The Screaming Gull
Angus MacVicar
© Angus MacVicar 1935
Angus MacVicar has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.
First published in 1935 by Stanley Paul & Co. Ltd.
This edition published in 2016 by Endeavour Press Ltd.
To the rest of the family.
Archibald, William, Rona, Kenneth, John and Maimie.
Table of Contents
Foreword
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Foreword
The general outlines of the remarkable affair of ‘The Screaming Gull’, which caused so much excitement a few months ago, are known to every reader of the newspapers. Articles have appeared in hundreds of periodicals throughout the world describing the amazing chain of circumstances which led up to the final unmasking of the Blind One.
Like many another reader of the published narratives, however, I was puzzled at the time to account for the presence among the actors in the drama of a shy young draper from Stranraer who resolutely refused to take any credit for his part in the adventure, and of a bright youngster named Peter MacSporran, who occasionally lapsed into the atrocious dialect of the Gallow-gate. And when William Dunbar, the draper in question, married Sir David MacLaren’s daughter in the springtime, Peter MacSporran being one of the attendants, I scented a romance which had flourished in the midst of a great peril.
Being a journalist I am not afraid of being snubbed, and it occurred to me that I should drop a line to Dunbar, asking him for some personal account of the matter of ‘The Screaming Gull’. His story, I thought, might prove useful for a ‘thriller’ upon which I was working at the time. Accordingly I wrote to him at the address in Cairngarroch quoted by the newspapers.
A week later I was pleasantly intrigued to receive from him an exceedingly courteous letter, in which he was kind enough to mention that he had read two of my books with enjoyment, and that he would be very glad if I called upon him at his new home in Wigtownshire. I jumped at the chance.
But I had not been speaking to Dunbar and his wife for more than five minutes when I suddenly felt unaccountably mean in having so brusquely demanded information of such charming people. They were so palpably eager to help me in my work, so unheeding of any personal gain which they could secure in the matter. I had the feeling which might possess a sensitive bully — if such a person exists — who roughly orders a little girl to give up her apple and is smilingly offered two.
At last I interrupted their singular tale.
“D’you know,” I said, “that if I cared I could sell the rights in your yarn to any British or American publication for over five hundred pounds?”
“Oh, goodness!” exclaimed Mrs. Dunbar, smiling across at her husband. “Don’t you wish you were a journalist, Bill?”
Dunbar returned her smile, for they were very much in love, those two. Then he turned to me.
“By Jove!” he said. “That’s hot stuff. You’ll send us a copy of the paper in which it appears, won’t you?”
“But you don’t understand, Dunbar,” I explained. “You must write the story yourself. It’s yours. The money’s yours.”
“Good lord!” he cried. “I couldn’t write anything. Not at all, MacVicar! The story’s yours — and welcome.”
But Mrs. Dunbar broke into a peal of laughter.
“Oh, Bill!” she said. “Imagine you an author! Wouldn’t it be fun, though, if you and Mr. MacVicar kind of — well, collaborated? You could describe all the exciting bits and all the little details of our adventure which never appeared in the papers — that night at the farm in Blaan, for example, when you got into such a frightful temper — and Mr. MacVicar could string them together. Then you could tell about Peter… Oh, by the way, how is Peter getting on at his new job?”
“Splendidly,” replied Dunbar. “He’s the best salesman ever I had in my shop. I bet he could give MacVicar some good points.”
Finally it was decided that Dunbar — assisted by his wife and the redoubtable Peter — should write out a rough draft of his adventures which I should edit. The result of our combined efforts is to be found in the succeeding pages.
Acknowledgments are due to Mr. Andrew Watson, editor of the Daily Courier, for permission to reprint matter published in his paper, while we are also indebted to the present chief of the British Secret Service for allowing us to print an obsolete code.
ANGUS MACVICAR.
Southend, Argyll.
Chapter 1
There is a Lowland proverb which describes the wind of January as being sharper than the bite of an adder. I was meditating rather cheerlessly on the aptness of the saying when I saw the short, ill-dressed man being pushed over the deserted slip at Cairngarroch in Wigtownshire.
He fell backwards into the grey, choppy water and his tall, athletic assailant, turning quickly, fled towards the high crags which shelter the harbour from the south-west gales.
For a moment I stood irresolute, thunderstruck by the callous, inhuman thing I had seen. A jumble of incoherent thoughts flashed through my mind, as if I were in a nightmare, and it seemed as if I had lost the power of decision.
I realized that the man in the water was unable to swim, for he was struggling frantically and crying for help now, in a gasping, hopeless fashion. I knew also that the sea was ice-cold and that, were I to plunge to the assistance of the stranger, the chill I should receive might, in my convalescent condition, bring about a recurrence of the influenza which had spoiled my Christmas vacation. I had risen from my bed only three weeks previously, later having been packed off by my sister Annie to recuperate with an aunt in the west-coast village of Cairngarroch.
