“So this,” broke in Mel, too excited to bother about the common courtesies, “is the crown they’d use to crown a Jacobite king!”
Philomena stared at her. “The Scottish Crown isn’t worn any longer, Miss Forby, even by the monarch at a coronation. More’s the pity, some might say—but you don’t want me to start lecturing you about the Act of Union, do you?”
“Is it anything to do with the Jacobites?” enquired Mel, with a wary note in her voice.
Philomena smiled. “Some might say yes; others might say no. You have Jacobites on the brain, it seems.”
“What did you mean,” asked Mel, ignoring this second try as she’d ignored the first, “when you said there were local connections? I thought you just meant the blackbird.”
“Or rook, or crow, or raven. But no, I had in mind more the background to the bird, and the rock on which it perches so . . . so regally, yes, I grant you that. But the hills there—lightly sketched, it’s true, but I’d know them anywhere.”
“Scone,” said Mel, as Miss Beigg hesitated, looking just once more at the drawing before committing herself. “Well, somewhere near Perth, anyway,” she amended, as Philomena favoured her with a puzzled look.
“Now, what can have put such an idea in your head? This range of hills is nothing like the scenery around Perth—to say it is misleading you sorely. I’ve walked the moors and mountains of Glenclachan for miles around since I was a child, Miss Forby. I know them as well as anyone, or I did in my youth. But I could never forget them, no matter how long it might be since I walked them—as walk them I have, I assure you. I could take you there . . .”
She stopped, and stared again at the drawing, then, with an odd expression in her eyes, at Mel. “I could take you to the exact spot where you might stand and look at the selfsame view, Miss Forby—though I doubt if you’d find it as peaceful and still as this drawing suggests. If hordes of sightseers aren’t swarming everywhere, that will only be because the police haven’t yet finished their investigation—oh, yes”—as Mel jumped—“this looks to me very much like the place where the body of Ewen Campbell was found.”
As a cold, invisible hand stroked a finger along Mel’s spine, a shadow darkened the little kitchen of Philomena’s cottage. Miss Beigg looked up. “The forecast was right,” she said. “The clouds are gathering—we could well be in for another storm.”
You don’t know the half of it, thought Mel. For storm, read tempest—read turbulence—read turmoil—read Miss Emily Dorothea Seeton . . .
“It can’t be coincidence,” she said aloud, looking more worried than Philomena would have expected anyone to be on learning that her proposed sight-seeing excursion might be blighted by the presence of others. “Miss Beigg—this may sound a little odd, but . . . I wouldn’t want . . . anyone at the hotel . . . to overhear . . . and I need to talk to someone in rather a hurry. Could I possibly use your telephone? For a local call,” she added.
“But not for the weather forecast, I take it,” replied Philomena dryly. She glanced out of the window. “There’s more than a breeze blowing now, and worse to come, I’d say. Let me show you to the telephone, Miss Forby; come through to the hall, and I’ll shut the door so that you can talk in private. But I hope that you’ll see fit at some point to let me know what’s been going on . . .”
In normal times, it was Armorel McScurrie who answered—insisted on answering—the telephone at MacSporran Castle. These times, however, were not normal. As soon as she was warned that the builders would be coming to repair the damaged roof, Mrs. McScurrie had without words made very plain her lack of faith in the ability of her employers to superintend proceedings unaided. She was now up with Ranald and the foreman in the portrait turret, listening to every proposal the wretched man made, demanding the likely cost and the length of time it would take, and priding herself that, without her, the family would be helpless.
It was therefore Liusaidh who informed Mel that it was not possible for her to speak to Miss Seeton at present. “She’s not here, Miss Forby. She must have woken up early, and gone off somewhere without telling anyone—I’m afraid I’ve no idea where she might be, though I’m sure she’ll be back before long.”
“Gone off somewhere? Without leaving a message? That’s not like Miss S.” The chilly trickle of anxiety which had caressed Mel’s spine was turning into a steady flow. “She’s the politest little person you’ll meet in a hundred years. She must have told somebody!”
