“Ah yes. This would be the message he threw out of the castle in – what was it – an empty cola bottle?”
Rebecca took the message from her pocket and handed it to the Sergeant.
“Here it is, if you don’t believe us.”
The Sergeant took the crumpled scrap of paper and made a show of spreading it out so that he might be able to decipher it. Lennie looked over his shoulder.
“And this is the evidence with which you want us to arrest a man? You would have us believe that the Laird of Rahsaig instructs us to arrest the Laird of Rahsaig … by cola bottle.” The Sergeant’s tone was becoming ever more superior.
“It does look like his writing, Sarge,” said Constable Lennie. The Sergeant turned a withering glare on him, causing PC Lennie to look at his boots. Dougie now spoke.
“Look, he also mentions this guy Morgan. He said you’d understand, constable?”
“Aye, I do.” Lennie paused and pursed his lips. There was a pause while everyone looked at him.
“Well?” demanded the Sergeant. “If you know something, Lennie, tell us.”
“Morgan McOwan … the Laird’s twin brother …”
There was a gasp from Dougie and Rebecca.
“… he was a bad lad. He was sent away to boarding school but got heavily into drugs. He stole money from his father and one day he vanished. Nobody has heard a word from him in twenty years.”
“Uncle Henry and my father have another brother?” said Rebecca, incredulous.
“I don’t believe it. They would have said.”
“It’s true, Miss Rebecca.” Willie McHarg stepped forward from the bows of his boat.
“Alexander and I grew up with them. Alexander is right. Morgan was no good. Your Grandfather saw to it that the family disowned him entirely after he had left. He would not hear people round here even mention the boy’s name. Your grandmother went to her grave with an aching heart. She would have forgiven him as only a mother would forgive her child but to your grandfather, he no longer existed. If Morgan is back, then I’m willing to bet he’s after something.”
“Well,” said the Sergeant, with an air of finality.
“Be all this as it may, we cannot arrest somebody on the unsubstantiated whim of another, however well thought of the ‘other’ might be.”
***
From the window of the tower, Drew watched the boat carrying Henry and Sibley depart for Skye. He banged his fist on the sill in frustration, wondering how much longer he would be a prisoner. He was certainly regretting his impetuous decision to follow the thieves. He had not considered the consequences. The root of his annoyance was that Dougie and Rebecca were somewhere on their trail. The perilous aspect of the situation had never really occurred to Drew. His mother had always referred to him as the eternal optimist. He was quite certain the thieves would be caught and that no harm would come to either himself or the others.
A small brown mouse scuttled along the floor beside the open fireplace and disappeared behind a chest of drawers. Drew frowned. He got down onto his knees and peered under the chest, to see whether he was sharing his accommodation with any more. Unable to see properly, he grasped the chest and dragged it to one side. There was a recess, just big enough for a man to squat down inside. An idea occurred.
A while later, the Frenchman arrived outside the door with a drink for the room’s occupant and placed his key in the lock.
“English Indian tea, Scottish boy!” he called, entering the room. It was empty.
“Merde!” He looked around in a flash of anger and rushed over to the window. A look of consternation crossed his face when he could see no trace of Drew. He tossed the cup onto the table, spilling its contents and rushed out of the door and downstairs.
There was a scraping sound as the chest started to move forward. Drew poked his head out and squeezed through a gap between the chest and the wall. He paused at the window to check the coast was clear. He saw the Frenchman dash out of the castle gates and look frantically around, searching for any sign of his captive. The causeway was now passable and, after a moment’s indecision, the Frenchman set off, at a run, towards the shore.
There was no time to lose.
“You could have been more careful with my tea, Frenchie,” sighed Drew, draining the dreg that remained. He shoved the chest back to conceal his hiding place, should fate transpire that he needed to use it again. The castle was empty and quiet, confirming his suspicions that he and his jailer had been the only two left. He slipped quickly down the stairs and into the courtyard. Stopping at the gatehouse, he spied the Frenchman on the far beach. He would head for the tunnel entrance, he decided, and go back to the Manse.
