Author: Jennifer Mackenzie Dunbar
Date: 2023-06-01 07:00:00+00:00
Description: Inspired by the 1831 discovery of a hoard of priceless chess pieces on a remote Scottish Island, Missing Pieces tells the story of four women who created and protected the now famous artefacts. When Marianne is coerced into leaving the security of her comfortable London life to curate an exhibition on the Isle of Lewis, she uncovers her own ancestral connection to the mysterious island. Her eerie connections to the past introduce us to Magrit, the Icelandic artisan, beholden to a power-hungry Bishop, Morven, the rescuer, who seeks intimacy with a mysterious stranger and Mhairi, the negotiator,
Publisher: MidnightSun Publishing

MISSING PIECES

First published 2023 by MidnightSun Publishing Pty Ltd

PO Box 3647, Rundle Mall, SA 5000, Australia.

www.midnightsunpublishing.com

Copyright © Jennifer Mackenzie Dunbar 2023

The moral rights of the author have been asserted.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted by any person or entity, including internet search engines or retailers (including, but not restricted to, Google and Amazon), in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying (except under the statutory exceptions provisions of the Australian Copyright Act 1968), recording, scanning or by any information storage and retrieval system without the prior written permission of MidnightSun Publishing.

This is a work of fiction. All characters, places and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

Cover design by Kim Lock

Internal design by Zena Shapter

Typeset in Optimus Princeps, Ex Ponto MM Oldstyle Figures and Bembo.

Printed and bound in Australia by McPherson’s. The papers used by MidnightSun in the manufacture of this book are natural, recyclable products made from wood grown in well managed forests.

For Vera Dunbar, my paternal grandmother, who nurtured
my obsession for reading and ignited my love of Scotland.

For most of history, Anonymous was a woman.
Virginia Woolf

My investigation into the chess pieces has led me into a wonderful world of stories, legends and small island mysteries. Storytellers are just that – they don’t always stick to facts. Embellishments and exaggerations are part of the fun […] Edinburgh elites laughed at the timid Uig cowherd fleeing from fairy faces, the Lewis locals applaud his courageous and practical wife.
Nancy Marie Brown, Ivory Vikings, 2015

Tiny lips. To keep my secret.
Fighting fist. To hold my shame.
You are my bud.
MMM July 17th, 1980

CHAPTER 1

Marianne, London, 2008

The ambulance siren pierced the air, its urgency cutting through the crowd gathering. Startled, Marianne stepped backwards onto the pavement. The young man behind her, smartly suited for a day in London’s thriving banking centre, swore as her heels dug into his foot. He used his shoulders to ward her off, not waiting to hear her muttered apology. She watched him weave his way, against the lights, through the built-up traffic. Twenty-something and full of confidence. The right age. Maybe… Marianne pushed down the unwelcome impulse to imagine what he might look like now, an impulse that always surged this time of year.

She looked at her watch. Already late for work, she would have to shove her way through the ghoulish onlookers hoping to get a glimpse of the unfortunate victim lying on the pavement next to the ambulance.

A paramedic ordered the spectators to move aside. Through the gap between them, Marianne saw the tweed cap covering the victim’s face. A cap just like her father’s.

His legs were twisted. His head at that odd angle. She tried to keep moving but her limbs grew heavy. Her heart began drumming, as if her body already knew. The possibility, the dangerous, sickening possibility seeped through her.

Drawing closer she could see his hands, large and weathered, bearing a Celtic wedding ring. Dad’s wedding ring.

The memory of his early morning text exploded within her. I will meet you in front of the museum. I have a letter for you.

His face was strangely peaceful when they threw the cap aside and loaded him into the ambulance. She expected him to turn and wave, to reassure her, as he’d always done. But they covered his face and slammed the doors shut.

‘Is anybody with him?’ A policeman demanded. ‘Does anyone know him?’ He yelled over the wail of the departing siren.

Marianne stumbled forward. ‘Donald Gordon Mackay. My father.’

CHAPTER 2

Marianne, London 2010

Shona’s call woke Marianne. Fighting off her early morning blues, Marianne hit the red icon, sending the call to voicemail. She already knew how the conversation would go.

They’d spent the first anniversary of his death together but she’d already told Shona that she couldn’t this year. It wasn’t a complete lie. As well as wanting to avoid her mother’s jarringly optimistic conversation, Marianne was curious to meet with Julia Powell, the British Museum’s new CEO, at the monthly seniors’ meeting. George, Marianne’s acting manager and one-time colleague, had suggested she could miss it if she was too busy. Although suspicious of his motives – George always had an agenda – she’d been tempted to have the day off. But her curiosity outweighed her loathing of meetings. Julia had a reputation for being a straight shooter and was reportedly bringing new ideas into the museum.

‘You’d better dress the part,’ her flat mate, Sam, called out over her shoulder as she headed for the front door. ‘And maybe some make-up for a change. I’ll see you tonight. Pub night. Yah.’

Marianne put aside her usual elasticated jeans, choosing instead a black skirt over opaque footless leggings. The only ironed shirt that still fitted was the grey silk one she’d worn to the funeral and hadn’t put on since. It would have to do. She topped it with the loose-weave black and white jacket Sam had made her buy. Kicking aside the standard black pumps, Marianne pulled on her favourite purple Doc Martens. A small act of rebellion against the corporate image.

Thankfully, Marianne’s recently cut hair obeyed her hurried scrunching. With a hasty application of foundation and lipstick she felt almost ready to face the day.

The extra attention to appearance meant she had no time for breakfast. Not wanting her stomach rumbling during the meeting she grabbed a protein shake at the underground station. The meeting was in the boardroom so it would make sense to get off at Holborn station. She’d avoided it since the accident, using Tottenham Court Road and going in the back way. But the counsellor she’d seen after her recent anxiety attack had encouraged her to start facing up to the things she’d been avoiding.

‘Avoidance can be a great short-term strategy, Marianne, but it doesn’t work forever. The constant tightness you’re feeling is a sign that you need to do something different. The anxiety episode is telling you avoidance is not working anymore. How about you test yourself and do something different on the anniversary this year? I’m sure you’ll find you’re stronger than you think you are.’

Marianne had almost told her it wasn’t just accepting her father’s death that she was avoiding, that the tightness, a metal band around her chest, had been lurking there, ready to paralyse her, for twenty years. But that story was too deeply buried. That story was not for sharing.

The wail of a nearby ambulance set her pulse racing as she emerged with the crowds at Holborn. Taking a moment to breathe through her reaction, Marianne scanned her surrounds before making for the traffic lights. She turned right instead of left on the other side of the crossing. She wasn’t yet ready to walk past the very spot where he’d died.

Making it inside the museum’s front doors, she took a moment to slow her breath again. Two new information posters were being hung next to the popular Lewis Chessmen collection. One was entitled ‘Was the carver a woman?’ the other ‘Where are the Missing Pieces?’. She made a mental note to come back and read them after the meeting. She’d just tested a chess piece, a replica, as it turned out. Even doing that had triggered memories of her father. He’d been the one to suggest she include the Lewis Chessmen as an example of a reparation dispute in her Master’s thesis.

‘Your maternal ancestors are from Lewis. It could be good to have some personal connections in your case examples.’

She’d researched them a little before deciding not to include them. But doing the testing yesterday had made her wonder what the museum would pay if the piece had been genuine. With forty-nine pieces still missing there was a possible fortune waiting to be made by some lucky searcher.

The boardroom was filling fast in doubled up rows. Marianne chose a seat near the door, readying for a quick getaway. Across the table George chatted to one of the long-term Directors. She nodded to him, hoping to ensure he noticed her arrival, hoping to prove false his accusation about her poor time keeping, a point of discussion at her last performance review. She’d tried to explain that she was having trouble reducing her medication but he’d not listened. He ignored her now too, clinging, it seemed, to the other Director’s every word – that is until Julia entered the room. Marianne suppressed a smirk watching George stop mid-sentence, sit up straight and literally ‘face the front’ as Julia made her way to the head of the table. He smoothed his carefully groomed hair – cut especially for today, Marianne speculated – and seemed to puff his chest out and bob his head. Marianne and another lab technician had once shared a joke that he looked like a preening pigeon when he did this. But of late, she found him less comical and more insidious. Since his appointment to Acting Director, he’d taken on an air of superiority, especially with her. She wasn’t sure what she had done wrong. They’d never really gotten on but recently she’d felt increasingly uncomfortable around him.

Julia stood to address the meeting. ‘I thank you all for taking time from your busy day to meet with me. I have big shoes to fill with Bruce’s sudden retirement after twenty years.’

A ripple of disquiet spread around the room. It was common knowledge that the Board had forced the previous CE’s hand after he’d failed to follow up on allegations of cultural insensitivity against one of George’s friends. He’d dismissed a request from Australia to return a collection of Aboriginal Australian remains. The incident had split the ranks between those who believed the British Museum owned the collection and those who put value on the cultural and spiritual relevance for the descendants of the people whose bones lay in the BM’s storage.

Marianne watched Julia for her response to the change of mood in the meeting. Her tone remained determined.

‘Good governance and accountability will be paramount as we move to ensure we are running a modern museum, responsive to many issues including ownership and repatriation. I will take the time to get to know each of you personally over the coming weeks. I’ll be asking each of you about your vision for the museum into the future.’

Marianne said a silent thank you that she had said ‘future’ not ‘moving forward’, her current pet hate in corporate speak.

‘I am sure it is not news that there are budget targets to be met, too,’ Julia continued. Although everyone kept fixed expressions, the tension in the room crackled. ‘I know you have all been through this before and it is never easy, but with the help of HR, I will be doing a review of all positions. Roles that are no longer required will be phased out or amalgamated, while other new roles will be created. The many positions that have been temporarily filled with people in acting roles will be reviewed and, if they fit into the new structure, will be made permanent through a merit-based selection process.’

Marianne saw George flinch.

‘I considered setting gender quotas to address the under representation of women in senior roles but I will instead instigate a Women in Leadership training program.’

In the past, even the mention of quotas had set the hounds running, and proposals for gender-based training had been sabotaged. But even the most powerful men around the table could see that the tide had turned.

Julia continued. ‘All in all the review will ensure we proceed as a modern, well-informed museum, staffed by the right people in the right jobs.’

Although she had not targeted any one in particular as she said it, Marianne could have sworn that, for a fleeting second, Julia looked at her. A recent remark from George about the possibility of her role no longer being required came back to her. At the time, she’d thought it was just his malicious way of keeping her on her toes, but now she was not so sure. Had he already spoken to Julia about her?

‘In the meantime, it’s business as usual. If there are no questions…’ Julia paused very briefly before continuing. ‘Right then, onto the Standing Items. Recent achievements.’

Marianne shuffled in her chair, glancing at her watch as she half listened to the usual reports about visitor numbers and new acquisitions. She knew she should at least feign interest but her thoughts wandered to yesterday’s testing results. She reminded herself that she still needed to transfer the replica piece with the results back to George.

Forcing herself to concentrate on the meeting, Marianne noted that Julia’s accent was refreshingly working class, with a hint of the flatter Northern vowels. She’d heard that Julia was only Comprehensive school educated but had won a place at a good university and gone on to score a good position at the Jorvik Viking Museum in York while completing her PhD.

As Julia continued through the agenda, Marianne wondered how someone like her got through the proverbial glass ceiling, cutting through the boy’s club bulldust that all too often prevented women from even wanting the top jobs. Marianne’s own lack of ambition had been one of the last things she’d discussed with her father.

‘You’ve shown you can do so much more than be a lab technician. Why don’t you apply for jobs that use your qualifications? Not just for the money. For the job satisfaction too.’

She’d been thinking about applying for a couple of higher positions but hadn’t been able to muster the energy or interest since his death.

Hearing Julia mention George’s name brought Marianne’s attention back to the meeting.

‘George’s paper at the Modern Museums Conference in New York was received with great accolades.’

George made a poor attempt to hide his glee. Marianne steeled herself for the egotistical, self-congratulatory back-patting that would follow. While George was at the conference, Marianne had taken advantage of his absence to finally rearrange some time-wasting processes. More significantly, she’d developed a new security procedure that she’d long argued was needed. He’d never acknowledged her efforts, even though he’d accepted most of the changes. The security procedure he’d rejected without explanation.

She’d deliberately never asked him about what he’d presented at the conference and he’d never discussed it, which, she realised now, was rather strange. He usually assumed she’d be fascinated by everything he did.

As Marianne sunk into her thoughts, the words ‘repatriation’ and ‘community and cultural significance’ rattled through the air, setting off alarm bells in Marianne before she’d fully understood what was being said.

‘George impressed the conference,’ Julia continued, smiling warmly at George, ‘with his insights into the opportunities that modern museums now have to share exhibits both actually and virtually.’

Marianne bolted upright in her seat. Her Master’s thesis was titled: ‘Stolen Histories: Understanding cultural and community significance when determining issues of repatriation of museum exhibits’. Julia had just read out a direct quote from her thesis.

Marianne turned to face George, but he avoided eye contact. Her stomach turned over and her throat clenched remembering that George had insisted on reading her thesis about a month before he went to the Conference. She’d thought it strange at the time; he’d never taken any interest in her studies. She’d been reluctant to let him have it, knowing he disagreed with the position she’d arrived at: that regional communities should have a voice in deciding the location of exhibits based on cultural significance.

Through a growing wave of unease, Marianne heard Julia’s praise continue.

‘George’s proactive and well thought through presentation in New York gets to the very essence of where I think museums should be heading. As George said in his presentation,’ she picked up some notes and read from them, ‘“Modern technologies have enabled even the smallest of museums the ability to accommodate even the most delicate of exhibits.”’ Another almost direct quote. Marianne saw the nerve at the side of George’s eye twitch. Her chest tightened and her head began spinning. Fearing another anxiety attack, she breathed deeply, willing it away.

‘Sounds like you’ve gone over to the dark side, George,’ one of the older directors joked. The laughter released some of the tension in the room, although Marianne knew his joke was not directed only at George. Many of the senior BM employees disagreed with the direction Julia was espousing, but their body language gave nothing away; they were all guarding their own backs, playing their cards close.

Julia smiled at the strongest proponents of the anti-repatriation argument. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll be fighting hard to keep the Elgin Marbles but we do need to be realistic about other collections. For example, the Lewis Chessmen may well be under consideration for return, or at least long-term loans, to Scotland.’

Through a maze of emotions, Marianne heard Julia say something about the political implications of the Scottish National Party’s claim on the chess men and ‘our kilted cousins to the north.’

Another wave of nervous laughter went around the room. Marianne stared at the agenda on the table in front of her, trying to control her reactions. Perhaps she’d imagined the direct quotes from her thesis. Maybe George did know more about the subject than she thought. As her pulse slowed, she looked up. George was staring directly at her, his usual smug look overridden by something else. Contempt.

A fist pummelled inside her chest, pounding at her heart. She felt herself spiralling. Powerless. Pushing out from the table, muttering that she was feeling unwell, she made her way outside into the quiet of Russell Square.

It wasn’t as bad as the last time. Her persistent deep breathing finally calmed her shaking hands enough for her to phone Sam. Through tears and angry outbursts, she talked her way into a calmer state of mind.

‘Are you sure that he’s not just using the same source material?’ Sam asked.

‘I guess it’s possible, and if it was anyone else, I’d probably agree. But I’ve never known George to even discuss repatriation in any meaningful way. He’s always promoted a ‘finders keepers’ approach.’

‘He could’ve changed his opinion. Educated himself perhaps. But if you’re right, and he has copied your work, you have to do something,’ Sam said. ‘That’s plagiarism!’

The thought of taking control seemed too heavy to contemplate. ‘I know, but…’

‘But what?’

‘I just want it all to go away.’ A familiar heaviness dragged at her. The fist inside her uncurled and stretched. ‘I’ll just quit. I don’t want to work there anymore, Sam. Not with him.’

‘You’re overreacting, Marianne.’ Sam’s voice was calm but insistent. ‘Of course you can change jobs and probably should; you’re way overqualified to be a lab technician. But do it on your own terms, Marianne. Don’t let him bully you out.’

Marianne wiped her tears on her sleeve. A woman wearing a blue uniform came to sit at the opposite end of the bench, giving her a concerned smile. Her curly hair and round face seemed familiar. Marianne wondered if she worked at the BM canteen, until she noticed the Midwifery badge on her uniform. Of course. It had been twenty years but Marianne felt again the searing pain of saying goodbye to her child all those years ago.

A man approached the midwife, and as the two of them left, she smiled again at Marianne. A smile to a stranger. She didn’t recognise Marianne.

‘Are you still there?’ Sam asked down the line.

‘Yes. Sorry, I thought I saw someone I knew. God, Sam, I just want this all to go away,’ she repeated.

‘Take the rest of the day off before you do something stupid,’ Sam said, in the voice she used when Marianne needed bossing. ‘Tell George you’re sick. I’ll come home early and we can talk it through. You will get through all this, Marianne.’

Marianne knew that the ‘all this’ Sam referred to was much more than the situation with George. Sam had been with Marianne through the worst of her grief after her father died and knew the signs of her emotional spiral. She’d even been on the receiving end of her anger once or twice, when Marianne was lashing out at anyone and everyone.

But there were things even Sam didn’t know. Things that crept up on Marianne when she least expected. She took some more deep breaths. The fist inside her relaxed and curled up next to her heart.

‘Okay. I’ll just go back to do one last task. Thanks, Sam. Again.’ As she stood, she thanked the universe for leading her to Sam. Her rock in a stormy sea.

Hoping to gain a modicum of composure before going back to the lab, Marianne walked onto Tavistock Square. As she passed the statue of Virginia Woolf, she thought of all the hurdles the novelist had overcome in order to keep writing. Misogyny. Poor mental health. Childhood trauma. She thought, too, of the weight of the stones Virginia had put in her pockets when she could no longer find a way out of her darkness. Shuddering at the thought, Marianne reprimanded herself for giving in too easily. She’d come through much worse than a conniving boss in the past. She could do it again.

Going in the back entrance to avoid walking past the boardroom, she was pleased to find the lab empty. Checking that she’d entered the test results correctly, she printed them off and put them with the replica in the secured transfer container she shared with George. This was the part of the procedure she’d tried to change when he was away. She wasn’t happy about the sharing arrangement, especially since she’d seen Penelope, his PA, clearing it for him on more than one occasion. It was meant to be only she and George who accessed it but he’d obviously given Penelope their code. She’d contacted security and asked for her own unique access, but that needed George’s approval and he’d never followed up.

Marianne shuddered when George came through the door, calling a goodbye to someone over his shoulder. He was not much taller than Marianne but his overbearing brash confidence and the smell of his expensive cologne quickly filled the space between them. She willed herself to fight off the growing sense of powerlessness.

‘Marianne, I’m glad you’re here. I saw you leaving the meeting early.’

He came forward, too near for comfort. Not a sexual thing. A power play. She moved away again, controlling her urge to flee.

‘Great meeting, wasn’t it?’ George carried on, ignoring, or maybe unaware of, her discomfort. ‘Julia is very impressive. Just what the museum needs. A dynamic woman. You could learn a lot from her, Marianne.’

Coming from someone else these words might have been encouraging. But Marianne heard the criticism.

‘George, I’m not…’

‘Now, you may have heard,’ he interrupted, ‘that we’re sending twelve of the Lewis Chessmen to Stornoway on the Isle of Lewis for a two-week exhibition. Julia and I…’

Julia and I! Marianne almost laughed despite her mood.

‘…thought it would be a great opportunity for you to experience a wider range of museum activities. Broaden your perspective of museum life.’

How on earth would Julia have any idea about my perspective? She’s only been here five minutes. Marianne knew with a certainty that this was all George’s idea and was certainly not done to help her in any way.

‘I’m… I don’t think I can. I…’

Ignoring her protest, George carried on. ‘Of course, Julia really wanted me to go with the chessmen exhibition, especially considering my success in New York.’ His words took on the rounded vowels of the well-to-do, an effect at odds with his northern upbringing, the result, Marianne had always assumed, of elocution lessons. ‘The Stornoway Museum is only small but quite well regarded.’

‘Well, perhaps you should go, George’ she said, her voice shaking. ‘Given the links to your Conference paper.’

‘Oh, that,’ he said, looking at his own reflection in the glass exhibits cabinet and smoothing a stray strand of hair. ‘Yes, I suppose it does make me somewhat of an expert.’

Aghast, Marianne wondered if he actually believed his own lies. Could it be that he’d lost touch with reality? For the briefest moment she began to feel less threatened by him.

‘Unfortunately, I am unavailable. Prue and I are going to William’s graduation that week. Anyway, Marianne.’ He turned, looking her up and down. ‘It will do you good. As I said to Julia, you could do with getting some fresh air. Stuck in the basement looking down a microscope every day has left you looking a bit peaky.’

Her eyes widened. How dare he comment on her appearance. Aware of the significant difference in their heights, she straightened her back, wishing she’d worn her heels. It was now or never.

‘Yes, perhaps I should be the one going. I am somewhat of an expert myself on how we can support regional museums. I wrote about it in my Master’s thesis. The one you insisted on reading. Do you remember? In fact, I recognised some of my ideas when Julia was talking today.’

George narrowed his steel-grey eyes and stepped closer to her. She could smell the nasty power in his breath. In that moment, in that look, she knew the truth. He had knowingly used her work.

‘I don’t know what you are insinuating, Marianne, but you would do well to remember that your position is under review. And as Julia said today, there will be cuts. She wants the right man, or I suppose I should say person, for the right job.’

Marianne felt herself trembling. She clutched the edge of the bench.

‘Just to be clear: This is not a request, Marianne. I am delegating work to you, as is my prerogative. You are going to Lewis.’

CHAPTER 3

Marianne, London 2010

An unseasonal cold wind confronted Marianne as she made her way to the station, her anger at George burning within. Joining the throng of commuters on the giddyingly steep escalator, she edged past weary shoppers and nervous tourists, making it clear that they should either keep moving, or keep to the right.

‘Basic Tube rules,’ she muttered to herself. Reaching the stifling platform just as the train was about to leave, she pushed into the carriage, grabbing the overhead rail as it surged off. A travel poster promoting the wonders of Scotland caught her eye as it flashed past. Mountains and rivers and miles of confronting nothingness.

Lunging for a seat when the carriage briefly emptied at the next stop, Marianne tried to avoid eye contact with a mother and young child left standing, but the child, a boy, pulled a face at her, scowling, then smiling. She turned to face the window and caught sight of her own scowl in the window’s reflection – her resting-bitch-face, as Sam called it. Despite her grim mood, she saw the funny side; the boy was mimicking her. God, she thought. Outwitted by a child.

Turning back to him, she managed a smile and pulled a funny face by going cross-eyed, then smiling again. He giggled and snuggled into his mother. Marianne felt a stab of something she could not quite identify. It wasn’t regret. And certainly not guilt. She tried to pull the shutters down on it, put it away. But the little boy kept giggling and the feeling stayed.

Standing, she moved further down the carriage, nodding to the mother to take her seat. Basic Tube rules, she admonished herself. As they settled into the seat the little boy poked his tongue out at her, smiling and breaking through her sadness.

Squeezing her eyes to hold back tears, she found another seat and took out her phone, opening the maps app. Lewis was even further away than she’d feared, the last large land mass in Britain before the Arctic in one direction, and Canada to the other. She zoomed in on the ragged coastline, the splattering of lakes and the sparseness of towns, mostly with Gaelic names, and took comfort in the next wave of passengers pouring onto the train.

Give me overcrowded, anonymous London any day, she thought.

Arriving at Hampstead Station, Marianne welcomed the familiarity of the turn-of-the-century yellow and red tiled walls. Even the incorrect signage for Heath Street relaxed her, a relic of a late name-change over a century ago, a quirky fact known only by the locals. She decided to wait in the queue for the lift, rather than climbing the 320-step spiral staircase. In the past, she’d used them as her daily exercise, but recently she’d taken the easy option. George’s comments had been grossly inappropriate – but was she peaky? Was she getting too fixed in her ways? Thirty-six and single was not so unusual these days. But staying in a job that was, at best, going nowhere, and at worst, about to be ‘amalgamated’ was not what she’d planned when she’d begun her Master’s degree.

Her father had badgered her into enrolling and she’d soon found that the course work, with its focus on heritage management, had been refreshingly different from her chemistry and archaeology undergraduate subjects. But that optimism about change all felt a long time ago.

Getting out of the lift, she waved to two elderly men, originally from Jamaica, sitting in their usual spot at the ticket counter. She’d got to know them over the years, their humorous banter usually a welcome antidote to a long day. But today she kept walking, keen to get out of the over-heated station. She welcomed the cold air as she made for home, passing the familiar terraced houses, once grand homes for the wealthy, now divided into three, sometimes four, apartments. Sam had taken over their lease from a friend three years ago and advertised for two co-tenants. The other person, a rather brash Australian, hadn’t stayed long and they’d both decided to pick up the extra rent rather than risk another mismatch. Marianne’s inheritance from her father had made it financially possible, but she knew that money was fast disappearing and she needed to either get a better paying job or move into a cheaper location. Another dilemma she’d been avoiding thinking about.

Her phone rang as she fumbled with the door key. Shona. Damn. She’d meant to ring her after the meeting. But after the day she’d had, she was not ready to talk to her yet. Letting it go to voicemail, she opened the door, relieved to see Sam’s keys on the ledge. She threw her bag onto their worn leather lounge and went straight to the drink’s cupboard.

‘I need a gin and tonic. How about you?’ she called up the stairs.

Marianne smelt the aroma of Sam’s pink grapefruit soap as she came down the stairs. Sam’s habit of showering as soon as she got home, no matter the time of day, gave her a perpetual freshly-scrubbed look. Dressed as always in a plain white, collared shirt over black jeans, a style that suited her androgynous body shape, she had an aura of efficient calm about her. Her attire teamed with her cropped hair signalled that she was unequivocally gay and proud.

Marianne always felt overweight and slightly frumpy around her. Despite her curvy frame, her shortness meant she had to buy trousers and jumpers that seemed to swamp her. Along with her hard-to-control hair and thick eyebrows, she often joked that she had the look of an unmade bed.

‘Just a weak one for me,’ Sam said, as Marianne poured the gin into two generously sized glasses. Taking hers, Sam added more tonic. ‘It’s a bit early in the day for me, and anyway, I’m meeting the gang at the pub later. You should come too.’

The gang were Sam’s journalist work colleagues. Marianne shook her head. On the best of days she struggled to keep up with their smart conversations about which politician had said what. Besides, Paul Sweeney was likely to be there, and they hadn’t spoken since ending their short-term friends-with-benefits relationship a month or so ago.

‘Thanks, but I don’t think I’ll be good company. I think I’ll just get quietly inebriated at home.’ Adding some ice to the drinks, she went over her story about George’s possible plagiarism of her thesis and Julia’s announcement of budget cuts and the staffing review. She almost told Sam about the midwife at the café and the little boy on the train but pulled back. Even Sam knew nothing about that long-buried time in her life.

‘And now, George is demanding I go to Scotland,’ Marianne said, realising that the gin was already making her rant a little. ‘And when I tried to say no, he got nasty and told me I had no choice. He even had the gall to say I was looking peaky!’

‘Sounds like bullying to me,’ Sam said. ‘So, what’s his beef?’

‘Who knows? It’s not as if I’m a threat to him. Honestly, Sam, I really do feel like quitting.’

Sam shook her head. ‘Then he really would have won. Remember, it’s you who got the distinction for your Master’s and an offer to do your doctorate. I bet that’s what’s really annoying him. He’s still just acting in his role, isn’t he?’

‘Yes, but…’

‘Well then you are a threat. In his eyes, anyway. Would you apply for his job if it came up?’

‘Probably not. I’m assuming he’ll get it.’

Sam took Marianne’s hands. ‘Do you want my opinion?’

‘I’ve got a feeling I’m going to get it anyway.’ Marianne laughed sadly.

‘You’re in a rut. You’re clinging on for dear life to all that you know and are certain about. You won’t take risks in case you make a mistake. You want certainty, but there is no certainty.’

‘Doesn’t everyone?’

‘Not in the way you do. Somewhere along the way, you’ve told yourself you can’t make a mistake. But you can. We all do. You’re stronger than you think, Marianne.’

Marianne shuddered. They were the last words the midwife had said to her all those years ago. She closed her eyes, feeling the emptiness as it floated up from deep in her stomach.

Sam gave her a hug. ‘You’ll be pleased to know that I’ve reached the end of my sermon. My suggestion, for what it’s worth, is to go to Lewis, and while you’re there, think about what career you actually want. No point searching until you know what you’re looking for.’

Or who, Marianne thought.

‘You should also try to get hold of George’s conference paper. If you can show that he has lifted large amounts of your thesis, without acknowledgement, the BM, and maybe the Uni, will have to investigate.’ Sam glanced at her watch. ‘Right, I’ve got a presentation to prepare. I’ll come back at six and we can go to the pub together.’

It took Marianne a while to recover from Sam’s blunt and honest appraisal of her life. They’d had heart-to-heart conversations before, about her father’s death, and her anger at the police for not finding the driver of the hit-and-run car. But this was the first time Sam had challenged Marianne and, as hard as it was to hear, Marianne knew she was right. She’d never taken a risk, not since she was sixteen. And that had been a risk she paid highly for.

The conversation helped Marianne untangle her feelings. Perhaps she did need a change – for her own sake, not because she was peaky. She grimaced again at George’s patronizing remark and opened her laptop, typing ‘Lewis Chessmen’ into the search tab. Scrolling quickly through the advertising for accommodation on the Isle of Lewis, she noticed that most of the links about the chess pieces referred to the British Museum’s articles that she’d previously read. Making a mental note to go back to them in the morning, her attention was drawn to an article about an American woman, Nancy M. Brown, who had recently suggested that the chess pieces may have been carved by an Icelandic woman named Magrit the Adroit.

Magrit the Adroit. Marianne said the name over in her head. It had a strength to it, as if it were making a claim. She knew adroit meant skilful, and the chess pieces had certainly been skilfully carved, but she wondered if this Magrit was skilful in other ways. Ways that allowed her to be successful in a traditionally male-dominated craft.

She read on. It seemed that Brown’s suggestion had caused an energetic, albeit respectful, academic ruckus, including from within the BM. Recalling Julia’s comments about needing more women in leadership roles, she wondered how many women had challenged the male establishment and failed. Had there been other women who held stories about the chess pieces, but had been dismissed? Or plagiarised?

As the effects of the gin lulled her, she daydreamed about what it would feel like to be the type of woman who stood up for herself, against the odds.

The pub was crowded but they found a nook. By the time Sam arrived back with the drinks, Paul had joined them. As usual, he was dressed to look casual, but Marianne knew every item was carefully selected, from the skinny jeans to the brand name T-shirt under the long-line jacket. Leaning to kiss her on the cheek, he slid in beside her on the bench.

‘Shall I sit here?’ he said, flashing her one of his winning smiles. She didn’t mind; in fact, she was more pleased to see him that she’d thought she’d be.

‘Sam tells me that you’re heading to Scotland with some of the Lewis chess pieces.’

Marianne threw Sam a look, but Sam was ready for her.

‘Don’t be like that. I filled him in at the bar. Turns out he actually knows quite a lot about the chessmen, well the politics surrounding them, anyway. More than me, for sure. All I know is that they were in a Harry Potter movie.’

Marianne remembered having a brief discussion with Paul about them when she was doing her thesis. He’d mentioned them in a report on the emergence of the Scottish Nationalist Party and their ambit claim on the BM’s collection.

‘They’re still quite a political hot potato, although it’s more symbolic than real, I think,’ Paul said. ‘Some people – the Scots, mostly – think they have significant cultural value and belong in the community where they were found. That’s right, isn’t it Marianne?’

She shrugged. ‘Sounds right. God, I don’t want to go! Politics combined with all those mountains and rivers. My worst nightmare.’

Paul laughed before he realised she was being serious. ‘Really? I thought everyone loved Scotland’s ruggedness?’

Marianne shook her head. ‘Not me. I went to Canada with my mum, once – that was enough mountains and open spaces to last me a lifetime. Have you been to Stornoway? It’s on the edge of nowhere.’

‘I went there as a kid, on a scout camp,’ Paul said, draining his beer.

Marianne and Sam exploded into laughter.

‘You, a scout?’ Marianne said, unable to image Paul camping and lighting fires with sticks.

‘Don’t be rude. I had fun, and I am now always prepared,’ he said, giving Marianne a knowing smile. She blushed, remembering their first night together and the supply of condoms he kept by his bed.

‘Anyway, back to Stornoway. You’ll be fine Marianne. It’s quite a large town and the area around is flat as a pancake. It’s the west side of the island that’s mountainous. There are loads of sandy beaches everywhere too. And of course, the ancient Callanish Stones if you fancy some pre-historic magic.’

Marianne felt the stress of the day subside as she finished her wine. ‘Magic, you say? I could do with some of that. My round,’ she said, collecting Paul and Sam’s glasses.

Paul shook his head. ‘Not for me. I’m off. I’ve got a hot date!’

An irrational pang of jealousy gripped Marianne. She knew she had no claims on Paul, but she liked the idea that he might still be available.

‘Watch yourself, Marianne,’ Sam said as he left. ‘He’s a bit of a player, our Paul. Lovely, but unreliable when it comes to romance. Now, go and get that round, but make mine a soda water. When you come back, we’ll do a character assassination on George the Prat.’

As they climbed the hill to the apartment, Marianne linked arms with Sam. ‘I don’t know what I would do without you.’ She felt Sam stiffen a little.

‘Actually, on that note, I’ve got something to tell you. I’ve got a job interview.’

‘Really? That’s great, Sam. Still with The New Guardian?’

‘No. It’s with The New York Times.’

Marianne stopped and threw her arms around Sam. ‘Oh my god. I am so sorry. I’ve been banging on about me all night. That’s fantastic! As their London correspondent?’

Sam hesitated and took a breath. ‘No, it’s based in New York. I was going to wait until the next stage of the recruitment process to say anything, but well, now you know.’

Fighting back tears, Marianne hugged her hard. It was the job Sam had always wanted, and news Marianne had been dreading.

‘I haven’t got it yet,’ Sam said, linking arms again, ‘but I want to give you the chance to start thinking about what you want to do with the lease. I’m sure the landlord would be fine with you taking it over but I assume you’ll need someone to move in, to help with the rent.’

‘Especially if I lose my job,’ Marianne groaned as they arrived home.

‘Well, if you do, you will just have to get another one that’s better than the last. Cheer up, Marianne. Maybe all these changes are a sign. They might be just what you need.’

Checking her phone before she got into bed, Marianne found two more missed calls from Shona.

‘Hi, Mum. Sorry I didn’t ring back. I went out with Sam after work.’

‘That’s okay, dear. I’d rather you out enjoying yourself than – well, you know. How are you? How was it for you today?’ Shona asked.

For a fleeting second Marianne thought she might mention that she’d used Holborn Station, but discussing the details of her father’s death had long been a taboo between them. Not only did they disagree about what the police should still be doing to try to find the driver, they’d taken very different paths as they recovered from the shock of losing him. The sense of complete helplessness that followed for Marianne had dredged up a lot of old accusations. They’d ended up not talking for six months.

It was Sam who’d persuaded her to stop the silence. ‘You’re lucky to have a mother who loves you,’ she’d said. ‘I had to grow up without mine. Find the common ground and work on it.’

‘My day was okay,’ Marianne lied. ‘The new CEO seems nice enough.’

She knew telling Shona about George’s conference paper would lead to a long and frustrating conversation explaining the meaning of plagiarism, so instead, she went straight to the upcoming trip.

‘I have to go to Scotland, the Isle of Lewis, to curate an exhibition. I don’t want to go.’ Less was best with Shona.

‘Oh, why ever not? It sounds exciting, darling. You won’t say no, will you? A Hebridean holiday, all expenses paid. Most people would jump at the chance. Will you fly or take the train and the ferry? The days will be lovely and long up there this time of year. You know, that’s where my side of the family came from before they went to Cape Breton.’

Marianne waited for the monologue to finish and wondered how Shona managed to turn Marianne’s work dilemma into yet another family history conversation. But she was tired, so she went with it. Shona was unstoppable once she got onto her favourite subject and didn’t need the usual conversational reassurance of a response. An occasional “aha” or a “really’ were enough to keep Shona happy.

‘Before the Clearances, that was,’ Shona was saying when Marianne tuned back in. ‘No doubt they were bullied off their land by some wealthy landowner, to make way for his sheep. They called it Improvements to make it legal, but they were all forced off their land under duress. That’s why most of our family is in Canada now.’

Marianne remembered learning at school about the mass emigration from Ireland and Scotland due to the potato famine, but she’d not paid much attention. Social history and geography had not been her strong subjects back then. All those dates and names of this Lord and that King just got mangled up in her brain. Chemistry and biology had always been her thing and were what led her into the conservator side of archaeology.

‘Are you still there, Marianne?’

‘Uh huh. Yes, Mum, that’s right.’

‘What’s right? I thought I’d lost you. Pressed something I shouldn’t have.’

‘No, I’m still here, Mother. You should get a smart phone.’

‘No, there’s too many things that can go wrong with those so-called smart phones,’ Shona said. ‘You know, I subscribe to your dad’s theory. The simpler, the better. Although, I must say I would like to be able to access my family tree information wherever I am.’

A silence, short enough to be nothing, but long enough to remind them both of the anniversary of his death, hovered between them. Marianne took control. ‘So how do you think I should get to Lewis? Fly or take the train?’ Of the two of them, Shona was the experienced traveller.

‘Well, if work is paying, why don’t you fly? As far as I know, there’s no direct flight. You’d have to go via Glasgow and then take a regional flight from there.’

‘Would that mean getting on one of those terrifying toy planes we went on in Cape Breton?’

‘They’re not toys, just small. All very safe. If you haven’t got much time, that would be the way to go. Sounds great fun.’

‘You should come too.’ Marianne heard herself saying the words before she could grab them back.

‘Oh, I don’t think that’s a good idea after…’

‘After what?’ Marianne snapped. ‘Are you still on about Canada?’ Marianne thought she heard her mother swallow. The trip had been a disaster for their relationship.

‘No, dear, that’s not what I meant,’ Shona said, her voice noticeably strained. ‘Anyway, that was years ago, and you were still a teenager.’

‘I was nearly twenty and you were acting like some radical leftie hippie. I seem to remember you even smoked some weed with that ditzy cousin of yours.’

‘I certainly did not! You’re letting your imagination run wild. And what if I had, anyway? Your generation is so conservative.’

Marianne felt the conversation slip into a familiar fraught rhythm.

‘So, do you want to come to the outer-space Hebrides or not?’

‘Well, if you want me to come, I would love to. It would be a great opportunity to do some…’ Shona hesitated.

‘Yes, you could do your genealogy stuff while I’m stuck at the smallest museum in Britain, answering stupid questions about a collection of chess pieces that I know almost nothing about.’

‘I’m sure you’ll be up to speed by the time we go,’ Shona said. ‘Let me know when you’ve booked the flights and I’ll transfer the money. Byeee.’

Although inviting Shona to Lewis had been the last thing on her mind, knowing she was coming helped ease Marianne’s nervousness. Shona was a good traveller, having been to Canada a few times and had even gone to Australia with Dad once to track down a distant relative.

By the time Marianne got into bed, she’d begun thinking of it as a bit of an adventure. She flipped her laptop open again and searched for George’s conference paper, but there was nothing published yet and it would probably only be available to delegates. She opened the most recent YouTube British Museum video where the spokesperson stated that the chess pieces were “the museums most popular collection”. Looking at the site’s high-resolution images, Marianne began to better understand the attraction of the quirky chess pieces. The carving was certainly skilfully done and the human-like faces were, to her twenty-first-century eyes, comical and appealing. But it was the artistry in the robes that most attracted her attention. If it had been this Magrit the Adroit who had carved them, why was she not better known?

Eyes heavy with sleep, Marianne closed the laptop and pulled the duvet higher. That night, she dreamed of meeting a woman with gnarled hands lying on a pile of walrus ivory.

CHAPTER 4

Magrit, Iceland 1190

The chisel fell from my hand as the pain shot into my elbow, a vibrating arrow. I massaged the last of Freya’s comfrey oil into my joints, rubbing until it worked its magic and the agony subsided into a dull, throbbing ache. I’d put aside enough to pay her for another jar, though I knew not when I would see her again. I still had sixteen chess pieces to complete before Bishop Jonsson would pay me. My final pay for this, the last of the four chess sets.

The fading grey light of late winter signalled the day’s end and I wondered, not for the first time, if my creative mind, my artistic impulse, would one day vanish too, like the setting sun. Would I sink slowly, or would my light be cut, sharp and straight, like a flash of lightning, brilliant, then gone?

Reaching for my wooden crutch, I felt the stiffness in my knees and hips. Although my bloods still ran with the moon, my deformed foot, a curse laid on me before I drew my first breath, gave me the look of a woman in her decline. I longed for the warmth of summer and whispered a prayer to Summar, the goddess of the happy wind, imploring her to issue a warning to Vetr’s icy storms, sending him a reminder that he must soon leave.

I’d heard tell of lands far away that basked in eight hours of light through all the seasons, the summer light so bright it hurt your eyes. Lands where darkness dropped like a shield and the air and the seas were as warm as the volcano’s springs. I dreamt of being free to leave Islandia, this land of ice and fire. Free to board a merchant boat, trading my trinkets and toys at every port until I arrived at the land of the constant sun. Nurtured by the sun’s healing rays, I’d carve in the morning and rest in the afternoon. And when darkness fell and men’s pockets loosened with drink, I’d tout my goods at markets and taverns: crucifixes and chalices. Icons to please and protect.

But these were just dreams. And I was not free.

Ten full moon cycles ago, the bishop saw some of my work and ordered I be handed to him. I was released from the family who had raised me – Freya’s family. My first commission was to carve a crozier, a gift for the Archbishop of Trondheim.

‘I will make Islandia famous across Christendom for the excellence of its carvings,’ he’d said. ‘To the glory of God,’ he’d added.

Your fame and your glory, I’d thought but dared not speak. Soon, dozens of my artefacts decorated the bishop’s church, the great wooden edifice that stood on the hill above my workshop, the only one of its kind on the island. Some might say I was a slave, but in truth I was paid well enough for my work. Enough, that is, to keep me warm and fed. But what of the future?

The bishop’s last project – four chess sets, one hundred and twenty-eight pieces in total – was the largest and most important I’d ever done. They were to be gifts for the bishops of Mann, Scotland, Denmark and Norway. Each set was to be alike but unique, too, in its representations.

Isle of Mann. Scotland. Denmark. Norway. I turned the names over in my mind as I wiped my bench free of shavings. When I was a child, Freya tried to teach me about the world, drawing a map in the sand. But back then, I had no interest in other places. The world around me, the world that I could see and touch, had been mystery enough for me.

Since then, I heard of these countries often, for they were mentioned in the sagas. Stories of men and women, fathers and sons, mothers and daughters. Of loyalty and betrayal. Of passion and duty.

Make no mistake, I knew well the honour of the assignment I was employed to do. I knew, too, that it was Bishop Jonsson who would claim the glory. But I too was well enough known, in Islandia at least. Maybe my name would be attached forever to this glorious work.

Magrit the Adroit, the finest carver in the North.

I rubbed my hands again. But first, I must finish. Just sixteen more.

I’d put on my cloak, readying to collect some peat, when the door flew open and the space filled with his presence. Bishop Pall Jonsson. Early in my service to him, he’d treated me kindly, shown sympathy for my impediment, my crooked foot and bandied leg. But as time went on, his greed and ambition overcame his compassion and he valued only my carvings.

He left his coat on. I prayed it was a sign his visit would be short. As he examined the pawns I’d begun working on that day, I noticed the silver hairs covering his reddened hands. His face had become gaunt, his cheeks sunken, accentuating his pointed nose and darting yellow eyes. In my mind, I thought of him as a white fox, for he had both the look and the temperament of the creature that slinks low to the ground, taking lambs and chickens, leaving children hungry.

He went to the end of the bench, where the completed chess pieces lay. A tremor shook his hands as he raised each one to his darting eyes. This last set was for the bishop on the Isle of Mann, his main competitor for the role of Archbishop. It had to both impress and intimidate.

I held my breath, awaiting his judgement. He’d thrown five pieces into the snow on his previous visit. ‘Not good enough, Magrit,’ he’d screamed. ‘Look how they sit like poor cousins alongside the other pieces. They have hardly a pattern on them. You’re taking shortcuts, woman. Do them again.’

He’d been right. I’d hoped to fool him, making cuts my hands could easily manage. But he was too wily.

I fetched the discarded ones from the snow and added extra details to each, afraid to tell him that my supply of walrus ivory was getting low and I would need to use bone for the last few items if he needed them before midsummer when the next shipment of walrus ivory would arrive from Gronland.

Holding a horseman, or knight, as he called it, up to where the last of the sun’s rays fell, he laughed. Not the laugh of a happy man, but of one victorious over another, a conqueror.

He grunted his approval. Relief washed over me.

‘And who inspired this character? He certainly has the look of a Norseman about him. In fact, a familiar look.’

‘I would not presume to fashion my work on any living soul,’ I lied, ‘although others say it has the likeness of the Bishop of Norway about him.’

I’d given the knights in this set fatter faces, like Norsemen, and rounded the helmets like that of a Viking. Their squat ponies had thick, wide forelocks, covering their eyes so that a curious person would wonder how they knew where they were going. And indeed, both horsemen had about them the look of the Bishop of Norway, their heads sitting slightly to the side, as did his.

I’d met him briefly, the Bishop of Norway, at Bishop Jonsson’s home. I’d been summoned there to receive a new commission. It was then that I’d observed Norway’s strange quirks and mannerisms. Herdis, the Bishop’s wife, had whispered that he’d been struck down with a palsy. A revenge, she said, for the way he’d once spoken to her as if she were Jonsson’s maid, not his wife.

‘He’s among those who contested my husband’s right to be married’ she confided in me later. ‘They demanded that he divorce me. But my husband did not obey and our marriage continues, although we are forced to deny it to save face with the church.’

