Broken Wings by Dianne Price
“Sounds like Innisbraw got off lightly.”
John massaged his stiff neck. “We did. You cannot imagine the harm all that drinking did to the folk on the islands from Sanderay all the way up to North Uist. ’Tis said whisky was so plentiful folk were using it to make their peat fires burn more vigorously and as fuel instead of paraffin in their Tilly lamps.”
“Tilly lamps?”
“What you Americans call ‘lanterns.’” He poured himself a cup of tea and filled Rob’s mug before returning to his chair. “In time, the Ministry of Shipping and Customs got word and sent watchmen to stand guard on the Polly. Revenuers and constables made the rounds of the islands, arresting those they caught with whisky.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Of course they didn’t find even a portion of what had been taken. Bottles of whisky were hidden inside peat piles, tucked beneath bairnies asleep in their cradles, stuck into the thatch of cottages, byres, and faulds, and buried by the case in the soil of the machair—what didn’t make its way down the throats of the islanders, that is.”
“The whisky at the howff is somehow involved in this story you’re telling?”
“It is that. Sergeant Grant pulled a bottle from beneath the bar and read the label aloud. It was Hieland Nectar, the finest whisky aboard the doomed Polly, and much too dear for a struggling howff owner on Innisbraw to afford.”
“What did MacGinnis have to say?”
“No’ a word. If he admitted he’d bought it from somebody, he was breaking the law as much as if he admitted taking it from the Polly himself. That would make no sense since he’s been turning away folk off and on for months, saying he couldn’t get any whisky—though we all know he manages to find an occasional bottle of cheap John Barleycorn so the auld men can have their wee drams.”
“What did Grant do?”
“He and his twa constables searched the pub but couldn’t find the wooden case. Grant sent those Thompson brothers to the shed at the back of the howff where MacGinnis lives and sure enough, they found it beneath his box-bed, well over half-full.”
“Is MacGinnis under arrest?”
“I offered the use of the cooling shed behind my cottage and he’s in there right now, door tied with a rope so he can’t escape.”
“But what guid does this do us? We have no way of knowing MacGinnis is our man.”
“Grant thinks he is. He says Una Hunter could have given MacGinnis that whisky in exchange for threatening Maggie. None of the men questioned the night admitted knowing owt, which wasn’t surprising, drunk as they were. But several did say that Fergus MacCrae and Alistaire MacIver were there earlier and left, after their usual one dram, in a rare fankle over something MacGinnis whispered to them. Both of those men are on the Island Council. If they know owt, they’ll tell Sergeant Grant.”
“Could Una have been hiding the whisky all this time?”
“’Tis doubtful unless she found a case somebody secreted away. But the police have a lot of questions for her after they talk to Alistaire and Fergus.”
“Och, I’d hoped we could settle this the night.”
“Don’t forget, if there are fingerprints on that knife that match MacGinnis’s, we’ll have our proof, but that will have to wait till Grant takes everything back to Oban to be analysed.”
“So we wait till the morra to find if we discover owt.” Rob drained his mug and knuckled his eyes, yawning.
“Aye, the morra.” John rinsed their cups and set them in the jaw box to dry. “You’d best get to sleep, lad. ’Tis well past the turn o’ the night.”
***
Sergenat Grant made the doctor join the group of policemen the next morning when they left the infirmary to interview Fergus MacCrae and Alistaire MacIver. Doctor McGrath had told Grant both old men were noted for being testy when confronted with situations they couldn’t control. According to the doc, though Alistaire had some English and understood Scots, Fergus spoke nothing but the Gaelic and was proud of it.
Grant looked around at the scenery from his seat beside John, who drove Alec’s cart. How could anyone live on such a primitive island? The lack of motorized transportation most likely kept Innisbraw from attracting a larger population—that, and the dearth of any industry apart from crofting and fishing. The islands north of Innisbraw all the way to Barra were also in the Inverness Constabulary and he had spent many a day on Barra. But in the ten years he’d been with Oban Polis Headquarters, he’d never received a call to investigate a crime on Innisbraw.
