The Bell Rock Mystery - Chapter 6
Created | Updated Apr 10, 2007
A wind blew around the cold, wet iron of the access ladder at the base of the Bell Rock Lighthouse. Sea spray whipped Kitchener’s face like a thousand grains of red-hot sand. He was so cold, the exposed skin of his hands and face burnt. He looked over at Strand who didn’t seem the slightest bit concerned with the weather conditions. He must be hardy to the cold and wet after a lifetime in and around the seas and oceans of the world. Half way up the access ladder Kitchener paused, held his breath and looked around. All that was to be seen was a grey sea merging with a grey sky and waves as high as a three-story house rolling along. Why in the name of heaven would anybody want to work here? This must be the most desolate place in the whole world, totally isolated. Looking around it was as though the rest of the world didn’t exist any more, just a lighthouse on the edge of the world.
On boarding the steam launch on the banks of the Firth of Forth Kitchener watched the swirling waters. He was reminded of the opening of one of his favourite composer’s operas, Das Rheingold. His opinion soon change as the shelter of the coast line disappeared and the waves rolled and tossed the boat about, this was more of a Die Walkure feel as he imagined the horseman jumping over the waves.
He shivered and looked up the ladder. Strand’s boots were disappearing onto the access platform that jutted out adjacent to the doorway. Looking down once more at the rock he started to climb. This would be the start of a longer climb, but already Kitchener had had enough.
Strand stood on the access platform looking out to sea as Kitchener came to the top of the ladder. The keeper was taking large lungs full of sea air as the Inspector finally clambered, somewhat gingerly, onto the platform. “If I knew I was going to have to climb the damn thing I may have thought twice about coming.” wheezed the out of breath detective.
Strand with a laugh raised a finger and pointed skyward, “We’ve got to get up there yet.”
As Kitchener’s eyes looked up his heart sank. Heights had never been something he felt comfortable with. The prospect of standing up there in the Lamp Room, surrounded by the crashing sea all around, did not fill his sinking heart with joy.
Strand firmly tried the door handle as Kitchener tried to come to terms with the situation.
“Its still locked.”
As well as the rattle of the door in the frame another sound emerged from the door. A metallic clank, clank could clearly be heard indicating that a bolt was drawn across, locking the door from the inside.
“Great”, Kitchener’s voice didn’t show any signs of enthusiasm. “There’s only one thing we can do, how strong is that door?”
“Its built to withstand high wind and wave.”
“Right, with me then…” Kitchener turned his shoulder towards the door.
Strand soon took the hint and did likewise. “After three…” On the count of three both men lunged their shoulders against the door. The impact had the same effect on both men as they fell backwards. The door was as solid as a brick wall.
“There’s no way we’re gonna get through that, its rock solid.”
Kitchener said nothing. He looked down at the waves crashing against the rock and shuddered, then his gaze turned upwards towards the top of the tower. No going up, no going down. “There's only one way in as far as I can see, here watch this…” out of his pocket Kitchener produced a selection of rusty old keys, one for all occasions Strand thought to himself, but said nothing.
Kitchener fingered through the bunch and selected one. Carefully he inserted it into the keyhole. Strand counted at least half a dozen withdrawals and re-entries of the key. Kitchener’s face was a picture of intense concentration. Eyes focused and tongue making all manner of movement, both in and out of his month. Suddenly Kitchener stood back from the door and turned to face Strand, a self-satisfied smile on his face. “Being a Scotland Yard detective does have its advantages you know.” he said nodding towards the door.
Strand pushed the door; once again there was no movement. Confused he turned to Kitchener, “I thought you’d unlocked it?”
“I have, I can’t unlock the dead bolt though.”
Strand couldn’t help feeling slightly foolish, of course he’d picked the lock but the bolt remained intact. That, however, only left one locking devise to break through. Once again on Kitchener’s lead the two men put their shoulders to the door.
On the second attempt the door burst open and both men collapsed into the building, the larger, Strand falling onto Kitchener’s back. The room was small, empty and dark. At the opposite end of the corridor a ladder bolted to the wall was dimly illuminated by a weak light from above. Only the light from the open door made vision possible in the gloom.
