Voice in the Mist

by Nigel Cubbage

  She looked up at the picture of the Prince hiding in the boat among the sheep and wondered if it was actually Robert. She noticed that the picture was slightly off centre on the wall, so she got up to straighten it. She tilted the frame slightly and stepped back.

  “This day, milady, the master instructs me to take you to the forbidding Castle of Stoer, seat of the Lords of Kintail, on the small island of Soay.”

  Rebecca was brought abruptly back to the present by the arrival of Drew. She quickly took out her hankie and blew her nose to disguise the fact she had been crying.

  “Who are the Lords of Kintail?” she asked, keeping her eyes averted.

  “Old geezers – died years ago. Landowners who used to fight the McDonalds and McLeods. Great castle, although it’s a ruin now. Anyway, your ship awaits, modom, the weather is on our side thus far at least, so let us tarry here no longer – make haste, wench! Gird thy loins and all that stuff.”

  “I hope you can sail properly,” she said sarcastically.

  “Aye well the real boatman, Willie, is away to his day job.”

  “What’s his day job?”

  “He’s a seaweed farmer.”

  Rebecca laughed. “A what?!”

  “It’s no joke, your Englishness. We poor downtrodden jocks must earn an honest crust somehow. He harvests kelp, the flat, ribbon-type stuff. It’s sold as animal fodder and is a delicacy in some parts of the world. There’s weed from Loch Nevis on plates in Japanese restaurants in Tokyo.”

  “I do not believe a word of it!” Rebecca was still laughing.

  “Suit yourself,” said Drew, merrily. “Remain ignorant! So, are you ready?”

  He stood by the door expectantly.

  “Where is Soay? Is it one of the cocktails?” Rebecca smiled when she saw that her knowledge of the nickname of the nearest islands had surprised Drew. He rallied quickly.

  “No, actually, it is not. It lies just off Skye and has a magnificent view of the Cuillins, with which I suppose you are also acquainted?”

  “Would that be the Rum Cuillins or the Skye Cuillins, as both would probably be visible, I imagine?”

  “You win… this time.” Drew looked at her with a wry smile on his face.

  “Well, are you coming or not?”

  “What happened to the Shakespearian verse? I was quite enjoying that.”

  Rebecca darted out of the room quickly, away from Drew’s glare.

  ***

  As the boat chugged steadily down the loch, Rebecca told Drew about the startling events of the previous night. She included her own suspicions about Sibley but qualified these with what Henry had told her about Sibley’s associate Gordon and the boat.

  “Gordon would be the Honourable Anthony Gordon, I expect, QC, owner of Barradale estate, stinking rich and Member of Parliament for Knoydart and Morar. He is something of an absentee landlord. We call him the Invisible Man. People say the best way to get to see him is to appear in court. His unofficial home address is Miami.”

  They rounded the point at the end of Loch Nevis and emerged into more open sea.

  About a mile away was the shore of the famous, mystic Isle of Skye.

  Gulls swooped back and forth, following the boat’s progress and occasionally landing on the bow. There was a gentle swell to accompany the steady breeze but bright sunshine kept them warm. Behind them, the mountains of the mainland came into gradual relief, softened by the light into the distance.

  As Drew kept a steady hand on the wheel, Rebecca sat back and found she was enjoying herself. The scenery was certainly stunning and the sensation of being in a boat alone on the seas, exploring on their own terms, was something with definite appeal. She imagined travelling at the time of Becca, Robert and the Bonnie Prince. What must it have felt like to be Robert McOwan, on the run with the English army in hot pursuit?

  Drew brought her back to the present with a rather more direct question.

  “Been painting?” He pointed at her hands.

  Rebecca started in surprise and looked down. There was a sticky globule of gold paint on the end of one of her fingers and smears over both her palms. She thought for a moment.

  “No – where on earth has that come from? The only gold thing I remember having touched is the picture in the library.” Gradual realisation crept into Rebecca’s voice.

