by Larry Stuart
the country,’ shouted Rob, when Cameron casually strolled through the door into the Kings Head.
‘You all must know what it be like when you’re dealin’ with the in-laws. I was thinkin’ I would never get away…and I ended up havin’ to take the later train. Still, I be here now …and best of all… there be no one at home to give me an earful if I come home late…or drunk.’
Two hours later the door of the inn banged open, as a wet, dishevelled and out of breath regular stumbled into the room.
‘Och…did ye hear the news! There be a landslide on the Balvenie road north of Dufftown. Apparently, it happened just as Malcolm Campbell’s son were headin’ home from church. From what Ah been hearin’, the coach and horses got swept down the hill into the Spey…an both Donald Campbell an the rig’s driver be missin’.’
Cameron was stunned. Initially, the room went quiet as the news sank in. But before long, the previous noise and commotion returned, the general feeling seeming to be that they were sorry for the boy, but it was nothing to do with them. However, in Cameron’s mind the questions and concerns were not so easily dispelled. Why wasn’t Malcolm Campbell in the carriage? What the hell was his son doing in it? If the rumours were correct then it had all gone horribly wrong.
‘Come on, Cameron...have another. We no gonny make ye pay for all the drinks, ye know,’ chuckled Rob.
Cameron forced a sheepish grin across his face, but deep down inside he felt bile beginning to rise into his throat. The situation he’d put himself into was now much more serious than he’d contemplated. Malcolm Campbell would leave no stone unturned as he tried to discover what happened to his son. More than ever, the rest of his plan must work flawlessly, as it was now the only thing keeping him from the hangman’s noose.
An intense ray of sunshine found its way through the crack in the curtains, warming the right side of Cameron’s face. At the same time, the savoury aroma of frying bacon found its way up the stairs and into his nostrils. As his eyes slowly opened, they scanned the wall at the foot of the bed, eventually focusing on Mary’s favourite painting of the Cairngorms at Aviemore. From that moment on, he knew this wasn’t a dream, and he prepared himself for the pain which he knew must surely come.
Having crept gently down the stairs, Cameron snuck up behind Mary, slipping his hands around her waist before kissing her on the back of the neck.
‘Cameron…no, or I might be burnin’ maself!’
Gazing over her shoulder, his juices began to flow at the sight of the two thick rashers of bacon sharing a sizzling pan of fat with an egg and a huge chunk of bread.
‘Mary, you be too good to me. But can we afford all this?’
‘Well…I bought you the egg as a treat for being so nice to ma parents, and the bacon
was a leavin’ present from Mr McCarthy at the shop.’
‘Greet…Anyway, how come you be home so early? I thought you be catchin’ the late morning train?’
‘I did,’ said Mary, with a grin on her face.
‘I suppose you been hearin’ ’bout the landslide over near Dufftown yesterday? The news is all over the village. Kind of sad for Malcolm Campbell. Mind you…it would have been him if he’d no been home in bed with some illness or other.’
‘Aye…well it wouldn’t exactly have broken my heart if it had been him.’
‘Shush, Cameron. You should no say things like that. Mr Leith said they were startin’ to clear the road today…but most people think it will be some time before they get it open.’
For Cameron, the next two days couldn’t pass quickly enough. He was terrified of being found out, but at the same time knew how important it was for him to look and act as normal as possible. Each day more news filtered through from the site of the disaster. As expected, the authorities’ immediate concern was to clear the road and recover the bodies. But so much of the hillside had come down that a dam had been created, extending halfway across the River Spey. Owing to this, nearly a hundred extra men had been drafted in from all over the area to try and remove the impediment to the river’s normal flow.
The longest three days of Cameron’s life finally ended. Just after sunrise on the 20th of April, he and Mary loaded their worldly possessions into a horse-drawn cart for the short trip to the station. Although they hadn’t lived on Chapel Street for all that long, a crowd of well wishers turned out to see them off – with some men even jostling each other to shake Cameron’s hand. Once the crowd finally dispersed, Mr Leith stepped forward.
‘Do ye know why so many people turned out today, Cameron? Sure, they be wantin’ to say goodbye…but ’tis also ’cause of what ye two are doin’. Nearly everyone here wishes they had the bottle, or the years left, to take advantage of the opportunity to start a new life. So, make the most of it, Cameron…because not only are ye takin’ our best wishes, but ye’re takin’ our dreams as well.’
The Stewarts did not look back, nor did they speak, as they were slowly driven away towards the station; and as Mary’s two small hands anxiously balled into fists in her lap, Cameron’s strong right hand reached over and gently encompassed them.
Upon reaching the station, the two slowly followed the porter and their baggage. As they strolled out onto platform one, Mary’s stalwart appearance finally cracked, as standing on the platform, with tears streaming down her face, was Annie.
The two rushed forward, wrapping their arms around each other and weeping openly, both seemingly oblivious to the furtive looks of the other people around them, who quickly turned away.
Cameron and Rob stood awkwardly to one side. But then, as the departure time drew near, Rob solemnly turned to Cameron to shake his hand.
