Holy Terror in the Hebrides (7 page)

The
Iolaire
was just coming back in to the landing place; none of the other passengers were in sight. Young MacPherson looked up in astonishment as I skidded down the short pier and stopped, panting.

“We need help!” I managed to say in short jerks. “A man—fallen—in the cave—drowned—”

“Dad! Get the Coastguard!” the young man called before I had even finished. “There’s been an accident!” He turned to me. “Come aboard, ma’am, and tell Dad everything so he can report the details.”

I was shaking now, so badly that I had to be practically lifted into the boat. A strong young arm supported me and guided me into the cockpit, where Mr. MacPherson took one look at me and pulled a flask from a locker. “Sit doon and drink this,” he commanded, his face set, and I obeyed. It was straight scotch, strong and peaty. I don’t especially like scotch, and I coughed and choked, but after a moment or two my teeth stopped chattering.

Mr. MacPherson had jerked his head toward his son, who took off at a lope toward the cave, and had then turned his attention to the radio. Now he turned to me. “A helicopter and lifeboat will be here within the hour. Can ye tell me what’s happened, ma’am?”

I pulled myself together, trying not to shiver. “A man, one of our party, fell into the sea in Fingal’s Cave, from the very top of the pathway. He hit a ledge on the way down, and then went into the water. It looked purely accidental—he just slipped and fell. I don’t think he can possibly be alive, and anyway he disappeared as soon as he hit the water—the undertow—” I closed my eyes for moment, and then went on. “I ran back to the boat as fast as I could, but . . .”

“Never mind,” said Mr. MacPherson soothingly. “Did ye leave anyone to watch?”

“There wasn’t anyone else. I was the only other one in the cave at the time, and I was way down at the entrance. And on the way back I didn’t think; I just ran.”

My teeth were chattering even worse now, and MacPherson handed me a cup, spooned quite a lot of sugar into it, then poured strong tea from a thermos. It was black with tannin, but the sugar and the heat helped.

“Well, I’ve sent wee Davie to have a look. He’ll see if there’s aught we can do before the rescue team comes.”

I giggled just a little at the thought of “wee Davie,” who was probably in his early twenties and very nearly as brawny as his father; I wondered how he enjoyed his nickname. Anything to keep from thinking of . . .

“Don’t be alarmed, but I’d best get my passengers back.” The boat’s horn sounded just over my head, making me jump a foot despite the warning. Four long hoots:
return immediately
.

Mr. MacPherson was very kind, and tried to comfort me, but my mind couldn’t seem to focus. I kept seeing the cave, with a man about to fall, a man too far away for me to help, too far even to hear me shout over the pounding of the waves, the relentless bass voice of Fingal’s Cave . . .

“Dorothy, are you all right? What’s happening? No one will tell us.”

The other passengers were coming back, and Grace was at my shoulder.

“Dorothy, say something. Captain, this woman isn’t well. Someone must take care of her!”

They were swarming into the cockpit, voices raising higher and higher, the Chicago group and the few other passengers. The skipper lost his temper.

“Noo, then!”
he roared, and his mariner’s voice carried over the nervous crowd and subdued them. “We’ve an emergency here, and I’ll ask ye tae keep your heads, and tae get oot o’ my way! Be off wi’ ye! Wee Davie has ye all to count.
In the passenger cabin!
” His son, returned from a fruitless search, began herding them out, but the skipper shook his head when I tottered to my feet. “Ye’d best stay. Ye’re none too steady on your feet, and I’d as soon you were where I could look after ye.”

“They’re all accounted for.” Wee Davie poked his head in. “Except for—the one.”

“Aye. Then ye’d best quiet them, and I’ll talk to them.” He turned to me. “And what’s the puir laddie’s name, then?”

“Bob. Bob Williams.”

“Ye’ll do for a bit?”

“Yes. I’m fine, really.”

The boat rocked, creaking a bit at her ropes with each rising swell. I sat and hugged myself and tried not to think of anything in particular while Mr. MacPherson gave the rest of the passengers the bad news.

I don’t know if we had to wait a long time for the Coastguard to arrive. I seemed to have lost track of time. I know that Grace came to keep me silent but supportive company, and eventually someone in uniform came to ask me a few questions, and then went away again.

