Rum Affair

by Dorothy Dunnett

  “I can look after myself,” I said. They were wheeling forward the harp.

  “So I see. We’ve had a message from Glasgow,” said Johnson. “Permission to sail for Rodel, at last. What else of interest occurred on Vallida?”

  They had taken the harp cover off, and someone was tuning the strings against a guitar. The pedals clattered and knocked. I wondered what his expression would be if I said: “I’ve found Chigwell’s murderer.” Mild congratulations, probably: no more. But I couldn’t risk it. I had bought Kenneth’s safety, I hoped. I wasn’t going to put any strain on Johnson’s problematical conscience, and have all that good work undone. For, apart from anything else, if Gold-tooth were picked up, another would just take his place. Another, or the other. It took two to operate that trick with the mine. It took two, come to think of it, to get me on Duke Buzzy’s yacht. Then the harp tuning stopped, there was a clattering of chairs, and the Macneils settled down to perform. They turned out to be one of the coolest harp, guitar and tenor sax combos I had heard outside Harlem. Bald-headed Lena belted out over Castlebay, Barra, and no one seemed surprised except me.

  I knew the long-distance halves of the bifocals were watching. After an interval, when they had to break off to retune the harp, Johnson remarked: “Don’t underrate them. Duncan’s Peggy has reared a surgeon, a police chief and a Minister of State besides Rupert. Education in the Highlands, you ought to know, is a sectarian rite.”

  I shifted my chair back a little. “What did you say?”

  “I said Rupert’s mother isn’t the only one to be proud of her sons.”

  “I can’t hear you. I thought you called Duncan’s Peggy Rupert’s mother.”

  “If I did,” he replied. “Duncan’s Peggy ought to have mentioned it. But she’s annoyed with him for throwing over one of his girlfriends that she liked, and when he displeases her, she’s apt to ignore him.”

  “You mean,” I said, “that Rupert, Rupert Glasscock was born and brought up on Barra? But how could he . . . ? The public school, the commission – one doesn’t pay for all that out of haddock.”

  Johnson was informative, if indifferent. “Scholarships,” he said. “And brains, naturally. Rupert’s father was lost at sea a good while ago, but he has plenty of aunts and uncles who chipped in. He comes back to get his earholes clipped for the good of his soul every half-year or so.”

  “But don’t they long to get away, too?” I asked. “If they had brains, if they had scholarships, why in God’s name didn’t they get out of Barra?”

  “To be a Buzzy?” said Johnson.

  “Yes. Hush,” I said. “The harp’s starting again.”

  People describe me as cold. I have my emotions, it is true, under control. I am not a John Gordon, but I have common sense. I am not, as a rule, nervous. I was nervous then, setting sail from Barra on that next leg of the race, the last before my call at Portree.

  I had reasonable cause. The glass was dropping. It was a tricky sail, Rupert said, because at low water the Rodel anchorage dried out to a quarter fathom at the edges. To get in, we had to time our arrival exactly. And with the strong seas that were promising that night, with a contrary wind, we had a long plod ahead of us.

  I did not tell Johnson how hard I tried to get off that bloody island, by boat or by plane, that Thursday night. I didn’t trust Gold-tooth. I wanted to get, fast, to Portree. And I didn’t want to spend any time at all in the near company of Michael Twiss. Michael was hanging about to see if I really was going to meet Kenneth on Rum, and no doubt to forestall that meeting if possible.

  When I couldn’t get direct to Portree, either by boat or by plane, I took my own simple precautions. I listened all through supper to Michael engaging Johnson in light, sophisticated conversation about Cortina and Beirut. (I could tell Johnson a thing or two about Michael in Beirut.) And afterwards, when Johnson and Rupert had turned in, and Lenny was up at the helm, I mentioned to Michael over the Cointreau that I required him to place all my papers in order before leaving my employment, as from now. Any negotiations in progress I should wind up myself.

  I also remarked that, before leaving Barra, I had sent letters by plane to my lawyers, halting payment from all my accounts in the event of my unexplained death. Even the Swiss ones, as well. Neat in his zip-up Swedish coordinates, Michael heard me, the long lashes fluttering on either side of that thin, high-bridged nose. His reply, I remember, was lightly obscene.