‘Thanks for everythin’, Cameron. I’ll ne’er forget what ye did for me. Let me know
when ye be runnin’ yer own railroad out there…an maybe Ah will come out an give ye a hand.’
The guard’s whistle blew, followed by his loud beckoning announcement; after which, Cameron took Mary’s arm and encouraged her towards the waiting train.
Soon, they had settled themselves into facing seats alongside a window on the platform side of the carriage. As Mary waved goodbye with one hand, the other, containing a small white handkerchief, dabbed at the corners of her eyes. And as the train began to move, she mouthed the words I’ll write to you through the glass.
Annie, now supported around the waist by one of Rob’s arms, looked inconsolable, as her shoulders shuddered and tears cascaded down her face.
On Tuesday the 21st April, Detective Inspector Jamieson sat behind the desk he’d commandeered in the police station in Dufftown. He’d arrived two days before, having been sent from Edinburgh to run the inquiry into the two deaths.
Although he had just passed his first half-century, most people assumed the Inspector was much younger. He was of medium height and very fit – not surprising really, as he believed in a daily exercise routine which included a three mile run each morning – and he was endowed with a full head of dark-brown hair, whose slight greying where it met his temple was the only hint of his actual age.
The Inspector’s right thumb and index finger slowly twisted the end of his handlebar moustache, while with his other hand he turned the pages of the file on his desk. Within twenty-four hours of his arrival, he had already decided that the theory of this being an accident was highly unlikely.
‘Very questionable,’ he murmured, before his concentration was broken by a knock on the door.
‘Och…come in.’
A nervous looking Constable Stevenson stood in the open doorway, holding a small, cloth sack in his right hand.
‘Begin’ yer pardon, Sir. Ah was asked to bring ye this.’
‘Bring it here, then…Now…what have we here?’ he said, upending the bag onto his paper strewn desk.
A cylindrical object about eight inches in length tumbled out in front of him.
‘Thank you, constable...just wait outside. Ah’ll be there shortly.’
The constab
le seemed blissfully unaware of what he’d been asked to carry, but D.I. Jamieson knew exactly what it was – it was the proof he’d been waiting for to confirm his suspicions.
Within a short time of his arrival at the scene of the landslide, the Inspector had had his doubts about Nature’s involvement. To start with, the area had been rocky with very little over-lying earth, and the trees that had been ripped from the ground were mainly of the deep-rooted variety, such as ash, birch and oak – which should have made the earth more stable, not less. The other detail striking the D.I. as being rather odd was that the road itself had not collapsed, when inundated from above by tons of rubble.
However, his suspicions had now been confirmed. The unexploded stick of dynamite was the final piece of the evidence. He now knew this was no accident. All that was left to do was catch the perpetrator; and so far, his investigations had led him in the direction of only one man.
In most cases of homicide, the person responsible came from a fairly close group of antagonists, or was in fact a close relative of the deceased. He had found no evidence suggesting that a family member was involved, but, there was no shortage of well-documented ill will between Morris Stewart and Malcolm Campbell. His recent review of Morris Stewart’s death suggested foul play may well have taken place. So, the oldest motive for murder – namely revenge – fitted rather neatly into this case, leaving Morris Stewart’s son as the most obvious suspect.
It hadn’t taken long for him to discover that Cameron Stewart worked for the railway, giving him easy access to transportation between Dufftown and Huntly. And his enquiries soon confirmed that the GNSR were the only company using explosives in this area which, as it turned out, Mr Stewart would have had unfettered access to. Add to these facts the information that Mr Stewart and his wife just happened to have left yesterday to emigrate to Australia, and the case looked pretty conclusive.
The Inspector rose from his desk and hurried from his office. Sitting behind the reception desk was the portly sergeant, who at just that moment was placing a rather large oatcake into his mouth.
‘Sergeant Boyd…when you’ve finished stuffing yer mouth…I’d like you and the constable to get on a train and go to Campbeltown. There’s a ship there called the “Lady Elgin”, sailing for Australia at some time today. On board you should find the two Stewarts…Cameron and Mary. I want them arrested and brought back, immediately!’
‘Ah doubt we be gettin’ there before it sails, Inspector,’ replied the sergeant, sweeping the crumbs off his tunic with the back of his fingers.
‘Well, if you don’t shift yer fat arse you probably won’t…now move it!’
Twenty minutes later, Sergeant Boyd and Constable Stevenson stood at the ticket window in the station.
‘Let me see…now,’ the agent murmured, running his finger up and down the pages of three different books of timetables. ‘It appears ye may just be lucky. That train outside is leavin’ in five minutes for Aberdeen. On arrival there ye will have about fifteen minutes to catch the express to Glasgow. Then…let me see…aye …then there be a good connection for ye to Tarbert.’
‘But we be goin’ to Campbeltown,’ Sergeant Boyd insisted, rather brusquely.
‘Ah know…but there be no train service to Campbeltown. At Tarbert ye catch the mail coach to Campbeltown. If yer trains are all on time ye shud just catch the last coach of the day.’
