The Bell Rock Mystery - Chapter 12
Created | Updated Apr 27, 2007
On the waterfront bordering the Firth of Forth stands an old boat shed owned by the Edinburgh Constabulary. The wooden structure had been there for many years and was now in need of some repair. The roof of the boat shed looked unusually high, higher than was required for the small steam launches housed in it. This was a throw back to the great days of sail when the patrol boat, used for the pursuit of smugglers on the river, was a much bigger sailing vessel with large square rigging.
Late in the afternoon the air was damp and the light was beginning to fail on the banks of the Forth. In the boathouse the air was dry and warmer than outside, no wind blew within its confines. The smell of freshly sawn wood and creosote filled the shed.
Macdonald and Boyd arrived at the front door of the shed, both somewhat out of breath. The policeman passed the keys to the Master of the Tender who unlocked the door and entered the boathouse. Immediately he crossed to the launch to begin readying it for the trip, Boyd had only just entered the shed when McDonald called him over, “Bring the lamp over here.”
“Is it ready to go out?” he asked, showing his lack of knowledge regarding all things sea going.
McDonald was away in the gloom at the stern, crouching down examining the hull. Though not much light penetrated that area Boyd could swear he couldn’t see the Masters forearm.
“Not like this it isn’t, bring the lamp down here.”
Oh no, what was it? He knew that the boat hadn’t been used for eight months at least, was it in need of repairs after all those months, he really couldn’t remember. If it was, now would be when the force started paying for its neglect.
Boyd, as instructed, lowered the lamp to the bottom of the stern. A large hole could clearly be seen in the hull. McDonald looked at Boyd, “This has been done since the boat was last in the water, see here…” Boyd bent down to examine the hole, “ the wood is dry and still clean, no water damage or discolouration.”
“Sabotage?” realised Boyd looking aghast at McDonald.
“Ey?” he confirmed.
Donald Preston sat on one of the wicker sofas in the living room. In his hands he clutched a whisky glass to his chest while his face portrayed a look of terror. Slowly he rocked himself back and forth. Kitchener and Strand watched him from the galley. “Best leave him be, for the time being. He’s in shock.” Kitchener whispered in Strand’s ear.
“Ey’ caused by what though? He looks as though he’s seen a ghost.”
“I don’t know, but chances are that he’s killed his fellow keepers and gone out of his mind. He’s a lot younger than those two down on the floor there,” he said, pointing at the two bodies on the floor, “It would be easy enough for him to overpower them.” Kitchener took his pocket watch out and looked at the time. Four thirty, things need to be done.
“Four thirty, its getting dark. Go and check the light. If he’s been up there on his own…” Strand nodded his head in agreement, who knows what he could have done in his state of mind. The keeper quietly left the room, not taking his eyes off Preston as he edged past.
Once Kitchener was confident Strand was out of earshot he slowly approached Preston and knelt beside him. “Donald, Donald, can you hear me?” asked the Policeman in a hushed voice.
Preston said nothing; he just looked at the two dead bodies on the floor.
“Donald, that’s the captain and the first mate. Do you know what happened?”
For the first time Preston took his eyes off the two corpses and looked blankly into Kitchener’s face.
Donald Strand viewed the light with a sense of pride. Up in the very top of the lighthouse the oil lamp was burning steadily and the red and clear lenses turned in a slow rotation, occasionally casting a glow on his body as he walked around the lamp room.
The sun had set, but on the horizon the clouds were glowing red and orange with the sun’s dying rays. Even though the circumstances of this, his first day had been one of tragedy, a smile came to his face. He had fulfilled a lifetime’s ambition. Here he was the keeper of the Bell Rock Lighthouse and not only that, at this time he was in charge. He proudly stood looking out at the sunlight, his head held high and chest proudly protruding outward.
All was quiet in the wood panelled rooms of a gentlemen’s club in the heart of London. Sitting in a high backed red leather chair a grey haired man watched each passing person who entered. Not that there were many, only the occasional waiter breezed through to refill his brandy glass. He had drunk several glasses of various spirits already that day and was conscious that he probably shouldn’t have anymore to drink. After all things would become somewhat more hectic later in the day. For appearances sake though, as this was the eve of a holiday, normality must be maintained.
