[NSW-Fic] The lighthouse

[machievelli]

Back about 13 years ago, I had a girlfriend who was 24 at the time. When I started writing this story, I transposed us into the story as the two main characters in a murder mystery of the old 'reveal it all at the end' style.

 

The Lighthouse

 

"I murder people." I answered. The short brunette's eyes widened, and she nodded.

"Oh really?" She asked, not believing a word of it.

"Actually, I have murdered seventy people in this past year." I continued. "Everywhere from Istanbul to Djakarta."

"So you're a wanted man?" She pondered my intransigence. All she had asked was what I did for a living. "Would the police be here to cuff you? That is, if they knew where you were?"

"No. Actually, several thousand people know of my crimes, but the police will never take me to trial."

"They'll never take you alive, eh?"

"Something like that."

"If someone were to ask, can I give your name?"

"Sure." I watched the water move past the ferry.

"That is, if you will give me your name." I wondered why she was still standing there. As a conversation stopper, this one must have ranked up there with your daughter saying ‘I'm pregnant, and I don't know who the father is’.

"Why shouldn't I?" I asked. "After all, I'm known on two continents for the planning and execution of my trade."

She winced at the unintentional pun. "Then tell me."

"Tell you what?"

“Your name."

"Oh. John Marshall Cabot."

Her eyes widened again. "The mystery writer?"

"Guilty as charged."

She smiled, revealing dimples. "So the seventy people were characters?”

"Of course." I snorted. "I haven't killed anyone since a brief stint in Vietnam. Even then I wasn't sure."

She looked me up and down. “You don't look that old. You actually look closer to forty than sixty."

"Young lady, I should mention, since you have a deplorable lack of historical knowledge, that there were observers and advisors in the country as far back as 1957. The so-called Vietnam war lasted from 1964 until 1975. That means a person who served there could be anywhere from sixty to thirty-eight, if they had gone in country at age eighteen. I happen to know a sergeant who is now in his nineties, and a kid of 36 who lied about his age."

"So, which are you?"

"I was never a sergeant, and was never sixteen."

"No. I mean how old are you?"

I looked her up and down. "Almost twice your age, assuming you are in your early twenties."

"I am 24." she retorted.

"Then I stand corrected."

"You should."

We both watched the water, the chill wind causing her to pull her coat tighter. "Next time I ask you a simple question, could you at least give me a simple answer?"

"There are no guarantees in this life."

She looked up for heavenly intervention, but the heavenly chorus had other business. "Where are you going?"

"Actually, that is a very philosophical question. However, as to my present corporeal destination I am going to Kirkwall, then to points beyond. And you?"

"Pretty much the same. "What is a mystery writer doing up in the Orkneys?"

"Research. I am working on a series of murders in lighthouses, and a fan named Angus McBride found out about it. He lives in the lighthouse just north of the Islands, and called my agent to invite me up for the weekend when he found out I was in Thurso."

"The name sounds familiar."

I snorted. "It should. He's only one of the richest men in Scotland."

"What is he like?"

“Never met the man.” I answered "From what I've heard, he might have been the man they used for the Scotsman stereotype. Ten years older than God, doesn't like anyone. So tight with his money that the Queen's likeness complains when he pinches his pennies,

She dimpled again. "It takes all kinds to make the world," she chided me gently. "Curmudgeons, writers that mix guile, wit and sagacity in that order to talk circles around everyone else-"

"Young brunettes that used to be redheads, that were born in England, briefly raised there but spent most of their lives in the Midwest United States. That were dancers, models and hopeful actresses, poor women that are smitten with elderly mystery writers."

She looked thunderstruck. "How did you know that?"

"The only people willing to put up with my prattle are dead, dead drunk, deaf, insane, smitten with me, or, like my agent, paid exorbitant amounts to do so."

She waved away my commentary. "No, the rest of it. My hair, dancing, acting, where I was born and raised."

Sherlock Holmes was at times either amused or irritated by how much people see, yet how little they observe. He constantly railed at Doctor Watson because of what he missed. I am usually amused. Besides I don't use the Sherlock Holmes observation method that often myself. “Your hair is growing out, leaving a small line of auburn, obviously your natural color. As for the rest, everyone has an accent from where they were originally raised, along with a manner of speaking. What Robert Heinlein called a "milk" language. In your case, it sounds like Essex, or Devon. Also, you use words that point to it. Words like Curmudgeon, and sagacity, commonly used in England, uncommonly used in the US. This is overlaid with what is called the ‘Chicago flat’, the kind of accent taught to American radio announcers so they can be understood anywhere. It is also taught to actors, which is why Anthony Hopkins, among others, does a very good bland American, while most Americans can't do anything beyond Cockney and a badly overdone Scots brogue

"You move very gracefully, and have a habit of freezing in place when you stop, posing. The grace suggests dance, the freeze that you were at one time, a model. You have had voice training, this is obvious from the way you pause before speaking, and you speak clearly, enunciating every word. You probably had a problem when you were younger, a lisp or a stutter. This, along with everything else, suggests an intended acting career. But the fact that you are here, and not in one of the movie capitals, suggests you haven't made your name yet."

She shook her head. "I never will. Unless I go into porn, or give in to the casting couch."

A pity. "Things change. Why are you up here?"

