Published by Contraband
An imprint of Saraband,
3 Clairmont Gardens
Glasgow, G3 7LW

Copyright © Olga Wojtas 2025

All rights reserved.
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ISBN: 9781916812390
eISBN: 9781916812420

For Jain

ONE

Day One

Alas! was there ever a more miserable wretch than I, brought by Providence to this forsaken shore, without sustenance or shelter? The salty tang of the grey sea fills my nostrils and salty tears fill my eyes at the thought that I may never again see the faces of family and friends, or feel the warmth of human touch.

And yet I will not yield to despair, but seek within myself those reservoirs of strength hitherto untapped. The primal instincts of survival, the ingenuity that arises from necessity - these tools shall sustain me. This island offers a freedom and simplicity I have never known, in which I shall learn the art of self-reliance, the value of gratitude for even modest blessings, and the enduring power of the human spirit to triumph over misfortune.

That’s the sort of rubbish you’d have to plough through if you were hearing from Robinson Crusoe. He kept a journal of the twenty-eight years, two months and nineteen days he spent stuck on a desert island, and when you’ve finished reading it, you feel you’ve aged by a lot longer than that. If you’re going to keep a journal, the least you can do is try to make it interesting.

The only thing I have in common with Robinson Crusoe is that for the moment I too am stuck on a desert island. I would never have thought of him if it hadn’t been for the conversation with Miss Blaine. I’m pretty sure it’s her, not Providence, that has dumped me here in the middle of nowhere.

I hadn’t even noticed her coming into Morningside Library, and was only aware of her presence when I heard those distinctive local tones: “I require a librarian! This book should not be here.”

I sprinted to reach her before Dorothy did. Morningside ladies of a certain age require careful handling, and Miss Blaine, being of an uncertain age, requires the most careful handling of all. I would never dare ask her outright, but she must be several hundred years old.

“Yes, Miss Blaine. How can I help?” I panted.

She indicated the shelf behind her. “A book has been improperly classified.”

Before I could stop myself, I blurted out: “You’re wrong.”

The look she gave me was chilling but I stood my ground. “I apologise for my intemperate language, Miss Blaine, but I think you must mean improperly shelved - improperly classified suggests that a librarian has given a book the wrong catalogue number. No librarian could do such a thing, not even Dorothy, who’s totally useless.”

“Nevertheless,” said Miss Blaine.

“It must have been a member of the public,” I said. “They pick things up and have a read and then put them back wherever they fancy. Libraries would run much more efficiently if we didn’t let people in.”

“I am not concerned with who is responsible,” Miss Blaine snapped. “I simply require this book to be put where it belongs, in the crime section.”

She indicated the volume with an irritable forefinger.

I retrieved it and checked the title. With an effort, I stopped myself repeating: “You’re wrong.” Saying that twice to Miss Blaine within a minute scarcely came under the category of careful handling.

I gave a light laugh. “Ah yes, The Assassin’s Cloak. It does sound very like a crime novel.”

“Then kindly restore it to its rightful place.”

“Excuse me, Miss Blaine, but it’s exactly where it should be, in the biography section. It’s a very misleading title. In fact, it’s a quote from one of the luminaries of the Scottish Literary Renaissance, William Soutar, who said, ‘A diary is an assassin’s cloak which we wear when we stab a comrade in the back with a pen.’ This is an anthology of the world’s greatest diarists.”

She snorted and snatched the book from me to examine it more closely. I waited for her to acknowledge her mistake and then saw her gaze fix on something other than the title. With a sinking feeling, I realised she was staring at the name of one of the editors.

“Alan Taylor,” she bit out. “Is this the self-same Mr Taylor who had the temerity to—”

She didn’t finish the sentence. There was no need.

I nodded. “I’m afraid so.” The moment called for careful handling. “Why don’t we have a wee cup of tea?”

Still gripping the book, Miss Blaine followed me upstairs and installed herself in an armchair while I made the tea, my special blend of Earl Grey and Darjeeling. She was gnawing her lip, indicating immense internal turmoil. I wished Alan Taylor was there so that he could see the effect of his irresponsibility on this great philanthropist, humanitarian and visionary. She founded the Marcia Blaine School for Girls with the sole aim of making the world a better place, through its pupils being given the finest education in the world. The horror she must have felt when she found that a woman called Muriel Spark had written a scandalous, scurrilous novel called The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie about unsavoury ongoings in a school, and had used – nay, misused - the name of her own exemplary institution! A key part of my work in the library, albeit not actually specified in my contract, is to prevent The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie falling into the hands of readers. And that job has been made harder by Alan Taylor taking it upon himself to write an introduction to a new edition of Mrs Spark’s book, drawing it yet again to public attention.

As I poured Miss Blaine’s tea, she snapped: “I believe you said Mr Taylor was a librarian?”

I cursed her excellent memory. The last thing I wanted was for her to harbour doubts about my profession. She had chosen me to go on time-travelling missions, making previous worlds a better place, and I wasn’t ready to be fired.

“I did say he was a librarian,” I agreed. “But was is the operative word. He became a journalist.”

“A journalist, forsooth!” Distaste dripped from every word. “That explains everything. Small wonder that Mr Taylor is attracted to assassins’ cloaks.” She glanced towards the cupboard where I keep all the copies of The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie under lock and key.

“Assassin!” she hissed. I wasn’t sure whether she was talking about Mr Taylor or Mrs Spark or both of them.

“His book on diaries was published to great acclaim,” I said in a bid to distract her. “Diaries are very interesting. They offer a glimpse into the personal life of the diarist and they can provide a valuable insight into the historical and cultural context of the time.”

She considered this as she added milk to her tea and tasted it. “I dare say that is true. A well written diary could be a useful thing.”

“And,” I said, continuing to draw her away from the topic of The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie, “you can get novels written in the form of diaries.”

She gave an impatient toss of her head. “Kindly call them by their correct name. Epistolary novels.”

“Epistolary novels,” I agreed quickly. “Like Daniel Defoe’s Robinson Crusoe.”

“Good heavens, girl! You have the entire canon to choose from, and you fix on that?”

I desperately tried to retrieve the situation. “I’m not saying it’s good, Miss Blaine. It’s awful. I mean, most of it’s really boring, just about planting things and drying grapes in the sun. Robinson Crusoe is a thoroughly objectionable character. He eats tortoises and hits a parrot with a stick. And then near the end, another character appears called Robinson, no relation, which is pure carelessness—”

“Cease this nonsensical prattling!” Miss Blaine snapped, laying down her tea cup. “I did not ask you for your literary evaluation. It is a work of the most appalling plagiarism – Mr Defoe simply stole the true story of the Scottish privateer Alexander Selkirk who was a castaway for a number of years on an uninhabited island in the South Pacific Ocean.”

I hoped Alexander Selkirk hadn’t gone around eating tortoises and hitting parrots with sticks.

“But Mr Defoe’s deceitfulness and dishonesty went much further,” Miss Blaine continued. “He came to Edinburgh as an undercover agent for the English, spreading pro-union propaganda. Had it not been for Mr Defoe, we might never have had the Acts of Union in 1707 turning us into a united kingdom.”

“Or we might,” I said cautiously.

“I prefer,” said Miss Blaine, taking another sip of tea, “that people make decisions based on facts, not underhand manipulation.”

I couldn’t disagree.

She began leafing through the book in front of her. “I am relieved to find that neither Mr Defoe nor Mr Crusoe appears in these pages.”

I suddenly panicked that if she searched further, she might find a quote from Dame Muriel Spark. I leaned forward and grabbed the book out of Miss Blaine’s hands.

“What are you doing, girl?” she spluttered.

“Just keeping it by me to remind me to re-shelve it,” I said.

“You have the attention span of a hyperactive gnat,” she snapped. “Do you keep a diary?”

“A pocket diary,” I said. “To remind me about my evening classes and weight-training sessions and choir practice and dental appointments.”

“I imagine you are obliged to consult it every few minutes,” she said acidly. “But my reference was to documenting and reflecting on your activities through a mixture of narrative, descriptive, and introspective writing. You have now completed a number of missions and I dare say that even you can remember the occasional event that was worth recording.”

I could remember quite a few, including being shot at, being buried alive, and being sentenced to death.

“I wasn’t always best placed to record things,” I apologised. “And quite often there weren’t actually any writing materials handy.”

“A poor worker blames their lack of tools,” said Miss Blaine. I was impressed by her gender-unspecific language until I realised it was so that it could apply to me.

She pushed aside the half-drunk cup of tea. “But let me not keep you further from your re-shelving, lest you forget that was what you intended to do. I bid you good day.”

With that, she whisked out of the room and I could hear her sensible shoes clumping down the stairs. I was picking up the cups to go and wash them when the abdominal cramping began, the signal that I was being sent on a time-travelling mission. Then came the spinning through an icy vortex, and I found myself sprawled face down on a beach with a mouthful of sand.

It took me a while to spit it all out. I was wearing an ankle-length brown woollen kirtle with a linen chemise underneath, which I used to wipe away the last grains. My outfit didn’t give me much of a clue as to what time I had travelled to. I reckoned it was the sort of nondescript thing that was in vogue for several centuries. At least it looked as though I was a woman, and a woman of the people. I’ve had more than my fair share of being mistaken for a man, and mingling with the aristocracy on my missions. Some of them were quite nice, but the class system offends my egalitarian principles.

I was also very relieved to find I was wearing my Doc Martens. They’re comfortable, sturdy, and provide good ankle support. I’ve considered writing to the company to tell them how well their footwear has done in previous centuries, but some people have very closed minds when it comes to time travel and they might not take me seriously.

A pouch was attached to a leather belt round my waist. I don’t get paid for my missions, but Miss Blaine provides for my necessities and reasonable expenses. I investigated the pouch. There was no money in it, but I found a meal replacement protein bar and a reusable water bottle, sadly not insulated, but full. As I rummaged around further, I found a quill pen, a bottle of ink, and a notebook whose paper I could see was made from a pulp of linen rags and hemp. I immediately deduced that I was in the fifteenth century. And it was clear that Miss Blaine was instructing me to keep a diary.

The first thing to do was to find something to write about. The sun shone in a cloudless sky, and the sea was an inviting turquoise-blue, so I took off my DMs, hoicked up my kirtle, and went for a paddle. It was absolutely baltic. I don’t understand the current vogue in Scotland for wild swimming. If you want to get cold and wet, the Scottish weather does that for you. I got back out sharpish, dried my feet on my kirtle and got my DMs back on.

Beyond the beach were chalk cliffs, and I realised that if I clambered up them, I would be able to get the lie of the land, a useful step in discovering what my mission was. I found a rudimentary path up the cliffs, leading to grassland at the top, enlivened by yellow primroses, blue flax and some gorgeous purple orchids. A brook babbled gently along, its water pure and clear. The landscape was a tourist board’s dream, with golden sand and an aquamarine sea. But that was all I could see, landscape. There was absolutely no sign of any people or any habitation. Now that I was on top of the cliffs, I could survey the whole island. It wasn’t large. And there was something very bizarre going on in the surrounding sea. There seemed to be a series of shipwrecks about half a mile away from land, as though the island had a force field repelling all boarders. Waves crashed over the wreckage, sending plumes of foamy spray into the air.

I’m no good on fashion, but I’m fine with boats, and even without the help of a spy-glass, I could identify them as cogs, mediaeval flat-bottomed ships with a single mast and a square sail. I was confident from the design of the ships, as well as the paper in my notebook, that I was in the fifteenth century. But where? I allowed myself a small chuckle as I realised the question had been answered by my paddle. The sea was Baltic.

And here I was on a desert island. A lot of people are misled by the word “desert” and think a desert island is always in the tropics, with sand and palm trees. In fact, “desert” means “deserted,” and that’s exactly what this was, with no sign of life apart from myself. Yes, it had sand, but the icy sea had proved it wasn’t in the tropics. And there wasn’t a palm tree in sight, just woodland of Scots pine and Norway spruce, and something in the distance that looked like a pedunculate oak.

To the north of the island, I could make out another island, with a scattering of farm houses leading to a citadel. It looked tantalisingly close, but it would mean certain death to attempt to reach it. There must have been some hideous underwater ridges and canyons leading to fierce cross-currents, since the sea at the narrowest part of the channel between the islands was a roiling mass of white horses as the waves thundered into one another and receded before mounting another attack.

My desert island was utterly inaccessible, then, and the rest of the world was inaccessible to me. I was puzzled by the lack of people, given my mission was to make the world a better place. There was nobody for me to help. I wondered whether Miss Blaine wanted me to give the place some environmental help, but it seemed to be doing perfectly well on its own. Its plant life and vegetation looked both biodiverse and attractive, and I couldn’t see any way to improve on it.

And then it came to me. Miss Blaine had sent me on holiday as a reward for my successful completion of four missions. Her brusque manner in the library was just her way of concealing the heart of gold which had been beating inside her for two to three hundred years. Island holidays seem to be very popular, and she had correctly decided it would be no use sending me somewhere hot, since my skin just burns and I look like a lobster, if there was a lobster in the shape of a fifty-something librarian. A holiday was a very kind thought, but completely unnecessary since I carry out the missions from a sense of duty and find them very interesting. I’ve been to Imperial Russia, to fin-de-siècle France, to eleventh century Scotland, and seventeenth century Venice.

But even in eleventh century Scotland, the conditions had been better than this. I had access to porridge and as much tea as I wanted. I could understand that Miss Blaine would feel sending me to the Ritz in the 1920s was unacceptably pricy, but surely there was a happy medium. I investigated my pouch again, since it could be a bit Tardis-like, but there was no sign of a pop-up tent or even a blanket. I scanned the island again, but saw not a single bothy or shed, or even the remains of a Neolithic village. It wasn’t freezing, but it wasn’t warm enough for me to want to sleep outdoors. For a moment, I felt a tiny bit sorry for myself.

I squawked at the sudden pain in my big toe, the sort of pain you might get if someone trod on it hard. The sort of pain you might get if you were criticising Miss Blaine, and Miss Blaine got to hear about it.

And then I remembered that chalk is a soft and porous sedimentary rock, composed mainly of calcium carbonate. It can be eroded by various natural processes such as wind, water, and chemical weathering, and over time, these processes can create cavities and caves within the chalk formations. It was embarrassing to find that Miss Blaine had more faith in me than I had in myself: she knew that I would relish the challenge of an adventure holiday.

I scrambled back down the rudimentary path to the beach and set off to investigate the cliffs. I had barely gone a quarter of a mile when I spotted a narrow fissure. I squeezed through it with a bit of difficulty – Dorothy has been known to make crass remarks such as “Who ate all the pies?” but what she doesn’t understand is that weight training, ever more crucial as we get older, increases muscle. However, it widened out almost immediately into a broad chamber, the white walls artistically covered in irregular crevices and colourful nodules of microcrystalline rock; in other words, flint.

Flint. This holiday was getting better and better. I squeezed my way out of the cave and set about gathering driftwood, which I carried back to the chalk chamber which I already thought of as home. One of the things Miss Blaine’s missions have shown me is how adaptable I am. I can be at home anywhere. I arranged the wood carefully, and then got out my reusable steel water bottle. Steel and flint, just the thing for striking sparks to create fire. It was a bit fiddly to start with, but eventually I got the hang of it and was able to set the wood alight.

The campfire’s flames leaped and crackled, transforming the whiteness of the cave walls into flickering shadows, warm shades of gold and amber. I remembered the words of Henry David Thoreau, inveterate American recluse and keeper of another boring diary: “The fire is the main comfort of the camp, whether in summer or winter.” This was way better than the Ritz. It just needed one more thing to make it perfect. Perhaps I had overlooked it. I rummaged about in my pouch and found a small wooden container that I hadn’t noticed previously. When I opened it, there was a sudden floral, citrus scent from the small black tea leaves, a mixture of Darjeeling and Earl Grey.

“Thank you, Miss Blaine,” I said, and the flames flickered upwards as a sudden breath of air came from nowhere in acknowledgement of my gratitude.

I had been disappointed to find that the water bottle wasn’t insulated, but yet again, Miss Blaine had demonstrated her wisdom. If I had put an insulated bottle in the campfire, it would have exploded. This way, I was able to wait until the water was bubbling, and then add an appropriate number of tea leaves to steep. There was no milk, but on an adventure holiday, you expect to have to rough it a bit.

Once I’d had a drink and my chocolate-flavoured meal replacement protein bar, I settled down to write my diary by the light of the fire.

If I’d been channelling Robinson Crusoe, I would have started with a ludicrously lengthy title like “The Life and Strange Surprising Adventures of Shona Aurora McMonagle of Edinburgh, Librarian: Who lived [length of time to be confirmed] all alone in an un-inhabited Island on the Coast of [place tbc]; Having been cast on Shore by Miss Marcia Blaine, Founder of the Marcia Blaine School for Girls, wherein Shona Aurora McMonagle was, during her Schooldays, a Prefect. With an Account of how she was at last as strangely deliver’d by [means of deliverance tbc].”

Instead, I got straight to the point with “Day One,” wrote a full report of everything I’d been doing, then curled up and went to sleep.

Day Two

Electric lights have a lot to answer for. They disrupt the natural circadian rhythm by providing illumination when the body expects darkness. Exposure to light in the evening can trick the body into thinking it’s still daytime, delaying the time it takes to fall asleep. This can lead to a lack of sleep, negatively affecting cognitive function, mood and overall health. And don’t get me started on alarm clocks.

There wasn’t an electric light bulb to be seen. The great thing about an adventure holiday in the fifteenth century is that it lets the body’s internal clock do what it wants. I woke refreshed to find sunlight streaming through the narrow entrance, and decided to take a walk to the brook, which was hopefully still babbling reliably, so that I could refill my water bottle. I would also see what I could forage. Meal replacement protein bars are all very well, providing all the necessary nutrients, but I prefer a bit more variety in my diet.

I eased myself out of the cave and the beach stretched invitingly ahead of me. Ideal for a quick jog. Sand is softer than pavements, which means it not only reduces the impact on ankle and knee joints, but it also challenges your balance more, improving your core stability.

I set off at a good pace, enjoying the sight and feel of the pristine beach, unsullied by dog walkers, their dogs, or children wreaking havoc with buckets and spades. And then I spotted something ahead of me that suggested a pack of energetic Labradors and an unruly playgroup had been let loose. As I got closer, I saw the sand was completely churned up and disordered. The sun was shining in a cloudless sky, as it had been the day before, but clearly while I had been enjoying a good sleep, there had been some sort of storm, with debris tossed ashore by the tide.

Too late I realised that I was once again assuming, something Miss Blaine regarded as the greatest of sins. I stopped for a moment to assess what I was looking at and deduce what had caused it. A storm? Yes, possibly. But there was no debris to be seen. How else might this chaotic displacement of the seashore have happened? A dance company? A rugby match? A crazed sand-artist improvising sculpted gouges and furrows without a plan or goal?

But none of that was possible, since I was the only living creature on the island.

And then I saw it. A footprint. And another, and another, leading away from this scene of carnage. I was not alone.

TWO

Obviously my immediate thought was cannibals. Robinson Crusoe believed he was all alone on his island, and then he found cannibals turning up in canoes with prisoners and eating them. The prisoners, not the canoes. There was no sign of any canoes on my island, but they might have berthed further round the coast. I hadn’t heard of much cannibalism in the northern hemisphere, but I saw no reason why it should be climate-related. It’s only recently that there’s been general acceptance that Vikings didn’t wear horned helmets: this might be another bit of Norse history to be amended.

A welcome side-effect of my time-travelling is the opportunity to correct misconceptions about the past. But I didn’t fancy meeting any cannibals, which sounded a tad too adventurous for an adventure holiday. And then I realised that if I wasn’t alone, perhaps this wasn’t a holiday. Perhaps I was on a mission to liberate the Baltic from cannibalism.

I looked again at the scene of carnage, and the footprints. Or more exactly bootprints. They weren’t the outline of naked feet, with heels and arches and wiggly toes – they were in the shape of a heavy boot. They lacked the sophistication and solidity of my DMs, but I judged they had a sturdy sole, at least two layers of leather, more solid than I would have expected for the fifteenth century. And unusually, they also had a slightly raised heel. Then it came to me. Those prints must have been made by a sailor. Sailors needed boots that could withstand the harsh conditions at sea, exposure to salt water, rough surfaces and potentially slippery decks. And the heels were needed for stability on a moving ship, preventing the foot from sliding forward.

That all made sense, but there was still something odd about the bootprints. They weren’t in pairs, left, right, left, right. They were all identical, as though it was only one foot, the left one: as though the individual had been hopping.

I had the horrific thought that the cannibals had eaten the poor unfortunate’s right leg before escape had been possible. But that seemed unlikely. You probably wouldn’t be able to hop that far under the circumstances, and the footprints continued along the beach. And why would any self-respecting cannibal stop at just the right leg?

I set off after the footprints. They were getting further and further apart, perhaps because the hopper was gaining in skill, or perhaps from anxiety to get away, although there was no sign of pursuit. And then, frustratingly, they disappeared, washed away by the incoming tide. I looked around me and listened hard. I couldn’t see or hear any sign of cannibals so, warily, I continued my trek along the beach. And then I saw something, something dark.

Something being washed up on shore, then carried back into the sea. Careful not to get my DMs soaked, I went down to the edge of the water and waited for the next wave to bring whatever it was back. I reached out to retrieve it but recoiled in horror. It was a leg.

Or rather, half a leg, reminding me of the saying: “What’s worse than finding a worm in the apple you’re eating?” The half-a-leg was in a boot. I immediately wondered if it was connected (or rather no longer connected) to the one-legged hopper who had left the footprints on the beach. I checked the boot – the right one. So this could be the leg the cannibals had removed for a snack, then found it not tasty, and discarded it.

I felt quite sick at the thought. But Miss Blaine wouldn’t think much of my being squeamish, so I forced myself to grab it when the waves once again swept it in my direction. It had a remarkably solid feel but also a worryingly narrow feel. The sort of feel you might expect from a leg if all the flesh had disintegrated and you were left with nothing but bone. Forensic anthropology is a noble profession, but not one I’ve ever aspired to. For a second, I was tempted to chuck it back in the sea and hope it was carried away to a distant shore. But I couldn’t be so disrespectful to someone’s leg.

I steeled myself to look at it. To my huge relief, I discovered that while it was indeed a leg with a boot on the end of it, the leg itself was made of wood. Some people might immediately have thought of Long John Silver in Robert Louis Stevenson’s Treasure Island, but obviously I didn’t. Illustrations of the pirate often show him with a parrot and a wooden leg, but while the parrot is accurate, the wooden leg isn’t. When L. J. Silver refers to his “timber leg,” he’s talking about a crutch. But that’s by the way. Now that I knew I wasn’t dealing with a limb that had been parted from its body, I took a closer look at my find. The leg itself was nicely carved, clean and polished, although the boot leather was cracked and discoloured. This obviously wasn’t the first time it had been immersed in sea water. The boot also had a double thickness leather sole and a slightly raised heel. A sailor’s boot, no doubt about it, and therefore most likely a sailor’s leg.

The discovery put a different slant on things. What sort of cannibals nibble on wooden legs? I’ve seen people chewing pencils in the library, but that’s not in the same league. And if you’re a cannibal chasing someone with a wooden leg, why lop off the wooden one, and not go for the succulent nutritious one right next to it?

I looked all round me but could see no sign of anyone, cannibals or otherwise. It seemed safe enough to go up the cliffs to refill my water bottle. Carrying the leg in its boot, I walked back across the beach in the direction of the path. I had just reached it when I heard an odd kind of rhythmical scraping sound. I stood still, trying to identify where it was coming from. It wasn’t underground. It wasn’t overhead. It came from within the cliffs.

If I had found a cave, then someone else might have done the same. Or several someone elses. Possibly cannibals. I had no desire to get involved with cannibals. Indeed, my inclination was to head back to my own cave and barricade the entrance. But now that I was on a mission rather than a holiday, I had a deadline. Miss Blaine allows me one calendar week for successful completion, and has been tight-lipped about the penalty for failure. And I had already wasted a day. It was time to start investigating.

I edged closer to the cliffs and could hear the noise more distinctly. It was a swishing sound, a soft scraping, as though a blade was going through wood. There were occasional crisp snaps or cracks, as though wood fibres were giving way under the pressure of a knife. In short, it sounded like serious whittling.

There was a half-concealed entrance in the chalk face. If I hadn’t been on the lookout for a cave, I would never have noticed it. I approached it cautiously and could see the curve of a tunnel leading inwards. It might be possible to spy on whatever was happening. I tiptoed in, my DMs soundless on the fine-grained limestone. There was an unpleasant greasy smell and flickering light on the chalk walls: whoever was in there was burning a tallow candle. And there was that whittling noise.

I crept round the corner and realised too late that I was now in the body of the cave, perfectly visible to its occupant. He was a muscular-looking bloke with unkempt blond hair and an even more unkempt blond beard, sitting on the ground with his back against the wall. I had been absolutely right about the whittling. He had a bit of driftwood on his knee, and was attacking it with a large knife.

I was conscious that his next move might well be to attack me with the large knife and I instinctively held the wooden leg in front of me like a baseball bat in order to protect myself.

As he caught sight of me, a series of different expressions flitted across his face. First, alarm, then aggression, then disbelief.

Since the disbelief seemed to have eliminated the aggression, I thought I had better try to communicate with him. I wasn’t sure which Scandinavian country I was in, but I knew that in the fifteenth century, Danish, Norwegian, and Swedish were a lot more similar than they are now, evolving as they did from Old Norse. The Finns, of course, were a law unto themselves.

“Hei!” I said, which sounded pretty much like “Hey!”

“Nå!” he replied. I have excellent language skills, thanks to having had the finest education in the world, and immediately understood that he was saying: “No!” in Middle Low German. This was the lingua franca of the Hanseatic League, the Northern European trading network. I had never heard any suggestion that it was involved in cannibalism, so I relaxed slightly.

But his “No!” wasn’t a reply to my “Hey!” It was a reaction to my wielding the wooden leg. I had better reassure him.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” I said in my best Middle Low German, gently lowering the leg. “This is just something I found on the beach.”

He braced himself against the wall and got to his feet. To his foot. As he stood, the bit of driftwood he had been whittling fell to the ground, and I saw it was shaping up to be a match for the bit of wood I was holding.

“That’s my leg!” he said accusingly.

He was waving his arms around, one of which was still holding the knife. I reckoned he was agitated rather than dangerous, but agitation can lead to rash behaviour. He was obviously good at whittling. And if he was responsible for the footprints, I had seen evidence of his expertise at hopping. He might hop across and inadvertently do me a mischief.

I used my calm, defusing-a-tense-situation voice. “Why don’t we put down our knife?”

“You’ve got a knife?” he yelled, waving his even more wildly and looking on the verge of hopping.

“No, I don’t have a knife,” I said, very slightly less calmly.

“Then why did you say we? Who’s there with you? I’ll take on the lot of you!” The knife was a blur as he brandished it aloft like an artist’s brush.

“There’s nobody here with me. It was a communication strategy,” I explained. “I was making the conversation more collaborative to create a sense of partnership.”

“We don’t have a partnership,” he snarled. “Now give me back my peg leg.”

I felt the conversation was at an end. I laid the leg down well beyond his reach, hoping that he would hop to it rather than to me, and made a rapid exit.

I scrambled up the precipitous path, refilled my water bottle, and sat back in the grass to have a drink and ponder what had just happened. Had I been too hasty in leaving? It wasn’t surprising that the poor soul was in a state of agitation if he had just been attacked by cannibals and lost his peg leg. I suddenly wondered whether it was appropriate for me to say “peg leg.” He had used those words, but it might be offensive when used by someone with two legs attached by bones, joints, muscles, nerves, blood vessels and connective tissue. I would have to be sensitive in my use of language.

Rather than rushing out of his cave, I should have stayed and asked whether I could be of any assistance. He might be the very person I had been sent here to help. I normally tingle when I’m near the subject of my mission, but the signal might not work when you’re in a chalk cave. And regardless of his status in my mission, he could surely provide invaluable information. I didn’t even know his name, and out of basic politeness I should at least have introduced myself rather than chucking his pe – his prosthetic across the floor and scarpering.

I finished off the water, refilled the bottle and looked in my pouch, where I found another meal replacement protein bar, cookie dough flavour this time. Then I went foraging. I’m not going to waste my diary’s paper and ink on what I found where. I skipped over the foraging bits in Robinson Crusoe because, frankly, they were mind-numbingly tedious. It’s not as though I’m writing an outdoor survival guide. I did wonder for a moment why I was still writing a diary if I was no longer on holiday, and then I realised that a full account of a mission would be even more valuable, setting out my strategies and insights, my situational awareness, my resourcefulness and resilience, and my sound ethical judgments. Miss Blaine would be able to give it as a blueprint to any other of her Girls whom she sent on missions. I don’t know whether she has anybody else on her books, but I like to think I’m the pioneer.

So, for future reference, here is what I decided while I was foraging. Go back to the cave and introduce myself to its occupant. Ask if he had any information about the cannibals. It was as I was carefully making my way back down the path that it struck me that my interviewee, even if a member of the non-cannibalistic Hanseatic League, might nevertheless also be a cannibal. No organisation can fully guarantee the behaviour of its members. Robinson Crusoe’s Man Friday – how outrageously patronising and colonialist to impose a name on him rather than just asking what he was called! – was himself a cannibal until Crusoe told him eating people was wrong and got him eating tortoises instead.

I would have to be vigilant at all times during my visit, and at the first sign of cannibalism, get the knife off him. I keep up my martial arts training for exactly this sort of eventuality. This time, I didn’t creep into his cave, but strode in with a Middle Low German greeting of “Goodendach!”

As I rounded the corner, I found him busy chewing something. I was preparing to defend myself when he opened his mouth to speak and I saw green strands stuck between his teeth. It was highly unattractive, but it didn’t look like human flesh.

“You again,” he said ungraciously. “What do you want?”

“I want to apologise,” I said. “I feel we got off on the wrong foot.” I winced at my unfortunate turn of phrase. “Sorry. Poor choice of words. I could kick myself.”

“Are you here for food?” he said. “You can’t have any. I’ve only got enough for one.”

“No, you’re okay, I’ve already eaten,” I said. “I just came to introduce myself. My name’s Shona.”

He resumed his chewing.

“What’s your name?” I asked in as cheery a voice as I could manage.

“Grimwald,” he said through a mouthful of green stuff.

“Pleased to meet you, Grimwald,” I said, sitting down at a circumspect distance from him. “What brings you here?”

“Shipwreck,” he grunted.

“That’s awful,” I said. “What happened?”

He swallowed whatever it was he had been chewing. “The ship was wrecked,” he said. “With the loss of all hands apart from me.”

“And you’d already suffered the loss of your leg,” I said sympa-thetically. “How did that happen?”

“I’m a seafarer,” he said, as though that was an explanation.

He seemed very taciturn, volunteering the bare minimum of information, so I thought I might as well be direct.

“I found your appliance getting washed up on the shore,” I said. “I wondered if you’d lost it because of the cannibals.”

“Cannon balls?” he said, frowning. “That’s how I lost my leg in the first place.”

I realised that by “leg” he meant the limb he had been born with, not the wooden replacement.

“Cannibals,” I repeated carefully. “People who eat people.”

He reeled back in horror. “People who eat people? I’ve never heard of such a thing. That’s disgusting!”

From his reaction, I was as sure as I could be that he wasn’t a cannibal. “What were you eating just now?” I asked.

“Seaweed,” he said. “It’s pretty disgusting as well.” He reached into a sack on the ground beside him and took out another handful.

“Nonsense,” I said. “You just haven’t got used to it yet. It’s a superfood. It’s got calcium, iodine, iron, magnesium and potassium in it, not to mention vitamins B and C and loads of amino acids. And it’s full of fibre.” I resolved to go and pick up some seaweed on the way home.

“Are you talking Swedish?” he asked.

“No, but I can if you want,” I said. “Anyway, what happened with your appliance?” I gestured towards his imitation limb. “Did it just fall off?”

“It certainly did not! Carved it myself, I did. It’s a work of art. Solidest peg leg you could find. Though peg leg’s a bit of a mouthful,” he said through a mouthful of seaweed. “I sometimes just call it my peg, but that doesn’t seem right. We once had a cat called Peg, you see, and it brings it all back.” He paused for what might have been a sob.

“That’s a shame,” I said. “Maybe you could call it – pleg?”

“Pleg,” he repeated, and again. “P-leg. Pleg. I like it.”

“And what happened to your pleg?” I asked. “I found it washed up on the shore.”

He lowered his head. “Terrible business. I was attacked.”

That startled me. I had no idea there was anyone else on the island. “Attacked by whom?” I asked.

“Not whom, what,” he said sombrely.

This was even more startling.

“What do you mean, what?” I asked.

He looked up, his jaw jutting. “A monster. I don’t want to talk about it.”

I did want to talk about it, but he spoke over me. “What did you say your name was?”

“Shona,” I said.

“You’re not bad,” he said.

I’ve had better compliments, but I figured that since he was a rough seafarer, this was probably high praise. Indeed, I was warming to this grumpy old seadog who, I was pretty sure, had a heart of gold stowed away under his rough linen shirt, just as Miss Blaine’s heart of gold was concealed under her tweed jacket.

“You’re better than the madwoman at any rate,” he said.

Perhaps this was a flattering nautical expression I wasn’t familiar with, but it didn’t sound like it.

“Thanks,” I said, not bothering to hide the sarcasm.

“No, I mean it,” he said earnestly. “I do my best to keep out of her way, but you never know when she’s going to pop up.”

“You mean there’s someone else here? Here on the island?”

He looked at me with a quizzical expression. “You don’t know her? How long have you been here? Have you been shipwrecked?”

There was no way I going to try to explain time travel to him. “Yes,” I said. “Yes, that’s right, I was shipwrecked. Yesterday.”

“With the loss of all hands apart from you?”

This was getting complicated. He might want me to point out my ship among the wrecks surrounding the island.

“It was a very small ship,” I said. “More of a boat, really. A kayak, in fact. It was just me in it. It got holed on the rocks and it sank. Silly of me to go out in something so insubstantial.”

“Women,” he said under his breath, but still loud enough to be heard. “Don’t understand the first thing about sailing.”

I was about to challenge this outrageous generalisation when he continued: “Where have you come from, anyway? Lübeck? Bremen? Rostock?”

“Yes, around there,” I said.

On my missions, I normally make a point of saying I’m a Scot from Edinburgh, but I didn’t think Grimwald would believe I had paddled my own kayak across the North Sea. He seemed to have accepted me as a fellow German, so I would just let him keep thinking that. In any case, there was another more pressing matter to discuss.

“This other woman,” I said. “Who is she? Where is she? How can I find her?”

“Don’t worry, she’ll find you,” he said heavily. “It’s impossible to avoid her. And then it’s impossible to get away from her.”

I didn’t want to be cast in the same mould as the madwoman, outstaying my welcome, so I said: “I’ll head off now and let you get on with whatever you’re getting on with.”

“Knitting,” he said, indicating a jumble of wool in the corner of the cave, with two narrow sticks, presumably his knitting needles, presumably carved by himself, sticking out of it. It was a tangled heap.

I grew briefly misty-eyed, thinking of my very first mission, to Imperial Russia. That was when I met Nanny, a tiny woman whose knitting room was even messier than Grimwald’s.

“I’m knitting socks,” he said. “My pleg fits better in its boot with a sock on the end of it. I’m planning to knit a pair for every day of the week.”

“How will you tell them apart?” I said jokingly, but he took the remark in all seriousness.

“I’m going to put the name of each day on each pair of socks,” he said.

“You can write?” I said in astonishment.

“I’m not writing the names of the days on the socks, I’m knitting them into the socks. Look.” He rummaged around in the pile of wool and produced what looked almost like a sock in white wool with the Middle Low German word Manedag round the top in black.

“Very impressive,” I said. “I’d better not take up any more of your time. Catch you later.”

I went out into the sunshine, resolving to note this in my diary. I was aware that sailors often took up knitting, a skill that by now had been around for centuries, but I had never imagined that Grimwald would be literate. I consider it a key part of my missions to correct historical misconceptions. When Ridley Scott was challenged about the accuracy of his film about Napoleon, he retorted: “Excuse me, mate, were you there?” Whereas if I’m questioned on the literacy skills of fifteenth century seafarers, I can legitimately say: “Yes, I was.”

But before I deployed my own literacy skills, I needed to gather some seaweed. As I walked round the seashore, I discovered that my island was a seaweed paradise. I found the unfortunately named bladderwrack draped over rocks like a golden-brown tapestry. Its fronds, delicate yet robust, created a labyrinth of intricate patterns shimmering under the dappled sunlight filtering through the surface of the sea. Even as I wrote the words, it struck me that they were worryingly like the rambling description you would get from Robinson Crusoe. I hoped being on an island didn’t mean I was infected by his prose. I continued in a deliberately pared-back style. A shame to disturb the bladderwrack. Not possible anyway. Cutting required. Cutting implement needed. None available.

It was a relief to get back to my normal writing style. I investigated the piles of seaweed that had been ripped off the rocks by the tide, and chose the freshest looking bits. They would make great soup, and also boost my iodine levels.

I found rockweed in rockpools, and eelgrass in a shallow estuary: I rinsed the latter particularly carefully since I would be able to eat it raw. I walked further and further from my cave, gathering as much nutrition as I could carry. In the distance I spotted a large wooden cross. I wondered why it was there. Some kind of marker for ships, maybe, or – I allowed myself a small chuckle – “X marks the spot for buried treasure.” Going to have a look at it might help answer my question, but fronds of seaweed were already slipping off the pile in my arms. It would be best to take the nucleus of my plant-based diet home and then return.

I was heading back when I heard a sound coming from the cliffs. At first I thought it must be the wind whistling through some of the cavities. But it had an oddly human pitch. As I got closer, I became more and more certain that it was human.

Someone was there, inside the cliffs. And they were crying.

THREE

The madwoman. It must be her. But she didn’t sound mad; she sounded upset. I had to see if there was anything I could do to help.

But first I had to get in. There was no sign of an entrance to a cave. Guided by the sobbing, I ran my hands over the powdery surface of the cliffs, and suddenly found my fingers slipping round a concealed opening. It was invisible when you looked at the cliffs face on, but a side-step revealed a useful gap.

It led into a tiny cave. A figure was huddled against the wall, head down, shaking with each new outbreak of sobs. To my astonishment, it was Grimwald. It was touching that someone so rufty-tufty was able to give way to tears. Crying is a natural response that can help release stress and provide emotional relief, but for too long men have been pressurised into appearing stoic and not showing vulnerability. I was impressed that as early as the fifteenth century, Grimwald was displaying such emotional intelligence.

But the fact that he was hiding here, so far from his own cave, suggested that he still wasn’t comfortable enough to cry openly. I wondered whether he was still upset about Peg the cat. Whatever the cause, I should reassure him.

He was crying so noisily, his head on his arms, that he hadn’t even registered my arrival.

Raising my voice, I said: “Is everything okay?”

His head jerked up and for a second there was silence as he stopped crying and stared at me, his eyes wide. Then he screamed:

“Don’t kill me!”

“No, I won’t,” I said in my most reassuring voice. But I was actually feeling a little confused. I had addressed him in Middle Low German, but he had replied in Norse. I had then automatically spoken in Norse, thanks to my remarkable language skills. I thought with gratitude of all my language teachers at Miss Blaine’s academy, the finest school in the world; and I mentally thanked Miss Blaine personally for setting up such an enlightened establishment.

The cave was pretty dark, but I could see that the person in front of me was muscular-looking with unkempt blond hair and an even more unkempt blond beard. Exactly like Grimwald. But no, not exactly like Grimwald. Grimwald had a right-hand, or rather right-foot pleg. This person’s was on the left. Since I now realised that this wasn’t Grimwald, I decided that I shouldn’t say or even think pleg, that being Grimwald’s word.

“Who are you?” I asked.

“Don’t kill me!”

“I don’t think you were listening properly,” I said kindly. “I’ve already told you I wouldn’t. I don’t kill people, I help them, and you sound as though you could do with some help.”

He was still staring but I now saw he was fixated on what I was carrying, the armful of seaweed. That made everything clear. The poor man, whoever he was, had a severe allergy.

“So sorry,” I said. “I misunderstood. I thought you were worried about me murdering you, not that you were worried about going into anaphylactic shock. I’ll go and leave this outside.”

I dumped it on a handy rock, then came back in. The man had pressed himself against the far wall of the cave although, as it was very small, I was still quite close to him.

“You – you’re not a monster?” he said.

“Quite the reverse,” I said. “I am the crème de la crème. My name’s Shona, by the way. Who are you?”

He swallowed. “Sporgh.”

“Nice to meet you,” I said. “That’s a Danish name, isn’t it?”

He nodded. He didn’t seem to be very forthcoming. “And you’re a sailor?” I asked.

In answer, he balanced on his real leg and wiggled his peg leg. I took this to mean that it was the mark of a genuine seafarer.

“Shipwrecked?”

He nodded again.

“With the loss of all hands apart from you?”

Another nod.

“I’m not surprised you’re crying,” I said sympathetically. “That must be dreadful, losing all your shipmates.”

“Not really,” he said. “I didn’t much like them.”

“I was shipwrecked as well,” I said, in a deliberate attempt to bond with him. “But I was in a kayak, so I didn’t have any shipmates.”

“You’re lucky,” he said. “So where are you from? Svendborg? Roskilde? Helsingør?”

“Very nearly,” I said.

The fact that he had said ten words in a row showed that he was beginning to gain in confidence but I didn’t feel it was yet time to ask questions that might be upsetting. I looked round the cave. It was small but tidy, and I noticed that some of the flint nodules had sea shells hanging on them.

