Music in the Hills (Drumberley Book 2)

by D. E. Stevenson

  He had no sooner rung off than Holly telephoned to invite him to go to Tassieknowe with the Drumburly Tower party which consisted of Holly and Ian, and Ian’s college friend. They had been asked to bring as many people as they liked and there was plenty of room in the car. Holly was annoyed when she heard James was going with the Duncan’s and suggested he should alter the arrangement.

  ‘I can’t do that,’ said James.

  ‘Of course you can,’ declared Holly. ‘It would be much more sensible. We actually pass Mureth on our way. We’ll call for you at half-past seven.’

  ‘I can’t,’ said James firmly. ‘I’ll see you there, Holly. You’ll dance with me, won’t you?’

  ‘Oh, James, do come with us. The Duncan’s are deadly dull, aren’t they?’

  ‘Are they?’

  ‘Of course they are!’ exclaimed Holly. ‘The whole Duncan family is as dull as ditch-water. They’re teetotal into the bargain.’

  ‘That doesn’t mean I can’t have a cocktail tomorrow night, if I’m offered one,’ replied James, chuckling.

  ‘You’ll be offered one,’ promised Holly. ‘It’s going to be a slap-up show.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  Holly laughed. ‘Everything that happens in the valley is known in this house. Uncle Andrew has his sources of information and Aunt Adela has hers. I tease them about their spies; Aunt Adela’s are much the best value.’

  As James rang off he reflected that the party might be rather fun after all. It would be interesting to see the house, to see what sort of a job a rich magnate had made of an ancient Scottish farm, and what sort of entertainment he would provide. In most places in Britain the mere idea of giving dinner to an unlimited number of people would have been preposterous, but here it was different: there was always plenty of food on a farm.

  The young Duncan’s called for James in good time; they were excited about the party and full of chat. James discovered that they knew nothing at all about the New People but they had known old Mr. Brown quite well, and had often visited Tassieknowe when he was there. Henry and Cathie both talked at once, so the information they volunteered was slightly mixed. Mr. Brown had shut up most of the house and spent all his waking hours in a small, dark ‘den’. The house was illumined by lamps and smelt of paraffin. It was always dark in the house because of the trees and bushes which overshadowed it and hemmed it in. Mr. Brown refused to cut down trees or cutback bushes. Paper was peeling off the walls in strips, but Mr. Brown did not seem to notice. He bred Highland cattle and crossed them with Ayrshires, hoping to get the higher milk yield of the Ayrshire combined with the tough resistance to weather conditions of the Highland stock (this was Henry, of course). His housekeeper was a marvellous baker of scones and cakes, and always walked off with all the prizes at the local Show (this was Cathie’s contribution). Mr. Brown was small and very old with a white beard and shaggy white hair. He was an elder at Drumburly kirk and rode down the valley to Drumburly every Sunday morning upon an ancient mare which was stabled at the Shaw Arms during the service.

  By this time they had arrived at their destination. The gates of Tassieknowe were standing wide open in a hospitable manner; they were wrought-iron gates, painted peacock-blue. The drive had been newly laid with tarmacadam and was smooth and shining, stretching up to the house, which stood upon a little hill, open to the four winds of heaven.

  ‘I suppose this is the right place,’ said Henry doubtfully, slowing down as he spoke.

  ‘Of course it’s the place,’ replied Cathie. ‘The new man has cut down everything, that’s all. Go on, Henry, there’s a car behind.’

  ‘Mr. Brown must be turning in his grave,’ murmured Henry in awed tones.

  James had not seen the house before, of course, so he was not staggered by its metamorphosis. It was an old, square house, built of grey stone with a slate roof and squat chimneys; not a beautiful house, thought James, and somehow it seemed to wear an air of surprise, a slightly shamefaced air, but perhaps this was merely James’s fancy. Perhaps it was merely chance that the curious old rhyme should come into his head – the rhyme about the old woman who went to the Fair and fell asleep on the road home. While she was asleep a mischievous boy came along and cut her petticoats short, so that even her own dog and did not know her.

  ‘He began to bark and she began to cry,

  “Lawks a mercy to us! This is none of I!”’

