A Handful of Ash Read online

  ‘It’s level with your ear.’

  ‘Cool,’ he pronounced.

  Shaela began to put her sister’s mask and hat back on. Nate made a movement as if he wanted them to file past him, but there wasn’t room. He would have to go first. He went up the steps and out into the cockpit, then over the guard wires. Shaela and her peerie sister followed him.

  The small ghost climbed out of the bunk. ‘It’s in the new museum,’ he said.

  ‘What is?’

  ‘Ash from the fire.’ The breath stilled in my lungs as if he’d punched me. He stomped up the steps like Peerie Charlie, one foot at a time. ‘We went to visit it, wi’ wir class, and there was a cauldron there, filled with ash from the witches, an a picter o’ where they used to burn them. Up there.’ He pointed vaguely out from Khalida’s cockpit, and explained, with small boy blood-thirstiness, ‘They used loads o’ peats and burnt them and burnt them till there wis only ash left.’

  I came up the steps after him to make sure he got over the guard rail, and watched as the little party set off along the pontoon and out of the gate. Nate locked it behind them. I wasn’t sure I liked the idea of him having a key. I’d get the padlock out for when I left the boat.

  Ash … you have to pass an ordeal to join … I turned back to Gavin. He looked as if his thoughts were running the same way. Not wrong exactly … to take some of the ash from the museum, ash that held the bones of long-dead witches. Someone had been going to exorcize her demons by trying to call up those ghosts, and her task had been to take her father’s keys and get it.

  I told him about James’ visit last night, and my lucky bluffing with the three crows as I fried the meat, and we talked it over as we ate.

  ‘There’s plenty of talk in Scalloway about what goes on up the Gallow Hill,’ Gavin said. ‘If she’d been involved in a ritual, it could have included a “devil” appearing. If that person had “materialised” behind her and put its hands round her neck, that could have caused her seizure. Then the perpetrators took fright and decided to get her body away from the castle.’

  ‘But why to the Spanish closs?’ The tender lamb had cooked beautifully, making a rich sauce with the onion juice. Cat’s yellow eyes were round with hope, but I wasn’t going to feed him from the table; he’d get the pan scrapings with his supper.

  ‘Someone who knew Rachel’s reputation, and wanted to implicate her.’

  ‘Or Nate. The three crows talked about a him.’ I frowned. ‘Kevin’s nan only saw one person. If there had been more, surely they’d have moved the body together, pretending she was drunk.’

  ‘Perhaps one was keeping lookout. Perhaps they were trying to take the body to a car, only you came along before they could get it there, so they ditched it in the closs. I know the pointing arm looked posed, but it could just have flopped like that.’

  ‘If the intention was to accuse Rachel or Nate, does that mean they weren’t involved?’

  ‘I’d usually say so, but that young man thinks he’s too clever by half. I can see him thinking that kind of double bluff was a smart idea, to mislead us.’

  ‘Or both of them could have been involved,’ I said, thinking it through, ‘one the main celebrant, who ran when Annette collapsed, leaving the person dressed as the demon with the body. So that person carried the body to their house to get them involved again, as revenge.’

  ‘A witches’ ritual – especially the sort of thing I think we’d be dealing with here, based on ideas from fiction and the internet – would normally involve several people.’ Gavin made a face. ‘Perhaps the leader told his followers to get back home and act normally, establish an alibi, while he moved the body away from the castle.’

  I shook my head. ‘You should have seen how mad those girls were, at the suggestion he’d done the ritual without them. I’d bet my last mooring rope they weren’t there. And that the person Kevin’s nan saw was the leader.’

  Gavin’s face was grim. ‘Playing with power isn’t good for anyone. If they’d been following the Dennis Wheatley version of Satanism, this man would have a band of devoted women at his beck and call. He provides the thrills, they give the adoration. He’d be thinking himself above the law. This girl who died so suddenly was expendable.’

  This picture of a ruthless leader sent a cold shudder up my spine. But … who was he?

  The pudding turned out to be lemon soufflé in little glass dishes, and it was delicious. After it, I offered coffee, but Gavin shook his head. ‘I’ve planned an early night. I’d take tea, if you have it.’

