Fontana did not wait for a response. He turned and strode away across the pier towards the moored cutter. Max watched him from the corner of his eye as he started down a flight of steps to reach the craft.
The cutter got under way and headed out across the bay towards the minesweepers. Then Max began a slow, measured amble back along the pier.
THE FERRY FROM
Aberdeen to Kirkwall had taken the weather as it found it: foul but no fouler than was often the case, according to a member of the crew who seemed to think Max was in need of reassurance, callow Londoner straight off the sleeper from King’s Cross that he obviously was. Fresh air was the only cure for seasickness Max knew, so he sat out the voyage on deck, with occasional descents to the saloon to warm himself by the stove.
He was striding back and forth by the rail, muffled up and clapping his arms together, when the ferry docked at Wick to pick up more passengers. That was when he caught his first sight of the Hentys. There was something in their attitude to each other, as well as a slight facial similarity, that told him they were brother and sister rather than husband and wife. And the sister’s anxiety about her brother was also apparent, even as they hurried along the pontoon to board. She watched his every step with a worried frown, as if he might fall or stumble – or simply collapse.
The Hentys also shunned the saloon and fell into conversation with Max as the only other passenger who preferred the open deck. Selwyn Henty, big-boned like his sister, but with thinning hair and an altogether less robust appearance, confessed at once that claustrophobia rather than seasickness was the problem in his case. ‘I did some tunnelling in the war. Since then I don’t seem to be able to tolerate sharing confined spaces with other people.’
The war had left other marks on Selwyn Henty: a gaze that never fixed itself on anything for longer than a few seconds and a tremor of the hands that the motion of the ship disguised until it came to lighting a cigarette or taking a nip from his hip-flask. He spoke with nervous rapidity as well, often jumbling his words.
Jumbled or not, however, his eloquence on the subject of ancient megaliths was undeniable. He was seeking to put the finishing touches to a theory he had devised – ‘a mathematical solution’, he termed it – concerning the prehistoric stone monuments of Britain. Those of northern Scotland were particularly illuminating, apparently. He and his sister had followed a fortnight in the Outer Hebrides – ‘The Callanish circles must be seen to be appreciated, Mr Hutton’ – with a tour of the stone rows of Caithness – ‘Fascinating, quite fascinating’ – and were now heading for the Ring of Brodgar on Orkney. ‘You’ve heard of it, of course?’
Max had not. Nor did he gain any inkling of the nature of Selwyn’s ‘mathematical solution’ from rapid-fire references to azimuths, extinction angles and the rate of decline of the obliquity of the ecliptic. Susan Henty gave him a few sympathetic grimaces during her brother’s disquisition, to which she added an apologetic explanation when Selwyn descended to the heads.
‘Selwyn’s never told me much about his wartime experiences, Mr Hutton, but they’ve taken their toll on him, as you can see. He wasn’t always so intense. This research project is good for him, though. If he can see it through and publish his findings, I think he’ll have been able to put some healing distance between himself and all the things that happened to him in France. Of course, he’s lucky to be alive when so many of his comrades aren’t, but his survival has come at a price.’
‘At least he has you to help him through it,’ said Max.
‘I do what I can. And you? Is there anyone to help you through it?’
‘Oh, the RFC was a breeze compared with the Army.’
‘I don’t believe that for a moment.’
‘It was, I assure you. I’m ridiculously unscathed.’
The broad, confident smile Max gave Susan Henty then was much the same as the one he gave both her and Selwyn as they set out in the hired Humber from Kirkwall the following morning. He was a free agent until he met Fontana again that evening. There seemed no reason not to enjoy himself as best he could.
Susan, however, proposed that they take an indirect route to Brodgar along the southern coastal road, so they could have a view of Scapa Flow and the interned German fleet. Since this would also give them a view of the waters in which HMS
Vanguard
had been blown up in 1917, claiming the life of Sub-Lieutenant David Hutton among hundreds of others, Max was in no position to object.
He prepared himself to appear moved by a first sight of the place where his supposed brother had died and was dismayed, when the time came, by how shamelessly he performed the role.
