Then, looking back once more, he saw that the two men, guns shouldered, had dropped even farther behind. The distance between them must now be all of two hundred and fifty yards. He had an access of confidence. If the chase went on like this they were bound to win clear in the end.
A minute later his error was exposed.
‘Good grief!’ muttered Bulldog, wiping his forehead with a large white handkerchief. ‘What’s that ahead of us?’
It had come into sight over the crest of a ridge — a black ditch, filled with stagnant water, which stretched for miles across their course. It was too wide to jump; they realized that at once. And probably too shallow to swim. Its bottom would be feet deep in slime, which meant that if they tried to wade across they’d be sunk in more senses than one.
‘A blasted ditch!’ said the News Editor, redundantly, looking up as a scared small boy might look up at his father.
Ordinary roles were being reversed. Calmly Donald said: ‘Yes, but it shouldn’t hinder us at all. If we bear left the way’s still clear. Look — it runs back towards the comer of the wood, almost like a guide-line.’
‘So it does. Lucky for us, eh?’
‘Sure.’
They stood poised for a second, like runners at the start of a race. Then Donald nodded and they turned quickly and sprinted to the left. Momentarily the others seemed to be taken by surprise; but almost at once they saw what was happening and altered course.
Oddly enough, however, they made no vigorous attempt to close in; and to the relief of their quarry they were soon directly behind again and still out of range. It was like a chase in an old Mack Sennet comedy, with a sense of unreality in every phase of it.
But hope tends to oust logical considerations. As Donald and Bulldog slackened speed once more, stumbling along parallel with the rough bank of the ditch, they congratulated themselves. Daylight was draining from the sky, and before long they would be able to take advantage of its absence.
Then they discovered that the smooth green of a patch of marshland had appeared on their left. Added to the presence of the ditch, this meant that a break to either side had become impossible. On the other hand, the wooded glen whose tall firs might aid the dark in hiding them, was now less than four hundred yards away. Its resinous scent was already displacing the sour bog odours.
‘What about a final spurt, boss? Feel fit for it?’
‘Aye, don’t worry! I shan’t peg out.’
They began to run again.
At first McCall and his partner made no effort to keep up, but as Donald and Bulldog continued to pile on the pace — though Bulldog’s lungs were ready to burst — they began to hurry, too, as if with an air of uneasiness.
‘Looks as if they’ve suddenly realized we may escape in the wood,’ Donald jerked out. ‘And so we shall if we keep going. Another three hundred yards, boss.’
The other nodded. His face was a reddish purple, and his breathing had become an asthmatic whine.
‘They’re still out of range with their shotguns,’ panted Donald, encouragingly. ‘I don’t think they can possibly get near enough, either. It’ll soon be too dark for them to shoot in any case.’
Again Bulldog nodded. His eyes were almost closed in the concentration of his effort.
The wooded glen, sloping away towards the cultivated strath dividing the Mull from Campbeltown, became identified in Donald’s mind with safety. But to reach it, especially with the News Editor lumbering and wheezing beside him, was like trying to attain a dream objective. To his agitated imagination it seemed to recede a yard for every two they covered.
The going became firmer as the ground rose up out of the moorland, and he felt the breeze dying as they came with the lee of the firs. The wide ditch ended below the mouth of an underground drainpipe.
He gripped Bulldog’s arm and pulled him on. ‘Once we get in among those firs,’ he panted, ‘we can take a breather.’
The News Editor was almost at the end of his tether, physically, but with an attempt at a smile he managed to respond. ‘They’re coming fast, Donald!’
‘Okay, we’re almost there.’
‘If — if this doesn’t give me high blood pressure, nothing else ever will!’
‘Fifty yards, boss.’
Anger at their own stupidity in having been partially outmanoeuvred — and fear of the deadly purpose of the enemy — gave them both a final impetus. Nearly spent, they ran on to a path which led into the heart of the glen.
Only when they were completely invisible to the pursuit did they slow down to a walk and take the first deep, grateful breaths of recovery.
