The Lighthouse-Keeper's Wife

Fiona McFarlane was jolted awake by a loud rapping on the door. It was still dark, so she reached for the string that ran from the bedpost through a hook on the wall, two hooks on the ceiling, and a hook on the doorpost to the light-switch by the bedroom door. She pulled it. The bulb in the ceiling exploded into light. Thank you Mr Edison, she thought. Her eyes squinted at the alarm clock on the bedside table. Six thirty. The rapping repeated itself.
"Insistent, aren't you?" grumbled Fiona. She rolled out of bed and wrapped her dressing gown around her. The linoleum on the floor was cold and she quickly slid her feet into slippers. The rapping continued. "Hold your horses. I'm coming", she shouted at no-one in particular.
She opened the door to see Alastair standing in his blue police uniform. He quickly removed his checkered police cap and nervously flattened a stray lock of hair with his other hand. "Sorry miss Fiona. Sergeant says he has to see you at once."
"What's the problem?"
"Dunno Miss. Something about InchKeith."
InchKeith was the island in the Firth of Forth directly opposite the town. But Fiona, like most of the people in Kinghorn, had never set foot on it. They could see it of course, as they went about their day-to-day business. It was a mile long and rose out of the Firth to a height of two hundred feet. A road could be seen spiraling up the hill and at the very top was a lighthouse encircled by a solid wall. Fiona wondered what could possibly have happened on InchKeith. The war had been over for three years and there was almost no military presence there. As far as she knew the only people permanently on the island were the keepers of the lighthouse.
"Tell the Sergeant I'll be right there."
"Yes Miss." Alastair limped off into the darkness. Born with a dislocated hip, Alastair had been designated unfit for military service. Fiona had been secretly pleased, because he would not have survived a day in the trenches. But during the war he was given the opportunity to join the police force. Jobs had opened up for people who would never have been considered in peacetime. Fiona had benefited too. Her three brothers and her father, all police officers, had teased her for her childhood insistence that she would be a police officer some day. Female officers were few and far between. But here she was. This was her fourth year "on the beat" and she was determined to prove that she was as good at the job as any man.
She started to shiver and quickly closed the door. The cold of the February morning had already begun to seep into the house. She plugged in the electric fire and lit the gas stove to boil some water for bathing, then lit a cigarette and sat on the bed. What could have happened in InchKeith, she wondered, coughing as the smoke filled her lungs. Then the kettle whistled. She mixed the hot water with some cold from the kitchen tap, washed, dressed in uniform, buttoned up her standard-issue overcoat and left with her flashlight for the police station.
When she arrived Bill Price, her Sergeant, was talking to an older man, and she groaned when she realized it was Jack Biggs, a detective from the nearby town of Kirkcaldy. Biggs was in his mid-fifties, grey hair just beginning to turn white, and was known as a fairly mediocre detective whose own opinion of himself was far better than anyone else's. Fiona realised that the day was not going to go well.

"We've had a wee accident on InchKeith.", the sergeant began. "It looks like the Lighthouse Keeper's deid." He pronounced it "deed".
"Aye, he's deid all right", replied the detective. He turned to Fiona. "Fell aff the lightHouse. Silly bugger wis likely pissed."
Fiona listened intently to the two men. She found the Fife accent very difficult. Growing up thirty miles away in Edinburgh, she knew that a short train ride over the railway bridge to the "Kingdom of Fife" brought her to a land where the English language was almost incomprehensible. Fortunately her grandmother had been born in Kinghorn. She was able to teach her the words and phrases that were part of the local dialect, and when she died she had left Fiona the little house in which she now lived.
According to the Sergeant, the Lighthouse Keeper's wife had contacted the station last night by radio telephone after she had found the body. He reminded them that InchKeith was part of the Parish of Kinghorn, so the case was their responsibility.  Alastair had already wakened up Willie the boatman and arranged for him to take the detective and Fiona over to the island to investigate. Detective Biggs was coming along to make sure that there was no sign of foul play.
"Willie will see yez'all doon in the harbour", he finished. "Make sure ye have gloves and a big coat. It's freezin' oot there."