"To visit my Uncle."

"Lucky man."

There is no ferry from Mainland, the largest Island in the Orkney chain, to the lighthouse. McBride was not known for his caring nature, or his willingness to suffer uninvited guests. He had his own launch, and was known to shoot at unwanted visitors. I was told upon my arrival the launch would be there to pick me up after McBride's man finished the weekly shopping. After debarking at Stromness, I decided not to round the Island to the south, and in doing so, pass by the British Navy's anchorage at Scapa Flow. Instead I wandered the streets of the town of Kirkwall, window-shopping. Some of the local crafts were beautiful, and I bought a sweater and jacket that I put on. If you've never been to Northern Scotland, you don't know how important that ever-present sweater is, or why wool is still one of the important local industries.

I walked back to the wharf, and was directed to the dock where McBride's boat was tied up. It was very much like the US Coast Guard's motor whalers, the kind of boat that can roll like a top, right itself, and keep on going. When I considered what kind of place would need such a boat, I almost turned around and left.

"My good fellow, I am ready to go," a voice said from my side. I turned and eyed the new arrival. Tall and thin, he looked like one of Monty Python's stereotypical 'Upper Class Twits'. He watched me for a moment, then motioned. "What's the matter, old man? Don't speak English? There must be someone around who speaks Gaelic," the last said under his breath. All the while he was smiling. Obviously, he had heard the old saying that if someone doesn't understand the language, you can fool them by calling them names while smiling. He must have assumed I was a local from the way I was dressed.

"Come on, you twit, let's go to island, yes? Much hurry, much waste of time." He must have also heard the one about speaking English slow, so foreigners who don't speak it will understand. "Blasted nerk."

Another man, loaded down with parcels approached. He set them down by the bowline and came toward us. "Mister Cabot, is it now," he asked, extending his hand.

"Yes." The other man flinched. I shook hands with the newcomer. "You must be Liam Donlan."

"That I am, sir." The accent was pure Belfast. Donlan was in his sixties, built like a quarryman, with the manner of a gentleman. He turned, looking at my companion with a look of long suffering patience. “What can I help ye with now, Reginald?"

"You twit. Angus is my Uncle." Our friend had decided he did have some dignity left. "I'm the man you will be working for when he dies."

“And I'm the man that'll break ye in half if ye call me twit again." Donlan was unimpressed. "As it is, ye were not expected. Besides which, I'm going over to pick up old Mr. Fanshaw, and waitin' on an expected passenger."

"His solicitor?" Reginald's ears perked up at that. "Whatever for?"

"None of your business. So either lend a hand, or go have a cuppa while I finish." He turned without another word, dropping into the boat.

McBride snorted, and stormed off. I started passing down the packages. "Obviously you know him."

"That I do. Every time I see him, he's coming to ask the old man for money again. I wonder if the lad's part Danish."

"As in 'Pay the Dane geld, never get rid of the Dane'?"

"Exactly." He smiled. "If ye wish, ye can have a cuppa over at the shop." He motioned toward a building. "Let Moira know ye are a friend o'mine, and she'll even put a tot in it."

"Thank you. Any idea of how long?"

"Just a few minutes, maybe half an hour. Miss Landers needed to buy something warm, and ye know how women are when they shop."

I nodded, and took his advice. Moira, a sweet octogenarian, poured more than a tot in that cup, and I doubt the liquor had ever been seen by the Tax board. If it had, they'd be in the running with Glenfiddich. I bought another, straight up, while I waited.

"Have another my dear." I knew that voice. I turned, and there in a booth were Reginald and the girl I had met on the ferry.

"No, thank you." She looked good in pants, a sweater and coat, like the locals. "I have a boat to catch."

"The ferry doesn't leave for two hours," he retorted, "and there's a lot of things we can do in that amount of time." I couldn't see his face, but the leer was obvious.

"Be that as it may, I won't be doing any of them with you." She grabbed her shoulder bag, and stood.

"You're just like every other American I've met," he said, his voice rising. "Snotty bastards that wouldn't know a good thing if it was rammed into their faces."

"I know a good thing when I see it." She replied levelly. "When I see it again, I'll let you know." She pushed past him. He spun, and caught her shoulder.

She looked back at his hand. "Let go."

"Not until I've had my say."

"She said let go." I said. He turned and I caught his hand, squeezing like the Army Hand to Hand instructor had demonstrated those many years ago. He gasped and pulled his hand back.

"I don't need your help," she gritted out. Then she turned and caught him on the chin with an uppercut Mike Tyson would have admired. He went backwards over the table like a jack in the box. She turned back. "But thanks for the offer."

Before I could say anything, Donlan arrived with an elderly man in local garb. "Miss Landers, whene'er ye are ready?"

"I'm ready now," the girl replied. She glanced at me, and her dimples appeared again. "Mom was a McBride."

Reginald was standing, trying to straighten his tie. "Well, it's about bloody time you showed up." He paled when the girl looked at him. "We were waiting for you."

"I think it was worth the wait." I replied. "Whenever you're ready, Miss Landers."

"My friends call me Megan."

II

"You have been uncommonly silent, John."

"Have I?" I glanced up from my agonies. "I'm like French wines, I don't travel by sea well. I've had my thoughts on… other things."