  James was reflecting how odd it was that the old rhyme, which he had not heard since he was a child, should spring into mind unbidden, when Cathie suddenly exclaimed in tones of distress,

  ‘Oh, dear, it doesn’t like it!’

  ‘What doesn’t like what?’ asked Henry.

  But James did not need to ask. He looked at Cathie and nodded his understanding and agreement.

  As they went up the steps, the door was flung wide open by a man in a starched, white jacket who ushered them into the hall and helped them to remove their wraps. Although it was still broad daylight, the blinds had been drawn and the whole place was blazing with electric light. The floor was covered all over with a fitted carpet of peacock-blue, the walls were white and shining, the furniture was of light unpainted wood of modern design. It was a type of decor which would have surprised nobody in a luxurious London flat, but in the heart of the hills it was unexpected and amazing. The two Duncan’s were stricken dumb with astonishment. Their eyes were round, like marbles. James noticed that they kept very close to him as if he were their one familiar friend in this strange new world.

  The drawing-room was decorated and furnished in the same style as the hall; there were over twenty people in the room chattering gaily and drinking cocktails. Mr. Heddle came forward and received them cordially and James was able to renew his former impression of the man: tall and perhaps a trifle too heavy for his age, with a curiously springy walk. He had dark brown eyes and crinkly black hair; his clean-shaven face was wreathed in smiles. He was very good-looking, thought James as he shook hands with him, but good-looking in a foreign way.

  ‘So nice of you to come, Mr. Dering,’ declared Mr. Heddle. ‘Of course I’ve heard all about your uncle – the best farmer in the district and our nearest neighbour!’

  James murmured something noncommittal. He was glad to find that Mr. Heddle did not recognise him. It was no wonder, really, for tonight James looked a very different person from the ragged, dirty, uncouth ruffian who had bandied words with Mr. Heddle upon the hill.

  ‘We’re settled in now,’ continued Mr. Heddle, looking round his drawing-room with a complacent air. ‘Anna and I are very anxious to know all our neighbours and to get to know them quickly, so we thought a housewarming party would be a good idea. I hope people won’t think we should have sat down and waited to be called on.’

  ‘I think it’s very kind of you,’ replied James, accepting a glass of pale-green liquid which was being offered to him on a tray. ‘I’m sure other people will think so too. Calling is a bit out of fashion nowadays. My aunt isn’t a good caller, but she would like to meet you and Miss Heddle, so would my uncle of course.’

  ‘Here’s Anna!’ exclaimed Mr. Heddle. ‘Anna, this is Mr. Dering.’

  Miss Heddle was older than her brother; she was pale, composed and beautifully dressed. Somehow or another James did not think she and Mamie would have much in common, he could not imagine what they would find to talk about and, this being so, he refrained from giving her an invitation to come to tea at Mureth. Wait and see, thought James.

  The guests were a queer mixture. Some of them, James knew, were Drumburly people and people from neighbouring farms, but the others were Mr. Heddle’s friends: elegant women with carefully set hair and made-up faces, and men who looked like tailors’ models, in dinner-jackets which fitted them with creaseless perfection. One would not have looked twice at these people if one had seen them dining at the Savoy, but here they seemed as exotic as birds of paradise.

  James sipped his cocktail. He discovered that it was exceedingly go
od and exceedingly potent. It had that smooth velvety taste which is dangerously deceptive. He was just savouring the taste of it and deciding that it might be wiser not to finish it (yes, much wiser, for he was out of training, so to speak, having partaken of nothing stronger than beer since he came to Mureth), when he remembered the Duncan’s. The Duncan’s had been reft from his side. Cathie was over near the fireplace; she looked like a wild rose amongst orchids thought James, changing his metaphor, but she looked as if she were enjoying herself; she was talking with animation, polishing off the remains of her cocktail and holding out her glass to be refilled.

  There was no time to be lost. James elbowed his way across the room without ceremony and removed the glass from Cathie’s hand. Fortunately there was so much movement in the room and such a buzz of conversation that his action was unnoticed by the other guests – or at least he hoped it was.