Then Bulldog stopped. He bent down, hands supported on trembling, widespread knees. Donald kept hold of his arm, afraid that reaction might cause a sudden collapse; but the News Editor was made of good stuff. After a moment or two he gasped out: ‘We made it, boy!’
‘We made it. They’ve lost sight of us now all right.’
It was quiet in the dim aisles of the wood, and gradually the bright circles wavering before Bulldog’s eyes began to disappear. He straightened up. As they moved on along the winding path Donald wondered what exactly they should do next — lie low for a bit in a bramble thicket or make a wide detour back to the open moor.
Without warning Bulldog tripped on a rotten branch among the undergrowth and a blackbird flew up, startling the whole neighbourhood. ‘Blast!’ he said, remaining upright with difficulty.
They stopped again. For a moment the only sound was that of their own heavy breathing. Then, in the direction they had come, there occurred a vague shouting, and Donald was sure he recognized McCall’s featureless voice. And as the shouting died the loud report of a shotgun echoed through the wood. Bulldog started, like a frightened cart-horse.
Donald patted his shoulder and said: ‘All right. They couldn’t have heard a thing. They’re still casting about at the edge of the trees, shooting at shadows.’
The other sighed, once again wiping his moist forehead with the big white handkerchief. He was wonderfully receptive to optimism. He said: ‘I can scarcely believe it, boy, I mean, that we’re here, out of immediate danger.’
‘Yes. You certainly stuck it out well.’
In the semi-darkness the News Editor frowned. ‘Why shouldn’t I have stuck it out?’ he demanded, getting back some of his old form. ‘After all, I’m not so ruddy ancient — ’
‘Okay, okay!’ In the circumstances Donald was surprised to find himself chuckling. ‘You’re always equal to any emergency. I should have remembered.’ Suddenly he broke off. ‘Smell anything?’ he asked, quietly.
‘Eh? What d’you mean — smell anything?’
‘Peat smoke, boss.’
A little pause. Then Bulldog said: ‘By heaven, I believe you’re right! And that means — that means a house!’
A house. A place where they might find the companionship of ordinary, kindly human beings and forget the crude demands of an elemental struggle to remain alive. They felt a resurgence of will and energy.
Donald smiled. ‘Come on! This path leads right to it, or I’m a Dutchman. What are paths for, anyway?’
They hurried on, the end of a long-drawn fear incredibly in sight. The trees began to thin out, and presently they saw in front a big white building, its outline softened by the dusk, from one of whose tall chimneys smoke was curling up into the darkening sky. The place was surrounded by a high wall and looked like the country house of some wealthy owner. Or it could have been a shooting lodge. In any case the purpose of the sheltering wood was now apparent.
The path led them directly to a small brown gate which lay open invitingly, revealing in the near distance, across a patch of lawn, the main door of the building.
‘What d’you think?’ said Donald. ‘We could go in and ask for the use of their phone — if they have one, of course.’
‘Aye. McCall would scarcely have the nerve to follow us into a private house.’
/> As they hesitated, another shot echoed in the distance. It made up their minds for them.
‘Let’s go straight in,’ decided Bulldog. ‘I could be doing with a rest.’
They went through the brown gate and moved quickly across the lawn.
‘Same here,’ said Donald, and added: ‘Are you thinking of the headlines?’
‘I am. Now.’
There were lights in two at least of the ground-floor windows, and Donald counted their blessings. The house might so easily have been empty.
‘What are we going to tell them?’ he said.
‘Depends on who we see. If it’s a man — a sensible kind of chap — we’ll tell him the truth. If it’s a woman — well, we’d better not risk frightening her, at first.’
They mounted the stone steps, and Donald used the heavy iron knocker. ‘You mean,’ he answered, ‘that we might cook up a story about being lost and — ’
He never finished the sentence. Somebody behind the door was pulling back the bolts.
TWENTY-ONE
The opening door revealed a broad, brightly lit hall, hung sparingly with tartan and ancient highland weapons. A luxurious sheepskin rug covered the centre of the polished floor. It was like a stage-set seen from a darkened auditorium.