Both men picked themselves up off the floor, looking slightly embarrassed. “Another ladder?” the half fact, half question came from Kitchener. He had seen enough of ladders already today.
“This is the first of two access shafts. We need to go up two flights of stairs before we reach the Lower Engine Room.”
‘Lower Engine Room!” thought Kitchener, how many were they? “…and the top?”
Strand paused for a moment before he answered, prolonging the suspense.
“Another eight floors.” Strand closed and bolted the door. Suddenly the small room had a foreboding feeling to it. Kitchener felt uneasy, he could feel the breath of Strand on his neck, it felt hot and damp.
Kitchener edged forward along the passage until he could feel the cold, iron ladder in his hands. The climb had started, up towards the light. Moments later he was aware of Strand’s heavy boots thumping the rungs of the ladder below. “I’ll have whoever bolted that door.” He shouted down. Why he had made the statement was unknown to Kitchener. Maybe it was a fore warning to anyone who may be aloft, alerting them of the two men’s presence but was he warning a friend or foe?
“The weather on the rock can change awful quick, maybe the wind was blowing the door open?”
“That’s as maybe, I think we should act with stealth.” He looked up before continuing. “Anyone could be in here with us.”
It came as a relief that the first set of stairs was only a short climb. Kitchener's head appeared through the hole in the floor of the Lower Engine Room, looking right then left scanning the room for any signs of life.
“Come on with ya?” Strands inpatient voice came from below. Kitchener’s face grimaced as he heard the Scottish accent drifting up the access shaft. What an asset he would be in the undercover world of the detective force, Kitchener sarcastically thought. The room appeared to be clear. The burly figure of the Inspector walked around the room looking for any signs of life. Strand followed almost immediately behind him up the ladder, “The crew may be away up in the lamp room, I saw someone moving up there earlier. This is only the lower engine room.”
“Lower Engine Room?” Kitchener's knowledge of the operation of a lighthouse was on a par with his knowledge of the provinces of India. What happened in the Lower Engine Room? Why did a Lighthouse need an engine room for that matter, lower or any other?
Two generators dominated the room. The two iron cylinders hummed a low methodical rhythm while radiated heat filled the room. Through a small glass window just above the door, flames could be seen licking upwards. These pieces of machinery were obviously in good working order. The oil gauges indicated that the level was at its optimum point, the green paint shone and the furnaces were full of coal. Who had maintained them? Was the crew safe after all? If that was the case why was the door locked? Why had the relief keeper not been admitted when the captain was keenly awaiting his arrival? Too many questions ran around Kitchener’s consciousness. He needed more data. “Is the weather the only reason the door would be bolted?”
“Privateers have been known to operate around this rock for a hundred years. Ever since the days before the lamp, ships would flounder on the rock upsetting their cargo, easy pickings for the smugglers.”
“Privateers, I thought the local authorities had put paid to those long ago?”
“Most likely the wind though, could blow the door clean off its hinges it could. I know one thing for sure though…”
“What’s that?”
“Something made them lock it.”
“…and someone has been stoking these boilers. Do you see anything amiss in here?”
Strand looked at the two generators. His face bore a blank expression as he stared at the two pieces of machinery. Though it was only a brief moment before Strand answered, it seemed like an eternity. Did Kitchener read something into that pause and lack of expression? An expression that almost betrayed a lack of knowledge maybe?
“No, everything looks fine, you have to remember though, its my first time here.”
That would explain the pause, Kitchener surmised. Behind the generator furthest from the stairs a pile of coal wedged itself between the machine and the wall, an old shovel lay beside the black heap. His examination finished, Kitchener prompted a move, “Come on then,” he sighed, “ We’d better find out what’s going on here. I do have a job to do back on the mainland and I don’t relish the thought of spending Christmas here.”
The assent of the tower continued. Again the stairs were mounted with the utmost stealth. Once again the room they entered appeared to be clear and Kitchener found the room to be very much a facsimile of the room directly below. This room contained one large piece of machinery not unlike the generators below. It gave the appearance of a barrel lying on its side with a large pipe emanating from its top. The pipe rose approximately three feet before a ninety-degree bend projected it towards the concave external wall and out of the building. Along the wall next to the exiting pipe were arranged a collection of several large dial indicators. As far as Kitchener could tell they indicated pounds per square inch, but pounds of what?