  I did not wait for more, but, retiring, locked myself in my cabin, where the score of Don Pasquale lay already open to hand. At home I had my secretary, my accountant, my pianist, my housekeeper, my maid. I was in no hurry to find a new manager. I could manage, alone.

  We entered the anchorage at Rodel, Harris, with a good steady wind, about mid-afternoon on Friday.

  It was a good anchorage. There was a frigate lying already outside; and the basin, as we made ready to enter, was crowded with boats, though not with either Seawolf or Symphonetta, which must have picked their way through before high water, and gone.

  Rupert stalked grimly on deck. Under the eyes of a Royal Naval boat crew, the staysail slammed down like smoke; the mainsail followed. With textbook precision, sheets flew, canvas collapsed; and seizing the anchor with passion, Rupert hurled it into the sea. Unattached, alas, to its chain.

  TEN

  After her departure from Rodel, an air of thoughtfulness descended on Dolly. It may have been the weather, which was certainly stinking. It was certainly due in part to the burden of financial anxiety which was visibly weighing on Rupert. It may even have emanated from Michael, who, aside from being sick all that evening, must have known that, assuming I were meeting Kenneth in Rum, he had only twenty-four hours at the most in which to prevent such a meeting. If that were his intention.

  As for Johnson: he knew, as I did, that Kenneth was not at Rum, but might be waiting for me even now at our next call, Portree in the island of Skye.

  It was none of his business. In order to keep my mouth shut, he had said, he had asked for my company and my portrait to paint. He had had my company, on which he had made few demands, and those all legitimate. He had painted my portrait, or most of it, and could finish it on dry land at any time he cared to arrange. The fact that this was somehow mixed up with the Lysander had not seemed to affect him: he had made no patriotic gestures and had displayed in the other kind, the ease of infinite practice.

  Best of all, he had shown no lasting pique on being left out of my arrangements with Kenneth. I didn’t want any intrusion on those. He had, presumably, come to terms with the fact that I proposed certainly to leave him at Skye.

  I raised the subject, I remember, over supper, when Lenny had taken the wheel and Michael, I could be sure, had retired as far from the odour of food as the boat would allow. We were spanking along at about seven knots, Johnson said, although in what direction he was not fully certain. The indications were, however, that we should arrive at about 1 a.m. in Portree. Then, he added, filling his obnoxious pipe, if we were to catch the tide south, Dolly would have to leave an hour or two later, and certainly not after 4 a.m. The black eyebrows, I noticed, were raised impossibly high.

  He might be taking it lightly, but I wasn’t. If Kenneth wasn’t waiting to meet me – and why should he be, in the small hours of the morning? – I should have to rouse the night porter at my hotel, since I couldn’t linger till daylight on Dolly. I hardly realised until then how much I had depended on Dolly. But Johnson’s tone had been final. Five thousand pounds was five thousand pounds, after all. And, what was more, when Dolly left Portree harbour, she would be taking Michael Twiss out of the way.

  On the other hand, if I had to cross to South Rona, it must be done, somehow, tonight. For after daylight tomorrow, no one would dare sail out of Skye, so they said. Tomorrow, I had remembered, was Sunday.

  I said to Johnson: “I shall be sorry to leave. But I must. Can I do it without Michael knowing?”

  Johnson grinned. “After the Sound of Raa
say,” he said, “I think you need have no fear of Michael Twiss being able to stop you.”

  I remember that day I wore my ciré rainsuit lined with lynx fur, and ribbon tweed with diorama for evening; and his bifocals were as excited as deadlights. But he was effective, I grant, to the end. Just before one in the morning I was discreetly roused from my bunk, and, taking only my pigskin case with my night gear and jewellery, I dressed and climbed for the last time on deck.

  It was raining. We were in a wide, landlocked harbour with a long pier ranged on our left, ribbon built on its more distant side with ships’ chandlers, cafés and shops. From the pier, a road led dimly uphill towards a crowding of houses and shops set above and among trees, with, high on the left, the flat white face of a biggish hotel. That was where I had booked.

  I thought of my flat in Grosvenor Square, and my deep bed with the peach linen sheets renewed daily, and my bathroom carpeted in Mongolian fur, with the handmade soaps and the flagons of essence, the invisible record player, the thick warm bathsheets all waiting; and I sighed. When I had met Kenneth.

