Voice in the Mist

by Nigel Cubbage

  “Oh shut up, Campbell! Anyway, it’s all pretty pointless, since we didn’t find anything. We’re back at square one.”

  CHAPTER 10 – The Storm

  Salty Galbraith was the kind of Scotsman who featured in old postcards, caricaturing the wild Highlander of yore. A long red beard obscured his face below his nose, as well as a fair proportion above. A pipe protruded from somewhere in the middle. His eyes had been beaten into leathery slits in his ruddy visage by years at sea, squinting into the teeth of the gale. He sported the traditional kilt, which had the considerable benefit of hiding his whiskery knees from the world. To those who knew him, he was a man of few words; to strangers, he was silent.

  “Afternoon, Salty. Beautiful day!” chirped Drew, airily, striding along the jetty and jumping down onto the bow of the boat where Galbraith was standing, filling his pipe and eyeing the world with silent disdain.

  The Hebridean Princess was a vessel of some thirty metres, which had been making the crossing from Arisaig to the Islands of Rum, Eigg, Canna and Muck, for over thirty years. Galbraith was not the skipper. That honour belonged to Murdo Stuart, currently busy in the wheelhouse on the radio.

  Galbraith chose not to register Drew’s presence. His countenance changed as Rebecca’s uncle appeared, however, drawing an almost imperceptible nod of recognition from the whiskery seaman. Henry nodded firmly and climbed aboard.

  “Good to see you, Salty,” he said. Galbraith gripped him in a firm handshake, looked him witheringly in the eye and grunted something gruff and incomprehensible. Once out of earshot, Rebecca nudged her uncle and whispered

  “How come you’re so honoured?”

  Henry looked puzzled. Rebecca elaborated.

  “He completely ignored everyone else but was almost gushing with you.”

  Henry smiled and waved her playfully forward.

  “Mind your manners, you,” he said, solemnly. “He may look a bit odd but a finer seaman you will never meet. A living legend in these parts. Nobody knows how long he’s been sailing, because there’s nobody left around here who can remember a time before. He taught me to sail when I was a lad and he was a veteran then. If the weather turns, you watch who the skipper turns to.”

  “But he looks really old,” said Rebecca, eyeing the veteran sailor sceptically as he tied ropes at the stern.

  “He is old,” answered her uncle. “But that means he’s experienced.”

  Rebecca detected a ring of reproof in Henry’s tone and decided not to pursue it.

  Minutes later, with gulls squawking overhead, the Hebridean Princess cast off from the pier. The majority of the passengers were, like themselves, bound for Rum Castle to see a performance of Shakespeare’s Hamlet, to be put on in the grounds. Rebecca had not seen a Shakespeare play before and was not overenthused at the prospect but had been persuaded by Henry to try it. There was also the opportunity to explore Rum Castle and the boat trip was something Rebecca knew she definitely would enjoy.

  The first half mile led out through the Sound of Arisaig, winding between small rocky islands. The hills and mountains behind them lazed in the afternoon sunshine. Seals basked on the rocks, their black, unblinking eyes following the boat with apparent disinterest. Henry pointed at some of the birds flying overhead and became rather excited about something he spotted in the distance, called the ‘Great Northern Diver’. This elicited laughter from Rebecca. The sun turned the seas a brilliant azure blue and a brisk, fresh breeze carried a refreshing salty smack.

  All in all, it was an idyllic afternoon.

  “Now tell me that you still miss London,” said Drew at Rebecca’s shoulder.

  “London can have nothing that’s a patch on this.”

  Rebecca rested her chin on the boat rail, her gaze locking on a nearby seal.

  “I s’pose it’s not that bad all the time,” she said and paused. “When I came here, I admit, I was pretty much expecting the worst. It was pelting down with rain, cold, bleak, remote and hardly the centre of the universe. Scotland has only ever been a place on the weather forecast with big black clouds over it. I was coming to stay with an uncle I’d not met for years, in a place I’d never seen. My brother was off to the Med, my parents to the Caribbean – how would you feel?”

  She paused for a few seconds.

  “But now … it’s growing on me.”