“It’s very nice in here,” I said. “You’ve got it very hygge.”

He gave a small smile. “Thank you.”

“Of course, that’s quintessentially Danish, isn’t it,” I said.

“Embracing simplicity, finding joy in small pleasures, creating a comfortable and relaxed environment.”

He burst into tears.

If he cried even at factual statements, there wasn’t much point in avoiding questions that might be upsetting. “What’s the matter?” I said.

“It looks as though the sun’s shining, and I’d like to go outside,” he wailed.

“Yes, that sounds very hygge,” I said. “I’m sure you’ll find some more lovely shells to put on your walls.”

“But I can’t go out!” He was practically yelling.

It was quite an over-reaction. “I’m not stopping you,” I said. “If you want to go for a walk, let’s go for a walk. There are lots of places we can go that are well away from seaweed.”

“Seaweed!” he moaned, sinking down on to the ground, his peg leg at a disconsolate angle.

The allergy must be really bad. I had a quick glance in my pouch to see if an adrenaline auto-injector had turned up, but there was no sign of one.

“I’ll shift the seaweed well away from the door and go and wash my hands,” I offered. “If we turn right, we can go straight up to the top of the cliffs and you’ll be fine.”

“No I won’t,” he insisted. “It’s waiting for me.”

“The seaweed isn’t waiting for you,” I said. “That’s anthropomorphism. Seaweed isn’t human.”

“Neither is the monster,” he whimpered. “It’s waiting for me. It wants to kill me.”

“Hang on,” I said. “You asked me if I was a monster. You meant a real monster?”

“Yes, I thought you were the monster when you first turned up, but that was stupid of me. It couldn’t be more obvious that you’re not.”

I was quite touched by this tribute.

“It’s got the most beautiful voice,” he went on. “Melodious. Seductive. Not like you at all. It comes and calls to me, trying to lure me out so that it can murder me.”

“Does it really?” I said, making an effort not to sound offended. “And why does it want to murder you?”

“That’s what monsters do,” he said, as though this was self-evident.

I could have told him there was no such thing as monsters, and he was being silly, but it would be better if I led him to come to this conclusion by himself.

“And what is this monster like?” I asked.

He thought. “It’s scaly. I don’t mean scaly like a dragon, I mean scaly like a fish. And it’s got a big flapping tail. But it breathes fire like a dragon.”

“That’s a good description,” I said. “You’ve seen it, have you?”

“Yes,” he said.

I took a deep breath. “Okay. Now, I want you to think very, very carefully before you answer the next question.”

He nodded, frowning in concentration.

“Have you,” I said, “ever seen a monster?”

“I think it’s you who hasn’t been listening properly,” he said with a touch of asperity. “I’ve just told you I’ve seen the monster.”

This was disappointing. He had seemed a nice sort, especially given that he was in touch with his feelings, but here he was, telling blatant lies.

“Where, exactly?” I asked.

“On maps,” he said.

He hadn’t been fibbing; he was just naïve. The mapmakers of the time, who were working with very limited information, had a terrible habit of writing “Here Be Monsters” and “Here Be Dragons” on any blank spaces, accompanied by fanciful illustrations.

“But you haven’t seen a monster in real life?” I persisted.

“No,” he said. And then he burst into tears again. “I’m so very hungry,” he sobbed.

“It’s a real pity about your seaweed allergy,” I said. “You would have been very welcome to the lot I’ve just gathered.”

“I haven’t got a seaweed allergy,” he wailed. “I love seaweed.

That’s what I’ve been living on since I was shipwrecked. But I couldn’t think of touching it now. Not after—”

He was crying so hard that I couldn’t make out the rest of the sentence. I waited until he got a bit quieter and prompted: “Not after?”

He had to have several goes before he could get the words out. “That’s how the monster murdered him.”

“Whoa, let’s back up a bit,” I said. “There’s been a murder?” All of a sudden my mission came into focus. Of course I’m never glad when someone is murdered, but now I knew why I was here – to catch a murderer. But what could it have to do with seaweed? Seaweed poisoning is very rare, and an unreliable method of killing. Seaweed suffocation might be more feasible, but only just. “A murder?” I repeated. “Who? How? Why?”

He took a gulp. “The why’s easy. Do you never listen? I told you already – monsters murder people. That’s what they do.”

Back to the monsters again. He might be a good sailor, but he was a few mizzens short of a mast. I wasn’t sure whether I could rely on anything he said, but I would try again with the other questions.

“And do you know who was murdered?”

“Yes, the Finn.”

The surprises just kept coming. Suddenly my desert island seemed to be a lot more inhabited than I had realised, even if one of the inhabitants was dead.

“What Finn?” I asked.

He started to cry again and I wondered whether he and the Finn had been particularly close.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” I said.

“No loss to me,” he managed to say. “I never even spoke to him. But I’m so hungry. I can’t concentrate on all these questions. Just leave me to starve to death in peace.”

Miss Blaine once told me she didn’t micro-manage my missions, and she got quite shirty when I suggested she was responsible for providing the compostable bags which had proved so useful on previous missions. I don’t know whether she has an intern, but whoever’s responsible for the practicalities does a very good job. I didn’t even bother whispering a message into the ether: There’s a poor soul here who could do with feeding up. I just opened my pouch.

No protein bar, but there was a packet of instant soup.

“Right, I need to heat this up,” I said. “Can you put a fire on?”

“I used to have a fire,” he said wistfully. “It was so easy. I cooked seaweed on it. I could kindle driftwood with a spark, striking the flint on the walls here with my snickersnee.”

He shifted his tunic to display the knife at his waist.

“That’s a very nice snickersnee,” I said.

“Thank you,” he said, but his lip was already trembling. “I haven’t been able to go out because of the monster. I’ve got no food and I’ve got no kindling.”

I patted him on the shoulder in a bid to stop him bursting into tears again. “Don’t worry, I’ll go and get you some kindling.”

He gasped. “You can’t go out there. Not with the monster on the loose.”

“I’ll be fine,” I reassured him. “And now that I know you’re not allergic, I’ll bring in the seaweed on the way back, and we can cook it.”

“No!” he gasped. “Not the seaweed! How can you say that, after I explained it all to you? I can never eat seaweed again after the monster – after—”

I was going to point out that he absolutely hadn’t explained it all to me, but I could see he was in a state of distress, so I just said: “I’ll be back,” though not in a scary Terminator way which would only have made things worse.

As I gathered the driftwood, I kept a careful watch for anything that might be mistaken for a monster. There was nothing and nobody to be seen. Those mapmakers needed to be told how irresponsible they were, fomenting unnecessary panic.

I returned to the cave to find Sporgh crouched in the corner, sobbing.

“I’m back with the kindling,” I said. “Get those sparks flying.”

He sat up and gaped at me. “I thought I would never see you again. The monster didn’t murder you?”

“Apparently not,” I said caustically. “Now hurry up. I thought you were hungry?”

While Sporgh lit the fire, I put the instant soup in my reusable bottle, and shoogled it to mix it with the water before placing it in the fire to heat.

Sporgh stared at the bottle. “Is that Swedish?” he asked querulously. “They’re always coming up with new bits of strange equipment for the home.”

“I’m not sure where it came from,” I said, which was no more than the truth. I opened my pouch again and found a hunk of rye bread, slices of dried meat and a large lump of cheese.

Sporgh opened his mouth and I expected him to start bombarding me with questions such as “Where did you get this?” and “How did all that fit into a tiny pouch?” but it turned out that he had opened his mouth so he could start shovelling the food into it. When I handed him the bottle, he drank the soup right away, even though I was sure it was too hot. Once he’d devoured the lot, he was a man transformed. There wasn’t a trace of tearfulness – in fact, he was smiling broadly.

“That was very nice,” he said. “Thank you. You were asking me something, but I can’t remember what it was.”

“The Finn,” I reminded him. “How do you know he was a Finn if you never spoke to him?”

Sporgh looked surprised. “I never spoke to him because he never spoke to me. That’s how I knew he was a Finn. They’re very reserved. Very introverted. He had a peg leg, so I’m pretty sure he was a sailor whose ship had gone down with the loss of all hands apart from him.”

“That was lucky,” I said. “Well, until he got murdered.”

Sporgh’s good humour was over almost as soon as it appeared. That was him off again, tears pouring down his cheeks. I was beginning to wish he was a bit less in touch with his feelings.

“It was terrible,” he moaned. “Terrible. Only a monster could have done that.”

“Done what?” I said.

Another paroxysm of anguish. “How can you ask that? Trying to get me to talk about something so dreadful, what kind of monster are you?”

He clapped his hand over his mouth and backed away.

“So you are a monster,” he whispered.

“We’ve been through this already,” I said. He was beginning to try my patience. “I am not a monster. For one thing, I’m not scaly, and if I could breathe fire, you wouldn’t have had to use steel and flint to light the kindling. But more to the point, my raison d’être is to make the world a better place, by helping people. I’ve helped you. I’ve given you a lovely meal, apparently the first one you’ve had in a long time.”

“You’re trying to fatten me up,” he said. “You’re trying to fatten me up for the monster.”

“For goodness’ sake, make your mind up,” I said. “First you say I’m the monster, now you’re saying I work for the monster.”

“You’ve been outside,” he said. “You’ve been outside and the monster didn’t murder you. That proves you’re in league with it.”

In a surprisingly swift movement, he flung himself at me. His speed and agility were remarkable, given the peg leg. But I figured that if he was used to moving around on a ship in an era before stabilisers, dry land was a doddle. I would have complimented him, but he had one hand round my throat, and the other was holding the snickersnee directly over my heart.

“Get out of my cave,” he snarled. “And if you tell the monster I’m here, you’re a dead woman.”

I felt like saying that if I told the monster he was here, he would be a dead man. But it wasn’t the time for edgy banter; besides which, I couldn’t really talk because of the pressure on my trachea. My martial arts skills mean that I could easily have disarmed him, but that would probably involve his arm being broken, and I reckoned he had enough to contend with with the peg leg.

I indicated that I was happy to leave and he loosened his grip on my throat although the snickersnee was still worrying close to several of my vital organs.

“Okay,” I said hoarsely. “I’m going. I’ll just pick up my water bottle. Now I think about it, it probably is Swedish, so you won’t want to keep it.”

Deftly avoiding the snickersnee, I dodged round him to retrieve the bottle, and took my leave, pausing only to gather up all my seaweed. On the way home, I told myself not to be too hard on Sporgh. I didn’t know how long he had been on his own, giving way to paranoid fantasies about fire-breathing fish.

Was there any truth in his tale of a murder? He had admitted that he hadn’t had any interaction with the alleged Finn with the peg leg. It might all have been in his mind. There might not have been anybody there at all. Or perhaps he had seen Grimwald in the distance, and just assumed – a cardinal error which Miss Blaine has repeatedly warned me against. Grimwald had never mentioned a murder, and seemed perfectly happy to wander around without worrying about monsters.

It was possible that lack of food had clouded Sporgh’s thinking. Prolonged fasting can lead to cognitive decline. A lack of nutrients can contribute to imbalances in the neurotransmitters that regulate mood, resulting in anxiety and depression. And of course low blood sugar levels mean irritability and mood swings. It all made perfect sense, including why he had suddenly turned on me. Ironically, while the food I gave him hadn’t had time to put him on an even emotional keel, it had given him enough energy to attack me.

I couldn’t just abandon him to die of starvation. I might not be welcome as a visitor, but it would be possible to leave provisions near the entrance to his cave, and he would find them as he peered out for a glimpse of sunlight. Perhaps it would be wise to add a reassuring note: “This is safe to eat. It’s not from a monster.” Or would it? It had been interesting to find that Grimwald could read and write, but maybe that didn’t apply to every seafarer. Maybe I shouldn’t leave a note in case Sporgh couldn’t recognise words and thought it was some sort of sinister incantation. Hopefully he would eat whatever food I left for him, out of sheer hunger.

Seaweed stowed, I decided to head up the cliff path to wash out the soupy water bottle and refill it. But even as I set out, I remembered the large wooden cross I’d seen in the distance and went in that direction instead. It was a long walk, and as I got closer, I discovered it was near an inlet beyond some hefty boulders. But as someone who has climbed all of Scotland’s mountainous Munros, I was perfectly capable of scrambling over them. I leapt nimbly from one precarious perch to another, my fingers clutching at the rough edges for stability. As I reached the summit of a particularly sizeable boulder, I paused to catch my breath and admire the sweep of the sea beyond, waves crashing dramatically on the shipwrecks and the rocks they had foundered on.

As I turned to continue my scramble, I saw there was someone kneeling by the cross. Someone with unkempt blond hair and an unkempt blond beard, Someone kneeling a bit awkwardly on account of the peg leg. I guessed it couldn’t be Sporgh given his monster phobia. Also, the peg leg was on the right.

“Hello, Grimwald!” I called.

The figure started, nearly fell over, recovered his balance and glared at me.

“What d’you think you’re doing, creeping up on folk and giving them the fright of their lives?” Grimwald growled.

Since he had told me a cannonball took his leg off, I was pretty sure that he had had worse frights. Nonetheless, I called: “Sorry!” and tried to look a bit remorseful as I scrambled over the last bit to join him. The cross was made of two pieces of driftwood lashed together with a rope of twisted hemp. The rope had been pulled tight with lots of clove hitches, of the sort sailors are expert at.

“I spotted the cross earlier,” I said. “I wondered why it was here. Do you have any idea?”

“Course I do,” he said. “Put it up myself to commemorate the poor blighter after I buried him.”

“What?” I said. “What poor blighter?”

He shrugged. “No idea. A seafarer by the look of it – he had one of these.” He gestured towards his pleg. “I don’t know his name or where he was from, but whoever he was, he deserved a proper burial.” He patted the sand at the bottom of the cross.

“So what happened to him?” I asked.

Grimwald sucked on his teeth before answering. “Terrible business,” he said. “Terrible. He was murdered by a monster.”

“Murdered by a monster,” I repeated heavily. “How did that happen?”

“That’s what monsters do,” he said. “They murder people.”

“You saw this monster, did you?”

He shook his head emphatically. “No, thank heaven, or I might have been murdered too.”

I thought of poor Sporgh, stuck in his cave, terrified of going out into the sunshine.

“You’re not scared to be out here, where the monster might get you as well?” I asked.

“Monsters don’t come out in daylight.”

Now he was conflating monsters with vampires, a subject on which I’m something of an authority, having met Count Dracula on one of my previous missions. A charming man. I could have told Grimwald that there was a misconception about the not coming out in daylight thing, but that would only upset him so I didn’t.

“So how did the monster murder him?” I asked.

“Strangled him. With seaweed.”

I don’t actually know the tensile strength of bladderwrack. I’m unaware of any research studies on the subject. No-one would bother investigating the maximum stress bladderwrack can withstand before breaking, since seaweed isn’t used in structural or load-bearing applications. But it seemed to me highly unlikely that seaweed would have the same tensile strength as, say, the rope that was holding the cross together.

“How do you know he was strangled with seaweed?” I asked.

“Because I found him dead on the beach with seaweed round his neck,” said Grimwald.

I nodded. No point in telling him he was a complete idiot. “I can understand how you would come to that conclusion. But – and I’m just putting this out there – what if he drowned when he got shipwrecked, was carried ashore by the tide, and got tangled up in seaweed en route?”

I was confident that my gentle application of logic would enlighten him. But he looked at me as though I was the complete idiot.

“You don’t believe in monsters?” he said.

“I’m afraid not,” I said.

“You should be afraid,” he said. “Monsters are dangerous.”

“It’s still daylight, so hopefully I’ll be okay,” I said. “I’m off to get some more water. Sorry for disturbing you.”

I scrambled back over the rocks, hoping Grimwald wasn’t associating me with the madwoman who kept pestering him. He had seemed very gruff on first acquaintance, but that was probably just the way seafarers were. I suspected he was a cut above ordinary deckhands if he could read and write. Perhaps he was a boatswain or even a captain. It was really touching that he had taken such care in burying the poor drowned sailor and marking his grave. That suggested someone who felt he had a paternal or managerial role. And to be there again today, he could only have been paying his respects to the deceased. I said to myself, not for the first time, that under his gruff exterior must beat a heart of gold.

I was so cheered by this that I scarcely noticed the steepness of the climb up the cliffs. I washed the water bottle in the brook which was still babbling away, and settled myself down in the grass to have a refreshing drink. I checked in my pouch for something to eat and found another protein bar. Salted caramel this time. I was getting a bit tired of such a repetitive diet, even though the flavours varied, but I tried not to hold that thought. Despite Miss Blaine’s insistence about not micro-managing, I find that any complaining on my part usually results in a pain in my big toe.

Maybe I had been a bit dehydrated or suffering from lack of food, but it suddenly struck me that I shouldn’t be thinking about protein bars. And I shouldn’t be thinking about how considerate Grimwald was. Instead, I should be focusing on my mission, which had something to do with the sailors, though I didn’t yet know what. The fact that one of them was dead seemed a good place to start. I had laughed to myself about X marking the spot, but perhaps I had intuitively been right. Grimwald must have encountered loads of drowned sailors during his seafaring career, but he obviously thought there was something different about this one, to the extent that he had convinced himself a monster had murdered the poor man. If there really had been a murder, it was my job to investigate it.

I wondered about Sporgh. He was the first to mention a murder. He had behaved very strangely. And his weird seaweed phobia – that could stem from guilt. Bladderwrack could well be stronger than it looked, and Sporgh may have used it to strangle the poor Finn. Perhaps his mind had now given way under the strain of the terrible crime and he believed he had never met the Finn, and that a monster had been responsible for the murder.

It all made sense. But what was I to do? I didn’t like to think that Sporgh could be a murderer. When I went back to see him, it might be as well to take Grimwald with me as a witness.

I got up and began pacing along the headland, working out the best strategy. I looked down towards the beach, and my gaze was drawn to the large wooden cross commemorating the poor murdered sailor.

The sea beyond continued to crash and froth on the rocks and shipwrecks, but otherwise it was as flat and calm as silk. And then it wasn’t. It was churning, not haphazardly but in a straight line, a line that was moving in the direction of the cross.

There was someone in the water, someone swimming with frantic splashing, someone desperately making for the safety of dry land.

A sailor, whose ship had gone down with the loss of all hands except him. A sailor who needed my help. I started to run.

FOUR

I raced down the rudimentary path towards the shore. The poor soul was still flailing amidst the waves.

“Hallå!” I shouted to reassure the swimmer that assistance was nearby. He seemed to raise an arm in acknowledgement and I heard a faint “Hello!” almost as though it was in English. As I ran, I reflected on the fact that there were strong links between Norse and Scots, such as bairn, for child, derived from the Old Norse, barn. Midden, for a rubbish heap, from the Old Norse mykdyngia. And of course sclaff, to hit your golf club on the ground rather than the ball, from skelfa, to shovel.

Even though I didn’t stop running while I reflected, he had managed to swim faster, no doubt propelled by sheer panic, and as I was still sprinting across the beach, he began to emerge from the sea. He wore a bronze helmet that glinted in the sunlight. Not a sailor, then: a soldier. I couldn’t imagine how he had managed to swim weighed down by armour. And then, as he began to emerge from the water, I saw that he wasn’t weighed down by anything apart from the headgear. He was stark naked. And he wasn’t a he, he was a she.

I didn’t know where to look. In the end, I looked down at my DMs, focusing on granules of sand trapped in the creases. When you’re innocently crossing a beach, you don’t expect to be confronted by a woman in the scud. It’s certainly not the sort of behaviour you’d get on Portobello Beach in Edinburgh. The Firth of Forth may be a magnet for the idiotic craze of wild swimming, but at least people are decently clad in bathing suits, not to mention gloves and woolly hats. And when they come out, they change under one of those massive all-embracing coats so that nobody catches a glimpse of anything untoward.

I realised this must be the madwoman Grimwald had warned me about. The one he said it was impossible to avoid, and then impossible to get away from. He had failed to mention that she was a naturist. All my instincts were to slope off and leave her to it. But she might be germane to my mission. I couldn’t go without talking to her. I would just have to make it very clear that I wasn’t a naturist and had no plans to become one.

“Hello,” she called again. Her voice was very sweet, almost musical. And she had an Edinburgh accent.

Astonished, I looked up from my DMs to find that, mercifully, she was now wearing a dark woollen kirtle much the same as my own, and was wriggling into a cream and grey chunky-knit jersey. She took off the bronze helmet, and a tangle of blonde hair cascaded past her shoulders.

She strode over to me and shook my hand, her grip firm, her expression unsmiling.

“You’re Scottish,” she said. It was a statement. And it was unmistakeably Edinburgh. This puzzled me. I had said “Hallå!,” definitely not “Hello.”

“How do you know?” I asked.

“Because of your accent.”

This puzzled me even more. “But I was speaking Norse, and I don’t have an accent,” I said.

“Yes, you do,” she said. “A Scottish accent.”

“You probably misheard because of the helmet,” I said kindly. “You were unconsciously looking for a point of contact because you’re Scottish.”

“But I’m not,” she said, brushing her long blonde hair away from her face. “I’m from here.”

“Don’t be ridiculous!” I burst out. “You’re Scottish. No-one but Scots have that accent. Have you been away from Edinburgh long?” As I said this, I was aware of my own Edinburgh inflections, especially in the last sentence.

“I’ve never been there,” she said. “I’ve only ever lived here on the island. I’m just very good at languages.”

Nobody likes a show-off.

“You’re not bad,” she went on. “Some people might even have been fooled by your hallå.”

A patronising show-off. She shook the bronze helmet to get the last of the sea water off it, and I wondered whether that was a clue to her irritating air of superiority.

“Are you a warrior?” I asked.

She frowned. “No. I’m a detective.”

This woman was full of surprises. “What do you detect?” I asked.

“Anything that needs it. For example, who are you?”

“Shona McMonagle. I’m a librarian. That means I look after books. Books are things that—”

“I’m perfectly aware of what books are.”

A show-off, patronising and downright rude. I wasn’t impressed.

“If you’re not a warrior,” I said, “why do you have a helmet?”

“To keep my hair dry when I’m swimming, of course.”

I supposed in the absence of Lycra or silicone, bronze was a useful substitute.

She sat down on the sand and began combing out her tangled hair with her fingers. I sat down beside her. She showed no sign of continuing the conversation, so I did.

“Is your cave near here?” I asked.

“Cave? What cave?”

“The cave you live in,” I said.

“Do you live in a cave?” she asked.

“I do,” I said.

“Well, I don’t,” she said.

That surprised me. A cave was a good protection from the elements, but perhaps she was claustrophobic. The only other place I could see that would afford some kind of cover was the woodland.

“Where do you live?” I asked.

“I don’t give my address to just anyone,” she said. “I don’t know anything about you, apart from your name and being Scottish. What are you doing here?”

Her tone was quite peremptory. I decided to respond in kind.

“If it comes to that, I don’t know anything about you, apart from you being a detective and not being Scottish. What are you doing here?”

“I’m looking for sailors,” she said.

“Are you indeed?” I said in a tone which would have done credit to Miss Blaine.

“I am,” she said. “Have you found any?”

“I’m afraid I don’t go looking for sailors,” I said, which was no more than the truth even if it was slightly misleading.

“They could come from anywhere,” she said. “So I call to them in different languages. But it’s strange that nobody’s replying.”

“Maybe you don’t know the right languages,” I suggested.

“I don’t think that’s likely,” she said. “I told you, I’m very good at languages.”

The conceit of the woman was astonishing. And very annoying.

“What about Halò, a sheòladair?” I said.

“Ah yes,” she said. “I’m completely fluent in your Scottish Gaelic. I’ve tried that one, to no effect.”

“Or,” I said through gritted teeth, “Bonjour, marin?”

“We don’t usually get French sailors this far north, especially with France not being in the Hanseatic League,” she said. “Similarly with the Iberians, so not a lot of point in saying Hola, marinero.”

I think I must have inadvertently made some sort of noise, since she patted my arm in a condescending way and said: “Although it’s still a good suggestion. They could have been blown off course.” She turned to face the cliffs and called in her melodic voice: “Olá marinheiro!”

First Spanish, and now Portuguese. What a poser.

I had one last attempt to show her she wasn’t as smart as she thought. “Have you tried Saluton, maristo?” I asked.

She wrinkled her brow. “I don’t know that language.”

“Really?” I said. “Then we’ll just have to hope no sailors from Esperanto turn up.”

I thought she might have shown a bit of humility after discovering that she didn’t know everything, but not a bit of it. She just said: “They haven’t so far, so I don’t expect they will.”

“By the way,” I said, “I don’t know your name.”

“No,” she said, “you don’t,” and set off along the beach. I had no choice but to follow her.

She needn’t think I was just going to accept this dismissive response. “What’s your name?” I demanded.

I got an immediate reply. “Lilla Hwitastierna.”

Was the woman so ignorant that she had initially taken my words at face value rather than realising that I was asking her what she was called? No wonder Grimwald had got fed up with her.

“Lilla Hwitastierna,” I repeated exactly.

“A reasonable attempt,” she said. “It’s actually quite cute hearing my name with a thick Scottish accent.”

The woman was insufferable.

“I don’t have a thick Scottish accent,” I told her. “Not even when I’m speaking Scots.”

She gave a musical laugh. “You’re funny!” she said.

I managed to stop myself telling her what she was.

We were walking in the direction of the cross, our route across the beach from the sea avoiding the scramble over the boulders I’d had when approaching it from the west.

“I thought you were a shipwrecked sailor,” I said. “That was why I ran down to get you.” I hoped she realised that I was less than delighted to have met her, and had only been lured into doing so by the belief that she was in need of help. “I thought you were making for the cross.”

“I was,” she said. “That’s why I put it there.”

“Sorry?” I said. “That’s why you put what where?”

She gave an impatient sigh. “The cross. The cliffs all look the same. The swimming’s best on this side of the island, but when you’re in the water, it can be difficult to tell where you are. So I made a cross, big enough to be seen from quite far out, so that I can navigate by it.”

“You put up the cross?” I said.

Lilla stopped in her tracks and looked at me. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she said.

I was completely taken aback by this latest example of her rudeness. I am not ridiculous; I am the crème de la crème.

“Sorry?” I said.

“All right, I accept your apology,” she said, moving off again. “But when I’m speaking your language, and I’ve just stated quite clearly that I’ve put up the cross, don’t then ask a question to which you already know the answer.”

Her rudeness was quite extraordinary, and I was going to pick her up on it when I remembered that Scandinavian detectives could be good at detecting while being quite oblivious of social norms. I would simply have to rise above it.

“I was simply surprised,” I said, “to hear that you had put it up as a navigation aid when I understood that someone else had put it up to mark a grave.”

“Then your understanding is flawed,” she said.

“You’re saying that if you tell me one thing and someone else tells me something contradictory, then I should accept your version?” I asked.

“You’re doing it again,” she said. “After I told you not to.”

Oblivious of social norms, I reminded myself. Can’t help it. We had now reached the cross, which was at the far end of a person-shaped mound. I walked respectfully round the edge of it, emphasising the shape. Lilla followed me, our footprints making a border pattern for the grave.

“Hmm,” she said. “Interesting.” “What’s interesting?” I asked.

“How would I know what you find interesting?” she said.

“I was asking what you found interesting,” I clarified.

“Were you?” she said. “This is very surprising for me. We’re speaking your language, but I’m the one who knows how to use the words properly. Are you educationally challenged?”

This was too much. “I have had the finest education in the world!” I exploded.

“What a pity,” she said. “It hasn’t done you any good and you took up a place that could have gone to someone who would have made better use of it.”

I abhor violence, but if I had had a wet kipper to hand, I would have whacked her over the head with it. It took all my willpower to focus on her obliviousness of social norms.

“I heard,” I said, “that the deceased buried here was murdered by a monster.”

“Where did you hear that?” she asked.

I decided to play her at her own game. “Here, on this island.”

She nodded as though this was a perfectly acceptable answer. “We have many myths and legends. There are tales of a terrible cephalopod called the Kraken. And we are told that this island itself is under a spell. The island is plunged into the sea during the day and only emerges from the water at night time.”

“Which is patently not true,” I said.

“There is always an element of truth in myths and legends,” she said sententiously. “What about your own Brigadoon, the village that appears for only a day every hundred years?”

That was startling. The legend of Brigadoon was first recorded in a Broadway musical of 1947.

“Are you a time traveller?” I asked Lilla.

“No,” she said. “Are you?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Then you understand the permeability of time and its ramifications. I’m going home now.” And with that, she strode off to the boulders, scrambled over them with style and disappeared towards the cliffs.

A foreigner, casually saying “permeability” and “ramifications” in an Edinburgh accent, with no more difficulty than if she had been saying “yes” and “no.” It was maddening.

Which reminded me that Grimwald had called her the madwoman. Well, she wasn’t going to drive me mad alongside her. I sat down in the sand, at an appropriate distance from the grave – I had much more confidence in Grimwald’s account than Lilla’s – and began to do pranayama, yogic breathing. I tried to be mindful of my breath, focusing on the sensation as I inhaled and exhaled. But I kept coming back to what she had said. How had she known about Brigadoon? Its name came from the Brig o Doon, immortalised by Robert Burns in Tam o Shanter. I should have been thinking “om,” but I was thinking “permeability” and “ramifications.”

The Kraken. She had talked about the Kraken. It was a colossal sea monster with tentacles strong enough to drag entire ships and crews beneath the waves. But all these shipwrecks I had seen round the island, had they been caused by the Kraken? Was the Kraken the monster Sporgh was so terrified of, the one who had murdered the Finn? Was I even now sitting beside the grave of the Finn? Sporgh imagined the Kraken as the terrifying creature drawn on maps, but what if it changed shape when it was on land? Grimwald said he had been attacked by a monster, but didn’t want to talk about it. Was that because it didn’t have the standard monster shape? Sporgh was terrified because the monster was seeking out more victims, calling out in a melodious seductive voice.

Lilla Hwitastierna had a melodious voice. Lilla Hwitastierna had told me she was looking for sailors. Was it possible? Was Lilla Hwitastierna, in her innocuous cream and grey chunky-knit jersey, really a murderous sea monster?

Miss Blaine never informs me what my mission is when she sends me out to make the world a better place. It shows that she has confidence in my ability to puzzle it out for myself. I had now formulated the crucial questions and the replies, in order, were yes, it was possible, and yes, she really was.

My mission was now obvious – to save the sailors from Lilla. So now what I needed to do was to follow her and find out what she was up to. The only slight problem was that I had no idea where she had gone. The last I had seen of her, she had been heading for the cliffs, but now there was no sign of her. She must have raced up the rudimentary path like a champion mountain goat. But while I may be slightly slower than when I ran the100-yards in ten seconds on sports day, I’m no slouch, and I was up the path like a mountain goat sure of a silver medal.

She had said she didn’t live in a cave, so the most likely alternative was that she was bivouacking among the Scots pine, the Norway spruce or possibly the pedunculate oak. I was walking towards the woodland when a movement in the far distance caught my eye. The coastline was a long way away and I had to squint in concentration, but my eyesight is excellent, and there was no doubt about what I was seeing. A figure. A figure wearing a dark skirt and – yes – a cream and grey chunky-knit jersey. The sun popped out from behind a cloud and emblazoned the figure’s head, or rather her bronze helmet.

I had no idea how Lilla Hwitastierna had managed to climb up the cliffs and reach the far side of the island in the time since I saw her last. She must be an orienteering champion. But there was absolutely no doubt that this was her.

Why was she there, on a barren shore with a hostile ocean in front of her? I hadn’t begun to think of a plausible answer when she plunged forward, straight into the foaming brine. And a moment later she was lost to view.

Had I needed proof, this was it. There was no doubt – Lilla Hwitastierna was the Kraken.

FIVE

Grimwald. I had to warn him. He was in terrible danger.

I careered down the rudimentary path to the beach. Then I careered along the beach. Under other circumstances, I would have welcomed the challenge of a outdoor good workout: the increased resistance engages the lower body muscles, while exposure to the natural elements reduces stress and contributes to a sense of tranquility.

I was anything but stress-free and tranquil as I rushed to get to Grimwald’s cave, desperate to prevent another murder. Lilla had already displayed superhuman speed in getting up and down to the cliffs to reach the other side of the island, and who knew how fast she could swim when she turned into a giant octopus? Octopuses use a jet propulsion system, drawing water into their mantle cavity and then expelling it forcefully through a siphon, propelling themselves in the opposite direction. The most modest octopus can swim at 25 miles (40 kilometres) an hour, so she could easily have reached this bit of the coastline by now. I never like to sing my own praises, but it was quite remarkable the way I could enumerate these facts while racing down a beach.

“Grimwald!” I called. “Stay inside! I’ll explain why when I see you.”

There was no answering call. Had Lilla already done for him? With a final burst of energy, I arrived at the entrance to his cave. There was nobody there. Just a pile of wool with the two wooden knitting needles sticking out of it, and a half-finished white sock with the word Dingesdag round the top.

I scanned the beach in both directions but couldn’t see a soul. The big wooden cross. Lilla had told me herself that she used it to navigate. I spied it in the distance, aware now that only three-quarters of it was visible above the treacherous boulders. Lilla and Grimwald could be engaged in mortal combat at its base and I wouldn’t know.

I started running again, taking only very slight pleasure in the knowledge that this had a higher calorie burn compared to running on a flat surface. I reached the boulders and began to scramble over them, calling: “Grimwald! Grimwald!”

“What is it?” his voice came back from the direction of the large wooden cross. “You’re as bad as the madwoman.”

The stress I had felt when running was replaced with huge relief that Grimwald was safe. And immediately followed by the thought that he was seriously misguided to think that I came even close to the madwoman as a threat.

“You’re in danger!” I yelled. “Be careful!”

The words had scarcely left my lips when a flash of emerald green, royal blue and fiery red streaked through the air past my left ear and I heard another voice, harsh and high-pitched: “Prepare to meet thy doom!”

Followed by a terrified shriek from Grimwald.

“Hang on!” I shouted. “With you in a minute!”

I flung myself over the remaining boulders to be confronted by an astonishing sight. Grimwald was whirling adroitly on his leg and pleg, wielding a boot on a stick in an attempt to hit a multi-coloured parrot which was circling round his head.

“Stop that!” I thundered in the voice I used as a prefect when two first years were tugging one another’s hair preparatory to trying to scratch one another’s eyes out.

The parrot shot off in a kaleidoscopic blur, squawking: “Aye, aye, cap’n!”

Grimwald collapsed on to the sand in exhaustion.

“Thank you,” he gasped. “Thank you for seeing off that fiend.”

“I wasn’t talking to it, I was talking to you,” I said severely. “You were trying to hit a parrot with a stick. That’s a very bad thing to do.”

“Schwarzkopf isn’t a parrot,” he snarled.

I reran the glimpse I had had of the bird and realised that amidst the multi-coloured feathers, the top of its head was black, hence the name.

“Schwarzkopf looked very like a parrot,” I said.

For a moment, Grimwald’s voice took on a tone of mysticism, almost chanting his words. “It is a harbinger. A wandering spirit. An angel of death. It seeks to torment me.”

More anthropomorphism, even if of a metaphysical kind. Like Sporgh thinking the seaweed was out to get him. Of course I was glad that Grimwald was safe, and very touched that his humanity had brought him here to tend the dead sailor’s grave. But I clearly had a side-mission to educate these simple seafarers.

“It really doesn’t seek to torment you,” I said. “You’re ascribing human emotions and motivations to a non-human entity. The parrot simply can’t think like that. Haven’t you heard of the expression ‘bird brain’?”

He frowned. “No.”

That probably wasn’t his fault. “Bird brain” didn’t seem to be in use before the twentieth century, and its precursor, “bird-witted,” didn’t appear in general parlance until the sixteenth century.

“It means birds have very small heads, hence very small brains and therefore aren’t very bright. But I don’t consider it very bright to try to hit one with a boot on a stick.”

“Not a stick,” he said grumpily. “My spare pleg.” He waved the implement at me, and I saw the stick was what he had been carving from driftwood when I first met him. At that point, he had clearly decided he would never see his original pleg again and was making a replacement.

I was going to tell him that the nomenclature was by the way, and the point was that one shouldn’t try to hit parrots with anything. But that was an unnecessary diversion from my purpose in seeking him out.

“Grimwald, I’ve got some bad news for you,” I said. “You need to go back to your cave and stay there. The madwoman and the Kraken are one and the same.”

He stared at me for a moment and then he burst out laughing. “That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard! How can they possibly be the same thing? The madwoman’s a woman, and the Kraken is an enormous sea monster. They couldn’t be more different if they tried.”

“She’s a shape shifter,” I said. “She changes shape.”

“No she doesn’t,” he said. “She’s always the same shape.”

This was turning into another unnecessary diversion.

“The monster that attacked you,” I said. “What did it look like?”

“I told you,” he growled. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“There’s no need to be embarrassed,” I said. “I know it was the madwoman. She’s seriously dangerous, and you have to hide away from her or she’ll murder you.”

“The madwoman? Dangerous? You’re telling me I should be afraid of a woman?”

“That’s exactly what I’m telling you,” I said. “I know she’s the one who attacked you. You had a lucky escape, just losing your pleg.”

He started to laugh again. “That’s a good one! Me, attacked by a woman!”

“I’m sorry?” I said. “What’s funny about it?”

“Well,” he said, chortling, “a woman! You know. Or maybe you don’t. After what you were saying.”

I hadn’t the faintest idea what he was talking about. “After what I was saying about what?”

“You women can’t keep a thought in your head, can you?” he said. “The bird brain thing. About birds having very small heads, hence very small brains and not being very bright. Like women.”

“I beg your pardon?” My voice was icy.

“Women lack understanding compared to men, and you’ve just explained it, even though you didn’t realise that you had. It’s because they have smaller heads.”

I took a very, very deep breath. I contemplated telling him that while male brains were on average ten to fifteen per cent larger than female brains, that had absolutely nothing to do with intelligence. Had we been in a different era, I would have informed him that Einstein’s brain was smaller than average.

And I deeply regretted my off-hand “bird brain” comment. Birds have smaller brains than mammals, but those brains are densely packed with neurons. They can learn and remember – what about the New Caledonian crow, which uses tools to extract insects from tree bark? And parrots – I sent a mental apology to poor Schwarzkopf. Parrots have shown impressive language abilities, as demonstrated by Schwarzkopf’s appropriate use of “Aye, aye, cap’n.” They can probably learn to speak Finnish.

And if Grimwald didn’t think women could be dangerous, I was tempted to use a couple of judo moves on him that would encourage him to change his mind. But I could imagine Miss Blaine taking a dim view of my tussling with a one-legged man.

“You told me you didn’t believe in monsters, and now you’re telling me the madwoman’s a monster,” said Grimwald. “More proof of the bird brain, changing your mind from one moment to the next.”

With difficulty, I managed to sound calm as I said: “Please – just go back to your cave and stay there.”

“No,” he said. “I’m a seafarer. If I can’t be on a boat, I want to be out in the open air beside the sea, not stuck in a cave.”

“Could we at least move away from the grave?” I asked. “It’s a bit morbid. Although it’s touching that you continue to want to pay your respects, especially when you didn’t even know him.”

The sand over the grave was all messed up, almost as though someone had been digging in it, although I realised the damage must have been done when Grimwald was trying to evade Schwarzkopf the parrot.

“Would you like me to help you to smooth it all down?” I asked.

“No, you’re not a seafarer,” he snapped. “I’ll do it later. Let’s go, then.”

I was still livid with him for his outdated views about women, while conceding that in the fifteenth century they weren’t yet outdated. But I was very impressed indeed with his skill in scrambling over the boulders. Working on board a ship obviously did wonders for his core stability.

As we negotiated the last of the boulders, I said: “How did you come to meet the madwoman?”

Grimwald paused briefly to catch his breath after his exertions. “She was calling, wasn’t she? Hello, sailor. So I went out to see what all the fuss was about. Wanted to know who I was, where I came from. Asked me if I wanted to go home with her.”

“Did she indeed?” I said, not bothering to hide my disapproval. And then I realised the implication. Now it all made sense. “Grimwald, that must be when she turns into a monster.”

“You’re not still on about that?” he groaned.

“I haven’t been able to find out where she lives – that’s because she doesn’t live on the island, she lives in the sea,” I said. “She invites you home with her and when you say yes, she drags you into the sea and drowns you. That’s what happened to the poor Finn, and then he got tangled up in the seaweed as the waves brought him ashore. We were both right – I was right that he had been drowned, and you were right that he had been murdered by a monster.”

He sucked in his cheeks, but I could see that he was beginning to accept my conclusion.

“She must only have power over people when they agree to go home with her,” I said. “That poor, gullible Finn. Grimwald, I think you should stay well away from her, and definitely don’t talk to her. You might inadvertently say ‘yes’ and that might be the very word that lets her turn into a monster.

“Don’t worry,” said Grimwald. “Last time I saw her, she was coming out of the sea, not a stitch on her. That’s not respectable. Was I sure I didn’t want to come home with her, she asked. No thank you, I said, my own company’s the best company, I’ll just look away while you cover yourself up, if it’s all the same to you.”

It was all making even more sense. She went around in the scud with the aim of enticing impressionable sailors. Thank goodness Grimwald was a prude.

“I came here to warn you that the madwoman was the Kraken, but if you consider that to be bothering you, I’ll take my leave,” I said.

I hoped he would look at least slightly ashamed, but no. I gave him a curt nod, and scrambled back over the boulders. I went back to thinking about Lilla. I was sure that she had some interest in the cross, apart from her story that she’d put it up to help her navigate when she was out swimming. Utterly implausible, but a cover story if she was found near it. Far more likely that she had killed the sailor who was buried there. I guessed she was one of those psychopathic killers who liked returning to the spot where the bodies are buried.