“Damn!” he muttered, remembering that McAllum had stolen his torch. He could not navigate the tunnel without it. Perhaps it was in the castle somewhere.
He felt inside his pocket and his fingers closed around his penknife. Another thought occurred. He went over to a grey wall-box, concealed behind the gatehouse, which contained the telephone connections. Opening the blade, he cut the wires he could see.
“That’ll stop him warning anyone,” he smiled to himself.
Drew noticed his jailer was on his way back. He breathed hard, trying to decide his next move. He needed to buy enough time to get away and be sure the gang could not be alerted. McAllum and Godfrey were at the Old Manse without the means of communicating with anyone, other than by a further day’s walk to Rahsaig. Hopefully, the Frenchman would not know about the Mountain Rescue post.
The man was too big for him to think of trying anything brave.
He smiled to himself as a solution occurred. He would resort to good old Highland guile. It had already worked once, so why not again?
***
Lord MacDonald of Skye, the authentic Lord of the Isles and Laird of the biggest clan in Scotland, greeted Henry McOwan with the warmth of an old friend long parted.
“My dear, dear Henry!” Lord Angus MacDonald, known fondly by the locals as Lord Mac and to a certain privileged few as Gussie, embraced Henry warmly.
“It’s been too long! I am not so young I can afford to lose a good friend and I truly miss your father – as fine a golfer as ever I knew!”
“Thank you Gussie, that’s kind of you. There’s been an awful lot to do at home since he passed, just to get things straight.”
“Ah well, it’s not so easy is it, this being stinking rich?!” His Lordship threw back his head and guffawed. Finally breaking their handshake, Gussie turned to Sibley.
“Mr Sibley? You are most welcome. We’ve not much here to interest you I think, as the dastardly McOwans thankfully didn’t manage to get their hands on this place! But the portrait of the fiendish Lachlan is in the study for you to have a look at.”
Lord MacDonald spoke merrily and heartily. Sibley was at his most simpering.
“Most gracious, your Lordship! Although there is one other treasure I would like to see as well, if I might be permitted to impose. I understand you have the original Flora McDonald by the great Balfour?”
“Indeed we do, though that is not for sale at any price! I think the clan would drum me out, were I to sell our most famous ancestor! Shall we go through? It’s early for a dram … perhaps you would take some coffee?”
“Sir.” A young man in the black suit of a butler appeared at the door and stood patiently. Lord MacDonald raised his eyebrows, questioningly.
“More gentlemen to see you, sir. I’ve shown them into the drawing room.”
“I’ll be right there. My apologies, gentlemen. Why don’t you go into the study and I’ll join you? My man will show you.”
As Lord MacDonald departed, the butler showed Henry and Sibley into a beautiful wood-panelled room, with a large bay window overlooking the sea and mountains. Sibley went over immediately to a magnificent oil painting on one of the walls.
“The Balfour!” he sighed. He half turned towards Henry, who was staring out of the window. The sigh turned to a hiss.
“R
emember that while you are useful to me for a while longer to introduce me to your wealthy friends, you should not get so carried away in this touching reunion that you forget your friend at Barradale. His welfare should be your primary concern.”
“You put it so well,” muttered Henry, contemptuously.
The door opened behind them. Lord MacDonald’s head appeared.
“Henry! The police are here warning about some salmon poaching in the area. They were going to see you later but since you’re here, they’d appreciate a word now. Mr Sibley and I can enjoy the Balfour and start our tour. You can join us later.”
Sibley turned quickly round at the mention of policemen. His eyes flashed dangerously at Henry, out of sight of Lord MacDonald. Henry read the message only too clearly. As he made for the door, Gussie gave him an almost imperceptible wink. Henry followed his butler out of the room and down the ornate corridor, into a sumptuously furnished Drawing Room. Alexander Lennie stood up as he entered.