They found the boatman throwing equipment into a small, blue fishing boat docked in the harbour. He greeted them cheerfully.
"We're in luck", he shouted. Tam's no' fishin' the day. Feelin' a bit poorly. He's lent us his boat."
Fiona looked anxiously at the little boat, bobbing lazily on the swell. "It doesn't look very big, Willie. Will it get us there all right?"
"Och aye, Miss. Wee Jean is one of the best. She's only had to be towed in once."
"Wee Jean?"
The two men pointed to the front of the boat in unison and laughed. "Wee Jean" was painted in faded letters on the bow.
They clambered in. Willie started the engine. It coughed, then roared into action somewhere under their feet. There wouldn't be much conversation on the trip. Even Willie could scarcely be heard above the clattering engine below deck. "The wind's frae the West and we can catch the tide", he yelled. "It'll be high tide at ten o'clock, so we'll have plenty time tae get back after ye've done yer business."
Fiona could see the outlines of the harbour, the Parish church, and the fishermen's cottages as the darkness lightened into a uniform slate-grey. The coming dawn was visible by the Bass rock in the East, but it was still dark and cold in the harbour. The police officer, the detective, and the boatman huddled in the crowded wheelhouse for warmth. The boat clattered slowly out of the harbour, rising and falling with the swells of the Firth and straining against millions of tons of water flowing in on the tide from the North Sea.
Fiona suddenly realized how big the Firth of Forth was. She had been on the Leith Ferry a few times, but that was a much bigger and safer vessel. Now that they were in the open channel she could see nothing to the East except rolling waves and white-caps right to the horizon, and she realized how small the boat was. Ahead and to the right (was that "starboard" or "port?") was a powerful light. It flashed brightly every 30 seconds, faded away, disappeared, and 30 seconds later flashed again.
"There's the lighthouse!" yelled Willie. "It can be seen fer more'n twenty mile!"
"How far is it to the island?" asked Fiona.
"Seven miles, miss. But that's in your land miles. In nautical miles it's aboot six." He winked at the detective, "So if we go by nautical miles we'll get there sooner." Both men erupted into laughter and nudged each other.
Fiona sighed and ignored them. Looking out the window of the wheelhouse to the west she could see the Forth bridge in the distance, its cantilevers a reddish-brown in the morning light. For over fifty years it had carried passengers and cargo by train between the Lothians and Fife. Fiona looked South again at the light flashing ahead. The trip couldn't end soon enough. An increasing sense of nausea was rising in her stomach, and she kept swallowing it down. She was damned if she was going to be sea-sick in front of the men.

The trip across the Firth took less than an hour, but Fiona was acutely aware of every stomach-churning minute. She had a little satisfaction from noticing that detective Biggs looked a little green himself. Willie, on the other hand, prattled away while lazily attending to the wheel, enjoying every crash of spray and every roll that listed the boat perilously on its side. The police officer and the detective exchanged more than a few anxious glances during the crossing. Eventually the island loomed in front of them, and Willie started to line up the boat for entry to the harbour. They passed the West Stell, one of the two fingers of the island that pointed towards Kinghorn, and entered the calmer waters to the west of InchKeith. A large rock appeared out of nowhere between them and the island.
"Aye, we have tae be careful. There's a reason there's a lighthouse on that bluddy island", muttered Willie.
Fiona looked around the boat. "Willie, do we have lifejackets?"
"Nah", grunted Willie. Then, as he realized there were two law officers on board, "There are some in the hold." And then added, helpfully, "But if we get sunk, it's best tae droon quick rather than bob aroond fur half an hour dyin' o' cold."
The little boat made its way into the calmer waters.
Fiona saw that there were really two harbours - one inside the other. The big jetty must have been built in the war to accommodate larger ships.
Biggs looked at Willie. "Can ye drop drop us aff at the wee jetty? We won't have to walk as far."