But she wasn’t there now; I had just been standing beside the cross with Grimwald, and Lilla was nowhere to be seen. I was at a bit of a loss how else to pursue my plan to follow her. I looked around vaguely, and took a few steps, first in one direction, then another. Suddenly there was a rush of air beside my left ear and a squawk of “Cap’n! Cap’n!”

And then I felt a gentle weight and warmth on my shoulder as Schwarzkopf decided to use me as a perch. Its claws grasped on to me without hurting. It peered round at me, its bright eyes fixing on my own, the black feathers on top of its head a dramatic contrast to its other brightly coloured plumage. He obviously came from the southern hemisphere: given our latitude, it would have been nice if he had been monocoloured, a Norwegian Blue.

I have a marvellous rapport with animals, and once had a very fraught conversation with an owl (fraught because I happened to be a mouse at the time). So I was pretty certain that I would be able to communicate with Schwarzkopf.

“I’m terribly sorry,” I said, “but I’m going to have to ask you to leave. I’m on the track of a sea monster and I’ll probably break into a jog, which won’t be comfortable for you. I’ll be happy to provide a perch for you another time.”

Immediately, the parrot obeyed, flying off my shoulder and heading towards the cliffs. I was glad to have been understood. When you talk to other species, a great deal has to do with tone and confidence.

I set off again for the cross, and the next thing there was a sudden rush of air beside my right ear and distinct pressure as Schwarzkopf landed heavily on my other shoulder, again squawking: “Cap’n! Cap’n!”

I reminded myself that it had a very small brain, and I shouldn’t be judgmental about it failing to follow simple instructions.

“I know you’re trying to be friendly, but this isn’t convenient,” I said, my tone much firmer. “You’re going to have to get off my shoulder. Shoo!”

It nodded its head and flew back towards the cliffs. I set off yet again, and barely had time to register the sudden rush of air beside my ear when I yelped in pain. The wretched bird had landed on my shoulder for a third time and bitten my ear. I knew there could be several reasons for this behaviour, such as wanting to protect its territory, suffering illness, or lack of socialisation. I also knew that it was important not to react aggressively, since this could reinforce bad behaviour – Grimwald had inadvertently made things worse by trying to hit Schwarzkopf with his pleg. Now, calmly and gently, I had to discourage the biting while reinforcing positive interactions.

Parrots are supposedly intelligent, curious birds. This one obviously wasn’t that bright, but perhaps I could capitalise on its curiosity. Calmly and gently, trying to ignore the sharp pain in my ear, I pointed down at the sand and said: “Look at the lovely shells!”

Schwarzkopf’s beak let go of my ear.

“Good parrot!” I said. “Go and pick up some shells.”

I once successfully trained a wolf in no time at all, and I could see it was the same with parrots. Firmness and clarity. Schwarzkopf flew off my shoulder, but rather than investigating the shells, it went back towards the cliffs. Yes, its plumage was definitely the only bright thing about it.

And then in a wild fluttering of feathers it was in front of me with a new squawk: “Stand by to go about!”

“Shells,” I said, calmly and gently. “Go and look at all the different—” My sentence ended with another yelp as once again Schwarzkopf’s beak clamped on to my ear. But this time, the parrot wasn’t perching on my shoulder. It was hovering, and it was tugging. Before I knew what I was doing, I took a swipe at it. Unforgivable, I know, and my only excuse is that I was in quite a lot of pain.

Schwarzkopf had to let go of my ear in order to evade me, fluttering just out of reach and repeating: “Stand by to go about!”

And then for a third time it bit my ear and I found myself stumbling back towards the cliffs to try to lessen the pain. At this, Schwarzkopf released me, and began flying towards the cliffs, then back to me.

“Are you—” I gasped, “ – are you trying to get me to follow you?”

“Aye, aye, Cap’n!” Schwarzkopf squawked.

Feeling thoroughly discombobulated, I duly followed. The parrot led me to another barely visible entrance in the cliff face. The place was positively riddled with caves. And could Schwarzkopf really have understood me? Was this where Lilla was hiding? Would she be a woman or a sea monster? And how would she react to my outing her as a murderer? This called for caution.

Schwarzkopf disappeared inside but I stayed where I was, wondering whether I should pick up a piece of driftwood as a potential weapon. A moment later, the parrot flew out at ground level, grabbed the hem of my kirtle with its beak, and pulled.

“Why couldn’t you have done that in the first place rather than going for my ear?” I demanded quite irritably, but it showed no sign of understanding this obvious question. It simply stared at me, gave a wordless squawk and then hopped along the ground back into the cave.

I could well understand Grimwald’s irritation with the creature. But it seemed that the only way to stop it hassling me was to follow it. I remembered that parrots were cavity nesters, meaning that they laid their eggs in places that were dark and enclosed. At once I understood. Judging from the flamboyant plumage, Schwarzkopf was male – and now he was a proud papa whose eggs had just hatched. I would follow him into the cave, enthuse about the fledglings for an appropriate length of time, and then get on with tracking down Lilla.

But when I went through the entrance, there was no sign of any parrot chicks. I wasn’t in a cave; I was in a tunnel. The air was cool and damp, and ahead of me I could hear the rhythmic flapping of wings.

“Cap’n!” Schwarzkopf squawked in the distance.

I hesitated. Was the bird leading me into a trap? A few steps further in and I wouldn’t be able to see a thing. These were chalk cliffs. There could be cave-ins, landslides, flooding. Would the last thing I heard be Schwarzkopf squawking: “Prepare to meet thy doom!” just as he had done to poor Grimwald?

But it was possible that a bird was unaware of the potential danger to a human being. Schwarzkopf would be able to fly over hazards that would finish me off. As I stood there, Schwarzkopf flew back, alighting on a handy protuberance, and cocked his head to the side as though beckoning me to follow. When I didn’t move, he flew down to the ground, fastened his beak on the hem of my kirtle again and started waddling along the tunnel. It would feel impolite to wrench my kirtle out of the creature’s beak.

The tunnel twisted and turned, but it was narrow and I could touch the walls on either side, groping my way through the darkness, following Schwarzkopf’s insistent towing. We made slow progress, partly because of my caution, partly because parrots have little legs. Each step I took in my DMs created an echo, and I could hear Schwarzkopf’s claws scrabbling on the undulating ground but there was no other sound. I strained my eyes for any hint of illumination and eventually I saw a faint glow in the distance. Cannibals round a campfire? Instinctively, I slowed down, but Schwarzkopf’s grip intensified and I was drawn inexorably towards the luminosity. Daylight. The tunnel must lead from one side of the island to the other. I quickened my pace now that I could see where I was going, nearly crashing into Schwarzkopf who soared upwards with an indignant squawk and flew on ahead.

I emerged blinking into the Nordic sunshine. I was on a new bit of coast, the bit I had seen from the clifftop, looking over to the inaccessible island with the buildings on it. The tunnel had led from one side of my desert island to the other.

Schwarzkopf circled round my head with a triumphant cry of: “Aye, aye, Cap’n!”

“You’re a very clever parrot,” I told him. “Thank you. I would never have found that tunnel if it hadn’t been for you.”

He landed on my shoulder, cooing happily to himself.

This accounted for Lilla’s mysterious disappearance, when I could see no sign of her on the beach. She didn’t have to clamber up the rudimentary path to the top of the cliffs – she took the direct route through the tunnel.

Suddenly I realised the implication of where I was. This was the exact spot where Lilla turned into the Kraken, where she had plunged into the roiling waves separating the two islands.

I took a step back into the safety on the tunnel to scan the ocean in front of me for any sign of a sea monster. Schwarzkopf propelled himself off my shoulder and soared in the direction of the other island. As I peered after him, I made a startling discovery.

Those weren’t roiling waves I could see. They were sheep.

SIX

Sheep. Dozens of them. They were crowded on what must be an isthmus, a narrow strip of land connecting what I now saw were two halves of a single island. From their builds I reckoned there were both ewes and rams, but they all had terrifying curved horns. They didn’t look friendly. They were all pushing and shoving for supremacy on the causeway, butting at one another with their horns and their bulk. Most of them were covered in matted white wool, with a few brown and black sheep in the mix.

When I had clambered up the rudimentary path to the top of the hill, where I had seen the sheep from a distance, the movement combined with the white fleeces had looked exactly like perilous killer waves. Close up, it was even more alarming. And I was being forced to reassess yet again. Lilla hadn’t plunged into the water, she had plunged into – not a flock, that was far too gentle a word for what was going on. It was woolly warfare.

Crossing an isthmus suggested that she wasn’t the Kraken, since she hadn’t gone underwater. It’s very important on my missions to keep an open mind. On this mission my mind seemed almost too open. At first I didn’t think Lilla was a monster. Then I thought she was. Now I thought she wasn’t. Perhaps my commitment to flexible thinking is one of the reasons Miss Blaine chooses me for these missions.

And now the way ahead was clear – or rather, blocked by sheep. But given my rapport with animals, I walked to the edge of the isthmus and said politely: “Excuse me, please.”

The flock moved with an unsettling unity not to get out my way but to stand and confront me, an impenetrable wall of wool and defiance. There was obviously a language problem. I repeated my request in Old Norse, in Danish, in Norwegian and in Swedish. They simply bowed their heads menacingly, glaring up at me. I tried them with Middle Low German. It had no effect.

They looked like an immoveable object, so it was up to me to become an unstoppable force. I thought Lilla had put on her helmet to keep her hair dry when she dived into the water Now I realised it had acted as a crash helmet when she dived into the sheep.

I cleared my throat. “Last chance,” I said to the sheep. “I’m coming through.”

The lead ram, its curled horns gleaming with menace, let out a guttural warning, and the rest of the flock shuffled together and tightened their ranks, their hooves scraping on the rocky ground.

I felt almost sorry for them. They looked utterly determined, but then so had the team from George Watson’s Ladies’ College when we’d taken them on at basketball. I took a step forward, bouncing an imaginary ball, and as the ram moved to block me, I executed a perfect crossover dribble, taking a wide step in the opposite direction and darting round the beast. It baaed in fury, but I was already accelerating past the next sheep, avoiding its attempt to butt me. The flock was apparently intent on squashing and trampling me, but still bouncing the imaginary ball, I wove through with a series of quick stutter steps and feints, the sheep always just too slow to react. At the time I had thought that the Watson’s girls were a bit like sheep; now I realised that the sheep were as useless as the Watson’s girls. With a final explosive burst of speed, I made it to the other end of the isthmus, the sheep bleating behind me in frustration.

Fortunately they weren’t inclined to pursue me further. From my vantage point on top of the hill, I had seen what I thought was a citadel. But now, standing on this new hillside, I could see more clearly. The path rose up beyond a series of buildings that looked as though they might be farmhouses. It went all the way to what was plainly not a citadel. It was a higgledy-piggledy series of wooden homes leading up to a large wooden building with a steep thatched roof and overhanging eaves.

Suddenly a burly red-faced man appeared round the side of the nearest building, shouting: “Hey you! Have you been upsetting my sheep?”

“By no means,” I said. “Unless I’ve upset them by not letting them squash and trample me. I’ve done nothing but evade them.”

He scanned the flock. “They don’t look happy,” he said accusingly.

“Nor do I,” I said. “I found them really quite aggressive.”

“Because something’s upset them,” he snapped. “They’re not themselves. They’re usually as gentle as lambs.”

I wasn’t going to take the blame for his sheep having a personality change. “Whatever upset them, it was before I got here,” I said. “A woman called Lilla Hwitastierna crossed over before me, although I think she had a bit of trouble with your sheep as well. But I’m pretty sure she’s been going back and forth on that isthmus.”

The farmer’s red face turned puce. “Don’t you dare try to say Lilla Hwitastierna upset my sheep. And she’s perfectly entitled to cross that isthmus as often as she likes. She’s got a job to do.” His eyes narrowed. “Just a minute, are you that Scotswoman she said she’d detected?”

Lilla Hwitastierna had some nerve. “She didn’t detect me. I detected her,” I said. “I saw her in the sea. I thought she was a shipwrecked mariner and ran to rescue her.”

“As if Lilla Hwitastierna would need rescuing!” he scoffed. “What were you doing over there anyway?”

She didn’t seem to have passed on the information that I was a time traveller. It would be best to stick to my cover story.

“I’m a shipwreck survivor myself,” I said. “I had a problem with my kayak.”

“I don’t believe that for a moment,” said the farmer. “You might have been able to come here from Scotland in a coracle, but never a kayak.”

“You’re making assumptions,” I said severely. “I never said I came from Scotland on a kayak.” Belatedly, I realised that this meant I could have told Grimwald and Sporgh that I was Scottish. I could have shown Grimwald how to make spurtles as well as wooden legs, I could have told Sporgh about Scottish cuisine.

“I hired the kayak locally,” I improvised. “I’ve been visiting picturesque ports. You know, Lübeck, Bremen, Rostock. Svendborg, Roskilde, Helsingør.”

“No, I don’t know,” he growled. “I’m glad to say I know nothing about abroad.”

“It’s scarcely abroad when you’re part of it,” I said.

“Part of what?” he asked.

“The union of the three Nordic countries,” I said.

His face turned a kind of mauve. I worried that he might be about to have some sort of cardiac episode, but fortunately I’m fully trained in CPR.

“We’re not part of that,” he gasped.

This was very surprising. We were speaking Old Norse, but that must be some sort of linguistic aberration, and the island must be further south than I had estimated.

“But if you’re not part of the Nordic Union,” I said, “who do you belong to? The Germans? The Teutonic Knights?”

“We don’t belong to anyone,” he managed to splutter. “We’re independent.”

“I don’t understand.” I said. “How can you be independent?”

“Because that’s the way we like it,” he said with a satisfied smile.

I was glad to see that his mauve colouring had given way to mere puce, and his face seemed to be on its way to returning to its normal red.

There was a sudden low subterranean rumbling, almost like a growl. For a moment, I wondered whether it was the Kraken, before remembering that octopuses are silent hunters.

“Time for you to go,” said the farmer sharply.

“Go? Go where?” I said. “I’ve only just arrived.”

“Back to wherever you came from. The island doesn’t like you.”

It was absurd. There had been a tiny earth tremor, and suddenly the farmer had become all anthropomorphic. It was as bad as Grimwald saying that Schwarzkopf was an angel of death, and Sporgh worrying about killer seaweed. Except it was worse, because the farmer was trying to invoke the island to back up his own prejudices. His motivation was so transparent that I couldn’t resist retorting: “The island doesn’t like me, or you don’t like me?”

“You heard it,” he said. “That wasn’t my stomach rumbling. The island wants you gone. So be off with you.”

He grabbed me by the elbow and started propelling me down-hill towards the isthmus. Under other circumstances, I would have freed myself with a simple yet effective martial arts move, but we were getting closer to the sheep, and I didn’t like the way they were looking at me. Or the way they were bunching up, heads down, horns at the ready.

“It’s all right,” the farmer said soothingly to them. “She’s going.

Let her past.”

There was a shuffling and bleating, and they reorganised themselves to create a narrow passage across the isthmus. The farmer gave me a shove and as I stumbled forward, the sheep regrouped behind me to ensure I couldn’t return. The ones directly behind me butted me to keep me moving forward, and I increased my speed to get away from them.

I was quite aggrieved by the unfairness of it all. They were getting at me, but I wasn’t the one who had upset them. That was Lilla. Wearing a bronze helmet and plunging in among them was scarcely going to calm them down. Sheep are highly social animals who stick together. Jostle one and you jostle them all.

However, I had made some progress in my mission. I now knew that there was a second part of the island. I hadn’t found Lilla, but it was clear how she had gone from one part of the island to the other. Since I had met a farmer with sheep, and seen buildings, it was likely that there were more people living across the isthmus. I would have to go back there and pursue my investigations into the death of the murdered sailor. I had a lot to think about as I made my back through the tunnel.

But emerging out of the cliffs on to the beach, I had one more thing to do before I turned in. I made my way to Sporgh’s cave. He was so emotionally fragile that I couldn’t risk going in. And there was no point in trying to reassure him that Lilla wasn’t a monster, since while she might not be the Kraken, it seemed likely she was a murderer, and it was best that he stayed well away from her.

But he needed food. On a previous mission my pouch had contained compostable bags in just such a situation. But this time when I looked, there was a packet wrapped in greaseproof paper with “Sporgh” written on it. The writing was obviously a message to me, Sporgh being unable to read. It couldn’t have anything to do with Miss Blaine, given her refusal to micro-manage, but whoever was responsible, they had done a good job: when I undid a corner to investigate, I found a nice cooked fillet of cod, some soured milk cheese, and a few handfuls of berries and non-seaweed greenery. I quite fancied the look of it, but it had been made very clear that it wasn’t for me. I was slightly concerned about the anachronistic wrapping, but judged that Sporgh would be so desperate for food, he would scarcely register the greaseproof paper.

I left it at the entrance to his cave, and called as unmelodiously as I could to avoid being confused with Lilla: “That’s your tea out. It’s not poisoned or anything. Bon appetit.”

And then, remembering that Lilla had told me about the dearth of French sailors, I added the Danish version: “Nyd dit måltid.”

SEVEN

Day Three

Breakfast: tea without milk. Meal replacement protein bar (white chocolate and cranberry). Seaweed with minerals and trace elements. Bits of foraged greenery. Calories: about 300. Not enough.

I wrote up my diary in the daylight, and having had a good night’s sleep, I concluded that I had been somewhat overdramatic in my assessment of Lilla Hwitastierna, no doubt because of a lack of food. I peered yet again into the pouch in the hope of finding a packet of Bourbon biscuits but now that I had taken out the latest protein bar, it remained empty.

Thinking that Lilla was the Kraken – that was clearly ridiculous. Thinking that there was a Kraken was clearly ridiculous. I wasn’t a simple seafarer, fooled by a map with histrionic illustrations.

A map. The fifteenth century was beset by incompetent cartography – no, not incompetent, actually very competent, but limited by the difficulty and the danger of long sea journeys. The result was distorted coastlines and misplaced locations. I could make an accurate map of the island in my diary, which would help me to track down Lilla, and could also be useful in solving the murder. Agatha Christie provides a map of the train in Murder on the Orient Express, and Dorothy L Sayers has one in The Nine Tailors, so that you can work out where all the suspects were at the relevant times.

There’s also a map in Mrs Spark’s novel Robinson, but I wouldn’t dream of drawing attention to that in case Robinson becomes a gateway drug, tempting readers to move on to The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie. I just hope Miss Blaine doesn’t know about it.

But I have no hesitation in directing borrowers to Robert Louis Stevenson’s Treasure Island, which has an excellent map. It gives directions on finding treasure rather than people, with X marking the spot in no fewer than three places. Interestingly, the original map was lost when Stevenson sent it to the publisher. I suspect the intern who was responsible for the slush pile spilled tea on it and then just chucked it in the wastepaper basket and pretended it had never arrived.

The replacement Treasure Island map that Stevenson drew has Spyglass Hill marked on it, the island’s highest point. A useful suggestion for how I could go about my own map-making. I would go to the top of the cliffs, where I could survey the whole island and then mark relevant information on it, like the cross and where Grimwald and Sporgh stayed.

I set out, with my diary and writing implements safely stowed in my pouch, going in the opposite direction to the rudimentary path to check whether there was another way to go up the cliffs. This was the sort of information that could be crucial to my investigation.

The waves lapped gently on to the shore, and I could hear the cooing of common eiders, alongside the shrillness of common terns and the whistling of common redshanks. I wasn’t sure why all the birds were common: it was probably to do with Scandinavian egalitarianism. I myself am a firm believer in equality, but in Morningside, we’re not keen on things being common.

And then I heard another sound carried on the breeze, with a rhythmic quality that seemed to echo the ebb and flow of the tide. A sound with intricate ornamentations and resonant tones that I might have described as music had it not been excruciatingly dreadful. It was coming from the cliffs. I made my way across the beach to where the noise was coming from, and found the entrance to yet another cave.

I peered round the entrance to see a muscular-looking bloke with unkempt blond hair and an even more unkempt blond beard standing playing the violin. His eyes were closed in concentration as he sang along with the tuneless tune, and he was keeping time with the peg leg that replaced his right leg. It wasn’t Sporgh, whose peg leg was on the left. And it wasn’t Grimwald: the blond hair and beard were much longer and stragglier, and he was singing in Norwegian rather than Middle Low German.

The violin was beautiful, ornately decorated with carving and with white pigment which I guessed had been made from the crushed shells of molluscs. For a moment, I thought it was a Hardanger fiddle, Norway’s traditional folk violin. It has a distinctive sound because there are extra strings underneath the main ones to give it more resonance. But then I remembered the Hardanger fiddle wasn’t invented until the seventeenth century. As I looked more closely, I realised that this fiddle’s odd sound was because the strings weren’t made of sheep gut as would be expected, and the bow’s hair didn’t come from a horse. Instead, they looked as though they were made from some sort of plant material.

I gave a quick round of applause and said: “Bravo!” in faultless Norwegian.

The man’s eyes sprang open. “Who are you?” he demanded, holding the violin protectively against his chest.

“Don’t worry,” I said. “I’m not a monster. I’m a shipwreck survivor – bit of trouble with a kayak. I live in a cave further along the cliffs and I was out for a walk when I was attracted by your beautiful playing. My name’s Shona.”

“Nice to meet a music lover and fellow shipwreck survivor,” he said, putting out a hand and shaking mine. “Hello, Shona. I’m Eirik. So where have you kayaked from? Bergen? Oslo? Stavanger?”

“Yes, pretty much all of them,” I said.

“Impressive to have made it this far,” he said. “Come in and have a seat.”

There actually was a seat, a stool made from a log. A three-legged stool, as though there was a leg missing, which felt very appropriate. And in the corner of the cave was a small carved chest with leaf designs round all the edges.

“Goodness,” I said, “you’re really brilliant at woodwork. All done with your snickersnee?”

“I made the seat and the violin, so I’m not bad,” he said, plonking himself down on the floor of the cave. “But I can’t claim credit for that chest over there. It was washed up with me when I was shipwrecked. I was lucky to be washed up on this island – I didn’t know it was here. It’s not on our maps. You can imagine how glad I was to have the chest. I would have starved otherwise.”

“There’s food in it?” I asked.

“There certainly is. Would you like some?”

“I’d love some,” I said with feeling.

He opened the chest and produced some hard tack ship’s biscuits along with cheese and salt beef. I nearly broke a tooth on the hard tack but it was worth it to have something that wasn’t foraged and wasn’t a protein bar.

“I’ve even,” he said, producing a small cooking pot, “managed to make some rømmegrøt – porridge.”

“There’s nothing I like more than porridge,” I said eagerly, and he slopped some into a wooden bowl for me.

I took a mouthful and only just managed to stop myself from spitting it out.

“This isn’t porridge!” I spluttered.

“Of course it is,” he said. “Flour, sour cream, salt and butter. The butter’s a bit rancid, I suppose, but that goes with the sour cream. And it’s supposed to have cinnamon in it, but there wasn’t any of that in the chest.”

I remembered that Norwegian porridge was nothing like real porridge. And I also remembered seeing the recipe.

“Isn’t it supposed to have sugar in it as well?” I asked.

“What’s sugar?” he asked, and the next thing I remembered was that while Norway had been importing cinnamon since the 1200s, it would be a hundred years before it started sweetening the porridge with the “white gold” from sugar cane.

I laid the bowl on the floor and cast around for a topic of conversation that wasn’t porridge.

Eirik didn’t have the wall decorations that Sporgh had, but with the stool and the chest, it felt cosier than you would expect a cave to be.

“You’ve got it very—” I began, and then hesitated.

“I’ve got it very what?” he asked, sounding a bit offended.

“I’m terribly sorry,” I said. “I don’t know the Norwegian word, I only know the Danish. You’ve got it very hygge.”

“That IS Norwegian!” he shouted. “Bloody Danes, taking the credit for it. They think everything’s theirs.”

“They probably don’t have fiddles like your one,” I pointed out.

“That’s true,” he said, slightly mollified.

“I can’t help noticing,” I said, “that it has rather unusual strings, which gives it a rather unusual sound.” Unusual was the most tactful word I could think of, and so I used it twice.

He smiled proudly. “I know. I was a bit worried that it wouldn’t work when I couldn’t get any sheep gut and horse hair, But it’s even better than the original, don’t you agree?”

“So what have you used instead?” I asked, hoping he wouldn’t notice that I hadn’t answered the question.

“Seaweed,” he said.

“Seaweed?” I said. It looked nothing like the bladderwrack I had been collecting.

“Kelp,” he said. “Took me a couple of days to get it dry enough, and then I was able to twist it into strings for the violin and the bow. It’s really strong.”

He looked so pleased with himself that all I could do was congratulate him for his ingenuity. And then I had to think of something else to talk about before he offered to play another tune, especially as he hadn’t yet played anything that could be classified as a tune.

“I heard another shipwreck survivor came to a sad end the other day,” I said.

“Oh, the Finn?” he said carelessly. “Yes, he was murdered. It was his own fault. I warned him not to leave his cave.”

I was so startled by this piece of information that I nearly fell off the three-legged stool.

“You knew him?” I asked.

“Knew is a bit of an overstatement. You can’t get to know Finns because they just run away and hide if you try to talk to them. But I saw him wandering past, so I took my life in my hands and went out to tell him about the monster.”

At times, it can be useful to play the daft lassie in order to draw out information, so I widened my eyes and said: “Monster?”

“You don’t know about the monster?” he said in surprise. “I suppose you don’t need to. It’s on the prowl for sailors, not peasant women who’ve fallen out of kayaks.”

I had to bite my lip to stop myself saying: “I’m not a peasant, I’m from Morningside.”

“He was obviously a sailor because of his peg leg,” Eirik went on. “So I explained he was in mortal danger from the monster, and must stay in and not come out when it called to him.”

“How did he react?” I asked.

“Put his head down and didn’t give any impression of having understood me. Suffering from a hangover if you ask me. The Finns are terrible for the booze. Terrible. Even worse than the Danes. At least the Danes are cheerful with it.”

I pondered this. “Maybe he really didn’t understand you.”

“I don’t see why he wouldn’t. I was perfectly clear.”

“Did you speak to him in Finnish?”

Eirik gave a disparaging laugh. “Of course not. Nobody speaks Finnish apart from the Finns. Their nouns have fifteen different cases, and every verb has more than two hundred possible endings. Life’s too short.”

“His life was certainly too short,” I said sombrely. “Did you speak to him in Swedish?”

“Of course not,” he said again. “I’m Norwegian. Why would I speak to him in Swedish?”

“So that he could understand,” I said. “Their official language is Swedish.” The Norse languages might be close, but it was entirely possible that in the fifteenth century, the Swedish and Norwegian words for “monster,” “mortal danger,” and “stay indoors” differed dramatically.

I looked in reproach at Eirik. “The poor man probably had no idea what you were talking about, but because he was so shy, he wasn’t able to ask you.”

“Whose fault is that?” he said. “And they’re not shy, they’re weird.” He stood up abruptly with the dexterity that all the peg-legged sailors had. “I don’t like the way you’re talking to me, as though I’m to blame for his death. I think you should leave now.”

I was going to argue, but he picked up his violin and I certainly didn’t want to be in an enclosed space with the ghastly racket. I got up as well, but as I did so, we heard a sound from outside, a beautiful melodic call.

“Halò, a sheòladair!”

Eirik frowned. “The monster. But that’s a new noise it’s making.”

“It’s not a noise,” I said. “It’s Scottish Gaelic.”

“How do you know?” he asked.

“Because I’m fluent in it,” I said. “I’m fluent in a lot of languages. Including Finnish, which really isn’t all that difficult.” If only he’d applied himself, he could have saved that poor seafarer. But it would be far too judgmental to say that out loud and in any case, before I could say anything else, there was another melodious call from outside: “Saluton, maristo!”

“What the hell was that?” he said. “Finnish?”

“Esperanto,” I said. “But she doesn’t actually know it. It was me who taught her that phrase.”

“You?” he whispered. “You’re in league with the monster?”

“No, I’m not,” I began. “Let me explain—”

He took a menacing step towards me with his peg leg. “Get out. Get out while you still can.”

He raised the violin like a weapon, which was only slightly less threatening than the prospect of him playing it, so I got out. And realised that this was the perfect opportunity to follow Lilla and find out where she stayed. I looked to right and left and straight ahead but there was no sign of her. And no sound, either. Those had been her only two calls and now she had completely disappeared. I looked for footprints, but she must have been walking on the dry sand, leaving no trace behind. If I made my way to the tunnel, I risked being seen by her, and while I no longer thought she was the Kraken, I couldn’t rule her out as the murderer of the Finnish sailor. It would be wise to keep a safe distance from her.

And now I thought about it, that had been a very strange reaction from Eirik, suddenly turning on me and claiming I was blaming him for the Finn’s death. When I had done no such thing. It could be the sign of a guilty conscience. And his proficiency in turning seaweed into violin strings – I’m sure there was an episode of Midsomer Murders where someone was strangled with a violin string. I had been dubious about bladderwrack as a murder weapon, but dried and twisted kelp would be perfect.

During the time I was thinking, I had also been jogging up the rudimentary path to the top of what I now thought of as my very own Spyglass Hill. I peered in every direction for Lilla, with no success. There was no sign of her crossing the woolly isthmus. Perhaps she was lurking in the tunnel. Since I was at the island’s highest point, I might as well begin my map of the island before tackling the hinterland.

The bit that was easiest to start with was the north, the forbidding coastline with the other part of the island beyond. Since the grumpy farmer knew Lilla, that was doubtless where she lived, and the buildings I had seen suggested that a lot of other people lived there as well. I would have to return to do more investigating, but I wasn’t looking forward to running the sheep gauntlet again. There was no point in waiting for them to fall asleep, since sheep sleep for only around four hours a day, and I wouldn’t put it past this lot to take it in shifts. But right now, I was concentrating on the map.

I had a rough outline, but even from my vantage point on Spyglass Hill, there were sections I couldn’t see properly because of the woodland and various ridges and dips. The best thing to do would be to walk round the entire coastline, noting the various topographical elements at sea level and then coordinating them with the view from above.

I clambered back down the rudimentary path and began walking round the beach. I passed the entrance to Eirik’s cave, but decided against calling in, partly because of how rude he had been, partly because he might be a murderer and partly, mostly, because he was playing his weird-sounding fiddle.

But as I walked on alongside the chalk cliffs, the horror that had assailed my eardrums was as nothing compared to the horror that now assailed my nostrils. I stepped back in revulsion, clapping my hand over my nose in a bid to minimise the noxious fumes. To no avail: I could feel my stomach churn as the very air around me seemed to thicken. The miasma was coming from a narrow fissure in the cliff, barely wide enough for a body to pass through.

And I had no doubt about what the hideous smell was. It was the stench of death.

EIGHT

The putrid scent was an omen of secrets concealed by the shadows inside. This must be no ordinary death. It must be murder. Had Lilla Hwitastierna drowned another victim while she was a terrifying sea monster, and then turned into her guise as a human to drag the body up from the sea and abandon it in this cave? But why? One thing was certain – I would find no answers standing out here.

But I really, really didn’t want to go inside. One of the reasons I was attracted to librarianship as a profession was that you very rarely have to deal with corpses. On my last mission, in Venice, I was somewhat disconcerted to find that dealing with corpses took up quite a lot of my time. But for the most part they were carefully wrapped in winding sheets, and when they weren’t, I managed not to look at them. But I was currently on a mission whose parameters appeared to have expanded, and my duty right now was to investigate the deceased. From the smell the body was seriously decomposed. I have no expertise whatsoever in pathology, but I figured neither did anyone else on the island, so I would be as good as anyone at establishing the cause of death.

Pinching my nose between thumb and forefinger, I managed to slide into the cave. It wasn’t as dark as I’d expected, since a small fire made of driftwood was glowing in the corner. Beside it was the most symmetrical woodpile I’d ever seen. And in the glow, I could see absolutely no sign of a dead body. Merely a live one, a muscular-looking bloke with unkempt blond hair and an even more unkempt blond beard, just like Eirik but not Eirik. And his left leg was wooden.

The smell in the cave was overpoweringly rank. To my embarrassment, I realised if the only body around was live, that must be the source. But it would be rude to say anything. Gingerly, I took my finger and thumb off my nose and tried to breathe through my mouth.

The individual, clearly another shipwreck survivor, was staring at me in astonishment, though thankfully not waving a snickersnee. It was time to introduce myself.

“Hello,” I said in all-purpose Old Norse. “I’m new here. All very unexpected. Trouble with a kayak. My name’s Shona.”

“My name’s odd,” he said.

If I could say Lilla Hwitastierna, I wasn’t going to be fazed by much else. “I’m sure it isn’t,” I said.

“Yes it is,” he insisted.

His accent was Swedish, so I moved on to his native language. “Come now,” I said. “It may be unusual, but I promise I’ll be able to pronounce it. Just tell me what it is.”

“It’s odd!” he shouted. “Odd!”

“Ah,” I said. “Is your name Odd?”

“That’s what I’ve been telling you,” he said. “Honestly. Still, what can you expect from someone who goes out on the Baltic in a kayak. You’re lucky you landed up here. I couldn’t believe it myself when I washed up on dry land – there’s no sign of any island on the maps. Where did you come from, anyway? Stockholm? Kalmar? Nyköping?”

“Yes, thereabouts,” I said. These were all Swedish towns. So much for Lilla Hwitastierna’s snide remarks about my Scottish accent. Odd accepted me as a Swede, Sporgh had no problem with me being Danish, and Eirik obviously thought I was Norwegian until I made the gaffe about thinking hygge was just a Danish word.

I glanced round the corpse-free cave with its small fire. Minimalist, but cosy.

“It’s nice here,” I said. “You’ve got it very hygge.”

He frowned. “What? What’s wrong with you, suddenly talking Danish? Terrible language, sounds as though you’re speaking through a mouthful of porridge.”

I could imagine that if I had been speaking through a mouthful of Norwegian porridge I would sound pretty rough.

“You mean,” said Odd patronisingly, “it’s mysa.” Considering they all had a grounding in Old Norse, I was peeved to be taken to task yet again.

“If it comes to that,” I said, “Odd sounds a lot more Norwegian than Swedish.”

“Do you have something against Norwegians?” he demanded. “My parents were very cosmopolitan. And I couldn’t wish for a more appropriate name. It means the sharp edge of a blade.”

He reached behind the wood stack to produce a large axe whose blade looked very sharp indeed.

“Nobody chops wood as well as I do,” he said proudly, waving the axe in the air and then leaning it on his shoulder. I hoped it was just wood that he chopped.

As he moved, the stench in the cave got significantly worse. I thought at first that it had something to do with the exposure of Odd’s underarms. But in the dimness, I made out another pile beside the wood that he had dislodged when he retrieved the axe. I dreaded to think what it was.

Odd caught the direction of my glance and said even more proudly: “My fish stocks. Surströmming – fermented Baltic herring.”

“Goodness,” I said faintly. “It’s quite … pungent.”

“It is, isn’t it?” he said, beaming. “A real scent of home. And not just herring. I’ve got prawns as well.”

He leaned into the darkness and produced a handful of prawns, still in their shells. Before my astonished gaze he peeled them without breaking a single shell and then wove the shells into a perfect Celtic knot which he hung on one of the cave’s protuberances. Now that my eyes were getting accustomed to the darkness, I could see there were beautiful prawn shell decorations all over the walls.

“This really is hyg – mysa,” I said.

“I know,” he said. “When it comes to home interiors, the Swedes know what they’re doing. Same with cooking. Goodness, where are my manners? Let me give you some surströmming. There’s loads here.”

“No, you’re fine,” I said quickly. “I’ve already eaten.” Protein bars were definitely preferable.

“Of course, some people say it should only be eaten outside, preferably in a high wind,” said Odd. “They’re the ones who object to the smell, no idea why. It’s lucky that I had gathered up a lot of fish before I discovered there was a monster. Have you heard about it?”

“Oh yes,” I said. “People round here speak of little else.”

“You’ll be all right, not being a seafarer,” he said. “No offence.”

“None taken,” I said. I wasn’t sure what kind of ship he had been on. Perhaps a cog, a broad, single-masted ship with a flat-bottomed hull. Or a caravel with its distinctive triangular sail. Or even a multiple-masted carrack with a forecastle. Whichever it was, its crew would look down on a kayak. Literally.

“I believe one of your colleagues came to grief recently,” I said.

His jaw jutted. “I’m a plain-spoken man. I call a bilge pump a bilge pump.”

“Ah, but what do you call a spade?” I thought.

“I wouldn’t say came to grief. I would say murdered,” he declared.

That was certainly plain speaking, and very useful. You can never have too much information when you’re investigating a murder. But I had to be very careful with the way I questioned him. I had my suspicions about Lilla, and also about Eirik, but it’s important to ask open-ended questions that don’t lead the witness.

“What happened?” I asked.

Odd shook his head. “It was terrible.”

Terrible. Sporgh, Grimwald and Eirik had all used the same word when talking about the Finn’s death. Although, to be fair, Eirik was saying that Finns were terrible for the drink.

“In what way terrible?” I asked. He might just be referring to another unfortunate national characteristic.

“You could tell he’d been murdered by a sea monster because of all the seaweed,” he said. “Round his neck it was, strangling him.”

I now knew that the Finn couldn’t have drowned as a result of being shipwrecked, as Sporgh and Eirik had already seen him walking around the island. Had Eirik followed him and murdered him? Or had he been lured to his death by Lilla?

As if she was mockingly corroborating what Odd was telling me, I heard her melodious voice ring out: “Χαίρε ναύτη!”

Odd shivered. “That lovely, lovely voice! It enraptures me, even though I can’t understand what it says. I feel I would follow it to the ends of the earth. But I must be strong and resist.”

“It’s all right,” I said. “The monster’s not after you this time, it’s looking for Greeks.”

“Oh,” he said, and for a moment I thought he might be jealous.

But this was my chance. Lilla had sounded close by, and we were nowhere near the rudimentary path. I would be sure to find her this time.

“Sorry, must dash,” I said to Odd. “See you later.”

Without waiting for a reply, I emerged into the daylight and looked around. Yet again, there was absolutely no sign of Lilla. Neither was there any sign of a gigantic sea monster, either lumbering down the beach or splashing in the water, conclusive proof that she wasn’t the Kraken. She had vanished into thin air, just like Brigadoon.

I was still baffled by how she could have come to have heard of Brigadoon in the first place. But I deduced that she had once again slunk into the tunnel leading under the cliffs to the isthmus, the one that Schwarzkopf had led me to and through.

I would give Lilla a good head start so that she didn’t see me, and then follow her. Schwarzkopf’s help had been invaluable in my discovering that the island was in two separate halves. I remembered Grimwald’s description of him as a harbinger, a wandering spirit, an angel of death. That didn’t fit at all with my experience of the bird. I couldn’t imagine Schwarzkopf as a harbinger of anything untoward, and there was nothing deathly about his bright colours, apart from the black feathers on top of his head, which looked more like a fashion statement than anything else. Nor did he seem to be an angel: to me, he was just a parrot, willing and able to guide me.

As I waited for there to be a safe distance between me and Lilla in the tunnel, I felt quite peckish. I sat down in the sand, leaning against the cliff wall, and rootled in my pouch. All that was there was a piece of flapjack. I could have done with some macaroni cheese, but that would have messed up the pouch, and I didn’t have any cutlery.

I was just biting into the flapjack when there was a sudden brush of soft feathers against my cheek. It was Schwarzkopf, as if my merely thinking about him had summoned him. I realised he must be in search of food. Parrots in the wild eat fruit, nuts, seeds, vegetables, grasses and the occasional insect, and he wouldn’t be having much luck with most of these. I broke off a piece of flapjack and offered it to him.

He nibbled it, put his head to the side for a while, then squawked approvingly: “Pieces of oat! Pieces of oat!”

I could understand his delight. Protein is as essential for parrots as it is for humans, and is a crucial building block for all body tissues, including feathers. We sat eating the flapjack in a companionable way, and it struck me that Schwarzkopf probably didn’t know my name. He might have a more limited vocabulary than other birds and animals I’ve encountered on my missions, but we still seemed to have a good rapport. And parrots are great at saying words even if they have no idea what they mean, which is no different from some people.

I turned my head to look at him, and said: “By the way, my name’s Shona, Shona McMonagle.”

He blinked once or twice, flicked his tail and squawked: “ShonaShona! ShonaShona!”

It was better than nothing. Usually on my missions there’s a bit of a problem teaching people to say my name, and I have to break it down into syllables for them. I should be similarly patient with a parrot. So I made eye contact again with Schwarzkopf and said in a gentle and soothing voice: “Sho-na.”

I repeated my name a few times, slightly lengthening the “o” vowel. Schwarzkopf looked at me intently, but didn’t say anything. Disappointed, I turned away when there was a sudden triumphant squawk: “Sho-NA! Sho-NA!”

It was pretty good, even though the stress on the second syllable was a bit disconcerting. I smiled encouragingly at him and continued. “Mac-mon-a-gle.”

Nothing. Five more times I repeated it, slowly, patiently. Still nothing. Schwarzkopf stared at me blankly. I began to think there was a lot of truth in “bird brain.” Then he put his head on one side, in just the way he had done after sampling the flapjack, which obviously indicated that he was thinking hard. Sure enough, there was a triumphant flapping of wings and he shrieked: “Mangle-moggle! Mangle-moggle!”

I considered this. It was recognisable, just about. There was even the hint of a Morningside accent. I had done what I could to teach Schwarzkopf my name, and unfortunately I had never studied the skill of un-teaching a parrot a word it had learned. So “Sho-NA Sho-NA Mangle-Moggle” I would have to be.