When the skipper came back into the cockpit cabin he looked at me, worried. “I’ll radio a doctor to check you over as soon as we make Fionnphort.”

“No! No, please don’t. I’m all right. I’d just like to get back to solid ground.”

Grace, with crisp efficiency, went out on deck, found my purse, and brought it in to me. “Perhaps you need another ginger capsule or two.”

I took them gratefully. “Hand ’round the rest to anyone who wants them. I imagine we’ll be leaving soon, with the rescue people in charge now.”

And indeed, in a few minutes Mr. MacPherson mustered wee Davie to action, and with no wasted words or motions they went into their accustomed departure routine, as if this were the ordinary return leg of a pleasure outing to Staffa. The skipper spoke one last comment into the radio.

“
Iolaire
casting off from Staffa, making for Fionnphort and Iona. Over and oot.”

The trip back was no pleasure. Clouds were beginning to mass, so the sunshine was fitful, and the wind and waves were higher, but not alarmingly so. And the ginger capsules worked every bit as well as they had on the way out. But my mind wouldn’t let me relax. What could I have done to save Bob? If I had called out earlier, if I had gone farther into the cave . . . I went over it again and again, and there was nothing, and I knew there was nothing, but still I worried.

And when we got back to Iona, what then? What was going to happen? Would the police be involved? This was Scotland, with laws different from England’s. And with the missing person an American, everything was going to be very complicated.

At last the boat slackened speed and I saw a pier looming ahead. Wee Davie appeared in the cabin. “Fionnphort,” he murmured. “The constable will likely be there to talk to you, ma’am.” He went up on deck to help the Mull passengers off the boat, and I waited, apprehensive.

There was, after all, little enough to the interview. The constable from Bunessan asked only a few questions. I assured him that no one had been near Bob when he fell, and that he hadn’t jumped, but slipped. He expressed the proper regrets, talked to the other Chicagoans briefly, and then in a minute or two we were headed out again for the trip across Iona Sound. The sea was getting really rough now, and the ten minute trip seemed to last an hour, but eventually we were there, and with wee Davie’s help I climbed over the side and jumped down to the pier with rubbery legs. I could have kissed the salty planks, and as a matter of fact I almost did; I certainly couldn’t walk. Leaning against a piling, deeply thankful to have my feet on a stationary surface, I tried to recover my equilibrium.

The MacPhersons, as soon as they were free of their charges, began to move the boat out. I watched in horror. “But—but they mustn’t go out again in this!” I wailed to no one in particular.

Chris, the last passenger ashore, put a hand on my shoulder to steady me. “There’s a good harbor across the Sound, between Mull and a fair-sized island. I heard them talking about it just now. They call it the Bull Hole. The
Iolaire
should be safe there. Whether the skipper and his son can get back across the Sound in a dinghy, or even a launch . . .” He shook his head.

“I hope they don’t even try.” I shuddered.

“Are you all right?”

“I’m fine.” In fact I was just about at the end of my rope. It was time I headed for the hotel, which seemed impossibly far away. I put my head down and trudged, Chris courteously supporting one elbow. I was too fargone even to thank him. Atleast the wind was at our backs. Drearily I put one foot in front of the other, heading up the hill.

By the time I dragged myself through the heavy front door I had begun to shiver again, and I couldn’t seem to stop. Even when I’d settled myself in front of the electric heater that was beaming brightly on the hearth, I shook. The other guests hovered around me, making ineffectual suggestions that I barely heard.

“She’s in shock,” said Hester, the proprietor, who came into the room, concerned about the commotion we were creating. “Something’s happened?”

Four women began to talk at once.

“Never mind.” Hester held up her hand. “Get her up to bed. I’ll bring hot water bottles.”

It was odd to be talked about as if I weren’t there. I tried to say I’d be all right if I could just get warm, but in the end it seemed easier to let someone else deal with the problem. I’d help when I felt more like myself. With no very clear idea of how it happened, I found myself in bed, surrounded with hot water bottles and covered with a thick duvet.

As I began to feel warm, the roar and tumult of the wind receded. I slept.

W
HEN I WOKE
the room was dark and the wind was howling like a banshee. The old house shook and creaked like the
Iolaire
running on high seas. I sat up and turned on the lamp next to the bed; it was almost eight o’clock. I’d slept past suppertime, but I wasn’t hungry; I made no move to get out of bed.

