Whatever the truth, Mr. Munro’s leg was mended and Mrs. Ogston was round with child again, and I suspected these developments had done more than anything to heal any lingering animosity.
We ate luncheon at the inn, waiting for the tide to finish going out, and then traversed the mile-long trail, slick with seaweed and shingles washed smooth by thousands of years of ocean currents, to the island. I felt a little bit like Moses and the Israelites crossing the Red Sea, though there were no walls of water surrounding us, only a wide stretch of wet sand on either side and the gently undulating ocean lapping at the edges. I was grateful for my kid leather riding boots and the extra layer of woolen socks I had donned that morning as our feet sank into the sand and shale of the ocean bottom.
The island itself was green and gold with brush and lush grass and gently sloped toward a small wood roughly at its center. As we drew closer, I could see white fluffy sheep dotting the fields, nibbling at tufts of grass. The briny air whipped at my little hat until I feared I would have to remove it or else watch it blown out to sea.
When we reached the island, we followed the little path that wound up toward the wood, where we had been told the McCray farmstead rested. Nestled among the trees, the stone buildings were crude, but snugly built.
When we entered the yard, Mrs. McCray was already at her door, hands on her hips. “Are ye here aboot Mistress Mary, then?”
“Yes,” Gage replied, removing his hat. “We’re investigating on Mr. Wallace’s behalf.” He introduced us while the farmwife looked us up and down as if we were bits of useless frippery.
“Ye’ll already ken I’m Mrs. McCray. Ye’d best come in.”
We followed her through the door, ducking our heads so as not to smack them on the low lintel. She offered us a seat at the scarred, wooden table at the center of her kitchen and then turned to the great stone fireplace to swing a kettle over the fire. The room was worn, but cozy and clean. I cringed at the sight of our muddy footprints on her otherwise spotless flagstone floor.
She reached up high inside a cabinet and pulled out a lovely china teapot and three cups. I could tell from her handling of them that they were cherished possessions, quite possibly the nicest things she owned, and only brought out for special company. She set the tea things on the table and began spooning some of the precious leaves inside the pot. When the kettle whistled, she was ready for it.
“Noo, then,” she declared, taking a seat across from us as the tea steeped. “Ye’ll have heard from Mr. Wallace how I had the ague and Mistress Mary were kind enough to come visit me.”
“Does Miss Wallace visit you often?” I inquired.
“Oh, every few weeks, and when me or me boy is ill.” She paused and then added, “Mr. McCray dinna get sick.” The way she said this made me suspect her husband was a stubborn man.
“How ill were you?” Gage ventured to ask. “Mr. Paxton made it sound like you were too sick to even stand.”
Mrs. McCray scowled. “That ole fool. What’d he say? That I couldna tell the time.” She blew through her lips, dismissing the man. “I had a bit o’ a cough, no’ consumption. And I tell ye, Mistress Mary left wi’ plenty o’ time to cross afore the tide. That’s a fact. So it’s a daft notion that the lass got swept away into the sea.”
She poured milk into our cups and then carefully added tea and sugar.
Gage sipped his tea. “What of this Craggy Donald? Would she have visited him?”
“Maybe. But it’s no’ likely. He dinna like visitors much.”
“Who is he?”
“Just an ole hermit. Keeps to himsel’. He dinna bother us so we leave ’im be.” She shook her head. “Paxton and his cronies tore his place apart, intent on findin’ somethin’ to arrest him for.”
“But you think he’s innocent.”
“Aye.” She nodded her head decisively. “People who dinna understand him think him strange, but he’s harmless. It’s far more likely they’d harm him than the other way aroond.”
We thanked her for the tea and set off in the direction of Craggy Donald’s hut. She’d pointed us to a grown-over trail leading down toward the beach on the northeast side of the island, facing out to the North Sea. As we rounded a curve in the path, we could see a puff of smoke rising away from the hillside farther down where the shanty must stand. The clouds were moving faster across the sky now and the sea here seemed a sterner gray. I could imagine what it looked like in a storm, with roiling clouds and thrashing waves. If I were Donald, I should be afraid my little hovel was going to be dashed into the ocean. But perhaps that was how he liked it.
As we drew closer, we were able to see that the hut itself was built into the hillside, so that only two walls of wood were visible. Even most of the roof was earth. Gage approached to knock on the slatted wood door, its boards crudely lashed together, leaving gaps at the top and the bottom. It was warped and nearly falling off its hinges. There was no answer.