A young man of circa thirty years entered the room. Looking around it wasn’t difficult to locate the man he sought in the sparsely occupied room. The younger man obviously admired the older man; his hair was slicked back over his head mirroring the style of his superior. Only the colour was different, his own was a dark brown a complete contrast to the grey of the elder.
The young entrant took a seat next to the old master, who seemed quite pleased with himself. His face betrayed a smile; this would be a great day. All the plans devised by his master would finally come to fruition.
“Well?” asked the grey haired man, an acid look of disdain on his face, on seeing the smile on the young man’s face.
“Is the PM’s statement ready?” the fresh face youth asked.
The grey haired man said nothing. He raised a finger to his lips to indicate the lad was to say nothing more on the subject. Seeing that he had understood he went on to pat the left hand side of his chest, where in the inside pocket of his jacket sat a piece of paper. This piece of paper was the statement that the Prime Minister himself would deliver later that day on the devastating tragedy on the coast of Scotland.
The last weak rays of sunlight were disappearing behind the hills of Edinburgh. The street lamplighters were out in force lighting the gas lamps. An air of excitement hung in the air. The Queen would be arriving here in a matter of hours. Though commonplace, a visit from the monarch would naturally generate excitement among the locals. People had already started to gravitate towards the harbour, eager to procure themselves the best vantage point to observe the royal party coming ashore.
In the cold, dry shed Boyd and McDonald surveyed the damaged hull of the police launch. McDonald felt only annoyance and frustration. This would take time to fix, even a quick repair would take too long for his liking.
To Boyd the sabotaged boat was something of an eye opener. It was more proof to support Kitchener’s assassination theory. “So Kitchener could have been right?” he said quietly to himself.
McDonald also realised that Boyd’s assumption could be correct. Giving Boyd a concerned glance their attention was taken by other matters as a low groan came from the rear of the shed. The noise seemed to be coming from one of the corners where a pile of lobster pots were arranged in a semi orderly fashion.
“What in the name of heaven was that?” asked Boyd with a tremble in his voice.
"Bring the lamp.” McDonald recognised the moan, he was convinced he knew the identity of the source of the noise. McDonald rushed across the shed followed a little more cautiously by Boyd. In a dark corner the Master of the Tender began to throw lobster pots over his shoulder. He had an awful feeling he knew who was in the corner of the shed. How and why he was there was another story. Locating his old friend took priority.
Boyd arrived throwing light onto the scene. There in the darkness bound and gagged was a body lying on the floor, McDonald recognised him immediately, “Strand, what on earth is going on here?”
The man lying on the floor, as far as Boyd could make out was in his late fifties or early sixties. Certainly not the man who visited him earlier that day. This begged the question of whom he had sent to the lighthouse?
McDonald hurriedly removed the gag from Strand’s mouth. Now free to move his jaw bone again a spasm of pain filled the lower half of his face as the onset of cramp took hold. Once again he started to cough, almost to the point of nausea.
“What's to do man?” asked McDonald.
The feeling of sickness remained in his mouth. He could not speak; the pain in his jaw was too great. Slowly he closed his mouth. It felt better though ached with a painful constant rhythmic thud. It took a few seconds for Douglas Strand to compose his thoughts. Confusion ran through his mind, McDonald he knew, but who was the strange little man? What was he doing here?
When he finally started to speak his words were slurred and difficult to make out. His mouth was dry and his throat sore, “I dunna know.” As he spoke his breath became visible in the lamplight, “I was getting the boat ready for the voyage to the rock when I heard the back door slam shut. I turned to look, but no one was there. I thought it was just the wind blowing up, then without hearing another sound something hit me across the shoulders. I remember hitting my head on the side of the launch as I fell. Then, then, that’s all.” He felt the bump on his left temple. Feeling a sharp pain he withdrew his hand with a quick jerk. “I’m not sure how long ago that was, I was due to sail at nine o’clock in the morning.”
“Its four o’clock in the afternoon now Douglas.” Boyd told him.
Boyd spoke quietly, “Who was it Mr Strand, did you see him, was it John Cooper?”
