "I am immensely grateful and in your considerable debt. But I hope to G.o.d I never have to fly with you again."

He laughed, with more than a touch of manly hysteria in his voice.

And only then-because experience had taught me that some things are best done without permitting discussion-did I tell him what I wanted to do.

"This machine will attract a great deal of attention, I should imagine?"

"It's sure to."

"Our story is, you are offering joy-rides, and I took you up on one out of Wick. You must stay with the machine, talk to people about joy-riding, maybe even offer to take one or two up with you when the wind drops. Can you do that?"

"What about you?"

"I shall slip away, as I could not if you were with me."

"You can't go alone."

"Yes, I can."

"I'm not going to let you go by yourself," he insisted.

I sighed: Sometimes I think I married the world's only sensible male. Antic.i.p.ating this, I had given my pilot the barest details of why I was here. "Captain Javitz, please don't flex your chivalrous muscles at me. I a.s.sure you, I can do what needs to be done. I will go now, while you distract these people. I will come back for you tonight. Shall we meet here?"

That last was an outright lie: I had no intention of bringing him any further into danger. He, on the other hand, had no reason to think a young woman might prefer to face an enemy on her own. And the first curious residents were beginning to gather-constable and local newsman would not be far behind. Grudgingly, he agreed.

We climbed out, and I prepared to chatter like a brainless maniac about the thrill of flying, the speed and noise, the loops and deadfalls, how it was worth every ha'penny. But there was a slight hitch in the plans: It appeared that Cash Javitz was not a stranger here.

I heard him call a cheerful greeting-not to the boy, but to a buxom, red-cheeked woman who came out of the kitchen door behind us. buxom, red-cheeked woman who came out of the kitchen door behind us.

"h.e.l.lo, sweetheart," he boomed, nearly knocking me over in surprise.

"Captain Javitz! I might have known it was you, dropping out of the mist and frightening the cows." What she said was more like, Ca'n Yavitz, Ah mait've knawn it war thee, drawpin' fra' the muggry an' fleggin' tha caws; Ca'n Yavitz, Ah mait've knawn it war thee, drawpin' fra' the muggry an' fleggin' tha caws; however, such dialect is as tiresome to write as it is to decipher. Still, the sound of it was a delight, a lilt more like a Scandinavian tongue than anything I'd heard in Britain, and impossible to duplicate on the page without musical notations. however, such dialect is as tiresome to write as it is to decipher. Still, the sound of it was a delight, a lilt more like a Scandinavian tongue than anything I'd heard in Britain, and impossible to duplicate on the page without musical notations.

"I knew you didn't believe me, that I was a fly-boy, so I thought I'd drop in and prove it."

"What, after five years you just drop in?"

"I was pining, couldn't keep away from you any longer."

"Don't let my husband hear you," she warned playfully.

"Plenty to go around," he replied, and she crowed in delight. "Brigid Ross, meet Mary Russell. Miss Russell is my excuse for crossing the Strait."

She came down the steps and took my hand, eyeing me sharply before deciding that the gold ring I wore indicated that I was no rival for the good Captain's bantering affections.

I realised I was neither dressed nor wearing sufficient make-up to present myself as a Bright Young Thing out for a day's lark, so instead I merely asked Mrs Ross where I might find a cup of tea.

She told me that the kettle was on, and although I demurred, I did not demur all that much. She and I went inside, leaving Javitz to his gathering crowd of would-be customers.

The tea was supplemented by thick slices of a chewy, slightly sweet soda bread slathered with fresh-churned b.u.t.ter, and my stomach, after a moment's hesitation, woke to the aroma and savour. I ate three slabs, and only stopped there because the boy appeared at the door, panting slightly but beaming with excitement.

"May I have a ride in the Captain's aeroplane?" he begged.

"Certainly not," she replied. "But if you wash your hands, you can have your tea. Will you two be stopping the night in Kirkwall?" she asked me as I rose and picked up my coat. have your tea. Will you two be stopping the night in Kirkwall?" she asked me as I rose and picked up my coat.

"We may, especially if the wind gets worse," I said. "In any event, I think I'll take a turn through the town. I've never been in Orkney before."

"If you do get caught here and have trouble finding rooms, let me know," she said, showing me to the door. "It's the height of the season, and rooms were tight even before the hotel at the Stones burned down."

I turned. "Do you mean at Stenness?"

"That's the one."

"When did this happen?"

"Two days past? No, I'm a liar, it was on Tuesday, so three days. Booked to the rafters with anglers, it was, and everything a smoky mess. The owner was a day in hospital, they're staying with his wife's family in St Mary's for at least a fortnight."

"But the place didn't actually burn down?"

"Not down, no, just left a terrible stinking mess. They boarded over the windows and everyone's moved into town until the floors dry and the roof is patched."

"I see. Well, I certainly shan't plan on staying there," I told her with a smile, and set off towards Kirkwall, deep in thought. If Brothers and the child boarded a steamer in Aberdeen on Tuesday, how could he be in place to set a fire by the evening? But it could not be coincidence-no, he had help on Orkney, the same a.s.sistant who'd scattered c.o.c.k's blood in the cathedral whose spire I could see rising ahead of me.

As Mrs Ross had said, it being August, the facilities for tourist entertainment were laid on in strength. Shops sold knitted wear or cheese made from local cows, tea houses posted banners advertising their authentic Orcadian cakes, and coaches waited to transport visitors to the sites of Orkney.

One of these caught my ear, an enterprising coach driver trying to turn the waning day into a bonus rather than a disadvantage. "See the Ring of Brodgar in the rich light of evening, when the sun throws shadows far across the loch," he was calling in a stentorian voice.

One glance at the sky drew his thrown shadows into question, but in fact, an evening trip was precisely what I required. An added benefit was the handful of tourists he had already attracted, three earnest Dutch couples and an adolescent belonging to one of them. I gave the man my coin, took my seat, and we were soon away.

The benefits of concealment in numbers had been suggested by my first look at the Ordnance Survey map, and was the reason I had carried a pair of field gla.s.ses in my bag all the way. As we approached, with our driver cheerfully shouting over his shoulder all sorts of misinformation about Vikings, Celts, and Druids, it became ever more apparent that my only options for concealment in daylight were to hide in plain sight among a group, or to dig a hole in the turf and pull it over my head.

From the hills down, the land was bare as an egg.

I could see at a glance why this remote site had been marked as holy by the early Orcadians. It was a between-place: neither sea nor land, neither Britain nor Europe, a stretch of solid ground between two wide lochs, one salt, the other fresh. For four thousand years, the residents had built temples in this low and brooding marshland, from the giant stone ring that capped a rise at one end of the causeway separating the lochs to the smaller but more dramatic circle nearer the road. Christianity, too, had a toehold, with a small church and cemetery laying claim to its ground in the midst of burial mounds and standing stones.

Even modern-day religion was represented, in the person of devoted anglers, scattered along the sh.o.r.es of the lochs.