In the centre of the stage — as it were under the narrow proscenium arch — stood a person who looked like a character in a slightly old-fashioned play. She wore a plain brown dress, not unlike a Roman toga. Her piled-up grey hair was secured in place by a net; amber beads crackled about her neck, and on her corsage Donald saw a silver Celtic brooch that he recognized. Her back was to the light, but now that his eyes had begun to focus properly he saw her face, faintly wrinkled and weather-tanned.
‘Lady Mary Kennedy!’ he exclaimed.
She smiled, as if the situation were slightly comic. ‘Well, what a wonderful surprise!’ she said, with a Highland lilt camouflaging her conventional choice of words.
Bulldog found his voice. ‘Then — then this is Drumgarvie Lodge?’
‘It is indeed, Mr. MacPhail. How nice of you to accept my invitation to call, though you have chosen rather an unexpected hour! And Mr. Grant — I am glad to see my “science before poetry” expert! By the way,’ she added, with a questioning lift of one eyebrow, ‘did I hear a shot a little while ago?’
Behind them, in the wood beyond the brown gate, nothing moved; but there was no telling what McCall and his friend might be up to, and neither Donald nor Bulldog wanted to stay in the open longer than was necessary.
Donald nodded. ‘You did,’ he said. ‘That’s one of the things we’d like to tell you about.’
‘I see.’ She betrayed no curiosity but made a courteous gesture with one heavily beringed hand. ‘Do come in,’ she said.
The hall was warm and comfortable and delicately scented with peat. It seemed fresh and hygienic after the raw condition of the moor.
As she closed the door Lady Mary continued: ‘I’m sorry all the servants are out. There is a dance in the village tonight, so I let them go immediately after dinner.’
She led them into a big drawing-room more softly lit than the hall but glowing with chintz. Solid pieces of Jacobean furniture were arranged about the walls. Blank against the gloaming, un-curtained French windows reflected the flames leaping up from the heart of a peat fire. In front of the open hearth was a grey rug embellished with the Celtic design of the endless green snake. On it stood a low occasional table set with earthenware jugs of coffee and hot milk, a silver bowl of brown sugar and a small, shapely cup and saucer.
Observing the glance which their hostess directed at their soiled jackets and splashed shoes and trouser-legs. Bulldog summoned up the suavity which invariably caused Donald amused surprise. He said, quickly: ‘We should have called much earlier in the day, of course. The fact is, we tried to walk across the moor and got lost.’
‘Oh, you poor dears!’ She fluttered, jewellery jangling. ‘You certainly do look warm and tired. Even a little travel-stained.’
It was an understatement.
Standing awkwardly in the middle of the room, Donald said: ‘Have you the telephone, by any chance?’
She shook her head, regretfully, but again with a hint of laughter in her expression. ‘I’m afraid not. I come here to escape from telephones. Is it something important?’
‘No. Just to advise them at the hotel what’s happened.’
She patted his sleeve, long finger-nails making a scratching sound on the soft cloth. ‘Oh, I’m sure they won’t be alarmed. Not yet. Now, do sit down beside the fire. I have just brewed some coffee, and I am delighted that you have come to share it.’
She waved them to a broad couch, with their backs towards the windows.
Bulldog said: ‘At this moment there’s nothing I’d like better than some good strong coffee!’
Politely, Donald nodded. His preference, however, would have been for a double shot of Bulloch, Lade, suitably mixed with ginger ale. They had found temporary safety, but the knowledge that Drumgarvie Lodge possessed no telephone had come to him as a considerable shock.
Lady Mary bustled off to the display cabinet in a far corner. ‘I’ll get two more cups,’ she said, brightly. ‘Dear me, you must be so exhausted! All the same, I hope you will be able to appreciate my Czechoslovakian coffee-cups.’ She came back with them in her hard, thin hands and laid them on the occasional table. ‘They were made by some of my refugees,’ she explained.
They admired the fine handiwork: the shell-like china, the smooth glaze, the tiny, brilliantly coloured coats-of-arms with which the cups were decorated.
‘They’re very nice,’ said Donald, experiencing again the unrealistic quality of this extraordinary day. ‘Very nice indeed.’