“Cooper, who’s Cooper?” asked a bemused Strand, “I didn’t see anyone.”
Several moments had passed; Kitchener’s attempts to entice Preston from his self-imposed trance had met with no success. The engineer had not moved a muscle since being seated on the sofa; the whisky glass had not even been raised to his lips. Kitchener didn’t have any idea
of how to release this poor man from the mental ordeal he must be going through. He was not a doctor. Do the wrong thing now and it could send Preston over the edge, either mentally or physically. He felt more than useless. Leaning against the dividing wall to the galley he watched Preston intently for any sign of life. Nothing came. With a heavy heart his head dropped towards the floor as he stared at his feet then to his surprise he heard a voice.
“This morning…” Preston had started to speak. Kitchener quickly moved round the sofa opposite the engineer and listened to his words. The strange thing was, he wasn’t actually talking to the Inspector, his gaze focused on the middle distance, but he was talking. Slowly he continued,
“Eleven o’clock this morning. I was away up in the lamp room doing the usual checks. At that moment I was checking the rotation of the lens. All was quiet. The captain and first mate were about their business downstairs. It was clear that the sea mist had lifted and out of the corner of my eye I caught sight of a small vessel floundering dangerously close to the rock. I called down to alert the two other keepers who joined me in a matter of minutes. They too had seen the craft through one of the windows in the tower.”
The three men looked out of the lamp room window, “Sound the fog horn Mr Preston, get their attention,” ordered the skipper, “Come on, they’ll need our help.” The Captain and first mate made off down the stairs, the
sound of their heavy boots clanking down the various sets of stairs. Preston could hear them quite clearly, fading away the further they descended down the tower. Remaining in the lamp room he watched the boat with a feeling of helplessness.
“Not taking my eyes off the floundering vessel I sounded the foghorn once more. It was impossible to tell if the mariner knew that he was so close to the rock. The foghorn didn’t seem to have any effect on his position. From the course he was taking it looked as though he was deliberately trying to ground himself on the rock.
I sounded the foghorn again, but it was in vain. The vessel struck the rock at the same time as the Captain and First Mate stepped off the access ladder.
The Captain and First Mate Houseman ran over the sandstone to the crippled vessel. Picking their way through the splintered wood and fallen sail, Houseman found the fallen mariner.
“He’s alive Skipper.” Houseman shouted to the captain. His voice hardly audible above the crashing waves.
Understanding what Houseman had shouted over the roar of the waves the Captain climbed aboard the boat. Slowly and carefully the two men lifted the debris off the sailor who was trapped in the cockpit. “Come on, let’s get him into the warm.” Instructed the captain.
In the relative warmth of the living room the mariner was now fully conscious sitting on one of the sofas, a glass of whisky in his hand. The three keepers sat around eager to hear his tale.
“The young lad was shaken, but slowly he told his tale, which Preston now related to Kitchener.
“I was sailing down south, bound for Newcastle, when a storm came up.”
“Really, we haven’t had a storm here.” Questioned Houseman.
“It was late last night, further north up towards Cromarty. I’d got my head down for the night when I was woken by the storm. There was nothing I could do, just sit it out and wait until the morning. Then there was a loud bang that rocked the whole boat. I knew it was astern, so I checked for leaks in all the rear panels and luckily no water was coming through.” He took a drink before continuing, “The storm passed and when I awoke in the morning I set sail.
It didn’t take me long to realise that the boat was not behaving as it should be. I was having difficulty controlling the course. I realised that the noise I’d heard the previous evening had been something damaging the rudder. I continued on course but the fight against the current became harder and harder. No longer having any strength I was ready to give up the fight. Then I saw the lighthouse and steered straight towards it.”
“Are you mad man? You could have been smashed to pieces on the rock.” Interjected the first mate.
“It was the only chance I had.” He took down the last of his whisky.
The Captain with his old, wise, reassuring voice eased the heated situation. “We have had a good look at ya’ craft. It could be made seaworthy again in no time at all. The relief boat will be here later today. At least we can get you ashore. Your boat can be patched up and towed to land.”
“That would be most kind.”
“See to it Mr Preston.” ordered the Skipper.
“Ey, ey Sir.” Preston without question left the room.