  There were perhaps a dozen yachts in the basin, of which I recognised five as fellow competitors. Only two of these mattered: Hennessy’s Symphonetta, and Seawolf, with Ogden and Victoria. Binkie, our only other close contender according to Rupert, had entered the Sound on our tail. Most of the rest had dropped out.

  It didn’t matter to me any longer who won Hennessy’s five thousand. Five thousand is nothing in my kind of gamble. I went, soundlessly, to descend into the dinghy with Rupert, who waited to row me on shore. On the companionway, Johnson held my hand lightly. “Have you hated every second of it? Apart, I mean, from the Russian roulette?”

  “I haven’t hated it at all,” I replied. And this, surprisingly, was perfectly true. Without Kenneth on my mind I should have enjoyed exerting my power on them all. I recalled my recital at Crinan, and Johnson’s silent respect as I told him my history; and the moment when I walked downstairs at Rhu. I hadn’t hated it, really.

  Johnson had taken such precautions as must have seemed reasonable: I was to have Rupert’s escort until I found Kenneth or until I was safely in my hotel. He said, through the short and long focus at once: “You’re going to have all the fun. I do envy you that. Try and let me know, if you possibly can, who murdered Chigwell. A postcard would do.”

  I liked Johnson. I kissed him, I remember, then. And I wasn’t drunk that time: the reverse. Then I remembered that time meant money to Rupert, waiting to hurry ashore and check in. I got into the dinghy, and as Rupert lifted the oars and pulled out and away I saw the anchor light of a big boat, a puffer, hitherto masked by the rest. It was the Willa Mavis, thank God. Tom McIver had kept the promise he had made me at Crinan, and had brought her across.

  The row to the quayside took time. The dark water was uneasy, even in this sheltered anchorage, stirred by the driving squall whipping the Sound of Raasay outside, and beaten by the increasing rain. I had left all my public appearance clothes on board. I was dressed in black rainproof trousers and boots, with a short, shining black mackintosh and black turban. By the time Rupert drew into the jetty, I was glad of them all.

  Tied up at the seaweedy steps of the pier was a big old rowboat with Willa Mavis on its stern. It was empty.

  In the whole of Portree only one window was lit – that of the big fish and chip shop on the pier, showing a couple of young men inside smoking, their feet up on tables. One of them was half-asleep, the other was reading a paperback. At our footsteps, the second put down his novel and peered out past the unlit neon sign in the window. The checkpoint: Rupert said.

  He added: “Come in a moment, will you Tina? Then I’ll take you on up to the hotel.” And, swinging my suitcase, he went on to sign Dolly in while I lingered in the doorway. At the back of my mind, as I looked out into the quiet harbour, I heard him explaining my presence to the two checkpoint staff. He did not, discreetly, say who I was; and by now, of course, my dark glasses were on.

  I slipped them down, momentarily, as I watched. Was that a dark figure, standing out from the line of retreating shop doors and windows, a bit further up? I stepped out, to show myself, and in the darkness a cigarette flared. It was someone, a man. Then Rupert joined me and, still swinging my suitcase, walked with me up the pier and towards the steps which climbed to the hotel. As we passed the place where I had noticed the smoker I glanced casually sideways, but there was nobody there.

  Then, at the bottom of the steps Rupert said: “Damn. Sorry,” and stopped. “I was so bloody busy, hearing the latest yell about Ogden. I think I’ve put Dolly’s arrival in wrong.” Then he moved, saying again: “Sorry, Tina. How loopy can you get? I’ll take you up, and fix it when I get back.”

  But he was obviously worried. I stood firm. “Don’t be silly, go back now. Take the case, if you like. I’ll wait here for you, bang in the middle of the pier, and if you hear me scream, you’re welcome to come running.” I smiled at him. “Go on! Get it fixed. They may not believe you if you leave it.” Far off, I could see Binkie’s boat drawing in to the steps.

  It was that, perhaps, which decided Rupert. He said worriedly: “You’ll stand right out in the road, now? And if anyone you don’t know approaches, you’ll shout?” He hardly waited for my nod before, my case jolting, he was gone, in the rain. Then I thrust my hands into my wet mackintosh pockets and waited, and the soft footsteps behind me got nearer and nearer. They stopped, and there was a touch on my arm.