  I fished the teapot out from the bottom of the locker behind the cooker, and set the kettle on to boil. Once I’d set the mugs out, there was one of those awkward silences. We broke it together, with ‘How’s –’ I made a you-first gesture.

  ‘How’s Anders?’ he asked. His tone was casual. I gave him a quick look, but there was no sign of the complacent male in possession asking after a defeated rival.

  ‘Threatening to come over,’ I said. ‘His shoulder’s healed fine, he’s had to go back to work and he wants some excitement. How’s your brother?’

  ‘Kenny’s very pleased with himself. His ram took first prize at the local agricultural show, and other sheep took various rosettes, and the calf of his favourite Highland cow, Morag, she took the trophy for her class. Now he’s sitting at night poring over grant forms to re-seed more land, so he can expand the herd. Mother’s encouraging him. She likes the kye.’ He leaned his russet head back against the fiddle of the shelf where I kept my cruising books, and yawned. ‘Excuse me.’

  ‘Have you been working solid these two days?’

  He shook his head. ‘That’s a myth. When there’s nothing to be served by overtime, they don’t spend the money. But I was in my B&B, thinking.’ He turned his head to look straight at me. ‘What’s this about you being a witch?’

  ‘I haven’t the least idea,’ I said. ‘Really I haven’t. Jimmy, at college, was going on about it today – well, hinting, that I’d be busy on Monday, Hallowe’en. I can’t think why. Surely the world’s got past the idea that a woman living on her own, with a cat for company, is bound to be a witch.’ Even as I said it, I knew it wasn’t true.

  Gavin shook his head. ‘You would be surprised. Look at the rumours about Rachel.’ His eyes flicked to the locks at the cabin washboards. ‘You’ll leave yourself an easily opened exit forward? I didn’t like the way that young man’s mind was running on fires.’

  ‘I didn’t like it myself,’ I admitted.

  ‘Could you move to a berth on the other side of the town?’

  ‘It wouldn’t help. All these marina gates are designed only to keep honest folk out. The number of times I’ve gone around the Brae gate because I’ve left my key on board and gone off from the pontoon in a rescue boat. If he wanted to get in to create mischief, he would.’ I tilted my chin up. ‘If he tries to set fire to my Khalida, I’ll make him sorry.’

  ‘I’ve managed to avoid arresting you so far,’ Gavin said.

  ‘I’ll do it when you’re not looking,’ I promised.

  He shook his head. ‘Can you limit the damage to throwing him into the water?’

  ‘He’s a good deal bigger than me,’ I pointed out, ‘so I can’t promise.’ I paused, then asked, diffidently, not sure if this was confidential, ‘Do you see him as your head wizard?’

  He hesitated before answering. ‘He’s an intelligent man who’s in a dead-end job, and ripe for mischief. I can see him enjoying creating his own universe where he’s the lynch-pin. On the other hand, he’s too obvious. His hair, his clothes, his manner, everything about him stands out. The men like that that I’ve come across hug their secret life to themselves, and become more ordinary in their everyday one.’

  ‘Like James Leask.’

  ‘Yes. Though I did think Nate Halcrow had that sense of superiority – it flashed out now and then while we were interviewing him. He could be, that’s the most definite I can say.’

  I let the silence l
ast. It was strange to be alone together in Khaldia’s little cabin. Our elbows were almost touching across the mahogony table; his head was tipped back against the bookshelf, showing the long line of throat running down to his broad shoulders, his forearm strong under the blue shirt. A conventional man, for our age, still wearing a shirt, rather than a relaxed long-sleeved T-shirt under his tweed jacket, but the kilt itself was unconventional, even in Scotland. It had become wedding dress, Tartan Army dress, rather than the simple woven plaid of its origins. Traditional was a better word for him, someone who had a strong sense of the story of his community. He’d told me once that he’d worn the kilt all his childhood, and hated it; their mother had insisted that his great-grandfather’s great-grandfather had died at Culloden for the right to wear the plaid. One year of wearing uniform trousers in the police had convinced him the kilt was warmer and more practical. His russet hair, the colour of a stag’s ruff, was cut slightly long, and curled slightly – not as much as mine, which turned into a wiry mass round my head if I released it from its usual plait.

