She was alone on the cliff top.
Had she fallen back another few feet she would have gone backwards down the rock face to the granite boulders below.
As it was, it was the girl Rhona who had been thrown over by the impetus of Jeannie’s fall.
Jeannie edged closer to the edge and peered down.
Through the gaps in the swirling mist she could make out, perhaps two hundred feet below, something which looked like a rag doll, arms and legs askew at strange angles.
She drew back and started to sob loudly.
*
It was some time before she managed to pull herself together and continue her journey, striking towards the eastern slopes of the hill, circling the majestic rises of Beinn a’ Bhacaidh and the small lochs on its northern side, swinging widely in a semi-circle until she struck the River Foyers which ran into Loch Ness. She followed the rough pathway along the river’s edge and, some hours later, arrived bedraggled and worn out among the friendly warm houses at Foyers village.
She made her way to the local inn, ordering a drink from the astonished but friendly barman, before making her way to the toilets where she tidied her dishevelled appearance into some semblance of neatness. She returned to the bar and swallowed her whisky, ordered another and asked for the telephone. There was a public telephone to the rear of the bar.
She had several ten pence pieces in her purse and immediately dialled the London number.
She felt a pang of relief when she heard the comforting voice of Tim Colbert answer almost immediately.
‘Tim! Tim! It’s me, Jeannie!’
‘Jeannie!’ came Tim’s surprised voice. ‘Hello love, how’s the chieftain of clan Millbuie?’
‘Tim, things are awful. Awful! Listen, you must come up. I don’t know what is going on but I think they are trying to kill me. God, Tim, it’s terrible. Two people have died already and Tim … ’
‘Hey, steady on, Jeannie. Steady,’ cried Tim, bewildered by the hysteria in Jeannie’s voice and only half understanding what she was saying. ‘What the hell is going on? Calm down and tell me what is happening.’
‘Tim,’ Jeannie sounded panic-stricken. ‘I haven’t got time. I’m in a call box.’
‘I can hear that. Give me your number in case … ’
‘No, Tim. Listen to me. You must come up. I’m going to Inverness. I’m going to ring the police. I’ll be at the Caledonian Hotel in Inverness. Something awful is going on. Do you hear me?’
‘Yes, yes. I hear you. What the hell is happening?’ ‘Listen, Tim. Can you meet me at the Caledonian Hotel?’ There was a pause.
‘Sure, Jeannie. Sure. I’ll be up there the day after tomorrow.’
‘As soon as you can, Tim.’
‘The day after tomorrow at the Caledonian,’ repeated Tim. ‘It’s the soonest I can … ’
The pips suddenly went.
Jeannie heaved a sigh of relief.
‘The day after tomorrow, Tim, at the Caledonian, Inverness … ’
The line cut off.
Jeannie replaced the receiver. At least Tim would be of comfort but the day after tomorrow was a long time away. She must contact the police. She was about to dial the emergency service when she paused. It was a weird story to relate across a telephone. She’d better go to the police and tell them in person.
The barman was polishing glasses and regarding her with a bemused expression.
She downed her second whisky and smiled nervously. ‘Can you tell me where I can find the police constable?’
‘Fergus Fraser is it?’ replied the barman. ‘He’s out over Bailebeag way, miss. Couple of miles as the crow flies. Is it urgent?’
‘Fairly urgent. When will he be back?’
‘Och, now,’ the barman shrugged. ‘I can’t rightly say. He’s investigating a case of illegal fishing in Loch Mhor. Maybe he’ll be home this evening and then, again, maybe he’ll stay across at Dan McBain’s place.’
‘Is there another constable?’
‘Well, you’ll find one up at Inverfarigaig somewhere. But if it is something that’s happened down this way, I’m thinking that he’ll not have jurisdiction here. Perhaps it would be best to wait for the constable.’
Jeannie shook her head.
‘Can you tell me how I would get to Inverfarigaig? Is there a bus or can I hire a car or something?’
