Laurie King - The Language of Bees

Javitz and I staggered into open air. The rain had stopped, but the sea-scented wind beat at us and made the aeroplane twitch like a fractious horse. The farmer, Magnuson, eyed it as if it were about to take to the air on its own-not, in fact, an impossibility.

“Come inside and we'll see about finding you rooms until this blows over.”

Javitz shook his head. “We'll tie her down and find some petrol. As soon as I've cleared the fuel line, we'll be away.”

“Never!” the other man roared. “My wife would have my guts for garters if I let Cash Javitz take off into this hurricane.”

“No choice, I'm afraid.”

I interrupted. “Mr Magnuson? I'm Mary Russell, pleased to meet you. Pardon me for a moment. Captain Javitz, what the devil made it do that?”

“Probably a scrap of the same rubbish we picked up on that load of fuel in York.”

“But that time the motor just stopped, not stopped and started.”

“This'll just be something that worked itself down to the fuel line.”

“How long will it take you to clear it?”

“An hour at the most. We should pick up petrol, too, while we're here.”

“And you honestly feel we can resume after that?”

“Don't see why not.”

“You're certain?”

“Yes! For Chr-for heaven's sake, it's just the fuel line.” Just the fuel line.

“Very well. Mr Magnuson, can you tell me, is this wind apt to be worse, or better, later in the day?”

“I can't imagine it getting worse.”

“Would you agree, Captain Javitz?”

He studied the sky, sniffed the air, and said, “It should settle a little by nightfall.”

“We can't wait that long, but I believe we can afford to spend a few hours here. I pray you can fix that sputter before we set off over water. You do that, I'll go into town and see if there's a telegram waiting.”

“If you say so,” Javitz said, but the relief was clear despite the words.

“I shall be back by noon, one o'clock at the latest. Will we still reach Kirkwall by mid-afternoon?”

“If we don't, neither of us will be in any condition to worry about it,” he said.

“Er, right. Mr Magnuson, could I trouble you to direct me to the general post office?”

Magnuson did better than that; he summoned a friend, who motored me there.

Thurso was more a village than a town, some four thousand inhabitants looking across fifteen miles of strait at the Orkney Islands. The harbour was small, which explained why the larger boats I had glimpsed earlier were slightly north of the town itself. Despite its size, Thurso appeared busy and polished, possibly because the fleet had not that long ago moved its training exercises into Scapa Bay in the Orkneys, spilling a degree of prosperity onto this, the nearest mainland town.

The neighbour with the motor-car was happy to act as my taxi for a couple of hours. We started at the post and telegraph office, where a harried gentleman informed me that no, there was nothing for me, however, a tree had taken out the telegraph line somewhere to the south, and service had only just been restored. Could I try again in an hour?

I climbed back inside the motor-car, and asked the driver if the day's steamer to Orkney had left.

“Might not, considering this wind,” he answered, and put the motor-car into gear for the short drive along the water.

There, at last, I caught scent of my quarry. My description of Brothers had the ticket-seller shaking his head, and mention of a child the same, but when I asked about a tall bearded individual with an English accent, his face brightened.

“Ach, yais, him. Peculiar feller. He was here airlier.”

“Just him? Not another man and a child?”

“No, just the one.”

I did not know what to make of that. Had Brothers gone ahead? Had he taken the child instead of Damian, leaving Damian trailing desperately behind? Or was Damian operating independently, for some unknown reason?

“Which day was that?”

“Airlier,” he repeated, as if I were hard of hearing.

“What, you mean today?”

“That's right.”

“Good heavens. Has the steamer for Orkney left yet?”

“That's her there,” he said, pointing.

The first good news since we'd left York. I threw a thanks over my shoulder, touching the pocket that held my revolver as I moved in the direction of the waiting boat. Then I heard the man's voice tossed about on the wind.

I turned around and called, “Sorry?”

He raised his voice. “He's not on it, if tha's what ye're wanting.”

I retraced my steps. “Why not?”

“I told him she wouldna'be leavin' fer hours yet, what with the wind wanting to blow her halfway to Denmark.”

“Did he buy any tickets?”

“No. Last I saw'im, he was heading back t'toon.”

Town. Surely not to take a room, not if the solar eclipse was to take place tomorrow. Did they have another-

Town: The harbour was in Thurso itself; only large boats put in here at Scrabster.

I trotted back to my unofficial taxi and directed him to the harbour.

The harbour master's office was empty. All the boats I could see were lying at anchor, not setting out into the gale. I studied the buildings along the shore until I spotted a likely one.

The air inside the pub was thick with the smells of beer, wet wool, and fish. It was also warm and damp, which made my spectacles go opaque, but not before I had seen the universal outrage on the faces of every man in the place. I removed my glasses and, as long as I had their attention, spoke clearly into the silence.

“Pardon me, gentlemen, but I'm looking for a man who may have tried to hire a boat earlier today. Tall, thin, Englishman with a beard. Has anyone seen him?”

If anything, the hostility thickened. I cleaned my glasses and threaded them back over my ears, then dug into my pocket for one of the two remaining gold coins. I held it up. “He's trying to get over to the islands. I'd really appreciate it, if anyone has news of him.”

There was a general shifting in the room, and someone cleared his throat. After a minute, a chair scraped. A man in the back rose and threaded his way forward.

“Keep your coin, mum,” he said. “Let's step into the saloon bar and Ah'll tell yeh what yeh want to know.”

I followed him into the adjoining empty room, a bare closet of a space that might have been designed to discourage any lady who might have mistaken permission for approval. One could just imagine a daring local feminist bravely venturing inside, ordering a sherry, and forcing it quickly down.

However, I did not intend to drink.

“When was he here?” I asked the man. A fisherman, by the looks of him, waiting out the wind.

“Who's he to yeh?”

“My husband's son,” I said.

He looked startled.

“My husband's quite a bit older than I,” I told him impatiently. Asymmetrical marriages were commonplace, in the wake of a devastating war. Perhaps here in the North fewer men had died? Perhaps women were more resigned to their solitary lot? Perhaps it was none of his business. “What does it matter? Have you seen my step-son?”

He surprised me by grinning.

“If that was the step-son, Ah'd laik t'meet the father. He was a stubborn one, that. Up and down the boats, not about t'take no for an answer. Started out askin' ta be taken o'er t'Mainland, and-”

“He wanted to go to the mainland?” I interrupted. Weren't we on the mainland?

“Mainland's the big island. Kirkwall 's the town.”

“I see. Go on.”

“Laik Ah say, he wanted to go to Mainlan', and when we all looked at ‘im laik he was ravin’, he then offered t'buy a boat outright.”

“Oh, Lord. I hope no-one sold him one?”

“Nah. You'll find few here willin' t'send a man t'his death for money.”