Authors: Jeanne M. Dams
Shadows of Death
Table of Contents
The Dorothy Martin Mysteries from Jeanne M. Dams
THE BODY IN THE TRANSEPT
TROUBLE IN THE TOWN HALL
HOLY TERROR IN THE HEBRIDES
MALICE IN MINIATURE
THE VICTIM IN VICTORIA STATION
KILLING CASSIDY
TO PERISH IN PENZANCE
SINS OUT OF SCHOOL
WINTER OF DISCONTENT
A DARK AND STORMY NIGHT *
THE EVIL THAT MEN DO *
THE CORPSE OF ST JAMES’S *
MURDER AT THE CASTLE *
SHADOWS OF DEATH *
* available from Severn House
A Dorothy Martin Mystery
Jeanne M. Dams
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First published in Great Britain 2013 by
SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of
9-15 High Street, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM1 1DF.
First published in the USA 2014 by
SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS of
110 East 59
th
Street, New York, N.Y. 10022
eBook edition first published in 2013 by Severn House Digital an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited
Copyright © 2013 by Jeanne M. Dams.
The right of Jeanne M. Dams to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data
Dams, Jeanne M. author.
Shadows of death. – (The Dorothy Martin mysteries; 14)
1. Martin, Dorothy (Fictitious character)–Fiction.
2. Excavations (Archaeology)–Scotland–Orkney–Fiction.
3. Murder–Investigation–Scotland–Orkney–Fiction.
4. Women private investigators–Great Britain–Fiction.
5. Americans–Great Britain–Fiction. 6. Detective and mystery stories.
I. Title II. Series
813.5'4-dc23
ISBN-13: 978-07278-8280-6 (cased)
ISBN-13: 978-18475-1491-2 (trade paper)
ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-465-2 (ePub)
Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.
This ebook produced by
Palimpsest Book Production Limited,
Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland.
T
here are two real people in this book. Andrew Appleby, who kindly gave me permission to introduce him into my fiction, is a splended potter and a delightful person. He resembles my fictional character in both appearance and personality, though my character’s thoughts, words, and actions are not to be imputed to the real Andrew.
I first met Roadkill (who counts as a person) at the door of the cat charity shop in Stromness. He demanded loudly to be let in, though the shop was not open. I tried to tell him I couldn’t do a thing about it, but he was not impressed. He certainly did not give me permission to put him into the book, but I dared do it anyway. I should stress that not a hair of his ornery head was harmed in the writing of this book. So far as I know, he still roams Stromness terrorizing the human and animal population, and daring cars to run him over.
All the other characters are fictitious, especially members of the Orkney Area Command of the Northern Constabulary, and if they resemble any real persons living in Orkney or elsewhere, I didn’t mean it. I have tried to use typical names, so if I have hit upon someone’s real name, be assured that it was by accident. I have arranged ferry and excursion boat times to suit myself. Some of the shops are real and some are not, some of the Neolithic sites are real and some are not. In particular, the site I have called High Sanday is fictitious, as is the island of Papa Sanday, and though its resemblance to the marvellous dig now going on at the Ness of Brodgar can hardly be denied, I must state firmly that none of the characters involved in my dig are at all like the dedicated archeologists at the Ness of Brodgar site. I would strongly urge readers to look up the real one. It’s awe-inspiring.
I owe so much to so many people it’s impossible to list them all, but besides Andrew, I especially need to thank my friends Tuck and Janice Langland for insisting I must come to Orkney, and serving as my hosts there for several days. On the island of Shapinsay, which Dorothy and Alan didn’t get to visit on this trip, I had a lovely time with my hostess Lesley McKeown at Haughland House and then at Balfour Castle with David McCowan Hill and his superb staff.
Orkney is a magical place, a place unlike anywhere else on earth. Visit it. You’ll never be quite the same again.
‘H
ow much do you know about archaeology?’
I looked up, startled. I was deep in a new Alexander McCall Smith book, miles away in Edinburgh. Alan’s question had come out of nowhere. ‘Um … archaeology?’ I said brilliantly.
‘The study of ancient civilizations and so on.’
‘I do know what the word means, dear. I suppose I know pretty much what everyone knows. What brought that up?’
‘I wondered if you might enjoy a visit to Orkney.’
I shook my head to clear it. ‘Alan, my love, I’ve barely heard of Orkney. I know where it is, more or less. Way north. What does it have to do with archaeology?’
‘The whole island group is an archaeologist’s dream. The oldest evidence of human occupation in all of Britain is in Orkney. There are stone circles that predate Stonehenge by a thousand years or so, and houses that were built long before the Pyramids. Helen and I visited briefly, many years ago when the children were in their teens, and I read just now –’ he waved his newspaper – ‘that they’re doing new excavations that may prove to be very exciting. It might be worth a visit, if you’re at all interested in that sort of thing.’