I got up and made my way to the entrance, Schwarzkopf flying round my head and bellowing the new-found name in my ear. I estimated that by this time, Lilla would be safely through the tunnel, but true to Miss Blaine’s dictum, I knew better than to assume.

“We have to be quiet now, just in case Lilla’s still around,” I whispered to Schwarzkopf, and got a muted squawk in return: “Aye, aye, cap’n!”

As I navigated the tunnel with my feathered companion, my main concern was not Lilla but the sheep. I still had the bruises from my last encounter with them. And there was also the grumpy farmer to contend with, who didn’t want me on his half of the island. I wondered whether Schwarzkopf would be any good at dive-bombing them. The sheep had paid no attention to me when I tried to communicate with them, but perhaps if an incoming Schwarzkopf was shrieking: “Stand by to go about!” they would scatter quickly enough.

To my huge relief, when we reached the end of the tunnel, not a single sheep was barricading the way – I had a completely clear path ahead of me. I could hear faint baaing in the distance and saw the flock grazing halfway up a hill on my side of the island, about half a mile from the isthmus. There was no sign of the grumpy farmer. I wondered whether he knew his sheep had gone to the other side, especially when he had told me to go back where I came from. If so, it was the worst form of NIMBYism, objecting to people in his back yard and then sending his sheep to encroach on mine.

But given that I was on a mission, it would be a poor use of my time to glare resentfully at the sheep. It struck me that on previous missions, I generally felt a tingling when I was near the person I was trying to help. But there hadn’t been the faintest hint of a tingle. But of course there had been no tingle, since the person I was trying to help was a murder victim. As I set out across the isthmus, Schwarzkopf swooping round me, I thought how helpful it would be if I tingled in the presence of the murderer. But if it were as easy as that, then virtually anybody could be sent on a mission: there would be no need for the crème de la crème. The difficulty of the task was an indication of the trust Miss Blaine placed in me because of my acumen.

And my acumen was firing on all cylinders as I continued across the isthmus. Lilla was a suspect, but so was the grumpy farmer. He was extremely territorial. Perhaps like me, the Finn had found his way to the other part of the island and had ended up in an altercation with the farmer. But no; if he was a Finn, he would have actively avoided an altercation with anyone. The farmer could have mistaken his timidity for dumb insolence. He could have been enraged by the Finn’s apparent refusal to go away when in fact he was paralysed by fear. The farmer could have attacked the Finn and flung his body into the sea off the isthmus, where the currents carried it round to Grimwald’s beach. And en route, the body could have become entangled in seaweed, just as I had suggested.

Now I felt bad for having suspected Eirik and Sporgh. There was probably some sort of comradeship among one-legged seafarers that made them unlikely to murder one another. And Eirik had said he actually went out to warn the Finn about the monster. Perhaps in his panic, the Finn had blundered through the tunnel, a tragic error resulting in his death at the hands of the territorial farmer. It would be incautious to remove the seafarers completely from my list of suspects, but they were now number three and four, after Lilla and the farmer.

By this time, I had crossed the isthmus and was looking up at the range of buildings on the hill in front of me, farmsteads first, then wooden homes, and at the top, the non-citadel with its steep thatched roof and overhanging eaves. I realised that this suggested there were likely to be more people here than my top two suspects. I would have to be on constant alert for any clues or incriminations.

Schwarzkopf had disappeared, possibly seeking out insects to supplement the flapjack. I set off on my upward trek, making my way towards the first building, a barn made of horizonal pine planks, fitted into a wooden frame. And as I got closer, I could hear a male voice choir singing. Not so much singing as roistering. It was clear that strong drink had been taken. Since I wasn’t likely to get any sense out of them, I walked on to the next barn. More roistering, even louder.

The noise from the third barn was louder still and considerably more tuneless. Being barns, there were no windows, and the gaps between the planks had been filled in with a mixture of mud and straw. But there were a few small openings in the walls to allow for ventilation. I tiptoed up to one, not that anybody could have heard me over the noise, and peeked in.

The barn was full of men hopping around to the beat of their singing, waving rams’ horns filled with beer, most of which was slopping over them as they hopped. They were slurring so much that it was difficult to make out the words, but I thought I heard flotnar – seafarers – and skipsbrot – shipwreck. I realised they were singing a sea shanty, and I also realised why they were hopping. They all had peg legs which they had stacked neatly in the corner, possibly to stop them getting splattered with beer. Their one-legged agility was impressive, honed by all their time on the ocean.

“They’re good, aren’t they?” a voice boomed in my ear, and I whirled round to find a woman grinning cheerfully at me. She was wearing a long brown woollen gown, cinched at the waist by a coarse fabric belt, and she was brandishing a twig. For a moment, I thought she was attacking me and/or casting a spell on me. I was about to disarm her when I grasped that she was waving along to the singing. This was quite some feat, since they were changing tempo as often as a sloth takes a nap.

She said something else, but I couldn’t catch it because of the din coming from the barn.

“I said,” she bellowed, drawing me back to the path, and then continuing in a more normal tone, “you must be the Scotswoman Lilla was telling us about. You Scots are very strange. No offence.”

I was well aware that the expected response was “None taken,” but I found the remark extremely offensive.

“In what way?” I asked coldly.

Her face fell and she lowered the twig. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to criticise. It seems strange to me, but I’m sure it’s a perfectly legitimate lifestyle choice.”

I dreaded to think what Lilla had been saying about me. “What is?” I demanded.

“Living in a cave. We like living in houses here. That’s my cottage over there.” She pointed to a small wooden hut with turf on the roof. “I had no idea there were people who lived in caves. You would think it was only really poor people who would do that, so I was really surprised to find out that even your king lived in a cave.”

For a moment, I thought that she had taken leave of her senses. And then I worked it out.

“Are you talking about King Robert the Bruce?” I asked.

She nodded. “Yes, and it wasn’t a very nice cave either, full of cobwebs and spiders.”

“One spider,” I told her. “And one cobweb. That’s the whole point.”

“Ah, now I understand,” she said. “The common people lived in caves full of cobwebs and spiders, but because he was the king, he had only the one cobweb and only the one spider.”

“I have no idea who told you about Robert the Bruce,” I said, “but that isn’t the story at all.”

She waved the twig in a conciliatory manner. “She probably told it perfectly well, and I just wasn’t listening properly. I’m not very interested in kings.”

It wasn’t difficult to work out that “she” was Lilla, with her Edinburgh accent, pretending to know about all things Scottish. And it was more than likely that she had been spouting complete nonsense about Scots in caves.

“I’d better tell you the correct story and perhaps this time you could try to listen properly,” I said.

She lowered the twig. “All right,” she said. “But I find it difficult to listen on an empty stomach. Perhaps you’d like to share a meal with me? I’ve made porridge.”

“Proper porridge?” I asked. “Not rømmegrøt, that Norwegian stuff?”

She laughed. “I wouldn’t dream of making that foul-tasting stuff. Of course it’s proper porridge.”

I had been missing my daily bowlful so much. I could have hugged her, except of course, I couldn’t have – we hadn’t even been introduced, and no Edinburgh person goes around hugging random strangers.

“Who are you, by the way?” I asked.

“I’m the kördirigent,” she said.

The choir mistress. Someone professionally trained to listen. So despite her self-deprecation, I was sure she had listened accurately to Lilla as the so-called detective spouted her garbled version of Scottish history. Lilla was to blame – for this, and who knew what else.

We set off for the choir mistress’s hut, passing another farm outbuilding, still made of pine planks but quite bizarre in its construction. While the others were a rectangular shape, this was a polygon. I counted at least seven corners on the part I could see. But while it looked eccentric, it was blessedly silent.

“No male voice choir in there?” I joked.

She gave a sigh. “I know. It’s a challenge. I need to do something about it, but that’s another thing that’s difficult to plan on an empty stomach.”

She ushered me into her hut through a low wooden door. There was a small fire in the middle of the single room, and over it was a metal tripod holding a simmering cooking pot. There were no windows; instead, a hole in the roof was the escape route for the smoke from the fire. But it was warm enough for the door to be left open to give us natural light.

There were a couple of wooden stools, four-legged, and the choir mistress politely motioned for me to sit down. She herself went over to the cooking pot and began stirring the contents. I could feel my mouth watering at the prospect of porridge.

“It’ll be ready in a minute,” she said. “Tell me more about yourself, dearie. Do you do any singing yourself?”

I didn’t like to boast about being the soloist in the school choir, so I just said: “A little.”

“I’m very happy to hear that,” she said. “Would you sing me a song?”

I felt it should be something other than a sea shanty, to demonstrate musical versatility. The perfect example sprang to mind – the little-sung third verse of the school song, ending like all the verses, with our Latin motto, Cremor Cremoris, the crème de la crème. I rose to my feet and began.

“To north or south or east or west,

Wherever we are found,

Our education brings the best

To everyone around.

Our brain cells work exceeding fast,

Forever first and never last,

Our intellect thus unsurpassed.

Cremor, Cremor Cremoris!”

I had scarcely finished the last note when she too was on her feet, applauding.

“Marvellous, dearie, marvellous!” she said. “What a sound! After all that exertion, I’m sure you could do with some porridge.”

She picked up two wooden bowls and spooned some of the contents of the cooking pot into each.

“There you go,” she said, handing me one.

This absolutely wasn’t porridge. It looked like slimy popcorn and smelled like broiling mud. The most I could say for it was that it wasn’t rømmegrøt.

“What is it?” I asked.

“Porridge,” she said, despite all evidence to the contrary.

I tried again. “What’s it made with?”

“Buckwheat, of course,” she said. “What else would you make porridge with?”

Being in a foreign land where they knew no better, I bit my tongue. And then I opened my mouth and tried a spoonful. It had a nutty, earthy flavour, and I might have quite enjoyed it if I hadn’t been expecting it to have a completely different taste.

The choir mistress settled herself down with a bowl of her own and said: “Now then, dearie, while you’re eating that, why not tell me about this king of yours who had just the one spider. Were there people who killed all the other spiders for him?”

“Certainly not,” I said. “You must never kill a spider, because a spider helped King Robert the Bruce.”

“So has Scotland been overrun by spiders? Is that why you’ve moved here?” she asked.

“We have the usual distribution of spiders. They’re not over-running the country. And they’ve got nothing to do with why I’m here,” I said. Then, to avoid any more questions about why I was here, I quickly went on: “Robert the Bruce had been fighting the dastardly English in the battle for independence, but things hadn’t been going well, and he was forced to take refuge in a cave.”

She stopped eating her buckwheat porridge. “Fighting and taking refuge – is that what you’re doing, dear?” she asked, her brow creasing.

“Not at all,” I said. “I’m not fighting anybody. I’m only in a cave because it gets a bit chilly at night.”

“I’m glad to hear it” she said. “We don’t approve of fighting here. Fighting is a very bad thing.”

“He wasn’t fighting for the sake of it. He was fighting for a cause,” I said, but I could see the distinction was beyond her. “Anyway, he was hiding in this cave, thinking to himself that perhaps he should just give up all the fighting.”

“Splendid,” said the choir mistress. “I still think it’s peculiar, living in a cave, but if it encourages you to make the right decision, then it’s a good thing. Would you like some more porridge?”

It wasn’t completely revolting and it was a change from protein bars.

“Yes please,” I said, holding out my bowl. “But I haven’t actually finished my story yet. The spider, remember?”

“Goodness, dearie, I’d forgotten all about the blessed spider,” she said, ladling the buckwheat slurry into my bowl. “This is a very long story.”

“Nearly finished,” I said, trying not to sound huffy. “As the Bruce sat there in despair, he noticed a spider trying to weave a web. It started to climb up a thread but it fell down. It made another attempt and fell down again. But it still didn’t give up. It kept going despite the failures and eventually triumphed. Robert the Bruce took this as a sign – if at first you don’t succeed, try, try, try again. So he came out of the cave, and beat the dastardly English at the battle of Bannockburn.”

“What an awful story,” said the choir mistress disapprovingly. “Especially as it seemed to be going so well when he decided to stop fighting. Would you like a cup of tea?”

I was about to put her right and explain that the central theme of the story was persistence and perseverance in the face of adversity, and never giving up on one’s goals. But one of my goals was getting a proper brew: the reusable water bottle had its limitations.

And this was yet another reminder that I was doing invaluable work on these time-travelling missions. I was discovering the truth about how earlier societies had lived. I had no idea that tea was drunk in fifteenth century Scandinavia: this was evidence that the Nordic countries had been trading with China much earlier than hitherto realised.

“Thank you, a cup of tea would be lovely,” I said.

“And,” she went on, busying herself at the tripod with some earthenware pots, “wait till you see how I’m going to make it. It’s a new invention, created by our craft shop lady – she’s very clever. She calls it a tea bag. You put the tea in the bag and then put the bag in the water. Amazing, isn’t it?”

I could scarcely say that there was nothing remotely amazing about a tea bag, except that this was the fifteenth century - it would be several hundred years before a New York tea importer thought to put the tea leaves in silk. And then I realised this was further evidence of trade links with the Far East – tea and silk. I would be putting a great many historians right.

The choir mistress handed me a brimming rough-hewn wooden mug and I took a grateful swig. A second later, I was choking.

The mug fell from my fingers, and the choir mistress grabbed it with one hand just before it reached the floor, while giving me a thump on the back with the other hand. A projectile shot out of my mouth, and I managed to gasp: “What was that?”

“Tea,” she said. “Buckwheat tea. What else would you make tea from?”

“Not that,” I wheezed. “What was the thing that obstructed my airway?”

“Oh, goodness, dearie,” she said. “You’re not supposed to swallow the tea bag. I didn’t think to warn you because it seemed so obvious.”

“It wasn’t the tea bag,” I told her. “It was a piece of fluff.”

“Yes,” she said. “The tea bag.” She leaned down to pick up a damp piece of tea-stained fluff. “This is it.”

“That’s not a tea bag,” I said.

“Excuse me, dear, but it is,” she said. “You Scottish people won’t know about them, since the craft shop lady has only just invented them. She gathers bits of wool, and then she pushes buckwheat into the middle of them. You pop them into hot water, and there’s your cup of tea.”

The choir mistress’s “tea bag” bore a distinct resemblance to a cotton wool ball, the kind they sell in the Morningside pharmacy. Soft and absorbent, useful for cleaning wounds, removing make up, applying ointments. Definitely not for making tea with.

I was appalled. “Does she even wash the wool first?”

The choir mistress frowned. “Why would she bother washing it first when it’s going into hot water? That would just be a waste of her time.”

I gingerly probed my mouth with my tongue, desperately trying to dislodge the remaining remnants of wool. But all I was doing was spreading greasy lanolin round my gums. As a Blainer, I know the social niceties, but sometimes they have to be ignored. I stuck out my tongue and rubbed it vigorously with my sleeve.

“Is that a Scottish custom?” the choir mistress asked with interest.

“Only when dealing with woolly tea bags,” I said. “I’m sorry to say this, but they’re disgusting. Why don’t you make them from silk?”

“What’s silk?” she asked.

I automatically went into instructive mode. “Silk is a natural fibre produced by silkworms—”

“Eurghh,” she interrupted, screwing up her face. “You think our lovely woolly tea bags are disgusting, and you want something made of worms instead? Now that really is disgusting.”

I was about to explain that silkworms were the larvae of the Bombyx mori moth and therefore not worms. But suddenly I registered that she hadn’t used tea leaves and she didn’t know what silk was.

“You don’t trade with China, do you?” I asked.

“Oh no,” she said, the pride in her voice unmistakable. “We don’t trade with anybody. We like to keep ourselves to ourselves.”

This was extraordinary. The Baltic in the fifteenth century was a major trading route. But had I been guilty of assuming?

“We’re in the middle of the Baltic, aren’t we?” I asked.

She tilted her head enquiringly. “The Baltic?”

“The Baltic Sea.”

“Yes, I think I’ve heard people mention that name. But we just call it the sea. The sailors sing about different seas, but since we don’t know where the seas are, we don’t really pay attention.”

“Sailors? What sailors?” I asked.

“Are you getting a bit forgetful, dearie?” asked the choir mistress. “You were talking about them when we met.”

I racked my brains. I hadn’t said a word about Grimwald, Sporgh, Eirik or Odd. Even if they had taken refuge in caves because of a mistaken belief that Lilla was the Kraken, there was something dodgy going on. Grimwald and Odd had confirmed that there had been a murder, and until I knew more about what was going on, I wasn’t going to share any information with anybody. The choir mistress seemed a harmless old biddy, but she could just as easily be a cold-blooded killer. She might even have tried to kill me with that so-called tea bag. And now she could be trying to trap me into divulging information.

“No,” I said with a casual laugh. “I don’t know anything about any sailors, so I’m quite certain I haven’t been talking about them.”

She had a concerned look now. “Maybe I should make you another cup of tea. Not buckwheat, but rosemary. That’s for remembrance.”

This could just as well be another attempt at murder since the first one had failed. “No thank you,” I said firmly. “I’ve had quite enough liquid refreshment.” Abruptly, I changed the conversation to catch her off guard. “What do you think of Lilla Hwitastierna?”

She puffed out her cheeks. “Lilla Hwitastierna. She’s a strange one. She goes in the sea.”

I felt a new kinship with the choir mistress. This craze for wild swimming is beyond me. I remained on guard, but I was less convinced that she was trying to murder me.

“The rest of us stay on dry land,” she went on. “Why would you go in the sea? It’s cold, it’s wet, and you never know what it’s going to do next.”

I couldn’t agree more, but something still puzzled me.

“If you’re not keen on the sea, why do you sing sea shanties?”

She blinked. “Sea shanties, dearie? Goodness me, no, we’d never sing sea shanties.”

I was changing my mind about this woman more often than I hid copies of Mrs Spark’s dreadful book. First, she had tried to convince me I had been talking about sailors when I hadn’t, and now she was trying to convince me that I hadn’t heard the islanders singing sea shanties. This was high-level gaslighting. Or perhaps I should give her the benefit of the doubt – she might not know what a sea shanty was. The words had been very slurred.

“Sea shanties are songs that help sailors carry out tasks like hoisting sails or hauling anchor in a coordinated way,” I said. “They have straightforward, repetitive melodies, and a rhythm that helps synchronise movement and foster camaraderie. What the people in the farm outbuildings were singing were definitely sea shanties.”

“But they’re not us, dearie,” she said in a consciously tolerant voice. “You really could do with some memory tea. We’ve spoken about this already. I told you we don’t sing sea shanties. The ones singing them in the barns, they’re the sailors.”

“Sailors?” I said. “How are they sailors?”

“The usual way, I expect, by going to sea on ships,” she said. “Lilla detects them. She swims round looking for them, and brings them back here. She says they’re here to benefit all of us.” The choir mistress leaned towards me and lowered her voice. “But there are always some who – you know – don’t approve of that sort of thing.”

“I can imagine,” I said, my voice a bit high-pitched. I like to think I’m broadminded, but if she meant what I thought she meant, then I didn’t approve of that sort of thing either.

I had no sooner thought this than there was an ominous subterranean rumbling sound. The ground under my feet suddenly began to shake, and my wooden cup tilted over, depositing the rest of the tea over my skirt. Clumps of grassy thatching dislodged and fell on the earthen floor, narrowly missing me.

“Oh dear,” said the choir mistress. “Apologies. It does this from time to time.”

“Is it the Kraken?” I found myself saying.

Just because Lilla wasn’t the Kraken didn’t mean there wasn’t one. Legendary it might be, but as Lilla had said, there’s always an element of truth in myths and legends.

“The Kraken?” said the choir mistress, brushing traces of grass and dried mud out of her hair. “No.”

It was exactly the tone a Marcia Blaine teacher would use with a pupil who had confused King James III with King James IV. And it wasn’t a tone I was used to being addressed in.

“The Kraken lives in the sea,” she said. “We have nothing to do with the sea. What’s happening at the moment is the island. It sorts things out for us.”

She gave a satisfied nod

“I don’t understand,” I said. “How can an island sort things out?”

She shrugged, seemingly puzzled by my question. “It just does.”

“It’s an earth tremor, is that what you’re saying?” I asked, remembering that low subterranean rumbling when I was talking to the farmer. This must be a seismically active zone.

“Not quite, dearie, it’s more like the earth shrugging its shoulders, but in a friendly sort of way. It gave a little shoogle the other day—”

“Sorry,” I interrupted, “did you just say ‘shoogle’?”

“That’s what I said, dear. Do you not know the word?”

“I certainly do,” I said. “It’s a fine Scottish word meaning shake. But I had no idea it was one of the words that came to us from Old Norse.”

She looked confused, not surprisingly, since naturally she would have no idea she was speaking Old Norse.

“A word in your language,” I elaborated.

“But it’s not a word in our language,” she said. “It’s a Scottish word, just as you said. And a very evocative word it is too. We all use it now.”

More of Lilla Hwitastierna’s influence, I realised. A Scottish ship had obviously passed by at some point, she’d had a chat with the crew, and now she considered herself an expert on all things Caledonian. Although I still had no idea how she’d heard of Brigadoon.

“Anyway,” the choir mistress went on, “after the island’s little shoogle, as though it was clearing its throat, I expected this big shoogle sooner rather than later.”

I was going to give her the British Geological Survey’s description of movements within the earth’s crust causing stress to build up at points of weakness, producing vibrational energy when rocks break. But I realised that would be beyond her powers of comprehension. It’s only when you’ve had the finest education in the world that you can fully appreciate the velocity of seismic waves. It was best to play along with this latest instance of primitive anthropomorphic beliefs.

“Could you give me an example of something the island’s sorted out for you?” I asked.

She beamed. “Yes, of course, dearie. When ships get wrecked on the rocks, and things get washed up on the shore, the island decides whether we need them or not.”

I couldn’t help a slight shudder at the euphemism. “Things,” I repeated heavily. “You mean the bodies of the drowned sailors?”

“Oh, goodness, no. The island would tell the sea not to bother us with dead bodies. We only get live ones, and then Lilla goes off and detects them. No, things like lingonberries – we’ve had a couple of barrels of those, which was very nice. And nuts. And not long ago, we had a huge load of stuff, gold and silver and jewels and armour and weapons. We gathered it all up and put it in a big pile. We were just having a discussion about what we should do with it when the island opened up and swallowed the whole lot. Well, apart from one helmet, and Lilla uses that to keep her hair dry when she goes out detecting. That was the island telling us that it’s wrong to fight, and we shouldn’t have weapons.”

“But what about the gold and silver and jewels?” I asked.

“What about them?”

“They’re valuable,” I said. “Worth a lot of money.”

She wagged a reproving finger at me. “We don’t have any truck with money here. Much too complicated.”

“But if you want something and you don’t have money, how do you get it?” I asked.

“By saying please and thank you. Don’t you have those words in Scotland?”

I was stung by her tone of disapproval. “We most certainly do,” I assured her. “Especially in Morningside, where I come from. But we also hand over hard cash.” I could scarcely remember the last time I had handed over hard cash, but it would be too complicated to tell her about swiping plastic cards and Google Wallet payments.

“I don’t see the point,” she said. “Someone puts more grass on your roof, why would you give them cash, however hard it is? What are they going to do with it, put it on a table and look at it? Much better to make them some soup.”

She stood up and stretched, easing her back. “Anyway, it’s getting late, dearie. It’ll be pitch black by the time you’re getting back to your cave, and you’ll never find it. Why don’t you stay the night? We’ll go and see what the island’s telling us tomorrow morning.”

I had a surreptitious look in my pouch, and in the absence of a torch decided to accept her offer. She made up a bed for me using tea bags which proved surprisingly comfortable.

NINE

I was awakened the next morning by the sound of many footsteps and excited chattering. Through the open door I could see people of various ages and sizes carefully making their way downhill. I went outside to find the choir mistress greeting people as they passed by on their way to the isthmus, which was once again covered in sheep. I wondered whether there would be a Mexican stand-off, or whether the sheep would back off at the sight of a crowd as opposed to a single librarian. But instead of trying to cross to my part of the island, the islanders at the front of the procession cut off to the right before they reached the barns with the roistering sailors. If they were all to be considered suspects in my murder inquiry, it was going to take quite a while to interview them.

“Kördirigent!”

There was a peremptory shout aimed at the choir mistress from one of the passing throng, a burly chap with a surly expression.

“Mercy, not him again,” she muttered under her breath, before smiling widely as though he was her favourite person in the whole world.

“Councillor!” she said brightly. “The very person. Let me introduce you to our latest visitor. She’s from Scotland, and she turned up quite of her own accord. She lives in a cave on the other side of the island.”

“She what?” spluttered the councillor, making a beeline for me while the choir mistress said: “So sorry, must dash,” and joined the file of islanders. I got the distinct impression that she had used me as a decoy.

The councillor surveyed me sourly. “I’m sick of you people turning up without a by-your-leave,” he said.

I wasn’t sure how important he was in the local community, so thought it safest to try to placate him.

“It wasn’t deliberate,” I said. “I’m afraid I had a problem with my kayak.”

“A kayak?” If he raised his eyebrows any more, they would be hovering over his head. “You’re cluttering up our beaches with a kayak?”

“No, it sank,” I said quickly and then, in case he accused me of polluting the island’s territorial waters, I added: “Quite far out. I had to swim for ages to reach shore.” I bent my knees a bit so that my kirtle completely concealed my DMs, clearly undamaged by sea water.

“And you just thought you’d come and leech off our resources?” he demanded.

“I’m extremely self-sufficient,” I assured him, without going into details. He wouldn’t understand about the meal replacement protein bars, and he’d probably disapprove of me eating the local seaweed.

But he wasn’t even listening. “Just like those carpet baggers and freeloaders.” He glowered in the direction of the barns. “Singing their blasted sea shanties at all hours.”

I nodded towards the nearby polygon-shaped barn, which I now calculated had at least twelve corners. “There’s no singing coming from there.”

His eyes narrowed. “They’re quiet. Too quiet. I don’t like it.”

I didn’t like him. I like most people: as befits a Blainer, I am tolerant, sympathetic and empathetic, and get on well with people from all walks of life. I also have the ability to spot those on whom liking would be wasted, and the councillor definitely fitted into that category. I was about to make my excuses and join the rest of the islanders when he nodded towards the three barns where the singing was coming from.

“At least when they’re caterwauling, we know what they’re up to. But that lot in there, they could be plotting all sorts. Even if we caught them whispering, it would be no good because we wouldn’t understand a word of it.”

“If you wouldn’t understand a word of it, it wouldn’t matter whether they were whispering or talking at the top of their voices,” I pointed out with impeccable logic. And then I caught the implication of what he had said.

“You mean they’re Finnish?” I asked.

“Of course they are. What else do you think they’d be?” He indicated the three noisy barns again. “The Danes are down there, then you’ve got the Swedes, and that’s the Norwegians. But the Finns, our barns aren’t good enough for them, oh no, they have to have their own daft design.”

“It’s nice to have different types of architecture,” I told him. “And different nationalities.”

“Nonsense,” he snapped. “These people are taking up housing that could be used by the islanders.”

“Goodness,” I said, “I had no idea there was a problem here. How many homeless people do you have?”

“Homeless people? Don’t be ridiculous. Everybody here has a home. That’s not the point.”

“What is the point?” I asked, but before the councillor could answer, there was a squawk, a multicoloured flash, and Schwarzkopf landed on my shoulder with a cry of: “Aye, aye, cap’n!”

The councillor’s eyes bulged. “We’ve got enough trouble with the sailors, and now you’re bringing unauthorised avians on to the island?”

“That’s quite an assumption, and one should never assume,” I said. “This parrot has nothing to do with me. It has simply landed on my shoulder as a handy resting place.”

Schwarzkopf took a lock of my hair in his beak and tugged it playfully. “Cap’n, my cap’n!” he cooed.

“Nothing to do with you, eh?” said the councillor, oozing scepticism and hostility. “Do you realise how dangerous that thing is? It could attack our local birds, our common eiders, our common terns, our common redshanks. It could bring in all sorts of strange foreign diseases. How can you trust anything that colourful?”

Schwarzkopf put his head on one side, and cooed: “Who’s a pretty boy then?”

The councillor’s mouth opened and closed several times as though he was about to say something but all that emerged were sputters and sizzles like a faulty popcorn machine. Eventually he managed to croak: “I object in the strongest possible terms to being described as pretty. I advise you to moderate your parrot or … or …”

“Or not?” I suggested, unimpressed that he couldn’t think of a suitable sanction.

“Sho-NA Sho-NA Mangle-Moggle!” squawked Schwarzkopf.

The councillor’s jowls wobbled. “Is it swearing?” he demanded.

“No,” I felt obliged to admit, “that’s my name. More or less.”

Schwarzkopf flew off my shoulder and began circling the councillor, squawking: “Pretty boy! Pretty boy!”

The councillor flailed at him ineffectively until the parrot swooped away with a final derisive squawk.

“I’m sorry about that,” I said, “but honestly, I scarcely know the creature. I’m really not capable of controlling him.”

“That’s more than obvious,” said the councillor. “But since you’ve given this him a name, and he knows your name, and it’s your shoulder he sits on, it’s equally obvious that you’re the person responsible for him. When are you leaving?”

“I don’t have any specific plans,” I said stiffly. “I’m just enjoying doing a bit of sightseeing. I’ll leave before nightfall, obviously, so that I don’t get lost in the dark on the way to my cave.”

The outraged spluttering started all over again. “Your cave? It’s not your cave, it’s our cave. You’re not authorised to be in it.”

“I had no idea you had to be authorised to live in a cave,” I said.

I was being sarcastic but he took me seriously.

“Of course you do. Except nobody would be. Habitations are forbidden on that half of the island because it is an area of naturally outstanding beauty.”

I wondered whether this bore any relation to Areas of Outstanding Natural Beauty in England, Wales and Northern Ireland. I’m proud to say that in Scotland, we have no fewer than forty National Scenic Areas including the Cairngorm Mountains, Loch Lomond and Shetland.

I was about to tell the councillor about this when he went on: “In my official capacity as councillor, I forbid you to live there. Nothing must interfere with the landscape.”

“I’m not interfering with it,” I said. “In fact, with my good looks and joie de vivre, I’d say I’m actually enhancing it.”

He had a look that suggested he was about to start citing by-laws, but the choir mistress intervened.

“Look!” she said. “The first ones are coming back from seeing what the island’s been doing.”

There was a returning procession of islanders coming up the hill, chatting cheerfully to one another. The majority of them were wearing bronze helmets, just like Lilla Hwitastierna’s.

“What on earth do you think you’re doing?” yelled the councillor. “Don’t tell me you’re all taking up this swimming nonsense!”

It was the first time I had felt any positive connection with the grumpy sod.

A young mother passing by, holding the hand of a skipping toddler, paused and said tartly: “I’m not telling you anything. It’s none of your business.”

I felt an even more positive connection with the young mother, while simultaneously being slightly taken aback by this lack of respect for an elected representative. Her toddler, oblivious of the tensions, beamed happily and waved a string of beads at us.

“Pretty!” it announced before being yanked away by its mother.

“Pretty” was one word for it. “Priceless” was another, given that it was a ruby necklace set in gold, the gemstones gleaming in the sunshine. The children were all clutching lustrous jewellery: emeralds, sapphires, amethysts, sparkling diamonds, milky moonstones, blue topazes, gleaming pearls. Two kids, each armed with a pendant, were having a spirited game of conkers with them. This must be what the island had disgorged in the shoogle I had felt in the choir mistress’s cottage.

The grown-ups were carrying more utilitarian objects: platters, trays, goblets and bowls made of gold and silver. A good number were clutching weapons, including swords, daggers and axes. One woman was grasping a mace and saying to her companion: “This will be really handy for cracking nuts.”

The councillor grabbed an inoffensive-looking man who was wearing a bronze helmet and cradling a gold jug.

“What’s the meaning of this vulgar display?” the councillor demanded. “Where did you get all this trash?”

Some of the bejewelled artefacts might be considered trashy, but they really couldn’t be described as trash. I thought the councillor’s victim might point this out, but instead he began a stammered explanation.

“Ev-everybody else was p-picking things up, Councillor, so I – I thought I’d better do the same. I chose this jug because I thought it would be nice for flowers. Or milk. Not at the same time, obviously. And there were loads of helmets, so I took one – I wouldn’t want to go anywhere near the sea, but it could be useful for keeping dry in the rain.”

“Is this the hoard that the island buried?” the councillor challenged. “Have you been digging things up when they should be left where they are? This could call for a hearing, you know.”

The man protectively clutched the jug to his chest. “N-nobody dug anything up, Councillor, so there’s no need for a hearing. It was the island that gave us it all. That’s what the big shoogle was.”

The councillor gave a sceptical laugh. “So one moment the island’s burying the hoard to protect us from it, and the next it’s telling us to take what we want? Does that sound likely?”

“M-maybe not, but that’s wh-what happened,” the man stammered.

It was the anthropomorphism that was causing the confusion. I should explain to the councillor that this was a seismic aftershock following the initial earthquake which had buried the salvaged treasure. Aftershocks are essentially the earth’s way of adjusting to the stress changes caused by the main earthquake and can take place days, weeks and even months afterwards. A bit like taking a deep breath after touching your toes.

But although I’m always anxious to pass on my knowledge, I really didn’t want to have any more to do with the councillor. The remainder of the procession seemed to share my view. People pushed past the poor inoffensive victim with his gold jug, obviously anxious not to be the next person to be harangued by the councillor, so I joined them on their upward trek into the village.

At the first opportunity, I dodged into a side street to gather my thoughts. All along I had been like the small children, distracted by gaudy trinkets. I had been focusing on woollen tea bags and local by-laws and seismic aftershocks when I should have been concentrating on my mission, to unmask a murderer.

The suspect at the top of my list surely had to be the councillor. I had thought he was victimising the inoffensive man with the jug. But could the Finn be his real victim? Not only was the councillor grumpy, but he had openly admitted his dislike of Finns. And he was clearly opposed to anybody cluttering up his area of naturally outstanding beauty. He could well have come to my side of the island to patrol it and found the Finn. He challenged him, the Finn couldn’t understand him and he couldn’t understand the Finn, and in an excess of grumpiness he strangled the Finn with some nearby seaweed and then covered him in seaweed to conceal the crime.

And then I reconsidered. In fiction, the obvious suspect is never the murderer. Might that be the situation here? Although this wasn’t fiction but real life in fifteenth-century Scandinavia. Even so, it was important to keep an open mind. Anyone and everyone could be a suspect. The red-faced farmer could be a suspect. I remembered the case I had outlined against him – he didn’t like strangers. The Finn might have tried to cross the isthmus and upset the sheep.

And what about the choir mistress? She was exactly the sort of person who would turn out to be the killer in a TV episode. A kind, cheerful pillar of the community who was actually a homicidal maniac. It was a shame she was only a choir mistress. If she’d been a vicar, it would definitely be her.

I thought back to when I met her, before I realised that the polygonic barn was full of Finns. I had joked about its lack of a male voice choir. What was it she had said? “It’s a challenge. I need to do something about it.” She was a choir mistress. She dealt with choirs. And if the Finns were refusing to sing, she might well feel they were using up space that would be better filled by a choir. And was picking off the Finns one by one.

The mother with the skipping child. She had been extremely discourteous to the councillor. I don’t think authority figures should be given automatic respect, but even so, did her egregious behaviour suggest that she could go on to murder?

Or the inoffensive man with the gold jug – the inoffensiveness could be a façade. How often have we heard from neighbours that a serial killer was very quiet and kept themselves to themselves?

It was beginning to sound extravagant, even to me. But while the councillor, possibly in league with the farmer, headed my list, I would follow Miss Blaine’s dictum and assume nothing.

Now that I was in the properly inhabited area of the island, I had a great deal to add to my map. The fifteenth century lacked proper urban planning, so the streets wound between a variety of homesteads which hadn’t been built according to any pattern. I would have liked to do some on the spot sketching, but I didn’t want to attract unnecessary attention to myself so just concentrated on memorising the layout.

I wanted to see what the large wooden building was, with its steep thatched roof and overhanging eaves. It was the one I had initially mistaken for a citadel. It had been clearly visible on the path up from the isthmus when I had been passing the song-barns. But now that I was in among the higgledy-piggledy buildings, it was difficult to see how to get to it. There was nobody in the street to ask. Presumably they had all rushed home to utilise their platters and bowls, chopping vegetables with the swords and daggers. The lady with the mace would be busy cracking nuts.

I made my way back to where the main path had brought me and calculated that if I took the muddy track to the left and then circled round, I might reach the big building. I duly tramped along the muddy track to the left, but just as I began circling round, I saw a young woman sitting in the sunshine at the door of a ramshackle cottage, working away on a spinning wheel. On either side of her was a low wooden table with various things stacked on it: wooden spoons, earthenware bowls, small barrels, woollen shawls, linen sarks, and carved bits of stick that I thought closely resembled the choir mistress’s twig.

“Excuse me,” I said. “Is this a shop?”

She stopped her spinning and squinted at me, giggling. “Why, what does it look like?”

That didn’t answer my question, but merely posed another.

“I’m not sure,” I said.

She squinted some more, clapped her hand to her mouth, then took it away and said: “I’m most terribly sorry. The sun was in my eyes and I thought you were a local making a joke. You must be the Scotswoman Lilla Hwitastierna’s been telling us about.”

“Yes, I must be,” I agreed.

“I don’t suppose you have shops in Scotland,” she said.

I felt like telling her about the iconic Jenners department store on Edinburgh’s Princes Street, with its ornate wooden balconies and staircases. But there certainly hadn’t been such grand shops in fifteenth-century Scotland, so I contented myself with saying: “We do, but not like this.”

“Yes, it’s probably much larger than what you’re used to,” she said. “I recently expanded to a second table. I’m the handwerk butiksägarinna.” She started up the spinning wheel again.

The craft shop owner. The one I had heard about from the choir mistress after I had very nearly choked to death.

“Tea bags,” I said heavily. “You’re the one who invented tea bags.”

The craft shop owner gave a giggle of delight. “I make all the craft items myself, but I have to admit that the tea bags are my best seller. I keep them indoors – they’re very delicate, so I can’t display them on these tables or they would blow away. Would you like to come in and see one?”

“Thanks, I’ve already encountered one. At the kördirigent’s.”

The craft shop owner gave a shy smile and said: “What did you think of it?”

Rather than saying: “I think it’s an insanitary health hazard,” I said: “Very imaginative. And I have to say they gave me a good night’s sleep.” I didn’t spell out that it was nothing to do with the tea’s sedative qualities and everything to do with reclining on wool.

Her smile broadened at my words, accompanied by a girlish gurgle.

I pointed to the non-citadel, visible over the uneven rows of grassy-roofed cottages. “I’m trying to make my way up to that building,” I said. “It looks very impressive. What is it?”

She continued smiling, but in a more reverential way.

“It’s quite something, isn’t it?” she said. “We built it specially. It’s our governing assembly hall. Where we assemble to govern.”

I could hardly contain myself. “You’ve got a Thing!” I blurted out.

She looked startled. “I do?”

“No, not you personally. I mean the island.” I was surprised that she had misunderstood me. Mediaeval Scandinavia was noted for having Things, democratic forums for discussions and decisions on matters affecting the local community.

The craft shop owner still looked uncomprehending.

“This governing assembly hall,” I said. “Is it a democratic forum for discussions and decisions on matters that affect the local community?”

Her face cleared. “Exactly that.”

“Then it’s called a Thing,” I said, using the Old Norse word þing.

She went back to looking uncomprehending. “But we don’t call it a Thing.”

I realised that once again the islanders were doing their own thing by not having a Thing.

“Then what do you call it?” I asked.

“A Swither,” she said.

“A Swither?” I was incredulous. “But that’s—”

“ – perfect,” she finished off. “I know! And you’ll particularly appreciate it because it’s a Scottish word.”

I was about to tell her that it most certainly wasn’t. That is to say, it most certainly was a Scottish word, but a verb, not a noun. And an intransitive one at that, defined in the Scottish National Dictionary as “To be in a state of uncertainty of purpose, to be perplexed about what to do or choose, be in two minds, to doubt, hesitate, dither.”

And that was when I realised that the noun was indeed the perfect word for a governing assembly. Perhaps I should try to get parliaments across the world to rename themselves.

But simultaneously, I was mystified by this Scandinavian absorption of a Scottish word at a time when I would have expected the reverse.

“Do you get many Scottish people coming here?” I asked.

“Oh no,” she said. “It’s very unusual. But you’re most welcome.”

“I am? You don’t mind me being here? You know I live in a cave on the other side of the island?”

Another giggle. “Yes, Lilla told us about that. A cave! But I don’t suppose you know any better if nobody in Scotland’s invented houses yet.”

I was going to tell her that I’d visited Macbeth some three hundred years previously, and he had had a perfectly serviceable castle. And then I remembered the three weird sisters who lived in a cave, so I decided to avoid the subject.

I glanced at the two tables, covered with useful objects. Did she have something that would be useful for me? No point in me reinventing the wheel, or rather no point in me checking out the island’s topography unnecessarily.

“Do you have a map?” I asked.

The smooth whirr of the wooden spinning wheel was replaced by a sudden creaking and groaning as it stopped abruptly.

“A map? Why would I have a map?” said the craft shop owner without the trace of a giggle.

I had inadvertently caused confusion. “Of course you wouldn’t have a map yourself because you don’t need one,” I said. “I mean a map for people coming to the island to let them see where everything is. A map that you could sell me.” Then I remembered that the choir mistress had told me the islanders had no truck with money. “Or whatever you would like in exchange. I could sing you a song, or chop some wood, or point at clouds. Just let me know what the going rate is. And of course I’ll say please and thank you.”