John turned the cart up a path meandering between thatched cottages. “Alistaire and Fergus both live on this path, but I’m thinking you’d best interview them separately. When they get together, they’re worse than twa ravens fighting over a place to shelter for the night.”
“Whatever you deem best.”
John pulled the cuddy to a halt. “This is Fergus’s cottage. We’ll have to talk to him outside. He has a badly crippled aulder sister and Christina would be verra upset by the sight of your uniforms.”
The Thompson brothers stepped gingerly down from the back of the cart to join the sergeant, dour faces revealing how miserable they’d found the bumpy ride.
“Keep your gabs shut and your ears open,” Grant warned in a low voice as John came out of the cottage followed by two old men, both with erect postures and grey hair.
The similarities ended there.
The one John introduced as Alistaire MacIver was clad in clean, mended tweed pants, a tweed jacket over a yellowing white shirt, and heavy, worn brogans, hair neatly trimmed, cleanly-shaven cheeks and chin, blue eyes keen with interest.
Fergus MacCrae looked like MacIver’s poverty-stricken kin. His grey hair and stubbled chin were in drastic need of a barber and wild, untrimmed eyebrows jutted out over etiolated blue eyes. Faded red braces held up rumpled tweed pants, at least two sizes too large. Tattered rubber boots, newspaper peeking from holes in the toes, swallowed his feet and calves
John asked Alistaire a question in the Gaelic and listened to the terse reply.
“Alistaire came visiting to bring Christina some heather honey,” he said in English, “so I suppose we’ll have to talk to them together after all.”
Fergus spouted something in the Gaelic, hands gesturing wildly.
John spoke to the old man for a moment before turning to the sergeant. “Fergus wanted to know what the police are doing here. I assured him you only want to ask them some questions about their visit to the howff last night.”
Another spate of Gaelic from Fergus ignited Alistaire. Both men were incensed at being questioned about having a “wee dram” the night before—their first in weeks. Alistaire was so upset, he refused to speak any English and constantly interrupted Fergus’s tirades in the Gaelic with his own.
After a short time, Grant pointed a finger in Fergus’s face, then Alistaire’s, and roared, “You tell them to shut their gabs! I’m going to ask some questions and I want truthful answers, or I’m going to arrest them both for obstruction of justice.”
Both old men jumped back.
John translated.
Alistaire blinked rapidly. “Why didna he just say so?” He turned to Fergus and the two exchanged a few words in the Gaelic. Nodding, he faced them. “We’re biding on ye.”
They answered Grant’s questions quickly and, he was quite certain, truthfully.
Aye, MacGinnis bragged that the whisky came from the Polly. Aye, he traded it for a “wee bit of a turn.”
“No, he did not offer a name, but he hinted he had dealt with a ‘cailleach’ or ‘old witch.’”
***
A cart rumbled to a stop outside Una’s cottage. She hurried to the window and lifted a corner of the lace.
The polis!
And that meddling John.
She dropped the curtain. Fierce, hot anger exploded through her body. How dare they invade her privacy.
She ignored the rapping on the door. She was a Monroe, not a sniveling, cowardly Hunter. Monroes had money and pres
No longer polite knocking. Pounding on the door like ill-bred, uneducated crofters.
Her anger cooled to smoldering resolve.
Even if that old sot had betrayed her, it was his word against hers. Keep them outside. Let them ask their questions. Deny everything. They couldn’t make her answer.
Chin high, shoulders straight, she opened the door.
***
Grant seethed. Who did this old bag of bones think she was, refusing to allow them to enter her decaying cottage? He turned and eyed the group of neighbors gathering on the path. “Are you sure you want us to question you out here, in front of your neighbors?”
She opened the door wider, eyes cold, mouth turned down in a sneer.
Don’t smirk at her. It isn’t befitting an officer of the law.