This room was the Upper Engine Room. Like its lower relation the room didn’t contain an engine. It did, however, contain a vital piece of equipment for the safe passage of shipping. Kitchener looked around in bewilderment, “This room, what’s it for?” The reply came once Strand had found his bearings, “Compressor” he said, slowly walking over to the machinery and checking the readings. “For the fog horn.”
All this equipment for the fog horn. The compressor was huge, the thought crossed his mind, was Strand romancing him. He had had first hand experience though of that piece of machinery and it was deafening.
“Does everything look in order?” he asked the question again. Now, that enquiry served two purposes. Ever the Policemen, Kitchener was trying to catch the Keeper out, to relieve the tension of the situation more than anything, he told himself.
“It would appear that way.”
So the climb continued with no revelation from this room. The next floor up was the storeroom. Shelves and barrels filled the room. Space was in short supply, once both men were in the room, space was even more sparse. The shelves contained all manner of dried foodstuffs, fruit, herbs and endless jars of pickled consumables. The barrels brimmed with salt packed around all kinds of meats, chicken, ham, pork and beef. One thing was clear, though the storeroom was not full, it was adequately stocked. Starvation was out of the question; food and water were in abundance. This fact only added to the mystery.
On the other side of the curved, stonewall the wind blew against the tower. Around the rock on which the lighthouse clung for dear life the water, for the second time that day, had started to rise. The steam launch now appeared to be in clear water, no sign of the jetty was to be seen. The two men were trapped eleven miles off the shore, surrounded by the icy waters of the North Sea.
Kitchener passed a quizzical eye over the crew’s bedroom. Standing on the top of the stairs he checked the room for personnel. He could see that three men lived and worked here. Every room he had come to was the same, repetition everywhere. The walls were perfectly curved and no matter which way he turned the same piece of cold, stonewall would stare back at him. Being a Londoner, straight lines normally greeted his gaze wherever he cared to look. Wide open streets with sunlight shining through windows. Green, he had never appreciated green before. Hyde Park, what he would give for a walk through Hyde Park. On second thoughts, maybe not. On Christmas Eve a brass band would be playing and he hated brass bands.
Two adjustable bunk beds filled most of this room. Both projected out from the wall. This was a place where privacy and personal space were not an issue. When asleep the three Keepers would be literary on top of one another. Did they all sleep at the same time or in shifts? Maybe one would sleep while the other two saw to running of the lighthouse.
Three out of the four bunks were made, the blankets strewn across the foot of the bed. The forth was currently in use as a dumping ground for all manner of clothing and equipment.
Kitchener was becoming fatigued with the climb. Thinking it was time for a breather, he insisted on an examination of the room. It would be a decision that would result in valuable time being lost in the investigation and a discovery of paramount importance not being unearthed with time to act. Kitchener slowly and methodically walked around the room. Strand watched the Scotland Yarder while wondering what exactly he was doing. Strand didn’t understand how the police investigated a crime scene, so he took it as read that the officer knew what he was doing.
In reality, however, Kitchener didn’t have a clue what he was looking for. At least he had a chance to practise his trade. He felt more useful doing something rather than letting Strand tell him this and that about pieces of machinery he didn’t have a clue about. While working he had a feeling of superiority, he was in charge of the situation.
One by one he placed the palm of his hand on the mattresses, all cold. “No one has slept in these for some time.” Not knowing what to do he randomly picked up the crew’s possessions and equipment and gave the impression he was gathering clues. Each crewmember had a small wooden cupboard on the wall, only large enough to contain a razor, shaving soap and shaving brush. This really was a life of isolation and deprivation. After a final look around, the two men continued their assent.
On a wind swept cliff top to the north of Edinburgh a white building sits looking out to sea. The two-story house nestled itself behind a sea wall, its only defence from the elements. Rising out of the centre of the building mirroring the Bell Rock Lighthouse itself, a signal tower rose into the blue sky. On top of the castellated tower a flagstaff reached into the sky. On the staff a copper ball, circa fourteen inches diameter, sat at rest at the base.
