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Authors: Charles Mathes

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BOOK: The Girl with the Phony Name
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W
harrie took the same road the Pembles had driven back from the airstrip yesterday, but in the opposite direction.
They climbed higher and higher into the mountains. Wharrie didn't speak and Wing was uncharacteristically silent, giving Lucy a chance to appreciate the strange scenery. She could see primroses and new bracken, and hear the call of cuckoos. The countryside stretched endlessly before them, an untroubled blanket of green, save for an occasional white cottage or farmhouse, a stark stand of trees, a naked boulder.
“It's beautiful!” she exclaimed as they rounded a curve and a spectacular open vista stretched out beneath them. Wharrie snorted contemptuously in the front seat.
“You don't think it's beautiful, Mr. Wharrie?” she asked, surprised.
“I'll chust drive, if ye doon't mind, lady,” he said.
After a while, Wharrie pulled into a tiny town nestled in a glen under a huge mountain. It was no more than a few rows of houses facing each other across a cobbled street. The big Scot stopped the car in front of the largest house.
“This is Dumlagchtat. D'ye want me ta wait?”
“Of course you wait,” said Wing, showing his annoyance. “We hire you for day.”
“The lady hired me, and I'll hear only from her, if ye dinna mind, wee man.”
Wing stared at Wharrie, his expression impossible to read.
“Please wait, Mr. Wharrie,” said Lucy quickly, and she got out of the car, determined not to let the man get to her. “Is there someone around here who might be able to tell me about local history?”
Wharrie shrugged. “I dinna ken.”
“Well, is there a city hall or something?”
“Nae.”
Wing scampered out of the car behind Lucy, glancing back at Wharrie, who had already buried his face in a magazine. Lucy was beginning to wonder if the Pembles had been right about the natives. Wharrie was about as friendly as acne.
They walked up one side of the short street and down the other, staring in silence at the small, chalk-colored houses with slate roofs. All the doors were closed. A few people were doing chores in the backyards, but no one gave them a second glance.
“I ask questions now?” said Wing brightly.
“Why don't I?” said Lucy.
“Okay. You boss.”
“Excuse me,” Lucy said, breaking off from Wing and approaching a woman in a plaid shawl who was hanging laundry. The woman did not look up.
“Excuse me,” said Lucy again when she was only a few feet away. “I wonder if I might ask you a question.”
The woman stopped what she was doing and stared as if Lucy were a pet dog who had just asked for a piece of pie.
“Aye?”
It must be her earrings, Lucy decided. Then Lucy noticed the woman's gaze had shifted. She was staring at Tak Wing, who was some thirty feet away inspecting a stone fence. Wing seemed to notice the woman's attention, for he touched his fingers to his top hat and smiled. The woman spat on the ground.
“I'm looking for some information,” said Lucy brightly, hoping a good attitude would overcome the woman's obvious reluctance to talk to strangers. She looked again to Lucy but said nothing.
“Was there ever anyone named MacAlpin living around here?”
“I dinna ken,” she said finally.
“Anyone named Trelaine?”
“Nae.”
“People named Fingon?”
The woman squinted. “The Fingon all be dead.”
“Is there someone who knows anything about them?”
The woman just stared at Lucy and didn't speak.
“Do you think one of your neighbors might remember the Fingons?”
“No one in Dumlagchtat remembers the Fingons.”
“But didn't the Fingons live around here?” said Lucy awkwardly. “Weren't they important?”
The woman pointed toward the mountains looming up behind them.
“There they lived. A curse upon them.”
“Thank you very much,” said Lucy, a little frightened. “Have a nice day.” The woman said nothing more and still hadn't moved when Lucy walked over and collected Wing.
“She says the Fingons are all dead but they lived up there,” Lucy said, pointing at the mountains.
“We go there?”
“I guess so.”
“Good, good,” said Wing eagerly. “You make great progress already, Rucy, see?”
Lucy nodded and walked back toward the car, Wing bringing up the rear. As a homecoming, her visit to Dumlagchtat hadn't been very encouraging.