“Alex! Boy, am I glad to see you!” Henry rushed over and clasped the tall Constable’s hand. Lennie indicated his companion.
“Sergeant Gillespie from Portree here on the island.”
The Sergeant stood up.
“Duncan Gillespie, Mr McOwan.”
Henry sat, taking a nervous look over his shoulder, lest Sibley should somehow contrive a reason to follow him.
“How did you know I was here?”
“Dougie Campbell phoned me last night and suggested we would find you here. We need to know what this business is about. I don’t doubt young Dougie for a moment but we’d rather hear it from you.”
“We need full details, Mr McOwan. You’ll understand that we cannot go about arresting anybody until we have firm reason for doing so. Your young friend Campbell and Miss McOwan outside said you could provide that.”
“Rebecca and Dougie are outside? I’d like to see them.”
“We thought it best to keep them out of sight for the time being, you understand. So, we need the facts, sir.”
The Sergeant nodded at the Constable, who produced a notebook and pen.
“Well, Sergeant. Until this morning, I was being held against my will in Barradale Castle. The captor is here, Simon Sibley, antiques dealer from London. He has a team of accomplices, who have been carrying out thefts of valuable art from a number of great clan houses in the Highlands. I have reason to believe they have stolen already from my own house, that they will do so again and that they intend to steal from here tonight. Some men came across with us and they have disappeared.”
“Odd that we should not have had reports of these thefts, sir. Do not these paintings leave rather large gaps on the wall?” The Sergeant was rather proud of this joke. Henry looked at him for a just a fraction of a second longer than was necessary.
“They have a man producing forgeries. They replace the genuine painting with a forgery, so nobody suspects anything and they keep the real one.”
Henry explained everything he knew, making particular mention of the arrival of his twin brother at Rahsaig and the precarious situation of Drew. The policemen listened, posing the occasional question, PC Lennie dutifully writing everything down. Eventually, the Sergeant spoke. His manner had now changed considerably.
“I will have to consult with CID in Inverness, since this matter is of the utmost severity.” He uttered the name CID with great gravity.
“We must decide what to do. The gang is too spread out just now to consider arresting anybody without that affecting our ability to catch the others. If we can catch the thieves and the looted art together, then that is obviously the best solution. I will use the phone here right away. Please wait with the Constable.”
He disappeared through the door. Henry turned to Alexander Lennie, who spoke first.
“So, Morgan is back. That must have been a wee surprise.”
“You can say that again! But my god, Alex … he’s not the lad we knew twenty years ago. He’s so … cold. He’s the brains behind all this. His years away seem to have turned him into a real hard case. He says it’s his revenge on father, that he’s taking his rightful share of the family fortune. Look, can I have a word with Rebecca and Dougie? Where are they?”
“I don’t know Henry. They’re in the car out back but if the sarge finds out, he’ll have my guts for garters.”
***
The Frenchman was hot and bothered. He kicked angrily at a stone as he came into the Barradale Castle courtyard and scowled. Grunting, he disappeared inside and climbed the staircase to the top of the tower. He crossed the room to the window, glowering at the loch outside.
“Where are you, you little…?” He growled through clenched teeth.
“Behind you!” Drew’s voice rang out merrily from the doorway. With a snarl of rage, the Frenchman swung round. Drew was leaning casually against the door frame, dangling the key in front of him.
“You forgot the key!” he said, shaking his head. In a trice, he whipped the door closed and turned the key, just before the Frenchman could cross the room to stop him. His former jailer was furious and beat his fists against the door.
“Open, Scots boy – I kill you!”
“Then I don’t think I’ll be opening it, if that’s all the same to you,” Drew called, as he twirled the key on his finger, wondering whether to fling it into the loch below. Thinking better of it, he slipped it into his pocket and went quickly downstairs.
Having retrieved his torch, Drew left the confines of the castle and headed along the causeway. The Frenchman was bellowing at him from the window of the tower. He looked back and waved cheekily.
“Rahsaig, here I come,” he said to himself.