The building was the Bell Rock Signal tower. It served two purposes, the first was to provide accommodation for the lighthouse keepers and their families and the second was a point of contact from the rock to the shore.
James McDonald ran the signal tower, the latest in a long line of men to hold the title, ‘Master of the Tender’. As Master of the signal tower his role was the very backbone of the whole lighthouse operation. The Bell Rock Lighthouse and crew were dependent on his actions.
His duties consisted of the maintenance of the shore to lighthouse ferry, which was used for all movement of keepers and equipment. He also maintained the well-being of the off duty keepers and their families and, of course, the daily signalling to the lighthouse. Every morning in the house at the stroke of nine o’clock, McDonald made the journey up the spiral, stone staircase which wound its ways up the inside of the tower. Today was a special day and many preparations were under way for the returning Captain, who was on his last furlough before leaving the service. Preparations for a Christmas meal were also in full swing.
Normal signalling time was between nine and ten o’clock but the weather today had not been conducive to the sending of a signal. The sky was overcast and a sea mist had rolled in. The lighthouse was not visible so, after an hour of waiting, McDonald returned to his other duties.
Every day the procedure was the same. Between the hours of nine and ten o’clock the crew of the lighthouse would send a signal to the shore by raising a large copper ball up a flagstaff on top of the lamp room. The signal indicated that all was well. If the ball remained dormant, the master would mount an investigation. It was not uncommon for the entire crew to fall ill.
McDonald could view the lighthouse using the five-foot Achromatic Telescope mounted in the observatory at the top of the tower. Once the signal had been given, he would reply in the same way. In the event of poor visibility in the morning a signal would be transmitted at one o’clock. James McDonald took a silver pocket watch out of his waistcoat pocket and read the time. It was now one o’clock, time to return to the signal tower. He turned to look at the weather conditions out to sea. The sky was now blue with a smattering of nimbus cumulus high in the atmosphere; a complete contrast to the grey sea mist of that morning. His old eyes squinted to make out a tiny black dot on the horizon. That tiny black dot was the reason he was here. Turning away from the sea he headed back up the path toward the house.
Much activity and commotion greeted him when he entered the front door. There was a lot of work to be done, but such was the noise in the house he could not concentrate on any one thing for more than a few moments, so he sought solitude on the cliff top.
Fighting his way through the crowd of women, children and dogs, he made his way to the door. The door only he was allowed to enter.
He passed through closing it behind him. James knew that this was something of a special occasion for the women of the house. The five of them were busying themselves preparing all manner of fare for the party. He still had a job to do. Tasks still needed to be performed.
In the tranquil calm of the observatory he once again looked out to sea and fondly reminisced about his days as a skipper on the Inverness line. How he still longed for those days of adventure at sea. Days that had suddenly been cut short when, during a storm, a falling sail had trapped his leg. His calf was crushed and the pain almost sent him insane. The bottle of rum rushed to him, by a concerned crew member, did nothing to dampen his agony.
His vessel didn’t carry a surgeon only an unqualified doctor. The number of doctors willing to take to a life at sea had diminished since the end of the Crimean War. A practise on dry land was a much safer option. The doctor amputated his right leg, just below the knee, on an old table in the cockpit. It wasn’t the cleanest of jobs the young medical student had ever seen but the Captain was more than grateful. He had lost his leg but at the same time his life was saved.
The pocket watch now in his hand had been presented to him, from a grateful crew, on his retirement from a life at sea. The hands on the face of the timepiece showed one o’clock precisely. McDonald put his eye to the viewing lens on the large brass telescope and waited for the signal.
The living room situated on the sixth floor of the lighthouse was almost comfortable. Two sofas sat in the middle of the room and a picture hung on the wall. A writing desk with an open logbook on the desktop leant against the curved wall. Directly opposite the ladders on the other side of the room sat a small but functional galley.