  He turned his head, and our eyes met. His were the grey of a stormy sea, with dark lashes – like Alain’s, I’d thought with a shock the first time I’d seen him, that sea-grey, wide-opened below level brows. They were good eyes, looking at me straight, and the warmth in them had my heart pounding with mixed longing and nervousness. I wanted to turn my hand and lay it on his, but wasn’t sure how he’d react, wasn’t sure if I was ready for that. The moment seemed to last a long time, just looking at each other, until I broke it by looking away. I hoped it was too dim, in the gold lamp light, for him to see the colour in my cheeks. The corners of his eyes crinkled as he smiled. ‘So, what’s happening tomorrow?’

  ‘Tomorrow?’ I echoed.

  ‘When I arrived you were working on deck, and lit up like a bairn on Christmas Eve.’

  I felt my heart pound again just thinking about it. ‘A day on the water – we’re going round to Aith, for their Hallowe’en Party.’ It was twenty-eight nautical miles away, seven hours’ sailing. We – Khalida and I – would start at first light, and be there before dark. Magnie had offered to come and fetch me, in his ancient mustard-coloured Fiat, but I wasn’t going by road when I had my tough little boat with her sails bent on, and a good forecast. For this weekend, the Fair Isle weather station promised a southerly wind, force 3-4, backing on Sunday to a northerly, which was perfect; we’d have a wind behind us both ways. ‘Would you have time to come?’

  I regretted the invitation as soon as it was out. To ask him aboard for a long sail, in my own Khalida, was inviting him into my private world. But he answered as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

  ‘I have a cartload of paperwork to do. When do you plan to get back?’

  ‘I’ll come by moonlight, after the party’s over, and be back here for Mass.’

  ‘That should give me time, on Sunday.’

  We agreed on him coming to the marina at eight, to hoist sails. We’d have breakfast once we were under way. After I’d seen him to the gate, I’d walked slowly back to Khalida, watching him walk along the promenade in bars of orange light and shadow. Out of your sphere, Cass … yet putting himself within reach, without grabbing. Most men of our age would have felt entitled to grab … I didn’t want that, but I didn’t know if I was ready to reach out to him either. A eligible parti, Maman had pronounced him, who will not wait for ever. ‘What’s for you won’t go by you,’ I muttered to myself, and brushed my teeth with extra energy on deck in the moonlight, while the kettle boiled for my hot water bottle.

  It was a glorious night. The orange streetlights along the promenade were dimmed by the silver globe of the moon, and the water gleamed milky-radiant, notched by the dark cones of the navigation bouys showing the path into Scalloway. The moon was almost due south now. To the north, the sky was midnight blue, with the stars blazing white: the bent-handled saucepan of the Plough, the long curved tail of the Dragon around the Pole Star. Hercules brandished his club above the Gallow Hill. A brighter star shone steadily just above the eastern horizon: Jupiter, king of the planets.

  Just looking at the stars reminded me of nights at the wheel of the tall ship Sorlandet in the middle of the ocean, where the stars were company and pathway. When the light of the seven stars in the Plough had left them, Drake had been sailing around the world. The three stars of Orion’s belt were even further away; that light had been travelling across space since the building of the pyramids. The dog at his feet, Sirius, was the Egyptian s’ calendar. The second star of his dagger was the Orion nebula, where new stars were being flung into space. If anything could turn me into a romantic, the stars would.

  At the end of the promenade Gavin turned to look back. One hand lifted; I waved my toothbrush back at him. Then he blended into the shadow of the buildings around King Olav’s slipway, and was gone. I went below, and to my berth, and, eventually, to sleep.

  Saturday 29th October

  Low Water Scalloway 02:10 BST 0.6m

  High Water 08:24 1.6 m

  Low Water 14:22 0.6m

  High Water 20:35 1.6m

  Moon waxing gibbous

  Moonset 05:30, 281 degrees

  Sunrise 08:17

  Moonrise 16:18, 75 degrees

  Sunset 17:20

  cloor (n): a claw a cat’s cloors

  (v): to scratch or claw ‘Dinna touch him, he’ll cloor dee.’