“He’s a first class engineer is our Mr Preston, he’ll soon have your craft seaworthy again,” I heard the skipper say as left.
“That was the last time I saw my fellow crew members alive.” Preston said in a melancholy voice.
OOH, what will happen next? find out soon?
Late in the afternoon the air was damp and the light was beginning to fail on the banks of the Forth. In the boathouse the air was dry and warmer than outside, no wind blew within its confines. The smell of freshly sawn wood and creosote filled the shed.
Macdonald and Boyd arrived at the front door of the shed, both somewhat out of breath. The policeman passed the keys to the Master of the Tender who unlocked the door and entered the boathouse. Immediately he crossed to the launch to begin readying it for the trip, Boyd had only just entered the shed when McDonald called him over, “Bring the lamp over here.”
“Is it ready to go out?” he asked, showing his lack of knowledge regarding all things sea going.
McDonald was away in the gloom at the stern, crouching down examining the hull. Though not much light penetrated that area Boyd could swear he couldn’t see the Masters forearm.
“Not like this it isn’t, bring the lamp down here.”
Oh no, what was it? He knew that the boat hadn’t been used for eight months at least, was it in need of repairs after all those months, he really couldn’t remember. If it was, now would be when the force started paying for its neglect.
Boyd, as instructed, lowered the lamp to the bottom of the stern. A large hole could clearly be seen in the hull. McDonald looked at Boyd, “This has been done since the boat was last in the water, see here…” Boyd bent down to examine the hole, “ the wood is dry and still clean, no water damage or discolouration.”
“Sabotage?” realised Boyd looking aghast at McDonald.
“Ey?” he confirmed.
Donald Preston sat on one of the wicker sofas in the living room. In his hands he clutched a whisky glass to his chest while his face portrayed a look of terror. Slowly he rocked himself back and forth. Kitchener and Strand watched him from the galley. “Best leave him be, for the time being. He’s in shock.” Kitchener whispered in Strand’s ear.
“Ey’ caused by what though? He looks as though he’s seen a ghost.”
“I don’t know, but chances are that he’s killed his fellow keepers and gone out of his mind. He’s a lot younger than those two down on the floor there,” he said, pointing at the two bodies on the floor, “It would be easy enough for him to overpower them.” Kitchener took his pocket watch out and looked at the time. Four thirty, things need to be done.
“Four thirty, its getting dark. Go and check the light. If he’s been up there on his own…” Strand nodded his head in agreement, who knows what he could have done in his state of mind. The keeper quietly left the room, not taking his eyes off Preston as he edged past.
Once Kitchener was confident Strand was out of earshot he slowly approached Preston and knelt beside him. “Donald, Donald, can you hear me?” asked the Policeman in a hushed voice.
Preston said nothing; he just looked at the two dead bodies on the floor.
“Donald, that’s the captain and the first mate. Do you know what happened?”
For the first time Preston took his eyes off the two corpses and looked blankly into Kitchener’s face.
Donald Strand viewed the light with a sense of pride. Up in the very top of the lighthouse the oil lamp was burning steadily and the red and clear lenses turned in a slow rotation, occasionally casting a glow on his body as he walked around the lamp room.
The sun had set, but on the horizon the clouds were glowing red and orange with the sun’s dying rays. Even though the circumstances of this, his first day had been one of tragedy, a smile came to his face. He had fulfilled a lifetime’s ambition. Here he was the keeper of the Bell Rock Lighthouse and not only that, at this time he was in charge. He proudly stood looking out at the sunlight, his head held high and chest proudly protruding outward.
All was quiet in the wood panelled rooms of a gentlemen’s club in the heart of London. Sitting in a high backed red leather chair a grey haired man watched each passing person who entered. Not that there were many, only the occasional waiter breezed through to refill his brandy glass. He had drunk several glasses of various spirits already that day and was conscious that he probably shouldn’t have anymore to drink. After all things would become somewhat more hectic later in the day. For appearances sake though, as this was the eve of a holiday, normality must be maintained.
A young man of circa thirty years entered the room. Looking around it wasn’t difficult to locate the man he sought in the sparsely occupied room. The younger man obviously admired the older man; his hair was slicked back over his head mirroring the style of his superior. Only the colour was different, his own was a dark brown a complete contrast to the grey of the elder.