‘You have captured Norway’s image,’ the bishop said, placing the piece back on the table. ‘And his pony seems to be unable to look ahead, short-sighted just like him.’

He turned to me, his look both threatening and curious. ‘Your humour has a dangerous edge, Magrit.’

I should have dropped my gaze, but I did not. My troubled childhood had trained me to stare down intimidation.

It worked. It was he who turned away first. ‘Your carving skills protect you for now, Magrit, but do not get too bold.’ Picking up another figure, he said, without turning this time, ‘Should I expect to see an amusing likeness of myself carved into one of the pieces – one of the bishops perhaps?’

I’d been tempted to do so, for his features were both comical and recognisable. But I knew his humour did not extend to laughing at himself. I knew, too, that his friendly banter could quickly turn to anger.

‘Your holiness has only the finest of features,’ I lied. ‘A caricature of them would be impossible and not befit your reputation as an honourable man.’

He nodded, his ego placated. Had he not been so easily flattered, he may have noticed that the back of the queen’s throne was adorned with fox-like animals, sneering at each other, teeth bared. But I knew it would not occur to him to look for himself there, supporting a woman.

He came to the rooks and paused again. Like all the rooks, I’d carved them as warriors, and given them a frantic, angry face, like a child in tantrum. They bit down on their shields as had the soldiers of Odin – the beserksgang.

He let out a short laugh as he placed the angry warder back with the rest. ‘I hope the other Bishops appreciate your sense of humour, Magrit. I expect, however, it is unique to Islandia.’

‘I have done just as you requested, your worship, and carved the pieces so that there can be no doubt of their origins.’ Emboldened, I stepped forward. ‘When will I receive my final payment?’

It was to be the largest instalment yet. I owed Freya for her linctus, and my supply of dried fish was running low, my peat mound near exhausted.

‘It will come as soon as this last set is completed.’

‘And after that?’ I asked. ‘Will there be more carving needed? I’ve heard your wife, Herdis Gunnarsdottir, speak of your plans to leave Islandia for the land of the yak if you become Archbishop.’

He reeled upon me. ‘Herdis is not my wife. Who is it spreading these rumours? Is it that mad woman Freya, who you call sister?’

I held my silence.

‘Freya has no right to discuss my business,’ he continued. ‘Herdis cleans and cooks for me. She is nothing more than a maid,’ he said, his voice screeching like that of a reynard as he enters the vixen. Despite his protestations, I could smell the need for rutting on him. I suppressed a smile. Men and their lies were an amusement to me, but I’d seen enough of how they used the back of their hands when a woman stood her ground to know when to remain silent. I remembered, too, Freya’s words of warning:

‘You are a truth teller Magrit, both in the words that come from your mouth and in the carvings created by your hands. But you must be careful, or the truth will be your downfall. No man wants to have a mirror held up to him. A woman needs to be a storyteller, a weaver of lies, to keep men happy.’

I knew, too, I should let him have the final say, but, as Freya warned, my uncensored mouth was my enemy.

‘The final payment upon completion will be welcomed, your Reverence. I look forward to receiving more work at your pleasure. If you have no more work here for me, I will send a message to the Bishops of the South and East to offer my services.’

The change overtook him, like a breaking thunderstorm. His eyes widened and he bared his teeth as he grabbed me by the arm, pulling me towards him.

‘You’ll do no such thing, woman. Remember who has kept you housed all these years. If I ever hear your name even mentioned outside this land, I will bind your hands to break your bones.’

I tried to pull away but his grip was firm. He thrust me aside. I stumbled onto my crippled foot and my crutch fell to the floor, me with it. Staring up into his yellowing eyes, I saw anger ripple through him until he turned from me. His voice took the tone he used in the pulpit now: dismissive and triumphant.

‘A ship bound for the Isle of Mann will be in the harbour in a week. Make sure this last set is completed by the time it arrives. Only then will you have your final payment.’

His words filtered through my anger. The impossibility of the task loomed. ‘I cannot possibly be finished by then. You told me I had two moon cycles left. My hands…’ I swallowed my words and hid my hands in my apron.

‘Work all day and all night if you must, but they will be finished. Do you hear me?’ He slammed the door behind him and strode into the melting snow. I fell to the floor and wept until my tears would no longer flow.

CHAPTER 5

Marianne, Scotland 2010

Marianne and Shona checked in their luggage and made their way to a café. The argument between a teenager and his mother at the adjoining table was impossible to ignore.

‘I don’t want to see the world. You should have asked me before booking. I’ll be missing Joe’s twenty-first party.’

‘I did ask you and you said as long as I was paying, you’d come. Anyway, there’ll be plenty more parties.’

‘They sound like us when you were his age,’ Shona said, laughing.

Marianne bit her tongue. This was not the right time to contradict Shona’s version of that era. They’d mostly had a good relationship until Marianne was sixteen, when she’d begun to demand more independence. After one particularly heated argument, her parents had agreed to leave her at home alone for a weekend. It was the weekend that had turned her world upside down.

‘Still, it all worked out for the best,’ Shona said rummaging in her bag.

Marianne swung around, wondering if she’d heard right. Surely Shona didn’t think that weekend, the weekend she’d had her first sexual encounter, and the months that followed, had been all for the best. She fought back tears as she watched Shona empty the entire contents of her bag to find a lip gloss. Had she actually blocked out what being sixteen had meant for Marianne?

Marianne knew it wasn’t normal that they’d never discussed it, the unwanted pregnancy. She remembered clearly the day she came back from the hospital, her arms empty, how vehemently she’d demanded that none of them talk about any of it ever again. And as the years went on, there’d never been a need, or at least not one that was more compelling than Marianne’s desire to avoid the pain a discussion would have raised.

But had Shona actually written it out of her memory? Her father hadn’t. He’d always sent Marianne flowers on the anniversary. It was one of the many things about him she missed.

Marianne, too, had kept to her word. She’d simply gone back to being her sixteen-year-old self. But since seeing her midwife in Russell Square, she was finding it difficult to stop thinking about the days after his birth. She’d been allowed to nurse him for a few days before they came to take him. The five-bed ward had been full of girls her age or a bit older. One of them said it was her second baby and she wasn’t going to let them take her. But her little girl was born addicted and was taken away from the birthing room. Marianne could still remember her screams.

‘I hope you get plenty of time to do some sightseeing while we’re on Lewis.’ Shona’s voice broke through the memory. ‘We can hire a car and go to the west coast, where our ancestors are from, I think. We might even get to meet some distant relatives.’

Marianne shook her head. This was going to be a long trip.

Walking across the tarmac to board the Stornoway plane, Marianne felt a strong urge to turn back. Surely this was an unsafe way to travel. The plane to Glasgow had been small, but the one ahead of her was tiny.

‘Don’t be silly. You’ve been on small planes before. Remember Canada?’ Shona said, urging her up the stairs and laughing as they were forced to duck their heads to walk down the aisle. She offered Marianne the window seat but was clearly happy when she declined.

The take-off seemed frighteningly wobbly but no one else appeared concerned. Marianne decided to spend the trip with closed eyes and ear buds inserted, playing some calming music.

‘We’ve landed.’ Shona nudged her awake. Marianne was relieved to see solid ground. Sam had told her they might land on a beach, although Paul had reassured her that was on a different Scottish island. Looking past Shona, she was glad to see Paul had been right about the terrain, too. No looming mountains.

The airport looked like a big tin shed but to Marianne’s relief, it was quite modern inside. A large wooden replica of a chess piece stood in the corner and a frieze of Uig Bay, where the pieces were allegedly found, covered one of the walls. Clearly the chessmen were held in very high regard on Lewis. She needed to get this assignment right, although she was still unclear about what exactly was expected of her. She’d tried to pin down George a couple of times but he’d not been helpful. She realised now that he probably didn’t know either.

‘You know,’ he’d said, waving his hand as if to dismiss her question. ‘Represent the BM as the owners of the collection. Educate visitors, about both the chessmen and the BM in general. The usual.’

She’d read all the relevant BM’s articles and felt fairly confident that she could answer questions about them, or at least knew where to look for more information. Now that she was here, though, the responsibility of her role was becoming real.

A tall man approached them as their luggage arrived. ‘Marianne Mackay?’ he queried, thrusting out his hand, not waiting for a reply. ‘I’m Euan Finlayson, from the BM’s Logistics and Security team. I arrived yesterday with the collection. George Farquharson’s PA arranged for me to meet you.’

Marianne’s jaw tightened at the mention of George’s name. She wondered if Euan was one of his buddies, sent to keep tabs on her. Taking his outstretched hand, she was surprised at how rough it was. Not like a Londoner’s at all.

‘Thank you. You needn’t have bothered. I’m planning on hiring a car.’

She heard Shona mutter something before she put her hand out. ‘Hello. I’m Shona Mackay – Marianne’s mum. Thanks for meeting us. We’re staying at The Royal. Finlayson, you say? Now that’s a very Scottish name. My great grandmother was a Macleod and she came from Lewis originally.’

‘I am sure Euan doesn’t want a family history lesson, Mum,’ Marianne snapped. She was about to insist that they didn’t need a lift, but Euan had already picked up Shona’s suitcase and was chatting to her as they headed for the exit. Glancing around and seeing no car hire company, Marianne followed them.

‘I grew up here, on a croft on the west side before we moved to Stornoway,’ Marianne heard Euan saying. ‘I left when I was eighteen.’

If he was a friend of George’s, he was certainly different from the others she’d met. Younger, for a start, and more relaxed in both his dress code and demeanour. Walking behind them, she wondered if she’d seemed rude, and felt a flare of envy at Shona’s ability to connect with people.

‘I’ll drop you at your hotel,’ Euan said as he lifted her suitcase into the back of the car. ‘Agnes MacNeil, the senior volunteer, said for you to come to the museum for a cup of tea on your way to the hotel.’

‘Oh, that would be lovely,’ Shona said climbing into the front passenger seat.

Marianne winced. ‘That’s very kind,’ she said, trying desperately to keep the irritation from her voice, ‘but I still have some preparation to do before the exhibition opens tomorrow.’

‘Okay. I’ll let her know.’

As they approached Stornoway through an industrial area, Marianne noticed a large ferry pulling out from the quay adjacent to a strange, spaceship-shaped building.

‘That’s the CalMac terminal,’ Euan said. ‘The ferry goes twice a day to Ullapool, if you’re interested. The ones to Skye go from Harris to the south.’

Ahead, a large, rust-brown building with conical turrets and bright red door and window frames seemed out of place amongst the other shorefront buildings. Rounding a corner, Marianne could see a castle further along the estuary to the left and The Royal Hotel on the right.

‘If you want to hire a car, the ferry terminal is your best bet. We have some beautiful sandy beaches all around the island you might like to visit while you’re here. There’s plenty of ancient monuments, too.’

Marianne noticed the ‘we’ and wondered if she’d heard right. Still, she had to make sure he knew her priorities.

‘I don’t imagine I’ll be doing any sightseeing. I–’

Before she could finish, Shona jumped in. ‘That sounds great, Euan. Thank you. I really want to find out more about the Macleods while I’m here. Especially those who went to Cape Breton. I do family history research, you see.’

He pulled up in front of the hotel and turned to Marianne. She wasn’t sure if his bemused smile was mocking her own abruptness, or in sympathy for travelling with Shona.

‘The museum is five minutes’ walk away, at the top of Francis Street,’ he said, pointing back the way they’d come. ‘It’s next to a church and opposite a church. I’m heading back there now to double check that the security I installed is working. I’ve already unpacked the chess pieces to check they all arrived in one piece, but I’ve left them for you to arrange. If I don’t see you today, I’ll be there tomorrow bright and early, to help get ready for the official opening of the exhibition at 12.’

‘What official opening?’ Marianne demanded, a prickling fear creeping through her.

‘The one the BM, well, George Farquharson to be specific, asked Agnes to organise. She’s been advertising it for weeks, apparently.’

Marianne froze. George hadn’t said anything to her about an official opening.

‘Well, I know nothing about that, so I hope someone has got that organised.’

Euan shrugged, his smile replaced by a look of concern. ‘I’m not sure. I knew nothing of it before I got here either. But I don’t suppose I would. You’ll have to ask Agnes.’

Marianne took hold of her suitcase and made for the hotel. ‘Bastard,’ she muttered, leaving Shona to thank Euan.

From the outside, The Royal looked like it had seen better days. Pushing through the double doors, Marianne flinched at the red and blue tartan carpet coupled with a seventies-style floral orange wallpaper. A bar and dining room were either side of the foyer and a highly polished wooden staircase led to the bedrooms.

They followed a teenage boy, assigned to carry their cases, up two flights of stairs to their small twin room. Marianne had agreed to sharing a room with Shona but as they made their way behind the boy, listening to her chattering about the flight and their family history, she began to regret the decision. Her head was spinning with thoughts of what “an official opening” would look like. She’d been to art exhibition openings and a couple of book launches, but they had the creators at them. What could she possibly do? She thought about phoning George but decided against it. The last thing she needed right now was his patronising attitude.

Shona threw back their curtains, revealing a view of Lews Castle through the trees. ‘It’s mock Tudor, built in the 1800’s,’ she said, reading from a pamphlet. Marianne tested the beds and was about to choose the best one when she noticed Shona rubbing her hip.

‘You’d better have this one,’ Marianne said, motioning towards the better bed. ‘It’s a bit softer – that’s how you like a bed, isn’t it?’

Shona’s poorly hidden expression of surprise infuriated Marianne. It’s not that unusual for me to be kind, is it? She tried to think of another recent occasion, but before she could, Shona gave her a hug.

‘I think this wee holiday will do us both good. I feel like we haven’t really spent any time together, just us, since Donald died.’

There’s a reason for that, Marianne thought, fighting back the urge to say, “was killed”, a term she’d used in the past to try to shock Shona out of her passive acceptance of the cause of his death. Although no longer locked in crippling grief, she could not shake the overwhelming sadness whenever she thought of him. And the anger at the unknown driver.

Shona, on the other hand, acted as if the brutality of his death was incidental. She’d returned to her usual activities, a month or so after the funeral, as if nothing major had happened. As if it had all been just a minor glitch.

‘He would have loved Lewis,’ Shona continued. ‘We always said we’d come up here. He used to joke about finding the missing chess pieces. But we kept putting it off for some reason or another.’

As Shona gazed out the window, Marianne reminded herself that Shona simply had a different way of coping. A different way of doing most things, really, she said to herself. Shona took life by the throat and refused to give in. For Marianne, even the simplest of problems became unsolvable at times. Avoidance had long been her go-to strategy.

Watching her now, Marianne thought about how much Shona’s life had been changed by his death. They’d had a whole future planned together that would never happen now. She rallied her resources.

‘You must miss Dad so much, Mum. We never talk about him. About the day he died. The way he died.’

Marianne was sure she’d said the words but Shona turned from the window, wiping her eyes, her voice determined. ‘So, there’s to be an opening. How exciting. Are you organising that dear?’

Marianne reeled, unable to believe Shona’s stubbornness. ‘No. I’m not,’ she snapped. ‘And can you please stop going on about your family history research to everyone. It’s not all about you, you know.’

Shona bit on her lip, turned away and busied herself with her unpacking. ‘You must be wanting to get on up to the museum, dear, to sort it all out,’ Shona said, her voice shaky. ‘I’ll just stay here and get settled.’

Pretending to take Shona’s words at face value, Marianne headed out.

The sun emerged from behind the clouds, changing the river from brown to a bluish green. Marianne turned, hoping to see Shona at the window. She wanted to give her an apologetic wave. But the window was empty. Another conflict to add to the pile.

Too rattled to go to the museum, she walked along the quayside towards the harbour. Several boats bobbed with the tide and sea birds squawked overhead. Her thoughts muddled together. It felt as if everyone – George, Shona and even her absent father – were setting her on a course to failure. Failure in her profession, failure as a daughter, failure as a… She pushed this last thought aside.

A man, about her own age, was repairing a small wooden boat lifted out of the water by a series of chains. Watching his quiet and focussed concentration on a task he clearly knew well, Marianne envied the apparent ease of his life. A man doing a simple task, a task he was good at. It was why she’d stuck with her lab work. Just her, a test sample, some chemicals and a microscope. Nothing to challenge her. Nothing to face up to. But was Sam right? Was she in a rut?

The man nodded as she passed. Embarrassed and annoyed at herself for being caught looking at him, Marianne initially lowered her head but, realising he was just being friendly, looked up and said hello. She could see the etched lines on his face now. Perhaps his life was not so simple either.

Spotting a handwritten sign saying ‘Harris Tweeds’ she crossed the road to where an old man sat on a stool. Next to him, a narrow alleyway led to a shop. Glancing at the man, half expecting him to stop her, she made her way down the alley and peeked into the dark room. A sweet, earthy smell pulled her in.

Hundreds of bolts of tweed, mostly of soft orange, brown, greens and greys, filled every part of the store. Offcuts with handwritten price tags spilled out of baskets and large bolts covered tables. The colours, though dull by London standards, danced together, harmonious and proud. She picked up an offcut and held it to her cheek, surprised to find it soft and comforting. Its aroma grounded her, enveloped her. A peaceful feeling cushioned her. Taking another deep breath, she imagined being in an ancient cave surrounded by historical remnants, records of times past. Peering at an old brown photo on the wall of six women sitting at a table washing a length of cloth, she imagined she heard the sound of their voices, rhythmically singing. They shared a life. They belonged.

I’ll apologise to Shona tonight, Marianne promised herself as she made her way out of the shop.

‘Bonnie day,’ the man said, puffing on a pipe. She muttered a reply and started to hurry on. ‘But mind how you go, lass,’ he said, continuing to stare straight ahead. ‘There’s more rain coming.’

She looked up. The sun was bright and she turned to say as much, but both the stool and the man were gone. She wondered if she’d imagined him too, until a waft of pipe smoke greeted her.

As she resumed her walk to the museum, disoriented by the strange and unfamiliar encounter, she found it difficult to bring her mind back into the present. Even her anger at George had lost some of its edge. She practised in her head how she would confront him. ‘You told me nothing about it.’; ‘It’s not in my J&P to do openings.’; ‘It’s outside my remit.’ Yes, that was it. Remit. It had a professional sound about it.

Checking her phone for missed calls, Marianne almost collided with a couple of lads kicking a ball and laughing at some joke. One of them turned to her and she prepared to fend off an offensive comment. But he picked up the ball and came to her side. ‘You’ll no’ get a signal here, Miss. You could try up there, Gallows Hill,’ he said, smiling and pointing to the top of the steep hill next to the castle. Marianne muttered a thank you and wondered if her initial reaction was about her own abrasiveness, or just a London thing, to expect the worst.

She watched as the boys continued on their way, enjoying their banter and laughter, noticing that the one who spoke to her was about twenty. Miss! she thought. Do I really seem like someone a twenty-year-old would call “Miss”? She did the sums, realising, with a start, that she was actually old enough to be their mother.

Their mother. A mother. His mother.

The boy waved as he climbed into their car. Flirtatious or friendly? She couldn’t decide. She waved back and a longing opened up inside her. It would be good, just to know. She pushed the thought aside. Not now.

Cutting back along a narrow road towards Francis Street, she was about to overtake a slow-moving elderly woman when her crystal-clear voice stopped her short.

‘You’ll be the British Museum lass, then?’ The woman’s piercingly blue eyes, at odds with the stoop of her body, were accentuated by a mass of snowy-white hair.

Marianne faltered. ‘Well yes, but how?’

The woman’s face was wrinkle free, rounded and broad across the brow. Her cheeks were two patches of red. She reminded Marianne of a doll she’d once loved as a child. Her eyes, steady and penetrating, continued to examine Marianne. She pulled away a little, oddly suspecting that the woman could see all of her, her vulnerability, her secrets.

‘You have a double degree in Chemistry and Archaeology,’ the woman said. ‘And you did your Master’s on cultural concerns related to repatriation and museum ownership. You currently work as a Laboratory Technician.’

Now Marianne was completely aghast. There was certainly something other-worldly about the woman. A shiver ran down her spine. She’d heard Shona talk about the second sight, a sixth sense claimed to be common in Scotland. She’d dismissed it as superstitious nonsense, but how else would this ancient Hebridean woman know so much about her? She stood transfixed, wondering if there was some truth to Shona’s stories after all.

‘How do you know all this about me?’ she asked.

The woman’s face collapsed into a wry smile. ‘I googled you. You’re a lot prettier than your LinkedIn profile picture.’

Marianne laughed out loud, an explosive release from deep in her chest sending away a tightness that had been with her all day.

‘Yes, I am the British Museum lass,’ she said, smiling and holding out her hand. ‘Marianne Macleod MacKay,’ she said, surprising herself by using, with pride, her second name.

‘Aye, that fits.’ The woman nodded. ‘You’ve got the look of the Macleods, that’s for sure. My own mother was a Macleod from Bravas way, but I’m named for my father and take after his side. Agnes MacNeil,’ she said, taking Marianne’s hand in both hers. ‘I’m senior volunteer at the museum. I assume you’re on your way there too.’

‘Yes, I need to find out what I have let myself in for. Euan Finlayson said to ask you about the opening.’

‘Well, if you can slow down and walk like an islander, and an old one at that, we can go the rest of the way together. I’m on duty today, but I just had to lock up for a wee time while I went home to video-call my grandchildren.’

Marianne smiled again. She’d only just learned how to use video links herself. This Agnes was certainly an interesting woman, even if she didn’t have the second sight. But what did she mean by ‘the Macleod look’? Marianne had always been told she looked a lot like her great-great-grandmother, but she’d only seen one blurry photo, taken at Cape Breton. ‘So, Agnes,’ she said, ‘do you know anything about the opening? I wasn’t briefed about it.’

Agnes stopped and leant on a wall to catch her breath. ‘Oh yes, the opening is at 12 noon,’ Agnes said. ‘The locals will be out in droves and some tourists too, no doubt. The local MP will be there with his entourage, and the weekly paper will want some photos for an article.’ She straightened up and started up the hill again. ‘George Farquharson said to leave you 10 minutes for your speech. Is that enough?’

Marianne stopped in her tracks, swallowing a scream. Speech! That bastard! She recalled that he’d said something at her last performance appraisal that she could do a course to improve her presentation skills, but he’d never organised it and she’d been happy enough to forget about it, too. Now she suspected, with a renewed flare of anger, that he’d deliberately thrown her in the deep end.

A large black cloud passed over the sun as tears of rage blurred her vision. The buildings around her took on a sombre look now and the morning’s depressive thoughts returned. She fought hard not to curse George out loud, not wanting to offend Agnes.

‘It’ll be okay,’ Agnes said quietly, patting her arm. ‘Folk up here are very kind. You’ll see for yourself. They’ll appreciate you for who you are. You’ll soon get used to the way things are.’

Marianne shook her head. ‘I’m sorry, but I’ve no intention of getting used to anything up here,’ she said sternly. ‘I’m only here for ten days, Mrs MacNeil. And that’ll be more than enough for me.’

Agnes patted her arm again and continued walking. You’ve done it again, Marianne said to herself. Stop lashing out at all the wrong people. She caught up with Agnes, intending to apologise, but Agnes got in first, seemingly unperturbed.

‘We’ve cleared our best display room for the chess pieces. Euan brought up a special temperature-controlled cabinet from London. Everything’s ready, but he insisted on waiting for you to arrange the exhibition. You’re the expert, he said.’

They continued up the hill, Agnes talking about a previous exhibition of the chess pieces and the crowds it drew. Her chat gave Marianne a chance to calm down and plan again what she would say to George. He was going to pay for this.

‘Well, here we are.’ The museum building was made of the same reddish stone she’d already noticed in many of the older Stornoway buildings. Although rectangular and staid looking, the abundance of windows gave it a dignity Marianne had not expected. The two churches just ahead of them were facing each other, as if in competition with one another.

At the top of the hill was another imposing building, probably built in the same era as the churches and the museum. Unlike the randomness of the harbourside shops, all these buildings commanded attention and gave Marianne the impression that Stornoway had at one time been a place of significance.

‘We’re all very excited about the exhibition,’ Agnes said. ‘Although, most of us think it should have happened long ago, and not just a mere twelve pieces. There’s some that say at least some of the pieces should be here for good and of course, the repatriation mob think the entire collection should be in Scotland, although they can’t agree on where.’ She chuckled as she said it. ‘We’re a friendly but contrary mob. No doubt there’ll be some from each camp here tomorrow. They’ll probably give you a good quizzing. But don’t worry, they’ll respect what you have to say.’

Marianne groaned. Political challenges were the last thing she needed as she tried to muddle her way through a speech. For the first time ever, she felt a glimmer of thanks for all the research she’d done for her thesis. At least the issues of reparation were not new to her.

The more she thought about it, the surer she was about George’s conniving. He would not have been able to handle being “quizzed” on anything to do with reparation issues. Sending her protected him, and knowing her fear of speaking, he’d set her up to fail. But why?

Julia’s words about filling acting roles on a merit-based process came back to her. Was Sam right, that he saw her as a threat? Or was he making sure he had evidence of her incompetence?

The museum door swung open as they approached and Marianne went ahead, pushing past Euan, who came to greet them.

‘Where’s the landline?’ she asked, without looking at him. ‘I need to make an urgent phone call.’ She was primed and ready.

‘It’s in the wee office straight ahead, dear,’ Agnes said from behind her. ‘But if you want to settle in a little first and have…’

Marianne didn’t wait to hear more. From the office, waiting for George to pick up, Marianne watched Euan help Agnes take off her coat. He pulled out her chair before passing her a cup of tea. She found herself noticing that when he smiled, he was quite good looking, in a ruffled sort of way. Quite different than the type of man she was usually attracted to.

He looked up and pointed to the teapot. ‘There’s plenty…’ he began, before Marianne shut the door.

Marianne heard George’s phone ring three times before going to voice mail. Resisting the urge to leave an angry message, Marianne ended the call, not wanting to give him the advantage of time. She phoned Sam instead, launching straight into her latest complaint.

‘I’m no good at making speeches and George knows that. He’s deliberately set me up. I’m going to refuse to do it.’

Expecting a sympathetic ear, Marianne was surprised by the annoyance in Sam’s voice. ‘It’s your decision, Marianne, but you can’t always run away, you know. And I can’t always be around. In fact, I’ve got a meeting starting in five minutes.’

Marianne closed her eyed and took a couple of deep breaths.

‘Are you there?’ Sam asked when the silence went on longer than usual.

‘Yes. So, you think I should do it?’

‘Look, as I said, it’s up to you but if it was me, I’d stay. Do it and blitz it, just to piss him off. Make him regret his decision. It’ll be another feather in your cap. It’s just a speech, for God’s sake. Now, I really do have to go. Phone me tonight if you like. Annie’s staying over though, so I won’t be able to talk for long.’

Euan and Agnes were chatting about the weather when she joined them.

‘Where are they, then?’ Marianne sighed. ‘The chess pieces?’

‘They’re upstairs. Are you sure you don’t want a cup of tea? You look like you could use one.’

‘Perhaps I will,’ she heard herself say. Watching as Euan poured, any lingering expectation of a logistics person being old and nerdy were turned around. She guessed that he was about her age. His shoulders, broad and muscular, were more like those of an outdoor worker than a museum employee. He held her gaze with soft brown eyes speckled with green. Marianne forced herself to make small talk about the flight and the accommodation, hoping to redeem herself of her earlier rudeness; Agnes and Euan’s genuine interest was apparent as they exchanged their own stories of flying and hotel rooms.

‘I’ll take you upstairs,’ Euan said, leading the way up an elaborate split staircase. Framed by ornately crafted, wrought iron hand banisters, it held centre stage, winding from ground to upper floor via a mezzanine landing, where a large carved wooden War Memorial plaque hung on the wall halfway up.

‘That’s my great grandfather,’ Euan said pointing to one of the names. ‘He was killed just before the war ended.’

Engraved into the plaque were dozens of names and above them the words ‘In honoured memory of the old boys of the Nicolson Institute who fell in the Great War.’ Marianne noticed the large number of Macleods listed.

‘So your family are originally from here?’ Marianne asked.

‘Aye. My parents are both gone now and my siblings have moved away too. I’ve a cousin still here. Well, sort of. I moved to London when I was eighteen.’

Marianne wondered briefly what the “well, sort of” meant. Turning, she took in the expansive floor below them and the tiling on the walls. The building had an elegance, a pride about it. And something else she couldn’t quite capture. Something just outside her understanding. She breathed in and listened. The smell of the seaside wafted around her and she thought she heard children’s laughter.

‘This building was a school for many years,’ Agnes said as she came up beside her. Marianne shook her head, trying to make sense of her…what? Premonition?

‘I went here as a child myself. It’s said to have a ghost, you know, but that would be nonsense, I guess.’

Marianne glanced at her. Surely someone as smart as Agnes wouldn’t believe in ghosts.

Reaching the upper floor, they entered a large airy room. The walls were lined with exhibits of ancient artefacts – tools and pottery mostly. The ornate parquetry floor was far grander than any school Marianne had known. In the centre of the room was the empty glass display cabinet and beside it, a table with a packing case clearly labelled as belonging to the British Museum.

The familiar logo brought Marianne crashing back to the purpose of her visit and George’s audacity, pushing aside her whimsical thoughts of playful children and benevolent ghosts. ‘I assembled this yesterday,’ Euan said pointing to the cabinet. ‘I brought the chess pieces in from the security van with the guard. He left once they were in place and handed over the responsibility to me.’

Marianne recognised the locked steel box the size of two shoe boxes as a BM security container. The cabinet too was like those at the BM. Euan was watching her, waiting, Marianne thought, for her approval. She nodded, not really knowing what she should be looking for.

Euan continued, his pride in his work evident by the look on his face. ‘As you can see, there are two lights to highlight the exhibit. The cabinet has its own thermal controls to maintain a constant temperature and I’ve installed a CCTV camera for the duration of the exhibition.’

‘It goes directly to the police station,’ Agnes added. ‘We don’t want to take any chances.’

Now both Agnes and Euan were awaiting her approval, clearly wanting to make the exhibition as good as it could be. Pushing her anger at George aside, Marianne reminded herself that she represented not only the BM, but archaeology as a profession. And even more terrifying, she was about to handle twelve pieces of priceless antiquities. Antiquities which were not only prized by one of the greatest museums in the world, but also treasured by the people of Lewis.

‘I’ll help you unpack them,’ Euan said, ‘ready for you to decide how to arrange them. I can help with that too, if you want.’

Marianne was tempted to say yes but recognised her avoidance habit for what it was.

‘No, thanks, that’s okay,’ she said. ‘I will do it by myself. In fact I’d rather make the decision alone.’

Deep within her, a long-buried memory stirred, of her saying these exact same words to her parents. Why had she been so insistent? Why hadn’t they even tried to talk her out of it?

She shuddered and turned to the task at hand before the memory could take hold.

‘We’ve cleared away all the other exhibition cabinets, other than those attached to the wall,’ Euan said, ‘and positioned our cabinet so that all the official guests can see the pieces while you’re giving your speech. I hope that’s okay.’

Marianne nodded.

‘Thank goodness Euan was here. I wouldn’t have managed on my own,’ Agnes said, smiling at him.

‘My pleasure, Mrs MacNeil,’ Euan said, making a playful bow in Agnes’s direction. Marianne noticed with a touch of envy the easy familiarity between them.

‘We’ll leave you to it, then,’ Euan said as he placed the now unlocked box on a nearby table covered with a felt mat. ‘Here are some gloves. Let me know if you need anything.’ Then, turning to Agnes, he said, ‘Come on, Mrs MacNeil, I think you deserve another cup of tea.’

Marianne put on the gloves and opened the steel box, taking each piece out and laying them on the felt. Even though she’d walked past the BM’s exhibit hundreds of times, she’d never seen them close up. She’d asked to view them outside of the cabinet, but it meant doing a ream of paperwork and getting George to sign it. She’d decided to be satisfied with peering through the glass like all the other visitors.

Now, looking at the twelve pieces before her, she was overcome by their magnificence. The ivory gleamed, belying the fact that it was centuries old and had probably been buried in a sandhill for at least seven hundred years. Her hands shook at the enormous responsibility given to her.

She’d had training in how to handle valuable items, but as a lab technician, she usually only dealt with samples. Fragments. The prospect of handling a complete object, an ancient antiquity, a priceless work of art, set her pulse racing. She stared, unable to move, and heard her heart pounding in her chest. As she marvelled at the carver’s devotion and attention to every detail, she was filled with self-doubt.

What if I make another mistake? What if I do something that I can’t undo? What if I make a decision that will change my life forever? Within her, a bunched fist pushed and she felt again the shameful vulnerability of her sixteen-year-old self, caught in something she could not escape.

Looking at the pieces lying before her, she marvelled at how they were both fragile, with their intricate, tiny, interweaving grooves, and solid, unbreakable. Mesmerised by the humanness of their faces, a lightness overtook her, a numbness. She felt drawn towards something unknown. The real world around her faded and she felt an ethereal presence beside her, guiding her. An image of a woman’s hands applying a tiny chisel to the ivory appeared. The room began to spin and an eerie silence descended as if something outside her comprehension was about to happen. Something magical. A shift in her universe where all that she clung to turned around and another world opened up. She felt as if she was being sucked back in time and space.

CHAPTER 6

Magrit, Iceland 1190

I struggled to my feet, remembering Freya’s guiding words. Guoirnir eru piem sem prauka og ottast aldrei, Magrit. “The gods are with those who persevere and never fear.”

But could I persevere? I had done so all my life, but the bishop’s threat was real. And I did fear him. Too bruised and frightened to even eat, I climbed into my bed. I could hear the far-off explosions of Hekla as it spewed its lava from the middle earth like a warning from the island I would never escape. Sleep evaded me and I longed to be a child again, listening to Freya’s night-time telling of the sagas. One about Hallgerd came back to me, as if Freya were there by my side.

Once, during a quarrel, Gunnar slapped his wife, the proud Hallgerd. As the daughter of a wealthy neighbour, she could well have left him there and then. But she did not, simply saying “I will remember that blow.”

Together they accrued wealth and power. Many years later, Gunnar was in battle with a neighbour, the loyal Hallgerd by hisside. Driven back by his enemies, Gunnar needed to restring his broken bow. He looked around for whatever he could use “Give me some of your hair, Hallgerd. I need it to repair my bow,” he cried. “Without it, I will be beaten.”

“How much depends upon it, Gunnar?” Hallgerd asked, seeing the fear upon his face.

‘My life depends upon it, Hallgerd. Give me your hair at once.’

‘In that case,’ Hallgerd replied ‘I will remind you of when you struck me. I refuse.’ The enemy advanced and Gunnar was struck dead, killed right in front of his wife.

When sleep finally came I dreamt of the bishop. He’d fallen through the ice. I stood above his flailing body as he asked for my help. ‘Remember when you pushed me,’ I said. ‘I refuse.’ I watched him disappear.

My heart raced when I heard a horse neighing the following morning. Had Freya heard about my dilemma and come to…? To what? She was an old woman now. I could not depend on her.

I hobbled to the door, my foot still unbound and my joints not yet warmed. But it was Snorri, Freya’s grandson, who had travelled in the darkness to my door. I’d not seen him since the summer when he’d brought the last of the walrus tusks he’d collected from the long black beach.

‘Why are you here, Snorri?’

‘Amma Freya sent me. She said you needed my help.’

‘It is kind of you,’ I said, taking his coat, ‘but I don’t think anyone can help me this time, Snorri.’

He had assisted me in the past and certainly had a gift for carving that would one day be enough. But this work, my work, was more complicated than anything he could do. Leaving his muddy boots at the door, he went to the bench. I watched as he picked up my chisels and the uncarved ivory. I noticed the stubble on his chin and heard the breaking in his voice. He would soon be a man. Would he lose his gentle ways?

‘I’ve all the pawns yet to carve. Sixteen in all. The bishop says they must be completed for shipping in one week. It’s an impossible task.’

‘I could cut the ivory to shape while you carve.’

‘I cannot. Look at these,’ I said, holding up my hands. Snorri was a kind boy, but I saw the revulsion on his face.

‘Then I will try my hand at carving, Magrit. It is the best we can do. Show me what they must look like.’

I took one from another set.

‘We can make it simpler perhaps. Let me begin and while I work, Magrit, you can tell me how it was you came into our family. Amma Freya said all our stories need to be passed on. You have no children of your own to entrust it to.’

I smiled at Freya’s wily tactic. She’d long badgered me to recount my story to another. ‘Women’s stories must be told,’ she said. ‘And men will not take the time to ask. We must become our own storytellers.’

I put more peat on the fire, placed my crutch against the wall. ‘Do you know any other folk crippled from birth, Snorri? No. Why?’

‘My mother told me it is the custom in our land to send a damaged baby to Valhalla while it is still without sin.’

‘Just so it was with my blood mother. She left my tiny body, bent and twisted even from birth, in the manure pit, hoping its warmth would ease my journey to death.’

‘So, why did Amma Freya save you when she heard your cries?’ Snorri asked as he divided the cut ivory into bits of equal lengths. The gentleness of his voice lulled me and I went back in my mind to the story of my beginning.

‘Everyone thought Freya was wrong to take me in. A cripple has no place in a harsh world, they told her. But she knew, even then, that I was more than just a cripple. She said even as a tiny baby, my still mucousy eyes held hers as if seeing details no one else saw.’

‘Is it true that her mother, Agneta, wanted no part in your rescue?’

I nodded and smiled. He’d obviously heard my story many times already, but I found the telling of it strangely soothing, for it reminded me of all I had endured.

‘The day Freya brought me to their home, Agneta said I would not survive. But the next day broke with a radiant sky, as red as the birthing blood that had coated me. Agneta took it as a sign that I was meant to live.’

I froze, watching as Snorri made his first marking on the ivory. If he ruined it, I would not be able to replace it. But his hands were as gentle as his voice. I had to trust him.

‘Agneta came around to Freya’s way of thinking and she nurtured me with the milk her baby Hakon no longer needed. Every day, Freya massaged and bound my foot until it straightened enough for me to walk.’

Snorri held the piece up for me and I nodded. He had much to learn about angles but it was a start at least. ‘When did your artistry start?’

‘My mangled foot kept me from doing many of the outside chores, so I spent most of my time inside, cleaning, mending and cooking. When I had seen only four cycles of the seasons, I took a lump of charcoal from the cold fireplace and drew on the floor. It was the first time I felt the joy of creating, of transferring an idea, a picture, from inside my head into something I could share.’

‘I know that joy, Magrit. I have it in my storytelling, and soon I hope to have it through my carving.’

His work was careful but slow. He would finish only two in the time I’d been given. Even if the bishop was satisfied with the quality, it would not be enough. But I could not burden Snorri with my despair.

‘It is good work you have done, Snorri. Your lines need to be deeper and sharper. You will know when you achieve the best result. The ivory will tell you.’

‘How was it you continued drawing then?’ he asked, returning to the work.

‘Freya brought me slates and skins and even paper when she could find it, so I could save my sketches. My skills improved and I moved from simple drawings of stick people, adding smiles and hair, curly for some, or long plaits. I added beards and clothes. Sharp lines and shadows. By the time I had seen seven season cycles my drawings could be easily recognised as those they portrayed. I drew animals too and flowers, but what I loved drawing the most was the people around me.

‘I heard you once did a caricature of Kari, my great grandfather.’

‘Yes,’ I said, smiling at the memory. ‘I drew his spiky eyebrows formed into angry wings and his pocked cheeks, puffed out, taking over his face so that his eyes became slits. It was a look we all recognised from the days when we forgot to empty the overnight slosh or failed to fill up the coal box.

‘I showed Freya and she laughed, hugging me harder than usual before she ran to show her sisters and brothers. Their eyes rounded in astonishment and awe. Your uncle Hakon, who had always referred to me as the spilltur hað, the crooked dependant, looked at me with new admiration. It was then, Snorri, that I realised the power of my skill.’

‘Amma Freya said that you wanted to hide the portrait from Kari, fearing he would take offence, but she’d insisted you show him.’

I laughed. ‘Yes, I remember well Kari’s booming laughter filling the room. It gave me the confidence to keep going.’

My stomach rumbled and I realised I had not eaten since the night before. ‘Come, Snorri, take a break and join me for bread and tea.’

‘Was it just the family you drew, Magrit?’ Snorri asked, biting into the bread slathered with last week’s butter.

‘For a time, and it may have stayed that way had it not been for my crippled leg.’

‘How did that change things?’ I could see from the look of surprise on his face that this part of my story was new to Snorri.

‘My leg drew scorn from other children. They teased me, called me nasty names. But even back then I knew that their cruelty had its roots in fear, a fear that comes from self-doubt, of being ridiculed themselves.

‘I began drawing my taunters, turning their likenesses into fairies or trolls, depending on their temperament. Some were comical and others drawn to please. I accentuated their flaws, but always included an aspect of them that pleased them. I captured their crooked eyes or pointy noses, but also their strong jaw or gentle smiles, their squat legs, and stubby fingers along with their long, thick plaits and laughter-filled faces. Soon, their taunts were replaced with cautious approaches to befriend me.’

Snorri went back to the bench and picked up one of my completed pieces – a queen. ‘You do the same with your carving, Magrit – take a likeness and exaggerate it. When did you start carving, instead of just drawing?’

‘A travelling merchant showed me his fancy buckles and buttons carved from whale teeth. Even when I had no need for his wares, I would use my hard-earned coins to buy them. I loved their pearly feel and saw, in their strange filmy opaqueness, a beckoning to be shaped and decorated.

‘I saved for six moons and bought a chisel. Its handle was fashioned from deer horn and the blade from iron. It had once been used by a carver in Norway, or so the travelling man told me when he took my dirham. I began scouring the beaches for whale bones and teeth and, if my luck was in, walrus tusks.’

‘It is the same even now, when a whale washes ashore,’ Snorri said, as if my story belonged to an age long lost. He began carving again, his brow furrowed with concentration while he completed another piece with his simple markings. ‘Ah yes, the whales,’ he said picking up the story as if no time had lapsed. ‘When word goes out to all the nearby farms and each family sends anyone who can be spared to help carve off the oily carcass. When all the flesh and offal is removed, it is divided up according to need. The larger bones are taken, too, but it is only I who scavenges for the smaller bones and teeth.’

I nodded, remembering the joy of finding material for my art. ‘When we found a walrus carcass, caught in a drift from the icy north, others scrabbled for the best cuts of his sweet flesh, discarding his large protruding teeth. Soon, I was carving and selling intricate pendants and simple likenesses. The money helped feed us. Your Amma earned her keep, too, for even then, she was known far and wide for her healing balms and magic chants. But not even our coins could save Kari and Agneta when the black disease swept through.’

‘Is that when you began working for the bishop?’ Snorri asked, putting the chisel aside and rubbing the stiffness from his hands.

The two pawns he’d worked on were far from reaching the standard of the others it the completed sets but I would not make him go on.

‘That is a story for another day. You must rest your hands now. You have done a fine job, Snorri. It will be a great help,’ I lied, for I could not destroy his spirit. ‘And you have given an ear to the story of one woman’s journey from manure pit to, if not riches, at least survival.’

I saw him to the door. ‘My love and gratitude to your Amma.’

I watched as he mounted his pony. Its thickening winter coat was beginning to shed. Its long mane and forelock caught the wind as he rode. Like all Islandia horses, it was light on its feet and, as it approached the rocky scale, it broke into a tolt, a gait unique, they say, to our island breed. Its two-tone coat, a rusty dun in front and then a white rump and hind legs, made it appear as if its body were made from two horses pieced together. Reaching softer ground, Snorri turned, waved, and pushed into a gallop. I envied his freedom and agility.

Stirring the gruel I’d set aside for my supper, I thought about Snorri’s question. It was Hakon who’d broken the news to me all those years ago.

‘Bishop Jonsson has work for you. You will move to the workshop attached to the church.’

I’d packed two small bags and strapped them to my horse, a parting gift from Hakon, the only inheritance I would receive from the family I thought of as my own. Along the length of the horse’s back I lay my most precious possessions: two walrus tusks.

We walked, the horse and I, the twelve landmila to my new home, following the track between the rivers Hvítá and Brúará across a flat plain. I’d walked this way many a time, to markets and worship. But this day, I would not be returning home. My heart soared with excitement and trembled with fear. Yellow holtasoley and purple lupina lined the boggy marsh path. I hummed as we walked, to ease my mind and keep the horse calm. In the distance, smoke rose from Hekla.

After two hours of trudging, my seal skin shoes rubbed against my swelling feet. Freya had fashioned a padded sock for my crooked foot, but even with its extra support, my hip and knee bore little benefit from my crutch and I wondered if I would need to unload the walrus tusk, leaving them hidden while I rode the rest of the way. I pushed on, and at the next rise, the bishop’s great wooden church loomed, stark against the grey sky.

Despite the pain now spiralling through my whole body, I quickened my pace, rousing the sleepy pony from her trancelike plodding. She, too, was tired but sensed that we were near our destination.

Upon arrival, I’d tethered her, lifting the tusks and laying them on the ground beside entrance. The weight of the door almost unbalanced me, as if reluctant to allow me inside. I placed my shoulder against it and wedging my feet to counter the instability of my deformity. Its weathered hinges groaned with resistance until, finally, it seemed to accept that I was not to be deterred.

The pungent smell of burning gruel brought me from my reverie. Saving what I could, I ate quickly, damped the fire and climbed into my bed, an emptied cupboard that had at one time been used for storage. The familiar smell of pounded earth and straw drew a sigh of exhaustion from me. I pulled my seal skins tight and prayed to the bishop’s god for a miracle to repair my hands.

Rising early from my bed the next day, I went outside to urinate. The night had been clear and a frost covered the ground. My hot piss drilled a hole into its crusty surface. Scooping a handful of icy shards I washed my private area and wondered if a man would ever want to enter there again, now that I was not young. I’d lain with only two men and neither had bothered to pleasure me. That I did for myself.

Going inside, I stoked the embers, filling the room with the sweet smell of peat and heather. The floor-stones held some warmth from the previous days, despite the chilling temperatures outside. I warmed my hands and drank a brew of nettles and herbs, hoping to dull the throb. The swelling had subsided a little, but they were still red and angry. My knuckles, like knots in an old pine tree, carried the record of my toil.

