In the middle of the night the weather turned stormy and violent. The winds off the North Sea pelted the coast with such force that three trees on the bluff east of town were uprooted and crashed into the sea below. By morning the sky was still so black that sunrise offered only a whimper of protest against the dark, a pathetic streak of light swallowed up in minutes by the fierce, gray, rolling clouds.
By noon Logan had had all he could take of the vacant, deathly quiet inn, and of Sandy Cobden’s company. What he wouldn’t have given for an evening with Skittles at some pub like Pellam’s! It looked as if the weather might be trying to break up a bit, so he donned his overcoat and cap and made his escape.
He wandered over to the New Town, but the place was all but deserted. He engaged one of the innkeepers in a game of cribbage, but when Logan won two games and several shillings, the innkeeper lost interest in any further contests of luck and wit. He was heading back toward town when the storm, with redoubled force, opened up once more upon Port Strathy. In minutes Logan was drenched through to the skin. Any notions of further exploration were firmly quelled.
He opened the Bluster ’N Blow’s stout door, but it was the wind which forced him inside. Cobden was busy as always, this time sweeping the floors.
“Looks as if the storm ootraced ye, Mr. Macintyre,” said the innkeeper.
“There wasn’t even a warning,” replied Logan, then looking down at the puddle he was making on the clean floor, added, “Sorry about the floor. Looks like I’ve made a new mess for you.” He stripped off his overcoat and jacket and cap and hung them on a rack to dry.
“Canna be helped . . . ’tis the wettest spring we’ve had in years.” Without missing a stroke of his perpetual labor, the innkeeper continued. “There’s a good blaze in the hearth where ye can dry off.”
Logan thanked Cobden and was turning gratefully toward the warmth of the fire when he heard some commotion. Someone had entered from the kitchen, and the swinging door had clattered shut behind him.
“Tabby ought t’ be jist fine in a day or twa,” said the newcomer.
Hearing a familiar voice, Logan turned and saw the broad hulk of Alec MacNeil, at the moment rifling through a black valise.
“Good afternoon, Mr. MacNeil,” said Logan.
Alec looked up from his search with a friendly grin on his face. “Logan! Good t’ see ye again!”
All over again Logan was stirred by the vibrant energy that seemed to flow from this unlikely landed gentleman. Who would possibly have guessed his position and esteem in the community from seeing him in his manure-caked rubber boots and working clothes? “Been makin’ some house calls,” he added before returning his attention to his valise. “Ah, here we be!” He held up a small pill box. “She should be better afore ye finish these, Sandy. But use them all onyway.” He gave the box to the innkeeper.
“Thank ye kindly, Alec,” said Cobden. “I hate t’ admit it, but auld Tabby’s been a right fair companion since the missus passed on.” He set his broom against a wall and wiped his hands on his dingy apron. “Let me fix ye gents a pot o’ tea . . . or a hot toddy, if ye’d rather?”
“Tea would be wonderful, thank ye, Sandy,” said Alec. “I dinna like the idea o’ goin’ back oot in that storm. Ye’ll join me, willna ye, Logan?”
They found seats as near the fire as possible. “That is,” said Alec with a touch of jovial gruffness, “I’ll let ye join me if ye’ll leave off the Mr. MacNeil wi’ me. Everyone in the toon calls me Alec, an’ I’d be pleased t’ have ye do the same!”
Logan smiled his assent and sat down opposite his unlikely companion. They exchanged conversation as Cobden served them their tea and then retreated to his labors. Logan meanwhile tried to fathom this Alec MacNeil, Doctor of Veterinary Medicine. It had come out in the conversation the previous evening that his father had been a fisherman; yet here was Alec, as he insisted on being called, married into one of Scotland’s ancient titled families. Logan had known men in similar positions, common men who had married money and position. Though they lived well and were able to draw upon certain advantages as a result of their appropriated position, there yet remained a sense in which they maintained a subordinate place in the scheme of things, especially in the eyes of their peers. Logan had never met such a man he did not disdain; it seemed as if they had forfeited the pride of their manhood for wealth.