  ‘James!’ exclaimed Cathie indignantly. ‘It’s nice! I was enjoying it. I don’t see why I shouldn’t do as other people do when I’m at a party.’

  ‘Nor do I,’ admitted James. ‘There’s no reason on earth why you shouldn’t, except if you drink two glasses of that stuff you’ll be as drunk as a lord.’

  ‘But it’s just like lemonade’

  ‘Not quite,’ James told her. ‘It’s nicer than lemonade and more inebriating. Honestly, Cathie.’

  She began to laugh. ‘Oh, dear!’ she said helplessly. ‘Oh, James, I believe I’m drunk already. How awful! Oh, James, what shall I do?’

  ‘You’ll be all right when you get something solid to eat,’ he assured her. But he was slightly anxious about her all the same and stayed beside her until dinner was announced and the guests began to trickle into the dining room.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  James found himself sitting between Holly and one of the birds of paradise. Holly was in white with a silver girdle and silver flowers in her hair; she began to talk to him at once in a low, teasing voice.

  ‘Something tells me this is going to be an orgy,’ said Holly. ‘I don’t think Mummy would like it if she knew her innocent little poppet was here. Did you lap up all your beautiful cocktail?’

  ‘No, did you?’

  ‘One glass of the heavenly nectar was enough. My head’s like a rock, but even I feel a trifle elated. What was in it, I wonder. Methinks our host has a puckish humour.’

  James looked round the table and noticed that the birds of paradise had been spaced out carefully between the local people, and the whole party was animated and cheerful. If Mr. Heddle had intended his potent brew to break the ice his aim had succeeded… all the same James felt angry. It wasn’t fair. It was a trick. The sort of trick a Borgia might perpetrate… and with only a slight movement of imagination James could see Mr. Heddle as a Borgia; he looked well in his conventional attire, but how much better he would look decked out in velvet and satin and hung with jewelled chains!

  ‘I’ve been wondering about him, too,’ murmured Holly. ‘At first I thought he was Jewish, but he isn’t. Look at his straight nose and black, wavy hair! He’s beautiful.’

  ‘Beautiful!’

  ‘Oh, men never admire that type. I don’t really admire it myself but I can appreciate beauty when I see it. Think of him in a toga with a gold band round his head!’

  It was odd that Holly should have the same idea – the idea that Mr. Heddle would look better in exotic dress.

  ‘The women are gorgeous, aren’t they?’ continued Holly. ‘They make me feel untidy… and yet I don’t know, perhaps they’re a little too soignee. What do you think, James?’

  ‘Not one of them is half as lovely as you.’

  ‘Oh, James!’

  ‘It’s true,’ said James seriously. ‘You and Cathie are ten times prettier than these painted dolls.’

  Holly turned towards her other neighbour at once, and turned so completely that she presented James with a view of her bare shoulder. He was rather surprised at the manner in which she had received his compliment, but perhaps it was time to change over.

  His other neighbour was a bird of paradise, an orchid or a painted doll, you could take your choice of metaphor. James really preferred the last for, after all, birds of paradise and orchids are real and natural, but there was nothing real or natural about this woman. Her hair, her face, in fact everything about her was artificial. You could not tell what age she was. You almost expected her to move in jerks like a marionette; you almost felt it was clever of her to speak; you almost wondered who had made her. Somewhere about her there would be a little tag saying ‘Made in Paris.’

  ‘We’ve met before,’ said the painted lady in a tired voice. ‘Oh, yes, you look different to-night, but I recognised you at once. I was surprised when I saw Nestor hadn’t recognised you; he was very angry with you.’

  ‘It wasn’t my fault.’

  ‘No, it was his. That’s why he was so angry.’

  James realised that this woman was no fool. He was interested and amused.

  ‘Nestor is charming when everything goes well,’ she continued; ‘but not quite so charming when he can’t get his own way, or when things go bad on him.’

  ‘I should imagine he usually gets his own way,’ remarked James.

  She did not answer that, but turned her head and looked at James appraisingly. ‘No woman would forget you,’ she said.

  ‘Oh, really,’ said James uncomfortably.