The sun was yet to climb so I lit eleven candles and spread them along the bench, picking up the smallest chisel. The pain, my enemy, shot from my hand up through my arm as if I’d been hit by a bolt from Thor. Putting the chisel down, I waited for the ravaging to subside. But it did not. Even a gentle flex of my hand sent the razorsharp agony through to my shoulder and into my head.

I knew then, for certain, I would never complete the last fourteen pieces.

I started at an impatient knock on the door. Herdis entered without invitation. It was the first time she’d been to my workshop home and I saw in her face astonishment at my impoverished circumstances. Rather than removing her fox fur coat, she pulled it tighter.

‘Jonsson has sent me to begin packing the first three chess sets.’ I liked the way she referred to her husband with his family name only, refusing perhaps to defer to his title.

‘My father was a merchant from Norway,’ she continued, as if answering a question. ‘I spent many hours as a child in his warehouse, helping him prepare goods for travel. I will come twice more before they are shipped to ensure the completion of the fourth, which he says he will inspect himself.’

The time had come. I could no longer avoid the dreadful truth. ‘You must tell him that the fourth chess set will not be done. I have fourteen more pieces to do but cannot.’ I raised my hands. ‘I am at your mercy, Herdis. I fear your husband will not take this news kindly.’

She took my hands in her own, gently turning them over. ‘You are right to be worried, Magrit. This is of great concern.’

She turned then to the bench, examining the pawns Snorri had done the day before.

‘This final set is for the Bishop of Norway, I believe.’

I nodded. ‘The other three sets are complete.’ I pointed to where I’d stored them in three separate crates.

She took her coat off and for several minutes was lost in thought. ‘My instructions are that they will all be packed together and taken by a ship. The first set will go to the Bishop of Mann and then the others delivered to Scotland, Denmark, and finally Norway.’

‘That is what I am told.’ I replied, wiping the tear streaks from my face.

‘So, if this final sets goes without the final fourteen pieces, it would not be known until the Bishop of Norway unpacks his gift, in at least two full moon cycles from now?’

My heart raced as I began to understand her questions. ‘Yes. It would only be then that they would be missed. But Bishop Jonsson will not let them leave until he himself sees this final set completed,’ I said.

‘Leave Jonsson to me, Magrit.’ Her face became animated. ‘I will place each piece in its own bed of straw,’ she said, not to me, but as if confirming her own thoughts, ‘and wrap each set in seal skin, tied with a leather strap. I will label them clearly and then place them in a crate of hardwood with written instructions for the offloading at each port.’

It took some minutes for me to set aside my sorrow and fully comprehend her plan.

‘We can swap the warders so the set at the top has these,’ I said pointing to pieces in the likeness of Bishop of Norway.’ Herdis picked them up, four in all, and laughed.

‘It is true what they say of you, Magrit. Your guile is a match for my own.’ She took my hands again. ‘So, there it is. Your work is done for now. Your hands must be rested. We will show my husband the top set only, the one destined for Isle of Mann and I will reassure him that all have been completed and cannot be unpacked. He knows better than to contradict me on such matters.’

We held each other’s gaze knowing that we both had much to lose.

Bishop Jonsson collected the crate and accompanied it to the wharf. He wore his official robes of brilliant red and gold, signalling the importance of the cargo in his care. Herdis had kept her word and beguiled him into believing our deception. She’d arranged for it to be stamped with the instructions that to be offloaded at the port of Balley Chashta on the Isle of Mann, directly into the hands of the bishop, who would extract his set and then reload the ship with the three remaining sets.

I watched as the crate, no bigger than a cradle, was loaded onto a grand cart pulled by no less than four horses. I had followed them to the quay, stopping at a distance, partially hidden behind crates of corn.

This was the bishop’s day, his glorious ceremony. The artefacts I had so lovingly carved were now his possessions. I, the carver, no longer had any claim over them, my beloved chessmen.

The ship’s crew shouted to each other in a language not of our island. Their guttural voices reminded me of a colony of bull seals, braying for supremacy during mating season. Once or twice, a roar of laughter broke their calls and I wondered if it was the bishop in his finery they joked about. I guessed they were from the south; taller and heavier than the men of Islandia, their swarthy skin leathered from the salted air and sea.

One man, barrel chested, caught me watching as the crate was handed to him. He wore a strange coat made of skin, not fur. If I drew him, I would draw him not as a man but a bull seal. He read the delivery marking, then looked up to where Bishop Jonsson stood. A voice from the hold prompted him to keep working but before he passed the crate down, he raised it high, as if it were a trophy. But it was towards me he looked, not the bishop.

A shiver of excitement ran through me, my need for a man strong now that I had finished my work.

Bishop Jonsson approached the captain, handing him an envelope. I knew it to be Herdis’ instructions for delivery. After a brief exchange, the bishop left, passing within inches of me, unseeing.

I waited in my hiding place until past midday, to watch the ship sail. As it creaked away from the quay, disappearing into the sea fog, I thought I saw him again, the alluring sailor, raising his hand to me in farewell.

A bull seal going back to the ocean.

I waved farewell too, not just to him, but to my treasures. They were now free of me, and me of them.

It was Herdis who arranged my betrothal to Thorir, a quiet man who would soon step into the bishop’s shoes, our marriage my reward for completing the bishop’s most extravagant commission, my life’s greatest work.

We’d bedded twice when I learned that the ship had never arrived at Mann, probably wrecked somewhere on Scotland’s coast, they said. As Thorir entered me that night, I thought of the seal man and later dreamt of him tangled with kelp.

CHAPTER 7

Marianne, Isle of Lewis 2010

Marianne started and looked at her watch. She’d been alone with the chess pieces for only ten minutes. How was it she felt so exhausted?

‘Perhaps you’d better wait a while, dear,’ Agnes said coming beside her and laying a gentle hand on her shoulder. ‘You’ve had a lot to take in.’

Looking into Agnes’ steady, caring eyes, Marianne felt a part of her, the part that kept her strong, collapse. A sob rose from deep within.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said, trying to laugh as Agnes guided her to a chair. ‘I’ve been so rude and now here I am crying. You must think me terribly stupid.’

‘You don’t appear stupid to me at all, Marianne. It’s a big responsibility you’ve taken on.’

Marianne managed a weak smile and blew her nose. ‘To tell you the truth, Mrs MacNeil, Agnes, I’ve been really angry about being sent here. George, my boss, made me come.’ She laughed at her childish words but Agnes remained attentive, giving her the courage to keep talking. ‘He’s as good as threatened to get rid of my position. I could be out of work, Agnes.’

Agnes nodded. ‘And that’s not what you want, to change jobs?’

‘No. Well, I don’t think so. I’m good at my job. It’s what I know. I’m settled there and happy enough, except for George.’

‘So, it’s what you always want to be doing.’ Agnes said the words as a fact.

Marianne pushed her hair from her face, dried her tears and took a deep breath. ‘I thought it was, until recently,’ she said. ‘God, I’m such a mess. I have been since…’ she hesitated. People reacted in all sorts of strange ways, hearing about the hit and run. Would she burden Agnes with the horrible truth? ‘Since my father passed away.’

‘I’m sorry for your loss. Were you very close?’

‘Yes, we were. I keep trying to make sense of it all. He was coming to see me, you see, and I don’t know why. He said he had something, a letter I think, for me. I should have told him not to come at that time of day. The traffic is so frantic. It was an accident, you see.’

‘You can’t blame yourself for an accident, Marianne.’

And yet, I do, Marianne thought.

‘I saw him, lying there, broken. There was nothing I could do. And since then, well when anything goes wrong, I feel the same way – like I have no control. I feel as if nothing I do will make a difference.’

Taking another tissue from Agnes she relaxed a little, noticing again the deep blue of Agnes’ eyes. ‘And I miss him. I can’t stop missing him. It’s like there’s a piece missing from a puzzle and I can’t find it.’ Now the image of her father’s body was replaced with another. Of delicate pink lips, like rosebuds, on her cheek and a tiny fist pushing at her heart. She closed her eyes, willing the image away. Why now, of all times?

‘Missing someone is not wrong, dear,’ Agnes said. ‘It’s when you feel they are missing, but still not really gone. That’s what hurts the most.’

Marianne pulled away, fearful that Agnes somehow knew her secret. But Agnes looked no different, calm and concerned.

‘My own father was lost at sea,’ Agnes said ‘so, I do know a little of what you are feeling. He went out even when he knew a storm was coming. I’ll never know why he made that decision. I used to get angry too. I couldn’t be angry at him, so I took it out on everyone else. But eventually, I realised that my behaviour was hurting me even more than his death.’

A wave of release swept over Marianne, just knowing that someone else, someone as gentle as Agnes, could be so irrational. ‘I do that too. I know it’s wrong to lash out, but at times I feel like I can’t help it. I take it out on others, my mother mostly.’ Tears of relief this time trickled down her cheeks. Agnes took hold of her hands, her silky soft skin a comfort, her steady gaze a strength.

‘It will get better, Marianne, when the time is right.’ Marianne gave Agnes a long hug.

‘Thanks,’ she said, dabbing her tear-stained cheeks. ‘It’s hard to talk to anyone about this. Everyone has been so patient with me, but I know they all think I should be over it by now. Thank you.’

Agnes laughed. ‘You’re welcome. It’s what I do best, get people talking, or so I’m told. Now, perhaps you should ask Euan to help you with this,’ she said motioning towards the chessmen.

‘Yes, I think you might be right. I’ll just freshen up a bit first.’

‘There’s a ladies down the corridor. I’ll send Euan up.’ Agnes started towards the stairs before turning. ‘Did you ever get it? The letter?’

Marianne hesitated. ‘No. It was probably just a bill or a fund-raising letter.’

Yes, why was he bringing it? She’d never understood his urgency to get the letter to her. Agnes’ question reminded her that she’d hadn’t found it in his belongings when she helped Shona sort through them. As she splashed her face and reapplied her lipstick Marianne realised it was one of many unanswered questions in her life.

Euan smiled, gently picking up the king and silently waiting for her to instruct him. His jumper, rustic and hand knitted, smelled of wood smoke – earthy and calming. Marianne indicated the centre position, then picked up the queen, placing it as she thought best. Slowly and quietly, they placed each piece, turning and swapping them until the display had balance and coherence. Content, finally, with the arrangement, Marianne nodded. ‘That’s perfect. They all look happy now.’

Euan locked the cabinet and turned on the controls. ‘I’ll leave you all to get to know each other.’

Marianne laughed at his joke, but he’d already left. She moved around the cabinet, where twelve of the world’s most mysterious antiquities stood in a circle before her. Inanimate but strangely alive.

Directly in front of her, the queen held her hand against her cheek, as if aghast.

‘What have you seen?’ Marianne whispered, putting her own hand to her face. ‘Have you, too, had loved ones taken? Your life turned upside down?’

She tried to move on, but the queen held her mesmerised. ‘We’re both caught in a game of strategy and guile. The future depends on what move we make next.’

Marianne shuddered. Had they been her words or the queen’s? She moved on to the king. His masculinity was unequivocal, his face broad and his beard fulsome. Long shanks of hair covered his back. He clasped his sword tight, claiming power and superiority. But his face belied him – sheepish and embarrassed, as if he’d been caught out. An imposter. An imposter like George.

‘If you play your own game right, you can expose him. Check mate.’

Again the words came to her as if from outside herself. But the idea of George being caught out, revealed, unmasked, sent a thrill through her. Could I do that? The idea intrigued her.

Marianne marvelled at how the carver managed to convey so much in one tiny object. Had she modelled her work on real people? Had she a ‘George’ in her life?

She moved to look at the knight on his horse. Both the rider and horse were small and squat, a parody of the modern-day image of a tall, brave medieval knight on a majestic stallion. She’d seen pictures of Icelandic horses and wondered again if there was any truth in the theory that the chessmen had been carved there. And if so, what catastrophic events left them buried in a sandhill in a country far removed from their carver?

Examining the bishop next, Marianne was captivated by how frightened he looked, his eyes wide with trepidation beneath his impressive mitre, hiding, it seemed, behind his crozier and bible. Horrifying revelations were all over the press these days, the secret perversities of the clergy ruining so many lives. But back then? Had the carver also known of hidden atrocities?

Next inline was a warder, infamous for his comedic look. His eyes agog, biting down on his shield as if he, like the queen, was bewildered by all that was going on around him and trying hard to control his frustration.

Marianne grimaced. That’s probably how I looked earlier as I stormed past poor Euan. Pent up with rage. What must he think of me?

She pushed the thought away. What did it matter? She’d soon be gone, back to London, back in her safe routine. As the thought came, a new possibility arose within her. Did she really need to go back?

She moved to the other side of the cabinet. The pawns, much simpler in their carving, were the only pieces not to be humanised. But once again, Marianne found herself admiring the carver’s wit. She felt sure that, by creating them as gravestones, the carver was pointing out the terrible consequences of war. While making this game of battle and triumph, she chose to also tell a story of loss and destruction.

Standing back, Marianne looked at the exhibition in its entirety. The craft work was intricate beyond imagination, yet the pieces were individuals, curiosities that had endured the impossible. To have been found in a sandhill, just miles from where Marianne now stood, to become an internationally recognised treasure. That was true endurance.

A strangeness ebbed and flowed around her and she thought again about the forty-nine pieces still missing. How had they separated from the rest? Were they destroyed or were they just waiting to be found?

Outside, a sudden wind rattled the window frames. She felt a rush of air and the words ‘missing piece’ swirled around her, then disappeared like sand slipping through her fingers.

Marianne laughed, relieved to see Euan on the other side of the display cabinet.

‘You’re back, then?’ he said, his genial lopsided grin teasing, yet kind.

‘Yes, there are forty-nine pieces missing,’ she said. He smiled but seemed confused. His hair fell softly over his eyes. Resisting the urge to gently brush it aside she pinched her arm instead. He was not hers to caress.

‘Back from where?’ Agnes said puffing a little from climbing the stairs.

‘I’m not sure,’ Marianne said. ‘The past?’ She laughed to deflect how ridiculous it sounded.

‘Oh, that’ll be the Macleod in you,’ Agnes said. ‘They’ve been known to call up things from yesteryear.’

Marianne remembered Shona telling her stories of her grandmother having a strange ability to know things others didn’t. She’d dismissed it as nonsense, but now, turning back to the queen with her thoughtful hand to her cheek, she was not so certain.

‘I hope not. The past is not a place I want to be. Anyway, scientists have proved that déjà vu, the feeling that you have done something or been somewhere before, is just a mild glitch in a neurotransmitter. It could explain this time-slip idea too.’ As she spoke, an intense pain shot through her hands. She moved away from the cabinet and the feeling disappeared.

‘Do you think they know they’re back home?’ Euan asked, nodding towards the chess pieces.

‘I think they do,’ she heard herself say, noticing again the caramel colour of his eyes. ‘Has anyone ever tried to find them, the missing pieces?’ Her question came out unguarded and passionate.

‘There’s been a lot of speculation over the years,’ Agnes said ‘but no-one has ever done a serious search in my living memory. Why do you ask?’

‘No reason. Just curious.’ But Marianne’s attempt at nonchalance did not deter Agnes. She continued to watch her as if she expected her to say more. Even when Euan changed the subject, Agnes’s eyes remained on her.

‘Agnes said you weren’t told about having to make a speech at the opening. That must be annoying.’

‘No, I wasn’t,’ she sighed, ‘and yes, I’m very annoyed. If the speech were to other archaeologists, I’d probably be fine. I’d talk about various dating and carving techniques, but I don’t think the people here will want to hear that.’

‘You might be surprised,’ Euan said. ‘We’re not all peasants, you know.’

Marianne blushed. ‘No, I didn’t mean that, just…’

‘Agnes and I can help you write the speech, if you like,’ he said. ‘You obviously have all the information about the BM’s role in buying and preserving antiquities, and we know what the local people will want to hear about. Agnes is a wealth of knowledge when it comes to the history of the island, including the area where the pieces were found. She was my history teacher in high school, weren’t you, Mrs MacNeil?’

‘Aye, cheeky wee lad he was, even then,’ Agnes said, pretending to clip him over the ear. She looked at the cabinet, then turned to Marianne, holding her gaze.

‘You should mention the missing pieces in your speech. Speculate perhaps on what might have happened to them. That would be interesting to folk.’

Marianne turned and looked at the queen and for one second, she thought the bewildered woman nodded at her.

‘Now that you’ve returned, you could solve the mystery of where they are.’

Marianne spun around to ask Agnes what she meant by ‘returned’ but Agnes and Euan had already left the room.

‘Come on, Marianne,’ Agnes called from below. ‘You’ve done all you need here. I’m closing for the day.’

Marianne’s phone rang as she went down the stairs. ‘G. F.’ Her contact label for George, a pathetic attempt at rebellion. She hit the end button. Her urgent need to have it out with him had dissipated and anyway, this was not the time or the place.

As Euan switched the lights off and checked the temperature control again, Marianne heard another strange whirring noise move through the building. She looked at the others, but either they’d not heard it, or thought it normal. Marianne shook her head and silently rebuked herself. Clearly the upheavals of the day were playing havoc with her mind.

Marianne phoned Shona and left a message for her to join them at the pub. As expected, her and Agnes were chatting like old friends by the time they were halfway through their first drink.

‘Marianne told me about your husband. How are you adjusting to being a widow?’ Agnes asked.

‘It’s hard, but I have no choice, do I? I just get on with life, as best I can.’

‘You’re lucky to have a daughter to go on holidays with.’

Shona nodded. ‘Yes, I am. I’m very lucky to have her.’ Marianne nodded too.

Over dinner they all swapped ideas about Marianne’s speech. To Marianne’s surprise, even Shona’s input was useful.

‘Don’t open the doors too early and keep yourself to yourself until Agnes introduces you. Otherwise, you’ll be inundated with questions before the speech. It’s a little trick I learned when I was presenting my genealogy research to community groups.’

‘That’s great advice. Thanks, Mum.’

It didn’t take long before Marianne had a solid outline for her speech and some helpful notes.

‘My shout,’ she said, once they agreed it was ready.

‘Not for me,’ Euan said. ‘I’ll sit out on this one. Need to keep sober for the first set at least.’

As Marianne waited at the bar for the drinks, she caught sight of her reflection in the gantry mirror, surprised at how relaxed and happy she looked. Her hair was messy, as always, but somehow, up here it didn’t seem out of place. Her thick eyebrows, too, no longer seemed wrong and, instead of her usual scowl, her eyes had a brightness to them.

Euan’s chair was empty when she got back to the table. ‘Where’s Euan?’ she asked, trying to keep the keenness out of her voice. But Shona and Agnes were deep in conversation about the many branches of the Macleod family on Lewis.

‘It was my three times great grandparents who left Lewis for Cape Breton in 1851,’ Shona said. ‘From what I’ve read, the Clearances were almost over by then and most of the families had been driven off their crofts. Is that right, Agnes?’

‘Yes. Those that remained were living in extremely poor conditions when James Matheson bought the island off Lord Seaforth in 1844.’

‘Bought the whole island?’ Marianne gasped.

‘Yes. He’d amassed vast amounts of money, first in India and then China. Lewis was in the grip of a famine caused by the Clearances. They no longer had enough land to grow the food they needed. People were starving. Matheson brought in food, but it wasn’t enough to keep people here.’

‘Why did they do it – the Clearances?’ Marianne asked.

‘It was the wool,’ Agnes answered. ‘Wool brought in big money for the landlord. The more sheep, the bigger the blocks that were needed. To the landlord’s way of thinking, the crofters took up valuable space with their small holdings. Matheson, to his credit, tried to help, but by the time he took over, the damage to the island’s way of life had been done. So instead he started paying for families to emigrate.’

‘Yes, I think our family were paid a small amount to leave,’ Shona said. ‘They were promised land in Cape Breton too. But the story is that they weren’t put ashore where the arable land was. Instead, they were off-loaded at a port town, then pushed to the even more remote areas.’

Shona looked at Marianne. ‘Sorry, love. I’m talking about dead people again.’

Marianne shrugged. ‘It’s more interesting now we’re here. It’s awful how they were treated. They really had no choice but to get on the boats and leave?’

‘No, not really,’ Agnes said. ‘And what most of the history books won’t tell you is that the reason the outward fare was so cheap was that the islanders were needed as ballast. Without them, the ships were almost empty on the return journey to the New World. An empty ship is not a good thing. That’s why, as soon as they arrived at a port where money-making cargo was available for loading, they were put ashore.’

‘What cargo was being brought back?’

‘Fur, wood and salt mostly.’

The three women fell into a melancholic silence, imagining the plight of those unfortunates. Marianne’s thoughts turned to the Macleod family, who’d found the chess pieces. She wondered, too, if they’d had anything to do with the pieces that were still missing.

Several people carrying musical instruments gathered in the far corner of the small pub, beside the glowing fireplace. Patrons began rearranged their seating, squashing together, no questions asked, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. Marianne had bad memories of being forced to listen to Scottish music as a child. It had been another feature of their Canadian trip that she’d protested against. The pub’s shabby tartan carpet and nicotine-stained walls did nothing to persuade her that the music would be worth hanging around for.

‘I think I’ll go. I’m very tired,’ she said but was drowned out as the musicians launched into a fast-paced reel. Unlike in a London pub, when there was music, everyone stopped talking and turned to listen. She sat back down, not wanting to seem rude. Again.

The music had an energy and a precision that surprised her, pulled her in. She turned her chair to get a better view. They were a motley gang: a man and a woman over fifty playing fiddle, and two teenagers, one playing a keyboard and another a flute. There was another man, too, all but his knees hidden from Marianne’s view. The reel swept on, faster and faster. Curious about the hidden instrument, an accordion, she thought, Marianne shifted her chair a little and leaned forward at the same time as the musician. Euan’s smiling face greeted her above his accordion.

She drew back, embarrassed at letting her interest in him be obvious to all. She looked at Shona to signal that she was leaving, but she was too enthralled with the music. She leaned forward again, prepared now to at least smile her approval to Euan. But he was looking down at his fingers racing across the keys, his dishevelled hair falling across his downturned face. She felt again her earlier impulse to gently push it from his eyes. He was not like any of the men she’d been attracted to in the past. They’d all been more like Paul, snappy dressers with trendy haircuts.

The rhythm of the music enveloped her, sending her feet tapping. She joined the rest of the crowd, clapping to the ever-increasing beat. Agnes let out a whoop of pleasure and Marianne grinned at her, irresistibly caught up in the mood. As the musicians sped to a decisive end, she looked at Euan again, hoping to make eye contact, but they’d started on another piece, slower and sad. A mother and son sang, their voices harmonising as if one.

There is a ship that sails the sea

She’s loaded deep as deep can be

But not as deep as the love I’m in

I know not how I’ll sink or swim

The water is wide, I can’t cross o’er

And neither have I wings to fly

Marianne sank into a warm fog, letting the music wash over her. With it came a twinge of envy for the way the locals all seemed connected to each other and to the music, joined by their history and stories of the past. An ache inside her grew.

Has he ever tried to find me, she wondered? He’d be a young man now, able to make his own decisions. Until now, she’d worried about the possibility of him making contact. But in this moment, surrounded by an atmosphere of strength and support, she allowed herself, for the first time, to hope he would.

As soon as the song finished, she said goodnight to Shona and Agnes. As she climbed into bed, she wondered what her father would have made of Lewis. Like her, he’d been very attached to London, but he’d always appreciated the world’s diversity; people dancing to the beat of their own drum, he’d say. The music continued into her dreams.

CHAPTER 8

Marianne, Isle of Lewis 2010

Shona left the room early the next morning, allowing Marianne to go over her speech notes and get ready. Dressing in a fitted skirt and mid-length jacket, she spent time straightening her hair, trying to tame the bushy ‘who cares’ look for which she’d become infamous amongst her friends. The lipstick Sam had recently persuaded her to buy helped complete the look.

‘I know it conforms to the bullshit male patriarchy idea of a how a woman should look,’ Sam had said, ‘but I wear it when I need to show people that I mean business.’ They’d both been impressed by how much it had changed Marianne’s appearance.

An email from George pinged into her inbox. The subject read ‘Test results’.

Marianne shook her head as she read it. No ‘Good luck’. No ‘Hope it goes well today’ just: ‘Marianne, my records show that you have not returned the results regarding the test you did on a chess piece delivered to you on the 16th July. These results are now considerably overdue. Please advise. George.’

This was not the first time he’d accused her of being late with results, and on every other occasion it had been because he simply hadn’t cleared the security box. Marianne had an idea that his usual PA was on leave too, so this was very likely the problem. Still, his attitude rankled.

She typed: I put the item with the results in the secured transfer box last week, ready for your sign off. It was a replica of little to no value, carved from elephant ivory in the mid-1900s. Please let me know when you find it.

She paused. Maybe she should type ‘if you don’t find it,’ but she was sure he would, and she wanted him to acknowledge it hadn’t been her wrongdoing.

Reading it through before sending, she decided to top and tail the email with. Hello George, I hope you are well and that the graduation was a success, and Kind Regards at the end. It felt good to take the moral high ground, although she doubted he would recognise the sarcasm in her response.

With one last glance in the mirror, she went downstairs, where Shona was chatting to another guest. They made their way to the museum, where there was already a queue forming. Marianne’s stomach lurched as she edged past the eager attendees. ‘Let’s just get this over with,’ she muttered beneath her breath.

Agnes let them in, telling the crowd that the door would open in ten minutes. Shona was ushered to a front row seat and Marianne went to the podium beside the exhibit where Agnes introduced her to the local MP, who’d been given VIP entry treatment. Marianne silently thanked Sam for the lipstick and stumbled her way through a conversation about the BM’s ongoing commitment to regional museums.

The room filled quickly once the doors opened. Marianne could feel that she was the centre of attention and focussed on talking to Agnes to avoid the many curious eyes on her. At twelve, Agnes tapped the microphone and the room fell quiet.

‘Welcome. We are very fortunate to have here with us today, Marianne MacKay, an archaeologist and Senior Laboratory Supervisor with the British Museum. Her recent Master’s thesis, entitled ‘Stolen Histories: The importance of cultural and community significance when determining issues of ownership and repatriation of museum exhibits,’ explored many of the issues we, as a regional museum, grapple with when determining what and how we exhibit. Please welcome Marianne, who will say a few words and then officially open the exhibition.’

Marianne was sure everyone could see her hands shaking as she approached the podium. She could hear the sound of her heart thumping. For a fleeting second, she wondered if she could fake a faint, but pushed the idea aside. Stop avoiding, she told herself. Get this damn opening over and you’ll soon be back in London, safe in your laboratory.

She could see Agnes and Shona out of the corner of her eye but had no intention of looking up from her notes.

She began reading. Her voice, cracked and garbled, sounded to her like a sixty-year-old’s. Starting with the probable age of the chess pieces, she moved on to the 1831 discovery and the eventual sale to the British Museum. She mentioned the recent speculation that they may have been carved in Iceland by a woman and that forty-nine pieces were still missing. Hearing a ripple of interest run around the room, she glanced up. A sea of interested eyes and warm half-smiles greeted her. Without really meaning to, she sought out Euan, who was standing at the back of the crowd. He raised his eyebrows and nodded, as if to say, ‘I’m impressed.’

Maybe I can do this, she thought. Turning to the second page of her notes, she decided she knew them well enough to no longer read. Her voice relaxed into its usual tone as she continued, looking around the room as she spoke.

‘Whether you believe that the chessmen arrived here in Lewis as a gift to the local bishop and were subsequently buried at Uig bay to protect them from marauders, or that they were found at Mealasta beach, thrown from a ship, wrecked on its way to the Isle of Mann, or indeed one of the many other theories about their mysterious arrival to your beautiful island, no-one can deny their ongoing intrigue. The collection held at the British Museum draws people by the hundreds every week, and many also flock to see the eleven pieces held at the National Museum of Scotland in Edinburgh. I am sure you will agree that the intrigue lies as much with their beauty as the mystery of their origins and discovery.’

Murmurs of ‘aye’ and ‘here, here’ rippled around the room.

‘As the representative of the British Museum here today, I pronounce the exhibit open. Please take time to view these stunning artefacts and perhaps you’ll be inspired to do some research for yourself about their fascinating history. Thank you.’

She breathed a quiet sigh of relief as the crowd gave an enthusiastic round of applause. As she was about to step aside from the podium, a familiar voice came from the back of the room.

‘Ms. Mackay.’ People shuffled aside. ‘Paul Sweeney from The NewGuardian.’ Marianne felt the redness rush to her face as she gripped the podium.

‘Yes, Mr. Sweeney,’ she managed to get out, trying not to respond to his teasing smile. ‘Do you have a question?’

‘Your Master’s thesis, for which I believe you gained a high distinction and an offer to do a doctorate…’ He paused as many eyes turned back to Marianne. She knew he was purposely singing her praises and could not help but feel grateful. ‘It concerns itself with matters of the repatriation of culturally significant museum collection items. What do you say, then, to those, particularly those in the Scottish National Party, who want the entire Lewis Chessmen collection returned to Scotland?’

An appreciative rumble ran through the crowd, several people nodding as they turned to the MP to gauge his reaction.

Marianne grabbed the opportunity to deflect the question. ‘Perhaps the local member would like to address your question?’

‘You all ken my thoughts,’ the MP said, smiling his politician smile, ‘but I, too, would like to hear from Ms Mackay, who is clearly better versed than I am on museum protocol.’

All eyes turned back to Marianne. As the burning red faded to a flush, Marianne managed to think beyond the shock of seeing Paul. She gave him a disgruntled look, which he met with a flirtatious grin – a grin that had overcome her resistance to him in the past.

Luckily, on Agnes’ advice, she’d prepared for this question, even though she hadn’t imagined in her wildest dreams that it would come from Paul.

‘I am not here to discuss the politics of the location of the chess pieces, Mr Sweeney.’

She noticed a couple of people exchange glances as if to say, ‘I told you’, so she raised her voice and continued. ‘However, I will say that the debate seems to me to be about whether we prioritise how many people have access to them, over issues of ownership and cultural relevance. There is also the question of where in Scotland they would reside if they were returned. Some say Edinburgh as the capital, but Edinburgh is a long way from Stornoway.’

Several people in the audience cheered. ‘Here, here.’

‘And why Stornoway?’ someone called out. ‘Is it not the Uig museum where they should be kept?’ The crowd laughed, and a noisy, good-hearted banter broke out as they expressed opinions and cajoled each other.

Marianne raised her voice to quiet the noise. ‘As you see, Mr Sweeney, nothing is simple when it comes to the Lewis people and their much-loved chessmen.’

The crowd turned to Paul then to see how he would respond to her clever retort. Marianne knew there was nothing he loved more than a challenge.

‘And what about the missing pieces. Some say there’s a chance that they are still on the island. Some say the British Museum would be keen to claim them too, if they were ever found? What are your thoughts about that?’

‘I think I would say good luck to the person who finds them,’ Marianne quipped and to her surprise a roar of laughter filled the room as Agnes came to her side.

‘Enough hilarity,’ Agnes said over the din. ‘Please take your time to enjoy our magnificent exhibition on loan from the very generous British Museum. And while you’re here, take a look at all the other exhibits in our wee museum. And if any of you have arms long enough to reach into your customarily long Scottish pockets, there is a donation box at the door.’

The crowd began to mingle around the display cabinet and Marianne wanted nothing more than to scurry to her hotel room, but she knew she was obliged to stay. She gulped the water Shona brought her and realised it was actually a gin and tonic. Shona winked.

‘I had no idea you could do public speaking, darling, let alone stand-up comedy. What a clever wee lass we raised.’

‘Thanks, Mum,’ Marianne said, pleased that by saying ‘we’ Shona had brought her father into the room. She could see Paul manoeuvring his way to her through the crowd and met him with an appreciative smile.

‘Hello,’ he said to Shona. ‘Can I borrow your lovely daughter?’ Shona giggled and Marianne wondered, not for the first time, how it was that Paul charmed everyone he met – men and women, young and old alike.

‘I’d like a photo of you and Agnes alongside the display,’ Paul said taking her by the elbow and guiding her to where Agnes stood talking with some locals.

As he arranged them into position, Marianne whispered, ‘Why are you here?’

‘I’m a journalist and this is a story. Sam told me about the opening last night at drinks, so I got the early morning flight. She also said you were terrified of giving speeches. Didn’t look like it to me. You nailed it.’

As the camera flashed and Agnes wriggled and beamed beside her, Marianne felt her stress subside. She had to admit, it was nice to see Paul. When he put his arm gently around her back to get a lone photo, the familiarity of him was both unsettling and pleasant. And when he said something about meeting up later, before ushering Agnes aside, notebook in hand, Marianne felt a small thrill of pleasure. She watched as he worked his magic with Agnes, his winning smile drawing out a chuckle, and wondered, not for the first time, if he was, after all, ‘the one’.

‘Who is that?’ Shona demanded coming to her side. ‘He seems pretty keen on you. How did he know who I was? Is he married?’

Marianne gave her mother a grimace. They’d had plenty of arguments about her matchmaking attempts. ‘He’s a friend of Sam’s. I see him at the pub occasionally. He was married and is now separated. He was at Dad’s funeral. Any more questions?’

‘You could do worse.’

Marianne shook her head in exacerbation just as Euan came up beside them. ‘Great speech.’

‘Thanks to you, Mum and Agnes,’ she said. She was about to comment on his accordion skills when he turned to Shona.

‘If you’re ready, Shona, we can go now. I’ve got my cousin’s car for the day, but I need to be back before the late ferry. He’s going over to Ullapool.’

A surge of envy rose in Marianne’s chest. ‘Where are you two going?’ she demanded.

‘Oh, just doing some boring family history stuff again, love,’ Shona replied, seeming not to have noticed the rebuke. ‘Euan has offered to drive me to the other side of the island to show me where many of the crofters who ended up in Cape Breton came from. We’ll leave you here being famous,’ she said. ‘I’ll just get my coat, Euan.’

Paul joined them and gave Marianne a friendly kiss on the cheek as he extended his hand to Euan. ‘Paul Sweeney, freelance journalist, currently working as the Arts and Culture reporter for The New Guardian.’

Euan shook his hand but stayed silent. The two men seemed to be summing each other up. Euan dropped his hand and his gaze first and Marianne felt a rush of affection for him. She remembered his gentleness the previous day and realised how similar it was to her father’s understated ways.

‘Euan is here as the BM’s logistics expert,’ she explained to Paul. ‘He set up the security and temperature control. He came to my rescue by helping arrange the exhibition. If it hadn’t been for him, I’d probably still be a quivering mess and they’d still be in the packing box.’

‘Good for you, Euan,’ Paul said. ‘I myself would hate to have to handle such precious objects. I’m quite a clumsy clutz.’

Turning from Euan, he touched Marianne’s arm. ‘When you’re finished here, come and have a drink. I’ve got a couple of things about the collection I want to check with you. I’m staying at The Lewis Arms. We could have dinner, too. My shout.’

Marianne wondered how Euan would respond to Paul’s game of one-upmanship and was about to suggest that they meet back at the museum instead when Shona appeared at the door.

‘Ready when you are, Euan.’

Euan turned to Marianne, his tone more formal than it had been since she’d arrived. ‘I’m finishing for the day. All the controls are working fine. I’ll be in tomorrow to check them. Enjoy your dinner.’

‘That’s fine, Euan. Thanks for your help.’

With a mumbled goodbye and without a backwards look, Euan left with Shona, leaving Marianne wondering if she had mistaken his kindness for something more.

CHAPTER 9

Marianne, Isle of Lewis 2010

Marianne’s head throbbed and she reached for a glass of water. Shona’s bed was empty. The bedside alarm showed eight o’clock. Memories of the previous night’s dinner with Paul emerged out of the blur. She vaguely remembered becoming more impressed with his jokes with every glass of wine. When he’d suggested going for a nightcap in his room, she’d initially resisted, but then persuaded herself that she deserved a reward after not only surviving the opening but doing a surprisingly good job of it.

Pulling herself to sitting, Marianne caught sight of herself in the mirror. Her mascara-smudged face and the tangle of hair would have been comical if she’d been in a different mood. A wave of nausea threatened to engulf her.

Somewhere between the night cap and the bed she’d had the good sense to insist she leave, saying that Shona would be wondering where she was. They’d both laughed; she sounded like a teenager with a curfew. She wondered if Paul had been more sober than her because, after making a joke about not wanting to upset the lovely Shona, he’d insisted on walking her back to the Royal, saying he wasn’t in the habit of sleeping with women who weren’t in the best state to give informed consent. Their lingering goodbye kiss was firmly etched in her memory. She remembered, too, how close she’d come to changing her mind.

‘Maybe we can pick up where we left off back in London,’ he’d said, as she’d drunkenly waved him goodbye.

Pulling herself from the bed, Marianne poured another glass of water. ‘God, you’re a disaster,’ she told herself, remembering that Paul would have already left on the early flight and trying to work out if she was relieved or not.

She luxuriated in the shower, unwilling to face the day. The running water helped settle her thoughts and she washed her hair twice, trying to rid herself of the embarrassment of Paul having seen her so vulnerable.

Makeup did little to disguise the hangover lines and she’d forgotten to bring the right hair products with her to tame the frizzy mess. She found herself hoping that Euan was not at the museum, at least not for a few hours.

Opening her laptop, she was relieved that there was nothing new from George. He must have found the missing sample. Now that the speech was over and had gone so well, her urge to contact him had disappeared altogether. She knew she still had to deal with the plagiarism issue but even that no longer irked her as much. It could wait. With such a massive hangover, today was definitely not the right time.

Shona was the only person left in the dining room when Marianne arrived. The waitress put a pre-ordered plate of eggs, bacon and black pudding in front of her as soon as she sat down. Marianne pushed it away and poured a large cup of coffee and a tumbler of water. If Shona noticed her hangover, she had the good sense to keep it to herself.

‘A friend of Agnes’ has invited me to stay with her at Ness for a few days. She’s a genealogist and has offered to help me get access to some historical records,’ Shona said. ‘You’ll have the room to yourself. You don’t mind, do you, love?’

Marianne could barely think past the next gulp of water. ‘No, of course not,’ she managed.

‘Did you know Euan is thinking of applying for some leave?’

‘Nothing to do with me,’ Marianne snapped. She knew she should have left it at that but her pounding head and a surge of irrational jealousy led her down another path. ‘You two seem to be very pally. Bit inappropriate, don’t you think?’

She knew as soon as she said it that it was both ridiculous and rude. But still, she expected Shona to laugh nervously, as she usually did when Marianne attacked her, but instead, she looked stunned. ‘Inappropriate? What…what are you saying?’

Marianne remained silent.

‘Inappropriate with Euan do you mean?’ Shona’s eyes flared with anger.

Marianne took another gulp of water. She’d obviously gone too far, and Shona was not going to back away this time.

‘If you weren’t so full of yourself, Marianne, you might see what is front of your eyes. How dare you even think that I would …’ She left the words unsaid. ‘And what an insult to Euan, too. Can’t you see it’s you he’s interested in? Your father always said you would give any man that fancied you a hard time. It’s just a pity he isn’t here to tell you himself.’

‘A pity!’ Marianne exclaimed. ‘Is that what you call it?’

Shona slapped the table. ‘No, of course not. It’s something people say, Marianne. Of course his death is not just a pity. It was horrible and wrong and turned our lives upside down. I miss him as much as you, but I can’t and won’t hang on to him like you’re doing, Marianne. I had to move on or I would have gone mad. And you would do well to let go too. He’s not coming back, Marianne.’

‘Let go? Of what?’ Marianne sobbed. ‘Of him? Of the fact that the police have given up looking for the culprit?’

‘Of the anger and the guilt, and yes, ultimately of him. The police have done all they can. You can’t go on wanting answers, wishing you had a magic wand to bring him back. He’s gone, Marianne.’

‘They’re not both gone though, are they? You can’t wish my baby away too. He’s not yours to wish away.’

The words exploded from her, and with them, a tidal wave of emotions. Emotions she’d kept buried ever since she’d passed him to the midwife. Emotions she’d no way of understanding as a sixteen-year-old and still did didn’t know how to express.

Shona sat back, shocked. ‘So that is what we’re really talking about?’

‘He’s not a what, he’s a child. Or was. Dad knew what it meant to me, giving him up. But you’ve never mentioned him. Ever.’

The icy wind blowing across the Minch greeted Marianne as she stormed out of the dining room. She took in large gulps of air. The chill chased away the foggy ache in her head, but she was left with the gut-wrenching knowledge that she’d broken not only the unspoken truce between her and Shona but her own protective barrier. There was no going back.

Instead of turning towards the museum, she stuck to the foreshore, walking past the ferry terminal. A queue of cars was slowly disappearing into its hull and the last of the foot passengers ambled along the footbridge. A large fishing boat made its way across the harbour into the open sea, surging forward, strong and sure, while smaller fishing boats kept to the edges. The wind strengthened, as if reproaching Marianne for her travesty. She watched the ferry disappear around the headland, wishing she, too, could disappear into the nothingness of the ocean. The wind’s bitter cold confronted her and she heard her father’s voice as clear as if he were beside her. It’s time, Marianne. Your sadness is too much to carry alone. But was it sadness or guilt or something else that weighed upon her?

No longer able to stop thinking of her son, she allowed the long-buried images to emerge, and with them, the dreadful emptiness that had settled in as she passed him over. But how could she have done otherwise – she being a child herself? Staring out to sea, she let the feelings fill her, feelings she’d held back for so long for fear they would destroy her.

‘Just you come,’ she’d said to her father the morning she’d left the hospital. ‘I can’t manage talking with Mum. Not yet.’

And she never had. Until now.

A gull screeched above her and the wind dropped. A dull, determined sun pushed through the clouds. She felt her father’s comforting arms surround her, just as they had that day. She closed her eyes, waiting for the feelings to either disappear or destroy her. They did neither. They filled her every pore, but they were soft, not brutal, forgiving, not vengeful.

It’s time, Marianne. Her eyes flew open to the stunning realisation: it was not her father’s voice, but her own. But time for what, exactly? To talk to Shona, certainly. Shona was only doing what Marianne had demanded of her all those years ago, when she’d said she didn’t want to talk about that time in her life. She could recall several occasions when Shona tried to raise the subject, but Marianne had shut her down.

A young woman pushing a pram walked towards her. She said something to her in Gaelic, ciamar a tha sibh, as if she would understand. Pulling herself back to the day’s reality, Marianne somehow managed a smile and repeated the warm, furry sounds of the words as best she could, kept saying them softly until she got to the museum, hanging on to them as if they were a lifeline.

Agnes was shepherding a small group of visitors into the room dedicated solely to peat and its critical role in the survival of the islanders over the centuries. Marianne made her way upstairs to the chessmen exhibition, relieved to find the room empty. Going to the window, she watched people walking along Francis Street, going about their business: locals exchanging pleasantries when their paths crossed, tourists looking in shop windows and cars rushing to be somewhere else. Stornoway life. From where she stood, it looked so simple, as if they had not a care in the world. But she knew that could not be true. We’re all burdened with something, she thought.

Tentatively, fearful of how it would make her feel, she allowed herself to picture her baby. His tiny lips and grasping fist. She smiled at him. ‘I just wanted to do the right thing, for you and me,’ she whispered, before folding the image away again. ‘Maybe it is time,’ she said to the chess queen.

She could hear Agnes downstairs, espousing the wonders of the ancient Callanish standing stones as she armed the tourists with brochures and ushered them out the door. Has it come to this? Marianne thought. Me talking to inanimate chess pieces? She shook her head and smiled at the absurdity of it all as she went downstairs to make a cup of tea.

‘Here’s to the talk of the town,’ Agnes said, taking the steaming cup Marianne had poured for her. For an awful second, Marianne thought she meant her drunken session with Paul, or worse, her row with Shona. But the admiration in Agnes’ eyes quickly reassured her.

‘Everyone expected the British Museum representative would insist that the collection should stay in London. You’ve won more than a few fans, my dear. And the way you managed that reporter. That certainly appealed to their distrust of the English! Present company excepted, of course. All the Macleod’s are claiming you as theirs.’ Agnes chuckled, finishing her second shortbread.

‘How does that work? I’m English. My Lewis link is from long ago.’ But even as she protested, Marianne knew the idea that she might somehow belong to this strange place appealed to her.

‘We Scots hang on to our own,’ Agnes said, picking up a pile of new brochures to fill the stand.

With no new visitors in sight, Marianne poured another tea and wandered into the adjoining room. A black and white photo of a woman carrying a creel on her back grabbed her attention. The card read ‘Collecting peat, circa late 1800s’. It struck Marianne that it’d been taken not long after the chess pieces were found. The woman’s hunched-over body initially gave Marianne the impression that she was about fifty, but on closer inspection, Marianne realised the woman was about her own age. There was a familiarity about her, the way she scowled as she met the camera’s intrusion. Behind the scowl was an intelligence, a confidence, as if she knew her place in her world. She seemed to be staring straight back at Marianne, challenging her, saying with her gaze, ‘Do not feel sorry for me. You have your own problems to solve.’

So drawn was she to the woman, Marianne didn’t notice Euan enter the room. When he spoke, she jumped, spilling the remnants of her tea. She grabbed a towel to wipe up the mess, annoyed at being taken away from the woman. Seeing her scowl, the amusement left his eyes, and he took the cup from her.

‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.’

His soft voice and the genuineness of his apology made it impossible to stay upset. Before she could respond, Agnes joined them.

‘Well, come on then, Euan my boy. Tell us what you and the lovely Shona found out yesterday. She was all a fluster over dinner. Stories of this road here and that track there and sand dunes and underground chambers. I couldn’t make head nor tail of what she was saying, to be honest.’

‘We went to Uig and came home via Callanish. Yes, she was very excited. It was great being with someone seeing the island for the first time. She reminds me of my mum.’

Marianne grimaced, remembering her nasty accusation and departing words to Shona.

‘Come on, I’ll put the kettle on again,’ Agnes said, ‘and you can show us on the map where you went.’

