Maggie propped her hands on her hips. “But I can’t spend days or even weeks inside. I’ll go daft. There’s the peat to bring in, the butter and milk to fetch from the cooling shed, the washing to hang, my garden to tend and—”
“Let’s wait to hear what the polis advise,” John said. “Until then, you’ve no business outside where you could come to harm. I’ll keep you company.”
***
Stewart was a husky, sandy-haired man with keen blue eyes and square, calloused but very dexterous hands. He showed Rob how to use the Dougall, demonstrating the loading of the gun several times. “Remember to keep some of these shells in your pocket all the time. And practice using the break-open lever at the top of the tang ’til you can do it in your sleep.” He showed Rob again, breaking the barrel. “There’s no shell in there, so you just load it, lock the break, cock the hammer the way I showed you afore, and pull the trigger.”
“What about the kick you talked about?” Rob asked. “I don’t want it knocking me oot of this chair.”
“Och, you’re too big for that. But you don’t need to bring it up to your shoulder to aim. Just keep it on the chair’s seat against your hip. When you need to use it, load, raise it to your waist, tuck it in firmly, and shoot. Keep a guid firm hold on the grip and don’t aim for the head. A body shot, even from a single shell, should knock a man over before he can hurt Maggie.”
This would be a good time to assuage his curiosity about the men patrolling the shoreline every night. “Tell me about this shore watch you’re a part of.”
Stewart lowered his eyes and studied the floor. “I’m no’ certain ’tis doing much guid, but all us able-bodied crofters take four-hour shifts, walking the shore or hunkered down behind a rock, studying the sea for a bit of light blinking where it shouldn’t. In nineteen and forty-one, a U-boat surfaced off Benbecula and tried to land several small boats. If the Home-Guard hadn’t been watching, those Krauts could have done some rare damage to the airfield there.”
“And you’re armed with shotguns?”
A broad grin creased the crofter’s face. “Most have only knives and digging forks, but we’re no’ expecting a fight. Those Krauts can’t see us with a guid smear of peaty soil on our faces and hands and wearing dark clothes. All it takes is one of us whistling like a pewlie—no’ a sound you’d expect to hear at night—and the man with the radio calls Tyree and Benbecula and has them radio their closest coastal search airieplane while we keep watch. One of those RAF lads spent time here showing us how to use their radio.”
“Have you ever had to send a signal?”
“No’ yet, but we’d like nowt better than to see one o’ their large airieplanes dumping a load of bombs on some U-boat and watching it blow oot of the sea.”
After Stewart left, Rob mused over what the crofter told him as he practiced grabbing up, phantom-loading, and dry-firing the gun while Maggie watched from inside the doorway, wincing every time he pulled the trigger. When satisfied he knew how to hold and use the gun effectively, Rob pocketed the shells and tucked the shotgun on the seat against his right side so he could wheel his chair through the doorway. “Where’s your faither?”
“On the radio seeing if either Alec or Angus would be willing to wait at the dock later to meet the polis.” She stepped several feet away, eyeing the gun warily.
“It isn’t loaded, lass,” he said. “On you come and I’ll show you.”
“I believe you.”
“Then why are you shaking?”
“It ... it’s ugly,” she whispered.
His right eyebrow rose. “Ugly? ’Tis actually a fine looking weapon, especially considering its age. On you come,” he repeated, holding out his hand. “Touch it.”
She drew back another step. “I can’t. It’s fearsome.”
“It’s just wood and metal. The only thing fearsome is what it can do in the wrong hands.” Again he offered his hand, leaving it extended. “It’ll be beside me in this chair or on my bed ’til they catch that man. Are you going to refuse to come near me ’til then?”
She gnawed her lower lip before placing her hand in his.
“Sit on my lap.”
She sat, legs trembling.
He hugged her to his chest, nuzzling her neck. “You know I’d never ask you to do something dangerous, but ’tis important you lose your fear. Understand?”
“I suppose.”
He picked up the shotgun and balanced it on the arm of the chair. “I don’t want to raise it any higher with you in my lap, so you’ll have to turn to the right a wee bit.”
