The Dangerous Islands

by Ann Bridge

  There was a pause—then Edina hurried in with a reply; poor Julia was intermittently listening to old Sir Ian, and shouting back at him.

  ‘Yes, he was unearthing a lovely cist just when we were there. The lid was still on, so he hoped there would be something in it.’

  ‘And was there?’

  ‘I don’t know. We shall hear in time, of course.’

  ‘Such an interesting man,’ said Lady MacIan. ‘He came over here several times when he was examining those old forts on the Erinishes.’

  All the yacht’s crew pricked up their ears at this piece of information, but none of them said anything.

  ‘He has worked so widely,’ Lady MacIan pursued. ‘Those excavations in Central Asia must have been fascinating—and he said the Russians were so helpful, and so enthusiastic.’

  This time Julia, abandoning the poor old laird, came in with a response—they couldn’t have silence every time Professor Burbage was referred to.

  ‘What did he find there, Lady MacIan? Paintings, like Aurel Stein?—or just temples engulfed by sand?’

  ‘Oh my dear, I’m not sure what he found—but he said it was very important.’

  ‘How splendid!’ Julia responded, with an enthusiasm which she was far from feeling.

  They slept on board at Inch-Ian, and next day sailed southwards; they spent one night in a charming little anchorage below Oban; another day’s sailing saw them back at Glentoran. This was a place that Julia loved; all through her childhood and youth it had been a second home to her; there she had learned such Gaelic as she knew from the keepers and the old boatmen. She had planned to spend at least a fortnight there after the cruise ended. But now she was in such a fidget about the Professor—a fidget greatly augmented by Lady MacIan’s report that he had been on the Erinish Islands as well as at Callernish—that after a bare couple of days she said to her cousin,’ I think I must go back, Edina.’

  ‘To see Mrs. H. about the Prof.? May you talk to her about him?’

  ‘Up to a point. I have my sailing orders!’ Julia said, with a rather cheerless grin.

  ‘Oh, you take orders from him now, do you?’ Edina asked caustically.

  ‘In just the same way as Colin does, and in the same connection,’ Julia replied, with a certain irritation.

  ‘I can’t think why you don’t make them give you a salary, like they do Colin,’ her cousin said coolly. ‘I’m sure you’re quite as useful to them as he is—probably more.’

  ‘I don’t need money.’

  ‘Colin doesn’t need it either, since you rescued his Aglaia’s fortune in Switzerland,’ Edina replied airily. ‘She must be a multi-millionairess! Isn’t it extraordinary?—in the old days at Glentoran we were all such paupers, there wasn’t a penny for anything; and now Philip has oodles of money which he pours out on the place, and Colin is rich beyond the dreams.’

  ‘Well I’m very glad for darling Glentoran,’ Julia said. ‘But I think I’d better go to London.’

  Two days later Julia was back in her comfortable Chelsea flat; she had told the garage to send her car round. Drinking coffee after dinner, she rang up Mrs. Hathaway.

  ‘Mrs. H.? It’s me. Are you sleepy, or may I come round?’

  ‘When did you get back?’

  ‘This afternoon. Might I come along? Say if it’s too late.’

  ‘No. I’m longing to hear everything. And a kind acquaintance has just presented me with a bottle of rather superlative brandy.’

  Mrs. Hathaway’s flat was in Mayfair, most conveniently adjacent to a mews in which the wise old lady, by kindness and judicious tipping, had arranged that her friends could leave their cars—Julia ran her Dauphine in there, and was borne up in the lift to her godmother’s flat. On the way she had given some thought as to how to approach the subject of the Professor, and had decided more or less to let the scene play itself, apart from mentioning the meeting at Callernish; Mrs. Hathaway was far too astute to be ‘hooked’ in any way—and besides, she loved her too much to try on anything of that sort.

  The old lady began by asking her own questions. ‘How is poor Ellen?’ was the first. (Poor Ellen was Edina’s Mother, old Mrs. Monro.)

  ‘Quite fit, I thought; full of the usual grumbles, of course.’ Mrs. Hathaway laughed.

  ‘Well now, I got your first letter telling me about seeing the MacIans, and that you’d gone on to Tobermory—you interrupted it when you broke your boom. My dear child, what a performance, out in the open Atlantic!’