But Alec MacNeil fit no such pattern. What had seemed obvious around the dinner table—the deference of his family toward the authority of his character—was no less apparent here with Cobden, who, though their exchange was as of equals, nevertheless treated Alec with a visible respect. MacNeil had relinquished nothing of his manhood in his marriage, and instead seemed to command the totality of the Stonewycke prestige and whatever else may have gone along with it.
“That auld Austin’s been runnin’ like a top since ye tinkered wi’ her, Logan,” said Alec, taking a gulp of his steaming tea.
“Glad to hear it. But you’ve got to watch that magneto and especially keep the spark plugs clean. Otherwise it won’t crank.”
Alec held up his hand and laughed good-naturedly. “I’m afraid I dinna ken one end o’ an engine from the other. But I’ll pass yer instructions on t’ Nathaniel—he’s likely goin’ t’ be the mechanic o’ the family.”
“He did seem to have a knack for it.” Logan cupped his cold hands around his steaming cup and drank deeply. “I offered to give him some pointers,” he added, “and the offer still stands whenever he’s free.”
“That’s kind o’ ye,” replied Alec. “So ye think ye may bide a wee wi’ us here?”
“I’d like to learn more about my uncle Digory and the place where he spent his life. Possibly I might be able to meet one or two old-timers who knew him.”
“’Tisna many yoong folks these days who hae such an interest in their family histories.”
“I’m doing this for my mother,” stated Logan. “But I have to confess that since I’ve discovered who Uncle Digory was, I am growing more and more intrigued with him.”
“He seemed rather a simple man, from what little I’ve heard,” commented Alec.
“Perhaps that’s the very thing that interests me. There must be more under the surface, and I wouldn’t want to miss it.”
“Could be. It’d be Lady Margaret who’d help ye best. We’d all be pleased fer ye t’ take up her invitation to speak with her further on the subject. I suppose she was too tired last night t’ help ye much.”
“I don’t want to put a strain on her.”
Silently Logan wondered if it indeed had been fatigue which had restrained her conversation last night at dinner. At times she could be most ebullient, then suddenly would draw back as if the conversation had approached shaky ground. Once he had asked an innocuous question about her parents. All at once the tables were reversed and it was as if she were being discomforted by him. Her eyes darkened for a flickering instant, a look had passed over her face which he couldn’t identify, and then just as quickly she had laughed lightly and said there must be more interesting topics to discuss. The conversation had then moved into a different track, but before he left she had promised him another interview regarding Digory. He knew it would have been unwise to press further just then. Whether he was anticipating seeing her again with fear or with eagerness, Logan couldn’t really tell. It all would depend on which aspects of her mysterious nature presented themselves to him.
“Oh, she’s hale an’ hearty enough,” Alec was saying. “But at that age, I suppose some days are jist better than others.”
At that moment the door opened and a new face entered the room. Logan, seated facing the door, saw her first. She was a tall woman, and though not exactly fat, bore a muscular frame uncommon in women. Her storm-tousled thick brown hair, streaked with gray, framed a hard-working but not entirely unattractive face. She had a healthy glow about her and a certain liveliness in her sea-blue eyes that made it difficult to fix her exact age, though it was nearer forty than fifty. She was dressed in worn dungarees with wide navy suspenders hitched up over a chambray work shirt. She had already hung a heavy red-and-black checkered coat and battered wide-brimmed hat on Sandy’s coat rack. In her arms she carried a sleek, silky-coated Irish setter.
“There ye are, Alec MacNeil!” she said in a voice as husky as her physique.
“Why, Jesse . . . hello!” exclaimed Alec, turning. “What have we here?” He had risen and was now giving the dog a friendly pat. The animal gave a pathetic wag of her tail. Then first Logan noticed a thick rag wrapped around her forepaw.