The barman hunched his shoulders in a negative gesture.
‘There’ll be no bus until tomorrow. But you might be able to get a lift that way. It’s a wee bit of a tidy walk, I’m thinking.’ Jeannie nodded dolefully.
She paid for her drink and went out.
Well, at least she had telephoned Tim and that was something of an encouragement to her whirling mind. But she must report the matter to the police. How could she merely ring up the emergency service and say she thought someone was trying to kill her, that an old drunk and his mute-simpleton daughter, who had suddenly started speaking both in English and Gaelic, had been killed already? They would think she was mad.
Of course!
The idea suddenly crystallised in her mind. She must go and see Simpson Kyle, the lawyer, and tell him the story. He would know what to do, and the best way to approach the police. He was her lawyer, after all. She must somehow get to Inverness. But Inverness was near enough, twenty miles away. Well, it was no good standing around thinking about it. There was only one way to arrive and that was to set out. Besides, she would surely pick up a lift before long.
From the village of Foyers she crossed the bridge over the River Foyers and set off up the hill along the road to Inverfarigaig.
It all seemed so normal, she thought with a shiver. To her left she could see down near the banks of the loch what must be the village football field on which two teams of boys, perhaps from some local school, were playing. Further on was a pier head on which a man sat fishing.
How normal, she kept thinking. How normal. It was as if her experiences were part of some huge nightmare and she had woken from it and was trying to convince herself of the reality of her dream.
No; it was certainly real enough.
She had not gone far up the hill when she heard the sound of a car coming along the road through the village. She turned to see a sedate Morris saloon begin the ascent of the hill with a crash as the driver changed down. She halted, watching the car draw close and then waved it down.
It cruised to a halt beside her.
Gratefully, she opened the door and started to climb in.
‘Thanks,’ she gasped, ‘thanks a lot. Can you give me a lift towards Inverness … ?’
The smiling, cherub-pink face of John Telstan greeted her from the driving seat.
‘Inverness? Why certainly, Miss Millbuie. Certainly.’
INTERLUDE
And about the year 1527 Anno Domini it happened that Donnchadh Cambeuil, a fisherman from the parish of Urchardan, came down to the loch with divers sturdy village lads. Then this great and terrible monster, issuing out of the depths of the loch one morning about midsummer of that year, did very easily and without any force or straining of himself, overthrow huge oaks with his tail and therewith did kill outright three men that hunted him with three strokes of his tail, the rest of them, including Donnchadh Cambeuil, who did then relate the tale, saving themselves in trees thereabouts, whilst the terrible creature did return to the loch.
translated by Donald Millbuie from
Leabhar Mor na Moireabh
The Great Book of Moray.
The intelligence was remembering times when its hatred of the puny man-things had become too much for it to bear. There had been times during its long existence, after that first terrible destruction of its mate and offspring, when little groups of man-things had come down to the waters of the loch, urged on by those who carried the cross symbol at their necks, and cried aloud with strange incantations. The intelligence knew they had come to seek it out and destroy it.
The last time that had happened was many, ma
ny years ago.
Then, with the terror of vengeance on its brow, it had reared itself from the dark waters of the loch in an orgy of destruction, sweeping three of the offending man-things to their eternal doom.
Had that been wrong?
Had it made hatred into a pleasure? Had hatred led to the extinction of its Saurian values? Saurian philosophy, millions of years in the growing, had said the hatred was but a coward’s revenge for being intimidated. But surely that was wrong; it was no coward, no coward to despise and hate the man-things; hate them for their purposeless destruction of its mate and offspring; it was no coward to keep that hate keen and sharp, to seek out the despised cross-carriers who were the root of all its long years of misery.
The intelligence felt a wave of hatred surge through its nerves.
Yet why did it hate so hard if it merely despised these puny creatures and their pretensions?