‘M’m,’ agreed Bulldog. ‘Rather unusual designs.’
‘Yes. Quite fascinating. These are the various arms of the old Bohemian kings.’ She sat down opposite them, on a high-backed chair. Smiling, she went on: ‘But I’m sure you will be much more interested in their contents than in the cups themselves. Black or white, Mr. MacPhail?’
‘Black, please. And a lot of sugar, I’m afraid.’
She poured out steaming coffee. ‘Do help yourself from the sugar-bowl,’ she said. ‘Mr. Grant?’
‘Half-and-half, please.’
The artificial drawing-room conversation, following so closely on the crude events on the moorland outside, was almost too much for Donald. He wanted to laugh. He wanted to shout at Lady Mary that only a few minutes before they had been on the verge of death and what did it matter about the conventions now. But he pulled himself together and tried to appear sedate as he sipped his coffee.
The talk turned to gardens and poetry, with a Third Programme flavour about it. At times he was on the point of throwing discretion to one side and blurting out the secret of the afternoon; but somehow he couldn’t bring himself to disturb the equanimity of this high-born, slightly eccentric old lady. In the end he decided that if Bulldog said nothing, he himself would refrain from mentioning McCall and his companion. When it became fully dark outside they would excuse themselves and try to find a way back to the telephone kiosk. The sooner they got in touch with the police the better, he thought grimly.
After a few minutes Lady Mary said: ‘Now, do smoke if you like. A cigarette goes so well with coffee, I always think.’
‘Thank you,’ replied Bulldog, taking out his case. ‘This is a real comfort after our long walk. Will you have one?’
‘No, thank you.’ While her guests lit up she looked almost sad. ‘I do smoke, as you know, but I can scarcely afford to. All my spare cash goes into the business, as it were.’
‘Your Displaced Persons?’ said Donald.
‘Yes. I’m afraid the British Government gives me no help at all. Rather typical, don’t you think?’
The background of bitterness in her cultivated voice intrigued Bulldog; but he retained his equanimity and
said: ‘We’ve been brought up on a tradition of voluntary charity. I must admit.’
She leant forward, hair bobbing, chamois-leather cheeks hollow and hard. ‘Exactly, Mr. MacPhail! And no appeal ever seems to move our civil servants.’ Then she shrugged, sat back and smiled again. ‘But I mustn’t complain. When British phlegm drives me to despair I take refuge here and write my verses. I always find spiritual healing in the silence of the countryside.’
The house and grounds were indeed filled with silence — a silence that seemed to hover and wait. Bulldog looked over his shoulder. ‘It is quiet out there,’ he said. ‘Oddly quiet.’
She poured out more coffee for herself. ‘You are a townsman, Mr. MacPhail. You miss the sound of motor cars and buses. But I think you would come to appreciate silence, as I do.’
There was a curious strain in the atmosphere. Donald sought to dispel it. He said: ‘How long have you had this house, Lady Mary?’
She looked up from her coffee, sharply. ‘For about five years. Since pre-atomic days.’
‘Haven’t you found that the station interferes with your privacy?’
‘Not in the least, Mr. Grant. I think I told you this before, when we met in Muir’s Hotel. The scientists never come near us.’ Her green eyes had lost their glint of amusement and now gave the impression of being hooded. ‘By the way,’ she added, ‘did you enjoy your party last night?’
There was a stillness, out of which emerged the ticking of the ormulu clock on the mantelpiece. Peats sagged and flared in the fireplace.
‘Our party?’ said Donald, suddenly tense.
‘Aye,’ put in Bulldog, sitting forward. ‘How did you know about our party?’
The basilisk expression disappeared from her face. She chuckled. ‘News travels fast in the country, Mr. MacPhail. Another cup of coffee?’
‘Er — no, thank you. As a matter of fact, it’s time we were thinking of going.’
‘So soon? Dear me, I was looking forward to a nice long talk.’
Donald said, quickly: ‘You have been very kind, Lady Mary, but before we reach the car and make our way back to Campbeltown it will be fairly late.’
The Dancing Horse Page 17