"Well, first off, don't look at the water." She turned me towards her and sat down in front of me. Beyond her, Donlan looked like the Maritime memorial statue in Boston. Beside him, Mr. Fanshaw looked as happy as a boy on holiday. Reginald was forward, alone. She caught my chin and brought my face close so close I could count her lashes. "Look at me."

"Well, if you insist."

"I do."

"Why did you let me prattle on about Angus like that?"

She blushed, looking away. "I have never met him. My mother told me much about him, but none of it was complimentary. Your description of him fits like a glove, from what I had been told. In fact, she left because of him. He was always angry and argumentative."

"Some people show love that way." I took her hand. "They never learned to be kind, or thoughtful, so instead of a kind word, you get abuse. They mean it to show caring, and it comes out harsh."

"Well, he's picked the wrong girl if he tries that." she said. "I'll give him a piece of my mind to chew on."

"Not too big a piece, I hope."

She stuck her tongue out at me.

"There it is." Donlan shouted from the wheel. We turned and saw the lighthouse for the first time. It was a tall spire, thrust up out of what looked like a small house, the ocean lapping just below the walkway at its base. A pier ran out to a boathouse a few feet away, and Donlan steered into it, tossing a loop over the rear bollard as he killed the engine.

The first one out of the boat was Reginald, who stormed toward the house like a human tank. I leaped up next, and caught the foreline, dogging it through the cleat as Donlan helped Megan and Fanshaw up. Then we stacked the packages and luggage on the pier. Donlan pointedly left Reginald's things in the boat as he helped Megan with hers. We walked toward the lighthouse, each loaded down.

"Why did you tie up all the way out?" I asked.

"The tide. The whole bloody thing is built on a mud flat atop a reef. Five feet farther in, and the boat would be high and dry in an hour." he replied. The door opened, and Reginald came running out, followed by a slim woman in her forties, wielding a broom like a claymore.

"I'll not tell ye again, ye'll wait until Himself has gotten up from his nap, or I'll knock yer head to Edinburgh!" With one last swing, she drove him toward the boathouse. "Now get out of here!"

She watched him run, then turned to Liam. "That man's the divil himself." She growled, taking the packages I carried. "I dinna know what he thinks he is, but I can't stand him."

"Patience, me darlin." Donlan turned, raising his voice. "Fetch yer bags in, Laddie. If Himself decides ye can stay, ye can unpack." Then he turned back. "Maeve, this is the writer Himself was expecting, and Himself’s niece."

"Bad enough that Reginald had to show, why you as well?" Maeve bemoaned, walking back inside.

"Did I come at a bad time?" Megan asked, white faced, from shock or rage, I couldn't tell.

"Nay, Little one." Donlan soothed. "Maeve tends to look at the dark side of things. You here means someone else for Himself to yell at, and when he yells, she gets frantic to please him." He shook his head as if this were odd.

"Why do you keep calling McBride himself?" I asked.

"Old clan tradition." Megan explained. "The clan leader is always called Himself, or called by the family name as a noun, such as the clan head of the Campbell's being called 'the' Campbell."

"Right ye are, child. Now go ye on in, and I can get back to me work."

The inside of the house was what you might expect. A living room with comfortable chairs and a fireplace. Two bedrooms off a small common hall, a kitchen at the back, round, as it was actually the foundation of the lighthouse itself, with a bathroom off the side of it. Maeve came bustling back, mumbling under her breath as she led us to the bedrooms. She left us alone as we unpacked. I had barely gotten my things put away when I heard Reginald shouting at Maeve. I stepped out, and she turned to me with a pleading look. "Sir we havna room enou' for four guests. Mister Fanshaw and Himself's nephew hae been put in the boathouse. But -"

"But what, Mrs. Donlan?"

"Himself's nephew would like the room I gave you, sir."

"That's just too bad for him."

"Now listen-" Reginald started to push his way in, and I caught him with my arm. He was younger than me, taller than me, probably wealthier than me. I didn't care.

"No, big mouth, you listen. I have had it up to here with your mouth and the attitude that goes with it." I stepped forward, and he retreated hastily. "One thing I can't stand is a bully and a coward. Get out of my face, little man, or I'll squash you like a bug."

Reginald turned, and stormed away. "I apologize for my tone, Mrs. Donlan. Our little 'friend' brings out the worst in me."

She had the look of someone unaccustomed to apologies. "Sure'n you must be dry after the trip over. Can I make you some tea, sir?"

"Please. But only if you ask Megan and Mr. Fanshaw to join us."

"Us?"

"I will not sit to tea unless you join us, Mrs. Donlan."

She shyly glanced down, the look you get from a woman not sure if the man she’s speaking to is flirting or not. "As ye wish, sir."

A few moments later, I was sitting in the front room with Megan, as Mrs. Donlan poured the tea. Megan was still bothered by Mrs. Donlan's manner when they met. But after a time she warmed to the older woman, and they began to get along famously. I discussed my trip with Fanshaw, who, it seems, had moved up from Leeds thirty years before because he had fond memories of the British Navy of World War II. Liam arrived in time to get the last scone. Only Reginald was missing, his lack of presence we did not comment on, nor grieve about.