Marianne was beginning to realise that when the islanders said ‘a cup of tea’ they actually meant an endless stream of tea from morning to night. Keeping an eye out for museum visitors, they settled around an Ordnance Survey map Agnes produced from under the front desk. Euan pointed to where they’d driven.

‘Shona has a great resource written by a Reverend Alexander Macleod in 1833,’ Euan said.

‘The Statistical Account, I would think,’ said Agnes. ‘She’s done some excellent research, your mum,’ she said to Marianne. ‘You should be proud of her. So many women just shrivel up when they’re widowed. By the way, where is she today?’

Marianne shuffled back from the table. ‘I – she – we had a bit of a -’ Before she could finish her sentence, Shona appeared, as if on cue, bringing with her a bag of freshly baked scones. Marianne caught her eye and mouthed ‘sorry’.

‘Eat them while they’re still warm,’ Shona said, giving Marianne’s shoulder a gentle squeeze as she put local cream and jam on the table. Marianne squeezed her hand in return, marvelling at Shona’s ability to bounce back.

‘Ah you’ve been to the bakery I see,’ Agnes said. ‘Euan has been showing us where you two went yesterday.’

Shona pointed to a tiny town on the west coast. ‘Uig is likely where our family came from, before they went to Cape Breton. Sorry, Marianne,’ she said ‘I am too obsessed with the past. I should remember it’s the living who need my attention.’

Agnes and Euan suddenly became intensely interested in the map while Marianne gave Shona a hug, relieved and surprised at how good it felt.

Shona’s eyes were still teary as she turned back to the others. ‘We don’t have any official papers but the family stories that have been passed down have all been about Uig.’

‘So you have no records from here? Diaries, letters?’

Shona shook her head. ‘Not really. I have a piece of embroidered cloth and there is a photo taken at a family gathering in Cape Breton – probably at a wedding, my cousin said. It’s damaged and taken from a distance, so you can hardly see their facial features. Here, it’s on my phone.’

Shona flicked through her phone. Marianne felt Euan lean in beside her, not touching, just close. She’d never liked standing close to others; she had what Sam called a heightened need for personal space. But Euan’s closeness felt okay – well, more than okay. She imagined his breath in her freshly washed hair.

‘The women are all wearing hats,’ Shona said, as she passed the phone around, ‘but even in that photo you can pick out the thick black Macleod hair on the men. That’s certainly where Marianne gets her looks from. Her father’s people were more Nordic looking – redheaded, with pale skin.’

Marianne caught her eye and smiled. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘He would always say how lucky I was not to have his fly away hair when he helped me brush mine as a kid. He was making me feel better about my mop, I guess.’

There. She’d done it; described a whole memory about him without welling up. Shona gave her a knowing smile before continuing the photo conversation.

‘Look at those boys, all wearing those funny coats. Some too big and some too small. And look at those weird buttons. My cousin Rosemary said the coats were probably brought with them from Lewis. They look like they’re made from the tweed woven here.’

Marianne remembered the tweed she’d picked up in the shop and wondered if their coats had the same smell and texture.

‘So you don’t know for sure where the family lived here on Lewis?’ Agnes asked.

‘Not really. The Canadian records are fairly sketchy too, so it’s mostly just family stories and this blurry photo. As I said, the only other thing I inherited was a cloth embroidered with some random flowers and other squiggles. Some of them look like dates but I’m not sure. I can show you later. I brought it here with me.’

‘So, you think the coats came from Lewis?’ Marianne asked. ‘Are those buttons normal? They look huge.’

‘Lewis and Harris were famous for their weaving – still are,’ Agnes said. ‘So it’s quite likely they were taken with them. Probably the only clothes they had. As for the buttons – they do look rather large. Although, people used bones and teeth and even walrus tusks to make them.’

‘Oh, yes,’ exclaimed Shona. ‘That’s what my cousin said about the buttons. Our grandmother said they were made from walrus tusk.’

‘Like the chess pieces,’ Euan said.

‘Well, not quite as ornate, I expect,’ Shona laughed. ‘They were covered with tweed she said.’

‘That would be unlikely, I think,’ Marianne said. ‘Walrus tusk was quite rare. Probably bone or teeth.’

The mention of substitute mediums for carving reminded her of George’s email about the replica. She’d checked just before going down to breakfast and he still hadn’t responded. Try as she might, she couldn’t get rid of a vague nagging feeling that something was amiss. She made a mental note to phone him.

Euan stood as they finished the last crumbs of the scones. ‘I’m off doon the road then. If anyone needs a chauffeur again, let me know. I’ve still got my cousin’s car. I’ll be back around three to help close up and make sure everything is okay with the display.’

Marianne felt a sharp pain in her shin and Shona seemed to be staring very hard at the map.

‘Marianne, it might be a good idea for you to go to Uig Bay and Mealasta,’ Agnes said, ‘just in case you get asked about the area where the chessmen were found.’

Marianne shivered at the thought. ‘I’m not too keen on big open spaces or looming, rugged mountains. They freak me out.’

‘She’s been like this since she was a kid,’ Shona explained to the others. ‘I thought going to Canada would cure her, but I think it made it worse. I agree with Agnes, though. I think you should take a trip over there. I can come too if you like.’

‘Uig Bay isn’t rugged at all. Neither is Mealasta, although we’ll pass some pretty rugged spots along the way,’ Euan suggested.

‘You could stay in the car, I guess. And we can turn back if you start to feel bad,’ Agnes said.

Their combined kindness surrounded her like a cocoon. ‘Okay. I’ll be alright in the car, as long as I can sit in the back. I do want to see where the chess pieces were found.’

Shona left the museum soon after Euan, announcing that she was going to the library. Revived by the tea and scones, Marianne met with several visitors who were there to see the chessmen and answered questions as best she could. When Agnes left for a late lunch, Marianne readily agreed to being left alone. It would give her a chance to reflect again on all that had happened. Exhausted but curiously calm, she allowed herself once more to think of her baby and tried to picture him as an adult. He’d been born with reddish hair, so she presumed that he was still that colouring. But was he tall, like his father, or short and dumpy like her? Was he a science-y nerd or more into creative pursuits? Did he even know he was adopted? Was he happy? Did he, too, feel like a piece of his life was missing?

She went to look again at the photo of the woman carrying the peat, remembering Agnes’ comment about her own ‘Macleod look’. Getting out a small mirror from her bag, she compared her reflection to the photo. Her own nose was thinner and the woman’s black hair even more wiry, but the thick eyebrows, defiant eyes and wide mouth were almost identical. Certainly, the short stature was the same. And that scowl was very familiar.

A sudden gust slammed the front door shut. A rickety window rattled and once again she heard a whirring noise. She reasoned that it was just the building adjusting to the day’s temperature changes but she couldn’t shake the thought that something more otherworldly was happening. She looked at the staircase and imagined it swarming with school children and wondered if Calum Macleod or his future wife had been amongst them. And what about the merchant who’d taken the chess pieces to Edinburgh? Had he, too, been here at one time? Did these four walls hold the secret to the location of the missing chessmen?

Propping the entrance door open to let in the breeze, she loaded a CD of traditional Gaelic music. Listening to the comforting, whimsical music, she wondered if Shona was right about Euan being attracted to her. He had a gravitas about him that she liked. Serious without being sombre. She was obviously easily captured by Paul’s charisma, but it was also a reason to be wary with him. Euan had a solidness to him, though. A reliability.

‘As if my life isn’t complicated enough,’ she said to the dark woman in the photo and somewhat reluctantly checked her emails. One was from Paul and one from George. She opened the one from Paul first.

‘Dear Ms Mackay, I took great pleasure attending to you presentation. Attached is a copy of my draft article, which I have also sent to the BM’s comms department.

I look forward to completing the interview with you upon your return to London.’

Marianne smiled. Anyone else reading it would have thought the ‘attending to you’ was a typo. And only she knew what he really meant by the ‘interview’.

She typed back.

‘All further attendances and interviews will need to be negotiatedupon my return to London. I look forward to reading your article. Warm regards

M M Mackay.’

Taking a deep breath, she opened George’s email.

‘Marianne, I have been given a draft of an article that The New Guardian are about to publish. It reports that you took it upon yourself to respond to suggestions from the crowd that the chess pieces be returned permanently to Scotland. It referred to a SNP member making comments. Had I known there was a political aspect to the opening, I would never have allowed you to go.

Refer any further political questions to the BM’s comms team. On another even more serious matter I have lodged a request for an investigation into the missing chess piece. Our records show that the item was receipted by you on July 16th. It has not been seen since.

The Chief Executive has been notified regarding both issues and will no doubt address them with you.’

Marianne sat back, breathless. What was he on about? What had Paul written? And surely a worthless replica did not warrant an investigation until a thorough search had been carried out. She knew for certain that she’d put the replica chess piece in the transfer box. Only her and George had the code. If it wasn’t there, either he or his PA must have misplaced it. She tried to prevent the nagging premonition she’d had earlier from growing into a certainty. She’d done nothing wrong, of that she was sure.

Hoping to quell her rising anxiety she opened Paul’s article, her eyes racing to find out how it had caused so much trouble. Written as a feature, in true Paul style, it was chatty, humorous with a pinch of politics. He’d focussed on the historical financial aspects of the 1831 find, mentioning the original payment of £30 to the merchant Roderick Ryrie and speculating as to how much of that may, or may not, have been paid to the finder, Malcolm (aka Calum) Macleod, of Penny Donald croft. Nothing controversial in any of that.

‘The local member delicately side-stepped the political and ethical issues of equity and repatriation and referred them back to Marianne Mackay, British Museum’s curator currently in Lewis, whose Master’s thesis dealt with that very issue.’

No wonder George was fuming. To be publicly reminded that she was more qualified than him would not have gone down well. And if he had plagiarised her paper, he may well be getting nervous that he’d soon be outed. Julia would almost certainly read the article, but would she make the connection with George’s conference paper? Either way, George’s panicking now made sense. Paul was someone you wanted fighting on your side, but he might have just made things worse for her. Part of her wanted to smack him for using this information and the other part wanted to kiss him for cleverly promoting her achievements to Julia.

Buoyed by the knowledge that George’s accusation about the missing replica was born from his fear of being exposed, she reread his email. The omission of any reference to her speech or her Master’s thesis was telling. He clearly thought attack was the best defence.

She began typing an email refuting his allegations but hesitated, realising that anything she said now would be an official record of her response to the allegations. If it had just been about the speech, she wouldn’t have been worried. She had plenty of witnesses to what she’d said and the fact that it had not been political in any way. But the insinuation that she’d lost an item, even a worthless replica, was much more serious. If she emailed him now, in the heat of the moment, she could be setting herself up for further accusations. Marking his email as unread, she remembered something Sam said about revenge being best served cold. She would need to think this through.

The music finished and Marianne realised it was almost three o’clock. Checking that the security was on upstairs, she grabbed her bag and took one last look at the woman carrying the creel laden with peat.

‘You look like someone who knows how to get what you want,’ she said.

Euan met her at the door. ‘Who were you talking to? You haven’t met Agnes’ ghost, have you?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous. Where are the others?’

‘We’re to pick them up at Agnes’ place,’ he said. ‘All ready to face the wild side?’

‘As I’ll ever be.’

CHAPTER 10

Marianne, Isle of Lewis 2010

Agnes was not quite ready when they arrived. Shona came out while Euan went inside.

‘Are you okay?’ she asked.

Marianne nodded. ‘It is probably time we cleared the air.’

‘I’m sorry if I’ve let you down all these years. I do think of him, your baby. I think, too, of all that I should have done to support you to keep him.’

‘No, that’s not what I wanted. Not then and not since. He would have become your child. I couldn’t have lived with that. No, having him adopted was what I wanted.’

‘But you’ve never wanted to talk about him. I did try, often, at first, but you’d just shut me down and walk away.’

Euan and Agnes came towards them before Marianne could answer. She gave Shona a hug. ‘Let’s talk again tonight. I don’t know why but all of a sudden, I want to talk about him. And Dad.’

Marianne insisted that Agnes take the front passenger seat and Shona sat with her in the back. The town quickly disappeared as they drove into open land.

‘We’ll take the single-track road,’ Euan said, veering right. He put some music on and they all settled into a comfortable silence, deep in their own thoughts. Soon, all Marianne could see was flat, empty spaces dotted with lakes and occasional shed-like buildings. Surprised at how relaxed she felt, Marianne admired the landscape. It had a beauty of its own. The mossy greens mixed with soft browns reminded her of the tweeds she’d seen in the little shop. Even though it was nearly four o’clock, the sun, partly hidden behind high grey clouds, was still high in the sky, reminding Marianne how far north they were. A long way from all she knew. A long way from all she’d been trying to avoid, too. Far enough, she thought, to start thinking about them and making some decisions.

‘They still dig peat here,’ Agnes eventually said, breaking the silence ‘And that there,’ she pointed to a tiny building made of tin, ‘is a sheiling. During the summer, the women and children would come here from the coast to graze cattle and sheep while the men went fishing. They’d dig the peat as well. We’ve got some photos at the museum of women carrying the peat in creels. There’s one on display now.’

‘Yes, I was looking at it earlier,’ Marianne said. ‘Do you know who she was?’

‘No. There is nothing to identify her, although one old local seemed to think she was a Macleod from around Uig. He said his grandmother knew of her and she told him the woman had a strangeness about her.’

‘I can imagine that. She is pretty stern looking,’ Marianne said remembering her own likeness to the woman.

‘Apparently, she rarely spoke a word,’ Agnes continued ‘but she had the ability to know what others were thinking. The man I spoke to said she’d approached his grandmother when she was a wee child and told her to stop worrying about the fairies getting her. “You’ve done nothing wrong sweet child,” she said to her. “It’s him who should be worried, for the little people will come for him before the moon rises again.”’

‘That’s a strange thing to say to a child,’ Shona said.

‘Yes, but the wean had been pleased to hear it. Her father had given her a beating that very morning and told her that the fairies were coming and would swap her for a good child. They lived near the ancient stones, and such was her fear, she avoided walking near them whenever she moved the sheep that day.’

‘Why would she avoid them?’

‘Some believed – and some still believe – it’s where you can be taken into the other world and then passed back again, changed forever.’

Marianne shivered. The story echoed her irrational fear of open spaces and mountains. To her, they felt like places unbound by the usual rules. Places where anything could happen.

‘And did the other part of the story come true?’ Shona asked. ‘The bit about her father?’

‘Aye, according to the mannie I spoke to, his great-grandfather met his death falling from a cliff that very month. His body was never found. After he was gone, it came out that he regularly beat all his children and his wifie as well. The family lived on happier than it had ever been.’

‘So, it could be true that the woman in the photo had powers,’ Marianne said remembering her unexplained experiences earlier. ‘She thinks someone should try to find the missing pieces.’

Agnes and Shona spun around to look at her and Euan laughed. ‘Does she now? Find them using magical powers, do you mean?’

For a moment, Marianne considered telling them about her experiences with the photo, but couldn’t put it into words. ‘Sorry. I meant me. I wonder if someone should make a serious effort to find them, to complete the collection. No, not by magical powers, a proper archaeological dig, I mean. As far as I can tell, that has never been done. Or at least not recorded.

‘You’re right.” Agnes said. ‘What exactly are you thinking?’

‘Well, it just seems unusual that all but forty-nine pieces made it in mostly pristine condition but there has been no sign of the missing ones. Perhaps they are still in the sandhill, maybe just got separated from the others.’

Euan looked at her in the rear vision mirror. ‘Do you think that is feasible?’

She shrugged. ‘I don’t see why not. If nobody else has ever located the find site – yes, it could be feasible. Certainly worth a look – if we knew exactly where the find site was, of course. Which we don’t.’

As they talked, the landscape changed from flat to hilly. They’d re-joined the main road and, in the distance, Marianne could see the mountainous area they were heading towards. A ripple of fear gripped her. She turned away from it to enjoy, at least for the time being, the more manageable beauty of the nearby rolling green hills and tiny lochs. They crossed a small bridge, veering north towards a vast expanse of water, sparkling in the late afternoon light.

‘Is that the sea?’ Shona asked.

‘It’s Loch Roag. Some call it a land loch, although there is a narrow opening to the sea further north,’ Euan answered. ‘The best mussels you’ll ever eat are found there.’

The road followed the lochside and Marianne marvelled at the many shades of blue and green before her. Rocky outcrops jutted into the water, forming tiny coves. The remnants of cottages, abandoned long ago, littered the shore, adding a sadness to the undeniable beauty. She remembered their discussion about the Clearances and realised how hard it must it have been to leave such a beautiful place.

Ahead, a small collection of whitewashed cottages, still inhabited, spread along the water’s edge. ‘That’s Eanacleit. It’s where my parents’ croft is,’ Euan said. ‘Well, mine now, I guess, if I want it.’

‘Oh, Euan, it’s beautiful here. How could you have ever left to go to London?’ Shona said, echoing Marianne’s thoughts. Euan nodded but didn’t answer. Marianne noticed his jaw tighten a little and realised she’d been so caught up in her own problems she’d never considered that being on the island wasn’t all straightforward for Euan.

They drove in silence for another twenty minutes, seeing almost no evidence of habitation. Finally, a sign indicated they were near Uig. Small cottages dotted the hills and the tiny township could be seen nestled among the grassy sandhills.

‘I had no idea it was so small,’ Marianne said. ‘I’d always imagined a large township.’

‘Aye,’ said Agnes ‘it’s remote now. But back in the twelfth century, when the chess pieces likely arrived on Lewis, it’s probable that Uig Bay was one of the major harbours between Norway and Iceland, onto Ireland and the Isle of Mann. Ships came here from Trondheim, Reykjavik, Dublin, and Douglas. Don’t forget, the Hebrides were not part of Scotland back then. This whole coast was Viking ruled. We even found the remains of a Viking princess hereabouts.’

Leaving the main road, Euan drove onto a single sandy track. As they reached the top of a small crest, Marianne gasped. Before her was a large, sandy beach. Uig Bay. Euan parked the car and, as if waiting for this moment, the sun pushed its way through the clouds, lighting up the turquoise water with thousands of sparkling diamonds.

Shona turned to Marianne. ‘Will you be okay if I get out?’ The others hesitated, waiting on her answer. She took a deep breath.

‘I’ll come too.’

Without saying a word, Shona and Agnes kept either side of her, Euan close behind. Her pulse raced and she found it hard to breathe, but together they walked to the top of a small rise where a ruin overlooked the panorama. To the south, layers of mountains loomed, formidable and daunting. Her impulse was to turn back to the car but the longer she stood there, the calmer she felt. Staring at the mountains she told herself they were not her enemy, just obstacles. The midwife’s words came back to her again.

You are stronger than you think, Marianne.

The others had wandered away a little to the left. She walked to the right. With every step, she felt the panic fall away. She reached the far side of the ruin, fighting off the fear that she might, at any moment, walk through an invisible time barrier. Sitting on the tumbled down wall, she felt its permanency, persuading herself that holding on to the stones would keep her in the here and now.

Taking in the spectacular landscape, Marianne realised just how extraordinary it was that the chessmen were found at all. How had they come to be here? And who had buried them?

She imagined the bay dotted with merchant ships carrying exotic goods and crewed by men with strange, foreign voices. Who had stood here before her, on this very spot and, like her, watched as ships set sail to tackle the turbulent waters beyond the headlands? She pondered on the fate of those whose ships had been cast up on the surrounding rocky shores, never to be seen by their loved ones again. She saw once more the challenging eyes of the peat woman. Overhead, a gull swooped and the wind whispered in her ear.

Clutching the stones to remind herself where she was, she waved the others over. Shona sat down beside her. The other two were deep in conversation about the chess men.

‘We can probably assume they came to Lewis not long after they were carved,’ Agnes mused. ‘Both theories about the reason they were here hold up. It could have been from a shipwreck, or they could have been brought ashore for some ecclesiastical ceremony. Lewis had strong political and religious connections with both Iceland and Norway.’

‘But there is no record of them before 1831,’ Marianne said. ‘When they were presented in Edinburgh by Ryrie, Calum Macleod didn’t even get a mention as the finder. That didn’t happen until much later.’

‘You would think finding such unique artefacts would have been mentioned in someone’s diary,’ Shona said.

‘Where did the Macleods live?’ Marianne asked as they walked back to the car.

‘Penny Donald,’ Agnes said. ‘We’ll see their cottage as we drive on to Mealasta.’

Shona and Agnes had already taken the back seat so she sat up front. The open, sandy hillsides gave way to mountains and soon the road was lined by a menacing rock face on both sides. Marianne’s pulse raced and she gripped the edge of her seat. Shona placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder.

‘Even I’m feeling pretty daunted by these mountains,’ she said. ‘I can certainly understand why people back then attributed supernatural qualities to their surrounds. Just imagine the courage of those who lived here when there was no science to explain things.’

Euan put a CD into the player. A deep male voice sang in Gaelic, melancholic and haunting, accompanied by the low thrum of a bagpipe and the eerie refrain of a flute. Marianne closed her eyes and allowed the music to wash over her. It captured Shona’s words about the supernatural, but carried deeper feelings of belonging and pride, and quelled her fear, entering the empty space inside her.

Opening her eyes, she caught Euan watching her. ‘Do you like it? The music?’

‘Just right,’ she said, smiling.

Emerging from the pass, they travelled parallel to the coast. The cliffs faced defiantly towards the Atlantic. A ridge of jagged granite, sturdy and grounded, seemed to shout back at the surging ocean. You can try to wear me down, but I’ll not be moved. Marianne thought about the woman in the photo and wondered if humans take on the characteristics of the countryside they live in. The land and the woman certainly shared the same look of courage and defiance.

Leaving the cliff top, they drove through the tiny settlement of Breanish until the road finally wound its way to a grassy beachside carpark. Marianne felt a strange energy coming from below her as she made her way to the edge of the sandhills that ran down to the small sandy beach. The wind came from the north-east and the ocean in front of them appeared calm, but when a swell broke on the rocks, it bore testament to the power of the current.

‘There’s many a ship has come to grief on these shores,’ Agnes said coming up beside her. ‘But the winds brought good things, too. Hereabouts was known for the kelp harvesting.’

‘Kelp? That’s seaweed, isn’t it? What was it used for?’ Shona asked as she joined them.

‘For centuries, it was used as fertiliser,’ Agnes said. ‘The crofters would gather it after a storm and dig it into the soil to improve their crop yield. During the industrial revolution, burnt kelp was used to make glass and soap. When supplies from Europe dried up during the war with the French, the landlords on the islands saw the opportunity to make a profit from the ready supply of kelp in the Hebrides. Crofters were forced to harvest it and were given strict quotas to meet, no matter what the weather conditions.’

‘So did the crofters make money out of the kelp too?’ Marianne asked.

‘No, they were paid a pittance. And while they were collecting it, standing for hours at a time in that freezing water, they had no time to tend their crofts, neglecting their animals and gardens and crops, a fact that was used against them in the time of the Clearances. Aye, the kelp industry was a big contributor to things going wrong here on Lewis.’

Marianne heard the sadness in Agnes’ voice and wondered how her own ancestors had survived such hardships. She watched Euan as he strode with measured steps to the far side of the bay, stepping over sandy knolls covered with moss and sea grasses. Looking back to the swirling sea, it was easy to understand how a high tide could wash away a sandhill to expose a hidden chamber.

‘Agnes, do you think it is true that a cow was involved in finding the chessmen?’ Marianne asked.

Agnes chuckled. ‘Well, it’s a story that some tell with surety. I myself think that there’s more credibility in the story that has Calum Macleod blaming his coo because he was afeared he would get into trouble for uncovering what he thought of as the devil’s playthings.’

‘And the Mealasta sand hill some say they were found in?’ Marianne went on. ‘Does anyone know exactly where it was?’

‘No. It was never recorded anywhere as far as we know. And, well, see for yoursel’,’ Agnes said sweeping her hands across the enormous vista. ‘One dune is hard to distinguish from another and they move with the winds and the tides. It is pretty much agreed on Lewis that they were sold from Penny Donald, but that doesn’t mean they were found there. They could have been buried in any of the many underground souterrains.’

‘Souterrain? What are they?’

‘Man-made chambers dug into the hillsides. Probably used for storage of butter and smoked fish. They’re scattered right across the island.’

‘So do they think they know who buried the chessmen?’ Shona asked.

‘No. There’s fanciful stories of murder and mayhem but the most credible in my mind is that of the Red Ghillie. That one goes that a local ghillie came across a Norwegian merchant who’d come to these lands when his ship was wrecked. The merchant spoke of a bag of ivory figures, and they came to this spot looking for it. It is said the ghillie killed the merchant when he did not lead him to the treasure. He confessed to the killing when he was brought forward for execution on Gallows Hill in Stornoway for another murder. Prior to that he said the man had waded into the water and swum until he disappeared, like a selkie returning to his seal form.’

Marianne shivered, imaging the shipwrecked merchant. If that story was even partly true, it was a miracle that the chess pieces survived at all. And not impossible that those missing were still somewhere nearby, waiting to be found.

‘There’s another part of that story too. Some say a woman called Morven the Sighted was the one who found the merchant and the chess men. The story goes that she gave birth to twins, a boy and a girl, after the merchant disappeared. The boy had strange ways about him and he, too, disappeared at sea. They say Morven lived out her last days here at Mealasta in a place sometimes called the House of the Black Women.’

‘Right here?’ Marianne exclaimed.

‘See those walls?’ Agnes said pointing out a line of stones. ‘Some think it is the boundary of the House of the Black Women.’

A strong sensation passed over Marianne and the words from the mysterious voice in the museum sounded in her ears.

‘But how and where do I start?’

‘What’s that, love?’ Shona asked.

Marianne shook her head, annoyed at herself for talking out loud. ‘Nothing, just thinking about that woman Morven and how she must have lived.’

Euan had re-joined the group and was standing even closer than Shona, giving Marianne a questioning look. She raised her eyebrows at him, challenging him to comment but he returned to scanning the landscape. Turning back to the ocean, he lifted his arms up and seemed to be pointing at two spots out to sea.

‘What are you doing?’ Marianne asked.

He dropped his hands, a sheepish look on his face. ‘I was just wondering how someone would hope to find the chessmen again if they buried them. When my grandfather took me fishing, he’d line up two landmarks so he could re-find a favourite location. I was trying to work out if you could do it on land as well.’

‘And?’

‘And I’m still none the wiser,’ he laughed.

‘It’s a good point though,’ Shona joined in. ‘Surely you wouldn’t bury something unless you knew exactly where to find it again.’

A gull swooped past them before rising high on a sudden gust of cold wind.

‘Come on,’ Agnes said. ‘I’m getting cold. All this madness and mayhem has given me a hunger.’

Marianne sat in the front again on the way back. Reaching for the handbrake, Euan accidently brushed her leg. Marianne smiled to herself, hoping it had been deliberate.

CHAPTER 11

Morven, Isle of Lewis 1190

I could say I didn’t know what enticed me down to the dunes that day after the storm. But that would be a lie. For well I knew it was the taishataragh. Some call it the second sight, but for me it is a calling. A force, a pull, a desire even. Something I cannot ignore. Something I must keep secret.

Where it comes from, I cannot say, just that, once it is upon me, I must obey, or be wracked with foreboding: a foreboding greater even than the fear of the damnation and certain death I risk if the Churchmen were to discover my secret.

The storm, when it came that night, was like no other I’d known. It rose from nowhere, announced with an almighty clap of thunder. It came upon us with no notice. No notice for most, that is. Even Seamus, who is known to most as Dearg ro-shealladh – red weather reader – for his colouring and his uncanny ability to read the weather, was taken by surprise.

But the Calling rumbled within me. So, I bid him fetch the animals in from the far field. He stopped his work just long enough to glance at the horse grazing without fear and then at the sky, before turning back to his chore.

‘There’s no need, Morven,’ he argued, wiping his unwieldy brow and stamping from one foot to the other, like a stallion preparing to mate, brutish and determined. ‘Stop you fussing.’

‘Have you not noticed the birds have disappeared?’ I said. ‘And I heard a she-wolf cry high on the Measlasbhal.’ The mention of the high country, the home of the fairy-people, prompted him to put down his trowel. It was then he saw on my face the words I could not say. He’d seen that look before. When the Calling was on me, he knew to heed it.

It was near on dinner time before he returned to the broch. I’d gathered the chickens and put them in the creel baskets, three in each, and covered them with our only spare blanket. It was the one we kept for deep winter’s nights and now would smell of wet feathers and shit. But the chickens provided our food throughout all seasons. It was small sacrifice. Even they seemed to know that a change was upon us, for they came to me easily, nine in all, nestling in the three baskets like one ball of feathers with three heads. As I threw the blanket over them, I looked to where the sun had fallen into the sea and saw then the wall of black clouds approaching. And yet, there was no wind to be felt. The stillness sent a tremor through me and I said a prayer to Taranis, god of thunder and lightning, asking that he spare us the worst of his rage. I crossed myself too and prayed to the Churchmen’s god to look down on us with forgiveness for our sins.

‘I’ve penned the sheep on the leeside. We’ll share our lodgings tonight with the cow and the pony,’ Seamus said as guided the two beasts ahead of him into the cottage. Pulling off his boots, he slumped next to the fireplace onto the only chair.

‘Will the roof be safe, Seamus?’ I asked. At midsummer we’d removed the old thatch, spreading it on the field, and replaced it with grass and heather gathered from the machair. The new roof was thick and dry and filled the room with its sweet fragrance. But the netting that held it was old and the winds on this side of the island ferocious.

I’d been raised at Steornabhagh, a sheltered bay on the opposite coast, facing the rising sun across the Minch. But my grandmother had been from nearby Uig and her father’s people from Islandia. She’d told me terrible tales, sagas she called them, of the destruction by the Norsemen’s gods, Skadi and Njord, the winter gods of wind and sea.

As we finished our broth and prepared for our bed, I told Seamus her story. ‘My Grannie taught me to be sure to offer Skadi or Njord thanks, for if they are angered, they’ll summon Magni, son of Thor and the god of strength. Together, they will take revenge on all those who stand in their way. She said she’d seen cottages such as ours thrown into the sky and animals hurled to the sea.’

But Seamus would have none of her fanciful tales. ‘Ach, awa’ with you and your grandmother’s tales. For was she not known to be possessed by the fairies herself? This house has seen many a storm and not once has it lost its roof. Go to our bed, wife. I’ll lie with the beasts tonight. They’ll be frightened enough at being penned in the summer. My snoring will keep them calm.’

But I knew there would be little sleep for any of us, man, woman or beast, for I knew it was no ordinary storm, but a tempest. And even as my heart beat in fear of it, the Calling was still strong upon me. I feared it was the Final Coming I’d heard the Churchmen preach about. The words of their bible came back to me as I lay listening to the unearthly howl outside.

Woe, woe, woe inhabitants of Earth. Heaven’s great trumpets will call as angry angels prepare to rain upon us their retributions of hail and fire and blood. Mountains will be flung to the sea and there will be a charge of horses and chariots running to battle.

I threw back the covers and knelt beside the bed. I prayed for forgiveness to the one god, the god of the Churchmen, asking to be saved from eternal damnation, though I knew not what I’d done that would bring such a storm. Then I called to the northern gods of my grandmother’s sagas too.

It raged against us, coming, it seemed, from all directions. A shrill whirring almost drowned out the sounds of the animals as they bellowed and screeched and the rain found its way through the thatch, bringing with it a shower of twigs. Seamus spent the night on his knees, chanting to quell his fear. I curled beneath the covers, wishing he would come to me. A child created in the face of death would surely be a child of strength and wisdom.

Just before dawn, the storm left us as quickly as it had arrived. We lit a candle and gave thanks that our roof was intact. Opening the door, we could see that our garden was overturned. The animals all fell asleep, innocently, or was it knowingly, trusting that the danger had passed.

We crawled into our bed. Seamus’ animal scent calmed me.

‘I thought God had come to seek retribution on us,’ I whispered as I pulled him to me. ‘Do you suppose we are the only ones saved Seamus?’

‘Nay woman. Here on the island, we’re all partakers of the Christ’s communion and we will share in his salvation.’ My body moved against him, but he turned from me and his snores settled, regular and deep, once again leaving my desire unabated.

It had been many moons since we’d been together as man and wife. Once, our coupling had been nightly, clumsy and urgent, but had soon subsided to coincide only with the days between blood flows, when my body signalled its readiness. With each full moon, when my bloods came, thick and heavy, Seamus, too, felt the shame of my loss as if it were his own.

When he began turning away from me, even during my fertile time, I’d told myself it was tiredness, for he worked hard on both land and shore. But as each moonless time came and went without a coupling, I realised it was the pain of lost hope he was avoiding. Better to have no hope than hope shattered. The last time I’d approached him, muttering shyly that it was not just a child I was needing but the closeness of a man, he’d all but pushed me from him.

‘It is God’s will, Morven. He does not want us to be parents and we must not question him. I will not partake of the flesh for carnality alone.’

His words had shocked and then angered me. Who was he to decide? And who was this God who would come between a man and wife? Had my pretence of duty, as was bidden by the church, been so convincing it had covered the pleasure in my sighs?

The dying storm left a quietness almost as unnerving as its howls. Seamus’s snoring ceased as he sank into the depths of sleep. I looked at the dark corner where I’d planned to put our babe. The emptiness echoed loud within me, as if a part of me was missing too. But how could it be missing if it had never been?

I slept beside him for another hour and rose, early and in stealth. The sun had no warmth, but its early rays filled the wet air with a dancing light, as if mocking my horror-filled night. Looking around, I could see that the oats and bere had been flattened and would need lifting before the end of day if we were to save any for bread and gruel. The chickens clucked, indignant, as I released them. I began shovelling out the dung left by the animals when it overtook me again. The unexplainable, never to be denied summons. The Calling.

I was part child, part woman when first I’d felt it. I remember it well, for it came to me at the same time as my first bleeding. That first time, it led me to a herd of lost sheep. I’d not told anyone how I’d found them, afraid of what they would say. I knew even then to keep my strangeness a secret. But two years later, when I was drawn to where a child had fallen into a well, I’d been called before the Churchmen to explain my unearthly knowledge. It seemed to matter little to them that I’d saved the child’s life; they were concerned only that I was trading with the devil. It was my grandmother who saved me, saying it was her who’d had the Calling and had sent me to the well. She’d been beaten and left to die for her trouble, and die she would have, had it not been for a wolf who lay with her until she’d healed. Or so she told me.

I’d learned from that day to never talk to others about the Calling and until now, that had been easy enough, for since that day it had only ever come in small ways, ways I could explain by other means. I’d tried to describe it to Seamus once, soon after we’d married. He’d scowled and said I was surely my grandmother’s kin and warned me of what I already knew – that I needed to be careful of falling foul of the Churchmen. He’d got to know my ways well enough to ken he couldn’t turn me around when the Calling was with me.

But that morning, the morning after the storm, it was stronger than anything I’d ever felt before. Like a king tide rising and rising, filling every part of me, pulling at my body, commanding my thoughts. I was helpless in its throes.

I’d already started towards the dunes when Seamus came to the door in his flannels and half asleep.

‘Morven, where are you off to at this hour?’ he yelled. ‘Have you no’ seen the state of the garden. You ken full well if those grasses lie aground too long, we’ll have no crop to pick.’

‘It’s here with me, Seamus. I’m being called. I must go.’ I heard him growl as he went back inside and I prayed that he would not follow, for I knew already that it was me and me alone who was needed.

Our holding was one of only five near to where the sea meets the land at the sandy Mealastadh beach and was the last before the loch that lay between the beach and the mountains to the south. I’d reached the last sand ridge, the salt air blowing in my face, when the Calling’s pull faded a little. I knew then that I was at the right place.

Looking around I saw nothing that needed my help. Nothing to explain the urgency I felt, only the storm’s destruction. The beach was covered with golden kelp. Good for my garden, I thought. But I knew that wasn’t why I’d been drawn here. The Calling did not concern itself with everyday matters.

It was the wooden casket I saw first, wedged between the rocks. I thought it to be a butter churn, debris from some poor ship upended by the sea. I clambered towards it, over the grass-covered dune, my skirts and apron pulled above my knees to save them becoming entangled. The wiry seagrass scratched my legs, tearing at my stockings. With my eyes unwilling to leave the casket, my boot ties tangled on a tuft and I fell to my knees. It was then that I saw it, at the water’s edge, reaching out from under the kelp.

A bull seal. Stranded. Twisted.

The Calling increased, full force, pulling me towards the poor creature. I approached with caution, for a bull seal is no friend when he is angered. I could not see his face just the curve of his back. The next wave crashed upon him and rolled him over. I screamed and startled backwards, unable to comprehend what I saw.

Not a seal but a bull of a man, wrapped in a coat of hide.

I should have gone for Seamus right then: retrieving bodies washed ashore was no work for a lone woman. But the Calling’s pull rose again, dragging me into those shallows.

I’d seen dead bodies before. I’d helped my mother lay out my Da and his Da before that. And when her time came, I did it alone, washing away the smoky grime from a long winter until she gleamed like the inside of an oyster shell.

But this day I had no time for memories. I wrenched the kelp away, first from his face and then his barrel-like torso. Even lying in this tangled grave, it was clear he’d been a strong man. Muttering a prayer for the dead, I was about to tackle the weight of weed on his legs when a glorious fountain of saltwater and mucous covered me and his chest heaved.

He’d risen from his watery grave.

As I yanked at the kelp, he sat upright, shrieking, dragging me off him by my hair then collapsing again. His lower leg lay askew below the knee, broken upon the rocks over which his body had been dragged by the ferocious tide. I looked around, hopeful that a neighbour had come to the bay to gather kelp, but our only companion was a lone, circling gull.

He spoke a curse, in a language guttural and strange, but a curse none the less.

‘Your leg is broken,’ I said pointing to the limb and snapping a pretend stick. ‘I will bring help. You must stay still. You are safe. The waters,’ here I pointed to the sea and held my hands upright as if pushing the ocean away, ‘are receding.’

He grabbed my wrist, pleading now, his eyes wide with terror.

I don’t know what made me do what I did next, for I had not removed my marriage band since the day of my wedding. Placing it into the palm of his hand and folding his enormous fingers over it, I put my face close to his. I could smell the stench of death coming from within him, as if Death himself had almost taken hold but had been beaten.

‘I will come back. Do you understand?’

He put the ring to his lips and nodded, taking my hand in his, gently at first then commanding, dangerous. Exciting.

I pulled away. My body throbbed, waves of something I could not name crashing over me. I ran.

If I’d not been so overcome by the shipwrecked man, I would have noticed that the Calling continued its hold on me. It stayed strong, yet not so urgent, long after I’d clamoured back over the dunes.

If I had been less intent on the stranger and his effect on me, I may have found them earlier. The ivory treasures. But for now, they remained in their casket, in their own rocky bed, patiently awaiting discovery, just yards from where he lay.

The grey sun was still low in the sky by the time Seamus and I returned, bringing with us the stretcher we used to carry sickly beasts. It still showed the black blood stain of the last poor creature we’d carried home to die.

While Seamus positioned the stretcher, the stranger grasped my wrist, giving me back the ring. With Seamus so nearby, I pulled quickly away, refusing to meet the intensity of his stare. I quickly placed the ring back on my finger before Seamus saw, for he would not have been pleased to see it in the hands of another man. I passed the stranger the small keg with the last of Seamus’s whisky. He drank hastily, hoping, no doubt, to kill the wracking pain. I took from my pocket the binding cloths I’d brought from the bier. As he gulped again at the golden liquid, I pulled his leg straight. His screams were drowned by the cries of a hundred gulls that had gathered as if to bear witness to the drama.

The worst completed, I wrapped his leg tightly and settled back on my haunches, assuming my work done. But still, the Calling’s mysterious pulling was upon me. I looked around, half expecting to see another body. But there was none.

Together, Seamus and I dragged the stranger along the beach to a cutting where our pony stood tethered. The stranger raised his head as we lifted him, looking back along the beach. Frantic. Searching.

Until that moment, I’d all but forgotten about the casket. Even as I thought of it, the Calling surged within me.

But I shook my head, raising my empty hands. He growled something and waved, as if sending me back to where he’d been found. When I shook my head again, he repeated his command and then he cupped his hands towards me, a symbol of offering, of plenty. I was held by his pleading and heard a whirring in my ears and felt the Calling pulling me once more back to the shore. I scanned again, silently vowing to return as soon as I could. When I turned back to the stranger, he’d sunk into a stupor, as if he’d heard my wordless vow and given way to the pain and the whisky. He did not revive until the following daybreak.

We settled him alongside the hearth, carefully taking off his outer clothes. His body gave off the smell of the ocean and something more. Something animal.

While Seamus went outside to lift the battered crop, I hung the stranger’s clothes above the fire to dry. His coat was of a cut I’d never seen before. Made of seal skin, it was longer than most, its weight almost too heavy for me to lift. I looked at him with a shameless curiosity. His thick neck sat strong and squarely on his massive shoulders. His face, grizzled and salty, was twice that of Seamus’. His lips, fallen open, were neither thin nor full. Above his eyes, his brow scowled, even in sleep. The flatness of his nose made me wonder if he was a man of the fist. His hands were broad, though his fingers short. I longed to turn them over to read the lines of fortune, but I dared not, for I knew already that the very touch of his skin would set mine burning.

An oily aroma filled the cottage from the herring stew I made for our supper. The man stirred and sniffed at the smell of it. But he did not wake.

Seamus came inside and sat to eat. ‘We give thanks for the sun that has saved our crop this day,’ Seamus said as he bent over his meal. ‘We pray that the stranger mends quickly so he can soon be safely on his way.’

If I’d had a prayer to say, it would have been for the Calling to leave me, as pointless as I knew that would be. ‘Have I not done what was needed?’ I would have prayed, for the pulling on me persisted, gnawing at me like a tooth gone rotten. But I had not the strength to do any more that day.

I slept uneasily and rose at daybreak, hoping it had taken its leave of me. It had not. Both Seamus and the stranger slept, or so I thought. My body smelt of kelp and sweat, for I’d been too tired to wash the night before. I poured water from the pot above the smouldering fire into the bowl, lifting handfuls to my face, welcoming its soothing embrace. Lifting my night gown, I turned to find the strangers eyes upon me. I paused, naked before him.

He growled and tried to sit but was pulled back by the pain. Grabbing my tunic, I shrank into the shadow.

Seamus stirred muttering a sleepy query. ‘Why are you up so early, woman. Come back to bed.’

‘My time is on me. I must change my dressings,’ I lied, for it was seven days since the flow had ceased. But he no longer knew the rhythms of my body. The stranger’s face was turned away now. The blanket barely covered him; it rose and fell like a pulsing wave.

I quickly finished my ablutions and dressed. My tunic had dried overnight. I pulled it on, running my hands over the familiar threads my mother had woven. I nuzzled into it and could smell her amongst the threads, remembering when I’d watched her dye the skeins with heather and moss, sitting at the loom well into the night, then in the morning, cutting its shape and stitching it, one stitch at a time. The smell brought her back to me and I wondered what she would make of me relishing the gaze of a stranger on my unclothed body.

I went via the byre where, for modesty’s sake, I’d left my undergarments to dry. ‘What modesty?’ I asked myself, not with shame but incredulity at my behaviour. They were still wet, so I left them there to dry some more.

The Calling grew, as if it sensed my readiness to leave. It panted and jumped within me, like a dog impatient for its master’s attention. Yet I was in no doubt: it was the Calling who was the master.

Making my way back to the shore I found the casket, still wedged between two black boulders. As I neared it, the Calling eased. I was where I was meant to be. Dropping to my knees to examine it more closely, I saw a tiny, fairy-like face frowning at me from a hole gashed in the casket’s side. I leant forward and peered at it, sighing with relief that it was just a toy, a doll, comical and childlike.

The casket was strangely intact, as if protected by some mysterious guardian. I hacked at it with a rock and pulled the doll free. He filled my palm, heavy despite his smallness. His fingers, fat and squared, held a sword, as if ready to attack, and a shield marked with the Churchmen’s cross. His hat was a helmet, cone like, and his tunic marked with a grid. His eyes were wide with surprise or maybe terror, as if fearing me and what I would do.

Turning it over with a growing awe at the complexity of his markings, I knew with a certainty that this was no ordinary doll. Its texture was that of the horn of a walrus, creatures that were sometimes seen on these shores, lost, far from their northern home. I peered through the hole and inside the casket I could see a jumble of straw and several more dolls. Pulling with all my might, I tried to lift it but could not.

Exhausted, I sat on a nearby pile of seaweed. The urgency of the Calling had almost ceased. I was where I was meant to be and had found what I was meant to find. But a crashing wave reminded me that I had little time to move the casket before the high tide took it. And move it I must. I needed help.

Seamus was scything the oats when I arrived back at the croft. I told him about my find and showed him the doll. A look of trepidation came across his face.

‘No good can come of this, Morven. First a stranger at our hearth and now an unearned trove. Nothing good comes so easily. The Bible tells us it is hard work and hard work alone that will bring rewards in heaven. Leave it be,’ he pleaded. ‘Let the tide take it. Your sorcery has led you into the devil’s lair. I want no part of it.’

‘Then I will go back alone,’ I said, taking with me a hammer and the peat creel.

He caught me up before I crossed into the dunes. ‘You’re a stubborn woman, Morven. I’ll help you with your find, but you’ll not bring it back to the house.’

The tide was lapping the rocks as Seamus broke open the cask. We clung to each other at what we saw before us. An army of dolls stared back at us, tumbled together in straw and hessian. Some were like warriors on horses, others dressed in the robes of bishops, kings and queens. Others like small gravestones.

I placed them one by one in the creel, peeling and shaking off the seaweed and sand, padding them with the best of the straw and hessian.

‘You treat them as if they were your own babes,’ said Seamus.

I was tempted to say, ‘The babes you will not give me,’ but held my tongue.

‘My Calling had led me to them for protection. I do not covet them from greed nor envy, for they are mortal sins. This treasure has an aura, a purpose in our lives, Seamus. I will look to it for guidance.’