  ‘Yes, it was quite exciting. And then we went round to Stornoway on a try-sail; we sailed all night; it was rather lovely,’ the girl said. She was wondering when to mention Jamieson; it would be no good trying to conceal his presence altogether. She decided to leave that.

  ‘And in your second letter you told me that you had seen the Professor at Callernish,’ Mrs. Hathaway pursued.

  ‘Yes; he was just unearthing a cist, with the lid still on. Have you heard if he found anything in it?’

  ‘Oh yes indeed. He found a doubled-up skeleton, just what he hoped for, and two splendid beakers, and quantities of those melon-shaped beads, blue and yellow.’

  ‘I wish we’d seen that,’ Julia said, with genuine regret. Her old friend looked rather keenly at her.

  ‘He said you and Edina had a man with you, very good-looking, whom you were as good as engaged to,’ Mrs. Hathaway said. ‘Might one be told about this fortunate individual?’

  ‘Even the beloved Prof. can be a bit of a clot sometimes,’ Julia said, in a rather chilly voice—here they were at it, as far as the Colonel was concerned. ‘I told the Prof. he was only a boy-friend, and rather on appro at that.’ She was playing for time, and thinking hard while she did so. Should she tell Mrs. Hathaway the truth now, or go on stalling?

  ‘My dear child, you know I never want to force your confidence,’ Mrs. Hathaway said. ‘Of course don’t tell me anything you don’t wish to. But Professor Burbage said that this Mr. James was something in the City, and that didn’t sound quite like you, somehow. I should hate you to make another mistake.’

  The last words rather broke Julia. Mrs. Hathaway had been an unhappy witness of the one appalling mistake which Julia had made about her young men, when she gave most of her heart, out in Switzerland, to a man who had merely played with her—she had never forgotten her godmother’s supporting wisdom and consolation then. She decided to come clean at once.

  ‘His name isn’t James, and he isn’t in the City,’ she said. ‘He’s someone you know, and I believe rather like. The “Mr. James” and City part was just lies for the Prof.’s benefit’ She watched her old friend’s face carefully as she said this.

  To her dismay Mrs. Hathaway’s expression changed in an indefinable manner—suddenly she looked very old. She paused perceptibly before she spoke.

  ‘And why did you want to lie to the Professor?’ Her voice was rather cold. Julia also hesitated—at last she said:

  ‘Mrs. H., dearest, this is all utter misery. But obviously we’ve got to have it out. If you will tell me about the Prof.’s Russian digs, I’ll tell you why I lied to him.’

  Mrs. Hathaway’s splendid face looked older than ever; quite ravaged, suddenly.

  ‘How do you know that he ever did excavations in Russia?’ she asked.

  ‘Lady MacIan told us—I suppose he told her. I can’t think why I never heard about it before. He never published anything, did he?’

  ‘No.’ The old lady paused. ‘There were—difficulties—later,’ she said. ‘Oh, one should never trust the Russians!’ she exclaimed with sudden vehemence. ‘But he is so innocent—anyone can fool him, if they profess an interest in archaeology.’

  Julia was silent. At last—‘How wretched,’ she brought out sadly.

  ‘Unspeakably wretched. Living in torment for twenty-five years!’ Mrs. Hathaway said, still vehemently. Then, almost visibly, she took a pull on herself.

  ‘You promised to tell me why you lied to Professor Burbage,’ she said mea
suredly. ‘Was it because of his Russian excavations?’

  ‘No—we hadn’t heard about them when we met him; Lady MacIan only mentioned them when we put in to Inch-Ian the second time, on our way back from Stornoway to Glentoran.’

  ‘Then why?’

  Julia spoke carefully, remembering what the Colonel had said she might and might not say—oh, how hateful it was to have to be careful, talking to precious Mrs. H.!

  ‘The locals were suspicious of him—really in a rather nasty way,’ she said slowly. ‘You know the Lewes is Gaelic-speaking, and of course I nattered with them in what’s left of my Gaelic.’ She watched Mrs. Hathaway’s face carefully as she went on. ‘They said they thought he might be “an enemy”.’

  ‘That seems a very poor excuse for lying,’ Mrs. Hathaway said—‘just local gossip. And now may I know who the handsome “Mr. James” really is?’

  ‘Yes. Colonel Jamieson.’

  Mrs. Hathaway began to look old again—old, and a little frightened.