It could control them to an extent; it could utilise the brain of the young and weak and through them voice its thoughts in human words. It had communicated in that manner to the druid man-thing, to Cathan of the Yellow Honey; and several times since it had used the mind of a child or simpleton to make its wishes known to the faithful descendants of Cathan Millbuie. Yet the man-things did not really understand when they heard its words. Because they could not explain the phenomenon or control it, they worshipped the intelligence as a god; yes, in their ignorance, they thought it was a god — a god that one half of them sought to destroy while another half, the followers of Cathan Millbuie, worshipped.
It had no wish to be hated nor any wish to be worshipped. All it had sought was the companionship of its own kind. The hope that it would not have to live out the rest of its years alone, alone to the time when the Saurian species would go down into the blackness.
What had happened to its pact with Cathan of the Yellow Honey?
Long, long ago there had come a man-thing whose knowledge was greater than its fellows; it had realised the superiority of the hundreds of millions of years of Saurian history and philosophy; the knowledge of which it was now the sole repository. It had been brave as mannings went; it, too, had despised the creed of those who wore the cross-symbol. It had made contact with the Saurian and a bargain had been struck. The Saurian would provide help through its superior knowledge in return for the aid of the man-thing in helping it to survive in a world grown hostile and dominated by the man-things.
It was then, long, long ago, that hope had began to grow once more in the mind of the intelligence; the hope of bearing an offspring by which it would not go down in the abyss, by which the wealth of Saurian philosophy would exist and through which the Saurians could, perhaps, adapt themselves to the new world and live on. The female of the species of the man-things would provide the vessel, the seeds, through which the Saurian race would live again.
The bargain was struck … help for help … knowledge for immortality …
Part Two
The Curse of Cathan
CHAPTER TWELVE
Timothy Colbert looked at his watch for the tenth time that hour and chewed his lower lip with a preoccupied expression. His broad forehead was creased with lines of worry and his good-looking face bore marks of the sleeplessness of the previous two nights. He ran a distracted hand through his tangle of unruly hair, not for the first time that day.
At thirty years of age, Timothy Colbert was a lean, handsome six footer, whose appearance gave one the impression of a man used to the outdoors. He had often been mistaken for an Australian from the ‘outback’ rather than an English college lecturer from Willesden. It was true, however, that Tim Colbert prided himself on keeping physically fit and was something of a squash fanatic.
He heaved his gangling frame from the couch and walked over to the reception desk of the Caledonian Hotel but the desk clerk, observing his approach, forestalled his question by shaking his head.
‘Sorry, Mr Colbert. Miss Millbuie has not arrived yet and there have been no messages for you.’
Tim nodded thoughtfully and made his way through the foyer to the cocktail bar. He had spent the best part of the day sitting there trying to suppress his growing apprehension.
Ever since Jeannie had made her strange telephone call he had been worried. His first reaction, after he had put down the telephone receiver, was a feeling of annoyance. After all, Jeannie knew that he was busy correcting examination papers; she’d better have a damned good reason to send him running to Scotland. But then worry almost immediately replaced annoyance. She had sounded so strange, so hysterical and he could not make head or tail of what she said. He had dumped his work on Johnson who, as well as being his flat mate, was a colleague and, the next day, had caught the Edinburgh express. A few hours’ delay in Edinburgh and then he had caught the train to Inverness and booked into the Caledonian Hotel.
To his surprise, he found that Jeannie was not staying there. He had fully expected that she would be waiting for him already. Now a whole day had elapsed while he sat waiting, impatiently, for her.
He knew that it was totally against her nature to keep people waiting, especially him. She knew how he detested hanging around anyway. But she had not even rung the hotel to explain or leave a message for him. If she had been delayed elsewhere that would have been the natural thing to do.
Now his mind began to dwell on her hysterical attitude on the telephone. He tried hard to recall exactly what she had said.
I think they are trying to kill me! Two people have died already! I shall be ringing the police!
Her words had been hammering in his head all day.
Now he rebuked himself for not getting to Inverness sooner. He could have spent a bit extra and flown to Dalcross, the Inverness airport. It would have been far quicker than the train journey.