A bell rang and Mrs. Donlan started. "Himself is up." She stood. "Come along, Liam, he'll be wantin' the light room this time of day."

"Light room?"

"Himself likes to sit up in the cupola where the light used to be. It's his favorite place." Donlan said. "He needs me to work the hoist to move him from his room to it, as he has been in a wheelchair since his thirties. If ye will excuse me?"

They left and I poured another cup of tea. I love Earl Grey, obviously either the Donlans or McBride did as well. "More?"

"No." Megan looked at her cup.

"You've been waiting for this meeting, but now you're dreading it."

"I don't know why I was asked to come." She looked at the stairs running up to the next floor. "Mother never had a good thing to say about him. When she died two years ago, Uncle Angus didn't even send a condolence card. Then last week, I get an invitation to meet him. He's never even seen me before. Why now?"

Before I could answer, Reginald came in from outside. He poured himself some tea, grumbled because it wasn't hot enough, then sat in the corner. A moment later, Liam returned to the room. "He's wantin' to see you first, Mister Cabot." He pulled on his slicker, and moved toward the door.

I stood, and went up the stairs. The next level up was a well-appointed bedroom, the Donlan's I surmised. I noticed what looked like a hatch in the center of the room, and above it, one in the ceiling. The next floor up, separated from the stairs by a door, was obviously McBride's quarters. A hospital bed sat to one side, and above the hatch in this floor, was another. The stairs ended in a hatch of their own, thrown back. I went on up into wonderland.

McBride had turned the upper gallery into an office. A desk sat beside a glass door leading onto the widows-walk around the gallery. Beside it was a rack of fishing poles, reels lined up like soldiers in a military parade, and a gun case of shotguns and rifles. Above the center of the room was a chain hoist, a complicated rat's nest of cables pulled aside to allow freedom of movement. Below them, an ancient man in a wheelchair was staring at the horizon, Mrs. Donlan at his side. "Bloody Navy." he grumbled. I stared at the horizon, but saw nothing but a black smudge in the distance. I noticed that McBride had turned, glaring at me with cold blue eyes. "Have a seat, laddie. Leave us." He directed one sentence at me, the other at Mrs. Donlan.

"What's wrong with the Navy?" I asked.

"Tha' out there is one of the destroyers from Scapa Flow out runnin' around, wasting oil on maneuvers. Worse than that, they're not taking care of the engines. Ye can tell by that ruddy black cloud they're making."

"May I?" I pointed at the glasses. He handed them to me, and I focused on the cloud. Sure enough, there was a ship out there. "Before you complain, remember to have your navy raise hell with the right people."

"An yer meaning?"

"That is an Oliver Hazard Perry class. An American ship."

"Impossible. I don't know where ye learned about ships, but I've never seen an American ship like that one."

"Then you don't know anything about ships. The Perrys were built during the seventies as escorts for convoys. The problem is that they needed to be upgraded when the idea of convoys took a jolt in the late seventies. They had to increase their speed, and give them Harpoon and Standard missiles to make them viable as light escorts for modern battle groups. The designation is FFG, or 'Fig'."

He seemed pleased. "Ye'll do."

"A test?"

"Aye. remember abou' eight years ago, ye wrote a murder mystery set on a ship in Manila during the war?"

"Yes, I did."

"Ye had half of the ship set in the wrong place, and named a ship that wasna built yet, and from the wrong navy at that."

"I always put little things like that in. Most people wouldn't know a Monssen from a Battle class."

"Aye. The puir estate of the modern education." He opened a box, offered me a cigar, and lit up, blowing smoke into the air. "What do ye do when someone notices?"

"If they are polite but firm, I make friends. If they are sharp and nasty, I am also in return. Maybe they will prove to be friends later. If they are weak or soft, I ignore them, no backbone."

"My kinda man." He rolled to the desk, and opened a drawer. "I always ha' a touch at this time o' day. Will ye join me?"

He poured two fingers of scotch. The same as I had in Kirkwall, by the taste, and joined me with a finger for himself. "When is your next book out?"

"Next year. I've gotten some good notes on old English lighthouses, this trip. Would you like to see them?"

"I'd be happy to." He took the pages, setting them on his desk. "Ye're not as interesting as Agatha Christie, but at least ye don't sink to difficult measures like Sir Arthur." He sipped appreciatively. "Ye met my niece and nephew ha' ye?"

"Yes."

"As a man that observes well, what de ye make of them?"

An interesting question. "Miss Landers is intelligent, feisty, and self reliant. You surprised her with your invitation. Reginald is, well, difficult. He tries to come across as forcefully as you do. But he hasn't the stomach for confrontation."

"Well said. Two of the same kind, at least in some respects." He puffed his cigar, watching me.

"I wanted you to meet me niece, sir. You're the kind of man she needs in this world."

"I don't need a matchmaker."

“Never said ye did. Just that I wished ye to meet her. If ye would, I'd like you to stay while I speak with her."

"I don't want to intrude on your time together."

"Ye won't be. I just want to know if the seed is better than the root stock." He pulled a rope, and turned toward the hatch. Mrs. Donlan had barely popped up before he snapped, "Send up me niece, Mrs. Donlan."

We waited together. I was hoping he would ask me to leave. If she wanted to tear a strip off of him, would my being here stop her? Megan mounted the stair, her face noncommittal.