“Luckie got tore up pretty bad,” replied Jesse. “I saw yer car parked oot front an’ thought I might save a trip up t’ yer surgery.”
Alec took the setter called Luckie into his arms and carried her over to the rug in front of the hearth. Logan watched closely as the doctor cleaned the wound, all the while speaking in soothing tones to the animal. Luckie did not protest, hardly whimpering at what must have been a painful process. It seemed that Alec MacNeil’s uncanny charisma extended even to the animals of Port Strathy.
The woman apparently noticed Logan’s rapt interest in the process and sidled toward his table. In hushed tones, as if she did not want to disturb a master at work, she said, “Wouldn’t trust my Luckie t’ no one else.”
“He appears to know what he’s doing,” commented Logan, following her example and speaking in a subdued voice.
“Mind if I take a load off?” she said, and without waiting for a reply, plopped rather ungracefully onto the bench opposite Logan. “Ye’re new here, aren’t ye?”
“Yes. Came yesterday. The name’s Logan Macintyre.” He held a hand out to the woman.
“Jesse Cameron here,” she replied, grasping his hand firmly and shaking it vigorously. She then proceeded to fill Alec’s abandoned cup with hot tea, taking a long, satisfied swig. “Ah! That warms the body good! ’Tis a muckel storm oot there! Nae doobt the mercury’s dropped twenty degrees since yesterday.” She took another drink of Alec’s tea. “We may as weel scrap the season completely. I doobt it’ll let up fer days.”
“Bad for the crops, is it?” offered Logan, feeling bound to hold up the other end of the conversation, though he had the distinct impression that she would do just fine without him.
“Crops!” she rejoined, as if the word were an insult. “Rain in spring doesna bother the farmers! ’Tis the draughts in August that sen’s them t’ an early grave. Oh, a flood might slow things up a mite. But as far’s the weather goes, the farmers haena a thing t’ worry aboot. But a fisher! The slightest ruffle on the deep blue surface o’ life, is enough t’ louse things up fer him fer weeks!”
“You’re a fisher . . . ah, fisherwoman?”
“That surprises ye? Ye canna hide’t from me, young man! But ’tisna so odd as ye may think. Womenfolk aroun’ here are as hearty as their men, ye ken.” Her tone contained no defensiveness, but she spoke firmly, as if she had made the statement so many times it had become a fact from mere repetition at the mouth of Port Strathy’s resident thick-skinned and opinionated expert on women’s rights. “Women hae always worked alongside their men aroun’ here. The fact that my man’s dead an’ gone doesna mean I should let the best trawler in Strathy go.”
“By no means! I agree completely,” said Logan. This was quite some woman, he had to admit. “I meant no offense.”
“O’ course ye didna, lad,” she answered without guile or sarcasm. “There’s many strangers, city folk mostly, who might. Lord knows, I’ve had my troubles, companies in Aberdeen no wantin’ t’ contract oot t’ a woman. Had t’ prove mysel’ o’er an’ o’er.”
“I understand. It must be difficult,” said Logan. “My mother supported my family since I was a child, so I know what you mean.” Actually, it was only at that very moment that Logan had ever given so much as a thought to what his mother had been through all those years. But he’d make up for it when he found old Digory’s treasure, he told himself.
“I’m no complainin’, mind ye,” Jesse went on. “An’ I’ve done right weel. ’Course e’erybody’s havin’ a struggle these days. An’ these storms dinna help neither.”
By now Alec had rejoined the two. “’Tis a muckle storm, Jesse!” he said. “I hope no one was oot when’t struck?”
“The only casualty I know o’ is poor Luckie there,” replied Jesse. “E’erybody’s been more fearsome careful since the schooner cracked up. We were o’er haulin’ some equipment—’bout the only thing ye can do in the rain—when a hook flew back an’ grabbed hold o’ auld Luckie.”
“You take your dog onboard your boat?” asked Logan.
“Ye heard o’ sea-farin’ cats, haena ye? Well, we hae oorsel’s a sea dog. Couldna keep her off, if the truth be known!”