  Drew was silent for a moment, before chuckling.

  “You know what? I’ve never been to London,” he said. Rebecca looked at him in disbelief.

  “Seriously,” he went on. “Actually, I’ve never even been to Glasgow. Fort William is the biggest town I’ve ever seen. And I tease you!”

  “I guess that makes us even,” smiled Rebecca. For the next few minutes they lapsed into silence, enjoying the scenery and the anticipation of sailing to the little islands of the Inner Hebrides.

  “So, let’s take stock of things,” said Rebecca after a while.

  “The thieves got away with the forged ‘Flight of the Bonnie Prince’; Sibley went to Rum Castle and is now on his way to Barradale; we think they are stealing valuable artworks, replacing them with forgeries and that Sibley is involved; and the thieves may be operating from a boat and using diving equipment.”

  “And what about your creepy ghost friends?” asked Drew.

  “I can’t help thinking it’s all somehow linked together,” answered Rebecca. “Becca’s journal; the paintings that look like me; the key to Becca’s locker being left in my room; signs leading me to read and find things; and the fact that she had the same experiences with the Warrior and the Wolf. Somehow, what the thieves are up to is disturbing something from the past.”

  “And the past is speaking through you,” said Drew, slowly. Rebecca shuddered.

  “Blimey … It’s a bit spooky when you put it like that.”

  ***

  They rounded a huge buttress of vertical cliffs at the north-east of the Isle of Eigg, the halfway point of the voyage. Clouds were welling up, grey and impenetrable. The blue skies of the trip so far had vanished. The air had freshened considerably and, without the protection of the land mass of Eigg, the sea took on an entirely different character. The swell grew more intense and it was not very long before the boat was rolling and churning. Every so often, it would pitch into a wave causing a great plume of spray to crash over the deck.

  The passengers gradually sought shelter in the cabin. Only a few, hardy souls remained on deck, braving the elements and rapidly falling temperature. Henry had disappeared inside some time ago and Rebecca now raised her eyebrows at Drew.

  “Where’s your stamina? First little bit of weather and you want to go inside. Salty will see us through.” Drew nodded his head towards the wheelhouse. Looking up, Rebecca saw her uncle’s prediction had proved correct. The old seaman was now wrestling with the wheel, a broad grin creasing his whiskery features. Occasionally he would emit a great roar as a particularly large wave bore down. Undeniably, their passage became steadier after he took the helm.

  As another huge plume of spray doused them, though, she did not hesitate. “Well, I’m going inside!” she shouted above the roar of the sea and wind. “You suit yourself, Campbell.”

  Minutes later, aided by a steaming mug of tea, procured from the galley by her uncle, Rebecca was beginning to thaw out. About thirty people were crowded into the cabin, more than a few of them clearly not relishing the rolling of the boat. Occasionally, somebody would disappear outside and return a few minutes later, looking decidedly pale.

  Oblivious to this, Rebecca grabbed a marmite sandwich and took a large bite.

  Next to her, one man obviously not enjoying the trip and looking somewhat green around the gills, gulped and made a sudden dash for the door, clutching his hand to his mouth.

  Rebecca quickly polished off the sandwich. Henry grinned.

  “That’s showing off.”

  “So, has Mr Sibley identified everything in the collection?” she asked, changing the subject, her eyes fixed o
n her lurching mug of tea but her attention hanging on her uncle.

  “I should think he’s barely halfway through,” answered Henry. “He has several houses to visit while he is up here.”

  “Has he finished at Rahsaig?” asked Rebecca.

  “I’m waiting to see. He’s verified the known works but I want to know what he thinks of some of the unattributed paintings.”

  “Do you mean Rebecca McOwan’s paintings?” Rebecca held her breath.

  “If that is who painted them, then yes. It’s not certain and that’s one point it would be interesting to get clarified. When the old manse burned down, some paintings went missing. No records were ever taken so we don’t know what was lost.”

  “When was the fire?”

  “1929. My father was too young to remember and my grandfather was hopeless with paperwork, so not much is known of where everything ended up.”