  “I straightened it up. It must have been that. Come to think of it, it did feel sticky. But that’s really old, so why on earth would it be wet?”

  They stared at one another for a few moments, uncomprehending.

  “Would it have something to do with the break-in?”

  “Some very strange things are happening around here,” said Drew, slowing the boat.

  “Why would an old painting be in a frame that was still wet? If it wasn’t so old, perhaps. Maybe Sibley was right and it is a forgery. Perhaps even, a very recent forgery – so recent, it’s still wet! And strange too, wouldn’t you say, that somebody tried to break in to the castle just last night? Madam, there is mischief afoot, as Sherlock Holmes might have said. What do you say we abandon our little trip and go back to do some poking about?”

  Rebecca nodded vigorously.

  “If for no other reason than to check that frame where I touched it.”

  ***

  “So where exactly did you last see those men?” asked Drew, standing by the boathouse at Rahsaig. “Let’s try to retrace their steps.”

  Rebecca pointed to the rhododendrons further down the shore and they set off. After a few minutes of rummaging through the bushes, Rebecca called out.

  “Here! See? Footprints, lots of them and recent. Quite a definite imprint from the bottom of the shoe. Well you can say one thing – no spectre made these.”

  “Difficult to say if it’s diver’s feet, though. He’s hardly going to be wearing his flippers on dry land – I’m not being funny, he isn’t, is he?” Drew put up his hands in protest as Rebecca looked threateningly at him.

  “Now that is out of the ordinary.” Drew was no longer looking at the tracks in the mud but at a small green shed up among the trees. The door was slightly ajar.

  “That shed is always kept locked. I locked it myself two days ago and nobody has had any reason to go near it since – I’d know if they had because I keep the only key.”

  Rebecca followed him over to the shed, cautiously.

  “Somebody has broken in – look!” Rebecca pointed to broken wood on the door frame and the lock hanging free. Unhesitatingly, Drew pushed the door open. There were gardening tools, wheelbarrows and mowers. Sacks of compost and ceramic pots were stacked up. Against the end wall, partly concealed under some sacking was a large flat package, wrapped in black plastic, which Drew did not recognise. Carefully, they pulled it out into the middle of the shed.

  “Put the light on, will you?” said Drew, starting to pick at the wrapping.

  Rebecca clicked a light on and knelt on the floor next to Drew. Careful not to rip it, they pulled and tugged until the wrapping came clear. They stopped and looked at each other, excitement on their faces. Underneath was the painting of the Flight of the Bonnie Prince.

  Rebecca checked the frame and wrapping but there was no trace of any wet paint.

  “Two pictures? Unless this has been put here while we have been out. Wait here a moment!” Rebecca ran out of the shed and over the lawn to the castle. She peered in through the library window, saw the painting was still on the wall and returned.

  “Two pictures! And what’s more, there are footmarks in the mud by the window. It looks like somebody tried to get in there too.”

  “And probably succeeded,” said Drew.

  “What does it all mean?” Rebecca chewed her lip in thought.

  Drew sat on an upturned pot, a frown on his face.

  “Somebody has copied the picture. Why?”

  “So they could sell the real one without anyone guessing it had been stolen? I’ve heard about art theft like that. People will pay a lot of money f
or an original masterpiece. When I disturbed them last night, they maybe had to leave this here in their hurry to get away.”

  “If that’s the case, they did get into the castle. Did they take anything else I wonder – are there any more?”

  Together they searched the shed but could find nothing else.

  “Nothing here although that doesn’t mean they didn’t manage to take something else with them. Hang on, there is something up there.” Drew pointed up to what appeared to be a black rubber sheet, draped over a beam above their heads. He pulled it down and brought it over to the light. It was a rubber holdall, with a sealable airtight pocket inside.

  “I’ve seen one of these before,” said Drew, triumphantly, “and it proves your theory about divers. It’s a diver’s bag, airtight to keep water out. What if they meant to put the painting in here and swim away?”