She turned slowly, looking down at the gun, eyes wide.
“That’s perfect. Just don’t touch any of the metal.” He pointed. “See that large wooden grip at the back of the barrel? Cup your hand around it.”
She hesitated. “Why don’t you want me to touch the metal?”
“Because salt from your skin will penetrate the bluing and pit the metal over time. Stop stalling, lass. It won’t bite.”
She touched the grip with one trembling finger. Slowly, she worked up the courage to do more, slipping fingers beneath the grip and closing them, glancing back at him, a tiny smile on her face. “’Tis so smooth.”
“It’s been handled a lot.”
She reached her hand back, trailing her fingers over the checker-carved wood. “What’s this for?”
“’Tis called a stock. When you put the butt of the stock against your shoulder, it gives the gun enough length so you can put your finger on the trigger.
Her smile grew wider. She wrinkled her nose. “If I stand up, can I hold it?”
Talk about a one-eighty. “It’s no’ heavy. Give it a try.”
She slid to her feet and he demonstrated what she needed to do. She picked up the shotgun and brought it to her waist as Rob had done. She was tiny but strong, and held it steady several seconds.
Rob took it from her. “Do you think you can get used to having this around for a while?” He stifled a grin when her shoulders straightened and her nose went up.
“And why no’? ’Tis only metal and wood.”
***
Maggie accompanied John and Rob to the rehab room. Rob propped the shotgun in the corner nearest the parallel bars and pulled himself to his feet, grabbing the bars as he looked at John. “You said you’d tell me what I need to accomplish before I can use crutches.”
“You start by learning how to pivot and turn at the end of the bars and go back again. Everybody has his own way of doing the pivot, so I’ll leave that up to you. As your legs strengthen, use the bars mainly for balance. Do that over and over, adding a lap as often as you can without hurting yourself. Understand?”
Rob exhaled and straightened his shoulders. “Yes, sir,” he said in English. “It’s very clear.”
“Then why don’t you work at it until suppertime? I’ve some things to see to in my office. I’ll wedge a chair beneath the knob on the front door.”
Rob waited until he was gone. “Maggie, stand where I start so I’ll be walking toward you after the pivot and turn.” He concentrated on each step, keeping his grip on the bars as light as possible. As he walked, he tried to figure out how to accomplish that pivot and turn.
At the end, he hesitated, then took several small sliding steps toward the left bar. Off-balance, he grabbed that bar with both hands, stepped back with his right foot, and turned on the ball of his foot. Awkward, but it got him facing in the right direction. He stepped sideways with his left foot and transferred his left hand to what was now the left bar. He looked at Maggie.
She smiled and blew him a kiss.
Now the long walk back.
His heart ached for her, so innocent, so trusting. It agonized him, having her fear someone she must have known all of her life.
A sudden, terrifying thought leaped into his mind. Would she still love him if he decided they couldn’t return to her island home after the war? And if they had the bairns she wanted, would she come to resent him because they were gr
owing up so far from her family and friends—from the island she loved so much?
His legs tired. He had not yet walked so far but determined not to stop until they could no longer bear his weight.
She continued to smile.
Another stab of panic jolted him. No matter what the constables accomplished, in only a few weeks she would be gone from Innisbraw. It was unlikely he’d be walking unaided before she reported back to duty. How could he bear to see her leave? She was his sunshine and joy, and their minds worked almost as one.
A few lines from one of John Milton’s poems came to his mind. For what thou art is mine; our state cannot be sever’d; we are one, one flesh; to lose thee were to lose myself.
How could he stay here without her?
When he reached the end of the bars, she pushed the wheelchair behind his knees. He collapsed into it with a grunt.
“You did it.” She hugged his shoulders. “You walked twice as far as before, and I couldn’t believe how well you pivoted and turned.”
“I felt like a dog with one front paw caught in his collar and the other in his water bowl.” He wiped his forehead on his sleeve.
Her girlish laughter brought the ghost of a smile. “I’ve never seen a dog in such a fankle. But you did exactly what you should have for your first attempt.” She surprised him by picking up the shotgun and handing it to him. “On you come, brave warrior. I need to warm the bannock for supper.”
