Storm Warning

‘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.