“Do you know a house up there in the mountains where people named Fingon used to live?” Lucy said to Wharrie after she and Wing had settled themselves again in the backseat.
“Aye,” said Wharrie, not looking up from his magazine.
“Will you take us there, please?”
He shrugged and started his engine. Wing fidgeted in his seat, craning around so that he wouldn't miss any detail of the little village. In a few minutes they were on a road on the side of the peak, heading toward a stone structure built into the rock.
“Is castle!” said Wing breathlessly as they approached.
Lucy stared at the far-off structure, not knowing what to say. It was a castle. Not a huge castle, but large enough to astonish her. Its back was protected by the red peak, its walls commanded a perfect view of the entire valley. It was only when they were upon it that Lucy saw it was deserted and gone to ruin. The windows were broken out. The roof had holes in places.
They drove on in silence, through a crumbling gate, past an ancient graveyard, and stopped in front of the boarded-up door of the castle.
“Did the Fingons live here?” asked Lucy incredulously. There was an oppressiveness in the air, almost a physical presence of evil. The wind blew audibly against the cliffs.
“Aye,” muttered Wharrie.
“What happened to them?”
“I'm a driver, not a guidebiuk,” said the man.
Wing started to say something, but Lucy simply got out of the car. There was no point in getting into a fight with
Wharrie. The man obviously had some kind of chip on his shoulder and wasn't going to take it off just because they found it annoying.
Lucy stared at the ruined castle looming so cold before her. What was she supposed to do now? Who were these people, these Fingons, who had lived in such an evil place? What did they have to do with her? Finally she stopped chasing her thoughts around in circles and got back into the car.
“Let's see some more of the island, please, Mr. Wharrie,” Lucy said with as much dignity as she could muster.
They drove for the rest of the day, stopping occasionally to admire a waterfall or a cliff or a tourist attraction. Lucy found the unspoiled landscapes and the bare glens where it seemed man had never trod beautiful and eerily familiar. Wing enjoyed himself everywhere they went, despite the stares he received, but a New York cabby had more enthusiasm for scenery than Wharrie seemed to.
Lucy was finally able to learn something about the Fingons when they went through the island's major historic attraction. MacKinnon House was maintained by the Scottish Historical Trust and open to the public. The MacKinnon family had bankrupted itself in the 1930s.
“Yes,” said the tour guide in answer to Lucy's query, “the Fingons were a powerful family on Lis for many years. They owned all the western coastlands and a fair portion of the rest of the island. Only the MacDonalds were more prominent.”
“Are there any Fingons still living on the island?” Lucy asked hopefully.
“Nae. The last laird, Geoffrey Fingon, died many years ago,” said the woman, a thin, hawk-faced biddy with gray hair.
“There weren't any children?”
“I dinna ken.”
“Do you know if there's anyone who might remember the Fingons?”
“No one that I would ken,” said the woman and resumed her historical commentary.
“I'd like to reserve a car again for tomorrow,” Lucy told the desk clerk as they entered the Manor Lodge shortly after six that evening.
“Very well, Miss Snicowski,” said the young woman at the desk.
“Other driver beside Mr. Wharrie, please,” added Wing, after glancing respectfully at Lucy.
“I'm afraid Mr. Wharrie has the only available vehicle at present.”
“He'll be fine,” said Lucy, patting Wing on the arm. “Please ask him to be here at nine-thirty.”
“More fun riding in hearse,” muttered Wing.
They went upstairs to their rooms for an hour, then met for dinner at the hotel dining-room.
“What look good to you?” said Wing suspiciously, reading the menu. Lucy shook her head, not surprised that there were no shrimp cocktails, just sorry.
“What is jugged hare?” Wing asked.
“I think it's a rabbit in a bottle,” said Lucy.
“Interesting concept.” Wing nodded professionally. Lucy shuddered.