“Weel,” put in Alec, “this storm may be a blessin’ fer Luckie. ’Tis best she stays in fer a day or twa. She lost some blood, so keep her warm. I’ll send doon some powders tomorrow fer ye t’ put on the wound. I sewed it up with some stitches I had in my bag. I think it’ll do fer her. Bring her aroun’ t’ the hoose in aboot a week so I can remove them.”
“Thank ye kindly, Alec. I dinna ken what I’d do wi’oot Luckie.”
She slid her frame off the bench, gathered Luckie into her arms and made ready to leave. She paused at the door. “Will we be seein’ more o’ ye, Logan?” she asked across the room. But then, as was her custom, she waited for no reply, and continued, “If ye’re o’ a mind t’ bide a wee in Strathy, come doon t’ the harbor an’ I’ll show ye hoo a real fishin’ boat is run.”
Logan laughed and said he’d be sure to look her up.
When Jesse Cameron and Luckie had gone, Alec turned to Logan and said. “That is a remarkable woman. Lost her husban’ t’ the sea ten years ago. She refused t’ give up everythin’ they had worked an’ died fer, so she took it o’er. Operates two trawlers noo an’ pulls a man’s weight in a man’s business, so they say of her doon in the New Town. Each an’ every person in Strathy hae nothin’ but respect fer her. But when she first started, none o’ the men fer miles wanted t’ work fer a woman. There was no blamin’ them, I suppose—’tis a dangerous business, fightin’ the sea. But she’s made’t work an’ is noo one o’ the most successful fishers—man or woman—in all o’ this part o’ the coastline.”
“How’d she get on her feet if no one would work for her?”
“She’s tenacious,” answered Alec. “At first she went oot by hersel’, an’ all the others thought she had gone crazy o’er the death o’ her man. But she was determined not t’ lose the business. When they saw what she was doin’, one or two that needed the work took a chance wi’ her. An’ noo, when they’re oot on the sea, they hardly know she’s a woman. One thing she is, she’s the boss! An’ she runs her boats like any tough man’d have t’. She takes nothin’ from no one. Ye ought t’ take her up on her offer—ye’d find it a grand learnin’ experience. I went oot on the sea one night wi’ her. I’ll never forget it as long’s I live.”
Alec drained the tea which Jesse had left behind, and then rose. “Weel, rain or no, I best be gettin’ back t’ my work. Was nice t’ visit wi’ ye, Logan.”
Logan rose and shook his hand.
“An’ dinna ye forget,” said Alec, tossing the words over his shoulder as he exited, “ye’re welcome at the hoose any time!”
Logan leaned back against the hard support of the wooden bench. No, he would hardly forget that invitation. But he’d have to be judicious in his steps so as not to appear over-anxious. He had to contrive some way to make frequent comings and goings to and from Stonewycke seem quite natural. As intimidating as she might be, he had to get close to Lady Margaret. And he was certain he’d be able to handle her once he had his bearings a little more solid. He’d been in tighter jams. Her penetrating eyes were no match for Chase Morgan’s thugs, and he’d outwitted them.
Yes, he thought, the old lady was the key. She had known Digory. If there were clues to where the old boy had hidden whatever treasure he’d been talking about, she would be the one to put him on the right track. Somehow those clues were locked in Lady Margaret’s head, though she might not even realize it—especially if she’d never received any communication from old Uncle Digory. He first had to find out if any other letter had been sent. If not, then the clues he sought might lie in some altogether obscure thing the old boy had said to her, or in a place they may have gone together. Though the treasure may be hidden, he was certain it was still here. He could feel it!
Too bad she wasn’t younger; he could charm the answers from her. As it was he’d have to use some finesse to entice her to open up to him. He had already noticed that there were some areas of her youth at Stonewycke she was reticent to speak of—but those might be the very things he needed to know about.
Well, he did have time. But he would like to find the loot while he was young enough to enjoy it.