Murder Takes the High Road(80)

“Hey! You’re back.” I reached up, took his hand, and squeezed it. He squeezed back, his grip hard, warm and reassuring. “What are you doing here? I thought you’d be halfway across the Atlantic by now.”

He said tersely, “You know why I’m here.”

“You lost them?” I just managed not to add again.

He gaped at me. “No, I didn’t lose them—well, not for long. I came back for you. I was sitting in the Kirkwall police station when word came through that Vanessa was dead. I knew then I couldn’t risk it. Couldn’t risk...you.”

Maybe John wasn’t the best detective in the world, but he had the makings of the best boyfriend ever. And after all, how often was I going to need a great detective?

The rain was coming harder now. I smiled up at him and gave his hand another squeeze. “Is that the truth?”

“That’s the truth.”

“You’re a very romantic guy, I have to say.”

He said quite seriously, “I’m a very practical guy. I’ve had lousy, lousy luck in relationships, so when I finally meet a guy I really like, I’ll be damned if I’m going to leave him to be murdered by a Scottish psychopath.”

“It turns out to have been an Anglo-American effort.” I eyed Yvonne and Daya. Daya had stopped crying. She sat watching us, shivering miserably. Yvonne was unblinking and absolutely still.

“I know,” John said. “Daya left a seven-page letter for Roddy. We’ve all read it.”

“A... That was helpful.”

“Yes.”

Yvonne began to laugh. The sound bounced off the tunnel walls and echoed eerily back.

John’s face tightened. “I was afraid. When we arrived, we found Ben in the library burning a stack of books and a bunch of notes in your handwriting. He had your cell phone.”

“I don’t think he was part of it until the cover-up.”

There wasn’t time for more. Reinforcements had arrived and in short order the grate had been dug up and a ladder was lowered. The police swarmed down and Yvonne and Daya were lifted out of the tunnel and escorted back to the castle.

At last I was able to climb out into the fresh air and sun—well, no. This being Scotland I had to make do with fresh air and sweet autumn rain. It didn’t matter. John’s strong arms wrapped around me, and his warm mouth found mine.

*

I spent several hours that long afternoon talking to the Area Commander for Orkney, Chief Inspector Dean Gordon. Mostly because Gordon was a methodical man who liked his Is dotted and his Ts crossed. The truth was, Daya’s confession to Roddy—which he had voluntarily handed over to the police in his terror for her safety—answered most of the chief inspector’s questions.

Yvonne also made a sort of confession to the police. She insisted she had only intended to speak to Vanessa that evening, but Vanessa had laughed at her, mocked her, insulted her. When Chief Inspector Gordon asked why she had brought a hypodermic full of poison to her meeting with Vanessa, Yvonne claimed it was for self-defense.

Daya, on the other hand, had not stopped crying since she’d been hauled out of the tunnel. The police surgeon declared her temporarily unfit for questioning. Roddy continued to cooperate with the police though. According to him, Daya had only told him what was really going on the night she and Yvonne had tried to make their escape. He insisted he had not even known that Daya was Donald Kresley’s sister. The police found this difficult to believe, but having spent nearly a week with Roddy, I believed him. Beyond that—and the letter—Roddy had little to offer.

Ben had even less to offer. After being taken into custody he asked for a lawyer and that was that. I saw him being led downstairs to board the boat that would take him, Roddy, Yvonne and Daya to Orkney and the police station in Kirkwall. He met my eyes, nodded politely, and walked past me. I didn’t know if he would have killed me that morning in the library or not. Maybe it had just been one of those terrible moments of violent impulse that Vanessa had spent so much of her life writing about. I couldn’t help remembering the afternoon at John o’Groats when he had stood, eyes shining and wind ruffling his hair, beneath the iconic signpost with all its possibilities.

The last we saw of the gang of four, Yvonne was demanding a full refund for the trip from Tours to Die For.

*

It was the end of the tour of course.

The Poes, the Matsukados and the Kramers left that afternoon for the mainland, with the rest of us making plans to leave the island the next day. It was unexpectedly difficult to say goodbye, and there were hugs all around and promises to stay in touch.

Trevor and Vance left as well, but there were no pledges to stay in contact and no fond farewells. To my relief they seemed to be back to behaving like honeymooners, so maybe they’d worked through their rough patch. I honestly hoped so.

Toward evening, the drizzle stopped and the sun made a brief appearance. John and I walked down to the beach again, sitting on the steps of one of the small holiday cottages and talking.

“What did happen with the Scherfs and the Rices?” I asked him curiously.

John tossed a pebble at one of the weathered wooden stakes in the dead flower garden. The pebble knocked the stake down. “Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“They were stopped and searched in Orkney and the police found nothing. They were released and sailed back to the mainland.” He shrugged. “We had nothing to hold them on.”