Willie nodded and headed towards the smaller harbour. The water was a lot calmer here and the tide was now pushing them towards shore rather than surging against them. He carefully tied up the boat and helped Biggs and Fiona onto the concrete. Fiona eyed the boatman with grudging respect. He seemed to know what he was doing in a dangerous and difficult profession. She looked at the hill looming over them. The top of the lighthouse could be seen above it, its light still flashing although the dawn had broken and the morning mist was quickly clearing.
"It's two hundred feet high", observed Biggs, reading her thoughts."Are ye up tae the climb?" Then he added with a slow grin, "It's a long way fur a woman." The last word came out as "wummin."
Fiona stared at him stonily. "I'll be fine, detective."
They set off along the jetty, leaving Willie filling his pipe with black tobacco on the boat. The detective led the way, his boots crunching as they stepped off the concrete onto the rocky beach leading to the path. Then he stopped. "What's that?" he said, pointing further down the beach. Fiona looked, but couldn't see anything. "Got tae keep your eyes peeled when you're on a case, officer. Anythin' could be important." Fiona saw that he was pointing to a burlap sack on the beach, just above high water level. "Have a look, officer. Could be a clue."
Fiona didn't trust him a bit. How could this have anything to do with the dead lighthouse-keeper? She approached the bag cautiously, feet sinking into the damp seaweed that lined the high water mark. She picked up the sack slowly. It was heavy.
"Open it then. Let's see what's inside." Biggs was grinning.
Fiona untied the strings around the bag, opened it and quickly jumped back, dropping it on the sand. Blue-grey hairs peeked out of the sack.
"What is it?", asked Biggs, knowing full well.
"It's a cat", replied Fiona, angry that she had been taken in so easily.
Biggs walked over, laughing. "Somebody drooned a rotten cat. It probably drifted in on the tide frae Edinburgh. Here, I'll get rid of it." He retied the string around the neck of the sack, whirled it above his head and threw it in a long arc into the harbour. "It'll go with the next tide. Probably end up in Timbuktu." He paused and looked at Fiona. "Are ye all right? Ye'r shakin' a bit. Ye'll have to toughen up if ye want to be on the Force ye know. I'm not sure it's really a job fur a wummin." He strode up the beach and started up the path, leaving Fiona standing furiously in the seaweed.

The path wound uphill past the concrete fortifications that, along with gun batteries in Kinghorn and Leith, had formed the outer defences of the Firth of Forth during the war. The guns had recently been removed, but the concrete structures that housed them were still evident. Three huge 9.3" guns and six 6" guns had stood on the circular concrete pads that could be seen from the path. They had protected the island and, more importantly, Edinburgh and its naval docks, from warships entering the Firth. Antisubmarine nets had criss-crossed the river and it was even whispered in Kinghorn that a secret underground bunker existed somewhere on the island. It was rumoured that it had served as headquarters for control of the minefields.
Fiona quickly caught up with Biggs. The path became steeper as they climbed, and the detective breathed heavily as the terrain became more difficult. She passed him, secretly hiding a vengeful grin as he gruffly ordered her to slow down. They passed several Nissen huts that housed soldiers. There was still a military presence on the island, but Sergeant Price had said that they were all on patrol elsewhere in Scotland, leaving the island to the lighthouse keeper and his wife. So they saw no sign of life anywhere. At the top of the hill there were some wooden steps leading up and over a stone wall that circled the summit. That was where they had their first sight of the lighthouse itself.

It stood an impressive sixty feet above the summit, built of brown stone, with a rectangular two-storey base that looked like a small castle. The lighthouse tower rose a good forty feet above that. Fortresses and castles had been built on this spot from the time of the earliest Pictish Kings, the lighthouse being the latest structure built over a hundred years before Fiona was born.
They spied the body immediately. The lighthouse-keeper was sprawled on the ground face-down, his left leg at an awkward angle. Fiona looked up. The body was directly under the lighthouse tower. A catwalk circled the glass dome at the top, protected by a railing, but above that a ladder reached all the way up the glass to the top. If he had fallen from that, Fiona reasoned, he would have plunged over the railing to this spot sixty feet below. Death would have been instantaneous.