As I stood hesitant I admitted to myself that I was afraid. I shivered and glanced at the leaden sea. Then, suddenly, I acted; for disgust at my weakness cut me like a knife. I flung off my heavy overcoat, whipped the scarf from my neck and ran quickly across the narrow strip of shingle between the sand dunes and the mooring place.
I was panting with exertion and excitement when I reached the extremity of the cement-covered slip and looked down over the ten foot drop on to the surface of the white-flecked heaving water, under which the stranger had disappeared a moment before. But with an effort I overcame the shaking of my body and, taking a quick, deep breath, I dived.
The actual leap from the edge of the slip I accomplished confidently, for in my schooldays, before joining the drapery business which had been in the possession of my family for three generations, I had been a fairly good performer at the baths. The water closed round me, seeping through my clothes in patches of cold which were actually painful in the intensity of their chill. Queerly enough, the sensation was similar to that which I had once experienced when the back of my hand had been burned by a jet of scalding steam.
Under the sea I opened my eyes and saw a grey, indistinct form turning slowly and sinking. Kicking downwards I clutched hold of the cloth of the stranger’s jacket and then, with my legs and free arm, fought desperately to regain the surface. My head and shoulders came up into the sweet air after what seemed an eternity, and, still grasping the limp body of the unknown man, I struck out wildly, gasping and terrified, for the beach.
*
There were certain young men of my ow
n age with whom I was acquainted who regarded me, I was well aware, as rather a prim and delicate youth; and it was curious that the first balanced idea which came into my head when, struggling out of the water, I laid the inanimate stranger on the rough shingle, was one of dissatisfaction that those individuals had not witnessed the events of the last few moments. Almost immediately, however, I had forgotten their very existence in a fierce endeavour to bring the unconscious man back to life.
The continued exertion was what saved me, I think, from an unpleasant and even dangerous illness. I was only dimly aware of the rudiments of lifesaving, but I had an idea that the victim should be placed face downwards and his arms worked back and forth to stimulate the action of breathing.
Feverishly I worked on the stranger, and though my clothes were sodden and a night frost was beginning to creep into the air, sweat soon mingled with the drops of salt water which oozed across my forehead from my mop of long, fair hair. I had become very tired and my aching arms, unused to heavy labour, seemed to be working mechanically, when the man whom I had rescued gave a long, shuddering sigh, turned over on his back, half-rose on his elbow and began to be violently sick.
Recovering at last, he looked up at me ruefully.
“Thanks, old man!” he said. “What a damned fool I’ve been!”
I was surprised at his pleasant accent, for his whole appearance was that of a tramp, and of a very unclean tramp into the bargain. His pinched and weather-beaten face was covered by a week’s growth of red whisker; while his fingernails were black with dirt. His scanty, greying hair was unkempt and fringed a bald patch which, I imagined, had not been treated with soap for a considerable period.
Then his clothes were ragged and old. The sodden jacket might have been that of an old fashioned dinner suit, but it was so worn and covered by stains that it was impossible to be certain on the point. His trousers were of corduroy and hitched up below the knee with twine; while his boots were cracked and, even after their immersion in the sea, still caked with mud. But, as I continued to regard him, I saw that his teeth were white and even, his brown eyes keen and that his chin was resolute.
“I was on the sand-dunes, taking my afternoon walk,” I told him. “I saw the man who attacked you disappearing behind those crags. He’ll be miles away by now, I suppose.”
“No use searching for him, anyway,” he returned, panting a little and rising unsteadily to his feet. “I was foolish enough to accept his invitation to walk along the slip. Though I knew him well enough I didn’t think he would recognize me in this rig-out. He goes by the name of Wotherspoon… By the way, my own name is Charles Merriman.”
“Mine’s Dunbar,” I said. “William Dunbar,” He held out his hand.
“You know, ten minutes ago I thought I was at the end of my tether. Everything seemed so bleak and deserted. And then, just before I went under, I saw you running down the slip… I can’t describe the strange, thankful feeling which came over me.”
“Look here!” I exclaimed. “We’re both sopping wet. We must change. Let’s make a dash for my aunt’s cottage over the links.”
“That’s damned good of you, Dunbar. I hope your aunt won’t jib at a sodden tramp!”
We ran and walked by turns over the mile of bent-bearing sand which lay between the house and the sea. Neither of us spoke a word during the period; but my mind was busy with the problem of the stranger’s profession and of the reason for the attack which had been made upon him.
I was amazed at his stamina. Even after his unpleasant experience he loped along with the ease of a trained athlete. I noted with some satisfaction too that my own condition was far from being as feeble as I had imagined it to be. During the ten years which I had spent in the drapery business in Stranraer, I had always been given to understand by my sister Annie, who was six years older, that a certain weakness in my heart necessitated my taking things easily. Undue exertion in any form, therefore, was for me something of a novelty, and I found myself actually proud of the fact that I could run for a considerable distance without feeling noticeable strain.
It was almost dark when we reached the ivy-covered, two-storeyed cottage which formed the southern extremity of the village. One of the front windows was lit up and I thought with satisfaction of a deep armchair and a glass of something hot.