  ‘How came Philip Jamieson to be on your cruise?’ the old lady asked rather sharply.

  ‘We met him in Tobermory, and took him along—Captain Benson had been so sea-sick that he decided to go home,’ Julia said, not too happily. ‘Philip was delighted to have him, because he’s done so much ocean racing.’

  ‘And what was Philip—I mean Philip Jamieson—doing in Tobermory?’

  ‘Buying tweed in Robertson’s shop, when we ran into him,’ Julia said, with an attempt at lightness.

  The old lady looked keenly at the girl.

  ‘Julia, are you being completely frank with me? I know Colin was on the yacht—had he anything to do with Colonel Jamieson’s joining you?’

  It was hopeless to try to delude Mrs. Hathaway—Julia had known that for years.

  ‘Yes, Colin had something to do with it—but what, and why, I’m simply not going to tell you,’ the girl said. ‘I hate not being able to, dearest Mrs. H., but there it is.’ She paused. ‘What I can tell you is that we hadn’t even met the Prof. when Jamieson came up and joined us. And the boy-friend act was simply put on for the Skipper’s benefit,’ she added, rather unwisely.

  ‘Oh, so it is just an act? Well, he would be much more appropriate for you than a Mr. James in the City,’ Mrs. Hathaway said smiling. She rose rather slowly and carefully to her feet, as the old do, and went over to a tray on a table.

  ‘You haven’t had any brandy,’ she said, half-filling a delicate tulip-glass and handing it to her guest. ‘He sent me this the other day.’

  ‘Oh thank you. Do you see much of him?’ Julia asked, with genuine curiosity.

  ‘A certain amount. I like him,’ the old lady said, putting her own glass down on a small table before, again carefully, she reseated herself. ‘But I haven’t seen him since your trip—he just sent the brandy. A bribe, I expect,’ she added, with a fine smile.

  The smile relieved Julia.

  ‘I wish he’d bribe me like this,’ she said—‘it’s wonderful, Mrs. H.’

  ‘Ah, I daresay he will. It’s curious how most of your flames are so knowledgeable about food and drink—except poor Geoffrey,’ she added.

  ‘Geoffrey doesn’t know what he’s eating,’ Julia agreed. ‘But I am grateful to him for putting me on to Callernish.’ She described the circle and the avenue, and went into the question of West Highland crosses, and the possible connection between their shape and the great prehistoric monument. Mrs. Hathaway was interested in this.

  ‘Did you ask Professor Burbage about it?’ she asked.

  ‘Oh yes, of course. He thought it probably was the reason.’ How blessed it was to be talking about the Professor purely in connection with archaeology, the girl thought. But when she rose to go, the shadow which now hung between them concerning Burbage rose up again.

  ‘Shall you be seeing Colonel Jamieson?’ Mrs. Hathaway asked.

  ‘Not that I know of. He did go so far as to ask for my address, and I gave him the Club.’

  ‘Ah well, I expect he will follow you up,’ the old lady said, with a rather half-hearted smile. ‘Bless you, my dear child.’ She asked for no assurances, and Julia offered none.

  The Colonel did follow Julia up. The following morning there was a telephone call from her Club. ‘Miss Probyn? A letter has just been delivered for you by hand, marked Very Urgent. What would you like us to do with it? Is there any chance of your looking in today?’

  Julia collected the letter; she read it in a big room with chintzy armchairs. ‘I told you I might need you,’ he wrote, ‘And I think I do. When can we meet, and where? The sooner the better—could you telephone? You know the number.’

  Julia’s Club possessed antique and therefore completely soundproof telephone-boxes; she rang up from there—in the flat Mrs. Titmuss could overhear everything. Through to Colin’s familiar office-number—‘Colonel Jamieson, please,’ she said.

  The usual adenoidal teenage voice said, ‘Just one moment, please,’ and Julia was promptly put through to a different voice which said, in reply to her request—‘I’m not absolutely sure if he’s in. Was he expecting you to ring him up?’

  ‘Yes; he sent me a note by hand this morning, asking me to ring him up urgently. My name is Miss Probyn.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ said the voice. ‘Will you excuse me while I find out?’

  Julia had not realised that the British Intelligence Service normally provides people of Jamieson’s seniority with these charming and high-powered secretaries—she was agreeably surprised. A moment later—with a little knock of pleasure at the sound of his voice—she heard Jamieson say:

  ‘Hullo, my dear. How good of you to ring up at once. Now, where can I see you?’