The young entrant took a seat next to the old master, who seemed quite pleased with himself. His face betrayed a smile; this would be a great day. All the plans devised by his master would finally come to fruition.
“Well?” asked the grey haired man, an acid look of disdain on his face, on seeing the smile on the young man’s face.
“Is the PM’s statement ready?” the fresh face youth asked.
The grey haired man said nothing. He raised a finger to his lips to indicate the lad was to say nothing more on the subject. Seeing that he had understood he went on to pat the left hand side of his chest, where in the inside pocket of his jacket sat a piece of paper. This piece of paper was the statement that the Prime Minister himself would deliver later that day on the devastating tragedy on the coast of Scotland.
The last weak rays of sunlight were disappearing behind the hills of Edinburgh. The street lamplighters were out in force lighting the gas lamps. An air of excitement hung in the air. The Queen would be arriving here in a matter of hours. Though commonplace, a visit from the monarch would naturally generate excitement among the locals. People had already started to gravitate towards the harbour, eager to procure themselves the best vantage point to observe the royal party coming ashore.
In the cold, dry shed Boyd and McDonald surveyed the damaged hull of the police launch. McDonald felt only annoyance and frustration. This would take time to fix, even a quick repair would take too long for his liking.
To Boyd the sabotaged boat was something of an eye opener. It was more proof to support Kitchener’s assassination theory. “So Kitchener could have been right?” he said quietly to himself.
McDonald also realised that Boyd’s assumption could be correct. Giving Boyd a concerned glance their attention was taken by other matters as a low groan came from the rear of the shed. The noise seemed to be coming from one of the corners where a pile of lobster pots were arranged in a semi orderly fashion.
“What in the name of heaven was that?” asked Boyd with a tremble in his voice.
"Bring the lamp.” McDonald recognised the moan, he was convinced he knew the identity of the source of the noise. McDonald rushed across the shed followed a little more cautiously by Boyd. In a dark corner the Master of the Tender began to throw lobster pots over his shoulder. He had an awful feeling he knew who was in the corner of the shed. How and why he was there was another story. Locating his old friend took priority.
Boyd arrived throwing light onto the scene. There in the darkness bound and gagged was a body lying on the floor, McDonald recognised him immediately, “Strand, what on earth is going on here?”
The man lying on the floor, as far as Boyd could make out was in his late fifties or early sixties. Certainly not the man who visited him earlier that day. This begged the question of whom he had sent to the lighthouse?
McDonald hurriedly removed the gag from Strand’s mouth. Now free to move his jaw bone again a spasm of pain filled the lower half of his face as the onset of cramp took hold. Once again he started to cough, almost to the point of nausea.
“What's to do man?” asked McDonald.
The feeling of sickness remained in his mouth. He could not speak; the pain in his jaw was too great. Slowly he closed his mouth. It felt better though ached with a painful constant rhythmic thud. It took a few seconds for Douglas Strand to compose his thoughts. Confusion ran through his mind, McDonald he knew, but who was the strange little man? What was he doing here?
When he finally started to speak his words were slurred and difficult to make out. His mouth was dry and his throat sore, “I dunna know.” As he spoke his breath became visible in the lamplight, “I was getting the boat ready for the voyage to the rock when I heard the back door slam shut. I turned to look, but no one was there. I thought it was just the wind blowing up, then without hearing another sound something hit me across the shoulders. I remember hitting my head on the side of the launch as I fell. Then, then, that’s all.” He felt the bump on his left temple. Feeling a sharp pain he withdrew his hand with a quick jerk. “I’m not sure how long ago that was, I was due to sail at nine o’clock in the morning.”
“Its four o’clock in the afternoon now Douglas.” Boyd told him.
Boyd spoke quietly, “Who was it Mr Strand, did you see him, was it John Cooper?”
“Cooper, who’s Cooper?” asked a bemused Strand, “I didn’t see anyone.”