  ‘You looked like a young god,’ continued the tired flat voice. ‘Pan, I suppose. He ran about on the hills, didn’t he?’

  ‘I felt like a tramp,’ declared James.

  ‘You were rather dirty, but that doesn’t matter here. Clothes don’t matter here.’

  ‘You don’t like Tassieknowe?’ asked James with interest.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  She helped herself to a very small portion of strawberry ice. ‘Tassieknowe doesn’t like me,’ she replied. ‘ It doesn’t like any of us. It’s pushing us out. The only way you could live here is to surrender to it, and I don’t want to surrender. I’m going home tomorrow. I’m frightened.’

  ‘Frightened?’

  ‘The silence and the loneliness… but there’s something else as well.’

  ‘The house is your sort of place’ began James, looking round at the white shining walls, the heavy pea-cock-blue curtains and the polished table with its load of silver and glass.

  ‘All this is on the surface,’ declared the painted lady. ‘Beneath the surface there’s something very queer, something elemental and terrifying. Nestor is beginning to feel it. He’s fighting against it, but he won’t be able to stand it for long. I can’t stand it a day longer. It’s driving me mad.’

  ‘Why did he buy it?’ asked James.

  ‘Why do you buy things?’ she wondered. ‘You think you want them; I suppose that’s the reason. Perhaps Nestor wanted something different, something difficult.’

  Yes, that’s the answer, thought James. Things come to friend Nestor too easily.

  They danced after dinner. There was a very fine band on Mr. Heddle’s very fine radiogram. One had a feeling that Mr. Heddle had arranged it, but how could he? There were limits to what money and power and charm of manner could accomplish, or weren’t there? James danced with Holly and with Nan Forrester, the doctor’s sister from Drumburly, and with his painted lady; and he danced with Cathie who had recovered and was enjoying herself immensely.

  Miss Heddle was not dancing; James sat down beside her and talked to her, for he wanted to find out whether it was any use asking her to meet his aunt. He discovered that Miss Heddle was devoted to her brother and that her chief interest in life was to provide suitable food for him and his friends.

  ‘It seems so unfair,’ said Miss Heddle in a complaining voice. ‘All those sheep on the hills actually belong to Nestor, but he isn’t allowed to kill one of them, not even a lamb.’

  ‘We had some very good lamb to-night,’ said her guest, smiling.

  �
�It was nice, wasn’t it?’ agreed Miss Heddle. She lowered her voice, and added, ‘We’ve been getting it every week from a man’.

  ‘From a man?’

  ‘Nestor said just to buy it and not ask any questions,’ said Miss Heddle. ‘It’s frightfully expensive, of course, but I think it’s worth it, don’t you?’

  James gazed at her, speechlessly. So he had been eating Mureth lamb!

  ‘He hasn’t come this week,’ continued Miss Heddle. ‘I do hope he will come. It makes all the difference to housekeeping if you can depend upon getting meat. Nestor needs meat. He wasn’t at all strong when he was a little boy and it’s so very difficult to get the right kind of food for him. I don’t mind telling you that’s one of the reasons he bought Tassieknowe.’

  ‘Quite,’ nodded James. He wondered if he could ask what the other reasons were, but somehow he could not. Miss Heddle was rather foolish in some ways, but…’

  ‘You won’t say anything about it, will you?’ said Miss Heddle in sudden anxiety. ‘I mean about the man. Nestor said not to tell anyone, but somehow I felt it didn’t matter telling you.’

  ‘I shan’t tell the police,’ said James.

  Miss Heddle laughed quite heartily at this joke. She would not have laughed if she had known that it was not a joke at all. Quite seriously James had weighed up the advantages and disadvantages of informing the police about the man, and had decided not to do so. There was no object in doing so, thought James, for the man had not appeared at Tassieknowe this week and it was unlikely he would appear again. There would be no more lamb for dear Nestor unless he could catch one of his own, unawares, and push it over the edge of a precipice.

  ‘…and butter and eggs and fowls,’ Miss Heddle was saying. ‘And rabbits and trout from the river. It all helps, you know. In London, nowadays, it’s so very difficult to get nice food. Of course we’re luckier than other people because Nestor has so many friends.’