My sleep had not been peaceful. Nightmares were only to be expected, of course. It wasn’t, though, the repeated vision of Bob sliding off the rocks of Fingal’s Cave that had wakened me, over and over again, bathed in a cold sweat, my heart pounding. It was something much more insidious, something, I realized, that I probably should have told the police.

I kept hearing Maggie McIntyre’s voice. “It’s a good dry day for Fingal’s Cave . . . the rocks are slippery when they’re wet . . .”

Where had the water come from?

The rocks had been dry as bone at the entrance to the cave, and all along the outer pathway, as well. The whole path was far above the waterline; even the spray from powerful waves didn’t reach that high.

But up at the top of the path, far into the cave where Bob had been, it had looked wet. Why?

I could have been mistaken in what I thought I saw. I’ve seen enough mirages along roads in the blistering sunshine of an Indiana summer to know that it’s easy to see water where none exists. But it had been cold in the cave, with no direct sun, and this hadn’t had the shimmery look of a mirage. It had just looked darker than the other rocks, and a bit shiny.

And besides, as I watched once more my mental tape of Bob’s fall, I saw what looked exactly like someone trying to keep his balance on a slippery surface.

So again I asked myself: If it was wet, how did it get that way?

That was when I remembered the plastic bottle I’d seen floating in the water far below. Was it a water bottle? Suppose Bob had taken a drink of water out of a bottle like the ones so many people carried in their backpacks. Suppose he had dropped it and it had spilled, the water falling on the rocks and the bottle plunging on down into the sea. Bob sounded like a nitpicky sort of guy, and not overly bright. Would he have leaned forward to see if the bottle was within reach? Tried to catch it as it fell?

Probably. That sounded characteristic.

The trouble was, he hadn’t. I had been watching him for a few seconds before he fell. He hadn’t dropped anything, leaned over to look for anything. He had just looked at me, stepped backward, lost his footing, and fallen, the best part of sixty feet, crashing against rocks as he went, until he landed in a small, roiling, angry piece of the Atlantic Ocean.

That didn’t mean he hadn’t spilled the water, of course. He could have, earlier. He wouldn’t have known about the hazard of the wet rocks, probably. I hadn’t known until a few hours ago, and Bob had been on the island exactly as long as I had. That was almost certainly what had happened. Only an accident.

I tried to punch my pillow into a more comfortable position. The prickling at the back of my neck wouldn’t go away.

What if somebody else spilled that water? What if somebody else knew that the rocks would be dangerous when wet? What if there
was
someone behind me in the cave, watching, waiting . . .

The prickles got worse. I had thought I’d seen something disappear around the corner when I’d looked frantically for help. What if it hadn’t been my imagination, after all?

The real trouble, I told myself, was that I’d had too many encounters with bodies in the past few months, and most of them had been murdered. There was no question of murder here. I’d been there; I’d seen exactly what had happened.

All the same, I’d have been happier if so many people on the island—in this hotel—hadn’t hated Bob.

I was frightening myself, after the manner of children who pretend too much and too vividly, and the knock at the door scared me nearly into fits.

“Mrs. Martin? Are you awake?” Mrs. Campbell’s voice came gently through the door.

“Oh! Yes, I—wait a second.” I struggled out of the clutches of the duvet and opened the door. “Come in.”

“And how are you feeling?” She came in, closed the door, and perched on the edge of the bed. “We’ve all been
that
worried about you, having to see such a terrible thing.”

“I’d never want to see it again,” I said with a shudder, “and the worst part was not being able to help at all. I’ll probably have nightmares about that for the rest of my life. But I’m fine, really.”

She looked at me, brow furrowed. “If you don’t mind my saying so, Mrs. Martin, you don’t look so well. You’re white as that sheet, and you’re shaking. You’d best sit down.”

I sat on the hard chair that was all the room afforded, more because my legs gave out than at her suggestion. “I wish you’d call me Dorothy. And I do feel a bit wobbly, I admit. I didn’t know it until I stood up.”

“Well, then, Dorothy, it’s my opinion you need food and drink. I came up to see if you’d like a tray in your room. Andrew and I would be happy to—”