CHAPTER 31
The three policemen arrived at the infirmary just before 1900. The senior officer, Sergeant Grant, was a stocky veteran with closely cropped grey hair, a slightly crooked nose, and soft grey eyes beneath jutting brows. His two companions, both constables in their mid-to-late forties, slender, erect, black-haired and brown-eyed, looked so much alike, Rob wondered if they were kin. He grinned when Grant introduced them as Ian and David Thompson.
“As I told you on the radio, Doctor McGrath, we don’t normally take action so quickly unless there is an attempted homicide,” the sergeant said. “But your daughter being a nurse working in an infirmary, and an injured American pilot involved, I feel it is our duty to find this man before he attempts to carry out the threats that were made.”
The policemen all eyed the shotgun tucked into the wheelchair beside Rob, but none of them commented as they followed Maggie to the kitchen for a cup of hot tea.
“This is much appreciated.” Sergeant Grant warmed his hands over the stove. “It might be July, but that wind on the Minch is as cold as a worn-out prost—” He stopped, cheeks flushing as he eyed Maggie. “As if it were already winter,” he finished in a rush.
Ian Thompson choked on his tea.
Rob stifled a laugh.
“I have often found that true,” Maggie said, a hint of laughter in her eyes.
“I apologize, Miss McGrath,” Grant said, his voice sounding strangled. “I’ve been in the company of men entirely too long.”
“Our minister, Hugh MacEwan, has offered the manse as a kind of headquarters while you are here,” John said.
“Mr. MacDonald already informed us of the hospitality offered and has taken our personal bags to the manse, thank you.” Grant’s stiff stance relaxed. “I realize it’s rare late, but we would like a look at the lass’s bedroom and take your statements before we drop in at your pub.”
“The howff?” Maggie’s eyebrows rose.
“Och, on the ride up here from the harbor, Mr. MacDonald told us about the old-timers who congregate in the evening if the owner has whisky. Apparently, he heard a rumor that tonight could be such a time. I thought it a good place to start.” He pointed at the shotgun. “I hope that isn’t loaded.”
“Of course not,” Rob said. “But being in a wheelchair, it gives me a bit of confidence.”
“I understand you’re a colonel in the American Air Forces,” Grant said, grey eyes no longer soft, but piercing. “How long have you been here on Innisbraw?”
“He’s been here almost twa months,” Maggie said. “He was transferred here from the Royal Infirmary in Edinburgh so he could have extensive therapy. I’m his nurse.”
“And my daughter,” John added.
Grant stared at Rob. “Don’t do anything foolish with that shotgun. It would be a tragedy to have to arrest you.”
“Arrest him?” Maggie’s eyes darkened with anger. “If that’s what you’re thinking, you can get on your boat right now and go back to Oban.”
“Aw can spek—speak for myself, Maggie,” Rob said, wanting to kick himself for the lapse into Scots. “I suggest you stop dancing at shadows and start investigating, Sergeant. I’m career military and, while I understand your concern, you have my promise that using this gun will be my very last choice.”
“If you’ll follow me, I’ll show you Maggie’s room,” John said.
***
They watched from the doorway as the three policemen gathered evidence. Their meticulous actions fascinated Maggie. They took photographs of her room from several angles and each piece of evidence where it lay. Handling everything with care, they never touched anything with their bare hands before putting it into its own bag.
Sergeant Grant drew a clean handkerchief from his pocket, draped it over the haft, and worked the knife free from the pillow, using only his thumb and index finger placed firmly on the guard above the blade. He laid it flat in his covered palm and held it out. “Do any of you recognize this?”
She and Rob studied it. “Never seen it before,” Rob said.
“It looks like a kitchen knife.” Maggie shuddered.
John stroked his beard. “I agree with Maggie. I’m thinking there’s one like it in our own kitchen.”
“Would you please see if it’s there?” Grant asked Maggie.
“I don’t have to. Morag MacDonald used ours the day to dice the tatties for our bree.”