“Come on, come on.” Strand’s voice became clear as his head appeared though the floor. Once in the room he continued straight up the next set of steps without pausing. Strange thought Kitchener, he’s suddenly in a rush. Kitchener pondered the thought for several moments. After coming up with several hypotheses for Strand’s change in behaviour’ Kitchener began to feel uneasy being on his own in the room and quickly followed Strand up the ladder.
Unbeknown to the two men this hasty departure from the room had caused the detective to miss a vital clue. There in the room the mystery would deepen.
More soon. its Mrs Wessons birthday on Wed. so no writing. I will leave some more asap.
On boarding the steam launch on the banks of the Firth of Forth Kitchener watched the swirling waters. He was reminded of the opening of one of his favourite composer’s operas, Das Rheingold. His opinion soon change as the shelter of the coast line disappeared and the waves rolled and tossed the boat about, this was more of a Die Walkure feel as he imagined the horseman jumping over the waves.
He shivered and looked up the ladder. Strand’s boots were disappearing onto the access platform that jutted out adjacent to the doorway. Looking down once more at the rock he started to climb. This would be the start of a longer climb, but already Kitchener had had enough.
Strand stood on the access platform looking out to sea as Kitchener came to the top of the ladder. The keeper was taking large lungs full of sea air as the Inspector finally clambered, somewhat gingerly, onto the platform. “If I knew I was going to have to climb the damn thing I may have thought twice about coming.” wheezed the out of breath detective.
Strand with a laugh raised a finger and pointed skyward, “We’ve got to get up there yet.”
As Kitchener’s eyes looked up his heart sank. Heights had never been something he felt comfortable with. The prospect of standing up there in the Lamp Room, surrounded by the crashing sea all around, did not fill his sinking heart with joy.
Strand firmly tried the door handle as Kitchener tried to come to terms with the situation.
“Its still locked.”
As well as the rattle of the door in the frame another sound emerged from the door. A metallic clank, clank could clearly be heard indicating that a bolt was drawn across, locking the door from the inside.
“Great”, Kitchener’s voice didn’t show any signs of enthusiasm. “There’s only one thing we can do, how strong is that door?”
“Its built to withstand high wind and wave.”
“Right, with me then…” Kitchener turned his shoulder towards the door.
Strand soon took the hint and did likewise. “After three…” On the count of three both men lunged their shoulders against the door. The impact had the same effect on both men as they fell backwards. The door was as solid as a brick wall.
“There’s no way we’re gonna get through that, its rock solid.”
Kitchener said nothing. He looked down at the waves crashing against the rock and shuddered, then his gaze turned upwards towards the top of the tower. No going up, no going down. “There's only one way in as far as I can see, here watch this…” out of his pocket Kitchener produced a selection of rusty old keys, one for all occasions Strand thought to himself, but said nothing.
Kitchener fingered through the bunch and selected one. Carefully he inserted it into the keyhole. Strand counted at least half a dozen withdrawals and re-entries of the key. Kitchener’s face was a picture of intense concentration. Eyes focused and tongue making all manner of movement, both in and out of his month. Suddenly Kitchener stood back from the door and turned to face Strand, a self-satisfied smile on his face. “Being a Scotland Yard detective does have its advantages you know.” he said nodding towards the door.
Strand pushed the door; once again there was no movement. Confused he turned to Kitchener, “I thought you’d unlocked it?”
“I have, I can’t unlock the dead bolt though.”
Strand couldn’t help feeling slightly foolish, of course he’d picked the lock but the bolt remained intact. That, however, only left one locking devise to break through. Once again on Kitchener’s lead the two men put their shoulders to the door.
On the second attempt the door burst open and both men collapsed into the building, the larger, Strand falling onto Kitchener’s back. The room was small, empty and dark. At the opposite end of the corridor a ladder bolted to the wall was dimly illuminated by a weak light from above. Only the light from the open door made vision possible in the gloom.
Both men picked themselves up off the floor, looking slightly embarrassed. “Another ladder?” the half fact, half question came from Kitchener. He had seen enough of ladders already today.
“This is the first of two access shafts. We need to go up two flights of stairs before we reach the Lower Engine Room.”
‘Lower Engine Room!” thought Kitchener, how many were they? “…and the top?”
Strand paused for a moment before he answered, prolonging the suspense.
