I accepted a position at Edinburgh University on the faculty, so was able to lose myself in the research and interests that I had developed. I did some teaching, but as I was getting increasingly bored with the academic life, I had negotiated a year’s sabbatical, to try to focus on what I really wanted to do. Therefore, this mysterious letter may be the beginning of something exciting!
I became aware that my nickname amongst the undergraduates and even amongst other staff members was ‘The Ice Maiden’.
I had long since decided that I was just an unlucky quirk of fate, and just decided to make the best of what I was. There was no room in my life for a male partner, and I shuddered at the very thought of ever becoming a mother.
A very butch girl once approached me, having decided that I was fair game and was quite offended when I rebuffed her attempts to seduce me.
I dressed, as usual, in jeans and a tee shirt, with a thick sweater and a black leather jacket. I had a nice pair of Cowboy style boots that a friend had bought in America for me. I wore no makeup and no jewellery, except a signet ring my father had given me when I turned eighteen. I had not even had my ears pierced. I kept my blonde hair short, as it was so much easier to deal with.
I had a quick piece of toast and a glass of orange juice, and then off by motorcycle to the University. I always got a thrill riding my Kawasaki 900 into the college, as few people expected a 5’6” female to be the rider. I wore a black helmet with black visor. I loved to watch the surprise on people’s faces when I took it off.
I parked the bike and went to my study. I dropped the paper into the Professor on the way, and then picked up my post.
The semester was over for me, so I was just tying up loose ends. I sat at my desk and opened my post. It contained the usual crap, so I filed them all in the bin. Then I remembered the note from the mysterious Whiteman fellow, and dug it out of my case.
I called the number, and a pleasant sounding English voice answered.
“Hello, Russell Whiteman.”
“Hello, this is Gillian MacLeish. You left a note for me at my flat, last night.”
“Ah, Doctor MacLeish. Thanks for calling, and I do apologise about leaving a note, it was late when I called, so I didn’t want to disturb you.”
“I was up until about two, working on a paper,” I explained.
“Oh, silly me, I should have called then. Anyway, what do you think?”
“I would like to know more,” I said.
“Well, we are flying out in three days or so. First stop Miami, and then down to the Keyes. I have chartered a boat, and I have arranged for the team and equipment to go by boat to the island. I have even arranged for a US Marine to come along as a jungle survival specialist.”
“Three days! That is a bit sudden,” I said, aware that most expeditions were often months or years in the planning.
“Oh. I should have thought you had other things planned. I am sorry to trouble you.”
“No, wait! I have nothing planned, it is just a bit sudden, that’s all,” I said.
“So you are interested?”
“How long are you going for?”
“Ah, that’s difficult. It depends on what we find, but I should think, probably for more than four weeks, but less than eight. We shall just have to see. Look, why don’t we meet and we can discuss it? How about the Tilted Wig at lunch time?” he asked.
“Fine, I’ll be there at 12.30,” I said, hanging up.
I tidied my study, finished everything I had to do and took the bike to the pub.
After parking the bike outside, I carried my helmet into the pub. There were a dozen people inside, but none of them looked as if they were Russell Whiteman.
I ordered a half of lager and sat down to wait.
Twenty minutes later, the archetypal university professor entered the pub, squinting around the establishment through very dirty glasses.
He was only a couple of inches taller than me, and thin, wearing a brown corduroy jacket with leather pads on the elbows. His hair was ginger and trying to escape, and I think it was succeeding. He looked as if he needed a good meal, but could never be bothered.
He looked round the bar, his eyes resting on me briefly, but then moving on. I sighed, stood up, and went over to him.
“Doctor Whiteman?” I said,
“Ah, yes. Doctor MacLeish?” he said. I had to smile, as his reaction to my appearance was as expected.
He held out his hand and we shook. His handshake was rather like shaking a recently killed trout.
He joined me at my table, immediately opening an elderly brown leather briefcase.
“Do you not want a drink, Doctor?” I asked.
“Hmm, no thank you, not at the moment, maybe later,” he said.
He produced a large map of the outline of an island, with a satellite photograph of the same island.
“The island is called Sainte Mateus, and the local people never go anywhere near it. They say that if you land on the island, you are never seen again,” he told me.
“That’s a helpful start,” I said.
“Which is why we have a US Marine coming with us, to protect us.”
“What, just one?”
“They tell me he’s very experienced, an expert at most types of warfare, particularly jungle survival. There’s also the cost implication. There are only six of us. You, me, Roger Daventry the doctor, Simon Cassells, who is the anthropologist; a photographer, whose name I forget, and the Marine. The ship’s owner is another ex US Marine, and he will be on the end of a two way radio. I don’t anticipate any problems,” he said.
We chatted over the aims and objectives of the expedition, and it seemed pretty clear. There was no guide, as no one was available with any personal experience of the island or the inhabitants.
“Do we know anything about the inhabitants?” I asked.
“Only that they are of obviously African descent, but not much else is known. A light aircraft was forced to land there because of a tropical storm, and as they repaired their aircraft the pilot and his friend saw about twenty men approaching through the trees. They were on a clearing on one of the two small hills on the island, but the natives never approached too close during the day.
“But at night, as the pilot repaired the landing gear his friend kept watch, the natives approached. They were apparently carrying short spears. The man had a rifle, so he fired one shot over their heads, and they all ran away.
“They took off early the next morning, but there was no sign of them. As you can see from the satellite picture, there is no sign of any village or settlement from above,” he said.
I examined the photograph closely.
“Do you happen to have a magnifying glass?” I asked.
He produced one from his case.
I peered at the image, and thought I could discern what appeared to be a path running between two groups of trees just to the south of a bend in a river.
My interest was definitely drawn to the project, and I heard myself agree to accompany the expedition.
“Capital, then we will all meet at Heathrow on Wednesday. You will need to have some injections though,” he said.
I smiled sweetly, as I hated injections. However, as I was a frequent traveller to West Africa, I was up to date with all my shots. He joined me for a drink, and we went our separate ways. I had a lot to do, as it was Friday already.
On Wednesday morning, I was at Heathrow for the early BA flight to Miami. I had stayed the night at a hotel nearby, and hardly slept because of the noise from the motorway.