  Rebecca wanted to tell her uncle what she and Drew had discovered and to lay their suspicions before him but the experience with Constable Lennie had shown that Uncle Henry was a man of logic. She feared he would discount her theories and, in any case, explanations would necessitate divulging her strange experiences with Hakon and the warrior. She was certain that he would dismiss these as flights of fancy.

  “What is there of the collection on Rum, Uncle?” she asked.

  “For goodness sake, call me Henry,” he smiled at her. “You make me feel old! Well, the Castle on Rum was once home to Lachlan McOwan, our Donald’s brother, and the less honourable branch of the family. He won it in a wager with the owner, a McLeod. The McLeod was a bad lot too, much given to drink and gambling. He is said to have sold out to the English in 1746 after Culloden and he came to a murky end because of it. Nobody asked too many questions, I think, but it’s fairly certain the locals did for him. Anyway, Lachlan swiped many of the family treasures and heirlooms and took them off to Rum with him. Most of the family silver is there. A few interesting other pieces too – some from your Princess legend.”

  Rebecca was agog. Henry continued.

  “You remember the painting in the Great Hall? Well, a collar studded with jewels, said to be that of the wolf, is there, together with the Princess’s burial mask.”

  “Can we see them?” Rebecca could hardly disguise her excitement.

  “Yes, they’re on display.”

  “Lachlan came to live at Rahsaig after Culloden, didn’t he?” said Rebecca.

  “After the death of Donald, he made himself Laird. I found an old journal written by Rebecca, Donald’s daughter. She says nobody was left to oppose him. Lachlan banished her and her brother. He stole young Donald’s birthright.”

  “I should be asking you about the family!” exclaimed Henry, smiling.

  “This journal sounds interesting. So what else does Rebecca say about Lachlan?”

  “Not much, other than he had been her father’s good-for-nothing younger brother, who left home at sixteen to seek his fortune but would return when he needed money to borrow from their father. Rebecca hated him for the way he treated little Donald and herself. He imprisoned them in the manse, which is where she supposedly went insane.”

  “You don’t believe it?”

  “She doesn’t seem mad in her journal. And her paintings are superb.”

  “You can still do amazing things when your mind is disturbed. Genius often lives on the edge of madness.” Henry offered more tea, which Rebecca accepted gratefully.

  “So is Rum Castle owned by our family now?” she asked.

  “Unfortunately no, for it is magnificent and the island is a rare spot. As beautiful a place as I know on God’s earth, although the rainfall is heavy, even for Scotland.” He smiled.

  “That is saying something,” grinned Rebecca. “Even Drew admits the rain is bad here, although I expect he blames the English for it.”

  ***

  The boat ploughed on relentlessly through the churning seas, the hills of Rum now looming much larger and closer. In the galley the loudspeaker crackled into life, Murdo’s whistling tones alerting the passengers to the possibility of disembarking into dinghies, should it prove too dangerous to put alongside the jetty. He requested that everyone put on a lifejacket, which was the cue for some nervous laughter and weak attempts at humour.

  Conditions on deck had been made treacherous by the spray and driving rain, whipping down the Cuillin Sound from Skye. The storm was definitely gathering strength. In the galley, Murdo was talking to the coastguard over the radio, requesting updates on the weather. The afternoon already resembled evening, darkening skies bringing a premature end to the daylight.

  The door to the galley was flung suddenly open, prompting a soaking for anyone in the immediate vicinity. The wind seared inside, bringing with it a bedraggled figure, which Rebecca recognised as Drew. He managed to close the door behind him and stood before Uncle Henry and Rebecca, dripping, gasping and laughing. His face was ruddy and alive.

  “I think it means it out there, you know!” Drew unfastened his jacket and shook the water from his head, like a dog emerging from a river.

  “Oh, thanks for that, I’m sure!” cried Rebecca, as spray hit her full across the face.

  “Pillock!” added Uncle Henry, who did not escape, aiming a mock punch at Drew.

  “Sorry!” said Drew, cheerfully. “I’ve come for my lifejacket.”

  “With any luck you’ll sink under that weight of water,” grumbled Uncle Henry, wiping his eyes.