“Another eight floors.” Strand closed and bolted the door. Suddenly the small room had a foreboding feeling to it. Kitchener felt uneasy, he could feel the breath of Strand on his neck, it felt hot and damp.
Kitchener edged forward along the passage until he could feel the cold, iron ladder in his hands. The climb had started, up towards the light. Moments later he was aware of Strand’s heavy boots thumping the rungs of the ladder below. “I’ll have whoever bolted that door.” He shouted down. Why he had made the statement was unknown to Kitchener. Maybe it was a fore warning to anyone who may be aloft, alerting them of the two men’s presence but was he warning a friend or foe?
“The weather on the rock can change awful quick, maybe the wind was blowing the door open?”
“That’s as maybe, I think we should act with stealth.” He looked up before continuing. “Anyone could be in here with us.”
It came as a relief that the first set of stairs was only a short climb. Kitchener's head appeared through the hole in the floor of the Lower Engine Room, looking right then left scanning the room for any signs of life.
“Come on with ya?” Strands inpatient voice came from below. Kitchener’s face grimaced as he heard the Scottish accent drifting up the access shaft. What an asset he would be in the undercover world of the detective force, Kitchener sarcastically thought. The room appeared to be clear. The burly figure of the Inspector walked around the room looking for any signs of life. Strand followed almost immediately behind him up the ladder, “The crew may be away up in the lamp room, I saw someone moving up there earlier. This is only the lower engine room.”
“Lower Engine Room?” Kitchener's knowledge of the operation of a lighthouse was on a par with his knowledge of the provinces of India. What happened in the Lower Engine Room? Why did a Lighthouse need an engine room for that matter, lower or any other?
Two generators dominated the room. The two iron cylinders hummed a low methodical rhythm while radiated heat filled the room. Through a small glass window just above the door, flames could be seen licking upwards. These pieces of machinery were obviously in good working order. The oil gauges indicated that the level was at its optimum point, the green paint shone and the furnaces were full of coal. Who had maintained them? Was the crew safe after all? If that was the case why was the door locked? Why had the relief keeper not been admitted when the captain was keenly awaiting his arrival? Too many questions ran around Kitchener’s consciousness. He needed more data. “Is the weather the only reason the door would be bolted?”
“Privateers have been known to operate around this rock for a hundred years. Ever since the days before the lamp, ships would flounder on the rock upsetting their cargo, easy pickings for the smugglers.”
“Privateers, I thought the local authorities had put paid to those long ago?”
“Most likely the wind though, could blow the door clean off its hinges it could. I know one thing for sure though…”
“What’s that?”
“Something made them lock it.”
“…and someone has been stoking these boilers. Do you see anything amiss in here?”
Strand looked at the two generators. His face bore a blank expression as he stared at the two pieces of machinery. Though it was only a brief moment before Strand answered, it seemed like an eternity. Did Kitchener read something into that pause and lack of expression? An expression that almost betrayed a lack of knowledge maybe?
“No, everything looks fine, you have to remember though, its my first time here.”
That would explain the pause, Kitchener surmised. Behind the generator furthest from the stairs a pile of coal wedged itself between the machine and the wall, an old shovel lay beside the black heap. His examination finished, Kitchener prompted a move, “Come on then,” he sighed, “ We’d better find out what’s going on here. I do have a job to do back on the mainland and I don’t relish the thought of spending Christmas here.”
The assent of the tower continued. Again the stairs were mounted with the utmost stealth. Once again the room they entered appeared to be clear and Kitchener found the room to be very much a facsimile of the room directly below. This room contained one large piece of machinery not unlike the generators below. It gave the appearance of a barrel lying on its side with a large pipe emanating from its top. The pipe rose approximately three feet before a ninety-degree bend projected it towards the concave external wall and out of the building. Along the wall next to the exiting pipe were arranged a collection of several large dial indicators. As far as Kitchener could tell they indicated pounds per square inch, but pounds of what?
This room was the Upper Engine Room. Like its lower relation the room didn’t contain an engine. It did, however, contain a vital piece of equipment for the safe passage of shipping. Kitchener looked around in bewilderment, “This room, what’s it for?” The reply came once Strand had found his bearings, “Compressor” he said, slowly walking over to the machinery and checking the readings. “For the fog horn.”