"She could have covered the poor man", murmured Biggs. "Did she not think of putting a blanket over him?" He shook his head and added "Let's go talk to her. She'll be inside."
The door that led inside the lighthouse was unlocked. Fiona and the detective entered to find a young, dishevelled woman sitting at a table in a room that seemed to be partly kitchen and partly office. On one side of the room there was a gas stove, a sink and counter, a basin with water, a few cupboards and shelves, and stacks of dishes, cups and saucers. On the other side was a desk, books, pamphlets and maps. A radio-telephone, pens, pencils and a set of eye-glasses lay on the desk. Above the desk on the wall was a marine map showing the Firth of Forth and the area surrounding InchKeith. On the far wall were a number of family photographs.
The two officers approached the table.
"Are you Eliza Forsyth?", asked the detective.
Fiona had not known the name of the Lighthouse-keeper's wife, but she thought the name seemed to suit her.
The young woman looked up. "Yes. I am."
Detective Biggs introduced himself and Fiona. He gave the ritual apology for the loss of her husband. Then he asked what had happened.
According to Eliza, everything had been fine until the previous evening. Her husband had started drinking. He had gone upstairs to tend the lamp for the lighthouse and to to clean the glass on the outside. Her husband was very particular about this chore because the glass had to be spotless for the light to be visible for twenty miles. Eliza felt that he had taken too much to drink and that climbing the ladder outside was too dangerous, but her husband had insisted. He never came down. Eliza had gone about her normal evening chores. After a while she had become worried. She climbed the steps to the top of the lighthouse, found the door to the catwalk open and no-one there. When she came downstairs and searched outside she found the body. Her husband was already dead.
"Did ye think of bringing him inside?", asked the detective. "Perhaps try tae revive him?"
"I did", replied the wife. "I was a member of the the St John ambulance brigade before the war and signed up for nursing when it began. I know what death looks like. When I saw him lying there I thought "I'm a nurse. I can save him. But I knew I couldn't. He was dead."
"Did you think of covering the body?", Biggs persisted. "Even a little?"
"Yes, but I ended up just sitting here. Like a lump on a log. Nothing seemed to matter and I just sat, thinking about what had happened. It took me over an hour to get up the courage to phone Kinghorn. Then I waited through the night for you to arrive in the morning."
Eliza sat at the table motionless. She looked shocked and exhausted.
"Did you get any sleep last night?" asked Fiona.
Biggs glared at her. He had made it clear on previous occasions that it was his job to ask the questions. Which made Fiona wonder what her job was supposed to be.
"I don't think so. I just sat here through the night."
Biggs stood up and walked around the room. He stopped in front of a photograph above the lighthouse-keeper's desk. It showed a young man in uniform. Biggs gasped. "He's decorated. Look at that! That's the Belgian Croix de Guerre. And the France and Germany Star. He was on Juno beach, for God's sake." He looked at the tired young woman sitting at the kitchen table. "Is that your husband? Was he a war hero?"
Eliza smiled."Yes. David was a glider pilot. Just before the troops landed on the beach he landed his glider two hundred yards from the Pegasus Bridge. In almost total darkness too. He said that he navigated by the reflections from the rivers below. The soldiers and the equipment he carried were able to take over the bridge and give the allies time to take the beach."
"He must have been quite a man", added Biggs.
"Yes, he was", replied Eliza, smiling sadly. "Glider pilots have special passes that allow them to make their way back home through the lines for the next mission. He was granted a short leave after Juno and we met at a party. He was very dashing, and I was just a poor nurse. He really swept me off my feet." She looked at Fiona. "You know what it was like during the war. We were so glad just to be alive, that . . " She stopped, unable to continue.
"I know", replied Fiona, suddenly remembering her younger brother, who had not returned.
Biggs stood up. "Sit still, lass", he said to Eliza, almost kindly, "The officer will get you a cup of tea."