Several moments had passed; Kitchener’s attempts to entice Preston from his self-imposed trance had met with no success. The engineer had not moved a muscle since being seated on the sofa; the whisky glass had not even been raised to his lips. Kitchener didn’t have any idea
of how to release this poor man from the mental ordeal he must be going through. He was not a doctor. Do the wrong thing now and it could send Preston over the edge, either mentally or physically. He felt more than useless. Leaning against the dividing wall to the galley he watched Preston intently for any sign of life. Nothing came. With a heavy heart his head dropped towards the floor as he stared at his feet then to his surprise he heard a voice.
“This morning…” Preston had started to speak. Kitchener quickly moved round the sofa opposite the engineer and listened to his words. The strange thing was, he wasn’t actually talking to the Inspector, his gaze focused on the middle distance, but he was talking. Slowly he continued,
“Eleven o’clock this morning. I was away up in the lamp room doing the usual checks. At that moment I was checking the rotation of the lens. All was quiet. The captain and first mate were about their business downstairs. It was clear that the sea mist had lifted and out of the corner of my eye I caught sight of a small vessel floundering dangerously close to the rock. I called down to alert the two other keepers who joined me in a matter of minutes. They too had seen the craft through one of the windows in the tower.”
The three men looked out of the lamp room window, “Sound the fog horn Mr Preston, get their attention,” ordered the skipper, “Come on, they’ll need our help.” The Captain and first mate made off down the stairs, the
sound of their heavy boots clanking down the various sets of stairs. Preston could hear them quite clearly, fading away the further they descended down the tower. Remaining in the lamp room he watched the boat with a feeling of helplessness.
“Not taking my eyes off the floundering vessel I sounded the foghorn once more. It was impossible to tell if the mariner knew that he was so close to the rock. The foghorn didn’t seem to have any effect on his position. From the course he was taking it looked as though he was deliberately trying to ground himself on the rock.
I sounded the foghorn again, but it was in vain. The vessel struck the rock at the same time as the Captain and First Mate stepped off the access ladder.
The Captain and First Mate Houseman ran over the sandstone to the crippled vessel. Picking their way through the splintered wood and fallen sail, Houseman found the fallen mariner.
“He’s alive Skipper.” Houseman shouted to the captain. His voice hardly audible above the crashing waves.
Understanding what Houseman had shouted over the roar of the waves the Captain climbed aboard the boat. Slowly and carefully the two men lifted the debris off the sailor who was trapped in the cockpit. “Come on, let’s get him into the warm.” Instructed the captain.
In the relative warmth of the living room the mariner was now fully conscious sitting on one of the sofas, a glass of whisky in his hand. The three keepers sat around eager to hear his tale.
“The young lad was shaken, but slowly he told his tale, which Preston now related to Kitchener.
“I was sailing down south, bound for Newcastle, when a storm came up.”
“Really, we haven’t had a storm here.” Questioned Houseman.
“It was late last night, further north up towards Cromarty. I’d got my head down for the night when I was woken by the storm. There was nothing I could do, just sit it out and wait until the morning. Then there was a loud bang that rocked the whole boat. I knew it was astern, so I checked for leaks in all the rear panels and luckily no water was coming through.” He took a drink before continuing, “The storm passed and when I awoke in the morning I set sail.
It didn’t take me long to realise that the boat was not behaving as it should be. I was having difficulty controlling the course. I realised that the noise I’d heard the previous evening had been something damaging the rudder. I continued on course but the fight against the current became harder and harder. No longer having any strength I was ready to give up the fight. Then I saw the lighthouse and steered straight towards it.”
“Are you mad man? You could have been smashed to pieces on the rock.” Interjected the first mate.
“It was the only chance I had.” He took down the last of his whisky.
The Captain with his old, wise, reassuring voice eased the heated situation. “We have had a good look at ya’ craft. It could be made seaworthy again in no time at all. The relief boat will be here later today. At least we can get you ashore. Your boat can be patched up and towed to land.”
“That would be most kind.”
“See to it Mr Preston.” ordered the Skipper.
“Ey, ey Sir.” Preston without question left the room.
“He’s a first class engineer is our Mr Preston, he’ll soon have your craft seaworthy again,” I heard the skipper say as left.
“That was the last time I saw my fellow crew members alive.” Preston said in a melancholy voice.
OOH, what will happen next? find out soon?