  Rebecca turned the bag over. Her face wore a frown. “I don’t get it though. Why would they go to all the trouble and difficulty of trying to carry this big painting away underwater, when they had a boat they could quite easily have used? It makes no sense. It was the middle of the night and nobody was watching.”

  “You were watching. They must have been afraid of being spotted, so they decided this was the safest way. Or maybe it wasn’t their boat after all.”

  He paused, before looking up again, his eyes wide. “Wait a minute! There is no way that the boat which took Henry and Sibley this morning was the same one that was waiting out in the loch last night, I’ve just realised. Gordon chartered Willie McHarg’s boat – I saw Willie this morning setting off from Mallaig. He told me he was away to pick up the Laird. Willie would never be involved in anything like that – and anyway, he was moored up in Mallaig last night, having a couple of beers in the King’s Head with my brother. So there was a different boat here which vanished before it got light.”

  “So whose was the other one?” Rebecca’s question hung in the air.

  ***

  Rebecca and Drew were in the kitchen, raiding the fridge for something to drink.

  “So, we know they got in downstairs. Are we sure they did not get in upstairs?”

  “Uncle Henry said not. The man I saw was definitely on the outside of the window.”

  “That doesn’t necessarily mean he was on the outside trying to get in. He may have been on his way out – or trying to get back in.”

  They looked at each other for a split second, before rushing out across the Great Hall, up the staircase and along to the rear landing window where Rebecca had seen the face. A quick search of the rooms nearby found no obvious signs of anything missing.

  “As they didn’t get away with what they wanted, won’t they be back?”

  Rebecca looked out across the lawns to the bushes where she had seen the figures disappear in the moonlight. “Yes, they will. And we’ll be waiting for them.”

  “Shouldn’t we tell the police and your uncle now? We’ve got both paintings and we know there was a break-in. And the thieves will probably be back. Surely that’s enough?”

  “Yes, we could but I reckon Sibley is involved in all this and I want to set a little trap for him before we tell anyone anything. You know how funny Uncle Henry was last night when I suggested it might be Sibley. Nobody will believe us without proof.”

  “So what do you suggest we do?”

  “We get Sibley to look at the painting. If he really is an expert, he will have to say it’s forged – except if he’s in on it, in which case he will say it’s genuine. I think we should see what happens. And I don’t think the thieves will leave it long to come back, in case somebody finds the broken door. So after he’s seen it, we have to swap the real one back and put the forgery in the shed.”

  Rebecca sat down, looking very thoughtful for a moment.

  “Look, you’re supposed to go back to Mallaig tonight, yes? Okay, this may sound mad but I think once we’ve put the painting back, I should wait outside for the thieves and you should wait in the boat.”

  “Sounds mad so far,” said Drew, looking puzzled. “Why?”

  “If they come back and find the painting where they left it, they will take it off with them, unsuspecting. We get in the boat, follow them and find out where they go.”

  Drew sounded sceptical.

  “If we lose them, we risk having no proof to convince anybody. What if they go off underwater? How are we supposed to follow?”

  “You said nobody in their right mind dives in Loch Nevis because it’s so dangerous. So if they do, surely they won’t be going far? If there’s a boat waiting, we’ll see it. And they’ll be taking the forgery with them – they’ll never expect that. That way, even if we do lose them, Uncle Henry hasn’t lost anything. I think they’ll wait for darkness and for the house to go to sleep. So, I slip out, come down here, hide and keep watch for them. You have the boat standing by, so we can follow them.”

  Drew considered this for a moment and sighed.

  “Okay – but I think it’s risky. And if you drown in the loch, your uncle will blame me.”

