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‘I’m not certain that’s such a good idea,’ Reeve said. ‘There are eleven men from this island dead at sea owing to enemy action during this war. I would have thought their families might not be too happy to see a German lying in state in their own place of worship.’
The old man’s eyes were fierce. ‘And you would agree with them?’
‘Oh no,’ Reeve said hurriedly. ‘Don’t draw me into this. You put the boy where you like. I don’t think it will bother him too much.’
‘But it might well bother God,’ Murdoch said gently. There was no reproof in his voice, in spite of the fact that, as a certificated lay preacher of the Church of Scotland, he was the nearest thing to a minister on the island.
There was no road from that end of Fhada, had never been any need for one, but during the two abortive years that the Marconi station had existed, the telegraph company had laid the narrow-gauge railway line. The lifeboat crew, mostly fishermen from Mary’s Town, travelled on it by trolley when called out in an emergency, pumping it by hand or hoisting a sail when the wind was favourable.
Which it was that morning, and Murdoch and the admiral coasted along at a brisk five knots, the triangular strip of canvas billowing out to one side. The dead boy lay in the centre of the trolley and Rory squatted beside him.
Two miles, then three, and the track started to slope down and the wind tore a hole in the curtain of rain, revealing Mary’s Town, a couple of miles further on in the north-west corner of the island, a scattering of granite houses, four or five streets sloping to the harbour. There were half-a-dozen fishing boats anchored in the lee of the breakwater.
Murdoch was standing, one hand on the mast, staring out to sea. ‘Would you look at that now, Admiral? There’s some sort of craft coming in towards the harbour out there and I could have sworn that was the Stars and Stripes she’s flying. I must be getting old.’
Reeve had the telescope out of his pocket and focused in an instant. ‘You’re damned right it is,’ he said as the Dead End jumped into view, Harry Jago on the bridge.
His hand was shaking with excitement as he pushed the telescope back into his pocket. ‘You know something, Murdoch? This might just turn out to be my day after all.’
When the MGB eased into the landing-stage a woman was sitting on the upper jetty under an umbrella, painting at an easel. She was in her early forties, with calm blue eyes in a strong and pleasant face. She wore a headscarf, an old naval-officer’s coat, which carried the bars of a full captain on the epaulettes, and slacks.
She stood up, moved to the edge of the jetty, holding the umbrella, and smiled down. ‘Hello there, America. That makes a change.’
Jago went over the rail and up the steps to the jetty quickly. ‘Harry Jago, ma’am.’
‘Jean Sinclair.’ She held out her hand. ‘I’m bailie here, Lieutenant, so if there’s anything I can do …’
‘Bailie?’ Jago said blankly.
‘What you’d call a magistrate.’
Jago grinned. ‘I see. You mean you’re the law around here.’
‘And coroner and harbourmaster. This is a small island. We have to do the best we can.’
‘I’m here with dispatches for Rear Admiral Reeve, ma’am. Have you any idea where I might locate him?’
She smiled. ‘We have a saying in these islands, Lieutenant. Speak of the devil and you’ll find he’s right behind you.’
Jago turned quickly and got a shock. When he’d received his Navy Cross from Nimitz at Pearl, Admiral Reeve had been one of those on the platform, resplendent in full uniform with three rows of medal ribbons. There was no echo of him at all in the small, dark man with the black eye patch who hurried towards him now wearing an old reefer coat and sea boots. It was only when he spoke that Jago knew beyond a doubt who he was.
‘You looking for me, Lieutenant?’
‘Admiral Reeve?’ Jago got his heels together and saluted. ‘I’ve got a dispatch for you, sir. Handed to me by the Royal Naval officer in command at Mallaig. If you’d care to come aboard.’
‘Lead me to it, Lieutenant,’ the admiral said eagerly, then paused and turned to Jean Sinclair. ‘I found Rory. He was with Murdoch at the lifeboat station.’
Her eyes were lively now and there was a slight amused smile on her mouth. ‘Why, Carey, I thought you were going to ignore me altogether.’
He said gravely, ‘I found something else down there on Traig Mhoire. A body on the beach. A German boy off a U-boat.’
Her smile died. ‘Where is he now?’