  Chapter Ten

  I woke at first light, and stretched up to look at the day. It had clouded over again, the white sky blotched with clouds like grey and white fish scales. The biting cold had gone; it was a pleasant October day, a bit brisk for standing about, but perfect for going for a sail. There was even a warmth of sun on the wooden pontoon.

  I dressed in thermals and mid-layer, set the engine running, put my life-jacket on, and went out to take off the mainsail cover and cast off all but one mooring rope. Gavin arrived bang on time, in his older green kilt, and what looked like hand-knitted socks. The little dagger in the top of one had a workmanlike wooden handle. He had a brown leather binoculars case around his neck, a large and a small carrier bag in one hand, and an olive-green waterproof jacket in the other. I suspected the bulge in the pocket might be one of those Sherlock Holmes caps.

  ‘You look like you’re going stalking,’ I said.

  He handed in the larger carrier bag. ‘My best clothes for tonight. As to the stalking, my grandfather taught me to creep up to within fifty yards of even the most suspicious stag.’ He brandished the remaining carrier bag. ‘My grandmother taught me the fishing. Can I trail a darrow from your boat?’

  ‘If the fish can swim fast enough to catch us.’ I put the good clothes bag down below in my berth and took the smaller from him as he climbed aboard. ‘Lifejacket.’ I passed over the spare. He put it on without fuss as I slipped the last line and backed us out of the berth. Out in the channel, we were motoring straight into the wind, so I gave Gavin the helm and headed forward to haul the mainsail up. The rope was smooth under my fingers, hauling evenly, with the mainsail cars in their groove rattling up the mast. I tightened the luff with the winch, and tidied the halyard away, then straightened up, one hand on the mast, swaying to the feel of Khalida surging forward through the channel, the water curling white at her forefoot. To port lay the north end of the island of Trondra. A scatter of houses lay along the shore, the history of Shetland: two traditional Shetland houses, low and long, as the Norsemen had built them, with the house, byre, and barn all in a line, then an eighties bungalow, built with the crofter grants when oil came to Shetland, then a timber kit-house of the last decade’s settled prosperity. Now, as the recession hit even here, each new edition of the Shetland Times brought another story of cuts: home helps, free music tuition, the pensioners’ Christmas bonus, all being slashed in a desperate attempt to keep within budget and take no more from Shetland’s oil-revenue rainy day fund. These wooden houses would be the last new-builds until prosperity returned.
/>   Half a mile on, the middle channel to the west was open before us. I indicated it with my arm to Gavin, and he nodded, and turned Khalida’s nose to it. The boom fell over to starboard with a clank and rattle of mainsheet block; the mainsail filled. Gavin hauled it in, and jammed the sheet. I came along the tilted deck and unwound the jib lead from its cleat. The sail came free from its roll on the forestay with a flap, then tamed to a curve as I sheeted it in. Khalida surged ahead under the power she was built for, breasting the long Atlantic swell. I put the engine lever to neutral, and saw the surprise in Gavin’s face as the pressure on the helm disappeared. He moved it towards him slightly, then away, as if he was checking nothing was broken. I smiled.

  ‘She was built for sailing. She hates the engine. Now you’ll hardly need to steer her.’ At sea, once the sails were set right, I simply hooked a light chain over the tiller to keep it steady, and she could go for miles without a hand on the helm, letting me doze on the seats, or go below for a hot drink or a meal.

  I switched the engine off, and there was only the shooosh of water curling under her forefoot, the creak as the wind eased momentarily then took up again. Gavin sighed, and sat down, cradling the helm in one hand. ‘That’s like home.’

  I hadn’t thought of his home being as free of traffic background, as filled with natural noises as my own, though I should have; he’d told me that he lived at the head of a sealoch, thirty miles from the nearest town. ‘What do you hear, at your house?’

  ‘The hens in the courtyard, and the kye in the field. The wind rustling in the birch trees, pretending to be the sea. The waves on the beach on a calm day. A skylark up above.’ He smiled. ‘Kenny tinkering with his tractor, or Mother listening to Radio nan Gàidheal.’ He turned his head away from me and said, so casually that at first I wasn’t sure I’d heard right, ‘I was wondering if you might like to come and spend Christmas with us.’