He let John step inside before beckoning to the constables, voice a gravely whisper. “Examine the grounds for a spot of recently forked-up ground.” He joined John.
“There will be no snooping inside my home,” Miss Hunter said, voice dripping with venom.
High, irritating voice, like a wheel starving for a wee drop of oil.
“If I feel the need, I’ll look anywhere I please, but for now, I want you to look at this.” He held out the note Rob had found, jerking it back when she tried to take it from his hand. “Read it. I’ve been assured you know how to read and write.”
No outward reaction, but if looks could kill …
Her eyes moved down the page. “What does this have to do with me?”
“You deny writing this?”
“I have never seen it before.”
***
Because Una spoke English, there was no need for John to translate. His gaze wandered over the small, cluttered room while he listened to her hostile denial. He strode to a table, picked up a piece of paper, read it, then handed it to Grant. “If I remember correctly, ’tis the same writing.”
Una tried to snatch the paper from Grant’s hand, but John restrained her.
“That’s my letter,” she screeched. “You have no right to take what’s mine.”
“A perfect match,” Grant said, “right down to the ink smudges.”
The two constables ducked through the doorway, stomping dirt from their feet. “We found a patch of broken earth,” David Thompson said. “It looked like it had the imprint of a case at the bottom, but there was nowt in it. We took a photograph, anyway.”
***
Once the policemen arrived back at the infirmary the sergeant told Rob and Maggie all they had discovered.
“Does that mean she gets off with what she did?” Rob’s eyes narrowed. “Just because you couldn’t find proof the whisky came from her croft?”
“Och, this is a complicated case,” Grant said. “We’ll transport MacGinnis back to Oban to stand for receiving stolen whisky, and if his fingerprints match any found on the knife handle, to be charged with destruction of property and malicious mischief with the intent to do harm. But you must realize we cannot prosecute Una Hunter for writing that note since it wasn’t an overt threat and that imprint in her yard wasn’t clear enough to be admissible proof.” He held up his hand when Rob tried to interrupt. “However, if MacGinnis implicates her in his deeds, she will face the same charges.”
“And if he doesn’t?”
“Then all the law allows us is to ask for a Writ from the Court to forbid her talking to or even getting near either of you.”
“So we’re still in the same fankle.” Rob pulled Maggie into his lap and rested his cheek against hers. “I’m sorry, luve. I thought this would be settled by now.”
“You have to be patient a few more days,” Grant said. “We’ll be taking our leave as soon as we pick up our personal effects, secure our evidence bags, and take possession of our prisoner. We have a sworn, signed statement from Mr. MacIver. Because Mr. MacCrae has no schooling, he made his mark on his.”
Rob huffed. “But there is more evidence.”
Grant nodded. “We have well over half a case of Highland Nectar whisky from the Polly and matching samples of Miss Hunter’s handwriting.” He started for the door before hesitating. “The moment the fingerprints are analysed, we’ll contact you. If they implicate Mr. MacGinnis, your worries should be over.”
John ushered the three policemen out and thanked them for coming so quickly.
***
Sergeant Grant held his back ramrod straight as they walked down the path. “Take note,” he said to the constables. “It is not always possible to satisfy those hoping for a quick resolution from the law, but I believe we have one more duty to perform before we leave this island. I know you lads are tired of walking, as am I, but Miss Hunter needs a very strong reminder that if anything happens to Maggie McGrath, she will be prosecuted to the full extent of the law. After all, good polis work dictates that we go the extra mile—even on foot.”
His professionalism would not be questioned by an officer in the military, especially an American.
CHAPTER 32
John returned to his duties in Edinburgh and without the distraction his visit provided, waiting for word from Grant wore on Maggie and Rob’s nerves. She returned to her room across the hall from Rob. Though Angus installed a sturdy bar across the inside of the front door, which could be lowered to keep anyone from walking into the infirmary at night, Rob yawned often, as if he did not sleep well.