‘I left him at the church with Murdoch.’
‘I’d better get up there then. I’ll pick up a couple of women on the way. See the lad’s decently laid out.’
‘I’ll be along myself later.’
She walked away quickly, her umbrella tilted to take the force of the rain. ‘Quite a lady,’ Jago remarked.
The admiral nodded. ‘And then some. As a matter of interest, she owns the whole damned island. Left it by her father. He was a kind of feudal laird round here.’
‘What about that naval greatcoat, sir?’ Jago asked, as they descended the ladder.
‘Her husband’s. Went down in the Prince of Wales back in forty-one. He was a Sinclair, too, like her. A second cousin, I believe.’ He laughed. ‘It’s an old island custom to keep the name in the family.’
The crew were assembled on deck and as the admiral went over the rail, Jansen piped him on board. Reeve looked them over in amazement and said to Jago, ‘Where did this lot spring from? A banana boat?’
‘Chief Petty Officer Jansen, sir,’ Jago said weakly.
Reeve examined Jansen, taking in the reefer, the tangled beard and knitted cap. He turned away with a shudder. ‘I’ve seen enough. Just take me to my dispatch, will you?’
‘If you follow me, Admiral.’
Jago led the way down the companionway to his cabin. He took a briefcase from under the mattress on his bunk, unlocked it and produced a buff envelope, seals still intact, which he passed across. As Reeve took it from him, there was a knock at the door and Jansen entered with a tray.
‘Coffee, gentlemen?’
Reeve curbed the impulse to tear the envelope open and said to Jago as he accepted a cup, ‘How’s the war going, then?’
It was Jansen who answered. ‘The undertakers are doing well, Admiral.’
Reeve turned to stare at him in a kind of fascination. ‘You did say Chief Petty Officer?’
‘The best, sir,’ Jago said gamely.
‘And where may I ask, did you find him?’
‘Harvard, sir,’ Jansen said politely, and withdrew.
Reeve said in wonderment, ‘He’s joking, isn’t he?’
‘I’m afraid not, Admiral.’
‘No wonder the war wasn’t over by Christmas.’
Reeve sat on the edge of the bunk, tore open the package and took out two envelopes. He opened the smaller first. There was a photo inside and a letter which he read quickly, a smile on his face. He passed the photo to Jago.
‘My niece, Janet. She’s a doctor at Guy’s Hospital in London. Been there since nineteen-forty. Worked right through the blitz.’
She had grave, steady eyes, high cheekbones, a mouth that was too wide. There was something in her expression that got through to Jago.
He handed the photo back reluctantly. ‘Very nice, sir.’
‘You could say that and it would be the understatement of the year.’
Reeve opened the second envelope and started to read the letter it contained eagerly. Gradually the smile died on his face, his eyes grew dark, his mouth tightened. He folded the letter and slipped it into his pocket.
‘Bad news, sir?’
‘Now that, son, depends entirely on your point of view. The powers-that-be are of the opinion that the war can get on without me. That, to use a favourite phrase of our British allies, I’ve done my bit.’
Jago opened a cupboard behind him and took out a bottle of Scotch and a glass which he held out to the admiral. ‘Most people I know wouldn’t find much to quarrel with in that sentiment, sir.’
He poured a generous measure of whisky into the glass. Reeve said, ‘Something else that’s strictly against regulations, Lieutenant.’ He frowned. ‘What is your name, anyway?’
‘Jago, sir. Harry Jago.’
Reeve swallowed some of the whisky. ‘What kind of deal are you on here? This old tub looks as if it might be left over from the Crimea.’
‘Not quite, sir. Courtesy of the Royal Navy. We’re only playing postman, you see. I suppose they didn’t think the job was worth much more.’
‘What were you doing before?’
‘PT boats, sir. Squadron Two, working the Channel.’
‘Jago?’ Reeve said and his face brightened. ‘You lost an Elco in Lyme Bay.’
‘I suppose you could put it that way, sir.’
Reeve smiled and held out his hand. ‘Nice to meet you, son. And those boys up top? They’re your original crew?’
‘What’s left of them.’
‘Well, now I’m here, you might as well show me over this pig boat.’
Which Jago did from stem to stern. They ended up in the wheelhouse, where they found Jansen at the chart table.