Liusaidh politely reiterated that she had not, and Mel found that her throat needed clearing before she could say, “But I . . . I have a—an important message for her, and . . .”
“The weather’s changing for the worse, Miss Forby, and Miss Seeton’s a sensible soul. I shouldn’t think she’s gone very far—probably down into the village for another chat with Philomena Beigg. She was quite taken with—”
“No,” broke in Mel, “because that’s where I am, and she isn’t. I’m worried about her, Lady Glenclachan.”
And, when Mel had reminded her of a few selected facts about Miss Seeton, Liusaidh was worried, too.
“Now,” said Alexander, “gather round—and not a word from any until I’ve finished . . .”
He cleared his throat again, then swept the hut with his gaze. “Listen,” he began.
“Listen!” From the conspirator nearest the door came a quick gesture for silence. “There’s someone outside!”
Everyone froze. Nobody spoke.
And everyone heard—heard a cheerful, off-key piping voice proclaim, “I wouldn’t leave my little wooden hut for you-hoo! I’ve got one lover and I don’t want two-hoo . . .” Though the sun was perhaps not as bright as it had been, the day remained delightful, and Miss Seeton’s delights did not always find full expression in her sketches or paintings. When there was nobody around to make her self-conscious, she would warble away to her heart’s content, whether or not she could remember all the words.
There was a pause while (unseen by those inside the hut) Miss Seeton negotiated a particularly uneven portion of the track. Then, tidy-minded as ever, she began her song again. “I wouldn’t leave my little wooden hut for you-hoo . . .”
She was much closer now. To the tense conspirators, her song sounded like a warning. She knew they were there.
“She’s got to be stopped,” said Alexander.
chapter
~25~
“THERE’S NOBODY WITH her,” reported the man near the door, having peeped cautiously through a crack in the planking.
“Then she’s easy enough dealt with,” said Alexander. His colleagues exchanged glances.
“Mebbe she’ll not venture inside,” breathed someone, in a hopeful whisper.
“She will,” Alexander assured him, grim-faced. “Where’s the wits you were born with, man? If she knows we’re here—which seemingly she must—then what woman’s going to walk away? Not to mention the clouds building up, and a storm likely, and this the only shelter for miles . . .”
Everyone listened again as that happy warbling drew ever closer. Alexander was right: she was coming straight to the hut—coming to find them . . . coming to find what they’d all brought to the hut and placed in the middle of the floor . . .
“A tarpaulin,” cried someone in desperation. There was a frantic scuffle as everybody tried to search for something they knew wasn’t there, tripping over everybody else as they did so. They found nothing.
“She’ll have to be dealt with,” said Alexander. “Angus, you and Archie stand either side of the door, and when she pushes it open one of you hit her on the heid and the other catch her as she falls. Alistair—”
“Hit her on the heid?” Angus was appalled. “It’s one thing to set bombs to explode at a safe distance, but—”
“We’ve nothing to hit her with,” objected Archie. With a growl of fury, Alexander bent down to snatch a length of metal pipe from the pile of miscellaneous objects in front of him. “What’s wrong with this?” he snapped, and thrus
t it into Archie’s startled grasp. “Hurry up, man!”
Archie was weighing the weapon thoughtfully in his hand as the next report came from the door. “Why, that’s yon wee body who found the laird’s baby!”
There was a rush to elbow the reporter out of the way; people found knotholes and cracks through which to peer, and everyone recognised the laird’s visitor. “Glenclachan will no’ be pleased,” someone muttered.
There was silence.
“This pipe’s too heavy,” said Archie, dropping it back on the miscellaneous heap. “Angus—when she comes in, I’ll take hold of her while you grab for her binoculars. A wee tap from them in their leather case and she’ll be out like a lamb, and no real harm done . . .”
