‘No, the Corlins give us a bit of shelter.’
‘But it is really windy on the west of the island, isn’t it? Especially over by the Wee Kingdom.’ He seemed to puff up his chest. ‘You know that as the owner of the Dunshiffin estate,’ he beamed and corrected himself, ‘— or as you rightly said, as the new laird, I own all the land on the Wee kingdom.’
The Padre stiffened a tad. ‘Aye, you own it all right, but there are crofters there. They lease the land from the estate.’
‘Exactly. See Padre, I’m their new landlord.’
‘And you are thinking of erecting windmills on some of your land?’
Jock McArdle tossed his head back and laughed. ‘So you know all about the wind farm idea?’
‘Mr McArdle, I’ve been the minister on West Uist for thirty-five years. People have been talking about introducing wind farms in the Hebrides for a decade. They are almost a reality on Lewis already. It’s only our remoteness on West Uist that has prevented talk of them coming here. That and the cost.’
‘I am an entrepreneur, Padre. I have no ties to the energy department, or the electricity boards. I see an opportunity to generate a lot of electricity on this windy island, enough to supply every family and every business at a fraction of the cost. And where better than to start up a wee wind farm than on the Wee Kingdom? The most westerly point of the most westerly island. The wind is roaring in from the sea; it’s a power source just waiting to be tapped.’
‘I doubt if you’ll have much support. They’re unsightly things and we are proud of our wildlife on the island.’
Jock McArdle shrugged. ‘There is little evidence about it affecting wildlife, Padre,’ he said dismissively. ‘In any case, I’m used to resistance. It doesn’t worry me.’
The Padre glanced at his watch. ‘I have to give you a shot at this hole, so I’d best nail this drive down the middle.’ And taking his trusty three-wood from the bag he did just that.
For the next four holes the Padre watched his opponent’s ball like a hawk and himself played with grim determination. Despite the strokes he had to give away, by the time they had reached the ninth green they were all square on aggregate.
‘How many of these windmills are you thinking of having?’
‘I’d be starting small. Just two or three to see how it goes, then who knows? My boffins tell me that twenty-five would produce a sizeable amount of power. That would be my target in the first year.’
The Padre stared aghast at him. ‘You cannot be serious! There is no room. And you would need to be building pylons to carry the electricity.’
The Glaswegian nodded. ‘I know all that, Padre. I have had it all researched. I have the means to invest and I have the permission to go ahead. I’ve had my lawyers check with everyone that matters – the Land Court, the Crofters Commission – you name it, I have had it checked and double-checked.’
‘But you don’t have the crofters’ permission. They’ll never agree to this.’
Jock McArdle smiled. It was a strange crooked smile that seemed to be formed by two very different halves of his face. One side was all innocence while the other was cunning personified. ‘Technically, I don’t need their permission, Padre. The original deeds that go with the Dunshiffin estate are quite clear: it is my land to do with as I please.’
He looked at their two balls, comparing the distance of each from the hole. ‘I’m on in three and you’re there for two. With my stroke that makes us all square. And it looks like it’s me to putt first.’
He lined up his putt and struck the ball, cursing as it slipped a yard past the hole. ‘I’m going to begin with the MacDonald croft. I have a couple of boys on their way to West Uist now with the components for a couple of wind-testing towers.’
The Padre eyed his opponent askance. ‘This funeral that I have to take, did you know that it was Gordon MacDonald’s?’
Jock McArdle nodded as he lined up his return putt. ‘Aye, I knew that, Padre. I never knew the man myself so I won’t be going to his funeral.’ He tapped the putt and grinned with satisfaction as it rattled into the cup. ‘A five, net four. You have a putt for the match.’
His two boys smirked and lit fresh cigarettes.
As the Padre lined up his five-foot putt, McArdle remarked casually, ‘Of course, as the new laird I thought it my duty to attend the wake after the funeral.’
If the remark had been intended to make the Padre miss the putt, it did not succeed. Lachlan struck the ball smoothly and it disappeared into the cup with a satisfying rattle. The Padre retrieved it and held out his hand. ‘My game, I think.’ After shaking hands he pulled out his pipe from his top pocket and struck a match to it. ‘I am thinking that is your right, Mr McArdle, but perhaps you should go easy on the wind-farm information.’
Jock McArdle again gave his curious half smile. ‘I was hoping that maybe you could smooth the way a little. See, Padre, I am a good man to have on your side. I am always grateful for help shown to me.’
Liam Sartori smirked and was rewarded with an elbow in the side from Danny Reid.
‘I am thinking that you will find that the folk of West Uist make up their own minds, Mr McArdle.’
The Glaswegian gave a wry smile and gestured meaningfully at Danny Reid. ‘Well, it was good to play and talk with you anyway, Padre. And so I owe you five pounds. That’s one thing that you should know about me: I always pay my debts – in full.’
The Padre smiled as he accepted a five pound note from the roll of notes that the be-pierced Danny Reid peeled from the roll that he produced with the dexterity of a conjurer. ‘Well, let’s just hope that you don’t run up too many debts on West Uist, Mr McArdle. West Uist folk are pretty keen at calling in debts themselves.’
1 See The Gathering Murders
chapter two
The Wee Kingdom was almost another island of the archipelago that formed West Uist. It was a roughly star-shaped peninsula with steep sea cliffs, home to thousands of fulmars and gannets, facing the Atlantic Ocean on its north-west coastline. Gradually the terrain descended to sea level at its most westerly point, where three successive basalt stacks jutted out of the sea. On the top of the last one was the ruins of the old West Uist lighthouse and the derelict shell of the keeper’s cottage. Moving inland, the machair gave way to lush undulating hills and gullies surrounding the small central freshwater Loch Linne. To its inhabitants this oft-times wind and sandstorm swept islet was heaven on earth.
The name, the Wee Kingdom had been coined back in 1746 by the families that farmed the islet after the Jacobite laird, Donal MacLeod had granted the land in perpetuity to them and their descendants and heirs in gratitude for the sanctuary they had given the fugitive Bonnie Prince Charlie during the five days that he had stayed on the island while waiting for a French vessel to take him to safety. It had been the sighting of a heavily armed English frigate by Cameron MacNeil, the lighthouse-keeper that resulted in the change of plan to move the prince back to South Uist from whence Flora MacDonald helped to take him over the sea to Skye and thence to freedom.
An automatic beacon on the cliff tops above had rendered the old venerated lighthouse obsolete in the mid-1950s, and it remained a ruin, accumulating a veneer of guano from generations of seabirds.
There were six smallholdings on the Wee Kingdom, each lived in and worked by a person or family, who had inherited it from a forebear or patron in keeping with the original dictates of Donal MacLeod’s grant. Essentially, only six holdings were ever to be worked on the Wee Kingdom, the lease for each depending upon a peppercorn rent paid to the current laird in goods manufactured on the Wee Kingdom by the holders themselves. Effectively, the holdings pre-dated the crofting system by a full fifty years.