"Sit ye down, woman." He snapped.

"I prefer to stand."

He snorted, turning to face the ocean. "Lousy weather. Reminds me of the time ye're mother left for America, never to return." He turned back, impaling her on his stare. "Just look at what she whelped. I wonder why ye have'na been writing, asking for money."

"Because I don't want your money," she spoke through clenched teeth. I could tell her temper was building. If she had not dyed her hair, McBride would have known as well.

"Ye may not want it, but ye'd be needing it. Gillian died penniless. Buried in a Potter's field. No one even left to mourn her, except for you. Trying to break into Hollywood, on your back no doubt."

She clenched her fists. "My mother died penniless because she didn't want to suck up your bile in return for an annuity," she hissed. "I may have had to sell everything she had left to pay for her funeral, but she died without bills, everything paid for with her own sweat and tears, while you sat here in your garret being the trapdoor spider. And as for Hollywood, I gave up on that when I found the only way I'd break in was on my back, thank you very much. So if you wish to speak with me, you had better keep a civil tongue in your head!" She glared at me, then spun on her heel and left.

"God, she's right." McBride said. He poured more scotch and sipped. "Her mother would never have raised her voice to me. But she wouldn't stay about me either." He sighed, and tears were in his eyes. "She never had an unkind word for me when she was here. And never a word at all when she left. Not like Reginald's father, Mayhew. That bloodsucker would still be here if he hadna stepped in front of a bus in Glasgow. His whelp is no better. All sweet and syrup to me, with cold words when he thought I couldna hear." He chugged the last of his Scotch.

"I thought ye might be interested in some information about this lighthouse, so I had Mr. Fanshaw do some research." He pulled out a large manila envelope, handing it to me. "Tell me what ye think tomorrow morning."

I went down stairs, passing Reginald who was on his way up, and opened the envelope. Inside along with about fifteen closely typed pages was yet another envelope, this one legal sized. On it, someone had written in a a broad heavy hand, 'Give this back to me tomorrow unopened, please.' The papers detailed the building and history of the lighthouse, and I dove in.

"Dinner is ready." Mrs. Donlan called, and I put the papers away. She had made a veritable feast, and everyone set to eating with a will. Fanshaw was working on something as he ate, ticking notes on a sheet. Reginald was not to be seen. Mrs. Donlan had brought up a meal for the boy, Angus refusing to eat with him.

Megan kept looking at me as the meal progressed and as she finished, she touched my arm. "Would you walk with me?"

I retrieved our coats, and we stepped outside. She started toward the boathouse. Once we were in it, she spun around, punching me in the chest with her finger. "You are a bastard!"

"Why?"

"You let that old bastard rip me to shreds and did nothing to stop him! If you hadn't been there, I would have probably killed him!"

"Megan, he asked me to be there. You don't even know what happened up there. Damn it, woman, he wanted to see if you had the guts to stand up to him! Unlike your mother, or her brother Mayhew. He's like an army drill instructor I once knew. He can't abide people that won't learn to stand on their own. I hated that son of a bitch, and found he was proud of me, because I was willing to tell him to stuff it." I turned, looking at the sea. "He's a frightened old man, alone except for servants and two descendants. I think he wants to make sure the line continues. Hell, he invited me because he wanted you to meet me."

"I don't need a matchmaker!"

"That is exactly what I told him. He answered that all he had hoped for was that we'd meet."

She looked at me, her eyes vulnerable. I caught her in my arms, and hugged

held her. "I'm glad he did."

“Do you remember when we were in the pub, and I said to Reginald I would tell him if I saw a good thing again?” I nodded silently. "One day, I’ll tell you what I meant."

We walked back to the house, meeting Fanshaw as he left it. "That little-"

"What's Reginald done this time?" I asked.

"He's at me to see Angus' will." Fanshaw snarled, a surprising sound from the old man. "He wants to make sure he's still in it, and that I didn't change it while I was here."

"I don't think he needs to know that."

"Right you are." He smirked, looking around. "Which is why I didn't tell him the will was changed last month. Not that he has that much money. It's all in his American investments." He snickered, and wandered toward the boathouse. We shook our heads, and entered to the sound of thunder. Liam and Mrs. Donlan were at the kitchen table, looking at the ceiling. The thunder was two voices arguing, Angus and Reginald. There were pauses, as if one or the other had decided to calm down, but after a moment, one would start it all over again.

"Worse than usual." Donlan said. "Those two shouldn't be allowed in the same county, let alone the same house."

“The worst part of hearing an argument at a distance is the way it seems to attract your attention ...even when you try not to listen. I could hear every sound. The noise of Reginald pacing or the old man's chair rolling. A creaking sound that puzzled me, then finally the buzzing of a small phone. Mrs. Donlan went to answer it. Then she shrugged and hung up. "Himself will be stayin' up in the cupola tonight, Liam. Says he wants to think about some things afore the morning."

"As he will." Liam stood, picking up his pipe. "And a good evenin' to ye." he nodded to us. He went upstairs, and a moment later, Reginald passed him, storming down. "I will stay the night and damn what he says." He went out without another word.

I excused myself, returning to my room. The envelope drew my attention. What was in there? I puzzled over it and my work. There was thumping and cursing half the night, Reginald walking the pier. The mystery was still there unsolved when I went to sleep.