The Flow itself was a bowl of blue sea, enclosed by the mountainous bulk of Hoy and a string of smaller, lower-lying islands. Dotted across it were the grey, recumbent warships of the German High Seas Fleet. They stopped to view the scene from the hill above Houton, where a nearly circular bay was ringed by the jetties, slipways, workshops and hangars of a seaplane base.
A seaplane was taking off as they arrived. Watching it, Max experienced a pang of nostalgia for the days when he had flown virtually daily. As it was, it had been two long years since he had heard the wind in the wires as he piloted a craft into the sky. Fortunately, Susan, looking round at him from the driver’s seat, interpreted his doleful shake of the head as a sign of mourning for his late brother.
‘Do you know where the
Vanguard
was when it happened, Max?’ she asked.
‘What?’ His reactions snapped into gear. ‘Oh yes. She was anchored off Flotta. There.’ He pointed to what he judged was the correct island. ‘It happened at night. There was no warning.’
‘You can be glad of that small mercy,’ said Selwyn. ‘At least your brother didn’t know he was about to die.’
Whether Susan sensed the same meaning as Max did in Selwyn’s words – that he had felt certain he was about to die on numerous occasions – was hard to tell.
‘There’s that, yes,’ Max acknowledged.
‘Was his body recovered?’
‘No.’ It seemed safest to deny there was a grave to visit. ‘But there’s a memorial to all the victims at the Naval Cemetery on Hoy. I plan to go and see it.’
‘A frightful thing,’ said Susan. ‘The death of so many – in an instant.’
‘When did you hear of it?’ asked Selwyn. ‘You said you were a prisoner of war by then.’
‘The camp commandant passed on the news. He added his condolences.’
‘He did?’
‘They were good about things like that.’ Max recalled as much from the manner in which other prisoners had received such tidings. The tactics of misrepresentation were beginning to become instinctive, he realized.
‘Perhaps you think we’re being too hard on them now we’ve won.’
Max wondered for a moment if Selwyn was trying to pick an argument. If so, he would be disappointed. ‘No, I don’t. They started it.’
‘Yes. And let’s not forget it.’
‘Well, perhaps we could forget it for the rest of the day,’ Susan suggested, her voice tightening slightly.
Selwyn had little choice but to agree. ‘You’re right, of course. Prehistory awaits us. Drive on, sis.’
The Ring of Brodgar stood on a hill halfway along an isthmus of land separating lochs Stenness and Harray. Only thirty-six of the original sixty stones remained, according to Selwyn, but he reckoned that was enough for his purposes. The site was breathtakingly lovely, with or without the monument. Spring flowers were scattered richly across the turf. The blue waters of the lochs mirrored the sky above. The air was cool and fragrant.
But Selwyn had no interest in the scenery. Ropes, ranging rods and a theodolite were unloaded and the survey work began. Max threw himself into the task, which consisted of measuring as precisely as they could the distances between the stones, their relative heights and the diameter of the circle they formed.
Or was it a circle? Selwyn revealed during a break back in the car for sandwiches and tea from a Thermos that the ring might actually be an ellipse. ‘The elliptical form lends itself more readily to the creation of Pythagorean triangles, you see,’ he explained, though naturally Max did not see.
‘The people who built this were familiar with Pythagoras?’
‘No. They pre-date him. That’s the wonder of it.’
‘But what—’
‘We’ll know more when I analyse the data.’
With that Selwyn was off, theodolite under arm, striding back towards the stones.
‘He doesn’t have the patience to explain it properly.’ Susan sighed. ‘But it’s all there in his head. And you’ve been such a sport. It goes much better with three.’
‘What does he think this circle – or ellipse – was for?’
‘Observation of the sun and moon for the determination of solstices and the prediction of eclipses. He’s detected precise alignments for just those purposes at all the sites we’ve been to.’
‘But building this in its original form must have been a massive undertaking. Think of the man-hours involved in quarrying and transporting the stones, let alone erecting them. It seems incredible.’
‘A few thousand years from now it’ll seem incredible men spent so much money killing one another on the Western Front for four years.’
Max smiled grimly. ‘I don’t think it’ll take anything like as long as that.’
Susan sighed. ‘No, it won’t, will it? Now, we’d better report back for duty. Selwyn’s beckoning rather petulantly.’