  I spun round.

  It wasn’t Kenneth. Hell! Hell! Hell! It wasn’t Kenneth. It was that great lump of a fool Tom McIver. He said: “Missus?” and in spite of all the precautions, you could hear him two blocks away. I found I was hissing. “Where’s Dr Holmes?”

  The big head, its thick beret sodden, dimly shook in the dark. “Canna get over. Like I told you. They’re keeping him fast on South Rona till the submarine business is better cleared up. I was to look for you coming into the bay, and to tell you.”

  I stared up at him. “And I told you that I’d go to him if he couldn’t come here.”

  There was a long pause. Then McIver said: “Aye. And Dr Holmes says if I canna stop ye, to go to Acarsaid Mor, and from there to the topmost house in the old village, and wait for him there. He’ll see your boat coming, and join you.”

  My heart had begun to beat again; deep, fleshy vibrations under my ribs.

  In my pocket, for just this purpose, was a yellow roll of Scottish five pound notes. I felt for and put them into his hand, turning a little so that they caught a gleam of light from Rupert’s lit fish and chip shop. “Will you take me?”

  There was a moment of silence. Far along the pier, two small figures emerged climbing from the pier steps and walked towards the fish shop without glancing my way: the Buchanans. The rain flashed about them, golden in the lamplight; then they disappeared inside and the sounds of voices, magnified by the quiet and the night, reached us thinly.

  I inhaled deeply, smelling the stale seaweed from the rocks on my left, and petrol from some garage nearby, and tar and ropes and new wood and rusted metal and fish and all the scents connected with seagoing and ships. McIver opened his mouth to pronounce.

  He never did speak. Something thrust on my shoulder. Light gleamed on flesh, on a tall body, on a fist travelling with fourteen good stones of force full behind it. There was a clicking thud, a grunting explosion of breath, and McIver was falling, marvellously, inexplicably, like a kapok-filled corpse in a film, to lie prone on Portree pier.

  “The devil! How much did he take from you? I’ll have the police on to this! Are you hurt, me dear?” asked Stanley Hennessy, panting, with every indication of acute concern. And as I looked despairingly down: “Don’t you worry your head about him. He’ll wake up in jail in the morning. He’s thoroughly out.”

  He was. The Willa Mavis wasn’t taking me anywhere tonight. And tomorrow was Sunday.

  There was only one thing for it. I stared at Stanley Hennessy, and my eyes f
illed with tears.

  Half an hour later, I was on my way to South Rona on Symphonetta.

  First, I had to confess to Hennessy why Tom McIver had confronted me. I let it appear that in visiting my old engineer friend on South Rona, I was merely flouting authority, expressing my scorn of the security clampdown which had interfered with our meeting.

  It was a hard sell, but I did it. And in the end, as he began to dwell on the personal perquisites, Hennessy became quite amazingly keen. He had had three hours or so to spend in Portree before catching the tide south. He had had already, due to his early arrival, at least some hours’ sleep. He was willing – in fact, he proposed it – to take me to South Rona, invite my friend on board for a chat and a drink, and bring me speedily back. That bit especially.

  I did not mention, while expressing my thanks, that I had no intention of asking Kenneth on board, or that on the contrary this assignation would be strictly for two, and on shore. The way I expressed my thanks, he didn’t notice the omission. Then Rupert joined us, with the Buchanans and the two young men from the checkpoint, who were persuaded to allow Tom McIver to repose in the chip shop until he came to. We said he was drunk. The rolls of notes I left in his pocket.

  There were, unfortunately, two built-in snags in this happy arrangement. One I was prepared to endure because of my late Wartski bracelet. The other was the fact that, for all I could prove, Hennessy might be the man who wished to have Kenneth murdered. In which case it was small wonder he was being so cooperative. And how shirty he would be to discover I’d used that same Wartski bracelet to buy Gold-tooth off.

  Once aboard Hennessy’s Symphonetta and slipping gently out of Portree harbour, however, I found both problems solved themselves neatly at once. Innocent or guilty, Hennessy did not deviate from form. Outside on the heaving waters of Raasay Sound, while his three white oilskin-coated young men downed sail and put on the engine, Stanley pressed me together and led me masterfully below.