I arose as the sun did, stepping into the hall. Mrs. Donlan was at the stove, her husband seated at the table drinking tea. Megan looked up, smiling, and I had seated myself when Fanshaw entered. "Bloody twit." None of us had to ask who he meant. "Taking up boxing, he is. Out there shadow boxing on the walk." We all in our own ways ignored this latest sign of lunacy, and settled into our breakfasts. Mrs. Donlan must have worked at a lumber camp if the size of her breakfasts were any example. Eggs, bacon, ham, bangers, kippers, hash browns, toast, pancakes, potato pancakes, and marmalade thick enough to fight out of the jar. Reginald entered as we ate, closing the door into the kitchen gently, and leaned against it.

"I wanted to apologize to all of you." he said softly. This got our attention. "Last night I was very abrupt with Uncle Angus and I couldn't sleep." He rambled on for several minutes, itemizing everything he had done in the last few hours, then looked at Mrs. Donlan. "Mrs. Donlan, would you call up and see if my uncle will speak with me this morning?"

"I never bother him this early."

"Please, I'll take the blame if he's angry."

His look was so pitiful that she relented. She picked up the phone, and dialed the number.

The shotgun blast froze us in our chairs then snapped us all to our feet. Donlan was first up the stairs, with me close behind.

Donlan reached the hatch into the cupola, slamming into it like a linebacker. I would have expected the wood to explode upward, but it stopped him cold. I joined him and we lifted, feeling the door shift.

"Oh god!" Mrs. Donlan pointed. Blood was running down along the door to drip at our feet.

"Again!" Donlan and I threw our weight into it and the hatch finally gave way. I motioned the others to stay behind as Donlan and I went up.

Near the desk lay a smoking double barrel shotgun, bits of hair and blood around the barrel. Angus was dead. In fact, his body had been atop the entry hatch. The chair had been flipped over in the center of the room, between him and the shotgun.

"Sir-" I caught Liam before he could get closer.

"We had better wait for the police." I turned to the others. Fanshaw and Megan were jammed together right behind Mrs. Donlan. I could hear Reginald running, and a moment later he joined them.

"Uncle!" He tried to push his way up.

"Go downstairs and call the police." I ordered.

"He might need help!"

All he needs right now is a priest." I replied. "No one is going to enter this room until the police arrive." I pushed Donlan gently, and he went down the stairs, pushing everyone else before him. I looked around, not moving from the blood-spattered entry.

There was a sheet of paper on the desk, beside a single shot glass, but I couldn't read it from here. The other chair sat by the side of his wheelchair. Just beyond it was a glint of metal on the floor. Something about the room disturbed me. I lit a cigarette, closed the hatch, and made my way downstairs.

[machievelli]

Between Liam Donlan, Mr. Fanshaw and myself, we kept the others occupied, and Reginald out of that room. It's an hour run by boat from Kirkwall, assuming no one was in the boat. But someone must have been out in the police cruiser, because less than fifteen minutes later, it came roaring over the horizon.

"Move your boat so we can dock!" one of the men aboard her demanded. Donlan growled under his breath, then went down, pulling his boat out, rather than forward. The police launch charged in, taking the pier closest to the lighthouse, as Donlan tied up where he had been before. He looked at me, dropping a slow wink. Then I remembered the tide and snorted a laugh.

There were three men aboard; a Constable, a Sergeant, and an Inspector. From the way they piled out of the boat, I wondered if they even had crime in Kirkwall.

"Where is the body?" The Inspector asked, his crisp clean uniform proclaiming his professionalism, or so he thought.

"Up in the lighthouse cupola." I pointed upward.

"Right, and who are you?"

"John Marshall Cabot."

"An American, no doubt." He dismissed me from his mind. "Lead on."

We made quite an entourage. As we passed through the kitchen, we picked up Reginald, who complained every step about my taking control of the situation, keeping him away from his dead uncle's side. Luckily, the Inspector paid him as little mind as he did me. The constable, a bright faced, ruddy-cheeked young man spent half that trip up the stairs making notes of Reginald's prattle. The Sergeant ignored everyone with equal equanimity, staying in the kitchen to begin the questioning.

I pointed out where Liam and I had stopped. The Inspector moved into the room cautiously and knelt by the body. "Did anyone check the body?"

He had to be joking. Both barrels of a shotgun in the mouth? "No."

"Well, how did you know he was dead then?"

I sighed. "According to the wounds, his spine had been severed, skull blasted open, the contents on the walls." I pointed. "If he was still alive after that, he should have changed his name to Harry Houdini or Jesus of Nazareth."

The Inspector glared at me. "The one thing I can't stand in an investigation is people that won't allow investigations to run their course. If you had checked the body, as anyone should, you would have verified his death."

He reached down, taking the wrist then dropped it again. "Well, he is dead."

"I am sorry, Inspector." I crossed my arms. "In America, they'd make sure no one entered the room farther than necessary. Besides, I saw enough dead men in my time to decide that he was without tromping the evidence."

"Oh, really. And where was that?"

"Quang Tri province."