A cup of tea was the universal British signal for making the best of things, and Fiona dutifully found the cupboard containing the tea-caddy, poured cold water into the kettle, put it on the stove, and set the whole British support process in motion. Biggs climbed up to the top of the lighthouse, explored the house and grounds, and eventually reported that he would go back down to the dock to get Willie. "We need tae bring up the stretcher and tak him doon tae the harbour", he intoned. "We don't want a war hero lying aroond in the cold like a deid dog." He set off down the path.
When the kettle boiled Fiona made the tea and found a biscuit tin with some crackers in it. "Do you take sugar?", she asked.
"No. We get so little with the rationing, I save it all for David."
Fiona brought the cup over to the table and laid it down in front of Eliza, giving her a friendly squeeze on the shoulder as she did so. The girl winced in pain.
"I'm sorry. Did I hurt you?" Fiona felt genuinely concerned.
"No. It's all right. I injured my shoulder the other day. I'm so clumsy. There are so many bits of wood sticking out the walls of a lighthouse. I should be more careful"
"Did you see a doctor?" Fiona tried to look at the shoulder but the girl pulled her apron tightly up around her neck. Not before Fiona saw a large bluish discolouration on the skin.
"No. A trip to the doctor would mean going off the island. And I'm a nurse. I can manage these things."
Fiona sat down opposite her. She seemed to be seeing Eliza for the first time. She pointed to the girl's left hand.
"Your finger is swollen."
"Yes. It happened a week ago. Getting better now. I slipped on the lighthouse steps."
"Any other injuries?", Fiona asked quietly.
"Oh, one or two. Living in a lighthouse you get used to them. The stairs are really rickety."
"Is that a scar on your face? How did that happen?"
Eliza put her hand up to her forehead, where a white zigzag scar trailed across the skin. She gave a nervous smile. "The beach. About six months ago I think. I slipped on seaweed and hit a rock."
"Did you see a doctor then?"
"Oh no. David said I shouldn't leave the island. He needed me here. He sewed it up by himself."
Fiona suddenly needed a cigarette. "Is there somewhere I can smoke?" she asked.
"David doesn't allow people to smoke in the lighthouse. He worries about fire. But you can smoke outside or upstairs on the roof."
"On top of the lighthouse?"
Eliza laughed. "No, no. I don't mean the top of the lighthouse. There's a door to the roof of the living section two floors up."
Fiona realized how pretty Eliza was when she smiled, but the moment lasted only a second, then the sadness returned. She followed her directions up the stairs. The first level led to some bedrooms, but on the next she saw a door that led outside to the flat roof of the lower lighthouse. This was the part that looked like a little castle from the path. The roof was surrounded by a small wall only a foot high, with wide vertical gaps that made it look like the ramparts of a castle. She pulled out her packet of "Players" and puffed hungrily on the cigarette.
The view was spectacular here. In the morning sun she could see the Firth in its entirety, from the Bass Rock to the Forth Bridge, with Edinburgh and Leith docks to the South and Kinghorn to the North. She walked over to the North side of the building and watched Biggs and Willie making their way up the path with the poles and canvas of a stretcher. She stubbed out the cigarette and threw it over the wall. On her way back to the lighthouse she noticed her right sole sticking with each step. She removed the shoe and had a look.
It was blood.  
Fiona stood motionless. She looked carefully at the ground around her. It seemed normal. She looked again at the sole of her shoe. A smudge of red, stuck stubbornly to the leather. She was sure it was blood. And now her shoe had technically become "evidence"! Grimly Fiona slipped the shoe back on her foot. She did not intend to hop around InchKeith with her shoe tied in an evidence bag. She carefully retraced her steps back to the edge of the roof, and there, between the square stones that edged the building, she saw unmistakable splatters of blood. She leaned carefully over the edge. It was a good twenty-foot drop to the concrete below. Then she spotted something between the stones of the wall, about six inches below the edge. She reached down, pulled it out, and examined it.
It was a few seconds before Fiona realized that she was looking at a human fingernail. She reached into a pocket of her overcoat, pulled out a small envelope, and sealed the fingernail inside, returning the envelope to her pocket. She retraced her steps again, looking for anything unusual on the roof of the lighthouse. She found it underneath the tower - another small splash of blood. She looked up. The railings of the catwalk were perhaps thirty feet above her. Had the man actually fallen from here? But this was the South side of the tower. The body had been found on the North side, under a sheer drop of sixty feet.