“A map?” she repeated. There was something peculiar about her tone which I couldn’t quite identify. And then I realised it must be embarrassment. She was a practical woman with all her crafting, but she was very likely illiterate.

“It doesn’t have to be a map you’ve made yourself,” I said.

She stood up so abruptly that the spinning wheel toppled over. The bobbin fell off, wool went everywhere, and the wheel span wildly on the uneven ground.

“I can’t help you,” she said.

It seemed a severe over-reaction to not having a particular item in stock.

“Don’t worry about it,” I said. “I’ll just keep on making my own.”

With a gasp, she took a step backwards into the doorway of the cottage.

“What’s going on?” called an unwelcome familiar voice.

“Nothing, Councillor,” she said rapidly. “I was just going to check on the tea bags.”

“Nonsense,” he said. “I know a public order incident when I see one.”

At that moment, he drew level with me and did a theatrical double-take.

“No need to ask who’s responsible,” he said. “This woman’s a well-known troublemaker who shouldn’t be here. So what was she doing, Handwerk Butiksägarinna? Trying to steal the tea bags?”

I tried to work out the legal position of stealing from a shop which didn’t actually charge for things. Perhaps “stealing” covered taking something without saying please and thank you.

“No, no, nothing like that, Councillor. Everything’s fine,” she assured him, gathering up the wool, setting the spinning wheel to rights and sitting down at it to reattach the bobbin.

“It certainly is not,” snapped the councillor. “Everything’s very far from fine when this woman’s around. In my capacity as councillor, I insist that you tell me what she’s done.”

She examined the spinning wheel in minute detail, making completely unnecessary adjustments, obviously reluctant to meet the councillor’s eye.

“Honestly, she didn’t do anything,” she said. “It was me. I was just a bit startled when she asked for something.”

The councillor’s eyes narrowed. “Why would you be startled when she asked for something? This is a shop. People come here to ask for things. Did she say please and thank you?”

“We hadn’t got that far. She was asking whether we stocked a particular item.”

“And what was that item?” asked the councillor.

The craft shop owner busied herself reorganising the wool, and didn’t seem to have heard the question.

“I can tell you,” I said. “Not that it’s any of your business. I asked for a map.”

There was a second’s pause. And then, in a voice loud enough to be heard even on my half of the island, the councillor bellowed: “Convene the Swither!”

TEN

The craft shop owner and I were alone in the imposing hall of the governing assembly, which I was learning to call a Swither.

Hewn from study timber beams, it had a rustic yet imposing charm, with soaring roof trusses and stout pillars. The rich, earthy scent of seasoned wood mingled with wood smoke drifting from the central hearth. There was a raised platform at one end, with a long wooden table surrounded by sturdy benches.

In the absence of windows, the hall was lit by torches mounted on the walls. And in between them were woven hangings made up of fuzzy splodges in clashing colours. I could have been at an exhibition of abstract expressionism in New York’s Museum of Modern Art.

“These are magnificent,” I breathed.

The craft shop owner, who had been looking rather stressed, gave a delighted giggle.

“Thank you,” she said. “I made them to portray the island. The councillor said they were rubbish and he couldn’t tell what they were supposed to be.”

“I don’t think he’s the sort of person who can appreciate art,” I said. “How can he not tell what anything is? You’ve absolutely captured the elemental quality of the island, the … the … metaphysical vastness, the lambent ambience.”

She giggled and asked: “Which one do you like best?”

“Impossible to choose,” I said. “They each represent different facets of the place.”

“Exactly,” she said. “But I think my favourite is the one of my shop. Although the one of the sheep on the isthmus is pretty good as well. And the sheep really liked that I’d used their wool to make their picture.”

I thought I’d better change the subject in case she invited me to identify the subject of the other wall hangings.

“Do you think the councillor will be back soon?” I asked.

“It depends on how quickly he can find a quorum,” she said. “At the moment there’s just me, and there has to be five of us.”

“So the councillor’s in charge of the Thing – the Swither?”

The craft shop owner’s eyes widened in shock. “Goodness me, no. He’s not in charge of anything.”

“But he’s the councillor, the Swither’s your council, and he’s the one who called for it to be convened,” I pointed out.

She looked perplexed. “Anybody can call for the Swither to be convened. And we’re all councillors. Well, not the kiddies any more. The younger ones had to have naps and the older ones got fed up and went off to play. But all the adults are councillors. I’m a councillor.”

It was my turn to be perplexed. “But you introduced yourself as the handwerk butiksägarinna. I’ve met the kördirigent, and a farmer, and Lilla Hwitastierna who’s a detective. Why is the councillor the only one who’s called a councillor?”

“Because we all do other things. He’s useless, so all he can do is be a councillor.”

“Yes, we’ve got the occasional one like that in Scotland,” I said. “And another thing I’m wondering about. Why am I here?”

The craft shop owner bit her lip. “Sorry, I can’t talk to you about that until we’re quorate. But tell me again what you were saying about my pictures – that they’d captured the ambent lambience. Was it the way I did the lambs?”

I was greatly relieved when at the very moment, the door to the assembly hall opened and in came the councillor, followed by the farmer, the choir mistress, and Lilla Hwitastierna. I politely greeted them all, the choir mistress smiling back, Lilla nodding gravely, the councillor ignoring me and the farmer scowling.

“Let’s all sit down,” said Lilla, settling herself on a bench at the table and forestalling the councillor trying to take charge. They took their seats but when I went to join them, the councillor said: “I don’t think the accused should be allowed to sit.”

“Sorry, are you referring to me?” I said. “The accused? What am I accused of?”

“Don’t try to play the innocent,” he sneered. “We have witnesses.”

“One witness,” said the craft shop owner. “Just me.”

I was going to say that you couldn’t have just one witness because there had to be corroboration when I remembered that was a unique feature of Scots law. Instead, I took issue with my alleged status.

“I can’t be an accused. I’m an extremely law abiding citizen,” I said.

“You live in a cave,” said the farmer.

“And is that a crime?” I asked. Then I suddenly worried that on this island it was a crime, and nobody had told me.

“It’s discouraged,” said Lilla Hwitastierna. “That doesn’t make it a crime.”

“Well, it should be,” said the farmer.

“But it’s not,” said Lilla. “And that’s not what’s under discussion right now. If you want it to be a crime, you’ll have to convene another Swither.”

“I’ve got sheep to look after,” grumbled the farmer. “I don’t have time for all this swithering. Can we get on with it?”

“I think the accused should be allowed to sit down,” said the craft shop owner. “All in favour?” She, Lilla and the choir mistress raised their hands while the farmer and the councillor glowered.

“Carried by a majority,” she said, and patted the bench beside her. “Please have a seat.”

“Thanks,” I said, taking my place. “And now can someone tell me what I’m supposed to have done?”

“What you have done,” corrected the councillor. “There’s a witness, remember. Right, let’s get started. The accused is Sho-NA Moogle-Maggle.”

“Mangle-Moggle,” I said automatically.

“What?” said the farmer. “I heard it was Ningle-Nongle. How many aliases does she have? There’s nothing more suspicious than someone who keeps changing their name.”

I realised what must have happened and jumped up in exasperation. “Will you all stop parroting what you thought Schwarzkopf said when you didn’t even listen properly? Schwarzkopf is a very clever bird, certainly cleverer than you. It’s not Moogle-Maggle or Ningle-Nongle or anything else – it’s Mangle-Moggle.”

My voice reverberated round the assembly hall. I was quite surprised to find myself so defensive of a parrot and indeed of a name which, strictly speaking, was not precisely my own.

I sat down again and addressed the quorum. “I apologise for my intemperate outburst, but it’s important to get these things right.”

They were all frowning, Lilla Hwitastierna more than the rest. “You told me your name was Shona McMonagle.”

“It is,” I said, and her frown deepened.

“Then why did you say it was Mangle-Moggle – not Moogle-Maggle, Ningle-Nongle or anything else?” She placed heavy emphasis on the last three words.

I gave a laugh which even to my ears sounded slightly forced. “There’s been a bit of a misunderstanding,” I said. “My real name is Shona McMonagle. It’s Schwarzkopf, a parrot, who calls me Mangle-Moggle.”

The councillor leaned forward to address the others. “Yes, she’s brought in an unapproved bird. A highly coloured one.”

“That’s it!” cried the farmer. “That’s what I heard saying Ningle-Nongle – it was circling over my sheep, and I could tell it was planning to peck their eyes out. I had to throw stones at it to make it go away.”

“Wrong, wrong, and very wrong,” I said. “I gave Schwarzkopf lessons in saying my name, which is a very hard name for a parrot to replicate, and he learned it as Mangle-Moggle. I can assure you that he wouldn’t dream of pecking sheep’s eyes out. And throwing stones at poor defenceless birds is deplorable.”

The farmer subsided, muttering.

“And,” I went on, “the councillor is also wrong in suggesting I introduced Schwarzkopf to the island. I told you, he’s not mine. If he belongs to anyone, he belongs to—” I stopped abruptly. If the islanders had a problem with people living in caves, I couldn’t risk shopping Grimwald. And I had better not mention Sporgh, Eirik and Odd. “ – the sky,” I finished weakly.

“I don’t like the sound of this,” said the choir mistress.

“Of what? McMonagle or Mangle-Moggle?” I joked in a bid to lighten the mood. It didn’t.

“What she hasn’t told you,” said the councillor, addressing the whole Swither, “is that the bird addressed her as captain.”

There were gasps of shock from the quorum.

“Actually,” I said, “the precise designation was cap’n. For the sake of the record. Is anybody taking a record? Which one of you is the secretary? I’m happy to talk at dictation speed.”

“Nobody on this island reads or writes,” growled the farmer. “We don’t believe in it.”

“It doesn’t matter whether you believe in it or not,” I said. “It still exists.” I remembered my first conversation with Lilla. I turned to her and said: “You told me you knew what books were.”

“Just because I know what something is doesn’t mean I want anything to do with it,” Lilla said.

“Like the Kraken,” supplied the choir mistress.

Lilla didn’t notice this. She was surveying me with a cold stare. “You told me you were a librarian.” The other members of the Swither exchanged quizzical glances, obviously unfamiliar with the word.

“And now we hear you’re a captain,” Lilla continued. “Can we rely on anything you say?”

That stung. “You can rely on everything I say,” I said. “The confusion, as I’ve already pointed out, has been caused, inadvertently, by the parrot. He’s the one who renamed me, and he’s the one who called me cap’n. He also called the councillor a pretty boy, and I don’t think any of us would go along with that.”

The craft shop owner stifled a giggle but the farmer gave a snort of disgust. “Putting the blame on a poor dumb animal,” he said.

This was an unexpected change of attitude from someone who had recently accused Schwarzkopf of being after his sheep. But the farmer was still wrong. I accepted that birds, being vertebrates, could be classified as animals, but Schwarzkopf was not dumb in any sense of the word. I was about to explain this when the councillor stood up and turned to the craft shop owner who had a sudden coughing fit to conceal the giggle-stifling.

“I think it’s time you told the quorum what the accused did,” he said.

The craft shop owner’s posture became suddenly rigid, as though she was bracing herself, and her gaze flickered up towards the rafters.

“Get on with it,” said the farmer. “We haven’t got all day.”

“I do,” said Lilla.

“So do I,” said the choir mistress.

I felt like saying that I was a bit pushed for time as I was pursuing a murder inquiry. But that would be unwise since as far as I was concerned, they were all suspects.

“Tell them what the accused said,” the councillor prompted.

The craft shop owner smoothed down her kirtle a few times although there was no sign of it being crumpled, before saying: “She said my tea bags were very imaginative.”

“That’s true,” said the choir mistress.

“Then it’s the first true thing she’s said,” scoffed the farmer.

“Oi! Still in the room!” I said. “I’ve been completely open and honest with you.”

“What else did the accused say?” prompted the councillor.

The craft shop owner hesitated for a moment, then said in a rush: “She asked if I had a map.”

If the gasps from the others had been audible previously, this time they were practically deafening.

“You were heard!” shouted the farmer. “Don’t try to deny it!”

“Why would I?” I countered. “That’s exactly what I asked.”

“She’s not denying it,” he told the others and the choir mistress gave an unhappy shake of her head.

The councillor was now pacing up and down beside the table, like the DA in an American legal drama. He gestured towards the craft shop owner. “Perhaps you would tell us exactly how the conversation went?”

“I’m not sure,” she faltered. “I can’t really remember.”

“I can,” I said. “I have an excellent memory. I asked if you had a map and you said why would you have a map, and I agreed that you wouldn’t need a map since you live here, but I wanted a map that would be useful for people coming to the island.”

The quorum members were all staring at me, eyes wide and mouths slightly open. I had never had such an attentive audience. I turned to the craft shop owner.

“I know that we hadn’t fixed on a price,” I said, “or rather an appropriate rate of exchange. I suggested that I could sing, or chop wood or point at clouds. Let me tell you again, I would be happy to do any of these things, or anything at all, really, in exchange for a map.”

And since they were being quite open about their illiteracy, I should tackle that as well.

“I didn’t realise at that stage nobody’s keen on reading and writing on this island,” I said. “But perhaps somebody who was previously passing through has made one. As I mentioned, I’m making one myself, but so far I’ve really only tackled my side of the island. If someone else has made a map, it would save me a bit of work.”

The councillor nodded to the others. “I take it you’ve all heard enough?”

There were murmurs of assent.

“Good,” I said. “I’m glad we’ve got it all cleared up and you can stop calling me ‘the accused.’”

“Indeed we can,” said the farmer. “Now we can call you ‘the criminal’.”

There’s always one. “I don’t think you’ve been listening,” I said. “We’ve just established that I haven’t done anything wrong. All I did was ask this lady for a map.”

I smiled across at the craft shop owner who gave a nervous giggle and said to her fellow quorum members: “She’s not local, so I’m sure she didn’t mean any harm by it.”

“It’s precisely because she’s not local that she means harm by it,” the farmer snapped back. “And it’s beyond me that you can defend her when she’s just threatened you directly.”

“I haven’t threatened a soul,” I protested.

“Really?” said the farmer. “You said, and I quote, that you would be happy to do anything at all, really, in exchange for a map. If that’s not a threat, I don’t know what is.”

I felt slightly embarrassed by having accused him earlier of not listening, when he clearly had highly developed listening skills, perhaps not surprising in an era before reading and writing. But my embarrassment was outweighed by my frustration at him putting an unfair spin on what I had said.

“You’re taking my words out of context,” I said, and was then uncomfortably aware that I sounded exactly like a dodgy politician. And apparently that was exactly how I sounded to the quorum since nobody came to my rescue, not even the craft shop owner.

It was time to stand up for myself. “There’s still absolutely no evidence that I’ve done anything. What’s the problem about asking for a map?”

“There are no maps,” said the choir mistress.

“Yes, I’m beginning to grasp that,” I said.

“And there will be no maps,” said the farmer. “I told you, we’re independent, and we’re staying that way. If there are maps, we could be found.”

The choir mistress shuddered. “And then where would we be?” she said. “One minute we’d be invaded by the Norwegians, and the next thing we’d be overrun by the Danes, and before you know it, the Swedes would be taking over. No, we keep ourselves to ourselves. This is an uncharted island.”

“But you’ve already got loads of invaders,” I objected.

The choir mistress looked alarmed. “No we don’t,” she said. “Do we?”

“All the singers in the sheds,” I reminded her.

Her face cleared. “Oh no, dearie, they’re not invaders. They’re poor shipwrecked sailors detected by Lilla Hwitastierna.”

“Some of you seem to think of them as invaders,” I said. “What was it you called them, Councillor? I’m pretty sure it was carpet baggers and freeloaders.”

Lilla turned a cool gaze on him and he laughed nervously.

“As a foreigner, you don’t speak our language very well,” he said. “You’ve picked me up wrongly. I’m sure I’ve never said these words.”

“And I’m sure you have,” said the choir mistress with unusual asperity. “You say it all the time, except when Lilla Hwitastierna’s around.”

“Nonsense,” said the councillor, his nervous laughter even more high-pitched.

“I’ve heard you too,” said the craft shop owner. “Going on about them taking up housing that could be used by the islanders.”

“Just my little joke,” said the councillor. “They’re very welcome. Especially because they’re not invaders.”

“As a matter of interest,” I said, “how can you tell?”

“If they were invaders, they would be wearing helmets like Lilla Hwitastierna’s,” said the choir mistress. “And they wouldn’t have been shipwrecked. The island protects us by putting a circle of rocks round us. Ships mostly steer clear, but occasionally they bump into the rocks by accident, and then Lilla detects the sailors who make it to shore.”

“The rocks don’t make a complete circle. There’s a channel,” said the farmer. He glared at me. “But nobody would know it was there unless they had a map. That’s why we stay uncharted.”

I considered telling him that fifteenth century maps simply didn’t have that level of accuracy. I considered telling him that even without a map, there was nothing to stop a ship finding the channel by accident. But he looked the sort of bloke who wouldn’t engage in a logical argument and would simply shout. So I decided it was time for another jocular remark.

“I may have started to sketch a bit of a map, just my side of the island, but there’s no need to worry about me,” I said. “We’ve got more than enough areas of naturally outstanding beauty in Scotland, so I’ve no plans to annexe you.”

Nobody laughed in response. The farmer positively scowled. “Yes, we know all about the Scots. What else are you planning? Maybe there’s something you want to take, like you did with Norway.”

“I haven’t taken anything from Norway,” I said. “Except some brown cheese, which I paid for, on the way back from a skiing holiday.”

“Maybe not you personally, but you Scottish people, you obviously feel you can just go over to Norway and take things. Like that tiny child.”

“What?” I said.

The choir mistress shook her head. “I know, that was terrible.”

“I haven’t heard about this,” said the craft shop owner diffidently. “What did they do?”

“Yes, what did we do?” I asked.

The farmer ignored me and addressed the craft shop owner. “They didn’t have a queen, and they wanted one, so they went over to Norway and grabbed a little girl. Just seven years old she was.”

The craft shop owner gasped. “How awful!”

“That’s not quite how – I mean, she was our queen-designate,” I said uncomfortably. This had all happened in 1290, which surely counted as ancient history even in the fifteenth century, but they were making it sound as though it was just the other day.

“Stop trying to pretend she belonged to you. Who was her father?” the farmer demanded.

I reluctantly admitted that he was the king of Norway.

“And what was her name?” he asked.

“Margaret,” I said.

“Margaret what?” he persisted.

“Margaret Maid of Norway,” I muttered.

The craft shop owner saw my discomfiture and said brightly: “Still, I suppose it must have been nice for her being queen, even in Scotland.”

“Never made it,” said the farmer lugubriously. “The seas were terrible and she only got as far as Orkney.”

“So did she become queen of Orkney?” asked the craft shop owner.

“The poor little mite died of seasickness,” said the choir mistress.

This definitely wasn’t the time to mention that some people thought the Maid had been poisoned.

“Just shows you,” said the councillor.

“Yes, stay well away from the sea,” said the choir mistress.

“No, it shows you these Scots will take anything,” said the councillor.

I looked helplessly at Lilla Hwitastierna, who had sounded a bit of a Scotophile with her knowledge of Brigadoon. She had been sitting with her eyes half-closed, apparently paying no attention to the proceedings, repeatedly tapping her fingers together as though marking time for a piece of music. Now she opened her eyes and looked straight at me.

“Why are you making a map?” she said abruptly.

I knew better than to say: “I’m on a mission to unmask a murderer, who could be any one of you sitting here, and I’m making a map to plot the various suspects’ whereabouts.” Instead, I said: “I like to know where I am.”

“But you know where you are,” said Lilla. “You’re here.”

“Where is this map you’re making?” demanded the councillor.

Again, I knew better than to say: “Here in my pouch.” Instead, I shifted my position on the bench so that the folds of my kirtle kept the pouch well hidden, and said: “I left it in my cave on the other side of the island.”

“Are you expecting visitors in your cave?” asked Lilla coldly.

I was astounded by the impudence of the question. She might look for sailors and, as the choir mistress reported, tell the islanders they were for everyone’s benefit, but she needn’t think I would have any interest in such an arrangement.

“I most certainly am not,” I said even more coldly.

She stared at me impassively for a few moments, then said: “Councillor?”

The councillor straightened his tunic and gave a few theatrical coughs as though he was about to address a meeting of several thousand. I could see the choir mistress roll her eyes.

“This woman refused to leave her cave when I served her with an eviction notice,” he said. “Now we know it was because she was concealing a map there. She told me she arrived here by kayak but claimed it sank.”

“She told me as well that she came by kayak,” the farmer burst in.

“She didn’t tell me about any kayak,” said the choir mistress.

“Nor me,” said the craft shop owner.

“She told me she was a time traveller, in which case she wouldn’t need a kayak,” said Lilla Hwitastierna.

“She really is very untrustworthy,” said the councillor.

The choir mistress looked thoughtful. “She talked a lot about fighting. And how the gold and silver and jewels the island was looking after were worth a lot of money. She asked if this was the Baltic Sea.”

“And the highly coloured parrot called her captain,” expostulated the councillor as though that clinched it, although what it clinched I wasn’t entirely sure.

“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” said the farmer.

“I think so,” said the choir mistress.

“Yes,” said the councillor.

“It’s possible,” said Lilla Hwitastierna.

“Oh dear,” said the craft shop owner.

This didn’t help. “What?” I said. “What are you thinking?”

“You’re a spy,” said the farmer. “You’re a spy for the Victual Brothers.”

ELEVEN

The Victual Brothers. They sounded like an unsuccessful alternative comedy act in the 1980s. However, since I had had the finest education in the world, I knew they had started out as a Germanic guild acting as a navy for various rulers, including the Queen of Denmark. But they had gone rogue and turned to piracy, terrorising the Baltic and keeping all the proceeds for themselves.

I stood up, still making sure that my map-containing pouch wasn’t obvious.

“Do I look like a pirate?” I demanded. “Well? If I was a pirate, I would have a bandana and an eye patch and a parr—” I hastily corrected myself and concluded: “ – a paramilitary jacket.”

Now Lilla stood up and I was uncomfortably aware that she was slightly taller than me. However, I definitely had a weight advantage.

“We didn’t say you were one of the Victual Brothers, we said you were a spy for them,” she clarified. “Although I hope you’re not saying that women can’t be pirates. Women can be anything. Choir mistresses. Craft shop owners. Councillors. Farmers. Detectives.”

Being accused of being a spy was one thing. Being accused of not being a feminist was quite another.

“Of course women can be anything,” I said forcefully. “I myself am a librarian.”

Once again, the craft shop owner, the farmer, the choir mistress and the councillor exchanged quizzical glances.

And this time an explanation was given. “She works with books,” said Lilla.

“Books!” said the farmer as though it was the most repulsive word imaginable. “That’s the sort of place you find maps.”

“Yes and no,” I said. “Some maps are free-standing. And books are about a lot more than just maps.”

“I’ve no doubt,” the farmer grunted. “I’m sure you’ve found lots of information about cannons and sieges and thieving.”

I could see he was one of those men who was automatically argumentative. It was just as well he was on an isolated island in the fifteenth century without access to social media.

“Just a minute,” I said. “If you’re here on an isolated island without access to any media, how do you know about the Victual Brothers?”

“We get our news from shipwrecked sailors, of course,” said the choir mistress. “It’s a very good system.”

The councillor gave a bark of disparaging laughter.

“Yes it is,” the choir mistress insisted. “A careless ship founders on the rocks, the sailors make it to dry land, Lilla Hwitastierna detects them and brings them here for tea. Made with tea bags. They’re always amazed – they expect they’ve come to some primitive, benighted place and then they discover how sophisticated we are.”

She nodded to the craft shop owner who blushed with pleasure at the acknowledgement of her invention.

“We have a good chat over the tea, catch up with the news of what country’s been invaded and who’s been doing the invading,” the choir mistress went on. “Then we give them some bits of wood so that they can make the repairs to their ship, and off they go, happy as larks.”

I reflected that this Old Norse expression sounded more plausible than the Scottish Gaelic “happy as a shoe,” which had served me well on a previous mission when I met Macbeth. And yet, a lark not being a parrot and therefore unable to communicate with humans, how can we judge its level of happiness? Birdsong that sounded cheerful to us might actually denote boredom or irritation.

I was so busy considering the relative happiness levels of larks and shoes that I almost missed the implication of what she had said. She made it sound as if all of the sailors had left. But some hadn’t left at all; they were imprisoned in sheds. And was it possible that none at all had left? Were all the islanders in on a plot to murder them one by one?

“Isn’t it dangerous,” I asked innocently, “to have the sailors going back where they came from? After all, once they’ve seen how sophisticated you are with your tea bags, they might decide that you’re exactly the sort of place their country would want to invade.”

“You might very well think that,” said the craft shop owner.

She didn’t add: “But I couldn’t possibly comment.” Instead, she said: “But I give them all tea bags to take away with them as prototypes so that they can fashion their own. And we tell them that they’re allowed one visit only. If they try to come back, the Kraken will get them. And if they talk to anyone about us, the Kraken will get both them and whoever they’ve talked to.”

“Do you see much of the Kraken round here?” I asked.

Lilla made one of her infrequent contributions. “It doesn’t matter whether the Kraken is here or even whether the Kraken exists. All that matters is that people believe it is here.”

We all pondered this in silence for a while. Then I asked bluntly: “And the sailors in the sheds? I presume their ships are beyond repair?”

“Of course they’re not,” snapped the councillor. “We’ve got enough wood here for whatever needs repairing, and they’ve got the manpower to do the repairs.”

I glanced at Lilla to see how she reacted to the gender-specific “manpower” but her expression remained impassive. She accepted that even though women could be sailors, none of them had yet reached the island.

“So—” I began, but the councillor hadn’t finished.

“We can’t get rid of them and their wretched manpower. They won’t go. And it’s all because of the Victual Brothers. You—” He turned on the choir mistress. “ – you’re harking back to a golden age when they turned up, had a cuppa, and left. Now they’re so terrified of being attacked by the Victual Brothers that they see this as the perfect excuse to stop going to sea.”

Unwanted guests who wouldn’t leave. The perfect excuse for murder.

“And now what are we going to do with you?” said the councillor. He was talking to me.

“Obviously we have to get rid of her,” said the farmer.

The craft shop owner’s hand flew to her mouth to stifle a gasp.

“I don’t mean kill her,” said the farmer testily. “I mean just put her in a kayak and push her out to sea.”

“But that would be killing her!” the craft shop owner burst out. “She’d never make it to Scotland in a kayak.”

“Oh, all right. A coracle, then,” said the farmer.

“No, that would be a catastrophe,” said the councillor.

The farmer blinked. “Blimey, Councillor, I never had you down as a bleeding-heart liberal.”

“I’m not bothered about her drowning,” clarified the councillor, leading to another gasp from the craft shop owner. “But the Victual Brothers are out there somewhere, waiting for her to report back.”

“No, they’re not,” I said. “Because I’m a librarian, not a spy for the Victual Brothers.”

The councillor held up his hands in a gesture of dismissal. “We really can’t believe a word she says. Anyway, we can’t risk sending her straight back to the Victual Brothers with all the information she’s gathered about us.”

“Including the tea bags,” said the choir mistress. “It’s one thing honest seafarers knowing about them, but I don’t think it’s right handing over our invention to pirates.”

“My invention,” piped up the craft shop owner. “And I don’t mind the pirates getting the tea bags if it saves the spy from drowning.”

“Not a spy,” I said, but Lilla’s voice cut across me.

“The councillor is correct. We can’t let her leave the island.”

“No!” wailed the craft shop owner. “I don’t want anything to do with plans to kill her.”

She got to her feet but the farmer jumped up and barred her way. “The spy isn’t leaving and you’re not leaving,” he growled. “We can’t have a vote on how to dispose of her if we’re not quorate.”

The craft shop owner sat down and burst into tears.

The choir mistress patted her hand. “Don’t worry, dearie,” she soothed. “I don’t want any nasty disposing either, so our votes will cancel out the councillor’s and the farmer’s.”

“But then Lilla Hwitastierna will have the casting vote and I don’t know which way she’s going to go,” gulped the craft shop owner.

Again, Lilla spoke. “The vote will not be on disposing of the spy, but on where to keep her,” she said. “Suggestions, please.”

There was a pause while the other processed this.

The choir mistress was the first to speak. “She lives in a cave, so we could tell her to stay there.”

“Absolutely not,” said the councillor. “She’s not authorised to live in a cave.”

“Then why don’t we authorise it?” said the choir mistress.

The councillor gave a disdainful sigh. “Since the cave is in an area of naturally outstanding beauty, we’re not authorised to authorise it.”

Lilla gave the choir mistress a questioning look.

“I withdraw the suggestion,” the choir mistress said. “Not because it wasn’t a good suggestion but because I don’t have the energy if it’s going to involve by-laws and standing committees and reviews and amendments.”

“Noted,” said Lilla. “The floor remains open to other suggestions.”

The councillor spoke this time. “We could keep her with the sheep. They’d make sure she didn’t go anywhere.”

“No way,” said the farmer. “I’m not having her anywhere near my sheep. She upsets them.”

“I call a vote,” said Lilla. “All those in favour of keeping the spy with the sheep.”

The councillor raised his hand.

“All those against,” said Lilla.

The farmer raised his hand.

“One vote for, one against, and three abstentions. The motion falls,” said Lilla.

Leaving aside the discomfiture that it was me they were talking about, I was impressed by their voting system.

“We could put her in one of those big sheds where the sailors are always singing,” said the farmer.

This met firm opposition from the choir mistress. “These are male voice choirs. To add a woman’s voice, even if she’s a spy, would completely change the musical dynamics. I’ve heard her sing, and her voice is lovely; quite unique, exactly like the Scottish bagpipes. I’m not having her drowned out by all those baritones.”

I saw the craft shop owner give a shudder at the word “drowned.”

“Vote?” said Lilla.

“No need,” said the farmer. “I withdraw the proposal in light of the choir mistress’s expert opinion.”

“We didn’t need an expert opinion,” said the councillor. “It was a stupid suggestion to put her in a shed. What’s to stop her coming back out?”

“The lock, probably,” I said with barely disguised sarcasm.

They all turned to look at me.

“The what?” asked the farmer.

“You know,” I said. “The mechanism that stops the door from opening.”

“Oh, the damp,” said the choir mistress. “Yes, it makes the wood swell up and stick, but we just shave a bit off and it’s fine.”

“That’s not what she’s talking about,” said Lilla slowly. “Remember that thing that washed up and we didn’t know what it was? I’m sure one of the sailors said it was a lock.”

“That big metal thing?” said the councillor. “What does it do?”

I saw Lilla hesitate, so I took it upon myself to answer. “You fit it in a door, and then you close it with a key, and you can’t open the door again without the key.”

“What a palaver,” said the farmer. “I couldn’t be bothered with all that.”

“But it might work,” said the councillor. “Is she saying that if there was somewhere with a door with a lock, we could put her inside and she wouldn’t be able to get out?”

“Don’t ask me,” said Lilla. “Ask her.”

“No need, I heard you the first time,” I said. “Yes, that’s exactly it.”

“So now we need to find the lock,” said the choir mistress, “and a door to fit it in.”

There was a lengthy silence while they contemplated this. Then the councillor said to the choir mistress: “You’ve got space at yours. You could take her in.”

The choir mistress bristled. “My door is fine as it is, thank you very much.”

“There’s here,” said the farmer, looking round the grand wooden hall, the torchlight illuminating the colourful modernistic woven hangings.

“That would be an assault on our democratic institutions,” said Lilla. “Everyone has the right to convene a Swither provided they can constitute a quorum, which means an open door policy.”

They lapsed into silence again.

Eventually the craft shop owner tentatively cleared her throat. “It’s probably a silly idea, but I’d be more than happy to offer my wool shed.”

“I suppose that’s as good as anywhere,” grunted the farmer.

The craft shop owner gave me a reassuring smile. “I think you’ll find it quite comfy, with all the wool.”

“Comfy?” exploded the councillor. “She’s a spy! The last thing we want her to be is comfy.”

“Depriving her of her liberty is the punishment,” said Lilla. “She is entitled to basic human rights and dignity, which means a comfy environment. Thank you, Handwerk Butiksägarinna. Your wool shed sounds ideal.”

For a moment, the councillor looked as though he might be inclined to argue but the farmer signalled to him to keep quiet.

“And now the lock,” Lilla said.

“Isn’t it wonderful,” said the craft shop owner fervently, “the way the island gives us exactly what we need?”

“Yes, wonderful, but where is the lock?” asked Lilla.

“Didn’t you take it?” the farmer said to the councillor.

“Yes, you did,” said the choir mistress. “I remember. You thought it would make a nice belt buckle.”

“Well, it didn’t,” the councillor muttered. “It was heavy. Could have done myself a mischief.”

“So what did you do with it?” asked the choir mistress.

The councillor swivelled his gaze downwards to study his feet.

“What did you do with it?” repeated Lilla in a much firmer tone.

The councillor muttered something without raising his head.

“Speak up!” Lilla commanded.

“I said I gave it to the wife for our anniversary and told her it was an ornamental feature for the garden.”

“Then your garden is about to be ornamentally featureless,” said Lilla. “Go and get it.”

“Can’t you go instead?” the councillor pleaded.

“No I can’t,” said Lilla. “She’s your wife. Meet us at the wool shed and hurry up.”

The councillor scuttled away and I found myself being escorted out of the assembly hall by Lilla, the choir mistress, the craft shop owner and the farmer. It was a disconcerting situation and yet I couldn’t see an alternative to going along with them. I have finely honed martial arts skills, but I suspected that Lilla knew a trick or two and there was a real danger that the farmer would set his sheep on me. And I was scarcely going to achieve my mission by escaping, since this was where most of my suspects were.

The craft shop owner slipped her arm in mine. I thought this was a laughable attempt to stop me running off but it turned out that she wanted to have a chat.

“You’re probably going to be in my wool shed for quite a while,” she said.

“For ever,” chipped in the choir mistress. “Well, at least for as long as you live.”

The craft shop owner patted my arm with her other hand. “It is very comfy,” she assured me. “I wanted to thank you for being so kind about my tea bags, saying they were imaginative. And I thought, since you’re going to be in there anyway, perhaps you could help me make them? It’s very simple. You just grab a bit of wool and shove some buckwheat in it.”

“That sounds easy enough,” I said, careful that I wasn’t actually committing myself to anything.

At this moment, the councillor rejoined us, red-faced and wheezing. He was clutching a metal object which was shedding earth and had bits of wild flower attached to it.

“Oh dear,” said the craft shop owner. “I hope your wife wasn’t too cross.”

“I didn’t tell her,” the councillor admitted. “I’ll say that kids nicked it.”

Lilla gave him a look. “That would be a lie,” she said. “And telling lies is wrong,” said the choir mistress.

“Then I’ll say it was probably kids that nicked it,” he said as we stopped in front of a small but solidly built wooden shed. “Right, now what do we do?”

They clustered round the metal object, examining it closely but clearly baffled. And I found myself swithering. I didn’t want to be locked in the wool shed. In principle I’m opposed to being locked up, something which has happened far too frequently on previous missions. And in this instance, I was particularly opposed to being locked up since it was already day four of my one-week mission.

But there was another issue to consider. As part of the finest education in the world, we Blainers are taught to explore the objective view alongside our personal feelings. And in this case, the objective view was quite clear. The islanders were perplexed by a situation which was completely new to them. They needed help. And a Blainer’s raison d’être is to be helpful, even at slight inconvenience to herself.

In this instance, the inconvenience was likely to be more than slight. The shed had no windows, and I could see the walls and door would be resistant to a shoulder barge. But there was a lock to be fitted, and the islanders clearly hadn’t a clue.

“Oh, give it here,” I said. The lock and key were beautifully made. A skilled artisan had engraved the lock with floral motifs, clearly visible once I had wiped off the residue of the actual vegetation. It was totally different from our modern pin tumbler locks. Instead, the key had protrusions and notches that corresponded to projections inside the lock. I eased the key in sideways and heard a satisfying click as the internal levers aligned to engage the bolt mechanism.

“It’s working well,” I told the quorum members who were looking on in fascination. “And it’s a good fit for the door.”

I had been concerned that the necessary tools wouldn’t be available, but the islanders’ self-sufficiency and building expertise meant they were well equipped with saws and hammers, though they didn’t have a screwdriver and I had to improvise with a chisel. Using the woodwork and metalwork skills all Blainers learn in primary school, I fitted the lock to the shed door. They watched me closely throughout, and I explained what was happening as I went along. Lilla seemed to grasp it readily enough, but the others couldn’t work it out until I actually locked the councillor inside as a demonstration.

I don’t know whether he was borderline claustrophobic, but he was certainly scrabbling at the door and yelling a lot before I showed the choir mistress how to let him out.

“That’s enough of that! You get in there right now,” he spluttered.

“Of course,” I said, taking the key from the choir mistress and presenting it to him.

He cast a suspicious eye over it. “I still think it looks like an ornamental garden feature,” he said.

“And how do we know it really works the way she showed us?” said the farmer. “It could have an escape mechanism that she’s concealing from us.”

“Exactly,” said the councillor. “I don’t trust it. I’m going to sit out here and guard the place properly with the key in my pocket.” He brandished the key so that everyone would remember what a key was, and be impressed by his easy acquisition of the new word.

I heard the choir mistress mutter: “Doing something useful, that’s a change.”

He heard it as well and flushed scarlet, but rather than tackling the choir mistress, he clamped a hand on my shoulder and propelled me towards the entrance of the shed.

I was almost inside when the craft shop owner, with a diffident “excuse me,” shoved a bulging sack into my arms. That, along with the propulsion, made me overbalance, and I fell into the shed. The door slammed shut behind me, and the key clicked in the lock. But at least I could be thankful for small mercies. I hadn’t landed on a hard earth floor but on a heap of raw wool. And my fall had also been broken by the craft shop owner’s sack of buckwheat.

I surveyed my new accommodation which I hoped would only be temporary, though I couldn’t yet work out how. I had done a good job with the lock. Despite the lack of windows or an open door, I could still see a little bit. This was thanks to the ubiquitous hole in the roof for the smoke from the fire, even though there was no fire. For all too brief a moment, I thought I had found a means of escape. That was until I realised the hole was too high for me to reach. And even if I had been able to reach it, I could see that it would be slightly too tight a squeeze for my gluteal muscles.

All that was in the shed apart from me was the sack of buckwheat and vast quantities of tangled oily wool. The craft shop owner was certainly into wool-gathering. The word is normally used to mean indulging in idle thoughts and daydreaming. But she was into literal wool-gathering, retrieving tufts of wool that had caught on bushes and fences, or had simply been cast off by the sheep. There were piles and piles of them, and not one had been through any sort of cleansing process. I felt slightly unwell at the thought of the tea bag I had almost ingested in the choir mistress’s cottage. But I also felt very tired. It had been a long and stressful day, and I could see through the hole in the roof that darkness was falling. I rearranged the wool to create a comfortable bed and pillow, using my kirtle as a hygienic pillowslip, and settled down.

I had an excellent sleep and woke the next morning in a cheerful mood until I remembered where I was. As I tidied up the wool, I remembered that the craft shop owner had charged me with filling more tea bags. I had carefully not agreed to this, but I hadn’t actually said no. I felt a slight twinge of guilt at having misled her by omission. But that was the least of my problems. I was incarcerated with no possible means of escape. Someone else might have succumbed to despair, but I was confident that a solution would present itself if I stopped focusing on the problem and allowed my subconscious to work on it. A boring and repetitive task such as making buckwheat tea bags could be useful, but I still couldn’t bring myself to handle the manky scraps of wool covered in all sorts of contaminants. I’m well aware that being excessively hygienic can adversely affect our health, disrupting the microbiome and weakening the immune system. We need exposure to various microbes to help build resistance to pathogens. But I was pretty sure these microbes were extremely noxious.

In any case, I had a more pressing duty – the map. I retrieved my diary from my pouch, and settling myself directly below the chimney hole for the best light, turned to the page with the map and began to add in all the pathways and buildings I had discovered, including the sailors’ barns, the choir mistress’s cottage, the Swither hall and my current residence.

This side of the island was definitely where my suspects were. I felt even worse now for having suspected Eirik and Sporgh. It was clear that the cave-dwellers were the ones at risk of being murdered. The farmer and the councillor were the most bad-tempered, and the most vocally opposed to incomers. But Lilla was the one who kept coming over to my side of the island. She could have murdered the Finn on the instruction of the choir mistress, irritated by the arrival of yet another sailor who wouldn’t or couldn’t sing and therefore wouldn’t enhance her male voice choirs. She seemed nice enough, but conductors can be very temperamental. She wouldn’t even have had to pay Lilla to be a hitwoman – she would just have had to say please and thank you. And what about the shy, diffident craft shop owner? Who would suspect her? I’ve read enough crime fiction to know that it’s virtually always the least likely person whodunnit. Either that or the butler, and the island didn’t seem to be the social milieu for butlers.

I trawled my memory for clues. The craft shop owner had become very twitchy when I asked for a map. She had then been extraordinarily nice to me in the Swither, to avoid suspicion, and had called out the councillor for his xenophobia. And she had offered her wool shed as my prison. Yes, it seemed increasingly likely that she was the murderer. She might even be a total psychopath, intent on murdering the entire population by means of contaminated tea bags. I marked her shop and the shed with thicker lines to identify my chief suspect.

The Shoogle might also be important. I normally get a tingle indicating the subject of my mission, and had told myself that the lack of tingle was because I was investigating a dead body. But perhaps things were different on this fiercely independent island which insisted on doing everything its own way. Perhaps instead of a tingle, I was being alerted by a shoogle. The first had come when I had battled through the sheep to cross the isthmus, encountering the farmer. And the second, more dramatic one, was when I had been in the choir mistress’s cottage.