"Oh, one of those." He turned, taking the shotgun by the barrel. "Styles, run this down to the boat. Have Sergeant Carstairs put it in an evidence bag." He handed the gun to Styles, who caught it also by the barrel, and left. "Odd, he had real guts, no matter how he died." He looked around, and turned toward the desk. He picked up the paper by its edge and brought it closer to his eyes.

"I can't stand the pain anymore. May God forgive me what I did in Ireland before my just deserts." He set it back on the desk. "It appears to be a suicide note."

If I had been twenty years younger, I would have said something like, ‘excellent deduction! A Suicide note! What was your first clue?’

The Inspector motioned for me to precede him and went down to the kitchen again. The others were outside, sequestered with the constable, as the Sergeant talked to them one by one. I was up next, and gave what I had seen and knew readily. The Sergeant winced as he wrote.

"What is the matter, Sergeant?" I asked

"Procedure, sir. We know it was a suicide, what with the note and all. But we have to question every one anyway. Waste of time it is."

"If you say so." I replied. "Actually it is refreshing."

"And why is that, sir?"

"I've seen many a policeman in the U.S. during interrogations. This is the first English one."

"Why would you have seen a lot of them there?" he asked suspiciously.

"I am a mystery writer by trade. Friends of mine with the police have allowed me to watch interrogations."

This seemed to surprise the Sergeant. With the Inspector's permission, I sat through the other interrogations as well. The Inspector came in when Donlan was brought in and took over. "You're from Northern Ireland?"

"Belfast."

"What might Angus have meant in his note about God forgiving him for what was done in Ireland?"

"He was in charge of arresting a dozen men in Londonderry in 1943. Three of them, including my father, were killed. Shot while escaping." He shrugged. "I never heard him express regret for it though."

"Then why were you working for him? The man you admit murdered your father?"

"He hired me afterwards. He knew me mother was already dead. Maybe he felt sorry for the killing, after all, none of the others were proved to be IRA. Neither were the dead. A month later, he was caught in an IRA bomb and crippled up. I moved here with him then." He looked at those huge hands of his. "He was the closest thing I had to a father."

The rest of the interrogations went quickly, but the Inspector seemed to think suicide was a foregone conclusion. I went to my room to work, then remembered the pages I had given Angus. I asked, and the Inspector allowed that I could get them, if the Sergeant went up with me.

I went directly to the desk and picked up the papers. The top page slipped, and I knelt to pick it up. At my feet beside it was the barb of a fishhook, broken off. I picked it up, looking at it. The hook was steel, the break clean and new. I set it on the desk, then noticed a gouge in the chair.

Suddenly it clicked into place. I stepped across to the door that opened onto the widow's walk. The door was locked, an old fashioned skeleton keyhole the only opening.

"What are you doing?" The Sergeant started to step in, but I motioned to him.

"I think your Inspector is going to have to decide that this was murder." I knelt, looking at the lock inside. There was a small bright spot on the metal facing. I got the key, and unlocked the door. It squeaked loudly as I pulled it open. Stepping out, I searched the rail. A narrow line near the door had been scraped clean of rust, but not shined. Fifty feet below me was the kitchen door.

"Now I'm sure of it." I turned to the Constable. "Could you do two things for me? First, ask the Inspector to find out where Reginald works and what he does. Second, lock the hatch. I am going down and look in the shallows." I went past him swiftly.

It took me only a moment to see what I had suspected. The Inspector was incensed, but had done as I asked. I walked into the kitchen, where everyone was, and approached Fanshaw. "Mr. Fanshaw, you mentioned Angus had American investments. What did you mean?"

"It was something that Angus always said, but I never found out. I have been Mr. McBride's financial advisor for almost forty years now. He never bought any stock in an American company."

"He didn't have to." I commented. "They are in this house even as we speak, and they were used to murder him."

"Murder?" Donlan snapped to his feet. "He was murdered? How? By whom?"

"As to how, it was a matter of putting the clues together. Inspector, what do you make of this?"

I handed him the broken hook.

"Number 7 barbed hook." he said. "Broken off. Probably lost the rest in a fish."

"You don't loose the shank of a hook in a fish, you lose the barb, which you are holding. The reason you found that hook was because it was used to pull the trigger on the shotgun."

"You're mad!" Reginald leaped to his feet. "Who would have done such a thing?"

"You did, Reginald." I waited as the hubbub died down. "Let me lay it out for you all. Last night, Reginald went upstairs. He's been worried that Angus would write him out of the will. Mr. Fanshaw, you wrote the will, didn't you?"

"That I did."

"What was left to Reginald?"

"Well, the language was not complimentary, but he left half of his American investments to him."

"He might as well have left me nothing!" Reginald shouted.

"He left you more than you would have understood. The problem was, I expect he wanted you to earn that legacy." I took out the legal sized envelope Angus had slipped into the papers. "If you would verify this for me, Mr. Fanshaw?"

The old solicitor took it, looking at it carefully. "It's got Angus' signature and seal on it and hasn't been opened."

I opened the envelope and read. "Since my nephew has proven to be a wastrel, unfit for life without a keeperI hearby assign Mr. Liam Donlan as executor of all his properties, with full discretionary powers until in Liam's opinion, the boy has grown to responsibility." I handed it to the Inspector. "Reginald knew about this, so did Liam. Their attitudes toward each other showed that Liam knew he had the whip-hand. That was why Reginald was coming here yesterday.