I wasn’t, particularly, but I was extremely interested in Alan. Our marriage, the second for both of us after our respective spouses died, was rock-solid. But there’s always a tiny residual jealousy of the first spouse. If Alan and Helen had enjoyed a visit to Orkney, then I would enjoy a visit to Orkney if it killed me.
Thus began our part in events that were to change many lives.
Alan emailed a friend in Orkney, a potter named Andrew Appleby whom he hadn’t seen for many years. Andrew’s reply was an ebullient phone call inviting us both to come and visit the dig and have dinner with him and his wife and stay in the islands for a few weeks. ‘We can’t ask you to stay here with us; the house is being refitted and isn’t really liveable. But I know of a lovely holiday flat in Stromness that’s available. It’ll do you beautifully.’
‘The dig is on Papa Sanday, I understand,’ said Alan, on the speaker phone. ‘I don’t think I know that island.’
‘You wouldn’t. It’s away up north, a tiny place and very nearly uninhabited, only three or four crofts. And there’s no regular ferry service. Makes it a bit difficult for the crew – they’ve had to build a tent city – but they’re turning up some amazing stuff. Come see for yourself.’
‘Andrew’s very active in the Friends of Ancient Orkney,’ Alan said when we’d ended the phone call with vague promises. ‘He’d give us a tour of the dig, I’m sure. And he’s an entertaining fellow. He lives in an area near the Loch of Harray, spelt “a-y” but pronounced “Harry”, so he calls himself the Harray Potter.’
A remote, nearly uninhabited island somewhere north of nowhere didn’t sound much like my idea of a pleasant spot for a vacation. And if there was no ferry, how were we to get there? Swim?
Shadowy visions of Helen made me keep my thoughts to myself. ‘Why not?’ I said brightly. ‘Call him back and find out how we book that holiday cottage. For … a fortnight, maybe?’
Alan knows me very well. His mouth twitched, but he didn’t quite laugh. ‘You’ll like it, love. I promise.’
I was happy to let him make arrangements for the journey. It’s a long way from the south of England to the northern reaches of the United Kingdom. The Shetland Islands are farther north than Orkney, but Orkney’s plenty far enough. A little research on the Internet told me the climate was ‘temperate’. I’ve lived in England for quite a while, but I’m American by birth, and I know that ‘temperate’, to the Brits, doesn’t mean quite what it does in America. I packed, for the week in mid-June, wool sweaters and fleece pants, with warm, waterproof jackets and hats and gloves. Alan worked out a circuitous route to Aberdeen, where we’d get a car ferry to Kirkwall, the larger of the two cities on ‘the Mainland’, as I found out the principal island was called. ‘It would be simpler just to fly from London,’ he said with a sigh.
‘But then we couldn’t take Watson,’ I said firmly. I’ve been a cat person all my life, but our lovable mutt Watson had become so firmly entrenched as a part of our family that a holiday without him was unthinkable. We’d had to leave him behind on one or two occasions and none us had cared for the experience, the dog least of all.
So we asked Jane Langland, our indispensable next-door neighbour, to look after the two cats. Jane loves looking after animals, even cats, though she’s a dog person. Samantha and Esmeralda would scarcely notice our absence, but of course they’d berate us when we returned, complaining that they’d been abandoned and left to starve. Cats are, I’m afraid, terrible liars.
After several years of living in the adopted country I love so much, I’ve learned that it doesn’t really rain all the time in England, despite what I thought as an American tourist. There are periods of weather so perfect I think I’m living in Eden. Warm, sunny Mays with a hundred different varieties of flowers blooming in extravagant technicolor. Julys so hot, one can actually enjoy a visit to the seashore and welcome the cool breezes. Mellow Septembers rich with the scent of apples and the golds and rusts of the harvest. Halcyon days.
However. While all the above is true, it is also true that there often seems to be a particular malevolence that singles out Alan and me when we plan a holiday. Not always, mind you. We’d had a lovely time in Wales a while back, with brilliant sunshine nearly every day. But as if to pay us back, or perhaps to punish me for my slanderous meteorological prejudices of yore, the gods conjured up disgusting weather for our trip north. The roads, once we got past London, were unfamiliar even to Alan, and driving rain made it hard to see anything but the largest signs. And of course Watson required periodic stops. At least he enjoyed the rain as little as we did and took care of his business with admirable promptness.
We had decided to take it in slow, easy stages, so we spent the first night in York, one of my favourite cathedral cities in England. That leg was only a bit over 200 miles, but it took us all day in the rain, and we arrived far too tired to appreciate the charm of the medieval city. Indeed, Alan’s normally equable temper was visibly fraying as he dealt with the traffic, the inevitable result of modern vehicles – many modern vehicles – crowding streets designed for horses and pedestrians. We reached our hotel at last, and paused only to shake our umbrellas, remove our dripping raincoats, and settle Watson, before heading straight to the bar.