Fiona went back through the heavy door leading into the tower. It closed easily. There was a large key in the lock. It turned smoothly, locking and unlocking the door to the roof. She climbed the stairs leading to the top and found herself in the lamp room surrounded by glass. The huge mechanism for the lighthouse stood impressively in the centre of a circular room, rotating slowly but making surprisingly little noise. She had read somewhere that the mechanism of a lighthouse was similar to a grandfather clock, and was "wound up" in much the same way. Eight large lenses surrounded the central lamp, which was still lit, and every thirty seconds the lenses traveled one eighth of a circle to occupy the exact position their predecessors had occupied half a minute before. She turned around to look at the glass dome that surrounded the lamp and its lenses. There was a door in the outside wall. It, too, had a key in the lock, which she turned, hearing a soft click.
Fiona was not afraid of heights, but froze as she stepped out the door. The catwalk outside was a few feet wide but its floor was iron-mesh. She could see right through it to the ground below. She took a few deep breaths and ventured out, keeping close to the glass. She was on the South side of the lighthouse, above the roof of the living quarters. She made her way round to the North side. There was a ladder here, following the curve of the glass dome to the very top. It was on rails and she could see that the tracks allowed it to be pushed sideways all the way round the lighthouse. This was how the glass could be cleaned. Indeed there was an old bucket here, dented on one side, lying empty on the catwalk. Fiona took one look at the ladder and determined not to set foot on it. She looked with admiration at the glass, however. It was spotless. No window-cleaner could have done a better job. She rapped on it. It was thick, at least half an inch, but she knew it would have to be strong to withstand the winds and debris flying around in a storm. Not indestructible, though. There were several scratches on the pane beside the ladder.
She tested the railing. Carefully. But it was strong. There was no way that he could have accidentally fallen from the catwalk without climbing over the railing first. But he certainly could have fallen from that ladder.
 
Voices floated up from below. Biggs and Willie were placing the body on the stretcher sixty feet beneath her. Fiona was surprised at how clearly they could be heard from above. Willie was complaining that he was a boatman, not a "skivvy". Biggs retorted that he had no choice. It was the Sergeant's fault for giving them a wummin instead of a real copper.
Fiona closed her eyes, counted to ten, and re-entered the lighthouse. She made her way back downstairs to see Eliza watching the two men through the window. When the girl heard Fiona on the stairs she tried to make her way back to the table, but stumbled and fell on the way.
Fiona rushed over, seeing that she was in pain. She helped her up to the table and sat her down. Determinedly, she rolled up the sleeve of the girl's dress. Bruises from wrist to shoulder. She rolled up the other sleeve. The same. She knelt down and felt her ankles. One was grossly swollen and Eliza winced when she touched it.
Fiona sat down opposite her and looked her directly in the eye. "David did this to you, didn't he?"
"No. I fell. He takes good care of me."
Fiona looked hard at her and repeated the question. "Did David do this to you?"
The girl crumpled and began to cry. "It's all my fault. It only happens when he drinks. He's good otherwise. I always say the wrong things to him."
The door burst open and Biggs walked in. He looked at the tear-stained girl and shook his head.
"It's all right lass. You just have your cry. The boatman and I will take yer husband doon to the dock and back to Kinghorn. The undertaker will take it from there."
He looked directly at Fiona. "You wummen just finish yer tea. Join us at the dock in about 15 minutes, officer."
Fiona stood up. "Detective. There's something . . "
Biggs waved her off. "Later. Later. Willie and I have some hard work to do."
He marched out the door. Fiona and the lighthouse-keeper's wife watched them carry their heavy load past the window and down the path.
There were two teacups on the table. Fiona carried them over to the sink, washing them with cold water. She emptied the tea-leaves into the bin. Inside she could see some scraps of paper. They were ripped fragments of snapshots taken with a Brownie camera. She pulled them out and fitted two together. She called over her shoulder to Eliza. "Eliza. Do you have a cat?"