Then he shook his head. Surely this was some joke. Jeannie could not have meant what she said. Maybe he had misunderstood something. Who would be trying to kill her? Why? Who had been killed already? He had even asked the barman for the local newspapers and glanced through the staid columns of the Inverness Courier and the racy columns of the Daily Record in an effort to discover some solution to the mystery.
It was so melodramatic! So damned ridiculous and unreal!
But where the hell was she?
It was now nearly seven o’clock.
He jumped up. He could not sit around waiting any longer. His agitation was now unbearable.
‘Excuse me,’ he said to the desk clerk, who emerged from behind the pages of The Scotsman .
‘Yes, Mr Colbert?’ asked the man, and then, automatically, ‘I’m afraid there is still no news … ’
Tim brushed it aside.
‘Yes, thank you. I want to know where I can find the police station?’
The clerk cast him a look of surprise.
‘You think something might have happened to Miss Millbuie? I hope not. She stayed with us a couple of days during last week. A nice lady, if I may say so.’
‘I don’t know. It is just that I believe she was contacting the police on some matter and she might have left an address with them or something.’
The desk clerk gave him directions.
‘Thanks,’ said Tim turning towards the door. ‘I’ll be back shortly if Miss Millbuie calls or turns up.’
‘Aye, of course, Mr Colbert.’
At the police station Tim made enquiries from an elderly and helpful station sergeant.
‘No, sir,’ replied the sergeant, after a careful checking of the station’s ‘incident book’. ‘We’ve had no report or complaint from a Miss Millbuie. To be honest, I didn’t think we had as soon as you said the name. You see, I come from a little place called Millbuie over in Moray. I’d remember that name, sir.’
‘Is there any other station at which she may have made her report?’ asked Tim. He had briefly explained what had happened to the sympathetic sergeant, leaving aside any reference to attempted murder or other killings just in case the whole thing was some peculiar
misunderstanding or a weird joke on Jeannie’s part.
‘Most complaints, unless they be purely local, are sent to us by the country stations and similarly the adjoining county police keep us informed. Where was she staying?’
‘A place called Balmacaan … I think the postal address was Strath Errick.’
‘Ah, Strath Errick. Now that’s Fergus Fraser’s patch. Just a minute … I’ll ring him.’
A few seconds later the sergeant was speaking to Constable Fraser.
‘Hello, Fergus … yes, it is. Can you tell me about a Miss Millbuie? Oh? Yes … yes … And has she made any complaint or report to you within … ’
The station sergeant broke off and shot a look of enquiry at Tim.
‘It would have been within the last few days,’ supplied Tim.
‘Fergus? Yes, within the last couple of days. No? I see … oh? Yes, yes. No, hang on.’
The sergeant turned to Tim.
‘Fergus is the local constable around Strath Errick way. He saw your Miss Millbuie some days ago on her way to Balmacaan Castle. She has not made any complaint or report to the local station but he does say his cousin, who runs a bar in a village called Foyers, saw her two days ago. She came in and made a telephone call. Then she asked whether Fergus was available, unfortunately Fergus was out at Bailebeag, a neighbouring village. So then she asked about the best way of getting in to Inverness, whether there was a bus or if she could hire a car.’
Tim pressed his lips together in a frown.
Jeannie had taken her own car with her.
‘Do you want to report her missing, sir? Do you want Fergus to go to Balmacaan Castle and make some enquiries?’
‘I’m not sure what I want to do,’ confessed Tim. ‘I don’t want to create problems if there aren’t any in the first place. I appreciate you people have enough to do without any wild goose chasing.’
‘You’re right there, sir,’ agreed the sergeant. ‘Just a moment. Hello, Fergus? No, don’t make a special journey just yet. But if you do see Miss Millbuie tell her that her friend has arrived in Inverness and is getting worried about her. Would she contact him as soon as possible? Yes, that’s it. Goodbye.’
The Curse of Loch Ness Page 12