Hector took Veronica Jane back to the hotel, and though it was after three o'clock in the morning when they arrived, she insisted that he should ring the Campbeltown police. They had no news of Kenneth, however, and for the first time he saw a shadow of fear in her eyes.
“What if something has happened to him!” she said, catching his right hand in both of hers. “If it has, I'll never forgive myself. I — I treated the whole thing as a joke at first. But I guess it's no joke now, Hector!”
“He’ll be all right,” he comforted her. “You're dead tired. Get some sleep — and when you wake up, the police will have found him. You’ll see.”
But at eight o'clock in the morning the police were still without news.
Veronica Jane put down the receiver, her mind tense and disturbed. She had changed in the past few hours. Her encounter with the Actor had shown clearly that he would stop at nothing to obey instructions from the O’Sullivan gang, and she considered herself lucky to have escaped with only a few minor injuries on her ankles and wrists.
But what of Kenneth? In her heart she knew that he was in danger — and it was entirely her fault. She ought never to have gone walking that afternoon, when she knew that it was against his wishes.
Why, ever since their arrival in Glendale, had she been so independent — so contrary? Even when she had come to realize — yesterday morning at church — that he had become the very foundation of her happiness, her mind had put up a token show of independence; and her resistance to Hugh’s argument that a walk on Cnoc Ban in daylight would be absolutely safe had been only half-hearted. Why hadn’t she obeyed and trusted Kenneth from the beginning?
She shivered. It now seemed that her wilfulness and sense of fun had brought him into terrible danger; and as she thought of him as he had been, worried and anxious for her sake, smiling at her affectionately in spite of her childish efforts to tease and trouble him, hot tears started in her eyes. What a fool she had been — what a selfish, cheap little fool…
Her body was a tightened mass of nerves. Oh, please let him be safe. Please let him come out of all this, safe and well. I’ll make it up to you, Kenneth — if you still want me to be friends. I promise I’ll make it up to you. If only I could explain what I really think about you. If only I could explain that all I’ve said and done to you has been in self-defence. But now — now my defences are down. Oh, Kenneth…
But the mood lasted only for a few moments. I’m being morbid, she told herself. No good being morbid. Action is needed. Action, action, action — action to save Kenneth. Save Kenneth first — then allow yourself to cry, if you want to cry…
She went upstairs to see Hugh Cameron, who was still in bed. He greeted her with a rueful smile.
“The manager told me you were safe,” he said. “I was never so relieved in my life.”
“Kenneth’s not safe,” she returned. “And no one seems to be doing anything about it.”
He saw that this was a new Veronica Jane. She stood straight and still at the foot of the bed, dressed in her blue jumper and slacks. Had he but known it, a modern Jane Dallas stood there — a girl indeed, but a girl fully conscious at last of changed values in her life.
“He’s missing,” she went on. “And even though I have to do it myself, I mean to find him.”
“But surety that’s a matter for the police…”
“It’s a matter for me. The police don’t aim to do a thing until the afternoon. I’m going down to Mrs. Connacher’s now — to ask Hector if he’ll come with me to the shepherd’s cottage. We may find something there that we missed last night — some clue, maybe… I — er — just wanted you to know — how things are, Hugh.”
She left him; and if young Dr. Cameron had ever entertained the idea that he might one day marry Veronica Jane MacKay, he abandoned it then.
As soon as she had gone, however, he got up and started to dress. His head still ached; he felt he had made a ghastly fool of himself — in more ways than one; and disappointment thrummed in his mind. But he was a fair man, with sound instincts. If Veronica Jane was so keen to find Sergeant MacDonald, it was the least he could do to help her. Not only that. Now that they were no longer possible rivals he could regard Kenneth as an ordinary individual in distress.
Thus it was that he arrived at Mrs. Connacher's only a few minutes after Veronica Jane.
He found her discussing the situation with Nellie, Sheena and Hector, who were still at table following breakfast. Hurried introductions were made, after which Hugh sat by the fire with a cup of tea and listened to what she had to say.