“There’ll be harm enough done if she recognises any of us,” pointed out Alexander, as Angus and Archie moved to take up their positions beside the door and everyone else moved well away from them. The two ambushers glared first at the speaker, and then at their colleagues. “One wee old woman,” muttered Angus, as the singing drew ever closer. “Archie, suppose I take hold of her while you—”
“Wheesht, man!” The singing, and Miss Seeton, were upon them, as her foot was upon the step, her hand upon the door handle, her eye upon the curious knotholes of the wood . . .
And as she finally pushed open the door to step inside, the last thing she saw before encountering oblivion was, to her surprise, a knothole that almost seemed to wink at her.
“Do you think,” suggested Liusaidh, “that we should alert the mountain rescue people, or the police? No, surely not the police,” before Mel had time to reply. “She’s a very sensible little soul. I can’t believe—though she doesn’t realise, of course, just how quickly Highland weather can change . . .”
“Sounds as if you’re trying to convince yourself as much as I’m trying to convince myself,” said Mel, with a nervous giggle. “But she wouldn’t thank us—well, she would, but she’d be so embarrassed—if we sent out the search parties when we aren’t one hundred per cent sure . . .”
Then inspiration dawned. “Lady Glenclachan—Miss Beigg says she knows the area as well as anyone. How about if you drove us there, and we could, well, take a look around?”
“I’ll be at the cottage within ten minutes,” Liusaidh promised, and rang off. Mel stared at the silent receiver in her hand, then replaced it on the cradle with a shake of the head and went back to the kitchen to talk to Philomena.
Twenty minutes later, the MacSporrans’ Land Rover had left the road and was bouncing across that uneven ground which Miss Seeton had traversed just two days before. “She followed the track for part of the time, she told me, and then went along beside the burn towards the crag,” said the countess, doing her best to steer a comfortable path. “But whether she’d take exactly the same route today—if she’s even here . . .”
“It’s the best we can do,” Mel reminded her, “for the present. When the weather gets too bad”—staring at the sky—“or, well, whatever, we’ll get the professionals in. But for now, if we keep our eyes peeled . . .”
Four plebeian eyes were peeled full-time, while another, aristocratic pair fastened on the road ahead, from time to time snatching a wider view. Whenever she looked up, Liusaidh pressed on the horn, short sharp blasts, a signal borne by the gusting breeze in all directions; otherwise, it was in a tense silence that the Land Rover arrived at the foot of the waterfall.
“This is the place,” said Philomena firmly, and, though the sky was overcast now and the light grown dim, Mel knew it for the view shown by Miss Seeton in her sketch.
“Can we get up that slope?” she demanded, but Liusaidh had already thrust the lever into first gear, and with a grinding rumble and a clatter of stones they made their slow way to the top of the waterfall. It was not an easy climb—they had rocks and boulders in their path which had to be circumnavigated, and broken scree rattled under the wheels, making them skid—but they reached the top at last.
Once more Liusaidh let the engine idle. Six eyes stared round. “She could be anywhere,” said Mel, looking in dismay at the scattered rocks, gnarled trees, tangles of scrub, and—worst of all—fissures in the ground which she could see in all directions. “And it’s starting to rain . . .”
Liusaidh punched the horn once again—and again. There came no response; even the birds, mindful of the approaching storm, had taken shelter. “Which is maybe what she’s done, too,” suggested Liusaidh, hopefully.
“Or maybe she’s fallen down one of those cracks and hurt herself,” said Mel, wriggling her way into the oilskin Philomena had lent her back at the cottage. “If we all go in different directions . . .”
They all went in different directions, taking care never to be out of sight or hearing of one another, calling—calling Miss Seeton’s name, calling their lack of success, calling encouragement through the now pouring rain, their words ripped away by the wind.
And then came the first bolt of lightning.
Mel, no country girl, yelped, though it was miles away, the thunder which followed it countable seconds later a low growl, not the sharp overhead crack which warns of immediate danger. Suddenly, she had had enough. Dripping, her shoes soaked, her voice hoarse, her hair plastered over her face, she felt she could do no more.