  ***

  The passengers edged warily along the slippery deck, shielding their faces against the driving rain, not helped by the rolling of the boat in the swell. They clung to the nearest solid object. Rebecca, Uncle Henry and Drew found themselves on the leeward side, where there was some shelter from the force of the elements.

  “Your first Hebridean storm, niece!” laughed Uncle Henry above the roar of the wind.

  “How do you like it?” Rebecca shot him a look of contempt.

  Under Salty’s expert steering, the boat edged closer to the small jetty at the end of Loch Scresort, an inlet of normally tranquil water below Rum Castle. It afforded some relief from the heavy seas but the swell was still enough for anxiety on the bridge. Waves surged against the jetty, dousing the cobbles. As the boat came within a few feet, one of the crew boldly leapt ashore, tightly grasping a rope. As he looped the end over an iron bulwark, two other crewmen scrambled along, dropping air-filled rubber buoyancy balloons over the side to cushion any impact against the sea wall. Murdo was at the gangplank, waving the passengers forward.

  “Quickly, please folks! When I give the word, you’re going to have to walk the plank and jump, one by one! Steady as ye can, Salty, man!”

  “This should be fun!” shouted Drew as the first few passengers began, hesitantly, to shuffle forward. Murdo Stuart grasped them by the arm and with a yell of encouragement, launched them towards the jetty. The first man stumbled on landing but regained his balance and lined up to help the next. Many people were tentative and nervous and had to be coaxed and cajoled by Murdo.

  “Anyone who doesnae fancy the jump can stay aboard but we’re headed back to Arisaig!” He cried. Despite the churning seas, several souls were inclined to accept this proposal and retreated to the safety of the galley. Rebecca found herself at the front of the queue.

  “Ready, lassie?” said Murdo, holding out his arm. She had not been exactly relishing the prospect and gave a quick nervous smile.

  “What the heck, I’m soaked already,” she said, with more bravado than she truly felt. She would privately admit to a healthy respect for the sea. Taking a deep breath, and wondering, fleetingly, on how many more occasions during this holiday she would have to confront her fears, she stepped forward and grabbed Murdo’s arm to steady herself.

  “Steady there, lass, wait till she rolls up again and then – jump!”

  Rebecca started to ask why it was that men always gave boats and vehicles female identities but was cut short as Murdo shout
ed “jump!” The boat pitched towards the jetty and she leapt into the air, landing with rather less aplomb than she had hoped in front of the watching audience. As she tried to stand up, she stumbled and twisted awkwardly on her ankle, letting out a sharp cry of pain.

  “Very elegant, milady,” shouted Drew, landing next to her. Rebecca was peeved to observe his sure-footed landing, which only increased her own embarrassment. He bent down to help her. Gingerly, she put the damaged ankle to the ground, but a sharp stab of pain caused her to stumble again.

  “Come on, let’s get you inside,” said Henry at her other elbow. “We’ll get some ice to stop the swelling.”

  “Or you could dip it in the sea instead,” offered the ever cheerful Drew, helpfully.

  CHAPTER 11 – Rum Castle

  The castle on the Isle of Rum had been destroyed and rebuilt more than once during the centuries, as the island had been fought over by generations of Clans. It now stood on the shore at the end of an inlet called Loch Scresort.

  The McOwans had been Lairds of Rum for a while in the time of James, or Bloody Jim McOwan, Donald’s great-grandfather. The island changed hands several times during skirmishes with the McLeods, until the McOwans finally lost control on the death of Lachlan in 1751. In more recent times, it had, since 1947, been owned by the Balloch family of wealthy Edinburgh bankers.

  Ungracious questions had been asked in the local area as to why Hamish and Ludmilla Balloch, the present owners, had invited the touring Camden Players from London to perform in the castle grounds. It was muttered that they would have difficulty locating the theatre listings in the newspaper, let alone read Shakespeare. The Ballochs made little contact with the local community, keeping themselves to themselves and discouraging visitors to Rum with large fences around the estate and charging admission fees. Consequently, the locals were rather inclined to find fault with them.