  CHAPTER 8 – Lying In Wait

  Rahsaig Castle received a visit that evening from Constable Alexander Lennie of the West Highland Constabulary. PC Lennie, an unusually tall man, with short, dark hair and a lean, square-jawed face, was the same age as Henry McOwan and the two of them had been schoolboy friends. Fifteen years as the bobby and marriage to a local girl had rooted him firmly and contentedly in the small highland community. Major incidents, other than storms, were practically unknown in this remote corner and, save for the occasional motoring offender or boisterous, drunken fisherman, his encounters with the criminal underworld had been unremarkable. Hence, the opportunity to investigate a burglary at the Laird’s residence represented a major professional challenge. In his understated, languorous way, Alexander Lennie was positively excited.

  “The Laird is speaking privately with the investigative authorities just now,” said McHarg grandly, as Rebecca sat in the Great Hall outside the door to Henry’s study. Her tone suggested a degree of inside knowledge that she was not disposed to impart. Whether this was indeed the case, Rebecca sensed, might be open to doubt.

  “You will be called presently, to give your evidence.” This last statement was accompanied by a look of the utmost severity. McHarg turned swiftly on her heel and disappeared down the passageway to the kitchen. Rebecca managed to retain a serious expression until she heard the kitchen door close, whereupon she could not restrain a broad smirk at the housekeeper’s expense.

  She did not have to wait long. The study door opened and she was joined in the Hall by her uncle. His face was unusually serious.

  “Rebecca, please stick to what you actually saw and heard. Constable Lennie’s not interested in theories and flights of fancy.”

  Rebecca felt a keen edge to his tone and reddened under the severity of his gaze.

  “Of course, Uncle Henry.” She followed him back into the study where the constable was standing by the fireplace. They sat down next to one another on the sofa and Rebecca was struck by how far he still towered over her. Everything about him seemed to extend slightly further than usual, from his size fourteen feet to his long, angular nose. He reminded her of a stick insect Alistair had brought home from school one day.

  PC Lennie took out his pen. Rebecca recounted the events of the previous evening, under the watchful eye of her uncle. The experience of being questioned by the police proved ultimately disappointing. Constable Lennie said very little and asked even less and Rebecca left the study feeling a little deflated. There was no doubt that the police viewed the matter in a serious light but she had not gained the impression that she was considered a key witness. She had been about to voice her theory that the paintings were being copied but abandoned this when she realised she could not produce them without compromising their plan.

  ***

  “I am very pleased to be the bearer of good tidings, Mr McOwan. I can confirm my initial impression that thi
s is the original version of the Flight of the Bonnie Prince.” Simon Sibley removed the monocle, through which he had been minutely inspecting the painting in the library and turned to Henry, managing to combine an obsequious smile with a look of utter pomposity on his chubby features.

  “Are you sure?” Henry looked pleased. Sibley twirled his moustache importantly.

  “It is certain, sir. It is the quality of the brush strokes. The great McLeish is very certain, very dramatic in his gesture. There is real flamboyance – to the trained eye, of course.”

  “Of course,” murmured Henry, a long-suffering expression on his face.

  Rebecca kicked Drew, who had been mimicking the manner of Simon Sibley out of view of everyone except herself. Drew’s acting was not her concern though, as she made an urgent face at him, motioning him outside. Leaving Sibley and Henry talking together, she closed the door behind them.

  “See?” she whispered, her face aglow. “Sibley is definitely involved in it too.”

  “Are we completely sure?”

  “It’s obvious, idiot! He says that this one is genuine but we know that it’s a forgery – the original is outside in the shed. He must be in on it.”

  “Or he’s just a crap expert…”

  “Shh! They’re coming out.”

  The reappearance of Henry and Sibley brought a halt to their whispering. They went through to the dining room, where the table was set for dinner. Henry turned to Rebecca.

  “So, what have you been up to today? Did you go to Soay?”

  “Yes, just like you said.”

  “And what did you think of Stoer Castle?”

  “Oh, we didn’t go there.”

  “Oh? Why not?”

  “Well, in fact we didn’t go to Soay, actually.”

  “I thought you said you did?”

  “Well, we set off to go to Soay and we were going there for a while but we didn’t actually go there. We turned round and came back… before we got there.”