“At least no one is going anywhere while this storm persists.”
“How may we help you, Caitrin?”
“I don’t know, Barbara. These are dangerous men.”
“Dangerous? Duncan will be delighted at the thought, but he’s all I’ve got. While you are concocting a plan of attack, there is one thing you might do for me that’s not dangerous.”
“Gladly.”
“I have a list of groceries I need for dinner, once the weather clears a little. Fergus MacLeod’s shop is just down the hill on the right. It’s the only shop on the island.”
“Of course.”
“And taking Duncan with you would be a blessing, for him and me. Being cooped up is hard for him, difficult for me, and I think he’s madly in love with you. I believe it was F. Scott Fitzgerald who called it puppy love.”
Caitrin laughed. “I’ll scratch his ear, buy him a bone, and tell him he’s a good boy.”
* * *
The weather did not clear, but it did lessen enough for Duncan and Caitrin, she dressed in oilskins with her hair tucked up under a sou’wester, to scurry through a now vertical rain to the grocers. The shop was small and smelled of sawdust, which was scattered on the floor, and vinegar, from a broken bottle at their feet. Fergus MacLeod held the neck of the broken bottle between finger and thumb and surveyed the pool of vinegar.
“An accident. Only two bottles left now,” he said with the sorrow of someone who has just tragically lost his most dearly beloved. A short, round man, completely bald and with the fingers of a concert pianist, Fergus knew every item in his shop and its placement on the shelves. They were his family.
“Hello,” Caitrin said and handed him Barbara’s grocery list, which he scrutinized with great care.
“I don’t have all of this in stock,” he said in Gaelic.
“We’ll take what you have,” Duncan answered, and added, “It’s all right. Caitrin is Welsh, not English.”
“Ah, then I welcome you to Barra,” Fergus said in English.
“Thank you.”
Fergus studied the shelves behind him and placed each item on the counter. He ticked them off the list and patted their tops with affection before looking for the next one. Fergus was nothing if not methodical.
Duncan grabbed Caitrin’s arm hard enough to make her flinch and hissed, “They’re coming!”
“Ouch, Duncan, that hurt! Who’s coming?”
“A man from the boat.”
“You were listening to my conversation with your mother.”
“Doesn’t matter now,” he said and repeated, “One of them is coming in here.”
Caitrin glanced over her shoulder and through the window to see Captain Murray/James Gordon cross the quay and head directly for the shop. He was too close for them to escape.
“I don’t have nutmeg,” Fergus said with a sigh. “Probably won’t have nutmeg for a while. Oh dear, this war.”
Caitrin pulled the sou’wester lower, leaned over the counter, and said, “Fergus, I need help. The man who is about to enter is after me, and to avoid being recognized I am going to speak Welsh. He won’t know the difference between Welsh and Gaelic.”
Fergus listened, winked, and said, “That’s a good enough reason to speak Gaelic.”
The doorbell rang as James Gordon entered, and Caitrin cursed herself for not carrying the Walther pistol.
“Byddwn yn cymryd yr hyn sydd gennych,” she said.
Fergus took items off the counter and placed them in a cardboard box, settling each one in place with a great deliberation that made Caitrin want to scream. She heard James’s feet scuffing the sawdust close behind her as he hummed some tuneless melody. Fergus studied the list again. “I’ll put it on your mother’s account, shall I, Catherine?”
“Diolch yn fawr iawn,” Caitrin said, picking up the box and turning away from James Gordon so he would not see her face as she left.
After they were gone, James Gordon pointed to the cigarettes on a shelf behind Fergus and said, “Forty Senior Service and a box of Swan, please.”
Fergus spread his arms wide, bestowed his best smile on him, and answered, “Chan eil Beurla agam. Tha i na chànan grànda. Mar d’aghaidh. Ach bheir mi d’airgead.” I do not speak English. It is an ugly language. As is your face. But I’ll take your money.
He also charged him a shilling more and gave him the oldest stock.
28
The Island Star was gone. Lord Hector, James Gordon, and the Crown Jewels had vanished. A dull and overcast morning brought a moment of panic as Caitrin scanned the harbor through her binoculars and saw that the mooring was empty. Until she looked farther left and noticed the fishing boat’s stern behind Kisimul Castle. For some reason, during the night they had shifted away from the village and closer to the mouth of the bay. Does that mean they are getting ready to leave?
The move helped her because they had moored closer to shore, which made them easier to observe. She pedaled around the east side of the bay, found a derelict cottage on a rise that shielded her from view, and sat deep in what had once been the kitchen to watch the boat through a broken window.
Caitrin noticed there were never more than two men on deck at any one time. James Gordon, smoking a cigarette, appeared from the wheelhouse, and a moment later Hector joined him, although he stood half-hidden in the doorway. They were laughing about something Hector said, which proved what Caitrin already knew—Lord Marlton, Hector Neville-Percy, was a traitor. For a moment he looked directly at the cottage, and instinctively she leaned farther into the shadows, although it would have been impossible at that distance for him to see her. Anger rose and tightened her throat, partly in response to his betrayal and partly because he had so effortlessly fooled her.
She felt the weight of the Walther PPK on her thigh, pulled the pistol out of her pocket, and aimed it at Hector. But he was well out of effective range, and shooting him would not solve the problem. Judgment Day would come, though, in a courtroom where justice would deal with Lord Hector. And if some aristocratic loophole granted to only a few were to set him free, then she would take matters into her own hands.
She put the Walther in her lap, picked up the binoculars, and surveyed the boat again. There was no sign they were intending to leave soon; in fact, one of the men was rowing a dinghy across the harbor toward the shops. But something bothered her; she had a sense of foreboding. Female intuition again. Listen to it this time. There were footsteps outside, the broken kitchen door shuddered open, someone entered, and Caitrin reacted automatically. In one fluid movement, she dropped the binoculars, snatched up the Walther, flicked off the safety catch, rolled to her left, and aimed it at the intruder—Duncan, a statue, staring wild-eyed at the pistol.