Maggie, an avid fresh air enthusiast, became more and more upset that she couldn’t spend time outside, working in her cottage garden next door, or hanging the washing out to dry.
Her gloomy mood worsened when Rob wheeled his chair into the large bathroom and discovered her using a washboard in the tub.
He grabbed one of her hands and wiped the soapsuds away, examining her red knuckles. “There’s electricity here so why haven’t you a washing machine?” he asked, words clipped and harsh. “You’ve told me often enough, the island’s behind the times, but that’s no reason no’ to have a betterment that’s been available for years.”
“I’ve been doing the washing this way since I was a lass.” She jerked her hand away. “At least I have a bathing tub and don’t have to go down to a burn and scrub the linens and clothes on a rock like most of the women on Innisbraw.”
He caught her shoulder. “I don’t care what the others do. Most of the washing’s mine and you do enough for me without having to bend over a tub, rubbing your hands raw. You didn’t have a fit when your faither told you to find a lass to hang the wash to dry.”
She ignored his raised eyebrow and pulled away, bending over the tub. “Only because the polis told me I shouldn’t expose myself to danger.”
“When the lass you hired comes later the mornin you’re going to tell her you want her to do the washing, too. I’ll write the Bank of England in London to send me some silver from my savings to pay her.”
“Och, you’re giving me orders again.”
“Please, Maggie. I have enough to worry about without thinking of you bending over the tub by the hour.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “Please do this for me.”
Her irritation vanished as quickly as it had come. She still wanted to defend her freedom to do what she wished, but the pleading in his eyes was too hard to ignore.
And he had said “please.”
When Anna showed up for work, Maggie called Rob into the foyer. “This is Anna MacLeod. I’ve explained why you have the shotgun by your side, and she’ll be verra happy to do the washing as well as hang it out for me.”
Rob clasped Anna’s chapped hand. “I’m verra pleased to meet you, and I want to thank you for doing this turn for Maggie.”
The lass, caught in those awkward years between bairn and woman, with a nose slightly too large that would be perfect when grown into, a thin, pointed chin only needing a bit more flesh, and wearing a sweater and skirt several sizes too large—probably to cover her maturing body—blushed and lowered her e
He glanced at Maggie, eyebrow raised.
“Beasag’s the Gaelic for ‘Bessie.’ The bairnie had colic and I told Katag, that’s Anna and Beasag’s mither, to stop eating so much cabbage and neeps. That often relieves breast-fed bairnies suffering from gas.”
***
Rob wrote to the Bank of England in London, requesting two hundred pounds from his savings account.
“The lass doesn’t expect to be paid that much.” Maggie protested.
“’Tisn’t all for her. It should last a long time. I never did like being without silver, and there were only a few pound notes in my uniform pocket in that duffle bag.”
***
The days crawled by but the only calls they received were from Flora or Morag asking if they had heard anything from the police. They both looked forward to Elspeth’s visits as a break from their anxiety. Maggie, who had always used the time to do something she delighted in like working in her garden, was surprised to find herself enjoying Rob’s language lessons.
Amazed at how quickly he learned new phrases, she forgot her anxiety and teased him when he looked perplexed at a Scots idiom. “‘Aff at the knot’ doesn’t sound any stranger than some of those American idioms you used at the Infirmary.”
“Wouldn’t it be easier just to say ‘daft’?”
“Mebbe, but I remember you saying one of the new orderlies was ‘off his rocker’ when he said creamed calves-heads were tasty.”
***
Maggie was washing the breakfast dishes when Rob wheeled through the kitchen door and said, “It’s been a week. Don’t you think we should call Oban?”
As anxious for news as Rob, Maggie made the call, asking to speak to Sergeant Grant.
“The sergeant’s not at his desk,” the dispatcher said, her bored tone irritating. “May I direct your call to one of our constables?”
“No, thank you. The Procurator Fiscal’s office will call another time.” Maggie smirked as she disconnected. “That should wake her up.”