As the castle and the raucous oaths of his jailer receded behind him, Drew decided he would be in no great hurry to return to Barradale.
***
Rebecca looked out of the window of the police car and breathed long and hard. Laird’s Leap was another magnificently appointed Scottish Castle, nestling in a forest of Scots Pine, its grey towers and turrets looking out over a panoramic view of the Sound of Sleat, the strip of water dividing Skye from the mainland.
‘Slate’, Dougie had corrected her.
Rebecca was not used to such opulent surroundings and was surprised her father had never mentioned his grand ancestral origins. Their home was a normal semi in a normal street. It was a far cry from Rahsaig and the circles in which her uncle moved.
She looked across at Dougie, seated next to her, his eyes closed in apparent sleep.
“Dougie!” she nudged him but he simply grunted and turned sideways, facing away from her. His strenuous hours at the oars seemed to have caught up with him. Rebecca was frustrated. How could he sleep at a time like this? She was determined to get to see her Uncle somehow. The policemen had been very firm that they were to remain in the car but she was restless. She felt as if she ought to be doing something.
Her patience finally snapped. She wound down the window and took a cautious look out. Everything seemed quiet. She opened the door and slipped out onto the gravel. Clicking it shut as noiselessly as she could, she tiptoed round the side of the great house. She had just reached the corner when she heard the scraping of metal, as if somebody was forcing a bolt. She darted behind a tall bush and peered out from between some leaves. She heard low voices. Two men were on hands and knees, on the path at the side of the house. From where she was, she could not see their faces.
There was more metallic scraping as one of them raised a trapdoor. He gave a quick look around before swinging his legs over the edge and jumping. Rebecca heard a thud and then his voice, urging his companion to follow. The other man lifted a large, flat package from near the wall and passed it down through the opening.
In that split second, she recognised the sharp-featured man who had appeared at the window that night at Rahsaig. He too disappeared and the trapdoor banged shut.
“What on earth are you up to?” said a loud whisper. Rebecca nearly fell over.
/> At the window behind her stood Henry.
“Uncle H.! Oh thank goodness, I thought I was in trouble!”
Henry gave her a look as if to suggest that this was not yet out of the question.
“Wait there – don’t move an inch!” he said and disappeared. He emerged from a French window a little further along and came quickly over. He put his finger to his lips, grabbed her arm and propelled her round the corner.
“Safer here. We won’t be overheard. Where’s Dougie?”
With Henry’s help, they roused Dougie and the three of them slipped into the trees so they could talk, unobserved. They brought each other up to date.
“I still cannot believe it about Morgan,” said Rebecca, shaking her head. “Or that I didn’t understand he wasn’t you.”
“We are going to have to play it very carefully from here. The Sergeant is talking to CID on the phone just now. With Drew still being a prisoner, I have to do what Sibley says. I’d best get back. Sibley will be getting twitchy, wondering where I’ve got to.”
“But I have to tell you something else,” said Rebecca, urgently.
“Just now I was watching some men round the back of the house. They had what looked like a painting and went through a trapdoor.”
“Into the house?” said Dougie, puzzled. “Not out of it?”
“Yes, definitely into it. If they are up to their usual trick, I think they must have been taking the forged painting inside, ready to swap it later. What should we do?”
Henry was about to speak when they heard the crunch of footsteps running along the gravel path. They ducked back into some bushes as two men came hurrying round the corner. They passed the police car without stopping and headed off down the drive. Somewhere, an engine started up and then a vehicle careered off at high speed.
“There they go!” said Rebecca, a gleam in her eye.
“I was right. They must have hidden the painting inside, ready to come back later – tonight, I’ll bet. I have an idea to stop them getting the real one.”
“This way,” said Henry and led the way quickly across the gravel and into the house. They went into the drawing room, where the Sergeant had just returned and was on the point of taking Constable Lennie to task. He turned, his eyebrows rising immediately as he saw Dougie and Rebecca with Henry.
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