  ‘Well I’m free at drinks-time this evening.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘What about my Club?’

  ‘A little public, perhaps,’ the man said.

  ‘Then come to my flat.’ She gave him the address. ‘What time? Six-thirty? All right. How did you know I was back?’ she added.

  ‘I didn’t know. I guessed you would be.’ He rang off.

  ‘What a nice place this is,’ Colonel Jamieson said that evening, strolling to the windows of Julia’s drawing-room, which looked out onto the gardens of Chelsea Hospital, green and spacious, with the river beyond.

  ‘Yes.’ But she was still in a fret about the Professor and Mrs. Hathaway. ‘What did you want to see me about?’ she asked, rather nervously; she had been upset by his guess that she would have returned so soon.

  His answer surprised her.

  ‘Have you any friends in Ireland? That’s the next place on the order-paper.’

  ‘What part of Ireland?’

  ‘The County Mayo—possibly the County Clare too.’

  ‘I can’t do much about Clare. I know several people in Mayo, though. Where is your new suspect spot?’

  ‘Probably on Clare Island.’

  ‘Oh, such a sweet place!’ the girl exclaimed.

  ‘Well, will you go on helping me?’ Jamieson asked. ‘You see it would be very desirable that I should go out there as a friend of somebody’s, and of course draw on your local knowledge. You know the island itself?’

  ‘Yes, backwards. The O’Haras live almost opposite to it, and we go over now and again in their motor-launch.’ Julia was so relieved that he didn’t seem to want to catechise her about Mrs. Hathaway that she felt quite gay—and it was extraordinarily delightful to be with him again.

  ‘Well, when do you want to go? It will take a few days to organise, of course,’ she said.

  ‘Do you think you could get something settled for the latter part of next week?’

  Julia considered.

  ‘Today’s Thursday, and we’ve missed tonight’s post, so they won’t get my letter till Monday. Let me think.’

  ‘I can get your letter in to catch tonight’s post, if you write it while I’m here.’

  ‘How? Oh well, I suppose you can have it flown by a special plane to Collinsto
wn!’ She laughed and paused, still thinking. Then—‘Don’t let’s rush this,’ Julia said. ‘We’ve got to plan it out properly from the start. What’s your cover-story to be?’

  ‘Archaeology?’

  ‘There’s not a lot of that on Clare Island; the principal things are post-mediaeval. What about birds? Fulmars started nesting there a few years ago.’

  ‘I’m better at archaeology than birds,’ the Colonel said.

  ‘Oh well, you’ll have to do some home-work! Get James Fisher’s book and mug up Fulmars.’

  ‘Title?’

  ‘I can’t remember. Go to the London Library, and just ask for Fisher on Fulmars.’

  The Colonel took out his little notebook and jotted this down, while Julia went on thinking about how to arrange this expedition.

  ‘I don’t think I shall ask Lady Helen to put you up at Ros-trunk,’ she said. ‘That would be over-stressing things. You’d better stay at the Oldport Hotel—it’s quite good, and only about six miles away. Then you can flip to and fro in your hire-car.’

  ‘Where shall I get a hire-car?’

  ‘Oh, from Shamus Moran in Oldport—such a charmer!’

  The Colonel digested all this. It was clear to him that Julia was extremely well-informed on this fresh locale—which was very lucky for him. But he had one or two questions to ask.

  ‘Does booking a room at Oldport mean a second letter?’ he asked, glancing at his watch.

  ‘Oh no—Helen will do that.’ Julia went over to her walnut escritoire, took out a sheet of writing-paper, and began to scrawl on it in her big clear hand.

  ‘Who is Lady Helen?’ Jamieson asked.

  ‘Michael O’Hara’s wife—she was a Glamorgan,’ Julia replied, scribbling away. ‘She’s an R.C., so she gets on marvellously with the locals.’ She put down her pen, and turned to her guest. ‘If you’re going to Ireland, you might as well realise the source of its tragedy,’ she said. ‘In all other European countries the landed gentry have acted as a sort of lever, to raise the standards of living among the country population. But not in Ireland. There “the Ascendancy”, the landlords, are English and Protestant, alien in race and faith; so the locals just won’t listen to them. That’s why rural Ireland is the way it is.’