All this equipment for the fog horn. The compressor was huge, the thought crossed his mind, was Strand romancing him. He had had first hand experience though of that piece of machinery and it was deafening.
“Does everything look in order?” he asked the question again. Now, that enquiry served two purposes. Ever the Policemen, Kitchener was trying to catch the Keeper out, to relieve the tension of the situation more than anything, he told himself.
“It would appear that way.”
So the climb continued with no revelation from this room. The next floor up was the storeroom. Shelves and barrels filled the room. Space was in short supply, once both men were in the room, space was even more sparse. The shelves contained all manner of dried foodstuffs, fruit, herbs and endless jars of pickled consumables. The barrels brimmed with salt packed around all kinds of meats, chicken, ham, pork and beef. One thing was clear, though the storeroom was not full, it was adequately stocked. Starvation was out of the question; food and water were in abundance. This fact only added to the mystery.
On the other side of the curved, stonewall the wind blew against the tower. Around the rock on which the lighthouse clung for dear life the water, for the second time that day, had started to rise. The steam launch now appeared to be in clear water, no sign of the jetty was to be seen. The two men were trapped eleven miles off the shore, surrounded by the icy waters of the North Sea.
Kitchener passed a quizzical eye over the crew’s bedroom. Standing on the top of the stairs he checked the room for personnel. He could see that three men lived and worked here. Every room he had come to was the same, repetition everywhere. The walls were perfectly curved and no matter which way he turned the same piece of cold, stonewall would stare back at him. Being a Londoner, straight lines normally greeted his gaze wherever he cared to look. Wide open streets with sunlight shining through windows. Green, he had never appreciated green before. Hyde Park, what he would give for a walk through Hyde Park. On second thoughts, maybe not. On Christmas Eve a brass band would be playing and he hated brass bands.
Two adjustable bunk beds filled most of this room. Both projected out from the wall. This was a place where privacy and personal space were not an issue. When asleep the three Keepers would be literary on top of one another. Did they all sleep at the same time or in shifts? Maybe one would sleep while the other two saw to running of the lighthouse.
Three out of the four bunks were made, the blankets strewn across the foot of the bed. The forth was currently in use as a dumping ground for all manner of clothing and equipment.
Kitchener was becoming fatigued with the climb. Thinking it was time for a breather, he insisted on an examination of the room. It would be a decision that would result in valuable time being lost in the investigation and a discovery of paramount importance not being unearthed with time to act. Kitchener slowly and methodically walked around the room. Strand watched the Scotland Yarder while wondering what exactly he was doing. Strand didn’t understand how the police investigated a crime scene, so he took it as read that the officer knew what he was doing.
In reality, however, Kitchener didn’t have a clue what he was looking for. At least he had a chance to practise his trade. He felt more useful doing something rather than letting Strand tell him this and that about pieces of machinery he didn’t have a clue about. While working he had a feeling of superiority, he was in charge of the situation.
One by one he placed the palm of his hand on the mattresses, all cold. “No one has slept in these for some time.” Not knowing what to do he randomly picked up the crew’s possessions and equipment and gave the impression he was gathering clues. Each crewmember had a small wooden cupboard on the wall, only large enough to contain a razor, shaving soap and shaving brush. This really was a life of isolation and deprivation. After a final look around, the two men continued their assent.
On a wind swept cliff top to the north of Edinburgh a white building sits looking out to sea. The two-story house nestled itself behind a sea wall, its only defence from the elements. Rising out of the centre of the building mirroring the Bell Rock Lighthouse itself, a signal tower rose into the blue sky. On top of the castellated tower a flagstaff reached into the sky. On the staff a copper ball, circa fourteen inches diameter, sat at rest at the base.
The building was the Bell Rock Signal tower. It served two purposes, the first was to provide accommodation for the lighthouse keepers and their families and the second was a point of contact from the rock to the shore.
James McDonald ran the signal tower, the latest in a long line of men to hold the title, ‘Master of the Tender’. As Master of the signal tower his role was the very backbone of the whole lighthouse operation. The Bell Rock Lighthouse and crew were dependent on his actions.
