I pulled on my jeans and a sweater, intent on getting a closer view and to berate her if it indeed was Willow. I made it down to the street just in time to see a motorcycle ridden by a man in snappy red and blue gear and helmet pull up beside her and the two of them speed off. I was to spend the next forty-eight hours trying to convince myself I was mistaken, that it wasn’t Willow. If it wasn’t she, though, then Willow had a double in Scotland.
I had no such doubts about the second sighting. As I stood there completely frustrated, someone else came off the ferry. This time I knew who I was looking at. It was Percy Bicycle Clips. He was walking his bike toward the street when I intercepted him.
“You!” he said. “Stop following me.”
“I’ve been here for several hours, Percy,” I said. “You just got off the boat. That means you are following me!”
“I live here,” he said.
“Does your grandmother live here, too, because I’d really like to talk to her. What is your name, anyway?”
“Go away!” he said, leaping on to his bicycle. I tried to stop him, but he eluded me and before I knew it was pedaling furiously away from me. It was a scenario that was becoming a tad repetitious, because once again the outcome was the same. I chased after him for a minute or so, but I knew I wouldn’t catch him. I watched his back disappear over the top of the hill from whence I’d entered the town. He appeared to know his way around the place rather better than I did. I still didn’t know his name.
As I mounted the stairs to my dear little attic room, it occurred to me than while twenty-four hours ago I barely knew where Orkney was, I was acquainted with a lot more people on this island than I would ever have dreamed. Orkney was getting just a little crowded for my taste.
The next morning it was kind of hard to know where to begin. Should I look for Willow, ask her why she’d come to Orkney without telling me? Should I try to find Percy and shake him until he told me who he was and what he was doing? Should I go to this town with the lovely name of St. Margaret’s Hope (what did St. Margaret hope for, I wondered) and try to locate the dealer who sold Trevor the other cabinet, or should I seek out Hoxa and the Alexanders’ palace?
What I really wanted to do was wander the lovely streets of Stromness and gaze out at the water, and indeed I did permit myself a short walk along the pier. The morning was clear and the town was perfectly reflected in the absolutely still waters of the harbor. I could have stood there forever, but finally I told myself to get moving. I made a half-hearted attempt to consult the local phone directory for Wylie, but there were a lot of them, and Willow had said Trevor had never mentioned any relatives, and he’d left Orkney a long time ago if one were inclined to believe what he said.
I decided to take a more direct route back to Kirkwall, reasoning that the capital city with its hotels and shops would be a likely place to find Willow and possibly Percy. It would also take me back to a place where I could pick up my missed route to St. Margaret’s Hope. The highway, again loosely defined, was much busier than the Ophir road. I swear I saw at least five other cars. The island had a rather gentle typography, rolling farmland more than anything else, although I could see dark cliffs off in the distance. As I was whipping along at a stately forty miles per hour, I noticed, at the side of the road, a rather pathetic-looking creature, thumb out, a decidedly damaged bicycle at his feet. It was my pal Percy again. I pulled over and got out.
He was a mess, shirt sleeve badly torn, hair definitely askew, has hands cut up, and his pants were covered in mud. I don’t think he recognized me at first, because he was trying to keep broken glasses on his nose and not particularly successfully. When he did realize who it was, though, he did the predictable. “Go away,” he said.
“Have you noticed how few cars there are on this road?” I asked. “I wouldn’t be so hasty. What happened?”
“I fell,” he replied sadly. “Straight into a ditch and then into a barbed wire fence.”
“I’ll give you a lift,” I said. “If you’ll tell me your real name.”
“It’s Percy,” he replied. “Just Percy.”
“Then why does Rendall Sinclair, the publican at the Stane think that it’s Arthur? I’ve never known Rendall to get a name wrong.”
“Arthur Percival,” he said after a long pause, as another car sped by. “Everybody calls me Percy.”
“Put your bike in the back and get in,” I said.
He hesitated. “How do I know you won’t kill me? Maybe you killed that antique dealer.”
“Do I look like an axe murderer to you?” I said.
“I don’t know what an axe murderer looks like.” I glared at him. “Perhaps not,” he agreed.
“You could be the axe murderer,” I said. “You were there when Trevor was showing the writing cabinet, and you were there again when I arrived the time that, well, you know, that unpleasant business with the axe.”
“Do I look like an axe murderer to you?” he said, looking morosely down at his stained and rumpled pants and his torn shirt sleeve.
“Perhaps not,” I said. “Anyway, we’ve had this conversation before. Put your bike in the back, and let’s go.” I watched him fumble around a bit peering at the back of the car for the latch, and realized he could hardly see a thing. I got my bag out and found a safety pin. “Here,” I said. “Give me your glasses.” I managed to attach the arm to the rest of the frame, and I cleaned them up a bit. “These will do until you get home.” He put them on. If anything he looked more comical than ever, but I tried very hard not to laugh.
“Thank you,” he said. “This is good.”
“Where to?”
“Kirkwall, I suppose. I will have to try to find somebody who can fix my bicycle right away or maybe rent me one in the meantime. Just please don’t ask me questions.”
“I don’t think that’s fair. I’ve told you everything I know or suspect in this matter. In fact, I’ve poured out my heart to you, and you have told me nothing.”
“I can’t,” he said. “For one thing you would think I’m crazy.”
“Try me,” I said, but he wouldn’t.
“Your first trip to Orkney?” he asked in a conversational tone after a few minutes of silence.
“Yes. It’s wonderful.”
“It is. Have you seen that?” he said, pointing to a small hill a few hundred yards from the road.
“What is it?”
“Maze how,” he said.
“Maze who?”
“M-A-E-S-H-O-W-E,” he spelled. “Maeshowe. You don’t know what it is, do you?”
“Obviously not,” I said. “As we’ve already ascertained, I’ve never been to Orkney before.”
“You still should know what it is,” he replied.
“But I don’t, so why don’t you enlighten me? I can tell you’re dying to.”
“Pull over,” he said pointing. “There, beside that building. You buy two tickets, and I’ll go clean myself up a bit,” he said. I did what I was told. Before I knew it we were across the highway and walking toward a hill. Percy definitely looked better with the blood washed off, and his hair slicked down. We were greeted by a perky tour guide at the entrance of what looked to be a big hill of grass.
“Welcome to Maeshowe,” she said. “One of the world’s greatest Neolithic chamber tombs.”
“Wow,” I said. Percy looked smug.
“You are in what UNESCO calls Orkney’s Neolithic Heartland,” she went on. “It’s a World Heritage Site, actually a combination of sites, most of a ceremonial nature. Over there in the distance you can see the Ring of Brodgar, and the Standing Stones of Stenness, and, of course, farther north, you can visit the ancient town of Skara Brae.”