They settled on smoked salmon. Lucy had a glass of wine, which tasted sour and smokey. There was no club soda, so Wing settled for orange juice, which, to Lucy's astonishment, was blood red. Despite Wing's protests that oranges were red in Great Britain, she couldn't help feeling it was a bad omen.
“No, no, no,” said Wing insistently. “Everything going fine.”
“Sure,” Lucy said.
“Cannot expect to find everything first day.”
“I suppose. At least we know there were Fingons here once.”
“Fingons rich people,” said Wing proddingly. “Maybe
other rich people remember Fingons. Rich people all know one another. What you think?”
“The MacDonalds!”
“Who, who, who?”
“The MacDonalds are the only ones left of the three ruling families of Lis. Mr. Wing, you're a genius. Of course the MacDonalds would have known the Fingons. I'll call them in the morning.”
Wing smiled broadly, clearly pleased with himself
Lucy said the name over in her head. The Fingons. Her family?
L
ucy had an early breakfast the next morning and took a long walk down the grassy paths along the cliff, through the empty fields, and back again. Now she was bathed, changed, and sitting at the telephone in her room. Wing was due to meet her downstairs in fifteen minutes. The number for Fitzroy MacDonald, Sixth Earl of Mantach, was dialed and ringing.
“The Castle,” answered a curt male voice.
“Yes, hello,” said Lucy, launching into her cover story, trying to contain her excitement. “My name is … Tina Snicowski. I'm over here on vacation—I'm staying at the Manor Lodge hotel—and I promised a friend I'd look into her genealogy. She may be a Fingon, you see, and …”
“Excuse me, Miss … whatever you said your name was,” interrupted the voice, “but why are you calling here?” The accent was British. The tone of voice was mildly incredulous.
“Well,” said Lucy, trying to sound charming, “that's the thing. My friend wants to know about the last Lord Fingon
and I thought one of the MacDonalds might remember something about … .”
“I hardly think that his lordship would wish to involve himself in such a matter. Good day.”
The phone went dead. Lucy stared at the receiver. It had never occurred to her that the MacDonalds wouldn't cooperate. Humiliated, she stomped downstairs and out into the driveway. Wharrie was reading a magazine in his ugly black sedan. Wing was already in the car.
“A hundred pounds in advance,” Wharrie announced when she got in, holding out his hand.
“So what they say?” said Wing excitedly. “They remember? You find out everything?”
“Actually, they hardly knew the Fingons at all,” Lucy lied. “They couldn't tell me a thing.”
“You sure?” said Wing, looking surprised.
“Of course, I'm sure,” Lucy snapped. There was no point in subjecting herself to further embarrassment.
“So sorry,” said Wing, hanging his head.
“No, I'm sorry. It's not your fault.”
“You will find someone else. Not to worry, please.”
“Sure,” said Lucy, feeling even worse. “How much did you say that was, Mr. Wharrie?”
“Hundred pounds,” said the driver in a surly voice.
She counted out the bills.
“Feeling any friendlier today?”
He grunted.
“What we do now, Ru … Tina?” asked Wing soberly.
“We ask Mr. Wharrie,” said Lucy, not having the energy to conceal her exasperation. “You know I'm trying to find some information about the Fingons, Mr. Wharrie. Do you have any suggestions about where to look?”
“Dinna ken any Fingons.”
“Then do you know where administrative matters are taken care of for the island? A city hall or some place like that where they would have the birth and death records?”
“Goovernment business, ye mean?”
“Yes.”
“Tha's all duin in Glasgow.”
“Great,” Lucy said. “Where on Lis haven't we been yet?”
“Skerrisay,” said Wharrie.
Skerrisay, Lucy knew from her guidebook, was on the northern tip of the island and the island's largest city. With a population of less than two thousand, however, it was hardly a metropolis.
“How far away is it?”
“An hour and more. Diu you want to go there?”
Lucy looked at Wing. He shrugged.
“Why not?” Lucy said unhappily.