His duties consisted of the maintenance of the shore to lighthouse ferry, which was used for all movement of keepers and equipment. He also maintained the well-being of the off duty keepers and their families and, of course, the daily signalling to the lighthouse. Every morning in the house at the stroke of nine o’clock, McDonald made the journey up the spiral, stone staircase which wound its ways up the inside of the tower. Today was a special day and many preparations were under way for the returning Captain, who was on his last furlough before leaving the service. Preparations for a Christmas meal were also in full swing.
Normal signalling time was between nine and ten o’clock but the weather today had not been conducive to the sending of a signal. The sky was overcast and a sea mist had rolled in. The lighthouse was not visible so, after an hour of waiting, McDonald returned to his other duties.
Every day the procedure was the same. Between the hours of nine and ten o’clock the crew of the lighthouse would send a signal to the shore by raising a large copper ball up a flagstaff on top of the lamp room. The signal indicated that all was well. If the ball remained dormant, the master would mount an investigation. It was not uncommon for the entire crew to fall ill.
McDonald could view the lighthouse using the five-foot Achromatic Telescope mounted in the observatory at the top of the tower. Once the signal had been given, he would reply in the same way. In the event of poor visibility in the morning a signal would be transmitted at one o’clock. James McDonald took a silver pocket watch out of his waistcoat pocket and read the time. It was now one o’clock, time to return to the signal tower. He turned to look at the weather conditions out to sea. The sky was now blue with a smattering of nimbus cumulus high in the atmosphere; a complete contrast to the grey sea mist of that morning. His old eyes squinted to make out a tiny black dot on the horizon. That tiny black dot was the reason he was here. Turning away from the sea he headed back up the path toward the house.
Much activity and commotion greeted him when he entered the front door. There was a lot of work to be done, but such was the noise in the house he could not concentrate on any one thing for more than a few moments, so he sought solitude on the cliff top.
Fighting his way through the crowd of women, children and dogs, he made his way to the door. The door only he was allowed to enter.
He passed through closing it behind him. James knew that this was something of a special occasion for the women of the house. The five of them were busying themselves preparing all manner of fare for the party. He still had a job to do. Tasks still needed to be performed.
In the tranquil calm of the observatory he once again looked out to sea and fondly reminisced about his days as a skipper on the Inverness line. How he still longed for those days of adventure at sea. Days that had suddenly been cut short when, during a storm, a falling sail had trapped his leg. His calf was crushed and the pain almost sent him insane. The bottle of rum rushed to him, by a concerned crew member, did nothing to dampen his agony.
His vessel didn’t carry a surgeon only an unqualified doctor. The number of doctors willing to take to a life at sea had diminished since the end of the Crimean War. A practise on dry land was a much safer option. The doctor amputated his right leg, just below the knee, on an old table in the cockpit. It wasn’t the cleanest of jobs the young medical student had ever seen but the Captain was more than grateful. He had lost his leg but at the same time his life was saved.
The pocket watch now in his hand had been presented to him, from a grateful crew, on his retirement from a life at sea. The hands on the face of the timepiece showed one o’clock precisely. McDonald put his eye to the viewing lens on the large brass telescope and waited for the signal.
The living room situated on the sixth floor of the lighthouse was almost comfortable. Two sofas sat in the middle of the room and a picture hung on the wall. A writing desk with an open logbook on the desktop leant against the curved wall. Directly opposite the ladders on the other side of the room sat a small but functional galley.
“Come on, come on.” Strand’s voice became clear as his head appeared though the floor. Once in the room he continued straight up the next set of steps without pausing. Strange thought Kitchener, he’s suddenly in a rush. Kitchener pondered the thought for several moments. After coming up with several hypotheses for Strand’s change in behaviour’ Kitchener began to feel uneasy being on his own in the room and quickly followed Strand up the ladder.
Unbeknown to the two men this hasty departure from the room had caused the detective to miss a vital clue. There in the room the mystery would deepen.
More soon. its Mrs Wessons birthday on Wed. so no writing. I will leave some more asap.