“I'm glad you've come, Hugh. You can carry the stretcher. Mrs. Connacher says we'll get one from the Red Cross people in the village. And if it — if it should be needed, you can help Hector better than Sheena and I could."
“Is no one else coming?"
She shook her head. “We don't reckon it would be a good idea to ask the locals to help in another search. Nothing may come of it. And — well, Kenneth may be all right, you know."
“You don't believe that?"
“No."
“What do you think has happened?"
“I think — and Hector agrees with me — that Bergman managed to escape, and Kenneth followed him. They both may have got lost or — or had an accident. I — I guess it’s difficult to say, really." Her words trailed off.
Straight-lipped as usual, Mrs. Connacher began to make sandwiches, while Sheena, who had telephoned the headmaster and got permission to stay off school to help in the search, prepared a flask of tea. Hector sat forward in his chair, hands dangling between his knees. He kept shooting worried glances at Veronica Jane and Hugh.
“I think I'll take a length of rope," he said at last. “Climbing rope. The woman in the shop has plenty."
“Rope?" said Veronica Jane, her red lips parting.
Hector looked uncomfortable. “In case Kenneth has — er — got into difficulties anywhere. Just a precaution."
Her eyes grew bright. “You mean, the Borgadaile Cliff?" she said.
“Well — oh, I don't know. Rope will be handy, anyway."
“Yes. Of course it will." Hugh tried to sound reassuring; but the others could see that Veronica Jane, her mind on a new and terrible possibility, was in a greater hurry to leave than ever.
She became impatient with Mrs. Connacher’s sandwichmaking. ‘That will be enough!” she said, at last. “Let’s take what’s there and get away.”
“The men will be hungry later on,” Nellie remonstrated, gently. “I’ll make another half-dozen or so… In any case,” she added, “after what you went through yesterday and last night, I really think you should stay at home with me and let Mr. MacNab and Dr. Cameron and Sheena go by themselves.”
“I think so, too,” began Hector; but Veronica Jane stood up, silencing him with a flash of her eyes.
“Don’t talk rubbish!” she exclaimed. “I’ve let Kenneth down more than once. But not this time. Oh, why are you all so slow! He may be hurt.”
“Steady the Buffs!” interrupted Hector, quietly. “Getting into a panic won’t do any good.”
She looked down at her hands, tense in her lap. “I’m sorry,” she said.
*
Half-an-hour later they were on their way towards Glen Eden and the shepherd’s cottage on the moorland beyond. Veronica Jane led the way, with Hugh Cameron, a rolled up stretcher on his shoulder, close by her side.
Sheena and Hector — the latter carrying a thick coil of rope — found it hard to maintain the pace. Once or twice as they encountered small streams swollen by the previous night’s rain, Hector gallantly carried Sheena in his arms. But Veronica Jane ignored Hugh’s proffered help and jumped or waded across with scarcely a pause.
As they reached the shoulder of Cnoc Ban they heard the school bell ringing for the morning break — far below in the strath. The sound came to them thin and faint, floating up the side of the great hill and fading out at last into the overcast skies behind them.
/> They climbed down into the glen and up the other side. In her mind’s eye she could picture him — serious and earnest to outward appearances, but with a quick, warm smile when she teased him which made her heart turn over: a smile which she suddenly realized — too late, perhaps — was for herself alone.
On the moor beyond the glen the heather was still soaking, and before long her slacks were wet to the knees. But she was unaware of discomfort and did not envy Sheena with her short tweed skirt and stout brogues.
At the cottage they stopped to look for any sign which would indicate the direction taken by Kenneth and Bergman; and almost immediately they saw footprints leading away from the mud outside the door.
'They were struggling here when I left,” said Veronica Jane. “And look — these marks point towards the mouth of the hollow.”
But on the turf and heather covering the old track no further signs were visible. Hector stood chin in hand, eyes narrowed.
“We went straight on from here,” he said, finally. “And found nothing. What about trying a different route this time — over there to the left?”