Grant lowered the knife into an evidence bag. “We’ll take this back to Oban and see if we can lift some fingerprints from it.” He turned to John. “Now, Doctor, if you will be so kind as to tell us where it will be the most comfortable, we’ll take each of your statements before we leave for the pub.”
It was 2200 before all their statements were heard, written, and signed. “We’ll be on our way, then,” the sergeant said. “But we’ll be back in the morning to ask your help in locating those we should question, especially Miss Hunter.”
“You’re not planning on going to the howff without an interpreter, are you?” John asked with the tiniest of smiles.
“Interpreter? I thought everyone in the Outer Hebrides speaks English.”
“You’ve obviously been misinformed,” Rob said, not bothering to hide his amusement. “Only a handful of folk on Innisbraw speak any English. The rest use Scots or the Gaelic, but the old-timers have only the Gaelic.”
Grant whirled around and eyed his cohorts. “I don’t suppose either of you have the Gaelic?”
They shook their heads.
“I’ll go with you,” John said. “Besides the language problem, you won’t get any answers to your questions unless somebody they know and trust does the asking.”
After they left, Maggie insisted Rob go to bed immediately. “Your face is pale and your hands are shaking,” she said when he protested. “And I’m so tired I can hardly hold my head up. Faither has given me another room for the night and he’s going to stay here, also.”
“But he’ll be gone for a long time. I don’t want you alone in another room.”
“I’ll be alone even after Faither returns. And with the polis on the island, nobody will dare try anything.”
He pondered her words, fingers tapping. “Then up you come. Sit in my lap for a few minutes. I’ll even put the shotgun on the back of the couch.”
“No, I will,” she said with a mischievous smile.
***
Much later that night, John tiptoed down the dark hallway, directed the hooded torch he was carrying into Maggie’s room, saw her sleeping, and continued to Rob’s
room.
As he expected, Rob sat in front of the window in his wheelchair in the grey half-light, staring out at the moonlit waves dancing across the harbor.
He turned his chair at John’s approach. “I hoped you’d come in here when I saw you walking up the path. Did they find owt?”
John pulled over a chair and sat with a tired grunt. “Och, a few things that could be relevant.”
“Like what?”
“Well, for one thing, there were far more men there than usual. And for another, the whisky was flowing.”
Rob’s eyebrow rose. “So Alec was right. But I thought whisky was scarce because of the war.”
“It is, and though auld man MacGinnis hid the bottles when the police walked in, every man there had some in a glass, and I don’t mean just a wee dram.”
“But what does that have to do with the knife left in Maggie’s room?”
“Would you like a cup of coffee? My throat’s so dry from talking, I need some hot tea.”
“It must be bad if you can’t tell me straight out.”
“No’ bad, just long.”
“I don’t like leaving Maggie alone. That’s why I haven’t gone to bed.”
“I wedged a chair beneath the door handle. On you come, we don’t want to chance waking Maggie with our blethering.”
***
John closed the kitchen door and turned on the light. He added some peats to the stove and put the coffee pot and teakettle on. “I need to give you a bit of history if you’re to understand what I’m about to say.” He sat down, propped his feet on another chair, and leaned back, linking his fingers across his belly. “In the winter of ’41, a large steamer, the Politician, went aground off the shores of Eriskay—that’s a wee island north of Barra. It didn’t take long for the word to get around that the ship had in its hold thousands of cases of the finest single-malt Scotch whisky. In no time at all, men from every island around were rowing to the wreck of the Polly—what they took to calling her—in the dark of night and carrying off as many cases as their small boats could hold.” He got up, emptied the whistling kettle into the teapot, and moved the coffee pot to a cooler spot to perk.
“Were the men of Innisbraw involved?” And how was this story relevant?
“Word didn’t filter down here until quite a while after the steamer wrecked. When our Island Council heard what was going on, they held an island-wide meeting and warned all the folk that anybody found with whisky would be turned over to the authorities in Oban. I’m certain there are still a few bottles hidden on the island that haven’t been found yet, but there’s been no evidence of out-and-out drunkenness.”