‘And what might you be about?’ Reeve demanded.
‘Our next stop is a weather station on the south-west corner of Harris, Admiral. I was just plotting our course.’
‘Show me.’ Jansen ran a finger out through the Sound into the Atlantic and Reeve said, ‘Watch it out there, especially if visibility is reduced in the slightest. Here, three miles to the north-west.’ He tapped the chart. ‘Washington Reef. Doesn’t it make you feel at home, the sound of that name?’
‘And presumably it shouldn’t?’ Jago asked.
‘A death trap. The greatest single hazard to shipping on the entire west coast of Scotland. Two galleons from the Spanish Armada went to hell together on those rocks four hundred years ago and they’ve been tearing ships apart ever since. One of the main reasons there’s a lifeboat here on Fhada.’
‘Maybe we’d be better taking the other route north through the Little Minch, sir.’
Reeve smiled. ‘I know – it’s a hell of a war, Lieutenant, but it’s the only one we’ve got.’
Jansen said solemnly, ‘As long as war is regarded as wicked it will always have its fascination. When looked upon as vulgar, it will cease to be popular. Oscar Wilde said that, sir,’ he said helpfully.
‘Dear God, restore me to sanity.’ Reeve shook his head and turned to Jago. ‘Let me get off this hooker before I go over the edge entirely.’
‘Just one thing, sir. Do you know a Mr Murdoch Macleod?’
‘He’s coxswain of the lifeboat here and a good friend of mine. Why do you ask?’
Jago unbuttoned his shirt pocket and took out an orange envelope. ‘The Royal Naval officer in command at Mallaig asked me to deliver this telegram to him, sir, there being no telephone or telegraph service to the island at the moment, I understand.’
‘That’s right,’ Reeve said. ‘The cable parted in a storm last month and they haven’t got around to doing anything about it yet. In fact at the moment, the island’s only link with the outside world is my personal radio.’
He held out his hand for the envelope which he saw was open. ‘It’s from the Admiralty, sir.’
‘Bad news?’
‘He has a son, sir. Lieutenant Donald Macleod.’
‘That’s right. Commanding an armed trawler doing escort duty on east-coast convoys in the North Sea. Newcastle to London.’
‘Torpedoed off the Humber yesterday, with all hands.’
Reeve’s voice dropped to a whisper. ‘No one was saved at all? You’re certain of that?’
‘I’m afraid not, Admiral.’
Reeve seemed to age before his eyes. ‘One thing they obviously didn’t tell you, Lieutenant, was that, although Donald Macleod was master of that trawler, there were four other men from Fhada in the crew.’ He passed the envelope back to Jago. ‘I think the sooner we get this over with, the better.’
The church of St Mungo was a tiny, weather-beaten building with a squat tower, constructed of blocks of heavy granite on a hillside above the town.
Reeve, Jago and Frank Jansen went in through the lychgate and followed a path through a churchyard scattered with gravestones to the porch at the west end. Reeve opened the massive oaken door and led the way in.
The dead boy lay on a trestle table in a tiny side chapel to one side of the altar. Two middle-aged women were arranging the body while Murdoch and Jean Sinclair stood close by, talking in subdued tones. They turned and looked down the aisle as the door opened. The three men moved towards them, caps in hand. They paused, then Reeve held the orange envelope out to Jean Sinclair.
‘I think you’d better read this.’
She took it from him, extracted the telegram. Her face turned ashen, she was wordless. In a moment of insight, Reeve realized that she was re-living her own tragedy. She turned to Murdoch, but the admiral stepped in quickly, holding her back.
Murdoch said calmly, ‘It is bad news you have for me there, I am thinking, Carey Reeve.’
‘Donald’s ship was torpedoed off the Humber yesterday,’ Reeve said. ‘Went down with all hands.’
A tremor seemed to pass through the old man’s entire frame. He staggered momentarily, then took a deep breath and straightened. ‘The Lord disposes.’
The two women working on the body stopped to stare at him, faces frozen in horror. Between them, as Reeve well knew, they had just lost a husband and brother. Murdoch moved past and stood looking down at the German boy, pale in death, the face somehow very peaceful now.