My aunt stifled a shriek at the sight of us. She was a little old lady in her early seventies who dressed in old fashioned black clothes and wore a large cameo brooch below the high neck of her blouse. Her white hair was drawn tightly back into a round bun.
“Aunt Jane,” I said, “this is Mr. Merriman. He was doing a spot of fishing from the rocks. Unfortunately, he slipped on some weed and fell into the water. Mr. Merriman… Miss Mathieson.”
“Good gracious, William!” she exclaimed, raising her thin hands. “Did he pull you in along with him? And after that influenza, too! Dear, oh dear!”
She hustled us upstairs into my bedroom, and rushed out again to find towels.
“Quick!” she commanded on her return. “Get into dry clothes! I’ll have a roaring fire and hot toddy ready for you both in five minutes.”
“Your aunt,” remarked Merriman, when she had closed the door behind her, “certainly knows what is good for a man! But do I understand, Dunbar, that you are newly recovered from a bout of influenza?”
I nodded.
“A very slight attack. Nothing to speak of.”
He looked closely into my lace, his brown eyes alert.
*
It was not until late that night, after my aunt had gone to bed, that our guest again referred to the strange events of the day. We were seated on either side of a blazing fire in the parlour, and the comfort of the lamp-lit room was accentuated by the howling of the wind outside the curtained windows. Intermittent showers of sleet crackled on the panes like machinegun fire; and I noticed that each time a downpour commenced, with an unexpected rattle, Merriman, sitting with his back to the windows, would start slightly and look round over his shoulder.
For the first time I observed a certain nervous quality about his thin lips that set me wondering. His appearance suggested that of a strong and brave man, who, engaged on some nerve-racking task, had almost reached the limit of his endurance. His voice, too, was always strained, as if he were a little weary.
“You’ve been rather patient, Dunbar,” he said. “You must be confoundedly curious to know the reason for everything.”
“Admitted!” I returned. “When I first saw you, you looked like a tramp. And yet you’re not a tramp.”
He laughed shortly, and then he bowed his head.
“I wish I were!” he exclaimed. “I wish I were a tramp! I’d give twenty years of my life to be free again, to go where I willed, to live like an ordinary man and have the same simple pleasures! Oh, God!”
He buried his face in his hands.
For ten seconds he sat thus, silent and strained, while I strove to curb my amazement. I felt lost and rather puzzled. And yet in some inexplicable manner the truth was brought home to me that my life, up to that moment, had been sheltered, useless and childish. I had been petted and pampered. I had known nothing of stress. Besides this man I was a spoiled infant tied to the apron strings of women.
“Can I help you?” I asked.
He pulled himself together.
“I’m sorry, Dunbar… Yes, you can help me Please go on being curious. Don’t ask me to explain anything.”
“Very well,” I returned, disappointed.
He rose.
“And I must go now, Dunbar. I’ve stayed too long as it is. But Miss Mathieson and you have been so kind. I wanted for a few hours to enjoy the luxury of peace. I’ll never forget this night, or what you have done for me.”
“But you can’t leave like this — in such weather!”
“It is better for me to go in the dark… By morning I can be a good many miles away from this place.”
I saw that his mind was set, and I refrained from argui
ng further. I persuaded him, however, to give up the idea of donning again his wet, ragged clothes, and provided him with an old ulster to wear over my flannel suit, which, though some sizes too big for him, was, he said, warm and comfortable.
He bade me goodbye on the doorstep. The night was still wild; but now and then a young moon leaped out brightly from behind the scudding clouds.
Not ten seconds after I had barred the door behind him I heard the quick crack of a revolver shot. The sound had come from the roadway in front of the cottage.
*
I stood stock-still in the hall, filled with apprehension at the ominous sound. I knew that I should hasten out into the darkness to investigate the cause of the shooting; and yet I was caught in two minds. Dread of an unknown criminal peering through the wild night made me tremble. I was no bright-eyed adventurer, but a very plain and ordinary youth, unused to violent excitements of any kind.
I heard a noise upstairs and my aunt, clad only in her nightgown, appeared on the landing.
“William!” she whispered. “What is that?”
“Nothing, Aunt Jane,” I answered. “Probably the tyre of a car puncturing. Please go back to bed. I’ll have a look outside in a moment.”
“See and put a coat over your head, my dear. It’s pouring just now… has Mr. Merriman retired?”
“Go back to bed, Aunt Jane!” I ordered roughly, and, looking a little surprised, she obeyed.
When she had gone, I shirked my duty no longer. Somehow the sight of my aunt in her pink flannelette nightclothes and her advice with regard to my putting a coat over my head had stung me to a mild irritation; and with the irritation had come Dutch courage. I unbolted the door and stepped out on to the pathway which led from the porch through the garden to the road.
The wind had risen almost to gale force and at the moment a heavy shower of sleet was falling. The icy drops stung my face and my long hair whipped down across my forehead into my eyes. I stumbled down the gravel to where the narrow iron gates swung open, and as I reached it the sleet suddenly slackened. Momentarily the moon shone clearly amid a mass of heavy clouds. On the road I saw a still form lying huddled and twisted.
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