He shook his head. ‘I know your Calling has never led you astray before, but this hoard is different. It is not a normal scavenge, nor does it seem to have any goodwill about it. You are right to say it has an aura, but we have no need of them. I will not have them anywhere near our home. Our life is already fulfilled.’

Our unspoken chasm opened up between us with his words. I was far from fulfilled.

‘I have heard you, husband,’ I snapped. ‘I know of a place to store them. But,’ I turned to him, holding him firm, ‘maybe they will bring the change that we need, Seamus. The change that will make us three, not two.’

He hung his head. I had not mentioned our plight for twelve moons or more, for it only brought grief to us both. We knew of no solution. Even now, as we stood with this awesome trove between us, I was unsure if he fully understood the meaning of my words. I knew not if he was frozen with anger or with shame, for both emotions had coloured our conversations about creating a child in the past.

I watched him for a reaction that did not come. The memory of the stranger’s eyes upon my nakedness came unbidden, but not unwelcome. It filled the space between us, like a sea mist, and stirred the deep longing within me.

A gust rose, sudden and sharp. I heard a voice whisper, ‘It is their owner, not the dolls, who can bring the change.’

CHAPTER 12

Morven, Isle of Lewis 1190

Seamus carried the ivory dolls until we could see the old nunnery, the house of the Black Women, from a small nearby hill.

‘I will take them from here,’ I said. ‘The sisters will keep them until I work out what I am meant to do with them.’

Unlike Seamus, I had no fear of the black women. Their dwelling had once been part of a much bigger house belonging to the clan chief. But a raid from the west had caused him to flee, leaving behind a cloister of women. The tradition remained over the years and, even now, there were twelve or so who lived there at any one time. Some thought them chosen by God, others said they were witches. It was true that they seemed to know everybody’s business without ever leaving their walls.

I wondered how they would respond to my finding. Three sisters, all widowed early, controlled the comings and goings. Each wore the cloth of a nun, although the church had neither sanctified them nor consecrated the grounds, and they refused to attend regular church services. There were many who said they were not celibate, either, and should be condemned to death.

But I knew it was the secrets they held that protected them. Secrets not only about the women who came to them for sanctuary, but about the men who’d abused them. They held stories that could destroy communities: of incest, infanticide and unbelievable cruelty.

Seamus’s mother had told me that their ancestors came across the sea from where the sun set. ‘Their clan can be recognised by their thick black hair and sea blue eyes. You have their look about you too, Morven.’

Seamus lifted the creel from his back, placing its strapping around my shoulders. ‘Be rid of them, Morven. That man who sleeps at our hearth has a strangeness about him that I dinna’ trust. Perhaps your Calling could bring us a child instead of a stranger and a bag of evil.’

I wanted to tell him that a child would not come from the Calling, but from him. Once more, I kept my tongue. I knew it would make things worse. I could have spoken of how he drew away when my body ached for him. I could have told how I knew of the secret spending of his manhood when he was too embarrassed, or guilt stricken, to wake me. I could have talked about his unquestioning adherence to the teachings of the Churchmen, their condemnation of the pleasures of the flesh. But I chose another way.

‘The Calling works to its own rhythm, Seamus. I will ask the black women again what we can do to bring it about.’

He scoffed, not with mirth but with scorn. I’d asked the women for advice once before. They’d given me a potion for Seamus, to arouse his desire. He’d thrown it into the fire, declaring it the work of the devil.

‘You’ll not speak to them of our business, Morven,’ he said now, grabbing my arm. ‘I’ll not have them prying, do you hear me?’ Giving me a shove, he turned and made for home.

I waited until I could no longer see him before I made my way to the nunnery. One of the sisters was at the gateway to greet me, as if she already knew of my visit.

‘Welcome, Morven. We have been waiting for you.’ She ushered me across the courtyard. Two children stopped their game to watch as we entered a room at the far end of the building, while five women washed a runner of cloth, singing a waulking song as they did. I recognised one of them and nodded. She’d been at worship, her cheek blue and bruised. I held her gaze, hoping to reassure her that the secret of her plight was safe with me.

‘Come through here,’ the sister said, beckoning me into another room where her siblings sat waiting.

‘Sit, Morven, and take some mead,’ the eldest sister said. The smell of cinnamon, a rare spice on these islands, enticed me. The warmth of the liquid in my mouth radiated through my body, chasing away my nervousness.

I told them my story, of the Calling and finding the stranger. They knew well about my gift – or was it my curse? Seamus’s mother had taken me to them when she had first learned of my unnatural powers, hoping they would rid me of it. But they’d told her to be thankful.

‘She will save lives. And make life because of it.’ I had saved lives but not made it. Not yet.

I spoke to them of the casket’s contents. They listened closely without expression. I did not tell of my feelings for the stranger, for I did not know what they were myself. Would I call it fear or desire?

When I came to the end of my story, the eldest, Magrista, opened the creel and set the little dolls upon the table, arranging them in groups of alike pieces. A small chisel that had been with them, she set aside.

A veil of darkness befell the room. She motioned to the youngest sister, Airlie, to light candles. The flickering gleam caught on the many surfaces of the carvings, picking up their glorious sheen, making them dance with glee before our eyes. We sat in silence, absorbing their splendour.

Airlie broke the spell. ‘This is a discovery of great importance, Morven. We will hide it until your Calling tells you what to do with them. I will ask about any news of a shipwreck. If we find out where they were bound, we will know better what to tell the stranger.’

‘I will send word to Brother Nicolson at the Church of Ui,’ Magrista said. ‘He has regular contact with Bishop Jonsson of Islandia and may know about the likely passage of a vessel that has thrown up this man and his treasure.’

‘No,’ I said. ‘Do not tell him about the pieces. Only of the man. Tell him he will bide with Seamus and I until his leg has healed.’

The sisters nodded their agreement.

‘How goes Seamus?’ Airlie asked. ‘You have had your bleeding again recently I think.’ I looked down, afraid that a stain was on my clothes.

She laughed. ‘No, I can tell from the colour of your cheeks and the thickness in your voice that it is your fertile time again. Does Seamus still avoid you?’

I bit my lip, unsure what to say. I had no regrets about seeking their advice earlier, but now I felt a protectiveness for Seamus. ‘He is a good man,’ I answered, avoiding her eyes. ‘Maybe it is God’s will that we do not bear a child.’

‘Ah yes, God,’ Airlie said. ‘We have his God to consider.’ I ignored the amusement in her voice. I’d had enough to manage for one day.

Together, we gathered the ivory pieces, placing them into a large hessian bag, all but seven.

‘These we will keep as payment for the storage,’ Magrista said. One horseman, two warriors and four of the gravestones lay on the table. ‘These will make wondrous gifts should we need to buy protection for a woman or bribe an enemy, for there are plenty who would see us driven away. The rest we will store for you.’

I picked up the horseman and put it in my pocket. ‘You shall have six. This one I will keep.’ The sisters nodded. ‘Where will you store them?’

‘There is a cavern within the nunnery grounds,’ Airlie said. ‘It has the power of resurrection. If there is evil in the dolls it will be turned to good. We will place them beneath our most precious butter and corn. No one will think to look for them there. They will stay hidden until your calling bids them found.’

I hated the idea of leaving my treasure, but as I looked at the sisters’ faces, searching for a reason to disbelieve them, all I found was honesty and goodness. I stroked the doll in my pocket. Him I would keep with me.

They gave me a potion to give to the stranger to help heal his wounds and I whispered a private farewell to the other dolls, promising the sisters to return when the Calling instructed me what next to do.

I was almost home when I met Seamus in the long field. He told how he’d left the stranger alone to wash.

‘I’ll give him no soap though. ‘Tis low already without us providing it to a heathen.’

‘And as followers of Christ, are we not supposed to offer comfort and guidance to those that have yet to find the Lord?’

Seamus went on with his task as if he’d not heard. I raised my voice. ‘I’ll give him my share of the soap then.’

The stranger turned as I entered. He sat in his undergarments, his bare, muscular body leathered like the bull seal I first thought him to be. His salt crusted clothes lay in a heap beside him. He nodded to me as I picked them up. I could smell his man smell, salt and fish. Hanging his clothes over the rope that stretched between the house and the gate, I went to the byre, where a basket held the clothes of my deceased father. I’d wanted for him to be buried in them, but Ma had taken them off him before he was laid in his burial basket, saying that no good could be made of wool in the afterlife. Da had been a big man, like the stranger. The clothes were too big for Seamus and I’d planned to make wee trousers and jackets for a child from them.

Da had died with a broken heart when I’d married Seamus.

‘He’s no’ the man for you, Morven. You need a man who wants you.’

But I’d been eager to be bedded and Seamus had wanted me, at least for a while. His small plot needed a woman’s support. We were wed the following spring.

I held the clothes to my face and inhaled, hoping to capture the sour smell of him. But the scent of him had long gone, and it was mould alone that I could smell. It had done more harm to the clothes than I thought, but they were all I had to offer the stranger. As I thought of my father’s words, an urge strong and vital rose in me.

Checking that Seamus was still in the far field, I went back to where the stranger sat. As he took the clothes, his eyes held mine. If I had expected to see gratitude, I would have been disappointed, for it was a look I’d never seen before. But one I knew all the same. A look I’d craved from Seamus.

I knew I should move away, but I could not. I wanted to feel him, his strength and his power. The heat within me flared and I felt an ache, a void, throbbing and sweet; a space opened within me. Our eyes locked and we knew each other’s needs. I fell under his spell, unable to move. He tried to come towards me but winced with pain. I stepped to him laying my hands on his leg to ease him as gently as I could. I saw his hardness grow and released him from his undergarments. An urgent jolt passed through me as he lifted my skirts and brought his thigh to the ache between my legs.

I moved onto him. This time it was me who groaned. My body controlled my mind. He took me by the hips and I leant into him and moved to the rhythm my body demanded. He pulled my head back by my hair and I gave in to the urgency spreading through me, my body writhing, no longer under my control. His hand smothered my scream as every part of me stiffened. I felt the spurt from within me before I collapsed. Completed. With one final thrust, his body shuddered and he too was spent. I felt his juice fill me and flow from me, hot and salty.

I pushed away and straightened myself. I could see Seamus slowly approaching, playing with the dog as he walked. The stranger arranged his undergarments while I picked up the clothes I’d brought from the byre.

Seamus barely glanced at us when he came in, his head lowered, as always, consumed with his own thoughts, or so I hoped.

‘Come, husband,’ I said, trying to keep the gasp from my voice. ‘Help the stranger into these clothes. It is not decent for me to be with him thus.’

If Seamus saw my flush or smelt our sin, he said nothing.

We sat as three over our meal that evening. I thinned the broth with the juice from the nettle, adding some of the next morning’s oats to give it substance. I bowed over my bowl as Seamus gave the thanks.

‘Amen.’ Both of us startled when the stranger muttered the so be it.

‘Not a heathen, then,’ I said to Seamus, as the men raised their bowls to their lips. The stranger finished his, grunting a thank you as he wiped his mouth with the backs of his hands.

I watched on as Seamus helped him lie down again; one bulky, dark of eye and tanned, the other short, lithe, and as fair as the ripened hay.

I gave the stranger the potion from the Black Women and he was soon snoring.

‘Come help me with the beasts,’ Seamus demanded. ‘Let him sleep without our disturbance,’ he said. ‘The sooner he is healed the sooner he goes.’

We settled the cows in the adjoining room. I was about to re-enter the cottage when Seamus drew me back and pointed to a shooting star. We stood together then, watching for more in a heaven filled with stars. He took my face in his hands and gently bit my lip as he pressed his to mine in a way he had never done before. I should have felt shame but my arousal, so recently stirred, was quick to respond. As Seamus sought out my breasts I wondered fleetingly if he had seen us and was excited by the sight of me with another. His insistence drove all thoughts from me. I touched his manhood and kissed him back, hard and hungry. We made love there in the field, tender and slow. He grunted his finality. I was happy to have his attention again.

As we rolled apart a shower of shooting stars exploded over me and I knew, even then, that I was felled.

Seamus crafted a large stretcher, attaching it to a dray borrowed from a neighbour. While he went to fetch the horse, I helped the stranger to his feet, supporting him as best I could. When we reached the doorway, I took the ivory horseman from my pocket and passed it to him. He grabbed it from me, speaking rapidly and loudly and gesturing furiously towards the beach.

‘Mere! Mere!’

I felt his danger and knew that I must hold my knowledge of the casket and the other treasures from him. I shook my head and spread my hands in the sign of openness. ‘No more. Just this one. It was all I found.’

I could tell that he did not fully believe me. Feigning innocence, I kept my stare just long enough and then took his hand as if in pity. My years of lying about the taishataragh paid off.

He slumped back onto a stool, turning the horseman over and over, muttering to himself as if trying to make a decision. ‘Gaet, alle gaet?’

He grunted his acceptance and placed my hand on his groin. But my hunger for him had gone. My breasts were already hardening. I pulled my hand from him and placed it on my belly. His laugh was mirthless and knowing. He gave the doll back to me.

‘Til bairn.’

I watched as they left; two men, two juices, one child within me.

Seamus returned later that night. He’d taken the stranger as far as Loch Roag, where he was met by his cousin, Red Ghillie, a Steornabhagh man known afar for his brutality, especially to his wife. He was to take the stranger to bide at the monastery in Steornabhagh until a ship could be found to take him back to his own country.

Five moon cycles passed and the child was large within me when I heard the news. The body of a man had been washed ashore near the place where I’d first found the stranger. He’d been beaten and left to die, some said.

‘He had the look of a seal about him,’ one woman reported. Others said he was a selkie. ‘He came ashore disguised as a human, to take a wife. His journey back to the ocean was cut short by a brutal murder.’

‘Do you think it might have been him, our stranger, who’s been found?’ I asked Seamus. ‘Do you think Red Ghillie killed him?’ He shrugged and turned from me. But my fear was high.

‘Perhaps he told him about the treasure and Red Ghillie took him to the place where he was washed ashore in search of it and then murdered him when it was not to be found. Perhaps we should get the dolls back from the Black Women, in case they too are in danger.’

Seamus rounded on me, holding my arms tight to my sides. ‘I don’t know, Morven, and it is none of our business. If you know what is good for you and for the child, you will forget you ever knew him. And as for his cursed treasure of evil dolls, you must leave them where they are. No good can come of them.’

The bairns came that spring. Twins. A boy and a girl. The boy was dark and brooding, the girl lithe and easily contented, crowned with Seamus’s red hair.

‘One the likeness of each of you,’ the neighbours would say. But I knew that sometimes twin calves could come from different bulls.

As for the dolls, I sometimes wondered if I should collect them, but I’d had no Calling to do so. Once, when I’d visited the Black Women to get a potion for the twins’ fever, I’d asked Airlie what she thought.

‘Seamus is right, Morven. They are best left in the souterrain. Besides, they have worked their magic,’ she said, indicating the twins. ‘Some treasures are best left buried. They will bring hope for another, in another time perhaps.’

But I kept my one little doll and gave it to my girl child when she was wed. ‘Keep it safe, Caterina, and it will bring you joy. Then, when the time is right, give it to your girl child. Maybe one day it will find its true home.’

CHAPTER 13

Marianne, Isle of Lewis 2010

It was getting late when they arrived back at Stornoway. Agnes invited them all back to her place for a late dinner.

‘I’ve some broth and potato scones that need eating.’

‘Sorry, but I’ve made plans already,’ Euan said, handing Agnes the car keys. ‘But thanks anyway.’

‘So, you’ve got a better offer?’ Marianne asked, hoping to sound light-hearted.

‘You could say that. I’m catching up with an old school friend. She’s only in town for a couple of days.’

Euan’s response worried Marianne. Had she totally misread his attention to her earlier in the day?

‘What about you two then?’

‘No thanks, Agnes,’ Shona replied. ‘It’s my last night at the Royal and I want to spend it with Marianne. Strange as it may sound, we have some catching up to do.’

It wasn’t until they finished eating and were back in their room that Marianne found the courage to return to the morning’s heated conversation. She opened a bottle of wine and poured two glasses to help the conversation flow.

‘I’m really sorry I got angry and said those things this morning. I know that it’s been me who has never wanted to talk about the baby. I call him Buddy in my mind. I named him that while I was pregnant.’

It was the first time she’d said the name out loud.

‘Buddy. That’s nice.’ Shona put her wine down. ‘I do understand. It took me a long time though. At first, I desperately wanted to talk to you about him, but you were very insistent. And very good at walking away whenever I tried.’

‘Yes, walking away seems to be a speciality of mine.’

They both laughed. ‘Don’t blame yourself, Marianne. I know now I should have made you talk. You were just a kid yourself. But I was afraid of getting it wrong. Of losing you too.’

Shona topped up their wine. ‘I watched you so closely in those first months. I waited for changes in your mood, for you to start acting differently. But you took your life back just where it had left off, as if nothing had happened. I was astounded at how well you managed it.’

Marianne sipped on her wine. ‘Yes, it all went to plan. It was how I wanted it. Back then.’

‘Soon, I came to think that not talking about him worked well for both of us. Your Dad and I would discuss the situation long into the night. But you were happy – well, as happy as you’d been before, given you were already a moody teenager. You quickly made friends at your new school and got that part time job. You even had a boyfriend or two, if I remember rightly. You seemed to take it all in your stride and so your dad and I eventually agreed we should all just get on with life, as if it hadn’t happened.’

‘I knew you were watching me, but that wasn’t why I didn’t show anything. I have no idea how, but the day I walked out of that hospital I put my feelings in a box, turned the key and walked away. The only time I let myself think about him was on his birthday.’

‘We knew that. That’s why we sent flowers. Just to say we remembered too.’

Marianne reeled to look squarely at Shona. ‘We? I thought the flowers were only from Dad.’

‘No. Both of us. Every year.’

Marianne closed her eyes, holding back the tears. ‘I thought… I assumed…’

‘You assumed it was just your dad?’

Marianne nodded. ‘I’m sorry. All these years I never gave you credit for them.’

‘Does it matter?’

Marianne reached over and gave her a hug so tight she squealed. ‘It matters. For years I put Dad on a pedestal as the only one who understood.’

Releasing herself from the grip, Shona took Marianne’s hands again. ‘Somewhere along the way we’ve both fallen into thinking things about each other that may not be true. I’ve often blamed myself, too. If my work hadn’t taken me away so much maybe you would never have got pregnant.’

Marianne laughed, remembering her sixteen-year-old self. ‘You being around wouldn’t have stopped me. For some reason, I was determined to lose my virginity. Yes, I was angry at you, but I was angry at everyone back then. I felt like I didn’t fit in. All the other girls had boyfriends. I felt like the weird science nerd.’

‘But you had friends, didn’t you?’

‘Yes, but they were talking about sex all the time, although, looking back, I think it was just talk. When Robbie came along, I decided he would be the one. Poor thing. He didn’t know what he was doing any more than I did. I still can’t believe we got caught. We only did it twice. And then I was so naive to not even notice until it was too late to consider abortion.’

‘Not naive, Marianne. Just young.’

‘I was, wasn’t I? I sometimes look at the school photo taken just before I got pregnant. I look like I should have been playing hopscotch, not conceiving.’

A silence consumed them as they let the memories wash over them.

‘You do know we would have supported you to keep Buddy.’

‘Yes, but I can honestly say keeping him was not an option in my mind. It was the last thing I wanted. Let’s face it, you would have had to take over, not because you really wanted to, but because I would have been hopeless. And that would have made me even more angry.’

‘You’re right about that. I couldn’t have stayed in the background. Donald knew that about me too. He was so good at helping me come to terms with your decision.’

‘Good ol’ Dad. He knows – knew – both of us better than we know ourselves. No, I’ve always thought I made the right decision. And up until recently, I’ve even thought that not talking about him has been the best thing for me.’

‘So why do you think it came out this morning? We’ve had plenty of rows before. Why now, do you think?’

Marianne had been trying to figure that out herself. ‘I honestly don’t know. The magic on the island perhaps? Strange voices and tales of selkies and women with the second sight?’ She laughed, but wondered if it were at least partly true. ‘I saw my midwife the day I was told that I was coming up here. Anniversary day. That seemed to open up a crack in my guard. I don’t know, but now that I am talking about him it feels right.’

Shona fiddled with her hair. ‘Tell me to butt out if you like, but do you hope that one day you’ll find him, or him you?’

The question had been with Marianne since the day she’d seen the midwife. Did she?

‘No. Yes. Oh, I don’t know. Maybe.’

They both laughed. ‘I’ll take that as a No-yes-maybe, then,’ Shona said. ‘When the time is right, you’ll know which of those it is.’

Shona finished her glass of wine, saying she needed to go out for an evening stroll. Checking her phone, Marianne was not surprised to see missed calls or messages from George. She texted him to say she would ring him at 9.00 am. His silence about the missing replica was playing on her mind.

There were messages from both Sam and Paul. She read Sam’s first.

‘Saw Paul at the pub. All he could talk about was being upthere in the outer whatever and how interesting you are. What happened up there? I must know! Ring me at once.’

Paul’s message was briefer. ‘Ring me as soon as you get this, Marianne. I need to tell you something.’

Although she was happy to hear from both of them, the conversation with Shona had left her drained. They too could wait.

Opening her laptop, she saw two emails from Julia. One was a department wide dispatch regarding the terms of reference for the review, but the other one was only to her.

‘Hello Marianne, I don’t believe we have met, although I do know you are currently in Stornoway curating an exhibition. George Farquharson suggested that, given the media interest, it would be best to have a BM presence for the duration of the exhibition and that you would be willing to stay there longer if required. Please let me know your thoughts about that.

Now what was he playing at? First, he didn’t want her speaking to the media. Now, it was good thing and she could be asked to stay there longer. Was it to punish her, or to keep her out of the way? The latter seemed the most likely. She read on.

As you are probably aware, I am leading a review of all the museum positions. We are particularly interested in aligning positions across professional strata to ensure we have the best people in the most appropriate positions. To that end, I am interviewing some key staff myself.

Please contact my PA and make an appointment for an interview with me as soon as you return to London. I am keen to make decisions as soon as possible to reduce the unavoidable stress that comes with such a wide-ranging review.

On another matter entirely, George has requested that I approve an investigation be conducted regarding a testing sample delivered to you on 16th July that is currently un-traceable. At this stage, I have denied his request pending a thorough departmental wide search. However, in compliance with the policy ‘Missing or mislaid items’, I need to remind you of the British Museum’s Code of Conduct. As a registered archaeologist you are also bound by your professional Code of Conduct. A breach of one or both could result in instant dismissal.

I recommend that you seek advice from our HR department regarding any concerns you have related to this or any other issue.

Kind regards,

Julia Powell’

The news about the deferral of an investigation was a relief, although she feared it would come down to her word against George’s until the replica was found. But Julia’s referral to the Code of Conduct worried her. Her formal reminder was a procedural requirement, but Marianne could not help but feel threatened. It was all beginning to sound very official. She was relieved that there was no mention of her supposed inappropriate media contact which hopefully meant George had not raised it with Julia or she had dismissed it as the nonsense it was.

Julia’s inclusion of her as a ‘key staff member’ for personal interviewing was a surprise. She’d never considered herself as key to anything at the BM. Was it because her position was being targeted for amalgamation?

Rereading the email, Marianne became increasingly nervous that there were things happening quite quickly back at the BM. Her planned return was only nine days away, but she was worried that decisions about her job were being made in her absence. That could account for why George had suggested she should stay in Stornoway. Out of sight, out of mind.

The thought of spending more time on Lewis with Euan – and Agnes, of course – was tempting. But her nervousness about George’s motives were growing by the minute. Suppressing her usual avoidance strategy and the voice in her head telling her that there was nothing she could do, Marianne took a photo of her father from her wallet. His reassuring gaze seemed to be saying that she should, and could, face up to whatever was happening.

‘Right,’ she said to herself. ‘Decision made.’ She would get an interview with Julia as soon as she could, even if it meant going back to London for a day. If Euan agreed, she’d persuade the BM that he was an appropriate contact in her absence, and she’d do a formal handover to Agnes in case she didn’t get to return.

A sense of relief swept over her indicating it was the right decision, but with it came an unexpected sadness at having to leave. She knew that once she was back in London, amongst all that was familiar and safe, there was a distinct possibility that she might never come back to Lewis. Euan would become a pleasant memory, Lewis a thing of the past. The mixture of relief and sorrow felt very familiar. Her father had told her back then that sometimes even good decisions are sad. Looking at the photo again, she remembered another saying of his. ‘Never say never, Marianne.’ Shona’s question about whether she would like to find Buddy nagged at her. ‘Never say never,’ she said to herself.

She was about to close her laptop when she noticed another new email. It was a response to an email she’d sent to an historian regarding an elderly ex-Lewis man, who now lived in Aberdeen. He’d apparently once made a list of Lewis crofts and their tenants during the 1830’s. The historian had responded and attached the list with an explanation on how it had been compiled. The older man had orally related stories to him, stories he’d heard as a child about what happened to the families of Lewis at the time of the Clearances.

She knew that none of it would stand up as ‘truth’ under academic scrutiny but the fact that it was from a primary source filled her with hope. She scrolled down the list until she found ‘Penny Donald’.

Penny Donald. Malcolm MacLeod (Calum Sprot) from this village (Penny Donald) found the Lewis Chessmen. In 1851 he was evicted along with the population of all the villages in the area and then Ardroil became a large sheep farm. The ethnic population was replaced by sheep and a few shepherds from Kintail. The incomers had no knowledge of Lewis history or the Lewis Chessmen. The evicted for a while sought refuge in some Lewis villages, some trekking with their belongings over fifty miles to the Ness area of Lewis. Later many of these Uig people emigrated to Canada or Australia and took with themtheir Gaelic language, culture and history. So the Clearances are responsible for the misfortune of posterity losing the history of the Lewis Chessmen. The Clearances are not mentioned in the Lewis Chessmen brochures issued by the British Museum, this is not surprising as the Clearances have more or less been cleansed even from Scottish history books, though the evictions lasted for over a hundred years, the longest period of ethnic cleansing in the history of Europe. Malcolm MacLeod was a neighbour of my progenitor Donald MacRitchie.

Shona arrived back at the room just as Marianne finished reading. ‘Look at this,’ Marianne said, showing Shona the article.

‘Bloody Nora,’ Shona said, when she finished reading. ‘This is real history, Marianne. Living oral history.’

‘Pity he doesn’t know what happened to the Penny Donald Macleods after they went to Ness, although he does indicate that they may have gone to Canada or Australia.’

‘I could try again to trace them using my genealogy site. Imagine if there were relatives alive today,’ Shona continued. ‘If they could prove that it was their ancestors who found the pieces and were paid only a pittance, they could have a claim against the BM, couldn’t they?’

‘It’s not that simple, Mum. The whole “who owns national treasures” issue is fraught with legal implications. You’ve heard about the claim Greece is making on the Elgin Marbles. Australian Aboriginal people are trying to claim back artefacts too. The museum even has human remains that were taken in the name of science. It’s a very sensitive issue.’

‘I can see that in terms of human remains and something so

significant as the Elgin marbles, but what about the chessmen? Could relatives lay claim to them?’

‘The legality of an ownership claim usually comes down to where an artefact was found and whether it was sold or taken, or as the Australian Aboriginal people are claiming, stolen. My guess…’ Marianne stopped, reminding herself that this was actually her area of expertise. ‘My assessment is that if it could be proven that the museum bought the chess pieces, that is, if the finder took money for them, then any claim of ownership is rendered void.’

‘So, if Calum Macleod of Penny Donald was paid anything, then the family, the descendants, wouldn’t have a valid claim?’

‘That’s right,’ Marianne said. ‘Although, to complicate the matter, there is the concept of “fair payment”. I explored that issue in my thesis too. There is a difference between adequate payments accepted, based on informed decisions, versus the payment of token amounts that exploit people’s ignorance. The latter was common in the past and was possibly a deliberate strategy to eliminate future claims.’

Shona was looking at her with a strange expression on her face. ‘What?’ Marianne demanded.

‘I was just thinking how proud I am of you and how impressed your father would have been by all that you’ve achieved.’

‘Mum. I’m a lab technician, in a dead-end job that’s being threatened with amalgamation, a.k.a., elimination.’

‘I’m sure you’ll be okay, dear. You can be very determined when you need to be.’

Not sure whether to take her remark as a compliment or not, Marianne turned back to the email.

‘Those Macleods must have been pretty determined people too. It says here,’ Shona said pointing to the article, ‘that some people had to walk fifty miles to find a haven when they were evicted and even then, they still had to emigrate to survive. Surely if the finders got a fair payment, as you call it, they would have had the money to avoid being evicted.’

Marianne shook her head. ‘I agree, but that’s all speculation. As far as I can tell from my research, all that seems to be known for sure is that a Roderick Ryrie presented seventy-eight of the chessmen to the Society of Antiquaries in 1831 and sold most of them soon after to a Mr Forrest for 30 pounds. Mind you, Mr Forrest thought he was buying the entire find for that amount. He would’ve been furious when he realised Ryrie had held some back. They’re the ones that ended up in Edinburgh.’

‘This Ryrie sounds like a bit of a wheeler-dealer. Do we know anything more about him?’

‘Only that he sold the rest to a private dealer, and they were eventually bought by the National Museum of Scotland for 100 pounds.’

‘A hundred pounds for just eleven pieces,’ Shona exclaimed. ‘Someone did all right out of that and you can bet your boots it wasn’t the Macleods. So, when did the rest of the pieces go to the British Museum.?’

‘Forrest sold his collection to the BM in 1832 for just 80 guineas.’

‘So 180 pounds, or there abouts. That was a lot of money in those days. Imagine what that would have meant to the Macleods, and even the whole island, at that time. Perhaps they could have bought their farms from the landlord. It might have changed the course of history. Maybe even our family’s history.’ Shona yawned. ‘I’m tired. It’s good sharing something we’re both interested in. And you still have the problem of the missing pieces to solve.’

Euan was talking to a small family group when Marianne arrived at the museum the next morning. She looked at the visitor’s book; there’d already been twenty visitors through the door.

‘The road to Uig was only built in the 1920s,’ she heard Euan telling the group. ‘Up until then the folk that lived on that side of the island relied on boats to transport all their goods and post. It was extremely isolated, as you say, but the road there is good now and it’s well worth the visit right down to Mealasta. It’ll be a return trip the same way, but,’ he continued, turning to Marianne, ‘don’t they say you see things differently when you come at them from another direction?’

She raised her eyebrows, letting him know the comment didn’t go unnoticed. The family left to get some brochures and more maps.

‘Sorry about not staying around last night,’ Euan said. ‘I…’

‘You had a better offer.’ Marianne tried to keep light-hearted, but it came out like an accusation.

Euan laughed although the way he shook his head it was clear he was annoyed at her tone. ‘Well, actually, you said that. Would it bother you? I’m assuming you and Paul…’

‘We’re just friends now. We did see each other for a while but he moved on.’

‘And you? Have you moved on?’

His directness surprised and panicked Marianne. Her self-preservation, her need to avoid being hurt, kicked in. She knew Paul was not who she wanted to spend her life with. He was a buffer, someone to fall back to. He was safe because she didn’t love him. Safe because he couldn’t hurt her. But how could she say all that to Euan? Instead, she shrugged and turned the question back on him. ‘Anyway, I hear you’re leaving London and staying on here.’

‘I hope to. If you must know, the friend I met with last night is a lawyer. She’s offered to help me with my application to restore my parent’s croft. And you,’ he asked, ‘will you always want to live in London?’

Marianne felt the conversation intensify. ‘I guess. It’s where my work is, after all. In fact, I need to talk to you about that. I’m going back earlier than planned.’ She watched for Euan’s reaction but he gave nothing away. A noisy group of school children came through the door. Their laughter and the teacher’s attempts to keep them quiet reminded Marianne that the museum was not the place for this discussion.

‘Given that you are staying on up here anyway, would you be okay to be the BM contact? I’m sure it will be security issues they are most anxious about.’

‘Fine, but can’t you…’ Euan’s question was interrupted as Shona appeared beside them.

‘Good morning, you two. Sorry I missed you at breakfast, love, but I was up all night doing some genealogy searches on the Macleods of Penny Donald.’

Euan sighed.

‘Welcome to my world,’ Marianne whispered to him as they turned their attention to Shona.

‘So, what did you find?’ Euan asked, mouthing ‘later’ to Marianne.

‘Well, there was a Malcolm Macleod,’ Shona continued, hardly taking a breath. ‘He married a Catherine Mhairi MacKay in 1824. They were in the Parish of Breanish. We passed that yesterday just before we got to Mealasta, didn’t we?’

‘Yes. Penny Donald would probably have been in the Breanish parish,’ Euan said.

‘I found them still there in the 1841 census, but I couldn’t find them anywhere in Lewis in 1851. Take a look. I just went to the library to get it printed,’ she said giving Marianne the record.

‘It’s very possible they weren’t even on Lewis by then,’ Euan said. ‘Hundreds of families had left.’

‘Yes, that’s what I thought, so I tried to trace this Macleod family – Malcom and Catherine Mhairi – in Canada, but there were no records kept there until about the 1880s.’

Watching Euan talk to Shona with such gentle respect, Marianne was once again struck by how much he was like her father in temperament.

‘Mum’s hoping to prove that we are descendants of the people who found the chess pieces.’ She rolled her eyes, inviting Euan to join in her attempt at humour.

‘Well, then I would have to marry you,’ he said. Marianne blushed and was about to tell him not to make assumptions when she realised he was directing his joke to Shona who was giggling like a schoolgirl.

‘Or you.’ He’d turned to Marianne now and she allowed herself to smile.

‘But I’ll be in London. Unless I find the missing pieces, that is. Then I can be anywhere I want to be.’

‘Cuppa tea time, ladies and gentlemen,’ Agnes said brushing past them, looking up and down the street before locking the door and flipping the sign to ‘Back in Five Minutes’.

Marianne knew the time had come to phone George and was even a little disappointed when it went through to voicemail again. She wondered if he was playing cat and mouse games with her but dismissed it as paranoia. She left a brief message for him to call back as soon as he could.

Over tea, Marianne showed Euan and Agnes the article she’d found. ‘If this is correct, it certainly looks like the Macleod’s were pushed off their land like everyone else and ended up at the top of the island at Ness.’

‘I brought this to show you both, too,’ Shona said. ‘It’s the wee cloth I was talking to you about the other day.’ She took out an embroidered cloth, the size of a large tea towel, carefully unwrapping it from its protective tissue paper.

They passed it around. Marianne had seen it dozens of times before, but it had a new significance now.

‘It was probably what they call a sampler,’ Agnes said. ‘Girls used them to practice their embroidery stitches. It was quite common for them to do maps. The National Museum in Edinburgh recently had a whole focus on maps and one of them was a sampler that had been embroidered in the early 1800s. I think it was of the whole of Scotland.’

Frowning slightly, Marianne took the embroidery back from Agnes. ‘Hey, look at this. These are dates, and they line up with these ones from the census, I think,’ she said.

‘What dates?’ Shona asked.

‘I might be clutching at straws,’ Marianne said, ‘but look at the ages of the children. The ages of the Macleod children in 1841 were 15, 7, 5 and 1. That means they were born in 1826, 1834, 1836 and 1840. They are the same as these dates embroidered onto the sampler.’

The room fell silent.

‘So, let me get this straight,’ Shona said eventually. ‘This sampler that belonged to our many times great-great grandmother, has embroidered dates on it that are, according to our family story, the dates of her children’s birth. And those dates are the same as the birthdates of the only Macleod children living in the Breanish parish.’

Marianne nodded slowly, double checking her thinking. ‘Yes, and Breanish parish is where Penny Donald is located. And Penny Donald is the home of the Macleods, who probably found the chessmen. If all that is correct,’ she continued ‘it looks like this sampler probably originally belonged to the wife of the man who was possibly – and some people say definitely – the finder of the chess pieces.’

They looked at each other and began to smile as the information took hold.

‘So, am I right in saying,’ Shona said, ‘that this evidence makes it very likely that we are descendants of the Macleods who found the chess pieces.’

Shona was the first to jump to her feet and for the next few minutes they all hugged and laughed, Marianne hugging Euan the tightest.

‘So, what are you going to do about claiming the repatriation money now?’ Euan asked her, a grin on his face. ‘Now that it was your family who was robbed?’

‘Well, I don’t want to be a party pooper but there are still a lot of “ifs”. Anyway, the opportunity to make any claim has long gone. Now, if we only could find the missing pieces…’

‘If we did, I’d buy a croft. Penny Donald, if I could,’ Shona said.

‘I’d pay for help to renovate my parent’s cottage. And buy a yacht,’ Euan said.

‘I’d create a trust fund to help keep Gaelic alive on the island,’ Agnes said. ‘What about you Marianne?’

Marianne looked at the expectant faces. ‘I’d pay a private investigator to uncover some dark secret about George Farquharson and ruin him forever.’ She laughed as she said it but the other three looked as if she sounded like she meant it.

‘Just joking,’ she said, although the thought of revenge was sweet. ‘Okay then. I’d probably buy a house in South Kensington, and you can all come and stay when you’re needing a break from your crofts and your Gaelic.’

But even as she said the words Marianne knew that the idea of living in South Kensington for the rest of her life did not seem as attractive as it once would have. A rapping on the museum door alerted them to a small queue of visitors, rescuing Marianne from her uncomfortable uncertainty.

While Agnes let them in, Marianne looked again at the Ordnance survey map and the cloth. ‘What is this date then, do you think? And this strange shape?’ she asked Shona, pointing to a figure on the cloth with 1831 embroidered next to it. ‘That’s not one of the birth dates, according to the Census.’

Shona shrugged. ‘Maybe the date is another child who died. The figure looks like an animal. A horse and rider maybe? Maybe a child that died from a horseback accident?’

Marianne nodded, deep in thought. It was a very plausible explanation, but she couldn’t help wondering about the date. It was when the chess pieces were found.

Her phone rang and she answered without checking the caller ID.

‘Marianne. Its George here.’

Her pulse raced. The time had come. ‘Hello, George, just a moment. I will go to a quieter spot.’ She pulled a face at Euan who gave her a thumbs up for encouragement.

‘Yes, George, how can I help you?’

‘Marianne, I thought it was time we touched base. It seems the opening went well enough, although I am very disappointed that you took on talking to the national media. If I’d known it would get such high-profile coverage, I would have gone up there myself. Saved you the stress.’

His reasonable tone persuaded Marianne to take a conciliatory approach.

‘Yes, it came as a surprise to me too. I am sure it is all fine. My comments weren’t in any way political, more anecdotal. They reflected the convivial mood of the opening. The local MP was there and did not pick up on anything that I said as being controversial.’ She’d practised this response several times and was pleased with the delivery. She used her advantage. ‘Any news on the missing replica? I am 100 percent sure I put it into the security transfer box. I assume you’ve checked there?’ She could have left it there, but added, ‘Checked it yourself, I mean.’

‘Yes, I have.’

‘And Penelope? She hasn’t any idea where it might be?’

She heard him hesitate before answering. ‘What has Penelope got to do with it?’

‘Well, I’ve seen her clearing the box on occasions. I was just wondering…’

George cut her off. ‘Penelope is on extended leave. She left before the 16th.’

Marianne knew then that he would deny ever letting Penelope use his code. She decided it would be better to offer an olive branch. But it was an olive branch with a sting.

‘Look, Julia has said she will instigate a department-wide search. I am coming back to London in a day or two to have my interview with her.’

‘Julia! When did you speak to Julia?’ She couldn’t tell if his voice was venomous or just wary. Either way, she enjoyed having the upper hand.

‘She emailed me to ask that I arrange a review interview with her.’ She couldn’t help herself. ‘As a key staff member.’

She heard George’s rattled breathing as he groped for a reply. Looking up, Marianne realised she’d gone into the room with the photo of the woman carrying peat. She smiled at her and winked. Thank you, she mouthed.

‘So, did Julia mention that, thanks to you, she has been summoned to a meeting with the Cabinet Secretary to answer questions about the acquisition process and provenance regarding the chessmen?’

‘No, she didn’t. But why would she? I’m sure she knows what she is doing, George. After all, the BM is pretty clear there are no claims outstanding when it comes to the chessmen. They are covered under the Act. You are familiar with the Fair Payment policy?’

Marianne felt her confidence growing. This was her specialist area and George was out of his depth. She could have left it there, but George’s silence spurred her on.

‘You would have addressed the Fair Payment policy in your presentation in New York. I’d love to read your paper, by the way. I did try to get it online, but they haven’t published it yet. It sounds as if it has a lot of cross-over with my Master’s thesis, the one I gave you to read some time ago.’

George swallowed the bait. ‘What are you insinuating, Marianne?’ he said, lowering his voice. ‘I can assure you my paper in New York was entirely my own work.’

Now it was her turn to stay silent. As he began to protest again, she interrupted him. ‘George? Are you still there, George? You seem to be breaking up. The coverage up here is very intermittent. I’ll see you soon.’

She finished the call and did a happy dance. Taking control felt so good. She should have remembered that.

The day passed quickly. Both Shona and Agnes opted for an early night, leaving Marianne and Euan alone over dinner.

‘You know that Agnes is working on a submission to have the exhibition stay up here on loan for twelve months. Now that the security and environmental controls are set up, she thinks they might agree,’ Euan said.

‘Yes, I helped her get the best wording. It’s linked to the whole reparation debate.’

‘Which you know a lot about.’

‘Yes, a fair bit, I guess,’ Marianne said. ‘I’m pretty much across the theoretical issue, and have some experience at an applied level. I once co-worked on a case regarding an Australian Aboriginal shield to ascertain where in Australia it might have come from. It’s an important issue for the Australian Aboriginal people, because so much was stolen and their history was as good as wiped out.’

‘I guess it was like that here, too, after the Battle of Culloden, when the Gaelic language, our music, even the wearing of the clan tartan, were all forbidden.’

‘Yes, although the Aboriginal guy I worked with at the time would say they have an even stronger tie to the land. Physical and spiritual. They don’t see themselves as separate from the land, but part of it. When their land is damaged, so are they. They were the first true greenies, really.’

Euan listened attentively to all she said. ‘You know, you’re way too smart to be stuck in the lab. Perhaps that’s why George sent you up here. To help you spread your wings. He might have been doing you a favour.’

‘Well, he might have done me a favour, but I’m pretty sure it’s not what he intended. Anyway, can we talk about something else? I’ve wasted way too much time second guessing his motives.’

‘Good idea.’

‘I’ve been wondering when you learned to play accordion?’

‘I started at about ten. I play at a pub in London sometimes.’

‘You’re good. I’ve never played an instrument.’

‘I’m sure you have other talents,’ he said.

Marianne felt herself blush. He grinned at her embarrassment before continuing. ‘It was interesting what Agnes was saying about the woman in the photo at the museum having a second sight.’

Marianne looked up. He was watching her carefully now. ‘What are you saying? That I have a talent to look into the past?’

He laughed. ‘Maybe. You do have Macleod blood, after all.’

As he headed to the bar get another drink, Marianne felt again the sadness of her impending departure and made a promise to herself that she would come back, even if just for a holiday. She was about to make her announcement when, before he’d even put the drinks down, Euan said, ‘I think you should come back. No, more than that. I want you to come back.’

Marianne was slow to respond, needing to make sure of what she said next. ‘I do want to come back, and I want to work at what we have together. But there are things I have to sort out first. Things that I can’t talk about until I have them straight for myself.’

Euan nodded. ‘I understand.’

‘Anyway, I might need to come back just to find the missing chessmen,’ she joked, hoping to break the sombre mood. ‘Are you interested in helping me?’

‘Very interested. I think you should know that by now.’

They sipped at their drinks in silence for more time than was comfortable.

‘I’m pretty sure Agnes would help with a search, too,’ Euan said, signalling that he, too, was ready to move from the heavy discussion. ‘And your Mum. In fact, I’ve been thinking…’

‘What? What have you been thinking?’

‘I know it sounds crazy, but that embroidered cloth your Mum has, with the map on it? You don’t think…’ He trailed off, clearly reluctant to go on.

‘Think what?’

‘Look, I know it’s a bit out there, but you don’t think it could show where the chess pieces were buried, do you?’

Marianne laughed. ‘It’s hardly a detailed map. Anyway, if I were crazy enough to head up a search, it would have to wait until at least my next lot of holidays.’

He walked her back to the hotel and they kissed goodnight. ‘So, you will come back?’

She laughed at his persistence. ‘No promises – but yes. Probably. Maybe.’ Her response echoed what she’d said to Shona about Buddy. As she pulled away, he smiled his lazy smile.

‘Well, it looks like “yes, probably, maybe”, is the best I am going to get right now.’

Watching him walk away, Marianne knew that if they were going to be together, she would have to talk to him about Buddy. But first, she had to work out how she felt about him. About Buddy possibly wanting to find her one day. Or worse, if he didn’t.

Climbing the stairs, she wondered how the family who’d found the chessmen had survived the terrible losses they’d had to endure. Her grief was minor compared with all that had happened to them. But had they, too, been torn between staying with those they loved or leaving to start afresh?

CHAPTER 14

Mhairi, Isle of Lewis 1831

Straightening my bonnet, I walked into the church. I was wearing my Sunday clothes, even though it was only Friday. My tunic, recently scrubbed for the occasion, pinched and scratched. It showed signs of wear, and I’d hid a small tear with my best plaid, draped around my shoulders and held with the broach, a silver thistle. Calum’s mother had given it to me for our wedding.

Reverend Macleod flicked his hand towards the wooden bench where I was to sit. It was the one normally allocated to sinners. Today, it faced the men, eight in all, before whom I’d been summoned. My feet barely reached the floor, protruding beneath my petticoat and pleated skirt. I noticed that my shoes, hastily polished, still showed the mud stains from last Sunday’s sudden downpour.

The men all wore their Sunday suits too. A musky mix of damp and old lavender emanated from their ill-fitting coats and, as nervous as I was, I could not help but notice some of their collars could have done with a scrub and a starch.

A massive oak table spread between me and the men, separating high from low. At the parish Sessions it was sinners and saints who sat opposite each other. It was true I’d been here, a sinner, once before. But this time, I had nothing to confess and had in my possession something to negotiate with. This time, it was my turn to decide my future.