He made no mention of the Borgadaile Cliff, but the others knew what was in his mind.
Veronica Jane nodded, trying to conceal her apprehension. “Very well, Hector. It's certainly the only area we didn't search thoroughly last night.”
They set out for the distant line of waving bent — skirting the black peat-hags half-filled with water, stumbling on rocks camouflaged by wiry tufts of heather. Far down to their right was the road, twisting through glens and depressions like a burn seeking the lower ground.
Sheena, trailing in the rear with Hector, had her hand in his arm.
“Tired?” he asked.
She shook her head. “I hope we find something soon,” she returned. “For Veronica Jane’s sake. I — I know how she feels.”
All at once she took his hand and held it tightly. He glanced at her with surprise, even dismay. It was as if he had finally understood something that had been puzzling him: something that now caused in him a feeling of regret and compassion.
She looked up — and in her eyes he saw that she loved him. He tried to retain his detachment as an artist — to accept the fact with calm, impersonal interest. But his humanity was too strong. He caressed her fingers and was about to speak when suddenly, twenty yards ahead, Veronica Jane called out.
“Sheena, Hector — come quickly!”
They ran forward. She was standing beside Hugh, looking down at something which lay on the edge of a patch of bog.
“Kenneth’s coat,” she said, in a brittle voice. “I guess you were right, Hector. They must have gone towards the cliff.”
Neither Hector nor Hugh could meet her eyes. But Sheena went across and put an arm about her.
“It looks as if they came this way,” said the young schoolteacher, quietly. “Kenneth must have been running after Bergman and threw off his coat to make it easier.”
For a moment Veronica Jane leaned against Sheena’s friendly arm, and the fair head came close to the dark. Then she straightened her shoulders.
“I guess there’s only one thing to do,” she said. “We must search the cliffs. If — if there’s nothing there, we may find another clue down by the coast road.”
They were no more than three hundred yards from the line of waving bent on the summit of the cliff; but their walk across the peaty, heathery ground seemed to be endless. No one spoke. Veronica Jane was repeating a phrase to herself: “Let him be safe! Please let him be safe!”
As they approached the bent she could feel herself trembling. Once or twice she stumbled…
It was Hector who saw a fresh scar — a crescent-shaped bite of red earth where the turf had fallen away.
“Stay here,” he said sharply to the others.
Veronica Jane was white. “I’ll come with you,” she returned.
He stood still for a moment, brushing a hand over his lanky hair. Then he took her arm, and they went forward to the edge of the cliff.
Chapter 17
Vigil
On the previous night, setting out from the shepherd’s cottage in pursuit of the Actor, Kenneth had been fairly confident that he would soon be able to overtake his man.
In his character as a female missionary, however, Bergman was wearing stout and comfortable brogues; and as he kilted up his long skirt he was, therefore, at no marked disadvantage. At first Kenneth could make up no leeway, and the chase across the stubbly heather and soggy peat-hags assumed the quality of a nightmare. He was fit and strong, but the blow he had received in the solar plexus had given him an initial handicap, and before long his breath was coming in short, painful gusts.
The rain had passed over, and the clouds were thinning out to let the moon shine through intermittently. He was in no danger, therefore, of losing sight of his quarry, provided he could maintain speed.
It soon became clear that Bergman was heading in the direction of the coast; and Kenneth guessed that his car was probably hidden somewhere near the secondary road running above the shore. At each stride they were getting farther and farther away from the search-party, which Kenneth reckoned would now be nearing the deserted cottage, led by Veronica Jane. Once or twice he glanced to his left, trying to spot their lights; but he saw nothing.
They floundered across the moorland, slipping on hidden boulders, sometimes wading ankle-deep in areas of marsh. The blood pounded in his temples, and there was a tremulous weakness in the backs of his legs; but he knew that Bergman could be in no better shape. Sweat trickled down his neck, and as they neared the high cliff, he flung off his raincoat and left it lying behind him.
By this time he had gained about ten yards on the Actor. He could hear the other’s feet thudding on the turf and his rasping, heavy breathing.