It took longer than Max had anticipated for the survey to be completed to Selwyn’s exacting standards. It was late afternoon when they started back to Kirkwall. Half a mile or so along the road they passed four standing stones which Selwyn believed to be all that remained of another, smaller circle. He proposed to return the following day to survey the site as best he could.
‘We may be able to establish its relationship with Brodgar. Care to lend a hand, again, Max?’
‘Do say you’ll come,’ Susan urged him.
But Max’s availability hinged on what Fontana had arranged for him. He could not afford to make any promises. ‘I’ll let you know in the morning. I might wake up as stiff as a board after the hard labour you’ve put me to.’ He had, in fact, already experienced several twinges from a month-old bullet wound in his side, but he did not propose to mention it.
‘That’s the problem with you RFC johnnies,’ said Selwyn. ‘No stamina.’
Selwyn laughed as he spoke, for the first time Max could recall. Susan’s surprised glance at her brother suggested she had not heard him laugh recently either. It seemed Max’s company really was good for him. As to whether he would have the advantage of it much longer . . .
‘We’ll see about that,’ Max said softly.
MAX TREATED HIMSELF
to a large Scotch and a soothing bath back at the Ayre, then took himself off to the Kirkwall Hotel for dinner to forestall any invitation from the Hentys to dine with them. A harbourside stroll afterwards filled the time before his appointment with Fontana.
The back bar of the Albert was, as Fontana had predicted, crowded and noisy at that hour on a Saturday evening. A fiddler was adding zest to a bubbling sense of raucousness. Max had to bellow his order to the barman. He had already seen Fontana, installed at a corner table and foot-tapping along to the music like a man with nothing on his mind but gentle enjoyment of the local night life.
Six strapping American sailors were drinking enthusiastically at the bar, but they gave no sign of being acquainted with Fontana. They could, Max realized, have come from any one of the dozens of minesweepers out in the bay.
‘Mind if I join you?’ Max asked, gesturing to the spare chair as he approached Fontana’s table.
‘Not at all.’ Fontana smiled and slid the newspaper lying by his glass closer to him to make way.
Max sat down. ‘Cheers.’
‘Your health.’ They both took a drink.
‘Lively, isn’t it?’
‘You can say that again.’
‘You’re with the minesweepers?’
‘Yup. But we take it easy on Sundays, so tonight’s a chance to relax.’
‘Well earned, I’m sure.’
‘You’re not from round here yourself, are you? Don’t I detect an English accent?’
‘You do.’
‘Well, this is your trusty guide to what happens in these parts – or doesn’t.’ Fontana nodded to the newspaper between them. ‘The
Orcadian
. I’ve finished with it.’ He turned the paper so that it was facing Max. As he did so, he twitched up a corner to reveal an envelope that had been slipped inside. Then he dropped his voice to a level no one near by would be able to hear. ‘It’s a letter for the captain of the ship you’ll be taken to. From the boss.’
‘He didn’t tell me there’d be a letter.’
‘Well, there is. My guess is it contains something to ensure the captain’s compliance with whatever you’ll be asking of him.’
It sounded a good guess to Max, but he did not say so. ‘What have you arranged with—’
‘No names,’ Fontana interrupted. ‘Let’s keep it simple. Travel to Stromness on Monday. It’s the closest port to the German fleet. Book into a hotel for the night. There’s a building contractor’s yard north of the harbour. You’ll be met at the gate at half past midnight. I’ve secured you an hour aboard the ship. I was told that should be enough. You’ll be back in Stromness around two thirty. On Tuesday morning, you can take the mail steamer to Scrabster and head home, mission accomplished. Does that sound good to you?’
‘I suppose so, yes.’ Max could not help worrying about the letter. It was the first intimation he had had that Commander Schmidt might not be eager to cooperate. ‘How long have—’
‘Excuse me.’ A figure was standing by their table, holding a glass in one hand and a chair by its back in the other. Looking up, Max saw to his astonishment that it was Selwyn Henty. ‘There’s room for a third, isn’t there?’
‘Selwyn? What are you doing here?’
Selwyn twirled the chair round and sat down. He deposited his whisky glass on the table with a heavy clunk. Max’s initial impression was that he was more than a little drunk, although his words were not in the least slurred. He extended a hand towards Fontana. ‘Good evening. My name’s Selwyn Henty. Has Max mentioned me to you?’