"So last night, he went up to talk to the old man. In his pocket were some sleeping powders."

"Supposition." The Inspector snapped. A good point I had to admit, but I had proof.

"The glass upstairs was the one from which Angus drank. He offered me a drink when I was up before, but he didn't offer one to Reginald. I don't know how many sleeping powders he brought. All he wanted to do was make sure Angus would sleep soundly enough for the rest of his plan to come to fruition.

"Once Angus was asleep, he set to work. Of course, he was hungry, but he merely called down for dinner."

"Here now! Himself called for that meal!" Donlan said.

"That was what caught me for a moment as well. Except for something Angus said. Talking of both Reginald and Megan, he said 'two of the same kind'. What do they have in common?"

"They're both related to Himself" Fanshaw said.

"No, that would have been too obvious, even for Angus. So I had Sergeant Carstairs make a call for me. Sergeant?"

"Mr. Reginald McBride works at an animation laboratory, doing voice-overs for Japanese and other Foreign made animation. He is credited for five voices they use."

"Would one of them be the gruff old Scot?"

"Aye."

"Which he probably picked up from his own Uncle. You have to remember from the time Reginald went upstairs, all contact with Angus was by phone. Reginald may be a murderer, but he also considers himself an intelligent man. If he had shot Angus then, thrown him off the building, strangled him, and so on, it would have come back eventually. But he knew about Liam's father. Over the years that might have worked on the old man forcing him to finally kill himself. So, he rigged a suicide."

"Rigged!" Donlan shouted.

"Yes. He took the shotgun, loaded it, and set it across the chair. If you look, Inspector, you will see the gouge caused by the butt plate when it fired." I took the poker from the fireplace, setting it on the chair, the table holding it up, aimed at an astonished Liam Donlan.

"Then he grabbed the first reel that came to hand from the case. It happened to have the number 7 hook you commented on, Inspector. He ran it through the keyhole in the door, then around the back trigger, dropping the reel over the side. There was a squeaking sound last night during the argument between 'Angus' and Reginald. We heard him walking around and the chair being moved. Here is where you gave me the next clue, Inspector. You said he had real guts, even if he did commit suicide. I take it he didn't stick the barrel in his mouth, did he?"

"No. The shot pattern was right between his eyes."

"There. He placed the old man, still asleep in front of the shotgun." I nudged Liam forward until the poker was inches from his face. "Then he closed and locked the door again. He calls down, telling Mrs. Donlan as the old man that he's staying up there to think about things. Mrs. Donlan would no more disturb him than she would argue with The Lord God of Hosts himself. Then he went downstairs, shouting about how he was staying, and damn what the old man said.

"Here is where his plan fell apart. You see, he was thinking of fishing line as something he could find easily. The reel had landed about twenty yards from the building. Unfortunately for him, the tide was in."

"Bloody hell." Donlan said. "If he didn't lock the drag-"

"It would have been dropped almost into the firth. After fumbling around trying to find it, he went to bed. If he moved fast, he'd be able to complete the plan before one of the Donlans could check on him this morning. He was up bright and early, trying to find a monofiliament line in the morning fog-"

"Shadow-boxing!" Fanshaw waved his arms like a boxer training. It looked like a series of hooks, as someone might try to find a line they couldn't see by hitting it.

"Correct. He finally did, because just a few moments after you came in, Mr. Fanshaw he followed. He saw all of us, knew that we were the perfect alibi, so he lowered his arm, the line in his hand, and closed the door over it." I walked over to the door, stepped outside, then stepped back in and stood as if I had come in, and closed the door carefully with my hands behind my back.

"Then he leaned against it, acting contrite. He apologized for all the problems he had caused, and begged Mrs. Donlan to call up. That assured every eye would be on her when he jerked the line, firing the shotgun." I jerked up my arm behind my back.

The shotgun above roared, and everyone jumped. I stepped from the door, staring at Reginald's pale face. "Thank you, Sergeant. Now perhaps you will tell us what you found?"

"A line had been caught on the edge of the walkway, and on one end of it, a large brass reel. On the other, a broken hook that looks like it matched the fragment you found upstairs."

Reginald leaped, catching the poker up. Before he could move, Megan jumped forward and kicked his eyes going wide as her foot caught his crotch.

The Constable cuffed him, raising him to his feet. "All for nothing! He only had sixty thousand pounds left!" Reginald raged.

"Shame on you." I held out my hand, and Carstairs handed me the reel he'd found. This is a Vom Hofe."

"So what?"

"I checked with a man in Glasgow and gave him a few names I read up there. Vom Hofe, George Snyder, C.F. Millam, J.F. Meek, B.F. Meek. All of them made fishing reels. But Snyder started making them in 1810. Millam and the Meeks made theirs during and just before the American Civil War. The Vom Hofe family made theirs starting in the late 19th century. All of his reels are collector’s items, worth as much as 10,000 pounds each. The guns are also unique. Do you know how much a mint condition Henry rifle is worth?"

The police dragged him outdoors, Megan and I following. They went as far as the boat, then suddenly began cursing. Their launch was high and dry.

"The tide went out?" Megan asked.

"Yes. But as you know, time and tide wait for no man."

She pushed me in.