"Stop!” he shouted. "Stop there, Bergman!”
But the other, if he heard, paid no heed. He swerved to the right, where the road glinted like a thin ribbon far below. As he did so, however, he stumbled on a branch of whin, and Kenneth ran between him and his objective.
But still the Actor did not stop. Dragging through the whin, he continued headlong in the opposite direction — making for the great Borgadaile Cliff, the edge of which now showed jaggedly against a lighter shade of sky, thirty yards distant.
Kenneth was almost on him. "Stop, you fool!” he gasped. "You can't escape that way!”
But Bergman stumbled on — on and on towards the cliff-edge — like a primitive animal running till he dropped. The roar of the unseen surf, five hundred feet below, was in Kenneth's ears, mingling with the sounds of exhaustion. He felt that he could not move another step; but as Bergman staggered up the final slope — a slope which ended in a wavering line of bent overlooking the sheer drop below — he summoned up a final burst of energy and flung himself at his quarry.
They fell together on the edge and began to fight in a blind, panting silence. Kenneth saw the sky reel over and caught a glimpse of a huge, empty chasm on his right. He felt Bergman’s fingers groping for his throat.
With a convulsive twist he avoided the hands — and as he turned to pin his opponent beneath him, he felt the turf give way.
For a moment both men lay still, abruptly conscious that they hung poised on the brink of death. Then Bergman clutched the lapels of Kenneth's jacket and uttered a shrill, inhuman scream. Instinctively Kenneth thrust out an arm and caught hold of a root of bent. But the Actor’s weight tore the root from the sandy soil. There was a further break in the turf, and together they slid out and downwards into space.
In the dull moonlight they seemed to fall for a long time, though in actual fact it was only for a second or two. Then, while the echoes of Bergman's scream still lingered in the high crags, there was a jarring crash as they struck a ledge of rock. Again Kenneth thrust out an arm, and this time his fingers came in contact with a crack in the sandstone. He clung convulsively, and as they swung outwards his arm became as taut as a mooring-rope. A st
ab of pain went through the sinews of his wrist, but as they slithered sideways and lay on the very brink, he held on with grim resolution.
He held on; and at last — slowly and with care — they levered themselves back on to the narrow ledge. They said nothing to each other. Bergman loosed his grip of Kenneth's jacket and they lay stretched out, head to head, on the cold, clammy rock.
Far down, beyond the edge which he could feel with his hand, Kenneth heard the surf pounding on the shore, like the slow beat of an engine. But he did not look over; and at any rate he could have seen little in the meagre light.
After a while, however, when he had regained his breath and achieved a calmer frame of mind, he ventured to look up. What he saw gave him small comfort. Sheer cliff towered thirty feet into the dark sky — smooth and unclimbable, it seemed, without even a foothold for a bird.
He glanced at Bergman, prone and unmoving in front, one hand clawed into a crevice in the cliff-face. His hat and wig had fallen away during their encounter at the cottage, and his grey head gleamed palely in the dark, incongruous above the bedraggled female clothes.
"We’d better lie quiet until it gets light,” said Kenneth. "There doesn’t seem to be much room for manoeuvre.’’ He spoke with a trace of wry amusement.
Though shaken and terrified, Bergman responded. "You’re right, MacDonald. I guess we should declare an armistice.’’
In the busy streets of New York and in the company of the O’Sullivan gang, he was cold, calculating, callous — a super-criminal among criminals. Here in the dark and lonely danger of a Scottish cliff, with the thin wind sighing among the ledges and the sea pulsing against the rocks hundreds of feet below, he was an ordinary, fearful individual — his thoughts focused entirely on his own miserable situation. He no longer regarded the other as an enemy, but as a companion in distress — almost a friend.
A similar change had taken place in Kenneth. Five minutes before he had battled fiercely with the Actor on the edge of the cliff; now he was drained of all bitterness against him. They were faced with a common problem of survival, and its solution required a temporary truce.
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