Six of the men were regular Chapel Elders. On my right was the factor, brought in from Kintail by his uncle, the landlord, to help with the so-called Improvements. Next to him was the merchant Roderick Ryrie and then Reverend Alexander Macleod. The McKinnon brothers, crofters, like myself, men I’d known all my life but had no trust in, sat at one end. They’d sat in Session at this very table some ten years previous, when my belly was swollen with my first-born. Fornication, they called it – my sin. I’d called it love. I tried to protect Calum’s name, but these very men, these worthy men of the Church, had threatened me with the stocks. When finally I’d broken down, Calum and I had both been named at Sunday Service and banned from chapel until our solemn wedding day. Now, here I was, afore them again, this time with no sin on my conscience, just a lucky find that I intended to make good with.

On the far end was our old Reverend, Munro, my only ally. He stood to introduce me.

‘Gentleman, Catherine Macleod, known as Mhairi, comes before you today to seek advice regarding a significant cache of items that have come into her possession. A find made with her husband Calum that I believe is of some significance.’

‘Why is her man, Calum, not here to represent the alleged find?’ Rory McKinnon asked. ‘It is highly unorthodox for a woman to speak at the Sessions.’

‘Mrs Macleod is better placed to speak,’ Munro answered, ‘her husband being given to bouts of nervous anxiety that at times render him mute.’

I saw Rory scoff. He’d gone to school with my husband and had been the source of much of the humiliation he’d suffered there.

Reverend Macleod motioned for me to proceed. I stood, holding onto the table to steady myself, and leaned forward a little, as I’d seen the Reverend do when he wanted the congregation to pay special attention. A silence settled across the room. I drew a breath and recalled Munro’s coaching words.

Just pretend you’re telling one of your stories at a ceilidh dance, Mhairi. Avoid their eyes and look a little above their heads, your chin raised.

I began. ‘I, Catherine Mhairi Macleod, do solemnly swear that on the evening of March 15, I witnessed my husband, Malcolm MacLeod – also known as Calum, or Sprot – return to our croft in a state as I’d ne’er seen him afore.’

Munro had given me these words, too: ‘also known as’. They had such a ring to them and were not words I would normally use. I said them with pride, hoping to impress.

‘When first I questioned him all as I could get from him was gibberish about elves and fairies coming out of the dune. Thinking him to be the worse for drink, I scolded him, and sent him to the burn to wash his heed and to no’ come back till he was good and sober.’

Sneers came to the faces of several of the men. All but Munro purported to be abstainers, but I knew different. Calum’s cousin, Dolina, made the best poteen on the island and these men, each and every one of them except the Reverend Macleod, an ardent abstainer, had been a customer often enough.

‘Well,’ I continued, ignoring their looks, ‘it was when he did exactly as I bid him without a word of argument from him, that I realised it was no’ the drink that had affected him because, your honours, he’s always quarrelsome when he’s had a dram.’

I saw the brothers exchange a look of amusement, as if I was telling a story to entertain. I raised my voice a little, to show it was not just their attention I wanted but their respect.

‘But this day he had no fight in him,’ I continued. ‘He made for the burn, as if some spell was upon him. When, after a good half an hour, he’d no’ returned, I sent the eldest of the bairns to fetch him. He was a wee bit calmer when he arrived back and told me his story in full, which I will repeat here for you as best as I can remember.’

Letting go of my grasp on the table, I took a drink from the mug of water provided, for my mouth was parched from fear. Telling a story to these men felt nothing like entertaining my kin at a ceilidh. I sought out the kindly face of Munro. He’d married me to Calum and had been our clergy until recent times, so when I knew I was to appear at the Session, I sent word with a travelling merchant, asking him to come back to Uig from Stornoway. Of all the men who’d assembled, it was him alone I trusted to believe my uncommon story and support my claim.

The Reverend Macleod had replaced Munro and brought with him vastly different ways. Why, he’d even set up a fence within the chapel to prevent the taking of communion without his express permission. Few met his rigid criteria of joyless devotion. I feared his wrath at my decision to withhold the reporting of our finding until this day. Why, only last Sunday he’d preached of the everlasting damnation waiting anyone who worshipped graven images such as the treasures and icons of our Papist country men in the southern isles. I knew not how he would react to my doll-like treasures.

Roderick Ryrie muttered for me to hurry up, his narrow eyes darting like a scheming rat, stalking his prey. I’d last seen him on rent day. He’d come with Douglas Mackenzie, demanding we pay our arrears. Some said he was a deceitful scoundrel, but today was not the time to think about his ills, for he was one of those who held my fate in his hands.

Munro nodded at me to continue.

‘Calum’s very words were this: “I swear I’ve no’ had a drop, Mhairi. I saw them looking at me from below the earth – figures, a three score and more, staring up at me.” He went on to tell me how he’d picked one up, but the little doll-like figure seemed to be spoiling a fight, or so Calum thought. “He was biting down on his shield, as if in a fit of rage,” he said. So, he threw him down and ran home to tell me of his awesome discovery.

‘I asked where he found them and he told me he’d been gathering kelp at the beach nearest our croft when he’d come across a dead beast, a poor wee calf born before it’s time. He’d begun digging in the dune to bury the animal when he found them, the dolls, buried in a chamber.’

I kept my voice steady and my eyes straight ahead when I said these words, for it was a lie. Only Calum and our eldest, Murdo, knew the truth. I’d even told the Reverend Munro the same lie, for I knew that if I’d been honest, I’d have no chance to stake a claim.

In truth, he’d found them a good six miles from our croft, at the beach known as Mealasta in the grounds of the House of the Black Women. It was ruins now, the stones being shifted to build the sheep fank. But folk have said they’ve seen the sisters there on samhain. It was shared land there now and the laird, Mackenzie, would surely claim our treasures if he knew their true burial location.

‘When he made to bury the calf,’ I continued, ‘his spade hit something harder than any dune should be. “I reckoned, and I was right enough,” he said to me, “that it was an old souterrain, used by my father and uncles for burning the kelp.”’

I saw a look of doubt pass between those that did not come from nearby. I did not want them to question me further, so I hurried on.

‘There are many such sites along the coast, built by the old people, they say, before the coming of St Columbus, for the storing of butter and the like.’

I noticed with relief the brothers nodding. An attentive quiet settled across the room now. I could feel their interest rising. Despite my nervousness, I felt the power I held over them, all keen, for reasons of their own, to learn more about what we’d found. The storyteller in me rose and my voice had lost its strain a little and took on a more playful lilt.

‘Now, he’s a good man, my Calum, but it canna’ be said he’d pass up an opportunity to take the easy road. Why, one day when the winds were high and he’d had a drink...’

‘For pities sake, woman,’ Reverend MacLeod growled, slapping the table. ‘We hav’na’ got all day. We dinna’ want a character description of your husband. Just tell us exactly what happened on the day of the find.’

I met his glare and felt again the humiliation of my long-ago shame-filled appearance at the Sessions. I felt my blood rise. Today I had committed no sin, and this was my story. I would tell it how I liked. If they weren’t going to treat me proper, I’d simply leave, taking my story and the mysterious treasure with me.

Munro sat forward and cleared his throat. He knew me well and had seen my temper on more than one occasion. ‘Keep going, Mhairi, tell us what Calum said happened next.’ He’d coached me to stick to the story and not let Macleod’s interjections upset me. His caring voice reminded me that it would all be over soon. I would be free of the treasure and, if my request was met, a whole a year’s rent better off.

Turning my eyes to Munro for reassurance, I continued. ‘So, reckoning that the grave, the souterrain, was already dug and would be big enough for the calf, Calum continued shovelling until he found the opening. It was then that he saw them. “The devil’s children, looking at me,” he said.’

A murmur ran around the group. It was well known hereabouts that Calum’s mother came from papist people of the southern island of Barra. I needed to let them know I was a devotee of the Church of Scotland and scorned icons.

I hurried on. ‘Now, unlike my good husband, I’ve no time for nonsense such as devil’s children or elves and fairies, so I bid him take me to that place where, upon my oath, I saw the wee doll-like figures. Gaming pieces, I am told. Chess.’

Putting my hands behind my back I crossed my fingers, for my next sentence would be another lie. A lie not even Calum knew of. ‘Four score and some more, there were in all, including one buckle.’

As the words tumbled from my mouth, I tried to not think about the small bag of treasures I’d set aside. But I felt again the surge of excitement as I reburied them – a small bag with near thirty or so of the pieces. But try as I might to justify my lie, I heard in my head the words my mother used to chide me as a child. ‘You’re a fly one Catherine Mhairi. Theid firinn a-mach. Truth will out.’

Truth or not, I had no intention of giving over all the treasure. Not yet.

The men at the table watched, waiting on me now, like greedy children hankering for a piece of fudge. I uncrossed my fingers. The lie had passed and I’d not been struck down. I continued. ‘They’re made from the tusk of the walrus, I believe.’

Ryrie’s laugh exploded as he appealed to the other men. ‘Now we know this is a foolish woman’s fantasy. There is no walrus ivory on the island.’

I felt the tide turn as all but Munro looked at me with scorn.

‘A waste of our time,’ Mackenzie said. The bothers nodded and muttered ‘foolish’ and ‘stupid’. I am sure I even heard one of them say ‘harlot’. But I kept my nerve.

‘This here is just one of them.’ Digging into my pocket, I retrieved the piece I’d brought with me; a queen, Munro had told me. I felt the mood in the room shift while they passed it around. I watched their staunch, cynical faces change to astonishment and wonder.

One by one, they turned the queen over in their hands. They examined the delicacy of her fingers and she, this noble queen, held her face in disgust at their name calling.

Exchanging a triumphant look with Munro, I saw them take note of the skilfully carved robes that enfolded her and then gasp as they turned the regal piece over to see the unquestionable craftsmanship of her ancient throne with a fox carved into it, a strange animal, I thought, for such a regal figure.

Turning from me, they muttered to each other. But my hearing is acute and I heard their words. ‘Four score, she says’ and ‘Yes, walrus ivory, I am sure.’

When all had seen the piece, I held my hand out. Ryrie had hold of it and hesitated before Mackenzie bid him return it to me. I slipped it into my pocket.

Munro nodded for me to proceed. We’d rehearsed this next bit many times. I folded my hands before me and pulled myself to my full height. In the voice I used to instruct my children to leave their play and get ready for dinner, I said. ‘Being that the pieces were found on the land named Penny Donald, which is tenanted by my husband and myself, and discovered by the aforementioned…’ Oh, how I had practised that word. I loved how it sounded as it came from me. ‘…the aforementioned Malcolm or Calum MacLeod and then collected and preserved by myself, Catherine Mhairi Macleod, I submit to you that they are our belongings to be kept or sold by us alone.’

The response was even more vehement than I’d expected. ‘Outrageous,’ the Reverend Macleod shouted, pushing his chair from the table.

But I was not to be silenced. Not this time. I raised my voice even more. ‘If, however, we are offered a goodly sum equivalent, enough to clear our arrears and pay a year’s rent in advance, we could be persuaded to part with them.’

Macleod sat back down, and the others exchanged fleeting glances. The brothers nodded. I could tell they thought it a reasonable amount and I wondered in that moment if I should have asked for more.

I could see, too, from the excited looks on their faces, that they were keen to be rid of me – anxious, no doubt, to plot how they could make good themselves from our find.

Reverend Macleod stood and waved a dismissive hand. ‘You may go now, Mrs MacLeod.’

I didn’t move. ‘Do you agree to our claim, sirs?’

Macleod glared at me then, as one would a disobedient dog. ‘Be off, woman. We will discuss your claim and, if agreed, I will be at Penny Donald in two days’ time to collect the chess pieces for an agreed sum.’

I knew I had to leave but before I did, I looked at each man, men of God who’d come to the Session expecting to be amused by some poor woman with a desperate claim – prepared, no doubt, to rise to their feet and condemn me for wasting their time or, worse, for trying to deceive. But what I saw now was greedy astonishment.

I left believing that my life had changed forever.

As I stepped out into the bright light of the late summer’s day, relief swept over me. I could barely feel my legs, astounded at what I had achieved. Time slowed. I felt caught in a spell, a magical trance, separate from my surroundings. As if I, Catherine Mhairi Macleod, were unique. Important.

Before me lay the village of Uig. I’d spent most of my life here but this day it felt strangely unfamiliar, yet intimately known. I saw my life as if for the first time. I felt removed from it and yet part of it, as invisible as a neighbour and as conspicuous as a stranger. Cottages nestled between small, grassy knolls, all facing away from the sea and the wretched wind. I knew well the hard, simple lives of those within them, all intertwined with mine.

But now I was set apart. My destiny lay not with the past but with the treasure hidden in our barn. Not just because of the money it would bring, ensuring that my family would never again go hungry. No, what marked this day separate from all other days was the way they looked at me now, those men of God. I had something they wanted.

Before reaching the blacksmith’s bothy where I knew Calum was waiting, I pulled myself back to reality, not wanting to reveal anything of my experience to anyone but my husband. I could hear the banter coming from around the forge behind the smithy’s cottage. From the bursts of laughter, I knew there’d been poteen passed around too.

The smithy’s forge had long provided a meeting place for the men of the village. There they would sit warming themselves and, sharing a flask, while discussing cattle, the weather and other harmless gossip. If they’d had enough of the uisge beatha, they’d start to sing the songs of the old people, about lonely hills and glens, love unrequited and love lost.

Not wanting to talk to the other men, I called out for Calum. But the laughter continued, so I made my way to where they sat. My brother Donald was with Calum and the smithy. They startled as I appeared. Donald secreted the flask behind his back. They all knew I had taken the pledge and was not fond of seeing a man with too much drink in him. Only Calum looked up to see my expression. The outcome of the Session would change his life too. I gave nothing away.

Dolina, Calum’s cousin and the blacksmith’s wife, appeared from inside the cottage and beckoned to me. I knew that to make a scene and demand Calum come with me straight away would provide the gossip for weeks to come, so I joined Dolina. The cottage, like all on this side of the island, was just two rooms, sparsely furnished. Being a smithy’s wife, she had a row of pots on the wall where I had only one. Their bed, too, was strewn with more blankets than I’d ever seen in one place.

‘Come have a feed,’ Dolina said, lifting a pot of stovies from the fireplace.

‘I’m not planning to stay,’ I said, but the smell of the stewed hogget, potatoes and onions reminded me that I’d not eaten all day. ‘Well, maybe just a wee plate. Thank you, Dolina.’

‘Did you get what you wanted from the Session, Mhairi? Did you tell them of your beach find?’ Dolina asked as she passed me a small plate. Although I had sworn Calum to secrecy, word had spread that we’d found something. Most assumed it was wood, or maybe even some leather goods washed ashore, as was common enough.

I did nothing to dispel the idea. I did not want to risk what I had achieved. Dolina was well known for her outspoken ways and would want to take up my fight as her own. She’d been excluded from the Church for her views on her right to sell whisky without the hindrance of a tax. Her language and demeanour weren’t acceptable, especially from a woman.

‘I dinna’ ken what you’re saying, Dolina. The find was nothing of worth. Just some planks that we can use to repair the barn. No, I met with the Elders to discuss Lord Seaforth’s rescinding of our entitlements. You ken well that since they took the islands of Vacsay and Flodda from us we have nowhere to pasture our animals for the summer. Calum was asked to speak about the issue by Reverend Munro, but you know what Calum is like; he’s not one to speak up. I did it for him.’

It was a believable lie for Calum; a group of other crofters had indeed made a submission on that very issue at a Session just two months prior.

‘And were they repentant like good Christians and ready to return the land that has been stolen from us, land that’s been in our families’ control for generations?’ Dolina asked.

I laughed at her sarcasm. ‘Oh, they were falling over themselves with remorse, Dolina. They even offered to return our rent back to what it was when our fathers were alive.’

Dolina stoked her fire. ‘Well, if anyone of us can get a penny out of the landlord it’ll be you, Catherine Mhairi. You’ve got the look and the way of your father’s mother about you, and she was a one for going into battle against injustice wherever she saw it.’

‘Aye, she would turn in her grave if she knew how some live now, two or three families being forced to live together on smaller and smaller holdings.’

‘Aye. I heard yesterday of a cotter family living in a sheiling. They lost a child last winter to the starvation when the wifie fell pregnant again and her milk dried up and they had no cow’s milk to sup on. Why, there’s a family south of us whose cottage was set alight by Lord Seaforth’s man, because they refused to leave. Then they were herded like cattle onto a boat bound for the New World.’

These stories of our neighbours’ plight pricked my conscience. How would they react when they heard of our find? The Christian in me knew I should be sharing our good fortune, but right then, I could think no further than my own children’s safety.

As if reading my thoughts, Dolina said. ‘We are all one family here, Mhairi. One family’s plight is just a small step away from our own.’

I came close to telling her about our good luck, for despite her gruff ways, she was a wise woman at heart and a woman needs friends here in this small, battered community. But I knew, too, that the more people who knew of our find, the greater the chance it would be taken from us, one way or another.

I kept my silence.

I heard Calum bidding a slurred farewell to the other men as I fumbled in my pocket for a half-penny to pay for the food. But Dolina waved it away. ‘You’ve been good to us with eggs and milk when you could, Catherine Mhairi. Keep it to feed the weans.’

I nodded my appreciation and went to meet Calum. He grabbed me by the waist and tried to whizz me around. ‘How did you go, Mhairi? Did they agree to buy our treasure?’

‘Sush,’ I said, glancing to where Dolina was still watching from the smithy. ‘It’ll do us no good if the whole village knows our business,’ I hissed, pushing his arm from mine. ‘You’ve had a skinful, right enough. Let’s get you home before you spoil everything.’

As we made our way along the coast to the croft, I told him all that had happened.

‘Do you think we will get what we asked for?’ he said. ‘Imagine what we could do if we got to a year’s rent money. We’d buy another cow, perhaps, and get shoes for the bairns next time the travellers come past. I could buy a proper net and we’d have fish to smoke to keep us all year round.’

‘Now, don’t you go spending it all before it arrives,’ I said, looking down at my own shoes, the leather so thin that my toes would soon be poking through. ‘We will sit down and make a plan so that it does not fly out of our fingers. And if you were thinking of spending any of it on that lazy brother of mine, you can think again. He’s had enough whisky in him to last three men a lifetime.’

Nearing the croft, we could see Reverend Munro at the door playing knuckles with our youngest, Christiana. Murdo, our eldest, was grooming Munro’s horse and a pang of guilt ran through me. Murdo yearned for a horse to call his own – not just to ease his labours, but as a companion. Perhaps I could buy him one with the money about to come our way.

Munro greeted us, patting Christiana on the head as he stood. ‘I came straight here. I must have missed you along the way.’

‘I came home via the smithy. Have you been waiting long?’

‘No, no. I thought of going that way but the temptation to take a dram would have been too much for a weak man such as myself. You’ll remember what happened after the last time I was there.’ He laughed.

I’d been in Chapel that day and well remember how he sent us out to look at the whales. ‘Out of here,’ he’d commanded, an enormous grin on his face. ‘Out of my sight, every one of you. The whales have come into the bay. You can get a sermon any time, but you canna’ always get the whales.’

‘It did not go down well with the Elders, you may remember,’ he chuckled, although it was for this misdemeanour that he’d been replaced by the pedant Reverend Macleod.

Making sure we were out of hearing from the children, Munro lowered his voice. ‘You did well, lass. They surely are keen to see the whole collection.’

‘And the price? Are they agreed upon that? We are not prepared to sell for any less than I asked for,’ I said.

‘They did not discuss that. Not in front of me anyway. But I am not likely to be kept informed, being as I am out of favour. I overheard Douglas Mackenzie suggesting that, as the factor for Penny Donald, he believes that it is up to him to decide ownership. He said that, once he has seen the hoard with his own eyes and knows it is no’ a hoax, he’ll send word to Lord Seaforth to get his permission to take the pieces from you.’

‘Take, not buy?’

‘Those were his words, Mhairi.’

‘Over my dead body,’ I exclaimed. ‘He’ll no’ catch another glimpse of those pieces until I have the money.’

Calum shuffled his feet. ‘We can’t risk losing the croft, Mhairi. We must keep Mackenzie onside, or we’ll be turned off with nothing. If he says he’s got rights…’

‘Rights be damned, pardon my language, Reverend. He’s only set foot on our land once of late, bringing Ryrie with him with a scheme to offset our debt. A scheme of which I want no part. “I’ll have no association with anything illegal,” I told them. “I’ll pay you the rent in full after the next harvest, as I have always done.” Mackenzie knows it is how things are done, but Ryrie was not as easily put off.’

Calum looked to Munro, afraid I’d said too much. But the gentle Reverend nodded in deep thought.

‘Aye, lass, I’ve heard of plenty of others who have no’ been so law abiding, too afeared and too hungry to say no to Ryrie’s scheme. He makes a pretty packet taking whisky down south, evading the excise man.’

‘More than a pretty packet, by my reckoning,’ Calum said. ‘And very little of it finds its way back to the poor widows he forces to make the stuff. With no man around to send him packing, they’ve very little choice.’

‘Well, I wish good luck to those poor wifies who have no other course,’ I said. ‘But I want no part of it; ‘tis illegal, and dangerous as well. My youngest brother lost his sight when his still blew to pieces. Not to mention the fools people make of when themselves when they dinna’ ken when to stop.’

Calum looked at me and then to Reverend Munro. ‘Well, that’s it surely. We’ll threaten to expose his scheme to Reverend Macleod if he argues about giving us the amount we’ve asked.’

His suggestion surprised me, for I’d never known Calum to devise a plan so crafty. ‘Aye, husband, you’re right enough. Reverend Macleod would not abide Ryrie making money from the devil’s brew. But is Ryrie as afeared of Reverend Macleod as we are?’ I turned to Reverend Munro. ‘What do you think?

‘Reverend Macleod surely has a lot of influence across the island and beyond. He has family ties to Roderick Ryrie and often uses him to buy and sell for him in Edinburgh. But if he thought he was mixed up in the illegal trade of whisky, that would be the end of it.’

‘I’m no’ saying yes and I’m no’ saying no to your idea, Calum,’ I said. ‘Ryrie is not a man to mess with, I ken it well. But I’ll no’ give up our find without a fight.’

The three of us sank into silence, thinking over the scheme until the cries of the children squabbling broke into our thoughts.

‘I’d best be off soon,’ Munro said. ‘But can I look at them one more time before I go?’

We went inside and I settled the children while Calum brought the treasure out from under the bales of straw in the barn. He stood back while I placed them, one by one, onto the table, wiping them as I went with the only piece of linen I owned, a sampler from my school days.

I lined them up, all facing towards us, like an embattled army. Their staunch faces, though tiny, spoke of fearful defiance.

Munro picked the pieces up one by one. ‘You have certainly found a rare and magnificent collection, Calum. Mhairi is right to stand her ground. They are worth more than you are asking, I think.’ He seemed to be counting them and a puzzled look came across his face.

‘If they were once full chess sets, there are some missing. Four of the rooks, one of the knights – or horseman, as you call him – and,’ he paused and counted these little ones, carved like gravestones, again. ‘There’s only twenty of these wee pawns. That leaves forty-four of them missing. Are you sure this was all there was?’

I let Calum answer, for I did not want to lie to Reverend Munro. ‘They are all here that we found,’ he said, cowering as far from them as he could. ‘I ken they are only gaming pieces, but they still frighten the life from me.’

‘You’ve got to take hold of yourself, Calum. They’re our last hope. They are all that stand between us and the doomed boats to the New World, as they call it. I’ve no interest in going to a land frozen half the year, where you have to fell a hundred gigantic trees before you clear enough land to live off.’

Calum gave the Reverend the only seat we had and offered him whisky, the drop we had been saving for next Hogmanay. The Reverend refused while Calum swallowed his whole. I could not begrudge him the small measure of relief it brought him.

‘Mhairi’s right, Calum,’ Munro said. You must get as much as you can for them. I’ve seen fifteen families from this parish alone forced to walk off their tenancy. My own nephew’s cottage over near Loch Roag was burnt down when they refused to leave. The whole family was out catching the salmon when it happened. I saw them a week ago, at Ness, waiting to board the boat to Nova Scotia. All they had was two small suitcases and the clothes on their backs. I’ve never seen such sadness on a child’s face as when the boy said goodbye to his dog.’

I looked up and saw Murdo listening. I’d tried to shelter him from all this talk of evictions and deportation, but I knew well enough it was all around him now. It was all that anyone spoke of. He came to me and pulled me aside.

‘Ma, there was a man and a wee boy here today from over the way. The boy is the one with the legs all askew. He’d heard about our find somehow. I’m sorry, Ma, but I felt so sorry for him and they’d come such a long way. I let them into the barn, Ma. The boy just wanted a look. He is such a poor wee soul. I …’ A fleeting look of shame crossed his face. ‘Did I do wrong, Ma?

‘No, Murdo. Word will be out soon enough. There’s no harm in them looking.’

He was about to say more when Munro interrupted, bidding me farewell. I caught Murdo having a last look at the Reverend’s horse and felt the racking pull of guilt. What life had we brought our children into? What would become of us if I didn’t get the money for these pieces?

I picked up two of the warrior rooks. ‘You are my defenders. You two will stay with me,’ I whispered as I put them in my pockets.

All the children were asleep when I kissed Murdo’s cheek. ‘Your father and I will be gone until near dawn,’ I whispered. Mind the little ones if they wake.’ Barely eight years old and I was giving him responsibilities beyond his years. He pulled me to him and nuzzled my neck, just as he had done since he was a babe. He muttered something I could not discern. Something about a gravestone and the wee crippled boy. A dream, no doubt.

Calum and I made our way across the dunes, south to Mealasta. Fireflies danced in the grass like welcoming fairies. The moonlight cast mysterious images across our path and night birds flew low before disappearing into the blackness.

Calum whistled, to pass the time, he said, but I knew he believed it would keep the ghosts away. My thoughts turned to the second bag that still lay buried in the chamber. It held some of the smaller pieces: the ones that looked like miniature gravestones, five and twenty in all. I’d seen them when we’d come here to retrieve the hoard and I knew I should have shown Calum. But some instinct pulled at my hand and a small voice inside me whispered, Keep something back, Mhairi. Don’t let them all go. I reburied them that day. I was the only soul on this earth who knew of them. The only one who would decide their fate.

The power was exhilarating.

By the time we reached the place of the chamber, the moon was high in the sky. Its blue light, scudded with clouds, threw shadows around us. We’d kept up a pace and both of us were breathless, and although I knew there was not another living soul for miles, I wanted the treasure re-buried as quickly as possible.

The entrance to the chamber was just as we’d left it. Dug into the sandy hill maybe centuries before, it had been lined with stone to make a secure storage place, likely for the House of the Black Women.

Calum pushed aside the clumps of grass we’d used to disguise the way in and quickly agreed to me going in alone. I put the bag at the very back of the chamber and covered it with sand, checking also that the second bag was still there. When I finally crawled out, we took turns to shovel sand to re-cover the opening and then trod in some of the displaced grass.

We worked in silence, as if words would alert others to our venture, though there was not another soul around. Not a living soul, at least. When we finished, I looked up. The clouds were thickening, covering the moon. A sudden darkness engulfed us and sent a shiver down my back.

‘Someone’s looking over us,’ I whispered, crossing myself in the way of Calum’s papist forebears. ‘Lighting our way till the deed is done, then throwing up the darkness to cover our sins.’

‘Aye, there’ll be wind enough tonight to cover our tracks,’ Calum replied, as my muttered words were carried by a sudden gust.

We started for home with less urgency, relieved at having hidden the objects. Calum held me around the waist and nuzzled my neck. I smiled at the memory of our son doing just the same hours earlier, the bairn whose very existence had hauled us before the Sessions and had tied me to this simple man forever.

Calum fumbled for my breast. ‘You’ve no business trying your skylarking with me,’ I said, laughing like a child. Although the day’s excitement had raised my blood, too, I had no desire to carry another child with no food to put in its mouth once it was weaned.

‘I’ll be careful, Mhairi. I’ll leave you before I…’

‘Aye, so you said the last time and now the result is crawling, upsetting my pots and pans morning till night.’

But the warmth of his body as he pressed against me was both a comfort and a relief. We found a sandy knoll. As he entered me, I smiled and remembered my defenders still deep in my pockets. The clouds cleared from the moon and I knew with certainty that my future was about to change.

CHAPTER 15

Mhairi, Isle of Lewis 1831

It was almost dusk when Ryrie came the next day, his dark figure casting a shadow behind him, riding tall on his horse. Calum and I were turning the straw. We put down our tools and shooed the children inside, but the youngest, Christiana, clung to my skirt. I lifted her to my hip and stood alongside Calum, offering no word of welcome. Ryrie dismounted and tied his horse.

I spoke first, squeezing the child to calm my nerves. ‘You’ll have no’ ridden far, Mr Ryrie, so I’ve no need to offer you victuals. Tell us your business.’

‘You ken well my business Mhairi Macleod. I’ve come to see the so-called treasure. It’s not till I see it that I can ascertain its worth.’

‘Their worth is ten pounds to us. You’ll no’ have them for any less.’

‘Ten pounds is a lot of money, Calum,’ he said, turning from me. ‘I’m sure you are a reasonable man and can see my point of view.’

Calum looked to the ground and shuffled his feet. I shoved Christiana into his arms and stepped forward. Although I was a good head and shoulders shorter than Ryrie, he could not ignore my glare. ‘Have you the ten pounds on you, Mr Ryrie? If not, we will see you here tomorrow at the more convenient time of three hours past midday. We will have our find here for you then.’

Ryrie glanced towards the cottage. The other children stood in the doorway, giggling at the strangeness of it all. Calum lowered the wriggling child to the ground and stepped to my side.

‘You’ll no’ find anything in there, Ryrie. Our treasure is in a safe place that Mhairi and I alone ken. It will be here for your collection tomorrow on receipt of the ten pounds.’

I could have kissed him there and then for his courage.

Ryrie’s eyes widened in surprise, for Calum had rarely been heard to say so many words, and never in anger. The intruder clenched his fists. His jaw stiffened and I heard the air as it came from him, like an angry beast in harness.

‘Have it all here, on display, ready for me tomorrow. I’ll be here at three with factor Mackenzie and Reverend Macleod. I’ll assess then if it has any value at all. I will pay you its worth and not a penny more.’

‘Ten pounds is the worth,’ I repeated. ‘Offer less and you’ll go away empty-handed.’

‘Your wifie has a nasty mouth on her, Macleod,’ he said to Calum, though his glare did not leave me. I sensed Calum’s fists tighten and I laid my hand on his, motioning him behind me.

‘Your opinions are you own, and you are entitled to them, Mr Ryrie. However, if I were to take offence, I might be tempted to meet with the good Reverend Macleod to discuss his sermon from last month. It was about the demon of drink and his words are still ringing in my ears. “Any man or woman who takes of the devil’s poison will not be received into the Kingdom of God.” But you’re no’ so much of a drinker as a trader, Mr Ryrie. Is that no’ right?’

Ryrie stepped towards me. I stood firm, my heart drumming in my chest like a call to battle. I could see in his eyes the loathing some men have for all women. If I had been generous, I might have seen the pain, too. The pain of the childhood he’d experienced at the hands of his vicious father, I’d heard. But that day I knew no generosity.

He turned and swung onto his horse. ‘Have the pieces ready for my return,’ he growled. ‘And I want to see every last one or you’ll no’ see a penny.’

It was not until he disappeared around a bend and we could no longer hear the horse’s gallop that Calum and I sank into each other’s arms.

‘I think you did it,’ Calum said, raising my face and kissing me hard. ‘There’ll be no hungry bellies in this house for a year or more.’

‘And no boats to carry us away,’ I said, kissing him back and hugging the children who’d run to us.

The morning dawned bright and clear. I took Murdo with me to collect the pieces. The chamber was as we’d left it and I quickly uncovered both bags. Ryrie’s voice rang in my ears. I want every last one or you’ll no’ see a penny.

You want. Want be damned.

Murdo had followed me in. I turned to him with both bags in my hands. I saw the hunger etched on his face, the black shadows below his eyes, his ribs pushing against a threadbare shirt. I felt the weight of the second bag, the bag I’d previously left behind. It was near full with twenty-five tiny gravestones.

‘We’ll leave these scrappy pieces here as insurance,’ I said. ‘And no’ a word from you. Not even to your Da.’

Murdo looked at me with the eyes of an older and wiser man. ‘He’s lived before,’ my Gran had said when she’d first held him. And crouching there with him in that ancient, tomb-like place, I wondered if she’d been right. He took the bag from me, placing it once more at the rear of the cavern. ‘It’s safest here, Ma. We’ll come back for it when the merchant has been and gone.’

Murdo handed me a tiny blade and asked what it was. I shook my head and handed it back. ‘Best just leave it here.’

But Murdo, who loved to leave his mark, had already begun using it. I watched as he etched a likeness of the wee angry warrior doll on the wall of the chamber, his eyes bulging and his teeth protruding, biting the shield.

‘He’ll watch over them now,’ he said, throwing the blade onto the floor.

The children clamoured around as I placed the pieces on the table the following day, using my sampler cloth once again to wipe away the last of the sand. When I’d cleaned them as best I could, I looked at the history I’d embroidered into the sampler over the years. Those had been good times on the island. We had bigger crofts, and the men could fish most of the summer. The kelp we gathered was for our own soil, not to be burnt and sent down south. Back then, children were sent to school for a year or two at least. Well, I remembered my teacher, Miss Margaret Montgomery. It was her who’d shown me how to stitch the strange shape. A map of the island, she said.

‘You’re a bright child, Mhairi, and should at least know the shape of your own island. You can mark your wee towns on here too. Stornoway, Uig, Breanish and Mealasta. You can use backstitch for the words and a wee French knot to mark the place.’

I’d never gotten around to doing the towns, finishing with school soon after Miss Montgomery left. But I’d kept the sampler and sewn tiny backstitch, just as she’d shown me, to record the birth date of my children. As I looked on it now, I remembered Miss Montgomery’s kind eyes and her delicate hands. She’d left to go to a place called Port Patrick, a place that sounded so foreign and romantic. Whenever I thought of her it was with both gratitude and sadness. She was all I could have been if I’d been born to a different family, at a different time.

Rhona came and stood at my side and took the cloth from me. ‘Is it finished, Ma?’ she asked.

‘Aye, I think it is. One day it will be yours.’

‘And I’ll sew a flower and a date for each of my children.’ Then her smile faded, and a frown clouded her bonnie face. ‘But where will I be living? Will you be nearby?’

I’d been about to admonish her for having too many questions when a strange feeling overtook me. ‘No, you’ll be far away, Rhona, across the seas.’

Her eyes widened with fear and I shook off the feeling. ‘Oosh, now I am talking nonsense. Of course I’ll be nearby, and you’ll bring your children to stoke my fire and collect my eggs. And you’ll be happy, sweet child, and that’s all we can ask.’

Reverend Macleod, Douglas Mackenzie and Ryrie arrived at the agreed time. I stood at the door while Murdo took their coats and Calum saw to the horses. I should have let them enter first, but I slipped in ahead. I wanted to see the look on their faces as they were struck by the magnitude of what they saw in front of them – before their privilege and greed controlled their passion. That vital first reaction would tell me if I was right: that this treasure was worth even more than a whole year’s rent.

My cunning was rewarded. Ryrie’s eyes widened in astonishment, the Reverend’s jaw dropped and Mackenzie gasped for breath. I saw, too, how they pulled themselves back, their faces contorted as they tried to conceal their astonishment.

I knew in that moment I could ask for more.

‘So, this is they?’ Ryrie said, picking up several pieces and turning them over to examine the crafting. ‘All found on Lord Seaforth’s land.’

‘Land that has been tended by my husband’s family for generations. They were found by my husband, Mr Ryrie. Twenty pounds will see them into your care and ownership.’

Ryrie looked at me with pure disdain and turned to Calum. ‘Your wife has either a poor memory or is a cunning liar, for as you know, man, it was ten pounds and ten pounds only we discussed.’

Calum looked to me, wringing his hands. I knew I should lower my gaze in the way of a good wife, but I did not. My jaw set and, ever so slightly, so that no one else could see, I raised my eyebrows, as if to strengthen him.

‘Aye, it was ten we discussed, so ten it’ll be,’ he said, ‘but we will also be needing to claim back the right to graze our cows on the island Flodda, common grazing land for the use of all hereby, land that our fathers and grandfathers tended but was taken from us.’

I held my breath. It was a clever request, for that land meant more than an extra ten pounds and would benefit our neighbours as well.

The three men exchanged glances and nodded. Calum beamed at his victory and at first, I thought their smiles were for him. It was, after all, an easy accession for them. Even when I saw Ryrie’s smile turn to a smirk, I thought little of it.

Ryrie placed a purse of coins on the table. I bit the inside of my lip and held one hand tight over the other, stopping myself from grabbing it, for I knew my desperation would feed their contempt. Instead, I calmly passed the bag to Calum. While he counted, Reverend Macleod picked up each chess piece, placing them into a padded chest they’d brought with them.

‘There’s some missing,’ he said. ‘I recall you said four score and more.’

‘So I did, Reverend. But my counting is not so good. This is the lot,’ I retorted.

Ryrie rounded on me. ‘You’d better be telling the truth, woman,’ he threatened, ‘or so help me I’ll find out and…’

Calum stepped forward. ‘I am telling God’s own truth. Just as I said yesterday, Mr Ryrie, I always tell the truth and seek justice when I know of any wrongdoing, especially a wrongdoing against the church and the law of the land.’

Ryrie glanced at the Reverend, but he was busy packing the pieces.

‘And the grazing land?’ Calum asked, moving between us. ‘When will you sign that over?’

The three men looked to each other, all afraid to make a decision. It was Ryrie who spoke. ‘Best give them the grazing rights, Mackenzie.’

‘I’ll speak to Lord Seaforth and have him write up a charter for you,’ Mackenzie said.

‘No need to wait. I can do that now,’ said Murdo from behind me. He found the ink pot given to him by Reverend Munro and flattened a sheet of the wrapping paper we used for butter. He wrote as Calum dictated:

The island of Flodda will be returned to the crofters of the Parish of Uig for summer grazing. Signed

‘Best we have two witnesses,’ said Calum.

‘You will regret this,’ Ryrie hissed in my ear as he stormed past me to sign alongside Reverend Munro’s signature.

‘Come Reverend,’ Ryrie said to the whole gathering. ‘Let us leave these crofters to their glee. For like all those that speak the Gaelic as their first tongue, they are such poor managers of money it will be short-lived. They will soon be running back to us, cap in hand, begging once again for their arrears to be ignored.’

The Reverend, who had remained mysteriously quiet throughout the proceedings, shot Calum a look. ‘I’ll see you and your family in Chapel on Sunday, I trust. There is much for you to give thanks for, and if you stay sober and righteous the Lord will provide.’

He signalled for Murdo to bring the horses and they were loading the hoard into the saddle bags when Ryrie turned back to Calum.

‘Clearing your arrears is one thing, keeping up your payments is another. Seaforth has instructed that all tenants be given notice that he will no longer tolerate debts. Consider this your notice.’ He reeled on me then. ‘And you – God help you if I find you’ve kept any of the pieces aside. I’ll see to it personally that you’re on the next boat west.’

CHAPTER 16

Marianne, 2010 London

Marianne went back to London to meet with Julia. She’d only seen Euan once since their dinner together, when he’d come to check the security on her final day. He’d been in Inverness the night of her farewell dinner with Shona and Agnes, at a critical meeting with the Crofting Commission about his application. He’d phoned her from Inverness but had seemed distracted, so Marianne avoided raising any discussion about her return, deciding she had enough on her plate.

The flight was uneventful, and she arrived at the laboratory two hours before the meeting with Julia, giving her enough time to check the folder where she kept her own printed record of her testing results. But before she could even take her coat off, Nigel Brownlow, head of security, met her at the door.

‘Marianne, you need to come with me to meet with the Chief Executive.’

‘But the review meeting is not for a couple of hours.’ She began to take her coat off.

‘No, take your coat and bag with you.’

Her heart pounded as she realised she was being escorted to Julia’s room. She tried to tell herself that this was just part of the enquiry, but Nigel’s stony silence said otherwise.

‘Thanks for coming. Sit down, Marianne,’ Julia instructed as soon as the door closed. Not waiting for her to settle, Julia continued. ‘I’ll come straight to the point. An accusation has been made that you’ve stolen the missing item LCM 285 and that you fabricated the testing data on that item. The accuser also states that they strongly suspect that you have the item in your possession, which they believe to be one of the missing Lewis Chessmen pieces. A pawn, to be precise.’

Marianne looked from Julia to Nigel. Surely this was some sort of joke. Her exasperated appeal was met with blank neutrality.

‘What do you say to these accusations, Marianne?’

‘They’re false. Of course they’re false. I wouldn’t do that.’

‘From our records, you were the last person to handle item LCM 285. Can you tell us what you did with it, please?’ Nigel’s voice was calm but precise. Marianne remembered that his previous employment had been with the police, and it occurred to her that perhaps she should ask to see a lawyer.

‘Am I under arrest or something?’ she asked.

‘No,’ Julia was quick to jump in. ‘At the moment we are handling this internally. Can you explain the process you used, please?’

Marianne’s head began spinning. She drew a deep breath and closed her eyes, trying to remain focussed.

‘I followed all the proper procedures. By visually inspecting the carving techniques, I assessed that it had been made in the early to mid-1900s. None of the markings resembled the intricacies of the original chess pieces, although to an untrained eye, I can understand the owner thinking otherwise. I also noted that the base was solid, whereas the original objects are not.

‘I assessed that it was likely made of elephant tusk – a common material used to make replica ivory artefacts, and I took a small sliver from the underside and tested it with the appropriate chemical. The results were conclusive. The object was made of elephant tusk and dated about 1935.’

‘So, you were 100 percent sure it was not a genuine Lewis chess piece?’

‘Yes. The evidence was conclusive. No shadow of a doubt.’

Julia barely suppressed a sigh, but Nigel continued to watch her closely. ‘What did you do with the artefact and the results?’ he asked.

‘I entered the information into the data base and printed off two copies of the entry. One I filed in my own system, the other I transferred with the item back to my manager, George Farquharson, placing them in a secured transfer container located at the rear of the laboratory.’

‘When was this?’

‘I did the testing on July 16th and put the printed results with the item into the secure transfer container on July 17th.’

‘You seem to have a good recollection of the date. Why is that?’

‘It is a significant date for me. Besides, since hearing about the missing replica I checked my diary to make sure I had it right. I transferred it on the same day as I attended your first meeting in the boardroom.’ She turned to Julia, hoping to find in her an ally. But Julia remained expressionless.

‘Who else has access to the transfer container?’ she asked.

Marianne hesitated before she went on. ‘Officially, only George Farquharson and I have the code.’

Nigel turned to Julia. ‘That concurs with my records. Only two people are given codes to the transfer containers.’ He leaned towards Marianne.

‘The same code?’ Julia asked, a frown forming.

‘Yes. That has been the standard practice.’

Her frown deepened. ‘So, Marianne, you are saying you and George are the only people who use the transfer container?’

Marianne chose her next words carefully. ‘I am saying I have never told anyone else the code. To do so would be against the security regulations. I have, in fact, requested to have a unique code in the past but my request was overridden. By George.’

Julia made a note and Marianne saw Nigel’s mouth twitch.

‘Let me ask the question another way, Marianne,’ Nigel said. ‘Have you ever seen anyone else accessing the container in question?’

Marianne nodded, glad to be asked directly. ‘I have seen George’s PA, Penelope Jones, clear the container on more than one occasion.’

Nigel leaned back and turned to Julia, shaking his head. Marianne continued. ‘I questioned this breach of security on three occasions. Once with security, and twice with George Farquharson at a team meeting. On both occasions my concerns were dismissed.’

Nigel leaned forward. ‘Were there minutes taken of those meetings?’

‘Well, yes. I can’t tell you the dates, but they were late last year and then again early this year.’

Nigel looked at his notebook. ‘Do you know a Paul Sweeney who writes for The New Guardian?’

Marianne faltered at the change of direction. ‘Well, yes. He was at the opening of the exhibition in Lewis and wrote an article about the opening.’ Both sets of eyes continued watching her. ‘He is a friend.’

Nigel nodded and wrote some notes. Marianne felt the blood rush to her face. What was going on?

Taking some time to finish his notes, Nigel turned to Julia. ‘Do you have any further questions?’

Julia seemed to be considering her options. Although she remained austere, her eyes held Marianne’s with what Marianne hoped was a glimmer of empathy. She felt a sob rising within her but held it back.

‘You’ve worked at the BM for ten years, Marianne, is that right?’

‘Twelve if you count my internship.’

‘And in that time, have you ever been reported for any misdemeanours?’

‘No.’

‘And you have been supervised by George Farquharson for how long?’

‘Two years.’

Julia looked to Nigel and nodded before turning back to Marianne. ‘Is there anything you wish to add to your statement, Marianne?’

Marianne swallowed hard. She knew she had to take this next step. ‘I was planning on raising an issue with you when we met, Julia. Since the 17th of July I have suspected…’ She hesitated. Was that too strong a word? ‘I am concerned that George Farquharson copied my Master’s dissertation and presented it as his own at a recent conference in New York. I am unable to prove this, however, until I am able to read his paper.’

Julia leaned forward. ‘Are you accusing him of plagiarism, Marianne?’

‘I cannot be sure. I have asked to read his conference paper, but he has not sent it to me.’

Marianne could see Nigel looking to Julia for direction. She guessed that academic integrity was outside his scope.

‘Plagiarism is a very serious professional misdemeanour,’ Julia said, ‘and is indeed against the Code of Conduct. You’ll need to make a formal complaint using agreed procedures if you want us to investigate your concerns.’

Marianne nodded.

‘In the meantime,’ Julia continued, ‘I am obliged to suspend you from duties until a full investigation has been completed. Please leave your security pass with us. Mr Brownlow will see you off the premises.’

Marianne let out a cry of disbelief. ‘But I’ve done nothing wrong. It’s George’s word against mine, surely.’