They drove up the north road again, through the bald mountains that rose in the center of the island. Several times Wharrie had to stop the car while flocks of black-faced sheep ambled across the road. Wild rabbits crossed the bracken and birds of every description filled the air.
“Why aren't we driving along the coast?” Lucy asked at one point. “Wouldn't that be quicker?”
“Tha' be the MacDonalds' lands, damn them all,” said Wharrie, practically spitting out the words. “Commercial traffic to Skerrisay is routed through the interior.”
“Landowners have rights, too,” said Wing, obviously itching for a fight.
“What aboot our rights?” Wharrie shot back bitterly. “Lismen who enlisted in the army in World War I were promised land on the northern shore—land tha' once belonged to their ancestors afore they were evicted. When those who survived the trenches returned, they got nothing. The MacDonalds ha' pressured the authorities to sell them the coastlands so they wouldna lose the view from their precious castle.”
“Very unfortunate,” said Wing, “but if MacDonalds own land …”
“Oh, tha' makes it all right, I suppose,” said Wharrie, anger apparently loosening his tongue. “Then you moost agree
with the MacDonalds tha' a fish tha' was in the ocean yesterday belongs to them because it swam in their stream today. You moost agree, too, tha' the birds and the rabbits and whatever deer aire left on the island all belong to the MacDonalds because they happen to cross their lands. It's a wonder the bloody MacDonalds allow the rest of oos to breathe the air!”
Wing did not pursue the argument, which was fine with Lucy. She had had enough of the MacDonalds for a lifetime. And of Wharrie.
At last they arrived in Skerrisay, a quaint little place with stone houses and narrow roads. There were several souvenir stores near the water and Lucy could see one of the auto ferries from the mainland at a little dock.
“Is this undertaker, please?” said Wing, seeing a sign marked DIBBLE MCFEELY BURIALS as they stopped at a tiny intersection.
The dour Scot turned around slowly and stared at Wing.
“Ye ain't fixin' to expire in mi motor, aire ye?”
“Maybe Wing pay courtesy call,” he said to Lucy, clearly uncomfortable. The tension between him and Wharrie had grown almost palpable.
“Good idea,” said Lucy.
Wing opened the door and got out.
“We'll meet you back here in forty-five minutes, okay?” said Lucy, wondering if it would take even that long to size up the little town.
“Okay,” said Wing. “Not mean to offend, Mr. Wharrie. Wing not understand about MacDonalds.”
Wharrie didn't answer. Wing walked off toward Dibble McFeely, head bowed, opera cape drooping on the ground.
“He said he was sorry,” said Lucy. Wharrie grunted and drove on in silence. At the next intersection, Lucy rolled down her window and motioned to a man carrying a basket.
“Excuse me,” she said. “Is there a local historical society you can direct me to?”
The man walked over to the car.
“Eh?” he said.
“Is there some historical society that might be able to give me some information about the island?”
“There's the Island Study Group. Do ye ha' the Gaelic?”
“Pardon me?”
“He wants to know if ye speak Gaelic,” snarled Wharrie.
“No, I don't know any Gaelic,” said Lucy helplessly.
“Then that won't diu. They only converse in Gaelic. Ye might try the tourist bureau, oop the road past the kirk.”
“Thank you,” said Lucy.
They drove up the road, past a blackened church. The tourist bureau was marked with a prominent sign and occupied a small gray building with windowboxes full of little blue flowers. Lucy got out of the car and knocked on the door. After a minute a small elderly woman showed her in to a shabby waiting room with framed travel posters on the wall and the same tourist brochures Lucy had read at the hotel.
“Welcoom to Lis,” said the woman.
“Thank you. I'm trying to find out some information about the Fingon family.”
“Ooh, they be gone now.”
“Yes, I know, but I'd still like to find out about them.”
“Lived oop in the castle in Dumlagchtat, they did.”
“Yes, I know that, too.”
“But they're gone now. Not been a Fingon on Lis for years.”
“Yes, but do you know what happened to them?”
“Nae.”
“Do you know anyone who might?”
“Ha' ye tried the Island Stuidy Group?”