I didn’t know exactly where the shoogles had occurred, but I knew the islanders had made their way downhill and turned right before they reached the isthmus. I plotted a possible route on my map and put an X at three strategic points. I would investigate further once I escaped.

I checked whether my subconscious had come up with an escape plan, but there was no sign of one. The councillor had been true to his word and was keeping guard. I could hear him give the occasional cough, and periodically march up and down before resuming his post. Then came a dull clink and a scrape, metal grinding against metal, and I realised the door was being unlocked. This was my chance. I braced myself amid the wool, preparing to leap at the opening door, sending the councillor flying.

But as the door opened a smidgen, the sharp point of a sword appeared through it. Any leaping on my part would result in my being impaled. The door opened a fraction more, allowing me to see that Lilla was wielding the sword, flanked by the rest of the quorum. They all held serious pieces of weaponry, apart from the choir mistress. She was shoving a small bowl towards me and as soon as it crossed the threshold, the door slammed shut and was quickly locked.

The bowl was filled with buckwheat porridge, and I was so disappointed by my failure to escape that I ate the lot. The hours passed. The light reaching me through the chimney hole gradually dimmed so that I could no longer see to write my diary, and the councillor’s occasional cough mutated into snoring.

I thought I might follow his example and go to sleep, though without the snoring, obviously. It would not only be restorative, but would also give my subconscious time to do its work and come up with a viable escape plan. For a second night, I made up a bed of wool and lay down.

It’s very rare for me to have nightmares, but I was having one now. It had no doubt been precipitated by my memories of those primary school metalwork and woodwork classes. It was playtime during my first day at school; I was in the playground and a bigger girl was pulling my hair. This was before I had acquired my martial arts skills, so the only thing I could think of was to pull her hair in retaliation. But her arms were longer than mine and I couldn’t reach.

Other girls surrounded us, chanting “Fight! Fight!” as I flailed helplessly at my attacker. I flailed so much that I managed to wake myself up. And felt the sharp pain of my hair being pulled. I sat bolt upright and the pain stopped. Soft feathers brushed against my face.

“Schwarzkopf?” I said in disbelief. He must have come through the chimney hole.

There was the beginning of a squawk, “Aye—”, before I managed to clamp my hand round his beak.

A full moon outside meant that there was dim light in the shed.

“Sorry,” I whispered. “It’s very nice to see you. But we have to be very quiet. There’s a guy out there who’s guarding me – I’m locked in here and he’s got the key.”

I found myself sighing. “This is really silly, isn’t it?” I whispered on. “I’m talking to you as though you can understand, but all you can do is parrot various phrases you’ve heard. And in the case of my name, you can’t even do that very well.”

Schwarzkopf started flapping furiously and I had to let go of his beak for fear of hurting him. The next instant, he was soaring upwards to the chimney hole and the night sky.

I felt bad about having grabbed his beak, which is absolutely not recommended, and can cause stress to the bird. Although judging by his expression just before he flew off, Schwarzkopf wasn’t stressed, he was offended. That obviously couldn’t have been because of my words, since he wouldn’t have been able to understand them. But he might have been conversant with the word “sorry,” and I would certainly have said that had he not disappeared so quickly. I was wrong to have seized him, but his squawking could be pretty loud, and I was anxious for him not to waken the councillor.

As I sat there, feeling a bit guilty and remorseful, I felt a sudden sharp, intense pain in my head. I was about to let out a yelp, but I couldn’t. It was as though my lips were stapled together. That, of course, wasn’t remotely a possibility since although the islanders knew about metalwork, they certainly hadn’t reached the stage of making staples and staplers. And yet I could think of no other explanation for the sensation I was feeling. I had closed my eyes because of the pain in my head and now the pain in my lips made me open them. I found myself staring straight at Schwarzkopf who had clamped my mouth shut with his beak. Though I couldn’t speak, I managed to emit a faint groan.

Schwarzkopf let go of me and took up his customary place on my shoulder. He put his beak very close to my ear, but instead of nibbling it, he gave a practically inaudible squawk of “Sshh!”

I began to suspect that he really could understand me. Speaking as quietly as he had, I said: “I would like to offer you my sincerest apologies. It was never my intention to upset you, and I deeply regret causing you distress. I know I don’t deserve to be forgiven, but—”

Schwarzkopf was now nibbling my ear which I took as an acceptance of my apology.

“Thank you,” I whispered. “That’s very gracious of you.”

He hopped off my shoulder and began walking around on the wool-covered floor with a purposeful strut.

Now that we were friends again, I relaxed; and that gave the throbbing pain in my head the chance to come back with renewed force. Gingerly, I began to massage the affected area and was startled to find my hair was damp. It must have started to rain. I held my hand out under the chimney hole to check how heavy it was, but my hand remained dry. And my fingertips looked darker than the rest of my hand. I examined them more closely. I didn’t have a localised migraine: I was bleeding.

It was as though something had hit me. But what? And where could it have come from? It had felt a lot harder than turf off the roof. As I considered this, there was a sharp click, almost like a small hammer striking a metal surface. Through the gloom, I saw Schwarzkopf scrabbling at the wool with his beak and retrieving an object. The sound I had heard was the curve of his claws coming into contact with whatever it was.

I bent down to see what he was up to, and discovered him proudly lifting up a key for my inspection. The very key I had presented to the councillor so that he could lock me in. Some strands of hair were caught in the groove, hair that looked identical in colour and length to mine.

When I’m on a mission, I’m alert to any clues, indeed to all clues, and I was pretty sure that this key was responsible for the throbbing pain in my head. It must have fallen through the chimney hole, struck me, and then continued its downward trajectory into a pile of wool which muffled the sound of it landing. That explained why I was only aware of it now. But it didn’t explain how the key had come to fall through the roof.

Schwarzkopf nudged the key closer to me. I stared at him. Had this not-entirely-dumb animal really understood every word I had said and unilaterally decided to rescue me by stealing the key from the sleeping councillor?

As I stared, the parrot actually winked at me, very slowly, flew up on to my shoulder and whispered in my ear: “Aye, aye, cap’n! Stand by to go about!”

“Schwarzkopf, you’re a miracle worker,” I whispered back.

He preened himself.

The sound of the councillor’s snoring continued. He hadn’t been disturbed by Schwarzkopf’s depredations. I was all set to make my escape, thanks to the keen intelligence of a parrot. And yet, that key had landed on my head in what could only be described as precision bombing. A keenly intelligent parrot but also one who liked the occasional bit of tit-for-tat. I touched my fingers to the tender area on my head and looked again at Schwarzkopf who swivelled his head away from me as though he had just spotted something extremely fascinating on the other side of the shed. But I couldn’t blame him for what he had done. I should never have grabbed hold of his beak, and he was surely entitled to a brief bit of retaliation. Now we were quits.

I took the key and carefully inserted it in the lock, turning it as slowly as I could. I could feel the notches on the key correspond to the projections inside the lock, and then there was a muted click as the bolt retracted and the door opened.

The councillor was resting against the wall of the shed, his arms folded across his chest, rising and falling with every snore. Scarcely breathing, I stepped outside, Schwarzkopf following me. I closed the door gently behind me, but kept the key to prevent anybody else being locked up. And I left the door unlocked so that there was no need to break it open – the craft shop owner still needed access for her tea bags.

The safest place for me was my cave. There was no evidence that anybody apart from Lilla visited my side of the island, and she didn’t know where my cave was. Although – I gave an involuntary shudder – if Lilla wasn’t the murderer, then someone else must have made the journey.

I edged round the sleeping councillor and began making my way down the bumpy street. There was a tiny bit of light in the sky, though this far north, summer dawn came early and as yet there was no sign of anybody waking up. But the farmer in particular was likely to rise promptly, so I had to escape as quickly as possible. I didn’t dare run in case people were roused by the sound of my DMs, and I’ve never mastered that weird straight-legged salsa-hipped gait that race walkers have. So I padded as fast as I could, down past the cottages and past the polygonic barn full of sleeping Finns. I considered calling in and telling them that they were very likely being targeted by a murderer because of their nationality. But several things militated against this. First, by waking them up, I risked waking up nearby islanders as well. Second, I had to get back to my cave as quickly as possible with no time for detours. Third, despite my fluency in Finnish, I might be unable to get through to them given their tendency to run away from strangers.

I continued padding past the other barns, and was relieved to reach the isthmus without encountering the farmer. But once again, the isthmus was covered in sheep, rippling like waves. Barging through them would start them baaing, which would alert the farmer if not everyone else.

As I stood uncertainly at the edge of the isthmus, Schwarzkopf flew past me at speed, skimming past the sheep. I was aghast that a bird who had seemed so intelligent could do something so reckless, and I started looking around for somewhere I could hide. Even as I registered that there was no cover anywhere nearby, Schwarzkopf zoomed back over the sheep, mere inches above them, and landed on my shoulder.

I was about to whisper to him that he was by far the stupidest bird I had ever met when I realised there was absolutely no baaing going on. And the sheep didn’t look as tall as previously. They weren’t standing, they were lying down. And they were neither roiling nor rippling, because they were asleep. Schwarzkopf had flown close to them to demonstrate exactly that. I felt guilty about him all over again.

Given that the sheep’s short amount of sleep is taken in a series of brief naps, there wasn’t a second to lose. The isthmus was grassy, so my DMs wouldn’t thud. I took a moment to prepare myself. The sheep were laid out almost like an obstacle course. I visualised my success in the hurdles race at the school sport day and then I positively sprinted, jumping over sheep after sheep until I reached my side of the island and the tunnel under the cliffs.

And then I was into the solid blackness of the tunnel, Schwarzkopf guiding me by a judicious touch of his wings so that I didn’t crash into the walls. By the time I got to the other end, the dawn light was stronger and I could easily find my way back to the cave. But perhaps I should take a brief detour first. I checked in my pouch and, sure enough, there was something other than my diary and writing implements: a packet wrapped in greaseproof paper with “Sporgh” written on it and underneath in smaller letters “beef and caramelised onion on rye.”

The other cave-dwellers were managing to feed themselves adequately, but Sporgh must be starving, given my lengthy absence. I made my way to his cave, Schwarzkopf still fluttering round me. It was as yet very early, and I didn’t want to wake Sporgh, so simply left the sandwich at the entrance and then went to what I now almost thought of as home.

At least I didn’t have to worry about Sporgh even though there was a murderer on the loose: his refusal to leave his cave meant he was perfectly safe. And that gave me extra impetus to complete my mission as soon as possible. I still had no idea what sanctions Miss Blaine would impose if I failed to complete a mission within a calendar week. But if I was whisked back to Edinburgh without being able to assure Sporgh that he was no longer at risk, the unfortunate man would starve.

My immediate priority was Grimwald, to warn him that he must now follow Sporgh’s example and not go wandering around. But it wasn’t fair to wake him either just yet, and in any case, I had my own sleep to catch up on. I like to get my full seven and a half hours, and my escape from the wool shed had been a serious disruption. But perhaps I should write up my diary first. In the shed, I had been so intent on drawing the map that I hadn’t bothered to record the events of the day, which had been quite significant.

With a sigh, I opened my pouch and took out the notebook. The next thing I knew, Schwarzkopf was on my shoulder, leaning forward to peer at me. Using his new skill of whispering, he asked tentatively: “Pieces of oat?”

“It’s all right, there’s no need to whisper any more,” I said.

“Pieces of oat!” he squawked loudly, right in my ear.

“Sorry,” I said, showing him the pouch. “There was only a sandwich for Sporgh.”

“Pieces of oat!” he squawked triumphantly, sticking his head in the pouch and emerging with a flapjack which he proceeded to peck into manageable pieces. It seemed my pouch was happy to look after everyone except me. More than a little irritated by this, I decided I couldn’t be bothered doing any writing. I stashed the diary, quill and ink under a pile of seaweed to keep them safe, and settled myself down to sleep.

“I wasn’t hungry anyway,” I muttered into the ether before I nodded off.

I woke feeling thoroughly rested, and could see it was now fully light outside. Schwarzkopf was still sound asleep in the darkness at the back of the cave, standing on one leg to conserve body heat, his head tucked into his back feathers.

I crept towards him, preparing to yell: “Rise and shine!” in retaliation for him squawking in my ear but as I approached, Schwarzkopf suddenly stretched out his wings and greeted me with a bright: “Aye, aye, cap’n!”

I had momentarily forgotten that parrots are capable of sleeping with one half of the brain at rest while the other remains alert, but I recovered quickly enough to wish him a good morning. My pouch now contained yet another meal replacement protein bar – coffee this time, a flavour I dislike. I tried offering some to Schwarzkopf but he turned up his beak at it, so I reluctantly finished it myself.

My task now was to warn Grimwald not to go wandering about. While the evidence so far suggested that the murderer targeted only Finns, it was possible that any seafarer was also at risk. It was also possible that any incomer was at risk, which would then include me, but I was on a mission which took precedence over my personal safety.

When I emerged from the cave, I could see from the position of the sun that I’d seriously overslept: it was well after midday. I set off at a pace, Schwarzkopf fluttering cheerfully round me. Grimwald wasn’t going to be cheerful. He seemed quite a gloomy chap at the best of times, and I wasn’t sure how he would take to the news that he was no longer allowed out. Was there some means of softening the blow? I remembered how Sporgh had decorated his cave with shells, hanging them on the flint nodules of the walls. I could take Grimwald some shells to cheer the place up and reconcile him to staying in.

There was a good variety of shells on the beach. Lovely conical periwinkles in greys, purples and browns. Oval Baltic tellin shells in pinks, purples, white and yellows. Heart-shaped cockle shells in reds, browns and yellows. They would enhance any home, and I resolved to comb Edinburgh’s Portobello Beach once I returned. I gathered up a selection of all of them in case Grimwald wanted to go for a particular colour scheme and continued towards his cave.

As we got closer, Schwarzkopf began tugging on my ear.

“Stop that!” I said severely.

He stopped, but only in order to squawk: “Stand by to go about!” and then he began tugging on my ear again.

There was obviously some hostility between Schwarzkopf and Grimwald. I remembered Grimwald trying to hit the parrot with his pleg, something that appalled me at the time. But I had to ask myself why Grimwald would do such a thing, and the obvious answer was ornithophobia, fear of birds. It was unlikely that he was afraid of all birds, since that would be problematic for a seafarer. As Eric Cantona memorably pointed out, seagulls follow trawlers in the hope of sardines, and I was sure fifteenth century seagulls followed any sort of ship in the hope of anything. Ornithophobia can manifest itself as fear of a particular species, and I was certain this was what was happening here. Grimwald had called Schwarzkopf a harbinger, a wandering spirit, an angel of death. This proved that he had an irrational and excessive fear of parrots. It was understandable that his panic would make him lash out at any passing parrot, and equally understandable that being lashed out at would upset Schwarzkopf. And now, bless him, the parrot didn’t understand that a phobia was not only irrational but also specific. He just thought that Grimwald was a violent man and that I was at risk, and he was trying to protect me.

“You’re very sweet,” I told him, “but I’m quite safe. Grimwald isn’t an enemy – in fact he’s my friend. I don’t have to ‘go about,’ and you don’t have to come with me if you don’t want to. It’s not his fault. It’s an anxiety disorder.”

Schwarzkopf gave a disparaging squawk and flew off in the opposite direction. He really wasn’t at all understanding, but that wasn’t his fault either – there must be some downsides to having such a tiny brain.

Now that I was on my own, I could focus on my strategy for persuading Grimwald to stay in his cave. He was a literate man, but he disguised his learning well; his speech was gruff and often monosyllabic, and his views on women were not enlightened. If I told him he was in danger from a murderer, and pled with him not to go out for his own safety, he would just become even more macho, and probably insist on going out specifically to look for the murderer. My only hope was to pull rank on him, hoping that on board ship he had been well trained to obey orders. Despite what Schwarzkopf said, I wasn’t a ship’s captain, but on this occasion, rather than being my usual affable self, I would have to present as a figure of authority.

That was scarcely a stretch: all I had to do was channel my inner prefect. If you can break up the fifth years’ illicit gambling den, you can cope with a single sailor. Since I couldn’t pull rank, I would have to find another way of putting him on the back foot, even though I wasn’t quite sure which of his feet that was.

Hoping he was at home, I marched into Grimwald’s cave as though I owned the place. I found him sitting on the floor, knitting, and at the sight of me, his jaw dropped, followed by the wooden needles.

“What do you think you’re doing, sneaking up on me like that?” he demanded.

“Scarcely sneaking,” I retorted. “I’ve come to have a word with you.” I sat down without being asked. “I want to know why you’ve been lying to me.”

“Wha-at?” he said with that unconvincing upward inflection.

“Don’t give me that,” I said. “You honestly thought I believed you when you told me something so obviously preposterous? And now I want the truth.”

Even in the gloom of the cave I could see that above his unkempt blond beard, his weather-beaten face had gone pale.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he said.

“You want me to spell it out, do you?” I asked.

He hesitated for a moment, then gave a brief nod.

“All right,” I said. “You told me you lost your pleg because you’d been attacked by a monster. That’s not true, is it?”

“Yes is it,” he said gruffly.

“No it’s not,” I said. “You’ve never given the slightest description of this so-called monster. You just keep saying you don’t want to talk about it. That’s because there’s no monster to describe. You told me you didn’t know what sort of monster murdered the Finn, but why wouldn’t you think is was the same one that had attacked you? And you said you were glad you hadn’t seen the monster that murdered the Finn because, and I quote, ‘monsters murder people, that’s what they do.’ But the monster didn’t murder you. Because you were never attacked by a monster. You never met a monster. There is no monster.”

Grimwald was hunched over in a ball, his head on his knees, his arms protectively round his head.

“I’m right, admit it,” I said.

There was no response.

“Speak up!” I ordered in the voice I used to terrorise first-years running in the corridor.

He unrolled himself, all the bravado gone.

“All right, I’ll tell you,” he mumbled. “No, it wasn’t a monster, it was … ”

His voice tailed away and I couldn’t hear the crucial final word.

“Say again?” I prompted.

He said again.

“What do you mean, ship?” I asked. “I know you were on a ship. Is that where you lost your leg?”

“Not ship, SHEEP,” he shouted. “Here on the island, big fat woolly things, spiky horns.”

“Sheep?” I exclaimed, my voice almost as loud as his. “They’re a total menace!” Suddenly I understood Grimwald’s embarrassment. It must be hard for a tough sailor to admit that he’d been bested by a gang of sheep. But it somehow made me all the more fond of him, and pleased that he’d singled me out as the person he could trust to hear his “confession” without laughing at him.

“What happened?” I asked. “Were you trying to cross the isthmus?”

I had no sooner said it than I realised that was impossible. I had found his pleg washed up on the beach on our side of the island, just along from where the sand had been all churned up, with a single footprint leading away from the scene of havoc. I waited to see how Grimwald would respond. In particular, whether he would lie to me. Just because I liked him didn’t mean that I should lose all my critical faculties.

“Isthmus?” he said, his brow creasing. “I’ve no idea what you’re talking about. No, I spotted a flock of sheep grazing on top of the cliffs back there and I … and I … ”

“And you what?” I asked, much more gently than I had quizzed him previously. I was no longer in prefect mode. I had seen the sheep on our side of the island. He wasn’t lying to me.

He gulped. “All I wanted was some wool. So that I could knit socks.”

“Seems reasonable,” I said.

“But they got very angry.”

“They’ve certainly got an attitude problem,” I agreed. “That’s totally unreasonable, objecting to you trying to gather scraps of wool off bushes and fences.”

This time he provided the echo. “Bushes and fences?”

“Yes, that’s where you find the wool.” I saw that he was looking at me in some surprise. “Tell me you didn’t try to get the wool directly off the sheep,” I said.

“But that’s where wool comes from,” he protested.

Sailors. Fine on the high seas, not so savvy when it comes to the way we do things on dry land.

“I’m not surprised the sheep got angry,” I said. “You’re supposed to take the bits they’ve discarded, not remove them at source.”

“Nobody told me anything about that,” he muttered.

“So what happened?” I asked.

“They turned on me,” he said, his voice cracking. “They chased me. They chased me down the cliff, on a path that was so narrow, I could hardly see it. I was running for my life and maybe that’s what weakened my pleg. They cornered me on the beach out there. I thought I was a goner when one of them butted me and my pleg fell off.”

He rubbed his hand over his eyes as though trying to wipe away a memory. “I don’t know where I got the strength, but I managed to hop as far as the sea. I had to stay in the shallows, because once the water gets into your boot, it drags you down. But someone or something must have been looking after me because the sheep didn’t follow me.”

“They’re not keen on water,” I said. I knew all about them, thanks to a school project called The City and the Sheep, and I was happy to display my expertise. “It’s not their natural habitat. Their muscle and leg structure has adapted for walking and grazing. They’re just not built for propelling themselves through rivers or the sea. They’re quite good at floating, though, because their wool traps air and makes them buoyant.”

He didn’t seem that interested in my dissertation on sheep despite its being very interesting. But I could see he was mentally revisiting the trauma. Upset though he was, I was reassured that at last he was telling me the truth.

I had had one or two misgivings about him because of his preposterous story about being attacked by a monster. But he had now allayed all my fears. For a macho sailor to have to admit to having been assailed by a bunch of sheep must have seemed the ultimate humiliation. I wasn’t surprised he had come up with an alternative narrative. In fact, I was quite touched that he now felt able to admit to me what had happened.

He gave me a searching look. “You said there is no monster. Why did you say that? The Finn was killed by a monster.”

“Ah, but he wasn’t,” I said. “He was killed by a person.”

“Who?” His voice cracked again.

“That I don’t know,” I admitted. “But I’m well on the way to finding out.” A slight exaggeration, but I wanted to reassure him. Along with frightening him enough to persuade him to stay in his cave.

“How are you doing that?” he enquired, his voice still not quite back to normal.

“I have a list of suspects,” I said.

“A list? How many are on this list? Who are they? Where are they?”

He was much more interested in this than he had been about the sheep. Clearly people, and human interest stories, mattered more to him than animal behaviour.

“I don’t want to go into too much detail,” I said. “Suffice it to say, the murderer is someone who doesn’t like sailors.”

“Doesn’t like sailors?” He sounded flabbergasted, which was understandable. It’s natural to have a personal connection to one’s profession and to feel a sense of pride in your work. To hear that someone dislikes you enough to kill you for no other reason than the job you do must be traumatic. I tried to imagine a murderer who didn’t like librarians, but I simply couldn’t. Some professions are simply universally beloved.

“I’m afraid there is some quite disturbing xenophobia among the islanders,” I said.

He was staring at me as though I was making no sense. It was touching that such prejudice was beyond his comprehension.

“What islanders?” he managed to say.

He hadn’t known what I was talking about when I mentioned the isthmus.

“Sorry to bring up the sheep again,” I said. “But they create an optical illusion. When you’re standing on top of the cliffs here, they just look like a lot of waves. But they’re actually standing on a land bridge that joins our bit of the island to the inhabited bit. You’ve probably seen it from the cliffs – various farm buildings and what looks like a citadel, except it’s not, it’s basically just a lot of cottages and a big hall.”

I was about to tell him about the Swither when I noticed his mood had changed completely. He was leaning forward as though he didn’t want to miss a single word, a burning excitement in his eyes. I should have realised the effect that mentioning other human beings would have on someone who had been so isolated. In Daniel Defoe’s dreadful book, the arrival of Friday brings Robinson Crusoe immense emotional relief – he sees this new companionship as alleviating his deep sense of isolation.

I confess to being slightly miffed that Grimwald hadn’t considered my company, nor indeed Lilla’s, sufficient for him. But he was obviously one of these men who preferred blokeish company. And I had made a bad mistake, alerting him to the presence of the islanders when it was imperative that he stay away from them.

That was when I had an idea. I’m normally a very truthful person. But very occasionally, one must bend the truth ever so slightly in the pursuit of a greater good.

“But you mustn’t on any account go to the other side of the island,” I said. “It’s extremely dangerous. Every single person I met could be the murderer. In fact, they could all be murderers. They attacked me. I barely escaped with my life.”

I turned my head sideways since even in the gloom of the cave he would be able to see that my fair hair was matted with blood. Schwarzkopf dropping the key on my head hadn’t actually been that sore, but even minor head wounds result in profuse bleeding because the brain requires so many blood vessels.

He gave a gasp and I realised it must look even more dramatic than I thought.

“They attacked you?” he said. “That’s not right. Not right at all. Men attacking one another, that’s how it should be, but attacking women – no, I don’t agree with it. It’s terrible.”

I wasn’t sure whether to be touched or offended by his concern.

“I’m not sure which of them it was who hit me,” I said. “It’s quite possible it was a woman.”

“No, no, no,” he said. “Women attacking people, that’s not right. Not right at all. Women should be looking after the home and behaving themselves.”

I was offended. But this wasn’t the time to get into an argument with him about equal attacking rights.

“Let it be a warning to you,” I said. “It’s obviously not the sort of island where everyone is on their best behaviour. If this is what happened to me, I don’t give much for a man’s chances.”

“I don’t understand why they attacked you,” he said. “It’s not as though you could be any sort of threat.”

Now I was even more offended. I did think of demonstrating a few of my martial arts moves on him. I couldn’t, of course, since they’re only for self-defence.

“I told you,” I said, somewhat tetchily. “They don’t like strangers. And they got very agitated when I asked for a map.”

He sat bolt upright. “A map? Why did you want a map?”

I was pretty sure he was one of those men who think women can’t read maps. I was about to put him right.

“I didn’t want a map as such. I simply thought it might be useful for filling in the fine detail of the map which I myself am making. It indicates the shape and length of the coastline, including bays, cliffs and the isthmus, sandy areas and rocky shores, elevations, water flow, forests, grasslands, inhabited areas and points of interest.”

He was staring at me wide-eyed.

“Oh yes,” I said complacently. “You’re not the only one round here who can read and write.”

He was practically hyperventilating in his astonishment. He wouldn’t have such a dismissive view of women in future.

“This map,” he said. “I’d really like to see it.”

That was very flattering, and I was about to say I would bring it round when I realised what a terrible mistake that would be. First, it would only make him hanker after seeing more of the island for himself and he wouldn’t obey my instructions to stay in his cave. And second, he would know the whereabouts of Sporgh, Eirik and Odd. It was imperative that none of them knew where the others were: that way, if they fell into the hands of the islanders, they would have no information they could be “persuaded” to pass on.

“Sorry,” I said. “It’s still a bit scrappy. I’d want to make it more presentable before I showed it to anyone. Now, since you’re going to have to stay indoors while this murderer is on the loose, I thought we should try to brighten the place up a bit.”

I opened my pouch to retrieve the shells I had collected.

“Is your map in there?” he asked.

“Never mind about the map,” I said, trying to sound gruff and sailor-like, though I was secretly delighted that Grimwald was impressed by my map-making skills. “I told you, it’s not good enough for public viewing yet. Now, where shall we put these?”

I started setting the shells out on the ground when I noticed that quite a few of them were relatively flat and similarly sized. And I had also picked up two larger European flat oyster shells. Decorating the cave was one thing, but these shells could serve a dual purpose.

“Have you ever played tiddlywinks?” I asked.

Someone less time-travelled than myself might consider this a foolish question in the fifteenth century, since the game of tiddlywinks was patented as Tiddledy-Winks by Joseph Assheton Fincher in 1888. But that was merely the patent, and if time travel has taught me anything, it’s that our twenty-first century view of history is extremely inaccurate. The game could have been invented any time after the Big Bang

However, Grimwald knew nothing about tiddlywinks, so I had to explain it all to him. This seem to interest him almost as much as the map had done. I gave him the red-coloured shells while I had the yellow ones, telling him that these were the winks. I smoothed down the floor of the cave and put one of the flat oyster shells in the middle as the target. The other oyster shell had the role of squidger, and I demonstrated how to use the squidger to flip the winks towards the target. Then, of course, I had to go over the defensive move of squopping by landing your wink on top of your opponent’s wink, rendering it hors de combat. Thankfully, Grimwald was too taken up with the mechanics of the game to ask about the etymology of these names.

He was pretty terrible to begin with, lacking the necessary lightness of touch. He sent the winks skittering haphazardly across the floor of the cave. I was reduced to playing wildly so that I didn’t pot all my winks before he had succeeded in potting one. But after muttering under his breath in frustration for a while, he started to focus properly, determined to master the game. He was clearly fascinated by it, and saw it as a fight to the death. I was proud of Grimwald – he was displaying all the concentration skills of a Blainer. He seemed to learn something new with each flick of the squidger, refining his technique and honing his aim. And he quickly worked out that it wasn’t only about skill, it was also about strategy, trying to anticipate what I would do and then outsmart me.

Given that I’ve had the finest education in the world, I’m not used to being outsmarted. I was potting a reasonable proportion of my winks, but he was proving alarmingly good at squopping those of my winks that didn’t make it. And then he got the hang of potting his winks. As the game progressed, I realised that if his next shot succeeded, he was going to win. If he had been playing badly, of course I would have let him win. But this was now seriously competitive, and how could I let myself be beaten by a total beginner? I would never be able to hold my head up at the Former Pupils’ Tiddlywinks Championships again.

His hand steady, he took the shot. The wink sailed through the air, arcing towards its target. It landed with a soft clink, teetering on the edge of the European flat oyster shell as if undecided. I held my breath as I waited to see which way it would fall.

With a flurry of multicoloured wings, Schwarzkopf soared gracefully through the cave. He headed straight for the oyster shell and seized it in his beak, tipping the wink on to the ground. Then he flew in a perfect circle, as if his whole life had been spent learning to fly in circles purely to prepare him for this moment. In one brilliant flash he was out of the cave, the oyster shell still in his beak.

I had been so captivated by the gorgeous precision of his flight that I hadn’t been paying attention to Grimwald. With the parrot gone, I discovered my competitor crouched in the corner of the cave, his hands over his head.

“Grimwald?” I said tentatively. “Is something the matter?”

“Has it … has it gone?” he managed to say through dry lips.

“If you mean Schwarzkopf, yes, he’s gone,” I said. “If you mean the oyster shell we were using as the pot, it’s gone as well.”

Grimwald slowly took his hands off his head and peered into the gloom of the cave. “Not only a harbinger; a despoiler, a marauder, a haunting,” he intoned.

I took this to mean that he had been asking about Schwarzkopf rather than the pot. And I was impressed that a simple seafarer had such an extensive vocabulary.

His voice rose. “It seeks my life, and yours too if you cross it – be warned!”

This bird phobia was really having a debilitating effect on him. I wondered whether I should try some desensitising techniques on him, but I would have to start by encouraging indirect exposure to birds, for example looking at pictures of them, and I didn’t have any. Any therapeutic intervention would also be quite a lengthy process and I couldn’t afford to be diverted further from my mission.

“You saw what the fiend did!” he cried. “I was about to win through my superior skill, but it intervened to deny me my victory. And you – did you bring it here?”

That was tantamount to suggesting I had sabotaged the game by playing the parrot card.

“Excuse me,” I said with deliberate calm, “while Schwarzkopf may perhaps have followed me here, I certainly did not bring him. And this is definitely not the way I would have wished the game to end. Before he arrived, it wasn’t at all clear which way that wink was going to fall, but under the circumstances, I’m happy to concede the victory. Congratulations on your win.”

Grimwald stood up with the agility I so admired in the uni-legged sailors, and stamped his foot. The real one, not the boot on his pleg.

“Don’t talk down to me, woman! We both know I was winning because I’m better at this game than you are. I demand a rematch.”

I decided to make allowances. He had a phobia. Suddenly confronted with the source of it, he would have experienced intense anxiety, probably including an increased heart rate, sweating, trembling, shortness of breath, and a sense of impending doom. Hence his warning about the parrot seeking our lives.

“Okay,” I said, “we’ll have a rematch. But first I’ll have to go and find another oyster shell. In the meantime, don’t even think of going outside.” With the quick-wittedness on which I pride myself, I realised how I could ensure that he complied with my instructions.

“After all,” I said, “you wouldn’t want to be murdered before you’ve won the rematch.”

As I set out along the shore looking for European flat oyster shells, I wondered whether I should look for European flat oysters to supplement my diet. And then it struck me that that could be a bad mistake. Despite my extensive knowledge of physics, I’m not completely certain how time-travelling works. The time of year in a previous age may not correspond directly to the time of year I’ve left behind in twenty-first century Edinburgh. But the pleasantly warm weather suggested that this was a month without an “r” in it. May, June, July, August – not good months in which to eat raw native oysters. And in any case, oysters are totally disgusting. I would just have to keep relying on the contents of my pouch with the occasional side order of seaweed.

More to the point, what was I doing looking for components for a game when I was on a mission? I shuddered as I imagined the debriefing: “I’m terribly sorry I didn’t complete the mission in time, Miss Blaine, but I was playing tiddlywinks.”

“Tiddlywinks, girl? I don’t engage you to waste your time on childish pursuits!”

With new determination, I turned my back on the shoreline with its distracting shells. My immediate priority should be to wash the unsightly blood out of my hair: Miss Blaine would expect me to look presentable.

I clambered up the rudimentary path to the babbling brook, and looked in my pouch to see if there was any shampoo. I found a bar of glycerine soap, which would not only create a good lather, but was also phosphate-free and safe for aquatic life and the ecosystem.

The brook was both narrow and shallow as it babbled across the meadow, and I was going to have to lie flat on the grass to wash my hair, which seemed unnecessarily awkward. I followed it and discovered it continued on into the trees where it widened out and deepened, creating a forest river pool. The water was so clear that I could see the sand and smooth stones at the bottom. Dappled sunlight came through the tree canopy. The only sounds were chirping birds, gently rustling leaves, and the soporific hum of insects. It was so enticing that I found myself folding my clothes neatly under a tree and slipping into the water.

The sudden cold was a shock to the system, and yet again I wondered what on earth the attraction of wild swimming was. But I wasn’t wild swimming: I was simply having a bath and washing my hair. Thankfully, after a few moments, the cold started to feel less intense, and I actually had a surprising sense of warmth. The pond was big enough to let me do the equivalent of a breadth of the school swimming pool so I did that a few times underwater. I repeated to myself that I wasn’t wild swimming: I was simply rinsing the soap out of my hair. It was very relaxing and I wasn’t sure how long I had been doing breadths. The birds kept chirping, the leaves kept rustling, the insects kept up their soporific hum. But alongside of these it was as though I could hear a voice: “Relaxing, girl? I don’t engage you to waste your time enjoying yourself!”

I hauled myself out of the pool and headed rapidly for my clothes. But instead of the neat pile I had left under the tree, they were scattered all over the place. For a moment, I was quite horrified, imagining that someone had been spying on me during my ablutions. Unlike Lilla Hwitastierna, I’m not an exhibitionist. I imagine I set a new world record in getting dressed.

That was when I spotted my water bottle glinting in a clump of ferns some distance away. It had obviously rolled out of my pouch which was lying open, and I realised what had happened.

“Schwarzkopf!” I yelled. “Come here right now!”

Moments later, there was a whirr of multicoloured wings and Schwarzkopf landed on my shoulder.

“No!” I said, raising my arm to dislodge him. “Go and stand over there.” I pointed at a flat rock at the edge of the pool. He flew on to the rock and hopped about a bit until he caught my glare. Then he stood still. Birds aren’t keen on direct eye contact, but this was serious, and I wanted to be sure I had his attention.

“You,” I said, “are a bad parrot. A very bad parrot.”

I expected him to look contrite, but he just looked enquiring. I suppose parrots’ view of good manners differs from humans’ but even so, he had to be told what he had done was totally unacceptable.

“When someone has placed her clothes at the side of a bathing pool, or indeed anywhere, you absolutely do not rifle through them,” I told him. “I don’t care that you were just looking for my pouch. Actually, I do care that you were just looking for my pouch. You do not take things from people without their permission. That’s stealing. You wait to be offered.”

To underline my point, I waved the pouch at him.

He began hopping about again. “Pieces of oat!” he squawked. “Pieces of oat!”

I held the pouch upside down to demonstrate that it was empty. “Did you find any?” I asked. “I hope you didn’t. And there’s certainly nothing in here for you any more. If you’re hungry, there’s loads of vegetation around, or eat some insects if you want protein.”

I tied the pouch round my kirtle.

“I’m going away now, and I don’t want to see you again until you’ve decided to behave yourself,” I said.

“Aye, aye, cap’n!” he squawked and had the temerity to wink at me.

I thought it best to ignore this and leave him to think about what he had done.

I refilled my water bottle upstream of the bathing pool and headed back home, passing by Sporgh’s cave and noting with relief that the beef and caramelised onion on rye I had left outside had disappeared.

Perhaps it was because I still hadn’t managed to get the taste of lanolin out of my mouth after nearly choking on the woolly teabag, but I really fancied a beef and caramelised onion sandwich. Sending a plea into the ether, I opened my pouch. Nothing but my water bottle. It would have to be seaweed for tea. My stocks were looking a bit depleted, so I decided to gather some more while it was still light. Perhaps if I showed that I didn’t mind searching for nutrition, I would be rewarded. I wouldn’t mind a bar of chocolate.

It was a pleasant walk along the beach, picking up bladder-wrack, rockweed and eelgrass as the sun began to set. But my mind wasn’t on my surroundings. I was thinking about the Finn. I was still no further forward with solving the murder. This was day six of my mission. There were so many suspects and I couldn’t see an easy way of forcing a confession out of them. But did I need to?

They might think they had done the island a favour by getting rid of an incomer, and see no reason to conceal their crime since they didn’t consider it a crime. The only slight problem was that it was I who was the criminal – worse, an escaped criminal, certain to be re-arrested the minute I set foot on the other side of the island.

Grimwald had seemed certain the Finn had been strangled with seaweed, but I had dismissed his opinion. My theory was that the Finn had been murdered elsewhere, and had acquired the seaweed after being thrown in the sea. But perhaps Grimwald was speaking with his professional knowledge of how water and seaweed behave. If the Finn really had been murdered on my side of the island, Lilla had to be the murderer. She was the only one who came over to our area of naturally outstanding beauty, either through the tunnel or by swimming.

Then my reflections took another turn. If Grimwald could tell what had happened because of his seafarer’s expertise, other seafarers might also know about the strangulation potential of seaweed, which took me back to Sporgh, Eirik and Odd.

It was all so complicated. I sent a message into the ether: Am running out of time. Any clues you can give me? But the only response was the lapping of the waves and the screeching of seagulls.

I took my haul of seaweed home and dumped it on top of my dwindling store before having another anticipative look in my pouch. There was something there. Excitedly, I pulled it out, to find a small bottle of multivitamins. A useful supplement, but I really would have preferred a Scotch egg or some jelly babies. I set about making a meal of variegated seaweed. I knew it was a healthier option, but it was getting boring.

I had intended writing up my diary after I’d had my tea, but it was dark now. Writing by flickering firelight would mean my eyes having to adjust constantly to different lighting conditions, leading to eye strain and headaches. Having to concentrate so hard was also likely to mean I blinked less frequently, resulting in dry eyes, discomfort, inflammation and blurry vision.

In the interests of my eyesight, I decided to leave writing the diary until daylight, and settled down to sleep. Except I couldn’t. I normally keep very regular hours, since consistent sleep schedules help synchronise the circadian rhythm, promoting better quality sleep, with more restorative deep sleep stages. But I had broken my usual pattern with my jail break, and compounded matters by sleeping during the day. Now I was wide awake. It was no solution to try counting sheep since I could feel my heartbeat racing at the memory of those vicious horned creatures.

I lay there, solving mathematical equations and conjugating irregular Latin verbs, which only made me more alert. And then I heard something, something very faint. A gentle, muffled sound, akin to waves washing ashore, but closer to my cave than the waves. A slight crunching. The sound of grains of sand being displaced by the pressure of someone’s foot. Followed by a swish. Crunch, swish. Crunch, swish. The pressure of someone’s foot and something else. A peg leg.

Silently, I got up and edged to the cave entrance. There was enough moonlight for me to see a figure slink by, with unkempt hair and a left-hand peg leg. Either Sporgh or Odd. Both of whom had assured me they didn’t go out for fear of the monster. What could be a better cover story if they were the murderer?

I couldn’t follow immediately; just as I had heard Sporgh (or Odd) walking past, in the silence of the night, he would hear the sound of my DMs behind him. I waited until he was a good distance away before emerging, keeping as close to the cliffs as I could to avoid being seen. But the figure was moving rapidly across the beach towards the shoreline. My brown kirtle was useful camouflage on the sand, but I had to make myself as undetectable as possible. I lay flat on the ground, then began an elbow crawl, pulling myself forward one elbow at a time, with additional forward thrust from my toes.

Odd (or Sporgh) was far ahead of me now but I could still keep sight of him since unlike me, he was upright. He was heading towards the hefty boulders that led the way past the cross to Grimwald’s cave. He was going to murder Grimwald. I had no idea why: Grimwald had a tendency to be grumpy, true, but that was scarcely a reason to murder him. The correct thing to do was simply to avoid him.

I had lost a lot of ground, but I had to try to reach Grimwald first and warn him. The figure was clambering over the boulders now, and would be having to concentrate on the way ahead, given the awkwardness of the peg leg. I began to elbow crawl faster, really putting my toes into it. My deltoids and lats were beginning to ache. Perhaps I shouldn’t try to reach Grimwald before his prospective attacker, but rather disarm the attacker before he reached Grimwald.

Sporgh (if it was Sporgh) or Odd (if it was Odd) undoubtedly had a snickersnee. But all I had to do was present myself as a target, and when Odd (or Sporgh) lunged at me, I could take him down in a wrist lock, forcing him to drop the weapon. Job done.