There was a short pause. "Yes. I do. He's called "Charcoal"
"Where is he now?"
"Oh, I imagine he's somewhere. He goes out a lot. But he always comes back"
"You call him 'Charcoal'?"
"Yes, He has dark gray hair. But I almost called him "Blue" because he's a mixture of both."
Fiona stared at the ripped photographs. Although they were black and white photographs, she knew that they showed pictures of a cat with blue-grey hair.

Fiona walked down the path leading to the dock, unraveling a mixture of emotions. One thing she knew for certain. The lighthouse-keeper had not fallen from the ladder. In trying to make sense of the events of the previous night a scene was forming in her head. The cat must have been the last straw for Eliza. Had he taunted her with it, telling her he had drowned it and that it was all her fault? Had he ripped up her pet's photographs in front of her, berating her as he threw them in the bin? Drunk as he was, he still knew he had to tend to the lamp and clean the glass for the coming night. He could have threatened her - "Just wait till I come down!" and stumbled up the stairs, leaving Eliza to wait for the beating she knew was coming. So she had quietly followed him. And once he was outside, washing the windows, she saw her chance. She had run (or stumbled) to the door and locked it.
Did she watch as he yelled and screamed from outside, or did she escape back downstairs in panic? It didn't matter. Although the glass was almost unbreakable, he had tried, denting the bucket as he smashed it against the glass in fury, but it caused only scratches in the thick glass. And as the temperature started to drop and cold set in, he must have known that he would not survive the night outside. Fiona imagined him climbing over the railing, planning to drop the thirty feet to the rooftop below. She saw him over the rail, trying to lower himself, attempting a drop that would land him on his feet. But he was drunk. He tumbled from the catwalk and crashed heavily on the surface. He could have broken his leg right there. But he was a strong man and, if his war record was anything to go by, not likely to give up even with a broken leg. He must have crawled to the rooftop door and found that locked too, knowing at that moment that Eliza had outwitted him. His rage must have been furious. Injured or not, he was going to climb down the lighthouse wall. But a few inches from the top his fingers gave way, leaving a fingernail behind. Close to death at the foot of the lighthouse, he had painfully crawled towards the lighthouse door and died at the foot of the tower.
Fiona stopped for a moment and lit a cigarette. It tasted good and she sucked the welcome tendrils of smoke into her lungs. Ahead of her, the men had placed the body on the deck of the boat and were packing up the canvas and poles of the stretcher.
She sighed, knowing that the version of the story she had just played out in her head was the more charitable of the two possibilities. In the other version the lighthouse-keeper's wife had found him on the roof, incapacitated, and pushed him off the edge, half conscious and with only enough strength to try to grab on to the stone wall. In this version she dragged the dead or dying body to the spot under the lighthouse ladder to be consistent with the story she had made up for Detective Biggs. Deep down, Fiona knew that this was the more plausible of the two. After all, how likely was it that he had dragged his own dying body to the exact spot under the tower that convinced Biggs her story was the truth?
There was one other thing Fiona had to check. She climbed into the boat and crossed over to the body. Biggs was already in the wheelhouse warming his hands. Willie was on the jetty about to cast off. She unwrapped the canvas from the body and examined the lighthouse-keeper's hands. The nail of the right middle finger was missing. She nodded in satisfaction and covered the body.
A case like this could mean a lot for her career on the Force. A rookie female officer picking up clues and evidence missed by an experienced detective would ensure some respect from the men on the Force. Her own brothers would have to admit they were wrong. Eliza, of course, would hang. Even if she had not dragged the body to a place that would fit her story, she was certainly guilty of causing the death by locking her husband out on the catwalk.
Willie jumped into the boat. Instead of going into the wheelhouse, Fiona sat down on a bench in the stern of the boat finishing her cigarette and thinking how much pleasure she could get by showing Biggs the nail and proving him wrong. Then she took the little envelope from her pocket, trailed her hand over the side of the boat, opened her fingers, and watched the evidence slowly sink into the sea.