And the others felt the same. As she looked round, she saw Lady Glenclachan and Philomena Beigg making, as she was, for the safety of the Land Rover. One by one, they reached it and climbed in.
“I’d better not drive in this,” Liusaidh shouted, almost inaudible above the rattle of rain on the metal roof. “Once the storm’s blown over, I’ll feel safer. No sense in taking the risk!” They had done all they could; the wind, now near gale force, was hurling the clouds across the sky in furious tatters, taking the tempest with it. And, on the distant horizon, the thin, pale herald of calmer skies to come . . .
Another javelin of vivid light ripped the heavens apart, accompanied by a doomsday clash of thunder directly above their heads. Mel yelped again, but this time not alone, and the Land Rover rocked on its springs as the ground shuddered beneath them.
In weather like this, what hope had Miss Seeton?
It was just starting to rain as the conspirators, with their captive bundled unconscious into a concealment of jackets, knew they must abandon their meeting place. They had supposed that, with the hut’s being so new, nobody would remember its existence; and they had been proved uncomfortably wrong. Far better to cut their losses, and make for a safer place, there to assemble . . . the Device, as everyone referred to it in hushed tones; there also to make some decision about their unexpected captive.
“She knows too much,” said Alexander. “She should be . . . should be . . . we should stop her saying aught to a soul.”
“What can she say,” objected Angus, “considering she was tapped senseless before she’d laid eyes on any of us?”
“Tie her up and leave her where she could struggle free, after a while,” suggested Archie. “We’ll have . . . have done the deed by then, and no harm to her.”
“We could telephone a message to the police where she’s to be found,” said Alistair. “Or—well, mebbe not to the police”—as everyone looked at him—“but to Glenclachan or his guid lady—they’ll be worrying about her,” and he gave the swaddled, sleeping form of Miss Seeton a pat. Alexander snorted.
“We’ve more to worry about this day than one auld woman, remember! We’ll carry her away with us before anybody else arrives to take shelter from the rain—and, for aught we know otherwise, it wasnae the shelter she was seeking at all so much as—as us. We cannae take the risk. She’ll have to be . . . silenced.”
“We’ve no time to argue about it now,” Alistair said, in a voice he tried to make firm. “We’ll get everything out to the cars first, and decide then what’s best to do. So long as she’s not left here to bear witness . . .”
“Before the rain grows heavier,” said Archie, and everyone in the hut, even Alexander, agreed. Every
one save Miss Seeton, that is. She was still unconscious, breathing with heavy, though regular, gasps through several thicknesses of jacket. Whenever she gave a particularly loud snuffle, anxious glances shot towards her shapeless form and people listened hard, without wishing to show that they did, until the next, reassuring breath was heard.
“To the van with her, before it rains harder,” commanded Alexander, though this proved more easily said than done. They had come to the shelter one by one, in separate vehicles; there was more than one from which to choose, and the choice was not quickly made. Explosives could leave traces—and so could a body, whether conscious or not.
“She’s no’ dead yet,” Alexander reminded everyone sharply. “Havers, the pack of you! She’s wrapped up tidy enough in there—loosen those wraps, now, so the air can reach her better—but who’s to say a man cannae wear his own jacket in his own car, and a friend or two with him . . .”
Eventually, the choice was made. Miss Seeton was to go in one vehicle, the largest van: why crowd the puir woman any more than was needful? Half the components of . . . the Device would go in another, half in one of the cars, and the remaining conspirators separately. The blame—that was to say the glory, Alexander corrected himself hastily—to be shared by as many as possible.
The burden, too, was shared by as many men as could comfortably assist in the carrying of one small, blanketed form out of the hut, through the falling rain, and towards the little hollow masked by trees where the conspiratorial cars were parked. They took care that Miss Seeton remained the right way up throughout the journey, and there was almost a squabble over who should hold her head steady. It shouldn’t need two, Alexander pointed out tartly; but he was ignored.
Miss Seeton Rocks the Cradle (A Miss Seeton Mystery Book 13) Page 20