I reached the boulders and began scrambling over them, still keeping a low profile. A fight on the boulders would be foolhardy since one or both of us might lose our footing. But as soon as I reached level ground, I would shout: “Ahoy there!” to attract his attention.

I had been ensuring that I couldn’t be seen, but as I hauled myself over one of the more troublesome boulders I discovered that it was Sporgh (or Odd) who couldn’t be seen. I peered in the direction of Grimwald’s cave, but there was no sign of either Odd or Sporgh. This was impossible. He couldn’t just have vanished. Perhaps he had fallen between some boulders. Or, more likely, he had realised I was behind him and was lurking behind a rock, waiting to pounce. My fingers automatically began extending and curling, having a warm-up preparatory to applying the wristlock.

And then I heard a noise, like the sound of sand crunching underfoot, only more so. It was coming from the wrong direction – not heading for Grimwald’s cave. It was as though it was near the big wooden cross commemorating the murdered Finn. Cautiously, I crept round the remaining boulders and had to stifle my gasp of horror at the dreadful sight.

The figure was now side on and in the moonlight I recognised Sporgh. He was kneeling at the side of the cross, but unlike Grimwald, he was far from paying his respects to a fellow mariner. His hands were clawing at the coarse sand, each frantic scrape sending grains flying. He was digging up the body.

For a second, I thought he must be a body snatcher, robbing graves to sell the cadavers to doctors for dissection. Or even worse, like Burke and Hare in nineteenth century Edinburgh, it was Sporgh who had murdered the Finn in order to get some cash. But a second later, I dismissed the idea. Even though French universities were dissecting bodies in the fifteenth century, this body wouldn’t be in a very good condition by the time it got to France, and there was no sign of a teaching hospital on the island.

Sporgh was scrabbling deeper into the sand, his movements becoming more desperate, more frenzied. I could hear him breathing hard with the effort. And then he gave a triumphant cry, brushing sand off some sort of flat surface. It looked like wood. It was touching that Grimwald had actually taken the time to build a coffin for his fellow sailor, a mark of real respect – and now Sporgh was desecrating the poor Finn’s resting place. I couldn’t allow that to happen.

This was precisely the moment when I felt a sudden blow on the back of my head. I collapsed in a heap on the sand. I had no idea who had attacked me, or how long I lay unconscious on the shore, That’s the thing about being unconscious, your conscious mind stops working and you lose all sense of time.

I don’t know how long I lay there. I only know that when I came to, a figure was standing over me. And it wasn’t Sporgh.

“The sailor’s dead,” said Lilla Hwitastierna in her matter-of-fact way.

She was the killer. She had killed the Finn. She had killed Sporgh. And now she was going to kill me.

TWELVE

A Blainer’s raison d’être is to make the world a better place. Ergo, a world without me in it would not be a better place. That gave me the necessary impetus to avoid being murdered.

As I lay there with Lilla standing over me, I groaned and screwed up my eyes as though in pain. This wasn’t difficult since I could have done with a couple of aspirin for my headache. But my aim was to persuade Lilla that I was debilitated and didn’t pose any sort of threat.

Very slowly, like someone who had difficulty in moving, I eased my arms behind me. With my hands and feet on the ground, I was now in the queda de quatro capoeira position. No reason to delay. With a sudden burst of speed, I went into the chapa de frente front push kick, the sole of my foot connecting with her abdomen.

She went sprawling, and a second later I rolled her face down, keeping her there with a knee between her shoulder blades.

“You’ve committed your last murder, Lilla Hwitastierna,” I told her.

“That makes no sense,” she said. “I haven’t committed my first one yet.” She sounded a bit muffled with her face in the sand so I shifted her head sideways to make conversation easier.

“Are you trying to tell me you didn’t kill Sporgh and the Finn?” I demanded.

“I’m not trying to tell you, I am telling you. I don’t know who Sporgh and the Finn are, but I haven’t killed anybody.”

“I suppose you’ll tell me next that you didn’t hit me over the head,” I said.

“You suppose correctly.”

I had been a fool. Of course she wouldn’t have come on her own to deal with an escaped convict. I glanced round surreptitiously, but could see nobody else. Unsurprising, since it was the middle of the night, and there were plenty of boulders for the islanders to hide behind. Any moment now, they might try to rush me. But I had Lilla as a bargaining chip. I could threaten to kill her unless they backed off, although she had such an abrasive personality that they might just tell me to go ahead.

“Was it the farmer?” I asked.

“Was what the farmer?” she asked.

She was stalling for time, waiting for the others.

I was on hyper-alert, but I still replied. “Was it the farmer who hit me over the head?”

“I don’t know who hit you over the head.”

“Who else was with you?” I said.

She gave a snort that sounded very much like exasperation. “When? Where? Ask me a question that I can understand, and I’ll answer it.”

She was definitely stalling for time, taking issue with my perfectly clear enquiry. I glanced round, listening intently, but could see and hear nothing untoward.

Enunciating every word clearly, I said: “Who did you bring to help track me down?”

“Nobody,” she said. “They couldn’t have helped. They don’t know this side of the island. And I don’t know who hit you on the head because it had already happened when I found you.”

She sounded so irritable that I was almost inclined to believe her. Someone trying to hoodwink me would surely be more emollient. But of course it could be a double-bluff.

“It’s very uncomfortable, you kneeling on me,” she complained. “I want to get up.”

I was tempted to tell her that we can’t always get what we want. But I was also finding my cramped position very uncomfortable. My knee cap was getting compressed against my knee joint, and I was beginning to get pins and needles in my lower leg.

“I’ll have to frisk you before I can let you go,” I said.

“Why?”

“For weapons.”

“I’m not carrying any weapons.”

“I’m scarcely going to take your word for it. I need to be sure you’re not going to attack me.”

She gave her exasperated snort again. “I came to see if you were all right. You’re the one who attacked me.”

There was some truth to this. I began to pat her down, encountering nothing untoward. The apron she was wearing over her kirtle had spread out to the side when she fell, and I patted it down as well. The apron had a stitched section, effectively a pocket, and there was something in it, something rectangular, no doubt a blunt instrument of some sort. I pressed down on it in the sand. It felt flexible but also resistant, a fifteenth century equivalent of a rubberised cosh, maybe.

“Hold still,” I instructed as I extracted the object. Now it had a familiar feel; texture, thickness, weight. My diary. The diary I had carefully stowed under a pile of seaweed to keep it safe.

“This is mine!” I exclaimed. “It’s my diary! You stole my diary!”

“I didn’t know it was your diary,” she said.

I was about to retort: “Why, can’t you read?” when I remembered that no, she couldn’t, and neither could the other islanders. She had simply picked it up as an interesting looking artefact. But that still didn’t excuse theft.

“I take great exception to you rootling around in my seaweed,” I said.

“I wasn’t rootling around in your seaweed,” she said.

She was so literal about everything. I wondered what verb she would accept. Rummaging? Delving? Ransacking?

“And it’s frankly quite creepy that you followed me all the way to my cave and then waited until I’d gone out to search the place,” I said.

“I didn’t. I’ve no idea where your cave is,” she said.

Whenever she contradicted me, I didn’t get the sense that she was trying to justify or exonerate herself. It was as though she simply wanted to set the record straight. I was reluctantly coming round to the idea that she told the truth. She never showed any sign of following social norms of politeness and white lies to spare others’ feelings. She must have found my cave by chance, seen it was inhabited, and started rootling.

“All right, I’ll let you up,” I said, taking my knee off her back and trying to get the circulation in my leg flowing again. “But you’re now aware of my expertise in unarmed combat, and I warn you that if you cause any trouble, I’ll happily demonstrate it again.”

“I didn’t cause any trouble last time,” said Lilla, pushing herself up to a squatting position before standing upright and brushing the sand off her face. She extended her arms overhead, fingers interlaced, and arched her back in a full-body stretch before rolling her shoulders and tilting her head from side to side. Then she shook out her arms and legs, bouncing a little on her feet to wake up her muscles. “I didn’t cause any trouble,” she repeated. “I came to help you when I discovered the sailor was beyond help.”

In my anxiety to immobilise Lilla, I had forgotten all about Sporgh.

“Come with me. I’ll show you the body,” she said.

She led me round the boulders to reveal a blood-chilling sight. There, by the cross, lay what looked like some strange sea creature, completely covered in seaweed that glistened in the moonlight. Dark strands of bladderwrack encircled the body’s neck.

“It’s designed to look as though it’s a mysterious ritualistic killing, but it’s much more likely to be a dispute between two sailors,” said Lilla.

I couldn’t stop myself giving a horrified gasp. Not because of the blood-chilling sight: Miss Blaine wouldn’t be impressed by someone who had a fit of the vapours every time they encountered something appalling. No, it was the realisation that I had been imagining Sporgh as the victim. But what if Sporgh was the killer and Grimwald the victim? If Grimwald had found Sporgh despoiling the grave, of course he would try to prevent it. But then who had attacked me? Odd or Eirik must be Sporgh’s henchman. I had always had my suspicions about Eirik, given his ability to make violin strings out of seaweed. Although the seaweed round the body’s neck looked less like a ligature than a decorative flourish.

The seaweed clung to the body in irregular patterns, but from the rough outline, I could detect one biological leg and one peg leg. It was still impossible to tell whether the body was face up or down, and whether the peg leg was on the right or left. So I couldn’t tell whether it was Sporgh or Grimwald.

Lilla began methodically clearing seaweed away from the head, revealing unkempt blond hair. The body was face down. The peg leg was on the wrong side for Grimwald. I let out a long, shaky breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding. I was a bit sorry about Sporgh. I’d felt responsible for feeding him, but that was only because he lacked the nous of the other sailors to fend for himself. But I’d never really bonded with him, certainly never played tiddlywinks with him as I had with Grimwald. It was Grimwald I counted as a friend, and I was pleased he was still alive.

Lilla was busy unravelling more of the seaweed. “There,” she said. “My supposition was correct. This man has been stabbed in the back.”

That didn’t surprise me. I’d seen Sporgh’s violent tendencies when he threatened me with his snickersnee and threw me out of his cave. Of course he was likely to have had a fight with his henchman Odd (or Eirik).

Lilla carefully rolled Sporgh on to his stabbed back, removing the last of the seaweed from his face. She peered at him then straightened up.

“This isn’t the one I was following,” she said. “The hair and the beard are the same, of course, but the face is different.”

“You were following a sailor?” I asked, not even bothering to keep the disapproval out of my voice.

“Yes, I started off following you and then when I saw he was following you as well, I followed him instead.”

This raised a great many questions.

“Could you be a bit clearer?” I asked.

“I was perfectly clear,” she said. “But I realise you may not have recovered fully from the blow to your head, and are unable to concentrate properly. When the alarm was raised, I set out to look for you. I eventually found you in the forest. You were going for a swim.”

I was scandalised. She might be happy wandering about in the scud for all to see, but some of us have a stronger sense of propriety.

“I object in the strongest possible terms to being spied on under those circumstances,” I told her.

“I thought you might,” she said. “So I stayed to keep an eye on the sailor who was spying on you.”

“What?” I managed to say.

“It was fine. He wasn’t interested in you. He went through your clothes looking for your pouch. He opened it and a bottle fell out, but he wasn’t interested in that either. He held the pouch upside down but when nothing else fell out, he just threw it away.”

I was having difficulty processing my thoughts. To think I had blamed Schwarzkopf for scattering my clothing around. I owed the parrot a fulsome apology. The sailor responsible was obviously Sporgh, looking for more food. He must have been very hungry indeed to come out of his cave and follow me up to the clifftop when he was so scared of the monster. He should just have called to me. But he had been so rude when we last met that I could understand he was embarrassed, despite my altruism in leaving him provisions.

“This sailor, which side was his pleg – his prosthetic limb – on?” I asked Lilla for confirmation.

“Right,” she said.

That wasn’t the right leg, it was the wrong leg. But I realised how she might be mistaken. “Right from his point of view or from your point of view?” I asked.

“His right leg was made of wood.”

Her tone brooked no argument. But the only sailor apart from Grimwald to have a peg leg on the right was Eirik the violin player. That was unexpected. He must somehow have found out that I was taking food to Sporgh, and had come after me following a surfeit of his ghastly Norwegian porridge. I could understand that he would want a change of diet, but it was still unacceptable behaviour, and once it was first light, I would go to his cave and tell him so.

But this was a distraction. The person who was initially following me was Lilla, because the islanders were unhappy about me making a map. I had a sudden feeling of disquiet. I began leafing through my diary, looking for the map I had drawn so carefully. And there it wasn’t. All that was left were jagged uneven edges where the page had been.

“This is outrageous!” I said. “First you steal my diary and then you rip out the page with the map. That map was a work of art and more importantly, it belonged to me. What have you done with it?”

“I haven’t done anything with it,” said Lilla. “It was probably the sailor.”

“Eirik?” I said in disbelief. “Why would he want my map?”

“I don’t know his name, and I don’t know why he would want your map. Once you came out of the bathing pool and got dressed, he followed you.”

This was disturbing news. I was going to have a great deal to say to him. “Followed me where?”

“I don’t know,” said Lilla. “I started following you both to find out what was going on, but I had to keep my distance coming down the cliff and I lost sight of you. There are only pebbles at the bottom, so there were no footprints for me to follow. I didn’t see you again until I found you unconscious over there. But eventually I spotted the sailor. He was looking over his shoulder, and he was carrying something, something small. It was getting dark, so I couldn’t see what it was. He went into a cave.”

“Yes,” I said. “I know where he stays. About a mile that way.” I pointed west.

“No,” said Lilla. “Over there.” She pointed east.

“No,” I said. “That’s where Grimwald stays. Not Eirik.”

“I told you, I don’t know their names. The sailor I followed had a wooden right leg and went into a cave over there.”

I couldn’t think why Eirik would be visiting Grimwald. And then suddenly it all made sense. Dreadful sense. Eirik was the killer. That was why he was walking around in broad daylight – he knew there wasn’t a monster. He told me he had spoken to the Finn. What he hadn’t told me was that he had murdered the Finn. And now he had not only murdered Sporgh, he had also gone into Grimwald’s cave and murdered him. What I had feared had come to pass.

“I’m afraid,” I said with a catch in my voice, “that the cave you saw him go into – there’s another body in it.”

“No there isn’t,” said Lilla. It was intolerable, the way she pronounced on things, especially on things she didn’t know.

“How do you know?” I snapped.

“Because I’ve just come from there. I followed the sailor to the cave, waited until he came out again, and then went in myself. That’s where I found your diary.”

“I don’t understand,” I said.

“That sailor is impossible to understand,” she said. “His attitudes are wrong. He disapproved of me not having any clothes on. That’s how I knew he wasn’t Scandinavian. That, and the fact he could speak only Middle Low German.”

Grimwald. She was definitely talking about Grimwald. Could it be that he was still alive?

“The sailor you followed to the cave, the one you saw go in and then come out again – all these sailors look quite similar with their unkempt blond hair and their unkempt blond beards. You’re absolutely sure it was the Middle Low German-speaking one?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said.

She was so emphatic that I was confident she was right. To know Grimwald was still alive was a huge relief. But my diary in Grimwald’s cave? Why would it be there? For a moment, I was baffled. And then, with the rapid thought processes that are the hallmark of a Blainer, I had the answer. Eirik had stolen my diary. But since, like all seafarers apart from Grimwald, he was illiterate, the only thing that had caught his interest was my map. At the risk of sounding big-headed, I have to say it was very beautifully drawn. Eirik had leafed through the diary and spotted an art work to enhance his cave. He had ripped out that page, and then had simply thrown away the diary which was of no further use to him. Grimwald had found the diary and was able to read that it was mine.

Lilla had made him sound furtive when she described him looking over his shoulder, but in fact he had been looking for me. And when he couldn’t see me, and it was beginning to get dark, he decided to take the diary home for safe keeping and return it to me the next day. I was even more relieved that he hadn’t been murdered.

But there was the latest murder victim, the unfortunate Sporgh. This was an era before forensic medicine and post mortems, so there was no need to delay.

“Where’s the cemetery?” I asked. “When it gets light, we’d better give Sporgh a decent burial.”

“We have no cemetery,” said Lilla. “The island looks after the deceased.”

She had no sooner spoken than there was a low ominous rumbling. It was like the distant approach of thunder but I could feel a faint vibration in the sand. The tremor strengthened. In the dim light I saw the sand shiver, like someone wakening after a sound sleep. I saw it part so that there was a crack in the earth. The dark silhouette that was Sporgh disappeared into the fissure, sand flowing after him until it created a smooth surface.

“The earth takes back its own,” said Lilla. She bowed her head formally in acknowledgement of this. I was surprised to see such seeming reverence in Lilla. Till now she had come across as very self-sufficient, concerned with matters of fact. But to her, the earth was clearly a fact, and a force to be reckoned with.

I gave a brief eulogy, mentioning Sporgh’s Danish ability to make his cave very hygge, and his fondness for rye bread, dried meat and cheese. But the island funeral had raised another issue for me, and when I finished delivering the eulogy, I mentioned it to Lilla.

“That sound that the earth made – I’ve heard that exact sound once before,” I said. “Not as loud and dramatic as the big earth-quake you had, but still noticeable. It was when I was with the farmer, and he told me it meant the island wanted me gone. I thought he meant gone away from him and his sheep. I didn’t realise it meant the island wanted me dead.”

“If the island wanted you dead, you would be dead,” said Lilla.

I supposed that was some reassurance, although it was alarming to think I was on a killer island. And then I had another thought.

“Lilla,” I whispered, hoping I wouldn’t be overheard by the sand or the boulders, any one of which was capable of squashing me like a beetle, “do you suppose it’s the island that’s murdering people?”

“No,” she said.

“Are you just saying that to avoid making the island angry?” I whispered.

“No,” she said. “The island looks after us.”

I still had reservations. The island might look after the islanders, but I wasn’t one of them, and neither were the shipwrecked sailors. And the choir mistress had said the island sorted things out, which sounded very much like a threat.

“If the island looks after you, what’s the problem with maps?” I asked.

“Do you have amnesia after being hit on the head?” she replied.

When she didn’t say anything else, I deduced that it wasn’t a rhetorical question.

“No,” I said.

“Someone with amnesia wouldn’t remember that they had forgotten,” she said.

“I suppose that’s true,” I conceded.

“It seems more than likely that you have amnesia, since we explained the situation to you already,” she said. “I’ll now repeat it. The island can’t control the sea. A map would let invaders come in from the sea. If we were overrun by invaders, the island couldn’t risk swallowing them up in case it swallowed us up as well.”

“It swallowed up Sporgh pretty efficiently,” I said.

“He was dead,” said Lilla. “It’s much more difficult with a moving target.”

“And you really think you might be invaded?” I asked.

“It’s an obvious risk for any island which allows itself to appear on a map,”’ she said. “That’s why we must remain uncharted.”

I thought I should point out the advantages of appearing on a map. But perhaps because we’d been talking about marauding invaders, the only thing I could think of was cruise ships full of tourists, so I kept quiet. I didn’t think this was the moment to mention atlases and globes, Google Maps, GPS, and geocoding through what3words. Before many years had passed, the island wouldn’t have a choice in whether it was charted or not. But for now, the islanders wanted their home to remain uncharted, and my job was to support them.

“How many maps have you made?” asked Lilla.

“Just the one,” I said. “The one that Eirik ripped out of my diary. It was for personal use only – I wasn’t intending to share it with anyone.”

She looked at me the way I imagined a high court judge would look at you when you tried to explain about the thirty kilos of cocaine in the boot of your car.

“So this isn’t yours?” she said, taking a piece of paper out of her apron. I was mortified to see that I hadn’t frisked her as thoroughly as I thought. She had been lying on her front and I had searched what seemed to be a single pocket in her apron. But she had retrieved the map from a second pocket.

The sky had clouded over and there was virtually no light from the moon. I squinted at the paper, and could just about make out the shape of an island, but I couldn’t read the words.

“Definitely not mine,” I told Lilla.

“And this?” she said, producing from her second pocket a booklet the size of a shorthand notebook and handing it to me. The parchment pages were bound between wooden boards covered in fabric.

“Also not mine,” I said. “Where did you get these?”

“In the sailor’s cave beside your diary.”

“If you can’t read, why did you take the books?” I asked.

“Because they were beside the map. I thought they could be notes that explained what was on the map. You can read it.”

I riffled through the parchment pages. “No I can’t,” I said. “I can see it’s remarkably fine penmanship in the Germanic Kurrentschrift style, but there’s not enough light to read by.”

“It could be important.” Her words were typically terse and forthright, but there was the tiniest hint of pleading in her tone.

“Tell you what,” I said. “Let’s go back to my cave. I’ve got flint and steel to make a fire. We’ll not only have enough light to read by, but we can also have a wee cup of tea.”

“A wee cup of tea – yes, I’ve heard of that,” said Lilla, which I took to mean that she accepted my invitation.

We got back without falling over too many boulders in the darkness. I lit a fire and brewed up my blend of Darjeeling and Earl Grey in my water bottle.

“What do you think?” I asked Lilla as she took a first sip.

“It tastes funny,” she said. “And there’s not much wool in it.”

“I’m most terribly sorry,” I said.

I was being sarcastic but she replied in all seriousness: “That’s all right. I quite like it. I think it’s better without so much wool.”

It was the nicest thing she had ever said to me. I felt we were beginning to forge something of a friendship.

“Now read,” she ordered curtly, handing me the parchment book in its wooden boards.

I opened it. The handwriting was beautifully precise, the letters narrow and upright, but it was a work of art rather than legible. The vertical strokes in letters such as “m,” “n” and “u” were so tightly packed together that it seemed impossible to work out which letter was which. I looked at the three words at the top of the first page and closed the book.

“I’m sorry, I can’t read this,” I told Lilla.

She frowned. “You told me you could read.”

“Of course I can read,” I said. “I just can’t read this particular book.”

“Is it in a language you don’t understand?” she asked.

Her expression was as cool as ever but I suspected there might be an element of gloating in the question.

“You’d have a long search before you found a language I didn’t understand,” I said. “Of course, I appreciate that other people don’t know so many. Particularly the less common ones like Esperanto.”

She looked at me for a long moment before saying: “I don’t think Esperanto’s a real language. I think it’s just made up.”

I decided to change the subject. “I can’t read it because of the three words at the top of the first page. Grimwald: sien Doagesbuak. That’s Middle Low German for—”

“I know,” she said impatiently. “It means ‘Grimwald, his diary.’ You’ve just proved you can read it.”

“I can’t,” I repeated. “That would be unforgivably intrusive. It’s Grimwald’s diary. It’s personal.”

“Nevertheless,” she said.

Perhaps it was a Pavlovian response to the Founder’s favourite word, but I found myself opening the diary and beginning to concentrate on discerning the letters. After a few trial runs I had it, and could read the diary as easily as though it was in Times New Roman.

“This is awful!” I exclaimed.

“What?” demanded Lilla. “What does it say?”

“Nothing of the slightest interest,” I said. “It reminds me of a dreadful book by a man called Daniel Defoe. That wasn’t even his real name – he was called Daniel Foe but he changed it to make it sound more aristocratic—”

“Read the diary,” commanded Lilla.

“It’s boring,” I said. “I’ll skim through it until I get to a good bit.”

“I’m a detective,” said Lilla. “You never know what might turn out to be a clue. So read. Read right from the start.”

So I read right from the start.

Grimwald: his diary.

I was born in the town of Ribnitz, situated on Lake Ribnitz, which flows into the Saaler Bodden.

“I told you it was awful,” I said. “By the way, a bodden is a shallow expanse of coastal water separated from the open sea by reefs or barrier islands. The water’s brackish because it mixes salt water and fresh water.”

Lilla didn’t acknowledge this interesting fact. Instead she said: “Ribnitz. That’s interesting.”

We clearly differed in our view of what was interesting, but rather than enter into a debate about it, I kept reading. But my heart sank with the realisation that Grimwald was one of those diarists who thinks he has to start with his birth. I hoped I wasn’t going to have to wade through his childhood and adolescence to get to anything that might possibly affect us on the island.

Perhaps because of where I was born, all I wanted was to go to sea. My mother supported my ambition. But my father, a clerk, wouldn’t hear of it. He insisted that I become a clerk just like him, so I was forced to become an apprentice, learning to use quills and ink to write documents. I hated the boring routine, stuck at a wooden desk day after day. My mother could see how unhappy I was, and protested that I should be allowed to go to sea. But my father pointed out that women lack the capacity for rational thought, and it is the natural order that decision-making is left to men.

I stopped reading and looked at Lilla.

“Also interesting,” she said. “Go on.”

Of all my fellow apprentices, I loathed one in particular, a sly deceitful fellow, always quick to put the blame on others for his own mistakes. One day a parchment went missing and before the rest of us could say a word, this fellow was blaming me.

“Me?” I said. “I had nothing to do with that parchment. I have enough parchments of my own to worry about. If anyone’s lost it, it’s you.”

He turned to the clerk who was looking for the parchment, and shook his head. “I’m afraid Grimwald has a tendency to accuse others when the fault is his.”

If there’s one thing I can’t abide, it’s being falsely accused. I picked up the penknife I had been using to trim the writing quills, and stabbed him through the heart.

“That’s quite an over-reaction,” I said to Lilla.

“What happens next?” she asked.

They tried to apprehend me, but I wasn’t going to be punished for something that wasn’t my fault. I had to break a few heads in order to escape, but escape I did into the street outside and down the nearest alleyway. But I was now a wanted man, and knew I could find no safety in the town. All at once it came to me that this was my chance to live the life I had always dreamed of. I knew exactly where there was a ship that would be glad of a strong fearless fellow like myself, and I made for it straight away. They brought me to the captain who said: “You look like a strong fearless fellow. What makes you want to join the Victual Brothers?”

Lilla sucked in her breath.

“I thought as much when he mentioned Ribnitz,” she said, almost to herself. “They have a safe harbour there.”

“The Victual Brothers. That’s bad,” I said.

“Very bad,” she said. “Predatory murderous invaders. Read.”

“I’ve always had a hankering to go to sea,” I said. “And I’ve just murdered an apprentice clerk I worked alongside so I’m anxious to get away from town before I’m captured.”

The captain gave a roar of laughter. “A clerk, you say? You mean you read and write? Not much call for that in our line of business. But otherwise you sound just the sort of fellow we’re looking for.” He barked some orders at the sailors who had brought me to him, and said to me: “We set sail within the hour. But we can’t accept you unless you pledge to obey the first rule of the Victual Brothers. Will you agree?”

This was my one chance of escape, and most men would have agreed to anything, but I had my principles to consider.

I paused to allow Lilla to suck in her breath again, but she just nodded at me to continue.

“That depends,” I said. “Tell me what it is.”

“The first rule of the Victual Brothers is that you must never murder a Victual Brother,” he said.

“I accept,” I said. “What’s the second rule?”

“We’ve never found the need for a second one since the first one seems to cover everything,” he said.

And with that, we shook hands, and I found myself a member of the Brotherhood. We weighed anchor and sailed out into the treacherous seas of the Baltic. We had a sturdy vessel, armed with cannons and reinforced hulls, well able to take on the merchantmen which were laden with grain, timber, salted fish, gold, furs and spices. Spotting a merchant ship on the horizon, we would close in, our cannons roaring and our grappling hooks ensnaring our prey. A fine life and one I felt born to. And for the first time, I knew true companionship – the ship’s cat, a sleek and nimble tabby called Peg. She was an excellent mouser and all the crew loved her, but she had a particular fondness for me. She would weave between my legs as I hauled the ropes and sails.

When I first joined the crew, I found my shipmates spending their free moments knitting. In order to demonstrate that I too was a true privateer, I persuaded them to teach me the rudiments. In no time I found myself so adept that I could knit a shipmate’s name into a sock, which meant that there was no longer any confusion about whose was whose. This talent won me acclamation from all, and whenever we seized consignments of wool among the plunder, I was given first choice. This was a further bond between myself and Peg, for she was always ready to play with the wool.

She had an uncanny ability to find safe hiding spots in the heat of battle but even so, after the cannons fell silent and the smoke cleared, the first thing I always did was seek her out to ensure she was unharmed.

I was still shocked to find that Grimwald wasn’t a seafarer but a pirate. Taking something that didn’t belong to you would be unthinkable for a Blainer, and yet that seemed to be the Victual Brothers’ whole ethos. Arguably, some of the merchantmen’s cargo could be seen as necessities, such as the grain and salted fish and maybe even the spices. Timber might be used to repair the ship. But there was no justification for taking gold and furs, quite apart from any ethical objection to real fur. Not to mention (but I do) all of the wool plundered from those hapless ships.

He wasn’t the man I thought he was. And yet, his affection for the cat was very touching. I was also surprised that he wrote in very unpiratical language, but at this stage in the narrative he had only just joined the pirate crew. Perhaps in a few paragraphs he would be yo-hoing with the best of them.

My crewmates were all seasoned mariners and I felt at something of a disadvantage beside them, still having all four limbs. But they were tolerant men who accepted me nonetheless. A fortnight after we had left port, we spotted a plump merchant vessel and trailed it without apparent haste, gradually closing in on it.

“She’ll be ours before nightfall,” said the bosun.

“We’ll take her by surprise,” said the captain. “Prepare the boarding party.”

But then a cry rang out: “Ship ahoy! Off the starboard bow!”

Another ship was appearing from behind the merchant vessel, a warship, the hull bristling with cannons, its sails showing the red and white flag of Denmark.

The merchant ship had led us into a trap. Before the master gunner could set us to work, a plume of smoke erupted from the warship and a cannonball whistled through the air, splashing down perilously close to us.

“Hard to port!” bellowed the captain, so that we would present a smaller target.

As we hauled on ropes and readied our own cannons, another cannonball flew past, splintering the deck near the helm, and then another. We returned fire, but it was clear the warship had superior strength, and the captain ordered us to head towards shallower water where the warship couldn’t follow.

There was gloom that we had failed in the venture, but there was at least one good consequence. At the height of the battle, a cannonball took my right leg clean off below the knee. My shipmates carried me below and the bosun tidied things up and fitted me with a fine peg leg. The captain clapped me on the shoulder, saying: “Well done, my lad, positioning yourself in front of that cannonball to stop it doing further damage to my ship.” We all laughed heartily, and I felt I was now truly a member of the Brotherhood.

I found myself disappointed that they had only laughed rather than shouting: “Yo-ho!” And then I realised that although we were well into Grimwald’s apprenticeship with the Victual Brothers, he still hadn’t lapsed into pirate talk, and nor had any of the others. It began to look as if dead men’s chests and shivering timbers were a romantic concoction by nineteenth century writers who had never met any real pirates.

But although the warship had done me a good turn, I was enraged by the subterfuge that had forced us to retreat. Thus began my lifelong hatred of the Danes.

“It’s a shame he never met Sporgh,” I said to Lilla. “That would soon have changed his mind. I mean, Sporgh was a bit of a misery, and he could be bad-tempered, but I’m sure Grimwald would have found him good company.”

“You think they never met?” said Lilla and before I could reply, she ordered: “Read more.”

We determined that we would never be taken unawares again, nor were we, for we were as staunch and determined a crew as one could hope for. I got on well with my comrades except for one. The cook. He neither spoke our language nor tried to learn it, so it was impossible to communicate with him.

I asked the bosun why this was, and he said the cook believed we should all speak his language.

“But why?” I asked. “We’re German, so that’s what we speak. Why would we need another language?”

“He’s French, and he thinks exactly the same about his language,” said the bosun with an uncomprehending shake of his head.

We often held Scandinavian crews for ransom, and while they might mutter in bleak Nordic sounds among themselves, they were all able to speak perfectly good German, proving that our language is the world’s lingua franca.

Lilla spluttered out a mouthful of tea at this point. “We have the courtesy and ability to speak a foreigner’s language and he thinks that proves his language is superior to ours?”

“I thought this island was autonomous,” I said. “I didn’t realise it considered itself part of Scandinavia.”

She didn’t reply directly, merely muttering, “Bleak Nordic sounds!” Then, more loudly, she said, “Keep reading.”

One of our number made a mighty effort to communicate with the cook and learned that the fellow’s name was Säwänn. But whenever we addressed him, he would bawl at us in his barbaric language and hurl the nearest utensil at our heads, so we left him to his own devices.

“Säwänn?” said Lille. “That’s not a name I’m familiar with.”

I had already worked it out. “Because it’s not his name,” I said. “The sailor was asking what the cook was called, but the cook thought he was being asked where he came from. He said Cévennes. It’s a mountainous region in southern France.” Wanting, as always, to inform, educate and entertain my audience, I went on: “It featured in a book by the Scottish writer Robert Louis Stevenson, Travels with a Donkey in the Cévennes, considered to be one of the earliest examples of outdoor literature.”

I had forgotten where and when I was. It would be over four hundred years before Stevenson wrote the book, and in any case Lilla couldn’t read.

But she nodded sagely and said: “Ah yes, the Scottish writer Robert Louis Stevenson,” as though she was perfectly familiar with him. Then she nodded again for me to continue.

The Frenchman had with him a monstrous bird, with feathers of all different colours, which made a noise like no bird I have ever heard, screeching and jabbering as though it was speaking a language as barbaric at the cook’s. To begin with, I thought the creature was being fattened up for the captain’s supper, and I was astonished to find it was the cook’s pet, sitting on his shoulder as he worked. Because the feathers on the creature’s head were jet black, the captain had named it —

I broke off and said to Lilla: “It’s Schwarzkopf! The parrot the councillor accused me of bringing to the island. Grimwald must have brought it, although there seems to be a bit of tension between the two of them.”

“Read the words as they are written,” said Lilla.

Because the feathers on the creature’s head were jet black, the captain had named it Schwarzkopf. I often found myself licking my lips, imagining what a tender, juicy delicacy it would be. But to give the Frenchman his due, he was able to work wonders with salt fish and spices, and any other foodstuffs from our raids. When he wasn’t hurling things at our heads, he would communicate with us by sign language and sometimes we managed to ask for a repetition of a particular dish we had enjoyed. But he was secretive, staying in the hold where he cooked even when he wasn’t cooking, rather than sitting with us. The bosun said it was because he couldn’t join in our conversations but I had my doubts. One night when there was no other vessel to pursue, I waited until the ship had settled into a quiet rhythm, the crew lulled into their dreams by the gentle sway.

“This isn’t the sort of diary I write,” I said to Lilla. “This is more an attempt at a literary memoir.”

“Like Robert Louis Stevenson,” she said.

“Stevenson was writing to be published,” I said, putting aside the question of how Lilla knew so much about Stevenson. “I wonder who Grimwald’s writing for.”

“Stop wondering. Keep reading,” she said.

I crept along the weathered planks to the hold, taking care to make no noise with either my boot or peg leg. And despite the lateness of the hour, I could see the light of a candle – he was still awake. Anxious to discover what mischief he was up to, I approached, keeping well into the shadows. He was seated beside a barrel, poring over a piece of parchment he had laid on top of it. A map. A map of an island.

I was taking a step further to see it better when my peg leg encountered an obstacle and I toppled forward. I saw that the obstacle had been Peg the cat who must have wakened and taken to her usual habit of weaving between my legs. She had jumped clear, but frightened by my fall, she began a dreadful yowling, and at this, the monstrous bird began swooping and screeching. The cook snatched up the map and shoved it in his tunic, backing away from me. The next thing, my shipmates were rushing into the hold, roused by the noise, demanding to know what was going on. I hesitated, uncertain of what to say. The cook was well-liked because of his skill and they might not take kindly to my spying on him.

The cook had no such hesitation, letting loose a torrent of malign verbiage. You didn’t need to speak his language to understand his meaning. He indicated to my shipmates through gestures that I had kicked the cat. It was such a foul calumny that again I found myself unable to speak.

We were both dragged off to the captain to explain ourselves, the bird accompanying us, jabbering away, while Peg had disappeared into some dark corner. To my fury, the cook again signalled his false accusation, demonstrating how I had sent the cat flying. There were mutterings of disapproval from my shipmates, for Peg was a popular cat. But surely they knew that no-one was more fond of the cat than I – I could never have kicked her.

I remembered how emotional he had been when we first met, saying he didn’t like to call his peg leg “peg” because it reminded him of the cat. That was when I came up with the helpful solution of calling it his pleg.

My fury increased as I realised I was being condemned for a crime I hadn’t committed. I couldn’t argue with the cook, since he couldn’t understand me, but the time for arguments was over. I broke free from my captors, snatched the knife from my belt and stabbed the cook through the heart.

“Oh no, that’s terrible!” I said. “If the cook’s dead, who’s going to make the meals?”

“You are too emotionally involved, which helps no-one,” said Lilla. “Read on.”

My emotional involvement was understandable, stemming as it did from days of eating meal replacement protein bars, seaweed and disgusting ersatz porridge. It was distressing to hear about the loss of someone who could produce nutritious yet tasty dishes. But Lilla was right. It helped no-one, simply making me yearn even more for a Scotch egg. I took another swig of tea to energise myself and read on.

The captain gave me a sorrowful look. “You have been an asset to this crew, and your knitting is a marvel,” he said. “I shall be sorry to lose such a strong fearless fellow. But you have disobeyed the first and only rule of the Victual Brothers by murdering one of those brothers, and for that you too must die.”

The bosun raised his snickersnee.

“Wait!” I said. “There was no murder. I was defending myself.”

“How were you defending yourself? He was just standing there – he never laid a hand on you,” said the bosun.

“I was defending my good name,” I said. “He slandered me. Who among you truly believes that I would kick Peg?”

There was nodding among my crew mates at this and the bosun lowered his snickersnee.

“It’s true, we all know your affection for the cat,” said the captain. “But rules are rules. Bosun, kill him.”

The bosun raised his snickersnee.

“Wait!” I said. “I know where to find untold wealth. If you kill me, you’ll never find it.” The thing they prized above all else was plunder.

“Tell us where it is,” said the captain.

“And have you kill me when I tell you?” I said. “No. In any case, I am the only one who can find it. Search in the cook’s tunic, and you’ll find a map.”

They did as I asked and discovered the parchment.

“This is a map showing an island where there is buried treasure,” I said. “And I am the only one who can read it.”

The bosun laid it out on the floor. The edges were frayed and the parchment itself was creased and stained. It showed an island with its coastline of bays, capes and coves and landmarks such as hills and forests. There were various markings, symbols and annotations across the page and now that I could study it properly for the first time, I saw it was written not in German, but in a language I didn’t know. I could make no sense of a single word.

“It says it’s the island where the treasure lies,” I told the captain. “And it sets out clues to the whereabouts of the treasure.”

“And where is this island?” asked the captain hungrily.

I pretended to consult the map. “It should be near here.”

The captain gave a disbelieving grunt. “I may not have your book learning but I can look at shorelines on a sea chart and I know of no island near here.”

“Because the island is uncharted,” I said. “The men who buried this treasure took great care that no-one but they could find it. Take me up on deck and we can look for it.”

The stars were fading as we went above, faint light appearing in the east, a thin veil of mist clinging to the water. My plan was to wait until we were in sight of any land, then hurl myself overboard and swim to shore, taking my chances with the inhabitants.

“Land ho!” called the lookout in the fo’c’sle.

I was as astonished as the captain, but I managed to conceal it. We peered into the dimness and sure enough, there was the faint outline of cliffs. A bellow from the captain set the helmsman steering towards them.

“That’s it,” I said. “Just as I promised. And there – you can see the wooden cross on the shore, just as it is written on the map.”

“Hang on,” I said. “Grimwald told me he put up the cross to commemorate a drowned seafarer.”

“He did not,” said Lilla.

“I can assure you he did,” I said frostily. “You weren’t there to hear him.”

“He may have told you that he put up the cross, but he did not do so. I did, so that I could navigate by it when I was out swimming,” said Lilla. “I told you that when I met you. Stop interrupting. Keep reading.”

I was already rethinking my plan.

“Put me ashore with some provisions,” I said. “I’ll follow the clues on the map and find the treasure.”

“And what’s to stop you making off with it?” said the bosun.

“Because I’ll be trapped until you come for me. Look,” I said, pointing towards the horizon.

Looming through the mist were the ghostly silhouettes of shipwrecks, the white breakers testament to treacherous rocks just below the surface of the water.

“This island was specially chosen to protect the treasure. Any ship coming close will founder before it reaches land. It’s too dangerous for us to go nearer. I’ll need a small rowing boat to navigate that narrow channel to the shore.”

“Oh no, my lad,” said the captain. “If I give you a rowing boat, who knows where you could sail off to? A couple of stout fellows will take you ashore and leave you there. You have a fortnight to find the treasure.”

“Why have you stopped reading?” asked Lilla.

I swallowed hard. “He’s been given two weeks to complete his mission. I’ve got a week to complete mine. And I’ve just realised that the week ends tomorrow. Or, since it must be after midnight, later today.”

“That’s of no concern to me,” said Lilla. “Keep reading.”

“It’s of concern to me,” I retorted. “I’ve been told there are sanctions if I fail to complete the mission on time, but I don’t know what they are. I could be stuck here for ever.”

“Not for ever,” said Lilla dispassionately. “Only until you die. Read.”

“That’s more than enough time,” I told the captain, determined that everyone would see I was confident and unperturbed. I indicated the large wooden cross. “Pass by in a fortnight and you will see that cross alight as a sign that I have discovered untold wealth.”

“How dare he!” exclaimed Lilla. “It’s not his cross to set alight.”

“Ssh,” I said. “I’m reading.”

My comrades crowded round me to clap me on the back and wish me godspeed, all eager to share in the riches I would find. They told me how much they would miss my good companionship and also the socks I knitted for them. I assured them that if I found myself with a free moment, I would continue knitting socks, at which they all cheered. They gave me only a small amount of foodstuffs, anxious as to how they would now feed themselves in the absence of the cook. But they placed a generous quantity of aqua vitae in the rowing boat.