Julia ignored her question. ‘You will receive communication from HR regarding the condition of your suspension and your obligations. Please do not try to make contact with any BM personnel until you receive that communication.’

Nigel accompanied her to the laboratory which, thankfully, was empty. She cleared her drawer of personal items. Walking with Nigel past a row of offices to the exit, she felt as if all eyes were on her. Reaching the exit, she turned to Nigel.

‘Will George Farquharson be suspended too? It’s his word against mine.’

But Nigel gave nothing away. ‘You will be informed by letter of the process from here. Thank you for your cooperation.’

Marianne had little memory of getting from the museum to home. Her thoughts tumbled over each other. Fear and guilt mixed with the rage. She knew George was manipulative and ambitious, but this was something else. Something much more sinister. The very notion that she could possibly face a criminal investigation was both surreal and frighteningly real. Her stomach twisted in knots.

She’d arrived home when Paul rang. She could barely talk enough to respond.

‘Where are you? What’s happened?’ Paul asked. His urgent concern helped her find her voice.

‘Home. I’ve been suspended.’

‘Suspended? Why?’

‘They think I’ve stolen something. George–’

‘That bastard,’ Paul interrupted. ‘I knew he was up to something. Look, just stay there, Marianne. I’m close by. I’ll be there in ten.’

Marianne let Paul in and burst into tears. Guiding her to the lounge, Paul made her a strong, sweet cup of tea, insisting she finish it before she offloaded her story. In stilted phrases, a mixture of fact and emotions, she conveyed as best she could what happened.

‘God, Marianne, that’s awful. I knew he was up to something, but I never expected this.’

‘What do you mean?’ Marianne asked through her fog of confusion.

‘When I interviewed him,’ Paul said. ‘I sent you an email about it last night. About my next article.’

She vaguely remembered ignoring his email, wanting to focus on her review meeting with Julia.

‘Oh shit, you haven’t read it,’ Paul said, running his fingers through his hair. ‘I wanted to warn you. I’m sorry, I should have phoned.’

‘What? What was in it? What have you done?’ Marianne felt her panic rising again.

‘Nothing that would have led to this. But I interviewed George for a BM response before I published it. He was fine with the content; in fact, I think he didn’t understand half of it. But he made some weird, veiled accusations about our “relationship” as he called it, as if we were plotting something together.’

‘Why would he think that?’

Paul looked perplexed. ‘I have no idea. He asked what my connection to you was and I said I knew you as a friend. Honestly, Marianne, I didn’t say anything about us ever being…you know, together. And then he asked another weird question about if I knew why you were so interested in the missing pieces of the Lewis Chessmen.’

Marianne sat up. ‘Did he say what made him ask? You know – why he even thought I was interested?’

‘He was very vague, but he hinted that you might know something about them that nobody else does. He mentioned something about your thesis and the speech in Stornoway. To be honest, I couldn’t really work out what he was saying, it was almost as if he was talking to himself.’

Sam burst into the room and gave Marianne a hug. ‘Paul rang me. You poor thing. You need to fight this, Marianne.’

Having these two at her side helped Marianne begin to get some perspective on the meeting. Together they mulled over George’s accusation and the investigation.

‘Surely they wouldn’t have just let you go home if they thought you had a valuable artefact in your possession,’ Sam said. ‘They would’ve handed the case over to the police.’

Marianne shrugged. ‘Well, they’re taking it seriously enough to suspend me. I guess I’ll just have to wait to get an official notification about my position and the investigation process. I am hoping I’ll still be paid so I can keep up with the rent here.

Sam and Paul exchanged glances.

‘What?’

‘I know this is the worst possible time but here goes. I got the job in New York.’

Marianne’s heart sank. She hadn’t actually forgotten about Sam’s probable departure, but with everything else going on, she’d pushed it to the back of her mind. Summoning all her courage, she gave Sam a hug.

‘I knew you would. I am so happy for you. It’s what you’ve always wanted. When will I have to let you know about the apartment?’

‘The lease is up for renewal next month. The landlord said he’d transfer it into your name and could do a month-by-month contract if you need more time.’

Marianne’s answer was out of her mouth before she could think it through ‘No, let it go. I’m going back to Lewis. At least for a while.’

Marianne got up early to book her flight to Stornoway and was disappointed that she couldn’t get one for another two days. Picking up the previous days’ New Guardian, Marianne re-read Paul’s article, titled ‘Scotland’s Missing Chessmen: Who Owns What?’ He reported on the potential conflict between the BM and the Scottish Nationals if the missing pieces were found. As was Paul’s style, the tone was teasing, humorous with a pinch of politics. He mentioned, more in passing than in any serious investigative way, the original payment of £30 to Ryrie and speculated as to how much of that may or may not have been paid to the finders, Calum Macleod and his wife. He included comments from the leader of the Scottish Nationals, plus one from Julia, and re-reported Marianne’s speech, including her comments about the missing pieces. The article went on to say:

‘The curator representing the British Museum on Lewis, Marianne Mackay, is an expert on the subject of repatriation. Mackay wrote her Master’s thesis on the political and ethical issues of equity and repatriation. Her recent mention of the forty-nine missing pieces at the opening of an exhibition in Stornoway has stirred a flurry of interest in where they may be and how much they would be worth.’

A flurry of interest? Marianne wondered if it was these words that had triggered George’s bizarre reaction. She kept reading.

‘Putting politics aside, it is the local focus that continues to provide the intrigue in this story. Speculation is high on the island that the missing pieces may still be buried somewhere in a sandhill on Lewis’s rugged Atlantic shore.’

Reading the article triggered a fresh urge within Marianne to start a search. She knew she probably should wait until she was cleared of any wrongdoing but the thought of staying in London now left her feeling totally bereft and defeated. She was mulling over her options when Shona rang. She’d already decided not to tell her about her the suspension until she got the letter outlining the process. Shona would have too many questions that Marianne couldn’t answer.

‘Hi,’ Marianne said trying to keep a lilt in her voice. ‘What’s happening?’

‘I’m off to Ness for a week with a woman from the Genealogy Society I’ve palled up with. She’s offered for me to stay with her and her daughter on Skye, too. It’s an offer too good to refuse.’

Marianne was used to Shona’s impulsive decisions, but she couldn’t help feeling annoyed.

‘Well, I don’t know where I’ll be when you get back,’ she retorted, ridiculously trying to match Shona’s vitality.

‘What do you mean? Are you going somewhere too? How did your meeting with Julia go?’

Resisting an unexplainable urge to lie, Marianne let down her guard a little.

‘I’m not sure. Mum, I’m under investigation.’

‘Oh, that sounds fun. Investigations are what you’re good at.’

Marianne held back an angry sob. ‘No, Mum. I’m under investigation, about the missing replica.’

‘Oh, I’m sure it will all be fine, Marianne. These things have a way of working themselves out.’ Shona’s unerring optimism aggravated Marianne further and the old anger towards her mother flared. The hurt and lonely sixteen-year-old took over.

‘Mum, you’re not listening. I don’t think things will just work out. I’m really afraid that…’

‘But you’ve done nothing wrong.’

‘No, but...’ Once again Marianne struggled to put aside her darkest thoughts. ‘Mum, I’m off–’

‘Sorry, love. What was that? I didn’t catch it.’ Marianne could hear voices in the background on the other end of the line. ‘Marianne, the taxi’s here. I’ll ring you later.’

A deep darkness she’d not felt since the early days after her dad’s death crept up on her. She knew Shona’s unintended insensitiveness was the flip side of her ‘endearing optimism’, as Sam called it, but it didn’t help. How had things changed so quickly? Just a few days ago she’d been feeling joyous about her career, her love life and her sense of belonging. Now, she had never felt so alone.

When Agnes called, she was tempted to not answer. But she pushed herself, knowing that if anyone could lift her spirits, it would be Agnes.

‘Hello, Marianne, I won’t keep you. I’m sure you’re busy with all your London friends but I thought I’d let you know that our petition to keep the chessmen for an extra twelve months has been approved and it’s all thanks to the interest your speech has created.’

‘That’s great. But I might not...’ Marianne said, about to tell her about her suspension, but Agnes was too excited. Marianne closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

‘Since Paul’s latest article about the missing pieces, there’s been a small army of treasure hunters inundating the island. The museum has had a record number of visitors and all the B&Bs are booked out. The pubs are flat out too. Mind you, most of the visitors don’t make it past Stornoway,’ Agnes chuckled. ‘They all seem to roam around aimlessly, looking in the charity shops or along the nearby beaches, hoping that the wee missing pieces will simply pop up and tap them on the shoulder.’

‘I’ll pass the feedback on to Paul.’ Marianne barely managed to get the words out.

‘Are you okay, Marianne? You sound sad.’

‘I’m in trouble at work again.’

‘Oh, my poor dear, what’s happened?’

‘The short version is that I’m taking an enforced holiday. I’ll be off work for a while. I thought you might have heard.’

‘No. That sounds serious. Are you okay?’

‘Not really. I feel like everything is stacking up against me. Agnes, I was wondering if I could come and stay with you while I get myself together. I don’t feel right being in London somehow.’

‘Of course. You’re always welcome to my wee spare room. If Shona comes back while you’re here, I can set up a pull-out bed in the lounge.’

‘That’s great. I’ve got lots to tell you and…’ she hesitated, wondering if she could assume to include Euan. Nigel would have contacted him to let him know she wasn’t coming back. At least not as a BM representative. He’d probably told him about her suspension, too, for security reasons. Marianne was persona non grata as far as the BM was concerned.

‘Have you seen Euan?’ she asked eventually.

‘Yes, he still comes in every day. He’s busy trying to work out what to do about his croft, too.’

They chatted about the croft and Shona’s random travel arrangements.

‘Your mother certainly does not stay still long. Does she know about your work dilemma?’

‘Not yet, so if you see her first, don’t mention it. She’ll change her plans and that’s not what I need right now.’

‘Okay, I’ll do my best. Let me know when you’re arriving. I’ll pick you up at the airport.’

Marianne felt a weight lift from her. It was the right decision.

The woman next to Marianne on the Glasgow to Stornoway flight started talking as soon as she sat down.

‘You’re that Mackay lass from the museum, aren’t you? I remember you from the opening of the chessmen exhibition.’

‘Yes, I am. I’m sorry, I don’t remember meeting you.’

‘Och, no need to be sorry, lass. I was one of many. You were the one in the limelight. You did a grand job. Not surprising, given your connection to the place.’

‘To Lewis?’

‘Aye, and Penny Donald. You’ll be staying with Agnes, then? Young Euan will do a grand job of his croft. He’s a friend of yours, is he not?’

In the past, the woman’s forthright, small community familiarity would have annoyed Marianne, but now it amused her. This was what living in a rural town felt like. The safety demonstration interrupted their conversation. Waiting for the demonstration to end, Marianne turned to ask the woman what she meant by Marianne’s connection to Penny Donald, but her seatmate was already softly snoring.

Marianne had booked a window seat. This was the third time she’d done this flight now and each time her confidence in small planes had grown. Below, she could see Loch Lomond and the rolling hills of the highlands. Tiny villages dotted the shores of the lake and the road as it headed north, weaving its way between lochs and glens, onwards to worlds and lives so unlike hers in London. She tried to pick out the pass through the highlands called ‘Rest and be Thankful’, reflecting on the good advice that came with its naming. Yes, perhaps that was exactly what she needed to do for a while. Rest and be thankful that she still had her mum and good friends.

With the lulling thrum of the engine, her mind wandered to thoughts of the Penny Donald croft and the Macleods who had once lived there. She daydreamed about being the person who uncovered the mystery of the missing pieces, and remembered Euan’s strange idea that the map embroidered into Shona’s cloth might be a clue. She pictured herself dusting sand from his hair, the aroma of burning peat washing over them as they made love in front of a fireside.

‘Prepare for landing.’

The lady next to her nudged her awake. ‘You’ve slept most of the way, dearie. You young ones work too hard. If you look out now, you’ll get a great view.’

The clouds opened as they descended over the sparkling, azure ocean, bejewelled with diamonds of light. She could see Lewis, spattered with lakes and miles of now inaccessible land where once hundreds of families lived. Now, most of the cottages, many empty half of the year, clung to the shoreline or clustered along the handful of roads, the only supply line for the island.

She remembered Agnes telling her that people had lived in the blackhouses until as recently as the 1920’s. Their sturdy stone walls, two feet deep, a solid defence against the island’s cruel winter. As the plane descended, she could see shaggy sheep roaming on open grazing ground, some straying onto the roads, oblivious to the danger. They flew over the airport and banked over Stornoway. Lews Castle, surrounded by some of the only trees left on the island, came into view, and then the distinctive red Town Council building. A surge of relief and excitement swept over Marianne as she heard the landing gear drop and the wheels hit the tarmac.

‘Home,’ she heard the lady sigh.

‘Yes, home,’ Marianne whispered.

CHAPTER 17

Marianne, Isle of Lewis 2010

Marianne knew from Euan’s concerned look as she walked into the museum that he’d heard about her suspension.

‘I feel awful for you, Marianne.’

‘So how much do you know?’

‘Nigel rang me to ask me to stay on as the BM representative while decisions are made about the extension. He said you wouldn’t be returning, but he was not at liberty to say more.’

Over a cup of tea, Marianne told Euan and Agnes everything, from the meeting with Julia and Nigel, to Paul’s interview with George.

‘George – well I am assuming it’s him – has accused me of stealing the chess piece and faking the negative results. From what I can gather, he believes that it was a real chess piece and – wait for this – that I know where the other missing pieces are. He’s even saying that Paul is involved in some way.’

‘So, what do you think happened to it – the replica piece?’ Agnes asked.

Marianne shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I did exactly what I was supposed to do. George is saying he never got it. He’s either barefaced lying or someone else has taken it. It could still be that it’s just been misplaced and hasn’t turned up in the search yet. But I am doubting that as each day passes.’

‘So, the investigation will be looking into those possibilities?’ Agnes asked.

Marianne nodded, exhausted by the whole issue and the enormity of the implications. ‘I guess so. It’s out of my hands now. I just have to wait for the letter spelling out my options now.’

‘I know you must be feeling that Nigel is the enemy now,’ Euan said, ‘but I have worked for him for four years and I’ve always found him to be fair and very thorough.’

‘Well, let’s hope so,’ Agnes said. ‘Come on, let’s get you home, Marianne. If it’s okay with you, I’ve asked Euan around for dinner. I’ve made a big pot of stovies.’

Marianne’s stomach rumbled at the thoughts of shredded lamb, mashed potatoes and browned onions. She hadn’t eaten since breakfast and stovies were fast becoming her favourite Scottish dish.

They’d all had seconds and Agnes murmured something about getting dessert before disappearing into the kitchen. Euan poured himself and Marianne a shiraz.

‘I’m so pleased you came back,’ he said. ‘Can I ask why?’

‘Do I need a reason?’

He shook his head. ‘No, of course not, it’s just that when you left, you weren’t sure you’d ever come back.’

Marianne laughed. ‘Well, you’re probably right about that, but a girl can change her mind, can’t she?’

‘And the search. Are you still interested in doing that?’

Marianne nodded. ‘I know it’s probably the last thing I should be doing, given what George is accusing me of, but I can’t stop thinking about them, or the fact that nobody has ever really tried to find the chamber they were found in.’

‘I guess no-one realised their true worth until any solid evidence of where they were found had been lost,’ Euan said.

‘And you’ve also got to remember,’ Agnes said, appearing from the kitchen and putting slices of honey and whisky cake on the table, ‘how things were on Lewis in the 1830’s. The Uig minister at the time, Reverend Macleod, was renowned for his punitive ways. He used to fence off the communion table and only allow a small number through to take the sacrament. The rest would be turned away as unrepentant sinners.’

Euan nodded as he took a slice of cake. ‘The church was very puritanical back then. It was no wonder young Malcolm Macleod had the fear of God in him when he found them, especially if he thought that they were papist icons. Anything to do with Catholicism was banned here on Lewis. He was probably glad to see them gone.’

‘I can understand that,’ Marianne said. ‘It wasn’t until the curator at the British Museum – Madden, I think his name was – saw them that their true value was appreciated. Did you know he even showed them to Sir Walter Scott? He invited him along to view them at the time of sale. Scott was well known for heralding Scottish antiquities.’

Agnes and Euan exchanged a look, trying to smother their smiles.

‘What?’ she demanded. ‘What’s so funny?’

Agnes patted her hand. ‘You are, my dear. For someone who didn’t want to come here and went into meltdown when she had to give a short speech, you’ve become quite the expert on our favourite treasure. And we love you for it.’

Marianne blushed. ‘I just... It’s my job to...’ Both pairs of eyes were on her. They had her cornered. ‘Well, okay. I’ve become a little obsessed. That’s not a crime, is it?’

‘Not at all, lass,’ Agnes said. ‘In fact, you have to a be bit obsessive to be a true Lewis woman.’

‘I’m afraid I’m just here for a visit,’ she said. ‘My life is in London.’ She didn’t mention about letting go of the lease, not wanting to raise Euan’s hopes just to dash them if she went back.

‘Is it?’ Euan’s question hung in the air.

‘If I’m not locked up.’

Her pathetic joke brought down the mood. ‘Sorry, bad joke. How are your plans going, Euan?’

‘Well, I didn’t want to make you feel any worse than you already do but now that you ask… I’ve been approved to take over the croft tenancy. It’s official. I’m staying here. You two are the first to know.’

‘So have you resigned from your BM job?’ Marianne felt a wave of envy wash over her. She wished she had the courage to start again.

‘Not yet. With the twelve-month extension of the loan of the chess pieces, I’ll stay on until the official BM transfer is finalised, then I’ll take some leave and start looking for work up here installing security systems.’

‘Good idea,’ Agnes said, handing out three glasses of whisky as they moved into the lounge room. ‘Lots of people install security into their holiday homes. And if we get the approval for a new museum at the Castle, you’d get work there too, Euan. Like most people on the island, you’ll have at least three jobs before you know it.’

‘I won’t need too much to get by. I’ll do all the carpentry and painting at the croft myself.’

A tiny shiver went through Marianne as she thought of him with sawdust in his hair and a smudge of paint on his cheek. ‘I don’t think I have any skills that would be needed up here,’ she said.

‘If the new museum goes ahead, the board members are hoping to get funding for a part-time manager.’

For a moment, Marianne imagined herself in that role, before the crushing reality of her crisis came back. Even if she were cleared of any wrongdoing, there would probably be a cloud hanging over her reputation. Looking up, she was surprised to see both Euan and Agnes looking at her.

‘No. I’d never get it. Even without the accusation, there’s plenty of people far better qualified than me.’

‘But would they want to live on Lewis?’ Agnes said as she threw back her whisky. ‘Anyway, I’ll leave you young ones to it. I’m off to my bed.’

‘You know I really envy you, knowing what you’re doing and where you belong,’ Marianne said to Euan.

‘You will too, soon,’ he said moving beside her on the couch. ‘I’ve missed you,’ he said, pulling her gently to him.

‘And me you.’

‘Do you want to see these?’ Euan pulled two photos from his jacket pocket.

Marianne held back a yawn, unsure if she could muster the energy to match Euan’s enthusiasm.

‘You remember my wild idea that the embroidered map might be a clue?’ he asked, as Marianne took the photos. ‘Well, Shona let me take a photo of her embroidered cloth and I blew it up to match the Ordnance Survey map. Look,’ he said, getting the map from his backpack in the corner and spreading it out on the coffee table. ‘It’s not a perfect match but pretty close.’

He put the close-up photo of the sampler alongside the relevant section of the map at Mealasta beach. ‘See how the coastline is pretty close to the same shape? And these three little knots,’ he said, pointing to the sampler, ‘could represent these three islands just off the coast.’

Marianne picked up both pictures. ‘I can see what you’re saying. You don’t think we’re trying too hard to make a connection with the chess pieces?’

She noticed again the strange shape on the cloth that Shona had thought could be a horse.

‘What do you think this is?’ She didn’t want to pre-empt his opinion.

Euan shook his head. ‘I’ve got the photo on my phone. We can zoom in.’

‘Pity Mum didn’t leave the sampler.’

‘She did,’ Agnes said, reappearing with a water glass. ‘Sorry to interrupt. I forgot to take my meds. Shona left the sampler and a few other things here. She said you could use them and pack them when you left.’

‘But she didn’t know I was coming back. Not for sure.’ Agnes shrugged. ‘It’s in a wee case under your bed.’

Marianne went upstairs ahead of Agnes and retrieved the sampler. Passing Agnes on the way down, she heard her humming. She reminded herself that Agnes, although very smart, was a little eccentric and certainly aging. It wasn’t until she was downstairs that she realised it was ‘Mhairi’s Wedding’ that Agnes was humming. Marianne chuckled at the older woman’s clever cheekiness.

Spreading the cloth out in front of Euan, Marianne peered closely at the shape. ‘It’s definitely a horse. Just the head.’

‘I think you’re right.’

Scanning the whole cloth, she passed it to Euan. ‘As far as I can see, it’s the only horse. The rest of the embroidery, other than the map outline, is of flowers, leaves and the dates, of course. I don’t know anything about embroidery, but if you were going to embroider a horse, you’d have it running or something, wouldn’t you?’

Taking the sampler back, she examined it again. ‘I can’t help thinking the small squat shape is similar to the knights from the chess pieces. What if Calum Macleod’s wife embroidered it to mark the spot where they found the chess pieces? You said yourself that someone must have kept a record. Maybe this was her way of documenting the event, just as the dates are.’

‘It is possible, but it doesn’t narrow it down much. Talk about needle in a haystack!’

They fell silent, Marianne thinking about the rugged coastline at Mealasta. Even if the horse was embroidered on the map to mark the find spot, there would still be miles of sandhills to be explored. ‘I’m beginning to understand why nobody has tried to locate the exact place they were found.’

They continued to examine the map and the sampler, as if hoping for some miracle, some previously overlooked evidence, to jump out at them.

Marianne’s attention was drawn by a tiny square on the map denoting a building. It was marked in Gaelic as Taigh nan Calleachan Dubh. She knew dubh meant black but could not make out any of the other words. ‘What’s this?’

‘People call it the House of the Black Women and some think it was a nunnery. Strictly translated, it says Place of the Black Chalice.’

‘Would it have been there when the chessmen arrived on the island?’

‘I don’t know. Why do you ask?’

‘I don’t know, really. If it had religious significance at the time maybe the Black Women had something to do with why the chess pieces were there. Or maybe they knew where to bury them, for safe keeping.’

‘As you would say, lots of ifs and maybes.’

Marianne put the map down. ‘Tell me again about the souterrains, the underground chambers, that Agnes spoke about when we went to Mealasta. What were they again?

‘Man-made underground structures used for storage.’

‘So, they’re hollowed out chambers?’

‘Yes. Dug into the earth and lined with stone. They’re all over the island. Why?’

‘So, if they were used as storage, they would be near an established house so they could be easily accessed. The ruin of the nunnery is all that remains of any accommodation at Mealasta. If the chamber the chess pieces were found in was still there, we could possibly find it with a GPR machine,’ Marianne said.

‘I’ve heard of that,’ Euan said. ‘On that Time Team show. What is a GPR exactly?’

‘Ground Penetrating Radar. They identify changes in soil density.’

‘So, if there was an empty chamber below the soil, it would pick it up.’

Marianne nodded. ‘I was shown how to use them when I was at Uni. I’ve never actually used one for an excavation though.’

‘I’m sure we could learn as we go. Could you get hold of one? From your old Uni, perhaps?’

Marianne retrieved her laptop from her work bag near the door. She typed in the name of her Uni and GPR equipment. There was nothing that helped. ‘I could ask my supervisor. Her husband organises digs and would use them all the time, I imagine. But would we need to get permission to do a dig at Mealasta? Is it someone’s land?’

Euan shrugged. ‘I’m not sure. If it’s within a certain distance of the coast, it’ll be common grazing land,’ he said. ‘Sometimes on Lewis it’s more about who you know than what the rules are. Leave it with me for a day or two.’

The gentle warmth and earthy smell of coal and peat burning lulled them both into private thoughts until Euan stood up.

‘I’d guess I’d better be off. I’m still sleeping in my cousin’s spare room. His kids have all squashed into the room next to me. Otherwise, I’d invite you back.’

They kissed, lingering, searching. His unambiguous desire aroused her, and she pushed into him, before finally pulling away. ‘I’m sure Agnes would be more than pleased to see you here in the morning, but I want to enjoy this, and I can’t promise to be very quiet. That would be embarrassing.’

‘I’ll start looking for a unit next week when I get back from Inverness.’

‘You’re going away again?’ Marianne felt a sob rise within her. Now that she’d allowed herself to feel the love she had for Euan, she hated the idea she’d once again have nothing, nobody, to express it with.

‘I’m doing a couple of crofting courses through a college. The commission insists that we get qualification to show we know what we’re doing. Don’t worry, I’ll be back. I’m not letting you get away again.’

Neither of them had raised the issue of how they would manage living in different locations, but Marianne knew that she would do whatever it took to keep this feeling alive. They kissed again, this time playful and teasing. ‘It’s like being teenagers again,’ Euan laughed.

‘I’ll ring you first thing tomorrow,’ he said as he left. ‘Time Team Lewis is about to begin.’

Time Team Lewis. It had a good vibe to it.

CHAPTER 18

Mhairi, Isle of Lewis 1851

The agreement about our grazing rights lasted barely a year. Murdo took the cows across the causeway to graze on the island of Flodda. He went with two of our neighbours, old man MacAulay and another two of his grandsons. They carried with them the paper Calum had insisted Mackenzie sign. No sooner had they set the cows free when three men, hired by Mackenzie to do his dirty work, came to turn them off.

‘They laughed at us, Ma, even when I showed them the paper. When Mr MacAulay refused to take the beasts back across the causeway, they killed his heifer. “Let that be an example to you of what will happen if you leave them here,” they said.’

Murdo collapsed before me, broken. ‘We had no choice, Ma, but to drive the cows back at low tide.’

I looked out at the cows, three in all, stamping at the dying, overused earth, searching for a tender shoot. Calum loaded the rifle. We could not see them starve to death.

The bag of coins had come to an end too. I heard from Dolina that Ryrie had taken the chess pieces to Edinburgh and sold them for three times what he’d given us.

‘He’s no’ been seen on Lewis since the day he left with your pieces. I heard tell that some pieces were missing and if he’d had all the pieces for four sets, he’d have gotten much more,’ Dolina had said.

I expected to see Ryrie at our door, demanding to know where they were, the treasures I’d kept behind, but Calum brought the news: Ryrie had met an early death in Leith soon after the sale, robbed and slaughtered for the money in his pocket. Not long after his death, Reverend MacLeod got wind of his dealings with the widows. He rampaged through the town of Stornoway like a man possessed, tipping all the stills over, declaring them the devil’s work. Now, he has twenty more souls on the poor list, some with nowhere to live. He says it is God punishing them, but I say it is he who has done the devil’s work.

Reverend Munro, too, was banished from the island. He’d spoken out against the landlord at the gathering of the crofters. The newspapers of the rich called them riots, but in truth, it was just peaceful, God-fearing men and women joining together to plead their case for their land to be returned so they could feed their families.

Because of the treasure, we managed to stay on at Penny Donald for five more seasons, scrimping an existence as best we could until Calum’s passing, taken by the typhoid. My two youngest sons, Malcolm and John bade me farewell as soon as they were able to find work on the boats and I’d not heard a word since. One of my nephews reported that they’d jumped ship in Australia at a place called Adelaide, a new colony set up for free men and women.

I’d given them both one of my two ivory warrior dolls before they left.

‘Take these to keep you safe and strong. Remember me when you look at them and know that I love you wherever you are.’

Rhona married a man from Ness and had two bairns. So it was only Christiana and Murdo living with me when two of the new landlord’s men arrived on horseback.

‘Matheson will be taking Penny Donald. You have three days to leave.’

‘This meagre plot is all we have to sustain us. How are we to eat? There’s no work to be had anywhere on the island. And nowhere to live.’

‘Matheson is offering free packages for all three of you to the New World. You’ve kin at Cape Breton. You should think on joining them.’

And so we packed all that we had, Murdo, Christiana and me. Three suitcases and five hens. The night before our departure, I went over the dunes to the hiding place of our hidden treasure. I found the spot easily enough, for I had visited the site with Calum several times over the years and he’d taught me how to find it.

‘Turn at the lake that looks like a hook. You will find the north wall of the old nunnery. Turn to face the end of that large island. Then walk 100 paces along that line.’

We’d even cleared the entrance a couple of times and I’d gone in to check the pieces were still there. Once, when the hunger of a mean winter knotted in my stomach and the children grew thin and quiet, I’d asked a Stornoway man how to go about selling goods on the mainland. I’d not told him what they were. But the man had no knowledge of the markets except for cows and the like. So, it had come to nothing. Since then, I’d had neither the time nor the inclination to try again to sell them.

But nor could I leave them behind.

After an hour of digging, the opening emerged. On my hands and knees, I crept forward. Sand filled my nose and my ears. My hair hung down with the weight of it, my scalp a gritty mess. I created a small tunnel, praying as I went that there would be no collapse.

‘You fool,’ I thought, ‘coming alone.’ Inch by inch I went on, making my way towards the back of the chamber. I could hear my heart beating like a distant drum. Was it calling me to battle or bringing home the dead, I wondered?

Out of breath, I lay still for a moment. I’d heard of people being buried alive and wondered what it would be like. ‘Would my death now be so bad?’ I thought. ‘The bairns are grown and I have no idea what my life will be beyond tomorrow.’

A heavy peacefulness settled on me. Death beckoned.

But the will to live is strong. I kept digging and soon my fingers felt the sand-encrusted hessian. I pulled the bag free and dragged it with me, squirming backwards to the opening. Spitting out sand, I filled my lungs with salt air before undoing the knot and spreading them before me, the twenty-four tiny gravestones, testaments to my bravery and my guile. Or sombre reminders of my foolishness. The drum beat of my heart slowed and I could hear the waves gently pounding the shore. The moon emerged from behind the clouds, drawing the line between heaven and the ocean that lay between me and my new home.

‘My treasures,’ I whispered as I set for home, ‘deliver us from evil.’

Lighting the candles, I worked quickly that night while Murdo and Christiana slept. I took our coats – six in all, three for the croft work and three for Sundays and funerals only. They’d all frayed at the elbows long ago. I took the thinnest and, unpicking its seams, cut from it twenty-four squares the size of my palm. Into each cloth square I placed one of my precious gravestones, fastening the cloth around them using tight, tiny stitches to ensure they carried the weight. I stitched on my odd-shaped buttons, five per coat, bar one that had four.

The coats hung oddly with their weight but I knew nobody was going to be curious about our attire where we are going. Only the sadness in our hearts would be plain for all to see.

Putting away the thread, I came across my sampler. Tears filled my eyes as I looked at the clumsy work I’d done, first as a child and then as a young wife, filled with love and hope, sure of our history and trusting in our future. I smiled at the memory of Miss Montgomery and her insistence that I embroider the shape of our island.

Taking the last of the purple thread, I made a shape like a hook marking the lake near the nunnery and stitched a horse shaped like the ivory horseman doll. Then I added the date of our find. 1831. I rolled it tight and wedged it beneath the two pots that we would take to the New World.

CHAPTER 19

Marianne, Isle of Lewis 2010.

The official letter from the BM about the investigation was emailed two days later, the same day as George’s paper was published. Not brave enough yet to read the BM letter, Marianne downloaded George’s conference paper as soon as it was available. She’d read up on the five criteria necessary to prove plagiarism. Three of them, those regarding her own work being original and protected and George’s paper lacking attribution, would be relatively straight forward. She could certainly prove that he had access to her paper because she still had the email she’d sent to him. The fifth criteria, that involved showing specific overlaps in the two papers, might take more time. If she made an official accusation now, without solid proof, it could be seen as a revenge tactic and George would use all his power and connections to fight her, muddying her name, further questioning her integrity, and making the case for an investigation of her even stronger.

Scanning the first three pages of the paper, Marianne’s hopes rose. The overlap was significant. She had a strong case.

Taking a deep breath, she read the letter from Nigel. Its tone was formal but pragmatic.

‘If the museum-wide search does not uncover the missing item by the end of the week, the matter will be handed to the police who will instigate a criminal investigation.

In the meantime, you are directed to have no contact with any of the people on the below investigation list.’

Marianne knew the replica would not be found. She knew, but couldn’t prove, that George knew where it was. He wouldn’t have made the accusation otherwise. If he really believed it was a genuine chess piece, he may have stolen it with a view to selling it at a later date. But more likely, he had simply got rid of it, knowing it was worthless, and was using its disappearance to create a black mark against her. Even if no case against her was sustained, he would have destroyed her chances for promotion and probably guaranteed her being let go.

She had no intention of discussing her situation with anyone at the BM, but she looked down the list anyway and was surprised to see that Penelope Jones was not there. Another name, Carol Adamson, was listed as George’s personal assistant. Had Penelope been replaced? And if so, was her absence linked to the missing replica?

Marianne’s phone rang. Euan rung every day, usually in the evening, and they’d speak for an hour or so.

‘I’m on a break and I was wondering if the GPR has arrived yet.’

‘I expect it’ll arrive in the next day or two.’ Hiring it had been much easier than she’d expected. Because she was still registered as an archaeologist and a member of the Uni alumni, all she had to do was fill out a form and pay a deposit.

‘I think we should do a reconnaissance trip to Mealasta on the weekend,’ Euan said, ‘to work out the best place to start our search.’

Marianne hesitated.

‘You are still wanting to do the search, aren’t you?’

‘I am, it’s just the investigation. Now that I’ve got the official written notification that I’m under investigation, it complicates things.’

‘So, is it just a timing thing? We could delay. We could send the GPR straight back and wait till the investigation is resolved and you’re cleared. It’s up to you, Marianne. It’s your decision.’

His words echoed down the phone. The exact same words her parents had said all those years ago. She’d been thinking about Buddy a lot over the last few days and Euan’s words were just another reminder that she would have to tell him when he got back.

‘I want to go ahead, but it will have to be you who leads it. And you’ll have to take the glory if we uncover anything.’

‘I’m not one for glory, but yes, you can say you were just helping a friend who wanted to try to locate the find site. And I do. I really want to find it. It feels like unfinished business. So are you free on the weekend?’

Marianne laughed. ‘I think I can fit you in. My social calendar is not exactly overrun.’

The trip to the west coast seemed much quicker this time. They took the main road all the way. With summer drawing to a close, there were fewer cars and caravans. Mealasta beach was deserted. The noon day sun was mostly hidden by clouds and a soft sea mist almost obscured the water’s edge. The lapping waves were hypnotic. Marianne and Euan stood together, looking towards the hidden horizon as if they were the only people alive. Marianne heard a chanting sound.

‘Did you hear that?’

‘No. What was it?’

‘Like a chanting. Voices. Women’s voices.’

‘Probably just an echo of a bird’s cry.’

‘Yes. I’m sure you’re right,’ Marianne said, looking back towards where the nunnery once stood.

They found a low wall of large stones a metre long and followed it in both directions and soon found more linear outcrops, enough to make a reasonable assumption as to where the perimeter of the House of the Black Women might have been. An area the size of two tennis courts lay between it and the beach.

‘It doesn’t look like a lot, but you’ll soon see how big it is once we start searching,’ Marianne said. She’d been on enough digs to know it was better to start small. As they pegged out the site, she thought again about the absurdity of what they were doing. All her training told her that it was a ridiculous idea, laughable even. The only thing they had to guide them was local folk stories and a horse embroidered onto a one hundred and eighty-year-old piece of cloth. A wave of futility swept over her, but seeing Euan earnestly assessing the area drove her on.

It was late afternoon before they finished and agreed it was a good start.

‘I need to stop at the croft on the way,’ Euan said as they neared Eanacliet. ‘There’s an old wood burner I need to detach and move.’

He pulled up at the cottage and went inside, leaving Marianne alone, overlooking the view of soft rolling hills alongside the gentle Loch Roag. They had a calming, welcoming permanence about them. The earlier mist was slowly clearing, leaving a soft veil across the loch and the mossy green hills. Getting out of the car, she ventured to the edge of a walled area which would at one time have been a garden. The smell of earthy dampness mingled faintly with the salty sea air. She breathed in and wondered how it was possible for something so common, so vital as air, to be so exhilarating and inspiring.

Euan called for her to come inside. ‘What do you think? Ready for immediate occupancy or a handyman’s delight?’

Marianne was surprised by how cosy it felt. ‘A little of both. How about “Move straight in or renovate to your own taste.”’

The original part of the cottage was only two rooms and she’d noticed a lean-to at the back that had been added on. The floor was stones laid into earth. The walls and the ceiling were covered with aging wallpaper. A wooden dresser, probably hand-made, cluttered with crockery of various colours and shapes, stood along the far side, opposite a long bench. A small table took up most of the space in front of the old Aga posited in the original fireplace. From what Marianne could see, it was the only form of heating. She tried to imagine a family of five living there.

‘It must have been pretty squashy when you all lived here.’

‘I shared the lean-to with my sisters,’ Euan said. ‘They’re three and four years younger than me and slept in the same bed. It sounds strange now, but we didn’t know anything else. All of us kids went to live with our grandparents in Stornoway when we went to high school and the whole family moved there when I turned sixteen. Dad got work with the Council and we were allocated a house. It was much easier for everyone, and Mum loved all the mod cons that came with the house. But we all missed the croft and came here during summer holidays.’

‘I can see why,’ said Marianne, wandering back outside to take in the view again. ‘I don’t know how you could ever have left,’ she called back to him. ‘Why is it that you’ve only recently taken on the croft?’

Euan joined her outside. ‘One of my cousins was living here. Well, squatting really. He got the idea it should be his. I knew he was wrong, but at the time I was happy enough down in London, so I let sleeping dogs lie. He’s a bit of a sad case, my cousin. Mental health problems and drug use. He got into trouble with the law recently, petty stuff mainly, but enough to land him in prison for a spell. That’s when I decided it was time to apply to have it officially registered in my name. I think I already told you how the Crofting Commission insists that the occupier lives here most of the year. It’s a good way to ensure the island doesn’t get taken over by outsiders only interested in making money on holiday rents.’

‘You’re one very lucky man,’ she said.

‘I guess I am. But it can be a lonely life up here if you’re on your own.’

Marianne resisted answering. They both knew what he was saying but there were so many unknowns in her life. ‘Come on,’ she said, turning back to the cottage. ‘Let’s take a closer look at the stove you want to get rid of.’

‘I’m planning on replacing it with a modern cooker. I know how much work Agas are,’ Euan said, opening the doors to work out how he could dismantle it.

‘But surely you wouldn’t throw it out. It’s lovely.’

‘Lovely?’ Euan laughed. ‘It’s caked with the ten years of grease, not to mention the sand that blew in when the cottage door was ripped off in a gale. I canna’ exactly see its charm. It’d take a blaster to get it back to what it was.’

‘Or a chemist,’ Marianne said. Together, they detached the old Aga stove from a rotting flue and tried to lift it, but it was too heavy to move.

‘When we…’ she felt rather than saw Euan’s smile, ‘when you work out how to get it outside, let me have a go at it. If it looks okay when I’ve finished, you could put it in the far corner.’

‘Or in the bedroom to keep me warm at night. Unless you have any other suggestions for that?’

He pulled her to him and they kissed until she stepped away again.

‘I’d love nothing more than to be here with you, but let’s take one step at a time. I’ve got to find a way to prove my innocence yet. I might be locked up for theft before long.’ Even though she said it as a joke, they both knew that she was serious.

‘And that’s the only reason? There’s nothing or nobody else holding you back?’

‘No, that’s it. I’m single, no dependent kids.’

‘Just independent kids,’ Euan teased.

Marianne made a promise to herself to tell him about Buddy that night.

As they drove back to Stornoway, Marianne asked, ‘So why did your cousin think the croft should be his?’

‘He had some notion that I didn’t have any legal rights because I was adopted. He was just trying it on, I think.’

Marianne swung around. ‘Adopted? I never knew.’ Her reaction came out sounding like an accusation and she realised that it was a stupid thing to say. ‘Not that it’s any of my business.’

Euan’s expression gave nothing away. ‘That’s okay. It’s no big deal. I was three when I came to live with the Finlaysons. My birth mother was mentally unwell, or so they were told.’

She looked for signs of sadness. There were none. ‘So, you think she did the right thing, giving you up?’

Euan shrugged. ‘I guess. I’ll never really know. I was always happy as a kid. And still am. My sisters were adopted too. It just seemed normal to us.’

‘Have you ever tried to find her, your biological mother?’

‘No. It was a closed adoption back then and my parents put a stipulation on the file that they didn’t want contact. I renewed that when I was eighteen. I didn’t want any aggravation and I didn’t want anything upsetting Mum and Dad either.’

Marianne’s thoughts were racing but she tried to sound casual. ‘But what if she really needed to get to know you for her own peace of mind? Don’t you think she should have that right?’

‘I’ve thought about that, but in the end it’s her rights versus mine. The system is there to support people if both want contact. To tell you the truth, I don’t think about it very often. Maybe one day I’ll change it to a “yes” for contact and see what happens. Anyway,’ he said, laughing now, ‘what’s with the interrogation?’

Aware how intense she seemed, Marianne sat back. ‘Sorry. Just the whole adoption thing is… Well, I’m quite interested in it.’

‘Because?’ Euan waited for her to say more, but she needed more time now. What was her status with the adoption authorities? Was she protected from contact? Even though she thought about Buddy often now, would she really welcome him turning up in her life? She decided she needed to talk to Shona as soon as possible.

‘I’ve been dreading telling you,’ Euan said ‘but I’m going away again. I’m catching the ferry to Ullapool tomorrow. I’ve got another meeting with the Crofting Commission and will look at some flooring. I’ll only be away about two days. I’d love for you to come.’

If he’d asked her even just an hour ago, she’d have jumped at chance, but their discussion about adoption had sent her into a spin and her thoughts were now totally consumed with Buddy. She had a vague recollection of insisting to her parents that she put a ‘no contact’ instruction on her file. But did it still apply? Should she have renewed that as an adult?

‘Sorry, but I’ve promised Agnes I’ll do some document scanning. And as I said, I need to sort everything out first.’ She knew that the excuse was lame and didn’t convince Euan for a second.

He was watching her, as if trying to work something out, but she couldn’t even look at him.

‘Why first?’ He asked. When she didn’t answer he shook his head. ‘Sorry, Marianne, but I don’t understand. I can’t help feeling you’re still keeping something back.’

She knew he meant well but his insistence felt like pressure, pressure she didn’t need. ‘Euan, I can’t handle this right now. Being up here and being with you makes me happy but it seems unreal in some way, like I’m running away. And besides, I don’t want to hurt you if…’

‘If you eventually decide to leave,’ he finished for her.

She nodded. ‘Or if you do. You don’t really know me very well. I can be a right cow.’

‘Or you me, I guess. But I’m willing to take this time to find out more. You don’t have to protect me. Just be honest with me. I thought we were close enough that we could at least talk things over.’

‘We can, but you have to let me do it in my own way, in my own time. Leaving London is a big deal for me, you know.’

‘So, are you even considering moving here, or is this just a passing phase? Am I just a distraction?’

‘No, it’s not like that, I promise. Please, Euan, you have to trust me.’

They pulled up at Agnes’ and he left the motor running waiting for her to get out. ‘Well, in case you want to know where I am, I’ll be checking in at the museum when I get back and then at the croft,’ he said, then pulled away, leaving her on the footpath.

She was glad to find that Agnes was out when she went inside. She phoned Shona and filled her in on her dilemma.

‘I’m pretty sure you’re covered, love. If you put something on the file when you were eighteen, that stays there unless you revoke it. I’m pretty sure that’s right. Even if he did somehow find your name, you don’t have to meet him.’

Shona’s reassurance helped Marianne calm down, though the whole experience had left her confused. She’d missed Buddy all her life, in one way or another, and now she wanted to know he couldn’t just come and find her. As hard as it was going to be, she knew she had to tell Euan about him when they next met.

She texted Euan. Sorry. I’ll come to the croft when you get back and explain everything.

Using her personal email address rather than her BM one, which was probably being monitored, she sent a slightly ambiguous message to Penelope’s work address. An automated response bounced back. I will be on leave from 18th July. Please refer all matters to Caroline Adamson.

Marianne quickly recalled the email. It hadn’t been opened. 18th July. That meant Penelope had been at work on the 17th, the day the replica went missing. Her thoughts tumbled over each other. Could Penelope provide the answer to the replica’s location or was she involved in its disappearance? She’d always been meticulous in her work practices so it seemed unlikely she would have accidently misplaced it. And she’d given Marianne the impression that she thought George an idiot. But was that a ruse? Were they in this together?

Opening an email from Shona, written before the call, Marianne tried to push the work situation and her disagreement with Euan out of her mind. Skipping through all the usual Shona chatter about the flight, the weather and the jetlag, she read on.

You remember Cousin Rosemary – well, second cousin twice removed actually–

Marianne rolled her eyes. Even in an email Shona could be frustrating.

She’s been looking through some books she found in our grandmother’s cupboards. There was a diary written in 1888, but she said there was nothing of interest in it. Mostly about the weather and what they would have for dinner. She wondered if you would like it.

Marianne emailed back.

I’d love to have the diary. Tell Rosemary to keep it in protective paper.

She ran a bath and was in bed before nine; the day’s events had left her drained. But sleep evaded her as the memory of her sixteen-year-old self, flooded in. Her confusion, her anger and her devastation when she realised her childhood had ended, snatched away by one mistake. How had she managed to shut down thoughts of Buddy all these years? And why?

Despite Shona’s reassurances, she knew she would have to get hold of the departmental file to see what it said about future contact.

That night she dreamed of tiny chess pawns dancing around a laughing baby. She tried to pick the baby up, but it kept slipping through her hands. Her father was there, but he couldn’t move fast enough to help. Euan was there too, but simply watched on. ‘You know where I am,’ he said.

CHAPTER 20

Marianne, Isle of Lewis 2010

Marianne woke to her phone ringing. Sam.

