“Is that real?”
“Very real,” Caitrin said and lowered the gun.
He kept staring but at her, not the gun, and only his mouth moved. “I walk in and you’re sitting against the wall. Then—zip!—you’re in a corner with a gun pointed at me, and I never saw you move.”
“You must have blinked.”
He shook his head.
“You can move now, Duncan. Next time cough or whistle; give me warning you’re coming,” she said and put the gun away.
“I’ve never seen anything like that before,” he said as he sat next to her, but not close, and replayed the action in his mind. “Will you teach me?”
“Maybe, one day.”
“Yes, yes!” Duncan the exuberant puppy returned. He glanced through the window. “Anything happening out there?”
She shook her head.
“I might have something,” he said. “There’s an Irish freighter off Vatersay. My friend Collin told me a Navy cutter went alongside to investigate. The skipper said they were heading for Oban, had steering problems in the storm, and got blown off course. They are supposedly waiting for parts.”
Caitrin straightened and from the corner of her eye saw James and Hector go below. “Anything else?”
“Although Eire is a neutral country, the skipper is terrified of being torpedoed by a U-boat, so he’s flying a gigantic Irish flag from the mast and another from the stern.”
“I want to see the ship.”
“I’ll show you.” He grinned. “We’ll take my boat to Vatersay.”
* * *
Duncan rowed them across Caolas Bhatarsaigh to the north shore of Vatersay. From there it was a brisk hike over a series of low hills until they reached the west coast. Duncan dropped to the ground, and Caitrin followed him. Below them the island narrowed into an isthmus with long white beaches on either side before widening again into a shallow hammerhead.
Duncan pointed down to the west. “There she is.”
Caitrin inspected the freighter through her binoculars. Anchored a half-mile off Traigh Shiar, West Beach, it was at least twenty years old, steam-powered, and about three hundred feet long. The superstructure was amidships, with a tall narrow funnel, and she was dirty, the paintwork heavily rust-stained.
“That is one hard-worked vessel,” Duncan said.
“The Celtic Twilight,” Caitrin said, reading the name on the bridge. “How very William Butler Yeats of them.”
“See the flag on the mast? Below the big Irish one,” Duncan said. “Delta. Yellow stripes with a blue center means—”
“Stay clear. Maneuvering with difficulty.”
Duncan was disappointed she had stolen his thunder. Caitrin saw it on his face, and although she knew the answer, asked him, “What does the blue and white swallowtail one below it mean?”
He brightened. “Alpha. It means I have a diver down. Keep clear at slow speed.”
“Well done.” Caitrin focused her attention on the stern. “Diver down, huh? I can see the diver’s air-supply line, but I also notice something else. Can you see it with those keen young eyes of yours?”
She handed over the binoculars and watched him as he inspected the vessel. Duncan MacNeil was such a charming young man.
“I don’t see anything strange.”
“Start where the air-supply line goes underwater, and then follow it up to the deck.”
“I don’t . . . I see it now, I see it!” He lowered the glasses and grinned at her.
She wanted to hug him. Such glee, such open joy. “The end of the line is tied off to an inboard cleat. There’s no air compressor and that means there’s—”
“No diver.”
“Well done, Watson.”
“Elementary, Holmes, old sport,” Duncan said and sat up. “Do you think the men back there on the Island Star have been waiting for her to arrive?”
“We’ll soon find out,” Caitrin said and pointed to the freighter. “The skipper won’t want to be anchored long on the weather side of this island.”
“And Collin said they were waiting for parts—maybe from the fishing boat?”
“Or that’s their excuse.”
“What are we going to do next?” Duncan asked, with myriad visions of heroic deeds, including many gallantly saving Caitrin, flooding his imagination.
“We’re going to go talk to your mum.”
29