“That’s Latin for strong drink,” I told Lilla.

All too soon I was left alone on the desolate shore, and the ship was disappearing in search of its next quarry. I could see no sign of any habitation or human activity but who was to say who might not be nearby? With my bare hands, I dug a hole by the wooden cross to hide the aqua vitae and the foodstuffs.

Once they were safely stowed, I prepared to unroll the map when there was a sudden beating of wings and a terrible voice cried: “Prepare to meet thy doom!”

It was the cook’s parrot. I knew it was only an animal, with none of the sharp intellect which marks us humans; and yet there was such malevolence in its glittering eyes that I felt as though it sought revenge for its murdered master.

It swooped round me, shrieking and jabbing at me with its hooked beak and I fell to the ground, attempting to shield my head with my arms. And then I asked myself what my comrades would make of me. We had had no fear when confronted by cannons and cutlasses and now here I was hiding away from a bird.

Quickly, I unfastened my peg leg and swung at the creature. I almost succeeded in striking it amidships, but it soared away with a final shriek of rage. I resolved that if the malevolent creature ever returned, I would be quicker and strike it down for good.

Now I laid the map on the ground with shells on each corner to keep it flat. I could make no sense of the words, and the shape of the island seemed quite different from the drawing in front of me. But perhaps whoever drew the map had simply been a poor draughtsman. It had been a miracle, this island looming out of the mist and saving me from being put to death. All I needed now was a second miracle, discovering the hidden treasure. With this map as a guide, I would search every inch of the place.

I had resolved that, when I had time, I would begin to keep a diary of my adventures, which would prove to my father how wrong he had been to keep me slaving at clerk’s work. And now on the island, as well as locating the treasure, at last I had the time to begin my story. I started with my birth: “I was born in the town of Ribnirz.”

For a ghastly moment, I thought he was going to reprise the whole thing but a quick glance further down the page showed me he was still on about his arrival on the island, armed with the cook’s map. At least I now knew that the intended audience for his diary was his father.

“Let’s see the map you picked up,” I said to Lilla and she retrieved it from her apron pocket.

It certainly wasn’t a map of this island, with its two parts connected by an isthmus – it was just a rough circle with some bays and promontories. The writing on it was more of a scribble, nothing like Grimwald’s elegant script, and I saw it was in French.

“It says L’Île au trésor,” I told Lilla. “That’s French for—”

“Treasure Island,” she said. She really was a pain.

I decided to call her bluff, jabbing my finger at some writing on the left hand side of the island. “And this is La Colline de la pâte.”

“Dough Hill,” she translated.

It was only when she said it that it struck me as being a very odd name for a hill. I looked at the other names. Pork-chop Bay. Garlic Creek. Venison Swamp.

“This isn’t a map, it’s a menu,” I said. “The cook’s just been amusing himself, drawing an imaginary map.”

Lilla picked it up to study it more closely. “There are three marks on it that look the same.”

She was right. There were three X-marks-the-spots. And written beside them was “truffles.”

“It’s a culinary joke,” I said. “Truffles, delicacies that grow underground. Buried treasure. And Grimwald thought it was a real map.”

“Read more,” she said.

I set out to explore and had scarcely gone any distance than I was hailed in some unintelligible language. I turned to find a seafarer with a peg leg, carrying an armful of seaweed.

“I don’t understand you,” I said, and he replied in my own German language, asking if I too had been shipwrecked.

I agreed, not wanting him to know my business, and he told me he was a Dane and that we were trapped here on an uninhabited island with nothing to eat but seaweed.

“It’s Sporgh,” I said. “He was very keen on seaweed.”

But Lilla wasn’t listening. “Those sheep,” she said, almost to herself.

“What?” I said.

“The shipwrecked sailors, they climb to the top of the cliffs, they think the sheep are waves, and that they’re on an uninhabited island. They don’t realise that they can come to the other side of the island for food and shelter,” she said. “That’s why I have to detect them.”

“About that,” I said, trying to conceal my disapproval. “Why exactly do you go around looking for sailors?”

“Not everyone is like you,” she said.

“I beg your pardon?” I said icily, shocked by the implication that few people shared my high moral standards.

“I said not everyone is like you,” she repeated in a louder voice. “Preferring to live in a cave. Most people would rather be in a comfortable barn with good food and good company.”

“You mean you’re just detecting shipwrecked sailors for humanitarian reasons?” I asked.

“What other reason could there be?”

This was difficult to answer. “The farmer and the councillor don’t like incomers,” I said in a bid to move the conversation on.

“The farmer and the councillor are fools,” she said. “I keep telling them that these seafarers will have practical skills such as the ability to maintain and repair wooden structures that could be very useful. But they refuse to accept it, so we’re keeping the sailors in barns until the matter is resolved. But this is nothing to do with the diary. Read on.”

I asked if he had any shipmates and he replied that they had all perished. But he had seen a Finn. He knew this other sailor was a Finn by the way he put his head down when spoken to, and rushed away.

The Dane told me that the cliffs were full of caves where I could shelter, and advised me on the best places to find seaweed. I thanked him but I was uneasy. With no other inhabitants, there would be little to do on this island apart from wander, and what if the Dane or the Finn came upon the treasure before I did? They would take care to conceal it elsewhere and I would never be able to bargain my way back to the Victual Brothers.

I left him and found myself a cave reasonably close to where I had buried my provisions. Then came another voice, a woman’s voice, with words I didn’t understand until suddenly she called in my language: “Hello, sailor.”

I went out to see what this was about, and was astonished by the sight of her. She was wearing the finest jersey I have seen in my life. I had never witnessed such skilful knitting, black and white wool in intricate patterns of stars and snowflakes.

I was about to ask her who had knitted it, and how, when she began bombarding me with questions about myself, wanting me to go home with her.

Lilla gave a disdainful sniff. “I asked if he wanted to go to a home. Not my home.”

I had no doubt that hers was the more accurate account.

I’ve seen too many good men lost that way, revelling in the splendour of the privateer’s life one moment, trapped into marriage the next and stuck on land with no escape.

Lilla didn’t even need to say anything this time. We just exchanged glances.

I told the madwoman I had better things to do and made my escape, making sure she didn’t follow me and discover my cave.

I searched for the treasure with the help of the map but found nothing. Darkness was beginning to fall so I made for my cave, finding my way thanks to the large wooden cross.

As I got closer I could hear a scratching sound and someone breathing hard. Carefully, I edged round the boulders and saw a man kneeling by the cross, feverishly grasping handfuls of sand and throwing them aside in order to reach the wooden boxes with my provisions. He paused to wipe the sweat from his brow, leaving streaks of sand across his face, then with a final effort he freed one of the boxes and tore the lid open. A second later, he was downing a bottle of aqua vitae.

I don’t allow thieving of my possessions. I advanced on him, asking him what he thought he was doing, only not so politely. He jumped up as fast as his peg leg allowed but instead of an apology, he grabbed another bottle with his left hand before swinging at me with the empty one in his right. So I stabbed him through the heart.

I appreciated that the bottle-thief had made the first aggressive move but I was beginning to think that Grimwald was over-hasty in stabbing people through the heart. It was clearly his favoured method of dispatching them

I wondered how many shipwrecked sailors there were on this supposedly uninhabited island. I couldn’t allow them to search for the treasure, when it was rightfully mine. And then it came to me that the body was all that I needed. I prepared it, and waited the next morning until the Dane came by.

“Sporgh,” I told Lilla, since she hadn’t seemed to hear me last time.

“Yes,” she said witheringly.

I ran towards him, my eyes wide, my hands shaking, my words tumbling out, barely coherent.

“The monster… murder … terrible … his eyes, still open …”

I let the Dane discover the body, swathed in seaweed, strands pulled taut around its neck. The Dane gave a shriek of horror.

“The Finn! It’s him! What happened?”

“It can only be the Kraken,” I whispered. “It comes ashore in the shape of a woman, calling us to lure us into its clutches. Then it chokes the life out of us and discards us in a sea tangle shroud.”

“How can we save ourselves?” He snivelled, exactly as I intended him to do: he asked the very question I intended him to ask. I warned him he must stay in his cave to avoid a similar fate. These Scandinavians can all communicate with one another, how, I don’t know, but I was confident the warning would reach any other skulking seafarers and I would be free to seek out the treasure unhindered.

“But Sporgh failed to heed the warning and Grimwald went on to murder him,” said Lilla bleakly.

“Hang on, you can’t blame Grimwald for that,” I said. “He stabs people through the heart. You yourself said that Sporgh had been stabbed in the back.”

“Grimwald came out of his cave,” said Lilla as though she was a police officer giving a statement. I almost expected her to add “and proceeded in a north-westerly direction.”

“He found Sporgh stealing his aqua vitae,” she continued.

“This is sheer speculation on your part,” I said.

“Informed speculation,” said Lilla. “I’m drawing conclusions supported by a foundation of relevant information. Sporgh held out for as long as he could, but eventually he was undone by his craving for aqua vitae. The Danes are second only to the Finns when it comes to tracking down strong drink. Grimwald has already told us in his diary that he doesn’t allow people to steal from him. And he’s said he hates the Danes because it was a Danish cannonball that took his leg off. Sporgh had his back to Grimwald so Grimwald stabbed him in the back.”

“You really are determined to paint him in a bad light,” I said. “I hope it’s not just because he didn’t want to marry you.”

She gave me a look.

“I’ll get back to reading,” I said.

I waited until the Dane had fled back to the cave and then I dragged the body back to where my other provisions were buried, and buried it alongside them. My comrades having left me with only a modicum of food, I determined to supplement my diet with the Finn. I would leave him to pickle in the seaweed for a few days, with the alcohol he had stolen serving as a marinade.

“All right, that really is revolting,” I said to Lilla. “I’m rapidly revising my opinion of him. You might even be right about him murdering Sporgh.”

“That’s very gracious of you,” she said. She looked me in the eye as she said it, but there was no accompanying smile of gratitude.

Again I set out in search of the treasure, again to no avail. But as I walked across pasture land on top of the cliffs, I spied a sheep. While I waited for the Finn to become tender enough, I could enjoy some mutton. I crept up on it, my snickersnee in my hand, but just before I reached it, it let out a loud baaing. The next thing I knew, a multitude of sheep appeared from nowhere, galloping towards me with evil intent.

For a privateer, knowing when to retreat is as vital as knowing when to attack. I raced back the way I had come, down a precipitous track, across the shingle, on to the sand, but still they pursued me. I unfastened my peg leg so that I could batter the ringleader and frighten off the rest. But the beasts attacked and I barely escaped with my one remaining leg.

“He told me quite a different story,” I said to Lilla. “He claimed he had been trying to get wool to knit socks. There was no talk of mutton and snickersnees and battering ringleaders. I’ve been seriously misled.”

“Keep reading to find out what else you’ve got wrong,” she said, which I felt was uncalled for.

I was sitting in my cave carving a new peg leg from driftwood when a strange woman turned up carrying my original peg leg. She went away and then came back, and there was a terrible moment when she seemed to accuse me of being a cannibal and I thought she knew of my plan to eat the Finn. But I quickly realised she was a simpleton and all was well. I have decided to call my peg leg my pleg.

“That was my suggestion!” I exploded. “And how on earth could he think I’m a simpleton? I’ve had the finest education in the world.”

Lilla said nothing, obviously shocked into silence by Grimwald’s duplicity.

Later, I found myself with an overwhelming desire for meat, so dug up the Finn and prepared to fillet him. But before I could begin, there was a noise like a growling and tearing in the ground below me and suddenly the earth cracked open and the Finn disappeared.

“Just like Sporgh,” I said.

“Yes, the earth trembles for many reasons, but always when it takes back its own,” said Lilla.

This stirred a memory. “The farmer said the earthquake was me. He told me to leave. He said the island didn’t like me and wanted me gone.”

“I told you before, if the island wanted you gone, it would deal with you itself,” said Lilla pragmatically. “Read on.”

Another visit from the simpleton. She is so credulous that I can tell her anything and she believes it. And wonderful to relate, she has been making a map of the island. She refused to let me see it, but I followed her and found it in her cave, hidden under a pile of seaweed. And at last I have the key to the treasure. The island is in two halves, and the treasure is hidden on the other side of the isthmus. It is marked with three crosses.

Now at last I have a plan. I shall light the cross to bring back the ship. But they needn’t think I’ll meekly hand the riches over and return to my previous lowly status as a hired hand. No, I shall take over the ship and more, I shall take over this island and make it my headquarters. I will become the most feared pirate in the Baltic, and at last my father will have to admit that he was wrong. How could he dare think that a man with my talent could be confined in some office as a humble clerk?

Lilla was staring at me. “What’s this about the treasure being marked on your map?”

“Just approximately,” I hedged. “It’s my estimate of where the earth opened up with all the jewellery and gold and stuff. But it doesn’t matter because everything’s been taken away.”

I remembered the happy procession of islanders, children clutching precious jewels, adults carrying tableware, weapons and helmets.

“No,” said Lilla. “Everything hasn’t been taken away. There’s more than double the amount of treasure still there. And because of your map, this evil man will steal it, bribe a militia and make us his slaves. Shona McMonagle, what have you done?”

THIRTEEN

Lilla’s words stirred uncomfortable memories. I was rarely reprimanded at school, being a model pupil, but very occasionally I fell short of the school’s consummate standards. I found myself tensing up as I recalled Marcia Blaine teachers using those very words: and once, to emphasise the seriousness of the offence, adding my middle name. “Shona Aurora McMonagle, what have you done?”

But on this occasion, I felt I was being unjustly accused. The map had been for my personal use, and if anyone was to blame, it was Grimwald for stealing it. But getting into an argument with Lilla wasn’t going to help, and a Blainer always tries to be helpful.

“What’s done is done,” I said, carefully avoiding specifying who had done it. “The important thing now is to put it right.”

“How?” said Lilla, and I was shocked to hear her sound quite tearful. “Grimwald is summoning a pirate ship with cannons. Our peaceful little island can’t withstand an attack.”

“Easy. We stop him giving the signal,” I said. I realised I had now come round to Lilla’s view that Grimwald was a thorough-going villain. I was sorry that I couldn’t hold to my picture of Grimwald as a gruff diamond, but the facts wouldn’t allow it. There was no time to think of that now.

“Come on, let’s find him,” I said. “He may have a snickersnee, but I’ve got expertise in martial arts. And I have the added benefit of knowing he’s going to try to stab me through the heart. All I need to do is sidestep and pivot, and use a joint lock to control and neutralise him. You’ve got an excellent prison to put him in, and I can guarantee he won’t escape like I did. I had an accomplice, the parrot, and it obviously won’t lift a finger to help him.”

She gave a quick nod. “He’s gone to find the treasure.”

“He doesn’t know about the tunnel,” I said. “He has to go up over the cliffs while we’ll have a shortcut.”

“Did you write about the tunnel in your diary?” asked Lilla, an accusing tone back in her voice.

“I did,” I said. “But I wrote about it in English, and Grimwald only reads German. All he did was see the three X-marks-the-spots, just as you did with the cook’s map.”

I could see she was about to rebuke me for marking any spot so I quickly added: “He’s no good at languages. Not like us.”

She seemed slightly placated by this praise, leading the way to the tunnel without any further comment. She set a good pace and was astonishingly sure-footed. Clouds had gathered, obliterating almost all of the moonlight, and in the dark I fell over flotsam or possibly jetsam which had been washed up on the beach. I lay there, winded and disoriented, wondering whether I had broken any bones.

“Sorry,” I gasped, “I tripped over something. I don’t know whether it was flotsam or jetsam. You can’t tell just by looking. They both come from shipwrecks, but one has floated up from the wreck while the other was thrown overboard before the ship sank.”

“Keep up,” was Lilla’s only reaction.

It was a relief to reach the tunnel where all I had to worry about in the darkness was slippy uneven rock punctuated by rough jagged patches where chunks of chalk had broken away, and the occasional pool of water. I was very grateful to be wearing my trusty DMs.

When we emerged from the island, I was dreading running the gauntlet of the sheep over the isthmus. But they were nowhere to be seen. I couldn’t think where else they might be. We knew from Grimwald’s diary that they sometimes grazed on the pastures above the cliff. But even though sheep have short naps rather than sleeping for hours, they tend not to do a lot of grazing and ruminating at night. During lockdown, a flock of sheep ambled into the Turkish city of Samsun. Perhaps the island sheep had wandered up into the village, attracted by the lanolin smell of the tea bags in the craft shop owner’s shop.

“Where do you suppose the sheep are?” I asked Lilla.

In the darkness, I could sense her shrug.

Then as we crossed the isthmus we heard a faint pitiful bleating.

Lilla slackened her speed slightly. “The sound is coming from the shed over there.”

It was so dark that I couldn’t even see a shed, but I took her word for it.

“The farmer never shuts them in,” she said.

I didn’t know whether she was thinking the same as me, but I didn’t want to say it out loud. Grimwald had shut the sheep in to ensure clear passage for the invading pirates. But it was a further example of his fundamental decency. A crew of pirates with cutlasses would have made short work of the sheep: Grimwald was making sure they were safe. I remembered his outrage at being accused of kicking Peg the cat. And then I remembered he wanted to cook and eat Schwarzkopf – not to mention the Finn.

“Should we let the sheep out of the shed?” I asked Lilla.

“No time,” she said, resuming her previous velocity. Instead of heading uphill to the village, she turned left along the shore, more pebbled and less sandy than on my side of the island. She seemed to be running in time to the rhythmic crashing of the waves, a sound that under other circumstances might have sounded soothing, but right now was a reminder that the Victual Brothers were sailing nearby. Grimwald had to be prevented from summoning them.

Lilla knew the terrain and I literally followed in her footsteps to avoid falling over still more flotsam or, as it might be, jetsam. When she stopped suddenly, my forward momentum carried me straight into her, and we collapsed in an ungainly heap.

She swatted at me as though I was an irritating mosquito and got to her feet, saying bitterly: “He’s not here.”

I peered round helplessly. “Maybe he heard us coming and is hiding.”

“There’s no cover round here. But perhaps—”

She took a few steps forward and looked down. At that moment, the moon appeared through a gap in the clouds, and I saw she was standing beside what could only be described as a trench. A trench that seemed illuminated. I went and stood beside her. The gold and silver of a myriad different objects gleamed in the moonlight, interspersed with the rich, deep colours of gemstones. There were several weathered wooden chests, bound with rusted iron bands, their lids cracked open to reveal a dynasty of kings’ ransoms in coins.

“I hoped the island might have taken care of him, even without shoogling, but no,” said Lilla. “It’s because of you that we’ve lost him. You took too long to read the diary, constantly digressing over trivia.”

“And being interrupted by you,” I said hotly. “Coming here was a bad idea in the first place.” I would have said “stupid” rather than “bad,” but that would only provoke a time-wasting argument. “If we wanted to stop Grimwald calling the invaders, what we should have done was destroy the cross.”

For a moment Lilla glowered at me, nostrils dilated, and then with a sigh said: “You’re quite right. Let’s go.”

This time, I prepared my mind, daring both the flotsam and jetsam to impede me. Lilla and I sprinted back along the pebbled shore, across the sheep-free isthmus, through the tunnel and across the beach and boulders to tear the cross down.

The clouds cleared completely and we could see the structure dark against the sand. But the base of the cross seemed somehow different, thicker. As we got closer, we saw there were piles of driftwood round it. And there was a figure nearby, sloshing the contents of a bottle over the timber. Grimwald, with his store of aqua vitae. Flammable alcohol, an accelerant to soak into the wood and make it burn more hotly and vigorously.

He paused as he saw us racing towards him, and gave us a devilish grin and mocking bow.

“You’ve read my diary, ladies? Here to see the spectacle?”

Theatrically, he raised his spare pleg, the end of it covered with the sock marked Monday. He doused the sock in aqua vitae and set it alight.

In a second, he would fling it at the pyramid of driftwood, igniting the cross. With a supreme effort I overtook Lilla and leaped at Grimwald to wrestle him to the ground. But I fell short, sprawling on the ground myself as he hurled the burning sock on to the drenched wood. Bright orange and yellow flames erupted immediately and engulfed the cross in a blaze which would be visible from many miles out to sea.

Lilla gave a cry of anguish: “We’re too late!”

“You women thought you could stop me? Impossible!” Grimwald crowed. “This island and everything in it is now mine. It will appear on every map and it will be named Grimwald’s Island.”

Lilla seemed about to burst into tears, so I put my arm round her shoulders in a comforting way and whispered: “Don’t worry. I have a plan.”

I scarcely needed to have lowered my voice. All of Grimwald’s attention was now on the searing light of the cross. Lilla was staring at it too, as though transfixed, and it took quite an effort to haul her away from the scene.

“You are succumbing to despair, which helps no-one,” I told her severely once we were definitely out of earshot. I thought this was quite a neat echo of her words to me earlier about being too emotional. “We have to get organised before that wretched pirate ship heaves over the horizon.”

That just set her off again, so I grabbed her by the shoulders and gave her a bit of a shake.

“Save the self-pity until you’ve saved the island,” I said.

“It’s no good,” she managed to say. “I told you before, it’s a pirate ship with cannons. There’s nothing we can do.”

“There’s plenty we can do,” I assured her, steering her towards the tunnel. “And the first thing we do is wake every-body up. Dawn’s breaking, so hopefully a few of them will be up already.” I realised that the new dawn marked the last day of my mission – or if I failed, possibly the first day of the rest of my life on the island.

We had only just crossed the sheep-free isthmus when we found the farmer gazing around him in bemusement. He peered at Lilla in the dim pre-dawn light.

“I’ve lost my sheep,” he told Lilla. “I don’t know where to find them.”

I was sorely tempted to say: “Leave them alone and they’ll come home.” But before I could say a word, he recognised me.

“The escaped criminal! She’s stolen them! We need to convene the Swither immediately.”

This was a development I could do without. I was needed to coordinate the rescue plan. I wondered which of my martial arts moves would be best for briefly incapacitating him. But that was no good – it was essential to have everybody on board to help.

Lilla intervened on my behalf. “Shona may have escaped but she had a moral right to do so, since she was wrongly imprisoned. You can trust her.”

It was a relief that Lilla had regained her usual coolness, which enabled her to appraise every situation. Her organisational skills would be crucial if this was going to work.

“As for your sheep,” I said, “they were quite voluble earlier, but they’ve probably exhausted their vocal cords. They’re in that shed over there – feel free to go in, but I’d be grateful if you didn’t let them out just yet.”

He glanced at Lilla, who nodded in confirmation, and then he rushed off to the shed.

“Right,” I said, “we start rousing people, and they rouse more people until everybody’s awake.”

“Including the sailors?” she asked.

“Of course,” I said. “Tell them to bring all the helmets and weapons they took from the treasure trench, and that’s where we’re all going to meet.”

There’s something to be said for a society whose sleeping and waking hours are governed by natural light. Nobody had been binge watching box sets after midnight and in next to no time all of the islanders, flanked by four groups of seafarers, were gathered by the opening in the ground.

The councillor pointed at me. “That woman’s a wanted criminal!” he yelled, causing some excitement in the crowd.

“No she’s not,” said Lilla and the farmer simultaneously. The councillor was about to argue, but the look Lilla gave him quelled him. He muttered under his breath but I sensed that was only for show.

“I have pardoned her on behalf of the Swither,” Lilla went on. “She’s on our side, and we need her. We’re facing a terrible threat. A member of the Victual Brothers has set fire to my cross on the other side of the island, to summon a shipful of Victual Brothers to invade us.”

There was consternation at this. One shocked voice said: “But it’s an area of naturally outstanding beauty – he mustn’t set fire to it!” before others said this was perhaps not the main thing to worry about. The clamour was intensified by the Danish, Norwegian and Swedish seafarers.

“I don’t understand the words they’re using,” I said to Lilla.

“You don’t want to,” she said.

“But I do,” I insisted.

“They’re expressing their dislike of the Victual Brothers in vigorous seafaring terms,” she said.

“Ah,” I said. My vocabulary does not extend to profanity.

“They’re particularly upset because it was when they were trying to escape from attacks by the Victual Brothers that all of their ships foundered on the rocks here,” she said.

My initial reaction should have been sympathy, but instead I was thinking how lucky it was that we had all these extra volunteers at our disposal. It was as though the island had anticipated the need and ensured a supply of men of fighting age. Then I scolded myself. I was as guilty of anthropomorphising as the islanders.

The racket continued, the only people not participating being Lilla, myself and the Finns who were nonetheless looking pretty angry as they stared at their feet.

Lilla held up her hands for calm. “Don’t worry,” she said. “Shona McMonagle, who’s visiting us from Scotland, has a plan.”

They looked at me sceptically, so I outlined the plan.

“I think that’s an excellent plan,” said the choir mistress. “Anyone else got a better one?”

There was silence.

“Then let’s get on with it,” I said.

I feared there would be a melee as they all turned to the trench, but they queued as courteously as though they were at a Morningside bus stop. The Finns were the last, having huddled together until everybody else had finished.

“Choir mistress, you can take over from here, while Lilla and I go with the farmer,” I said.

“As a councillor, I should take charge,” said the councillor.

“Everyone is a councillor,” I pointed out. “People need something to follow. The choir mistress has a twig.”

She raised her twig aloft, now visible in the pale dawn light, and waved it, leading to enthusiastic cheering.

“Follow my lead,” she said, waving her stick as if she was conducting a great orchestra, and setting off towards the isthmus.

Lilla and I went with the farmer to the shed.

“I didn’t like to say in front of everybody,” he said, “but your plan’s not going to work. When I opened up the shed, the sheep wouldn’t come out. They’ve been completely traumatised by that terrible man shutting them in.”

The farmer opened the door of the shed, and we found the sheep bunched together in one corner. They bunched up even more tightly at the sight of us, bleating.

“Ssh now,” said the farmer in a calm, reassuring voice. “A nice new day’s starting. I thought we could go up to the pasture on top of the area of naturally outstanding beauty. There’s good grass and lovely views.”

It was quite sweet the way he was talking as though they could understand him, but they were staring at him blankly.

“Isn’t there something we can do?” I asked. “Like pick them up? I know they’re big, but I do weight training.”

The farmer inhaled sharply. “I couldn’t allow that. They wouldn’t like it.”

The sheep were now standing rigidly with their heads raised and ears back to make themselves look more threatening. This was dreadful.

“The sheep are vital for our success!” I burst out. “Without them, my plan won’t work, and the Victual Brothers will conquer the island and probably slaughter every living thing here. Including the sheep.”

There was a scraping noise and I saw that the lead ram, the one with the most terrifyingly curved horns, was pawing at the ground, a sign of agitation. He then dashed across the shed to the open door before turning to look at me.

“It’s as though he understands me,” I said in stupefaction.

“Of course he understands you,” said the farmer fiercely. “It’s only stupid people who think sheep are stupid.”

As I watched, the rest of the flock trotted across the shed to form a queue as efficiently as the islanders had done.

“Time for us to go and join the others, I think,” said the farmer in a self-satisfied tone that implied he was the one who had got the sheep moving.

We all set off for the isthmus, the sheep setting a good pace from the front. When we reached the other side, the sheep peeled off on a path to the right, which would lead them up to the pasture on top of the cliffs.

“Good luck,” said Lilla solemnly.

“Same to you,” said the farmer before following the flock along the rising path.

Lilla and I raced through the tunnel which was becoming as familiar to me as Morningside Road. When we emerged, the cold, damp air of the underground passage was replaced by the crisp freshness of the outside world, and we could hear the faint sound of distant singing.

“The sailors,” said Lilla briefly, and now that I listened properly, I recognised they were singing a sea shanty in three part harmony. The choir mistress was wielding her twig to good effect.

I heard the crunch of sand behind me and whirled round to see Eirik, his peg leg on his right.

“Am I dead?” he asked wonderingly.

“No,” said Lilla.

“But I can hear my captain singing, and my crewmates, and I know they all drowned when our ship was wrecked on the rocks,” he said.

“They didn’t drown,” said Lilla. “They made it to shore, and I detected them and took them to the inhabited part of the island. Why didn’t you come when I called?”

He took a nervous step backwards.

“It’s all right,” I said. “She’s not the Kraken or a monster of any sort. That was misinformation from one of the Victual Brothers.” I quickly outlined the danger we were in.

“And they’re up there? My shipmates?” said Eirik, nodding to the top of the cliffs. “Then I’d better join them. This calls for every man jack of us.”

He set off for the rudimentary path up the cliffs.

A moment later, we heard a wail from inside a cave. “Stop the noise, Monster! Stop sounding like my old shipmates, all drowned out there! You’re driving me mad!”

“Odd,” I said to Lilla.

I waited for her to say: “Isn’t it?” but instead she said: “A Swedish straggler this time. You’d better go and explain things to him in case he still thinks I’m the monster.”

A few moments later, Odd was also on his way up the rudimentary path.

“And now for Grimwald,” said Lilla.

As we picked our way over the boulders, we could smell the lingering scent of burnt wood and see a faint haze of smoke. The cross had retained its shape, but the flames had scorched the surface and darkened much of the wood to a deep charred black. As we got closer, we saw embers still glowing faintly in recesses of the timber, and the area around the cross strewn with ash and charcoal.

I hoped against hope that the pirates were sailing on a far distant part of the sea and had not seen Grimwald’s signal.

“There!” he said, pointing. “Look! See! My fine lads are coming. The island is mine.”

The sky was lightening from deep indigo to soft oranges and pinks, casting a gentle glow over the sea. And there on the horizon was a large wooden ship, its outline stark and purposeful against the dawn sky. It was moving steadily towards us, propelled by a strong wind. A row of cannons glinted in the early sunlight.

Lilla gasped, her hand up at her mouth as though to stifle the sound.

I patted her on the shoulder. “Don’t worry,” I said. “Remember the plan.”

“And what are you ladies planning, with your little bird brains?” Grimwald asked.

“A welcoming committee for your fine lads,” said Lilla evenly.

“Sensible girl,” sneered Grimwald and I was impressed that Lilla didn’t punch him on the nose.

All of his attention was on the approaching ship, and I nudged Lilla to look back and up to the top of the cliffs. Something else was glinting in the sunlight. Not a row of cannons; there on high, row upon row of bronze helmets glowed, along with breastplates, swords, spears and axes. Every islander and every sailor was dressed for battle. I had instructed them to bring whatever they had already taken from the treasure trench, and then to take out all the remaining weapons and armour. Even from here, it was difficult to tell that the front line was actually a flock of sheep bedecked in helmets. From the distance of the ship, the view through spyglasses would make it seem an invincible force.

The helmets had been carefully positioned between the sheep’s large curling horns, and I did wonder whether this was when the myth of Vikings wearing horned helmets was born.

Grimwald lifted his spare pleg, the one he had used to set the cross aflame with the alcohol-drenched “Monday” sock. The sock was gone, but the pleg itself was sturdy enough to survive a brief encounter with fire. He whirled it around his head as he began a triumphal dance on the beach, calling encouragement to the ship.

Lilla and I looked on, aghast. Our own sailors were no longer singing shanties but a stirring, fervent chant that evoked bravery and determination. A call to arms. And it was in four-part harmony: for the first time, the Finns had joined in.

Grimwald danced yet more energetically and shouted more loudly, presumably in the hope of drowning out the sailors’ singing.

Lilla tapped me on the back and drew my attention away from the singing sailors. In turn, I tapped Grimwald on the back.

“Look. See,” I said.

With all his dancing, he had failed to notice that the pirate ship had changed course and was now sailing away from us. The pirates had seen our daunting battalions and turned tail.

Grimwald gave a cry of rage and despair. Still waving his pleg, he shouted imprecations at the departing ship, demanding that it return immediately.

He began running towards the shore. There was a sudden beating of multi-coloured wings, and a squawk of “Stand by to go about!”

We all heard Schwarzkopf’s words, but the only one who reacted was Grimwald. He looked skywards with an expression of terror, and began to scream words that sounded like “angel” and “torment” and “death”. Lilla and I exchanged a nod. After reading his diary, we knew the reason for his well-founded fear of – not all parrots, but this one in particular. With renewed urgency, Grimwald continued his desperate run along the shore. Schwarzkopf stayed in close pursuit; never attacking him, but squawking and fluttering to make sure Grimwald kept moving. Patiently but inexorably, the parrot was herding Grimwald along the shore. He clearly had a particular spot in mind.

The words of the squawk changed.

“Into the pit you go, yo-ho,

aye-aye, down down,

your doom has come,

ho-ho, yo-ho.”

Schwarzkopf, it seemed, was the most piratically-spoken of all.

There was a low subterranean rumbling, and a shaking of the ground below my feet, almost imperceptible at first, but gradually intensifying. I struggled to keep my balance as the earth jolted and shuddered.

And then the ground by the shore suddenly split open, revealing a dark void, and Grimwald was gone, the earth closing over him as though he had never been. With a final triumphant squawk, Schwarzkopf flew off. It had been impressive work on his part. I wondered if he would be any good with the sheep, since I had seen no sign of a sheepdog.

A moment later, he returned to sit in his familiar place on my shoulder. But it was only to show me what he held in his beak: the tiddlywink shell. He flew over the spot where Grimwald had disappeared and dropped the shell on to the grave. Then he fluttered over to me and gave a slow and deliberate wink.

Lilla and I clambered up the rudimentary path to join the islanders, sailors and sheep. Islanders and sailors were hugging one another and patting the sheep. There was a lot of cheering, interspersed by the islanders telling the sailors: “That’s our island for you – it looks after us.” The sailors exchanged thoughtful glances. They, and we, would have plenty to think about after the island’s narrow escape from the Victual Brothers. But right now the predominant feeling was relief. We were a jovial crowd as we made our way back to the village.

The choir mistress discovered that Eirik played the violin and suggested setting up an orchestra as well as a choir, with Eirik as leader.

Odd divulged that he was good at chopping wood and making ornaments out of prawn shells and the craft shop owner offered him a job as her assistant.

Both Odd and Eirik decided that this was the perfect time for a career change and accepted the new roles. During the walk back, the other sailors had also decided not to go back to sea, given the dangers of being attacked by the Victual Brothers. The councillor objected vociferously until the choir mistress shoved a tea bag in his mouth. He was told firmly that they brought cultural diversity and valuable skills and knowledge, as well as being able to enhance the island’s range of recipes.

And then it was tea bags all round in celebration. As I clunked my wooden mug against Lilla’s, I said: “Now that there’s time, perhaps you can tell me how you know about Brigadoon? And Robert the Bruce? And Robert Louis Stevenson?”

“From the Scottish lady who came here on holiday,” said Lilla. “She was a time-traveller as well.”

“She was so interesting,” said the choir mistress. “She knew everything.”

“And we loved listening to the way she talked,” said the craft shop owner. “A wee cup of tea. A shoogle. And now we’ve got a Swither.”

I was about to ask a question to which I already knew the answer: “Was this lady’s name Marcia Blaine?” But I was prevented from speaking by a stomach cramp that made me double over.

“I’m so sorry,” I gasped once I had recovered slightly. “I think I’m leaving to go back home.”

“Yes, the other nice Scottish lady left very suddenly as well,” said the choir mistress. “She just said ‘Off we go,’ and there she wasn’t.”

The craft shop owner jumped up and ran into her shop.

“Goodbye then,” said Lilla. “It’s been very nice to meet you. Thank you for saving our island and keeping it uncharted.”

Again, I didn’t tell them they were merely uncharted for the moment. I wondered what three words the craft shop would have when it was geocoded through what3words.

The craft shop owner came out with a carved stick. “This is a replica of the choir mistress’s twig,” she said. “They’re very popular. Please take it as a memento.”

My words of thanks were interrupted by more stomach cramps, and the choir mistress gently rubbed my back. This was it. I was being pulled into the vortex, back to the twenty-first century. The last thing I saw as the scene around me shimmered into nothingness was Schwarzkopf sitting on the farmer’s shoulder and playfully nibbling his ear. It looked as though the farmer now had a sheep-parrot.

I found myself on the floor in the upstairs room in Morningside Library, the room from which I had left. The door opened and Miss Blaine strode in with her usual no-nonsense manner, looking around the room until she saw me under the table.

“So this is where you’re hiding, girl. Did you enjoy your holiday? I found the island a delightfully relaxing place, so much less hectic than Ibiza or Corfu. Of course, it helps that they don’t have the electricity. I kept a diary while I was there. A well-written diary is a useful thing.”

Holiday. Miss Blaine had sent me on holiday.

“It was wonderful,” I said truthfully. “It actually turned into an adventure holiday. I foiled a gang of pirates and prevented an invasion of the island, keeping it uncharted.”

“I expect no less of my girls,” said Miss Blaine. “And is that a wee present you’ve brought back for me?”

I discovered I was still clutching the craft shop owner’s present to me.

“It is indeed, Miss Blaine,” I said, handing it over. “To thank you for your kindness.”

“Goodness, how lovely!” she said. “A replica of the choir mistress’s twig. That’s very thoughtful of you.”

“Not at all,” I said. “My pleasure.”

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

With thanks to the following for all their help with Shona’s continuing adventures – and thanks also to the kind readers who wanted to know where Shona would turn up next.

Sara Hunt and all at Saraband;
Editor Ali Moore;
Iain Matheson;
Al Guthrie;
Stephen Keeler;
Rachel Rankin;
Simen Jordsmyr Holm;
Stephanie Brickman;
Miriam Brickman;
Mòrag Anna NicNèill;
Dame Muriel Spark;
Daniel Defoe;
Robert Louis Stevenson;

and Alistair, who has greatly enlivened several Baltic trips.

PREVIOUS ADVENTURES OF . . .

Miss Blaine’s former prefect Shona, now a Morningside librarian, is commissioned to travel back in time to Imperial Russia to pair up heiress Lidia Ivanovna with Sasha, a gorgeous young man of unexplained origins. But, in spite of Shona’s numerous impeccable accomplishments and her good intentions, the body count rises. Will she discover in time just who the real villain is?

Shona finds herself in fin de siècle France, where she must solve a mystery involving the mayor, the cheesemonger, the soprano Mary Garden – and Count Dracula. But why have so many people been torn to death by wild animals, what are Maman and the mayor up to, and is the reclusive aristocrat really suffering from toothache? It’s a race against time to solve the mystery.

. . . MISS BLAINE’S PREFECT

Shona is given a crucial mission involving Macbeth, the Weird Sisters and a black cat. Unsure which version of history she’s in, she tries to figure out who she’s here to save. But between playing the Fool and being turned into a mouse, things don’t always go her way. Family tensions rise and fingers are pointed for murder. Can Shona unravel the mystery in time to complete her mission?

Finding herself in Venice, which appears to be afflicted by the plague, Shona encounters the Cornetto family of gondoliers, some of whose passengers have met a watery fate. Shona’s powers of deduction, dissection and swimming are put to the test as she realises that a bitter feud is at play. Can she unravel the tapestry of lies and get to the truth? One should never underestimate a librarian.

THE AUTHOR

Olga Wojtas is an unconventional – and witty – writer of cosy crime fiction whose surrealist humour has been compared to the likes of P.G. Wodehouse, Jasper Fforde and the Marx Brothers. She was born and brought up in Edinburgh, where she attended James Gillespie’s High School – the model for the Marcia Blaine School for Girls (in Muriel Spark’s The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie). Olga won a Scottish Book Trust New Writers Award in 2014, and has amassed an impressive following for the Miss Blaine’s Prefect series, as well as several award nominations. A journalist for more than 30 years, Olga was Scottish editor of the Times Higher Education Supplement before she began adding creative writing to her portfolio.

Miss Blaine’s Prefect and the Golden Samovar
Miss Blaine’s Prefect and the Vampire Menace
Miss Blaine’s Prefect and the Weird Sisters
Miss Blaine’s Prefect and the Gondola of Doom

SHORTLISTED: CrimeFest Last Laugh Award 2019
LONGLISTED: Comedy Women in Print Prize 2019 and 2020

“Readers who delighted in … this sparkling series will be rubbing their hands with glee – here is another delightful instalment from the coruscating pen of Olga Wojtas.” ALEXANDER MCCALL SMITH

“Charming, very witty and a little bit bonkers.” NIGEL PLANER

“Audacious … witty and fun.” ALASTAIR MABBOTT, Herald

“Effortless … Smart, funny and all-round good company, wherever Shona goes, readers will eagerly follow.” Scotsman

“I couldn’t wait to be reunited with this character. I utterly love her … More, more, more, please!” LYNNE TRUSS

“A delightful addition to the ranks of comic crime, mixing sharp observation with a lightness of touch.” LAURA WILSON, Guardian

“Jane Austen stylings and Stella Gibbons satirical wit.” Scotsman

“Every bit as light-hearted, level-headed, inventive, hilarious, and altogether enchanting as its heroine.” Kirkus, STARRED REVIEW

“Marvellous… Readers will appreciate the skill with which Wojtas mirrors Spark’s style.” Publishers Weekly, STARRED REVIEW

“I loved this book … most entertaining reading.” ALEX GRAY

“Knowing, original and very funny.” SIMON BRETT

“A carefully and delightfully constructed romp in the tradition of Gogol and of Wodehouse.” NORTHWORDS NOW

“Anna Karenina written by P.G. Wodehouse.” LINDA CRACKNELL

“A thrilling and fast-paced tale … written with verve, lightness of touch and joie de vivre … unadulterated fun.” SCOTS WHAY HAE

“The crème de la crème of crime fiction debuts.” ALLAN GUTHRIE

“Clever, witty, and brain-tickling.” RAVEN CRIME READS

“Laugh-out-loud funny … a real charmer.” LIVE AND DEADLY