‘I’m about to arrange for all my furniture to go into storage. I’ll start again across the pond. Can you believe it? New York.’

Marianne gulped down a glass of water, trying to catch up with Sam’s energetic morning enthusiasm.

‘I just wondered if there’s anything you would like to buy or borrow?’

‘Can I let you know in a couple of days? There’s so much going on right now.’ She couldn’t bring herself to say what was troubling her the most, so she took the easier option and talked about Euan.

‘You’re such a nervous Nelly, Marianne. Jump his bones. If it doesn’t work out, it’s not the end of the world. If it does and you get on, then make the next decision. You straights are so precious. Communication is the key. Just get on with it. No biggie.’

‘I’m not sure about moving up here. What about Mum?’ Marianne continued protesting.

‘Bloody hell Marianne. Any more excuses? Your mum is a very resourceful woman, in case you haven’t noticed. She’s got plenty to keep her busy and anyway, London is only a flight away. She could be at City Airport for breakfast and Lewis for lunch. Stop making this about other people.’

They chatted for a little longer about the pending investigation and the development regarding Penelope’s absence and departure date. Although she made all the right noises, Marianne could tell that Sam was distracted.

‘Anyway, Sam, you’ve got enough on your plate without worrying about me. I promise to let you know by the end of the week about the furniture.’

‘Okay. But no longer.’

When Agnes told her she was going to Oban for two days to stay with a sick friend, Marianne decided to spend two days working at home, setting up a digital filing system for the museum. It gave her a chance to get to know more about its collection and she found she really loved the idea of being involved in the admin side of a small community museum. Some of the documents that she scanned were papers to do with the proposal for a new museum that would meet all the requirements for a modern establishment. Although she didn’t need to, she read them all and became excited for the people of Stornoway. What a coup it would be if they were successful.

When Agnes returned, she and Marianne had dinner at the pub. It was hard not to mention the pending search at Mealasta, but Marianne had promised Euan she wouldn’t tell Agnes or Shona about their plan, in case something went wrong. They would, of course, be acknowledged for their part in the research if they found anything and went public.

‘I saw Euan at the Post Office late today. He said to tell you he’ll be working at the croft tomorrow if you want to go there. You can drop me off at the museum and take my car if you like. He said something about getting an Aga cleaned.’

Euan was already on the roof stripping off the last of the old thatch when Marianne arrived at the croft the next morning. He waved to her but didn’t come down. He had a pained look on his face, and she hoped it was only about the task he was doing. Replacing the thatch with tin was a compromise he hadn’t wanted to make.

She waved back and unpacked the chemicals she’d brought with her. The Aga was now at the edge of the garden; he’d obviously found someone to help him move it. She set to work with only the faint noise from Euan’s radio to break the silence between them. She’d almost got the worst of the sand off when he came to her side, close but not touching. She pulled him closer. ‘Euan, I…’ she began before he interrupted.

‘It’s okay, Marianne. I get it,’ he said pulling away. ‘I shouldn’t assume anything. You’ve got a lot of decisions to make. I don’t have any right to ask about your private life.’

He walked to a pickup sitting in the driveway. ‘Do you like my wheels? I bought it at Inverness. It was going cheap. And,’ he said, throwing back the tarpaulin tray-cover, ‘your GPR arrived this morning.’

Marianne flinched at him referring to the GPR as hers. They’d both arranged for it to be delivered to his Stornoway address, hoping that if any of the locals saw it, they would think it something to do with his croft renovations.

‘I assume you are you still wanting to start searching first thing tomorrow?’ The formality in his voice was not lost on Marianne.

‘Yes, if you do.’

‘I said I would, so I will. That’s how I am.’

‘Euan, I need to tell–

He cut her short. ‘You don’t owe me anything.’

Her first inclination was to take the opportunity to say nothing. But she knew the longer she avoided telling him about Buddy the harder it would get. ‘No Euan. I want to tell you before any of this goes any further. I need to start this next part of my life with a clean slate.’

Euan frowned, a look of trepidation crossing his face. Marianne hurried on.

‘I had a baby when I was sixteen. A boy. I gave him up for adoption. I gave him away.’

The words tumbled from her. She watched Euan, expecting the worst. But all she saw was relief.

‘God, I thought you were dying or had done something horrible.’

‘It was horrible,’ she said, tears filling her eyes as she remembered Buddy’s tiny fist gripping her finger, his plump little lips nuzzling her.

He pulled her to him. ‘Sorry. Yes, of course it was, but I meant you. You didn’t do anything horrible.’

She pulled away so she could see his face. ‘So, you don’t think I did the wrong thing?’

‘How could I? Oh, Marianne is that what you’ve been worried about? That I would judge you?’

‘When you told me how you felt angry at your birth mother…’

‘I was angry, yes. But that was because I couldn’t understand why she didn’t just stop drinking. I know now that it isn’t easy as it sounds. But you! You were sixteen. God, Marianne, how did you survive that?’

‘I’m not sure. It feels more like a bad dream now. I just didn’t tell anyone. Only Dad and Mum knew, and I made them stop talking about it.’

‘You didn’t consider an abortion?’

Marianne shook her head. ‘I was so naïve. I was four months gone before I realised. It would have been a medical procedure. And I didn’t want that anyway. It didn’t feel right.

Shona talked to me about keeping it and letting her and Dad raise him. But Dad was fifty when it happened. There’s a big age gap between him and Mum. And besides, I didn’t know how I would manage being around him. It would have been a daily reminder of my mistake.’

‘So, you chose adoption. The baby wasn’t taken from you by force or anything?’

‘No. My doctor and midwife were great. They explained all my options. It was my decision and I still think it was the right one. I read up on adoption and about how lots of couples really wanted children but couldn’t get pregnant. My friends’ sister was in that situation and it was tearing her apart. So I decided to go ahead with the pregnancy knowing I would give him up.’

‘What about the father?’

‘He was a boy from school. We only had sex twice. Long, skinny lad he was – a ginger! By the time I found out I was pregnant he’d moved away with his family. I didn’t want him to know but Dad persuaded me. He contacted the parents, but they wrote back saying that he denied even having sex with me. They were a devout, fundamentalist Christian family so I guess he would’ve been in big trouble if he’d owned up. So that was that. I was glad. Him being involved would have just complicated things. By then I knew what I wanted to do.’

‘And now? I get the impressions things have changed.’

‘I’m not sure. Your adoption story has set me thinking about whether I should try to find him or not. I have so much to decide.’

‘Well, now you have one more person to share your load. I’ll always be here for you, no matter what.’ As Euan took her in his arms she felt a weight lift from her. She knew that he must have many more questions, but for now, all she wanted was to be a woman in love with a man. She led the way into the cottage. He lowered her onto the mattress on the floor and they undressed clumsily and hurriedly, both driven by passion and desperation. She came quickly and powerfully and with the release came tears. Tears of joy and of sadness for all the years she’d carried her secret alone. Tears of relief and certainty.

Euan picked her up early the following morning. The drizzly rain had almost stopped and the sun had broken through the low cloud. They were nearing Eanacleit when a double rainbow greeted them. Its beauty filled Marianne with courage. They put the GPR equipment and two shovels under a tarpaulin in the back of the pickup. Arriving at Mealasta beach before eight and parking at the end of the ever-narrowing track, they were delighted to find the site deserted and their markings still intact.

Marianne began the slow, methodical use of the GPR, beginning at the southwest corner while Euan worked from the opposite side, trying to identify any obvious changes in grass coverage that might indicate something different beneath the surface. He was also on the lookout for cars. They would stop if anyone came and put the GPR back in the pickup. It looked enough like a metal detector to fool most people anyway.

They machine’s low purring was the only noise to be heard over the rhythmical lapping of the sea on the shore. Marianne wondered what Malcolm Macleod and his family would make of them if they could see them. Would they approve, or would they resent having their find site invaded? She envisaged the woman in the photo watching her with her challenging eyes and heard her voice telling her to keep going. Your missing piece will soon be found, Marianne imagined her saying.

‘My missing piece?’

‘What’s that?’ Euan said, straightening his back.

‘Nothing. Just thinking out loud. Come on, let’s take a break.’ Marianne lay the machine down and stretched, realising how much her arms and shoulders were aching and her head throbbing. She looked back at the area she’d covered and nearly wept to see that it was not even a tenth of the designated area. There was so much more to cover. She looked to the south, where the mountains marked the border between Lewis and Harris, one island split into two. In the other direction, grassy dunes unfurled around them, like a massive quilt, ending at a craggy ridge. She thought about the Black Women who’d lived in the nunnery and she wondered if they’d been lonely, or if they’d felt protected here.

Sitting on the ancient stones, Marianne and Euan attacked the corned beef sandwiches Agnes had packed for them and poured tea from the thermos.

‘I told Agnes we were going on a picnic,’ Marianne explained. ‘I’m not sure she believed me. I think she knows something is happening.’

‘Aye, there’s not much that escapes her, Mrs Mackay.’ He bit into his second sandwich and nodded to the site area, keeping a straight face.

‘Och, we’re making grand progress.’

‘Aye, fair crackin’ along,’ Marianne said, as dead pan as Euan. They both laughed.

‘Okay,’ Marianne threw the remnant of her now cold tea away. ‘I admit it, it’s very unlikely we’re going to find anything this way. No wonder nobody has tried before. Do you want to throw in the towel?’

‘No. Once I say I’m going to do something, I do it. Let’s keep going for a couple more hours and if nothing comes of it, we’ll think again.’

A gloom of resignation settled over them as they packed up the lunch things.

‘Maybe we missed some other clue. Let’s have another look at the picture of the cloth,’ Marianne said. Euan found the photo and passed her his phone. She studied it for a minute, orientating it to where they stood.

‘So, the embroidered horse is at the southern edge of the bay, and just off the coast are three islands – two small, one larger. They certainly look like the three islands we can see from here.’

Euan took the phone from her and nodded. ‘Yes. It was the shape and location of the islands that convinced me that it was this section of coast,’ he said, looking at where she was pointing out to sea. ‘But now I’m not so sure. I guess it could be anywhere along this part of the coast. Sorry.’

She took the phone back and zoomed in. ‘What do you think this squiggle here in blue is? I noticed it the other day and thought that it was strange that it’s embroidered with blue thread, like the coastline. There’s nothing else in blue on the entire sampler,’ she said.

‘It looks like a hook of some kind,’ Euan said. ‘Maybe just decoration?’

Marianne frowned, unwilling to give up when it seemed they were so close. She felt nature calling and told Euan she’d be back. ‘Do you want to take the GPR next? Have a practice with it while I’m away.’

Going up a small rise, she found a discreet spot to relieve herself and stood, looking south again. The sun was at an angle to light up the mountains of Harris. One small lake, a small, hook shaped lake, seemed to catch the sun’s rays, standing out from its surrounds, as if calling out to her, demanding it be noticed.

Marianne screamed, calling to Euan to stop the machine, grabbing the map from his backpack on her way to him. ‘Look,’ she said, unfolding it and pointing. Directly to the south of where they stood, was marked a lake formation the shape of a hook. ‘We must be close. Very close.’

Marianne wrapped her arms around him and he twirled her around. Taking the GPR to the southern edge of the area they began searching again and within thirty minutes the GPR began buzzing, indicating a significant cavity. Going over the same area three more times to check the reading, they grabbed shovels and dug for twenty minutes before collapsing, exhausted, onto the grass.

‘Let’s call it a day,’ Euan said. ‘We need a small digger for this surface layer. I think I can probably get one from a friend.’

Their arms entangled as they loaded the equipment. They kissed. Their lips tasted of salt and sand. Earthy and primitive.

‘We make a good team, you and I.’

‘We do. Perhaps there’s a little bit of the island’s magic working on us too.’

Although the days were getting shorter, there was still some light when they arrived back at Mealasta late the next day. They’d agreed that from here on they’d need to work under cover of darkness to avoid scrutiny. Waiting for a few last tourists to leave, they unloaded the digger and set up flood lights that Euan had hired. Marianne noted the exact location and time in her notebook, wanting the dig to be as professional as possible. After twenty minutes, the digger’s blade scraped against something hard. Euan reversed it and they took out the shovels, taking small samples until they exposed the sand encrusted slab, the top of the underground chamber – or so they hoped.

‘Okay,’ Marianne said, trying hard to control her excitement, ‘the opening is likely to be facing away from the prevailing westerly wind.’

They cleared a strip a metre wide, gradually edging eastward until they found the edge of the chamber and began digging downwards. Using trowels now, they soon found the vertical wall.

‘We need to be careful not to damage the stonework,’ Marianne said. ‘If we’re right, we’re uncovering a significant heritage site.’ After half an hour of careful scraping the stony slab gave way to compacted sand.

Marianne’s heart pounded against her chest. It was exactly what they’d hoped for. They’d found the opening of an underground chamber.

She stood back, wiping the sand from her face, needing to catch her breath and her thoughts. ‘I’m getting nervous now. I should be reporting this. Handing it over to an authorised archaeology team.’

‘We can stop if that’s what you want. You’re the expert. And the one they’ll reprimand if we get this wrong.’

She looked at Euan for a moment, considering her options. ‘Stopping isn’t what I want. It’s what I think I should do. What I want is for this find to be ours. Yours and mine. I want that more than anything. What about you? Do you want to carry on?’

His kiss answered her question and hers his.

The light lasted another hour before they turned on the flood lights. The sound of the waves breaking on the shore amplified as the sunlight disappeared, exaggerating Marianne’s excitement. They dug outwards, away from the chamber, then downwards, creating a space to work, sifting the extracted material onto a tarpaulin. They took turns between digging and sifting through the extracted sand.

‘We’ll go through this again in daylight to make sure we haven’t missed anything. All material is considered part of the excavation,’ Marianne said.

Within an hour they had enough of an opening in front of the chamber to allow them to begin tunnelling inwards. The sand became less compacted the further in they dug. The temptation to go faster was immense, but Marianne was determined to stay true to her training. ‘Scrape, don’t dig. It’s unlikely that anything will be in this layer of sand, but we have to err on the side of caution.’

‘Do you think the entire chamber will be filled with sand?’ Euan asked.

‘Let’s hope not. The GPR reading was pretty strong, suggesting otherwise. And the fact it faces away from the sea and the prevailing wind is on our side.’

They excavated for another two hours before the sand began collapsing into the cavity of the chamber. As the last layer of sand gave way, a chamber about a metre across and three metres deep opened up.

They sat back, exhausted, their hearts racing.

They’d certainly found a souterrain, but had they found the site where one of the world’s greatest treasures had once been buried?

‘We will need to use smaller trowels now. But let’s take a break first. The next part of the dig will be critical to authenticating any find we make.’

Eager as they were they were to continue, they were both glad to straighten their backs and breathe in the sea air.

‘This is all becoming very real,’ Euan said. ‘What will we do if we find the missing chessmen?’

‘We’ll have to report the find. Eventually.’

‘But at first?’

‘What do you think? What would a non-archaeologist do? This is, after all, your dig as far as anyone else is concerned.’

Euan took time to consider her question. ‘A non-archaeologist Lewis man would weigh up his options. The people of Lewis have already lost control of most of the chessmen. It would be good to hold back, to have something to bargain with.’

‘And the finder’s reward money?’

This time it was Euan’s turn to shrug. ‘I wouldn’t feel like it belonged to us. Perhaps we could donate any money we get towards the building of a new museum.’

Marianne nodded and took a swig of water. ‘Sounds right to me. But what if there is someone on the island, a Macleod, who can prove their family buried them here?’

Euan looked at her. ‘Is that what you are intending? Claiming family ownership?’

‘No, not me, but someone else might. We have to be prepared for that, don’t you think?’

‘Nobody has come forward with any proof during all this time. Maybe it depends on what we find in there. There might be some other identifying item.’

They sat silently thinking through the options until Euan noticed the sky turning to grey.

‘Come on, let’s get to it. We’ll have plenty of time to talk it over with Agnes if we do actually find these elusive missing pieces,’ Euan said.

Although the chamber was big enough for them both to enter, they decided to go in one at a time for safety’s sake.

‘We should avoid brushing up against the walls, too,’ Marianne said. Although excavation had not been the focus of her degree, she was surprised at how many of the rules came back to her.

She went in first while Euan squatted outside with one of the floodlights. The rock-lined floor was covered with at least six inches of sand. Taking it in turns, they cleared it, continuing to sift each extraction. As Marianne took the final shift at the back of the chamber her heart became heavy with the harrowing realisation.

There were no chess pieces.

Leaving Euan to gather up the equipment in the chamber, Marianne began bagging the extracted sand to re-sift back at the croft. Despite not finding any chessmen, they didn’t want their dig discovered. A strangely shaped rock caught her attention. Brushing the sand off, she realised it wasn’t a rock but a metal item, about the length and breadth of her index finger. Placing it in one of the specimen bags, she was putting it in the pickup’s glove compartment when she heard Euan call out.

‘Bring in the other flood light, Marianne.’

She passed it through the opening and saw him peering at something on one of the walls. He held the light up to it. A small drawing, still partly covered with sand, was etched into the chamber wall.

‘Ancient graffiti,’ she said, unable to rally any enthusiasm through her exhaustion and disappointment. ‘We can check it out tomorrow.’

‘No, I think you should look at it properly, Marianne.’ She backed out, let him pass, and went in, taking a brush from her overalls. Euan watched as she gently brushed the area until the drawing emerged in full.

A warrior, comical and familiar, biting down on his shield, his bulging eyes thanking them, it seemed, for rescuing him from a sandy death.

Marianne’s hands flew to her mouth and she let out a quiet scream. Tears filled her eyes as she extended her hand to grasp Euan’s.

They had excavated the find site of the famous Lewis Chessmen.

CHAPTER 21

Marianne, Isle of Lewis 2010

While Euan covered the opening with turf from the adjoining dune Marianne put bunting around the site. It was unlikely that anyone would wander this far from the beach, but they didn’t want to take any chances.

‘We need to report this as soon as possible and have it declared an official site.’ They agreed that Euan would be the one to contact Treasure Trove. What had started out as a crazy, private adventure had turned very serious. With George’s accusations against Marianne looming over them they had to be extra careful to do the right thing.

‘There’s no signal here. I’ll phone from the landline at the cottage.’

Coached by Marianne from the sidelines, Euan had a long conversation with Treasure Trove. They were sceptical at first, but when he mentioned the drawing of the chessman, their interest grew. They advised him to secure the site with bunting and report it to the local police.

‘They’ll need to put up signage and can ring this number to get authorisation. We’ll list it as an area of interest, which will give them the authority to prosecute any trespassers. Once we’ve investigated it ourselves, we’ll decide what to do next.’

Although exhausted, they drove into Stornoway and booked into The Royal, ordering breakfast to be delivered to their room. They luxuriated in a hot shower, then spent the day sleeping and making love, passionate at times, but also slow and tender. Euan knew what he wanted, taking Marianne with him. She abandoned herself to the rhythms of her body. Her skin came alive to his every touch.

Hungry again, they ordered dinner to be brought to them, not yet wanting to share their joy, and Marianne found herself wanting to tell him more about what she’d been through when she was sixteen.

‘I didn’t even tell my best friend. I was a bit of a loner at school anyway and I felt so much shame. I didn’t want to be thought of as that girl who got pregnant in high school. So when my baggy clothes couldn’t hide it anymore, I left school for a term. I told my friends I’d gone to Canada with Shona and then just stayed at home for the last few months.’

‘It was harder than I thought it would be saying goodbye. I still remember his soft lips and tiny fist.’ Marianne’s voice wavered. ‘That was the hardest bit. The physical letting go. The emptiness. I still feel that at times, like a piece of me is missing.’

She began to cry, long, gasping sobs filled with pain and sadness. Euan held her until she recovered.

‘You okay?’

She wiped her eyes and nodded. ‘So you haven’t been put off me?’

‘No. The opposite. As I said the other day, I’ve always thought there was something you were keeping back. You’ve always been…’

‘A bitch? Marianne suggested, half laughing.

Euan smiled. ‘No. More…detached, I guess?’

Detached. Marianne thought about the word. Yes, that explained it.

‘I had to be to survive, I guess. I created this place inside of me to put my feelings into. I could go months without even thinking about him. It’s always on his birthday that it hits me the hardest. Not wishing I hadn’t done it, just the curiosity, you know, about what happened to him. And then, by total coincidence, Dad died around the time of Buddy’s birthday. That’s what I’ve always been emotional about. Dad’s death. I haven’t been able to get over it. It’s as if all the pain I should’ve been feeling about the baby, I didn’t. And all the feelings about Dad that I should be letting go of, I can’t.’

‘There is no “should” in this, Marianne. No rulebook. Your dad’s death was unexpected. You couldn’t plan for it. It was out of your control.’

‘Exactly. It happened to me, whereas the adoption I at least had some control over. Sometimes I feel as if I’m still in shock about Dad. And I feel guilty because he was coming to see me that day. I’m angry at myself for not answering his text and telling him to stay home.’ Marianne sighed. ‘What a mess I am. Are you sure you want to take me on?’

He hugged her tight. ‘Very sure.’

Euan phoned the police, arranging to go with them back to the site while Marianne filled Agnes in on their excavation.

‘What do you think will happen next?’ Agnes asked.

‘Treasure Trove will send someone up, and if they agree with us, they’ll report it to the Historic Scotland people who will declare it a significant archaeological find. They’ll take it over.’

‘It’ll be cordoned off properly by midday,’ Euan said, joining them.

‘So, people will know pretty soon what’s happened?’

‘Yes, the town “telegraph” will be happening already, and I expect it will hit the press quickly.’

‘And you two will be famous,’ Agnes said.

‘We four will be famous,’ Euan said putting his arms around Marianne’s waist. ‘If it weren’t for you and Shona it would never have happened.’

‘This calls for a celebration,’ Agnes said, beaming at them. ‘And I don’t just mean discovering the find site. Tea anyone?’

Marianne phoned Shona in Skye that night. She filled her in on the discovery and the implications for the embroidered sampler.

‘It now has significant worth and almost certainly proves that the Macleods found the chess pieces. It also confirms our connection to them. I’ve wrapped the sampler in acid-free tissue and put it into one of the museum’s secured archiving storage boxes. Historic Scotland has a photo of it, but I expect they will be keen to look at the real thing very soon.’

‘My lord. Who would have imagined? You know, I once used it to line a drawer!’ Shona laughed.

Marianne took a deep breath. ‘Mum, I’m planning on moving to Lewis. Euan and I are…well, we’re together now.’

‘Oh, Marianne I am so happy to hear that. He’s such a lovely young man. Just what Donald would have wanted for you.’

‘I’ll be going back to London first though to sort out a few things at work. I need to clear my things from the apartment too. Can I stay at your place? When will you get back?’

‘I’m heading back tomorrow. Are you resigning, then?’ Marianne heard the worry in her voice. Shona may be a bit dotty at times, but she had a strong work ethic and a good finance brain.

‘Not at this stage. I’ve got plenty of leave. I’m under investigation, Mum.’

‘They haven’t found the missing item, then? What is happening about your suspicions about George copying your work? Surely that will show that he’s dodgy.’

Marianne shuddered as the reality of her tenuous employment situation returned. Now that the site had been found and no missing pieces discovered, she knew the investigation had to be her priority.

‘I’m working on it, Mum.’

They said their goodbyes, promising to talk when they both were back in London.

CHAPTER 22

Marianne, London 2010

The flurry of press interest in their find died down after about a week. Euan continued to claim he acted alone, using information provided by Agnes and an unnamed tourist from London. Marianne wanted her and Shona’s names to stay out of it, unsure of how the BM would react to her involvement. Photos of Agnes and Euan at the site dominated the front page of The Scotsman and the local paper, and Paul wrote it up for The New Guardian.

He phoned about another article he was thinking about. ‘I want to do a piece on the Napier Commission report. Have you read it? It’s harrowing. Firsthand accounts from crofters turned off their land. I could use the Uig Macleods as an example and interview you and Shona. What do you think?’

‘By all means, do the article, but leave me out of it. I am in enough trouble as it is.’

‘How is all that going?’

‘I haven’t heard anything since I last spoke to you. I have to call Nigel Brownlow tomorrow. It’s hard to believe it’s only been two weeks since my meeting with Julia. So much has happened.’

The phone call to Nigel was as bad as she’d feared.

‘You will be receiving a letter but at this stage I have no option but to go to the police,’ Nigel said.

Marianne’s stomach lurched. ‘I’m assuming you’ve questioned George’s PA, Penelope Jones? As I reported to you, I saw her clearing George’s security container on more than one occasion.’

‘She was on leave on the 17th of July, the day the item was last seen.’

‘No, she wasn’t. I don’t want to tell you how to do your job, Nigel, but I suggest you check that and get in contact with her. Going by her auto reply on her email, the 17th was her last day. It’s not the sort of thing Penelope would get wrong. Where did you get your information from?’ She could hear Nigel talking to someone behind him and the rustling of papers.

‘It appears that the information came from her manager.’ Marianne heard the doubt creeping into his voice.

Within half an hour, Marianne received an email from Nigel, with Julia cc’d, stating that, due to a small oversight, the departmental search would be extended for another week before a criminal investigation would be requested.

Marianne felt strange staying in the house she’d grown up in again. It was the first time she’d slept there since the day of the funeral. Her father’s absence loomed larger than ever, and she wondered how Shona had managed to stay on there.

As Shona unpacked her suitcase, Marianne asked, ‘Isn’t it strange for you, being here without him?’

‘No. In fact, I stayed on because being here keeps him close. I don’t actually think of him as totally gone. I know that’s crazy but it works for me.’

‘I still talk to him sometimes,’ Marianne said. ‘Now that’s crazy.’

‘I do it all the time,’ Shona laughed. ‘And I take extra time in the shower, persuading myself I’m using his hot water.’

‘I wonder what he’d make of the whole Lewis venture.’

‘He’d take it in his stride, like he did everything else. He’d certainly be thrilled to meet Euan, knowing how happy he makes you.’ Shona stashed the suitcase away. ‘Right. Home again. So, what do you want to do to celebrate your small victory with the BM?’

‘Let’s go to the V&A. I haven’t been there for years. I love the porcelain section. And we can go to the tea rooms first. I’m already missing Agnes’ bottomless teapot.’

They were finishing up their afternoon tea of sumptuous scones and cream when a woman approached them.

‘Hi, Marianne. I thought it was you. How’s it going at the BM?’

It took Marianne half a minute to recognise Penelope. Her hair, usually coiffured within an inch of its life, was shoulder length and frizzy. She wore a multicoloured quilted coat over baggy yellow cheesecloth pants, the opposite look from the corporate suit Marianne usually saw her in.

Penelope noticed Marianne’s gaze. ‘I’ve been trekking in Nepal for weeks,’ She said. ‘It was amazing. No phone. No internet. No contact at all really. I’m not looking forward to going back to work. Did you know I had a run in with George on my last day?’

Marianne’s interest sparked. ‘No. But he’s not my favourite person at the moment either.’

‘He’s a sneaky creep. I told him I was going to resign when I got back, but sadly my bank balance has since told me otherwise.’

Marianne indicated for Penelope to take an empty chair. ‘Mum, do you mind leaving us for a bit?’ She knew Penelope would be more forthcoming if Shona wasn’t there. ‘I’ll meet you at V&A in half an hour. Can you ask them at the counter to bring another pot of tea too?’

She kissed Shona goodbye and turned her attention back to Penelope. ‘So, you haven’t heard from George or Nigel Brownlow recently?’

‘No. Should I have? Nigel? Why would they be contacting me?’

‘I probably shouldn’t say anything more. I’m not supposed to be discussing it. But can you contact Nigel as soon as possible?’

‘Sure, I’ll do it when I get home. But what’s it about?’ Marianne hesitated. Penelope wasn’t on the list of people she wasn’t allowed to talk to, although that was an oversight, no doubt.

‘An item I tested and put into the secured transfer container on the 17th of July is missing. They’ve conducted a search and it hasn’t been found. Because I was supposedly the last person to see it, I’ve been suspended.’

‘Suspended! That’s a bit extreme.’

‘George is accusing me of stealing it. He claims it wasn’t a replica, but the real deal. One of the missing Lewis Chessmen.’

The confused frown on Penelope’s face morphed into a look of understanding, and then of anger. ‘That bastard!’

‘If you know anything, you need to talk to Nigel, not me.’

‘Never mind Nigel for now. If there’s one thing I learned in Nepal, Marianne, it’s that all our rules and regulations are made to protect the powerful. For a start, I can categorically attest that you were not the last person to handle it. Carol Adamson collected it from the so-called secured transfer container. That was what George and I had a row over.’

‘Carol’s the woman who replaced you, right?’

‘Yes. But my gripe with him precedes her. For the last couple of months, George had me clearing the container he shares with you. He gave me his code.’

‘Our code,’ Marianne said. ‘We both have the same code.’ Penelope’s eyes widened. ‘That makes it even worse. I went along with it at first, not wanting to rock the boat, but then he accused me of losing something I’d cleared when he’d actually had it the whole time. I refused to do it after that.’

‘So, he cleared it himself that day, the 17th of July?’

‘No. Carol did. She’d been shadowing me all week as training, and on my last day, I insisted she carry out all the procedures on her own, with me beside her. I advised her against using George’s code, but by that time she and George were pretty pally, and she told me to stop being so pedantic. I was with her when she cleared it.’

‘So, do you remember what it was that you cleared?’

She pulled herself up, sitting tall, and I saw the efficient Penelope of old emerge.

‘I remember perfectly. It was a tiny little carved ivory figure, about 3cm long. Along with it was a printout of the testing data.’

Marianne could have jumped over the table and kissed her.

‘We – well, Carol with me observing – put it into the secured container in George’s room.’

Tears flowed down Marianne’s cheeks as the weeks of stress dissolved. Penelope passed her a tissue smelling of patchouli and lavender.

‘You poor thing. I’m so sorry I was out of contact. I could have put an end to this nonsense long ago.’

Marianne dried her eyes. ‘I wonder why Carol didn’t remember. I guess she was new and just didn’t take in the details. She wouldn’t lie for George’s sake, would she?’

Penelope began to say something, then stopped herself. Finally, she said, ‘You’d have to ask her that.’

Marianne decided not to push her, but clearly there was more to Carol than Penelope was comfortable telling. She tried another tack. ‘Other than getting Carol to confirm the transfer, do you have any other proof?’

‘Of course. I document every transfer and get George to sign off. That was the last thing I did before I left. And because of the accusation in the past, I take a copy of the sign-off and file it in my personal system – both a hard copy and a digital one.’

This time Marianne did hug her. ‘You have just made me the happiest woman alive. Thank you so much. Can you ring Nigel today?’

‘You’re very welcome. I’ll do better than ring him. I’ll go to the BM right now and speak to him. If it means putting George into the line of fire, my life just got a lot better too. Bet I turn a few heads there, wearing this,’ she laughed.

‘She looks more like a yoga teacher than a PA,’ Shona said when Marianne met her at the V&A. Before filling Shona in on the conversation with Penelope, Marianne took a moment to take in the hundreds of pieces of porcelain glistening with every colour imaginable, a dazzling testament to humankind’s creativity over the centuries.

‘I can see the relief on your face,’ Shona said. ‘See, I told you these things have a way of working out.’

Marianne was too happy to resent Shona making light of her situation. Maybe being an optimist had its benefits.

‘So, what do you think George is up to?’

‘I don’t know, and to be honest, Mum, I no longer care. My name will be cleared. I can resign with an untarnished reputation.’

‘And the plagiarism? You won’t let him get away with that too?’

‘I don’t know what I’ll do. At the moment I’m too happy to care.’ As she wandered around the displays, Marianne thought about Shona’s question and found herself wondering how many of the delicate designs and brilliant colours were done by a woman but attributed to a man.

And the chess pieces: the exquisite artefacts that had drawn her into their world, challenging her to face up to her demons, to take risks. How many women had taken unknowable risks to bring them into existence and keep them safe from men’s tyranny? What had they endured to create them, hide them and deliver them back so the world could see them in all their glory? How was their contribution remembered now?

Marianne linked arms with on the way to the lift.

‘No, I won’t let George get away with it. Because of you, because of Agnes, because of all the women before me. I don’t avoid things anymore, just because some man makes it hard to be seen and acknowledged. It is my paper, my work, and I will do all I can to prove it.’

The removalists made short work of clearing the Hampstead apartment. Marianne tagged the things she wanted sent to Stornoway, where her and Euan had taken on the lease of a small house. Although she’d been dreading the process, it proved to be cathartic, like a tide washing over a well-trod shore, leaving it clear for another day. Shona helped her with the final clean.

‘That’s one of the finishing off things done,’ Shona said as they closed the door for the last time.

‘What’s the other one?’

Shona eyes filled with tears. ‘I picked up Donald’s belongings from the police before we went to Stornoway. They contacted me about six months ago saying they no longer need them. Everything’s in a sealed bag but I haven’t been brave enough to open it. I put it in that case of his in the attic.’

‘Let’s open it together.’

Shona retrieved the case from the attic that evening, while Marianne poured a large glass of red wine each. Taking out the bag, they first went through the case: a jumble of old receipts and photos. The original adoption papers were in there, too, and the letter from the other grandparents. Marianne put them aside to take with her, remembering she still had to double check her contact status.

‘Are you ready?’ Marianne asked Shona. She nodded and Marianne unsealed the bag. Slowly laying each item before them: his clothes, his shoes, his wallet.

And his hat. The hat he’d worn every day. The hat Marianne had seen covering his face on the day her world had stopped.

Picking up his coat, she buried her face in it, hoping to capture the scent of him. But it was gone. Shona embraced her and they cried, two women, two worlds, one shared grief.

Pulling away, Marianne had begun folding his coat when she felt something in the inside pocket.

A letter. To her: Marianne Macleod Mackay.

‘Dear Marianne,

Case file 198015072525M

An applicant, the male subject of this case file, born 12th of July, 1990 and his legal parents through adoption, have requested to have contact with you. At present there is no ‘no contact’ instructions on your file, but we recognise this is due to it not being renewed. That is, you have not actively removed this, but have simply failed to renew it. We are required, therefore, to give you the opportunity to renew the original instructions.

If we do not hear from you, we will inform him that you have neither agreed nor disagreed to having contact and that their request to have contact with you will be held on file.

If you require further information…’

Marianne’s hands shook as she passed the letter to Shona, unable to speak. She saw again his tiny lips and determined little fist and felt the aching pain of her empty arms. Convulsive waves of emptiness ran through her. Her protective wall, her armour, began to enfold her. But she pushed it away. No more avoiding. No more silence.

Buddy wanted to meet her. Her missing piece.

CHAPTER 23

Marianne, Isle of Lewis 2019

Euan flew out of the car, almost tripping over their daughters’ bike. ‘Marianne, you are not going to believe this.’

He passed her the morning’s edition of The Scotsman.

‘A medieval chess piece which had been missing for nearly 200 years is likely to raise £1m at an auction later today (Tuesday, 2nd of July).

The Lewis Chessman, discovered in an Edinburgh family drawer, is part of a hoard of 93 objects discovered on the Isle of Lewis in the Outer Hebrides.

Sotheby’s Auction House is due to sell the piece at auction on Tuesday, 2nd of July. It is predicted to sell at a whopping £1m.’

‘That’s amazing. Just imagine finding it in a drawer! A million pounds. Now that’s more like it.’

‘The site at Mealasta will be swamped again now,’ Euan said, ruffling the hair of their eldest, Donnalia, who’d come to see what all the fuss was about.

‘It looks like the drawing of the chessman in the cave,’ Donnalia said, pointing to the photo and pretending to read the paper. ‘You found him, didn’t you, Daddy? And Mummy found the wee chisel that’s at her museum. The one you almost forgot about, Mummy.’

‘Do you remember me telling you that? Yes, I put it in Daddy’s glove compartment when we found the drawing and only remembered it later when Daddy was cleaning his pickup.’

‘Did they give you lots of money, too, for the chisel and finding the drawing?’

Marianne and Euan laughed. ‘Unfortunately, we didn’t find any chessmen, just the drawing and the chisel. We got a little bit of money and gave it to Aunt Agnes for the museum.’

Morag climbed onto Marianne’s lap. ‘I’m hungry. When are

Nanny and Jason getting here?’

‘Soon, so eat up your cereal. We’ll drop Donnie off at school and go to the airport. Then I’ll take you to day care.’

‘I guess the Museum will be busy too now,’ Euan said as he poured Morag’s cereal. ‘Do you think the BM will extend the loan of the chessmen again?’

Marianne shrugged. ‘Julia rang me last week to discuss our application. We’ve presented a good case, I think. This find in Edinburgh is a godsend. I’ll get our new intern to develop a press release. If I can show that our visits are dependent on the chessmen exhibit, it will definitely increase our chances of keeping them.’

‘Is Nanny sleeping in my bed again?’ Morag asked.

‘No. She’ll stay at the hotel. Jason will too.’

‘Is Nanny really Jason’s nanny too?’ Doannalia asked.

‘Well, yes. Sort of.’

‘He doesn’t call her Nanny.’

‘No. Remember, I told you. He didn’t grow up in our family, so it’s different.’

‘Is he really our brother? He’s too old.’

‘Why did he grow up in another family?’

Marianne sighed. She’d tried her best to tell her children about Jason, but they kept asking the same questions.

‘He’s your half-brother. Remember, I told you that he had to go to a different family because I was too young to look after a baby. And then when he was twenty, we found each other.’

‘Did you miss him, Mummy, while he was away?’ Morag asked.

‘Yes, I missed him. But I kept a little place inside of me just for him. I kept all my love for him ready for when we met.’

‘In a little fist inside of her,’ Donnie said knowingly to her sister, making a fist to demonstrate, before spreading a thick layer of jam on her toast. ‘She’s already told us a gazillion times.’

Euan gave Marianne’s shoulder a squeeze. ‘Come on you two. Enough questions. Finish your breakfast and brush your teeth.’

Marianne parked in the Lews Castle staff carpark. She’d collected Shona and Jason from the airport and dropped them off at The Royal. Shona had talked non-stop and given Marianne a package, the diary her cousin Rosemary had left Marianne in her will.

Marianne put it into her bag and reapplied her lipstick. She’d grown into her looks the last few years and was quietly pleased with what she saw. She’d let her hair grow and could now pull it off her face into a plait. Her scowl was still there often enough, but people knew it for what it was these days – concern, not anger. She smiled remembering Agnes’ reference, all those years ago, to the Macleod look, and all that had happened on that first visit to Lewis. Now, here she was, Head Curator at this wonderful, modern regional museum, thanks in part to Julia’s brilliant reference.

‘I was impressed with your CV from the start, Marianne,’ Julia had said when the investigation of her was lifted. ‘Although I did wonder why you’d chosen to stay in the lab under George for so long.’

‘Well, that’s a long story. But lots has happened since I went to Lewis, both personally and professionally.’

Julia offered to mentor Marianne into a management role when the investigation against George was finalised. It seemed Penelope had caused quite a stir the day she’d sailed into the BM demanding to speak to Nigel. She’d reiterated all she’d said to Marianne and suggested that, while they were at it, they should consider the possibility that Carol and George’s relationship was more than collegial.

George’s wife, Prue, had left him when he was convicted of theft and plagiarism. Because he’d pleaded guilty and returned the replica, he’d avoided custody. Penelope had kept in touch with Marianne and said she’d heard he was still unemployed and living with Carol and her wealthy parents somewhere in Yorkshire.

Looking over the grounds of Lews Castle, Marianne couldn’t quite get her head around what had happened back then. It all seemed a lifetime ago.

The staff and volunteers were all discussing the Edinburgh discovery of the chess piece as she made her way to her office. They were understandably keen to know what it would mean for the museum’s exhibition. Placed at the front of the museum, it was the first exhibit to greet visitors as they walked in from the café. Marianne updated them on the application to have the loan extended and the need to capture data about museum visits for the next three months.

‘Now, back to today’s business. We need to change the photographic exhibits in the far room. We are having a focus on women and their contribution to the island’s history.’

Working alongside one of the younger female volunteers, Marianne sorted through a large pile of photographs.

‘I wonder what they were like, these women,’ the volunteer said, echoing Marianne’s own thought. ‘It’s always men’s achievements we hear about. I’d love to know more about what they did to keep the island going.’

‘And what secrets they kept.’

They were about to finish when one last photo stopped Marianne short.

She held it before her, her heart racing, that familiar stare once again directed at her. Memories of strange occurrences at the old museum flooded in on her. Over the years she’d convinced herself she’d imagined them. But had she? Looking at the woman carrying her peat, she felt her power again. Her strength and determination. She placed the photo in the centre of the exhibition.

‘What secrets do you still hold?’ she said quietly.

Marianne was the last to leave that day. Fossicking in her bag for keys, she found the diary and made a promise to herself to read it soon. Flicking off the last light, a shiver went through her. Not a voice but a feeling.

I know where the missing pieces are.

EPILOGUE

Diary Entry by Margaret-Mary Macleod, Cape Breton, August 31st 1888

Wind is high. Murdo mending nets. Cut up old coats for the dog. Removed twenty or so buttons. Odd sizes. Neither stone nor bone. Like little gravestones.

Wrapped them in his mother’s embroidered cloth from the old country.

Potatoes need digging. Cod for dinner again.

AUTHOR’S NOTE

Missing Pieces is inspired by the true story of the 1831 discovery of the Lewis Chessmen and the ongoing mystery that surrounds the whereabouts of forty-nine missing chess pieces. By pure and utterly astounding coincidence, one of the missing pieces was found just months before the completion of the novel – the first to be found in the nearly two-hundred years since the other pieces were found, buried in a sandhill!

I have used three publications as the primary references for my novel: Ivory Vikings, 2015, Nancy Marie Brown, The Lewis Chessmen, 2015, James Robinson, and The Lewis Chessmen Unmasked, 2017, Caldwell et al.

My novel fictionalises the many lives that may have been involved in the creation, burying and discovery of the Lewis Chessmen. My attempts to contact the descendants of Malcolm Macleod of Penny Donald were not, in the end, taken up by them and I respect their right to privacy. I hope that my fictionalised version of the family is both fair and realistic. They certainly hold a special place in my heart.

Whilst based on true events, at the end of the day Missing Pieces is a work of fiction which primarily aims to entertain. Facts are knowingly mixed with fiction. Historical ‘truths’ are examined with both awe and curiosity. In particular I have created the women’s lives through a 21st Century prism with the understanding that women’s stories have been, and in many cases still are, systematically hidden or distorted by patriarchal myopia. I give sisterly thanks to the women through the ages, most recently those of the #MeToo movement, who have had the courage to speak up against abuse and coercion, to help create a better world for our daughters and granddaughters.

Although written primarily to please and entertain, I would be delighted if Missing Pieces also inspires a reader to delve more deeply into the research about the Lewis Chessmen and the ongoing impact of the Scottish Clearances. During the writing of the novel I have developed a keen interest in the issues of repatriation of collections, in particular those taken from indigenous communities including the Australian Aboriginal nations.

I love hearing from my readers and can be contacted at:

jennifermackenziedunbar.com
j.mackenziedunbar@gmail.com

Facebook: Jennifer Mackenzie Dunbar

KEY SOURCES

• The Lewis Chessmen, 2015, James Robinson, The British Museum Press.

• The Lewis Chessmen Unmasked, 2017, David H. Caldwell, Mark Hall and Caroline M. Wilkinson, MNS Enterprises Ltd – Publishing.

• Ivory Vikings: The Mystery of the Most Famous Chessmen in the World and the Woman Who Made Them, 2015, Nancy Marie Brown, Pan Macmillan Australia.

• The Highland Clearances on the Isles of Lewis and Harris, Alistair McIntosh’ web page Some writings of Donald J MacLeod of Uig http://www.alastairmcintosh.com/

• Napier Commission Report https://www.uhi.ac.uk/en/research-enterprise/cultural/centre-for-history/research/thenapier-commission/

• Diary 1851 John Munro Mackenzie, Chamberlain of the Lews, 1994, Acair Publishers.

• Am Baile – Highland History and Culture

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

A big thankyou to MidnightSun Publishing for taking a chance on me and recognising the worth of my story. Their commitment to unknown writers and unusual topics has been a perfect fit for me. Their generosity and professionalism smoothed my road to publication.

I am grateful for the insightful and generous feedback of my wonderful writers’ group the Novelist Circle: Dean, Helmine, Sonya, Poppy, Steve, Paul, Susan and Joel. I also thank my other beta readers Roger, Marilyn (who read two drafts!) Lynnie, Marg and Kristen. Their astute comments greatly helped to sharpen the novel.

To the generous women who read and commented on the final draft, Sophie Masson, Stacey Howard, Marg Charlton (nee Sinclair) and Claudine Tinellis. I am deeply indebted.

Thanks also go to the people of Lewis who shared their stories with me during my research trip in 2018. Special thanks to Anna McKinnon of Adroil and Gemma Malcolm, curator at the Lews Museum. Research takes many forms and a chance meeting on a bench outside the Uig Museum resulted in an invitation to the premier of Move – Gluasad, by Sruth-mara theatre group of Uig. This spine-tingling soundscape of Gaelic music and psalm singing reached into my soul telling the stories of trauma from loss. It connected me to the pain of grief and what it means to have a person, a country or a culture missing from your life.

And finally to Nancy Marie Brown whose publication of Ivory Vikings renewed my fascination with the Lewis Chessmen and sparked my writerly curiosity and imagination about the women who created and cared for them.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Jennifer writes novels and short stories drawing on her love of history, music and mythology to explore the stories left untold in conventional historical accounts. Her short story ‘The Man Who Rowed Away’ was published in the anthology Crush: stories about love (MidnightSun Publishing, 2017) and she self-published her debut novel Vivaldi’s Lost Concert in 2019.

Her previous work as a social worker provides her with a rich source of material to develop her colourful and complex characters and compelling plots. Her travels have taken her to beautiful and enchanting places, including Venice, London and the highlands of Scotland – settings often found in her work. She has a Bachelor of Arts in English Literature, Sociology and Social Work and has completed many creative writing courses. She lives and works a Kaurna land overlooking the fabulous Sturt Gorge Park.