“Thanks very much,” said Lucy and walked back to the car. How could she find out anything in a place where people either knew nothing, conversed only in Gaelic, or hung up in your ear?
For the next half hour, Wharrie drove slowly through
Skerrisay. Lucy leaned out and asked pedestrians if they had ever known Trelaines or MacAlpins, if they remembered the Fingons. No one could or would help. Lucy began asking people to call her at the hotel if they ran into anybody who might remember the Fingons. Most looked at her as though she were mad.
By the time they returned to Dibble McFeely Burials, Lucy was discouraged. From the expression on his face as he got into the car, Tak Wing was discouraged, too.
“What's the matter?” said Lucy, not sure she wanted to hear the answer.
“Dibble McFeely very backward,” said Wing sadly. “Have no use for modern equipment. Turnover not so good. Wing cremate more people in year than live on entire island.”
Wharrie turned around in his seat, staring suspiciously at Wing for a moment but saying nothing.
“Well, we knew it was a small place.” Lucy sighed.
Wing nodded. “You find something, maybe?”
Lucy shook her head. They drove back to the hotel in silence.
The next day Lucy and Wing continued their exploration of the island, stopping to ask about Fingons where there were signs of a town. None of islanders had anything to say. Lucy wondered if they even knew where the Manor Lodge was, the way they stared after her.
By Friday morning Lucy was terribly depressed. She didn't have the nerve to quit so soon—they'd been here less than a week—but it seemed hopeless. No one on Lis seemed to know the Fingons. Or if they knew, they wouldn't tell Lucy. Nor did anyone remember any Robert MacAlpin or know the name Trelaine.
Tak Wing had been getting more bored and frustrated each day, barely talking, but unable to keep still—almost like a rambunctious child confined to a classroom. Wharrie had snapped at him several more times. So had Lucy, to her regret. She was therefore surprised when she came down to
breakfast and found Wing all smiles, bouncing up and waving to her as she entered the dining room.
“What's the matter?” Lucy asked warily, sitting down at the table across from him.
“Wing have idea!” he said, pouring her a cup of coffee.
“Oh?”
“Wing go back to Glasgow,” the little man said proudly. “No business for Neat ‘n' Tidy here. Island too small. Glasgow big city. Friendly place. Maybe find financing there. What you think?”
“What's this all about, Mr. Wing? You don't really think you're going to find financing in Glasgow, do you?”
“Sure.”
“You'd leave me all alone here?” she asked sarcastically. It was too good to be true.
“What you need Wing for? He only come to protect you, but things look pretty safe, yes?”
“Safe enough for me to chuck this ridiculous disguise? I hate these contact lenses.”
“Maybe you keep just in case. Okay?”
“I promise you I can take care of myself, Mr. Wing,” said Lucy indignantly.
“Good. So Wing go to Glasgow with clean conscience. But you stay as Tina, okay?”
Lucy frowned, but didn't move to take out the contacts.
“So why do you want to leave?”
The little man bowed his head.
“Wing no help to you, just get into hair.”
“You're helping me a lot,” said Lucy, trying to sound sincere.
“Wharrie sick of Wing. Rucy sick of Wing, too.”
“I'm not …”
“Wing have eyes, Rucy,” he said, smiling and shaking his head. “Can see the handwriting on face. Maybe people start talking more when suspicious Oriental man is gone, yes?”
“Look, Mr. Wing …”
“But Wing murder two birds with one airplane, ha! Talk to bankers, yes, but also check birth records of Fingons. Government records for island kept in Glasgow, yes? Wing see if Fingon have baby daughter thirty year ago. Maybe find out about brooches from museums. Smart, huh?”
“Well,” she said, feeling guilty to be so relieved, “if you're really determined …”
“Glad you agree.”
“You'll have to hurry,” said Lucy, remembering the three-flight-per-week Island Air schedule. “If you can't book a seat out today, there won't be another plane until Monday.”
BOOK: The Girl with the Phony Name
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