Sergeant Boyd was not a happy man. Ahead of him lay a long day with no guarantee
of a good result at the end. And his impatience increased and his mood darkened, as it now seemed to take an eternity to issue the required tickets.
‘There ye be, sergeant. These tickets will take ye both to Tarbert...courtesy of the railway. Then, just produce yer badges at t’other end for the return.’
‘Tell me,’ the sergeant said, as he reached forward to grasp the tickets. ‘Ah bin hearin’ there may be a restaurant car on the express from Aberdeen to Glasgow. Do ye know if they serve ale as well?’
‘Ah’m sorry, Sergeant. But Ah’m afraid that carriage is only available to first class passengers,’ the agent replied, placing a hand in front of his face to hide his mirth.
The trip from Dufftown to Tarbert traversed some of the most beautiful scenery in Scotland. Starting in the Highlands, the line wound its way down to the coast at Aberdeen. Then, exiting the city, it followed the coastline to Dundee and Perth, before turning southwest towards Glasgow. After another change of trains, the final leg of the journey was via a new line, running northwest from the Clyde to Tarbert.
Constable Stevenson was enthralled, having never been further than fifty miles from his birthplace in Rothiemay. The line descended from the Highlands using the river valleys. Icy streams, just awakened from their long winter sleep, tumbled through wooded glens, whilst higher up, crumbling crofts and ruined castles competed with mammals and birds to catch the eye. Approaching Aberdeen, the vista changed to one of dark, decrepit buildings, and a seemingly endless number of vulnerable human beings, huddled beside small fires in the waste ground alongside the tracks – their only possessions appearing to be the filthy blankets around their shoulders and the few bits of wood shaped into some kind of shelter.
Soon they were on their way again. The express train sped on its way, paralleling the eastern shoreline of Scotland. Breathtaking seascapes of windblown dunes, and tiny fishing boats pitching and rolling as they hauled their nets, accompanied them to Perth. Then, once more turning inland, they weaved their way through the spring-awakened lowlands, the colours becoming brighter the further south they ventured. But it was the last part of their journey that, to Constable Stevenson, was the most memorable. The West Highland Line, from Glasgow to Tarbert, took them through “the garden of Scotland”, where nature was already in full bloom due to the wondrous influence of the warming Gulf Stream.
Inevitably in life, a kind of equilibrium is usually maintained. And to the dismay of the Constable, competing with all this beauty was the nausea of having to listen to Sergeant Boyd’s litany of complaints. His main displeasure was the unavailability of the restaurant car to lowly second-class passengers like themselves. But as the journey wore on, even he tired of those complaints, so turned his vitriol to the train itself; and the purported damage being done to his spine, and rather large posterior, by the least forgiving seats he’d ever had the displeasure to sit on.
Finally, after five and a half hours of enchanting scenery – and never-ending whining – the two policemen arrived in Tarbert.
With only minutes to spare, they hurried from the station, rounding the corner at the post office to where they had been told the mail coach normally waited. In front of them stood the strangest transport either of them had ever set eyes on. Four wheels, two small at the front and two large at the rear, supported a large, gaily-painted, wooden carriage. Like most normal coaches, a passenger door was fitted to each side, but what made this coach so strange was its roof, which, although correctly sloping upwards from front to rear, had built onto it two rows of bench seats – each fitted with curved metal arm rests at either end. On approaching the contraption, it became readily apparent that the coach was about to depart, as the driver was already seated at the right end of the front seat, reins in his hands.
The lead pair of horses snorted, and shook their heads with impatience, as Constable Stevenson jumped in front of them and raised his hand.
‘Excuse me, driver. Be this the coach to Campbeltown?’
‘Aye…that it be,’ the driver responded, ‘and if ye want a lift ye had better get up here…’cause Ah have a schedule to keep.’
CHAPTER TWELVE
Mary stood on the quarterdeck, her cold hands grasping the teak rail with such force that her knuckles were white; while at the same time, two moist trails on her pale, quivering cheeks revealed the state of her emotions. In her heart, she was determined to stay in Scotland, but in her mind she knew it was too late. She still couldn’t believe he had betrayed her so, and failed to
understand how she could have so badly misread the man she loved.
The gusty wind suddenly abated. Mary sensed movement beside her, and then tensed as she became aware of Cameron’s encircling arm. Neither spoke. Mary wrestled with alien emotions; while Cameron struggled with an increasing sense of anxiety, the longer they remained attached to the shore.
The frenetic life around them seemed to pass unnoticed, as both appeared oblivious to the cacophony of noise. Dozens of small boats scurried about the harbour. At the same time hundreds of people hurried in every direction on the worn and rubbish-strewn quay, amazingly none stumbling or falling over the ropes, boxes and other obstacles lying in their way. Amidst all this mayhem, goods of all descriptions weaved their way to their destinations on donkey-carts and all other manner of two-wheeled conveyances, while hansom cabs and coaches stopped at various ships’ gangways to discharge their human cargo.