The Language of Bees - Laurie R. King [169]
She came down the steps and took my hand, eyeing me sharply before deciding that the gold ring I wore indicated that I was no rival for the good Captain's bantering affections.
I realised I was neither dressed nor wearing sufficient make-up to present myself as a Bright Young Thing out for a day's lark, so instead I merely asked Mrs Ross where I might find a cup of tea.
She told me that the kettle was on, and although I demurred, I did not demur all that much. She and I went inside, leaving Javitz to his gathering crowd of would-be customers.
The tea was supplemented by thick slices of a chewy, slightly sweet soda bread slathered with fresh-churned butter, and my stomach, after a moment's hesitation, woke to the aroma and savour. I ate three slabs, and only stopped there because the boy appeared at the door, panting slightly but beaming with excitement.
“May I have a ride in the Captain's aeroplane?” he begged.
“Certainly not,” she replied. “But if you wash your hands, you can have your tea. Will you two be stopping the night in Kirkwall?” she asked me as I rose and picked up my coat.
“We may, especially if the wind gets worse,” I said. “In any event, I think I'll take a turn through the town. I've never been in Orkney before.”
“If you do get caught here and have trouble finding rooms, let me know,” she said, showing me to the door. “It's the height of the season, and rooms were tight even before the hotel at the Stones burned down.”
I turned. “Do you mean at Stenness?”
“That's the one.”
“When did this happen?”
“Two days past? No, I'm a liar, it was on Tuesday, so three days. Booked to the rafters with anglers, it was, and everything a smoky mess. The owner was a day in hospital, they're staying with his wife's family in St Mary's for at least a fortnight.”
“But the place didn't actually burn down?”
“Not down, no, just left a terrible stinking mess. They boarded over the windows and everyone's moved into town until the floors dry and the roof is patched.”
“I see. Well, I certainly shan't plan on staying there,” I told her with a smile, and set off towards Kirkwall, deep in thought. If Brothers and the child boarded a steamer in Aberdeen on Tuesday, how could he be in place to set a fire by the evening? But it could not be coincidence-no, he had help on Orkney, the same assistant who'd scattered cock's blood in the cathedral whose spire I could see rising ahead of me.
As Mrs Ross had said, it being August, the facilities for tourist entertainment were laid on in strength. Shops sold knitted wear or cheese made from local cows, tea houses posted banners advertising their authentic Orcadian cakes, and coaches waited to transport visitors to the sites of Orkney.
One of these caught my ear, an enterprising coach driver trying to turn the waning day into a bonus rather than a disadvantage. “See the Ring of Brodgar in the rich light of evening, when the sun throws shadows far across the loch,” he was calling in a stentorian voice.
One glance at the sky drew his thrown shadows into question, but in fact, an evening trip was precisely what I required. An added benefit was the handful of tourists he had already attracted, three earnest Dutch couples and an adolescent belonging to one of them. I gave the man my coin, took my seat, and we were soon away.
The benefits of concealment in numbers had been suggested by my first look at the Ordnance Survey map, and was the reason I had carried a pair of field glasses in my bag all the way. As we approached, with our driver cheerfully shouting over his shoulder all sorts of misinformation about Vikings, Celts, and Druids, it became ever more apparent that my only options for concealment in daylight were to hide in plain sight among a group, or to dig a hole in the turf and pull it over my head.
From the hills down, the land was bare as an egg.
I could see at a glance why this remote site had been marked as holy by the early Orcadians. It was a between-place: neither sea nor land, neither Britain nor Europe,