by W E Johns
‘I’d say that rudder belongs to a Gipsy Moth,’ said Algy.
‘Then it has probably been here for a long time,’ replied Biggles. ‘De Havillands must have made hundreds of Gipsys, but you don’t see so many about nowadays.’
The Otter drifted nearer and came silently to rest. When it was so close to the rudder that Ginger could have touched it he lowered the anchor, slowly, so as not to disturb the water.
They all leaned over the side to wait for the ripples to settle down, but even before this occurred the shape of an aircraft could be seen clearly through the crystal water. It appeared to be on even keel but slightly down by the nose, for which reason the tail unit was the only part to break the surface. The upper side of the top plane was about six feet down. The machine stood in a position parallel with the beach on a slightly shelving bottom of broken rock.
‘It’s a Gipsy,’ said Biggles definitely. ‘I fancy this is an old story.’
There was silence for a minute as they continued to stare down.
‘There’s no one in it,’ said Ginger. ‘I’m pretty sure both seats are empty.’
‘Thank goodness for that,’ muttered Bertie. ‘Corpses give me the willies.’
‘Can anyone make out the identification letters?’ inquired Biggles.
Not even when the water was dead still could the letters be seen, this being due, apparently, to a slight coating of silt, or weed.
‘The pilot, whoever he was, must have been out of his mind to try to get down here,’ declared Bertie.
‘Not necessarily,’ returned Biggles.
‘You think it was an accident?’
‘One would assume that, but I’m by no means sure of it.’
‘What do you mean?’ queried Ginger.
‘Let’s look at it like this,’ suggested Biggles. ‘Had that machine gone in out of control surely it would have broken up when it hit the water. In such cases the wings are buckled, if not actually torn off at the roots; yet as you can see for yourselves, this aircraft is not only intact but is on even keel. Again, had the machine crashed there would have been a body in at least one of the seats. There seems to be something unnatural about this.’
‘The pilot, with engine trouble, might have been making for that bit of a beach and undershot,’ offered Ginger.
‘In which case the nose would be pointing to the beach. I doubt if he’d see that beach from up topsides, anyway. Put yourself in the pilot’s position. You’re in trouble. Which would you choose, to ditch yourself miles from anywhere or take a chance on dry land, even if that meant a crack-up?’
‘I’d go for the heather.’
‘So would I,’ asserted Biggles. ‘Remember the job I had to get down even with a machine in good order. The way I came was the only way in, but I wouldn’t care to try it with a groggy engine.’
‘But half a mo’, old boy,’ protested Bertie. ‘The alternative to what you’re saying is, the pilot put the machine here deliberately. Does that make sense?’
‘No,’ admitted Biggles. ‘But neither do a lot of things that happen. I can’t believe this machine crashed, by which I mean hit the water hard. The pilot could of course have done a belly-flop. But why here, knowing he’d have to swim for it? I have a feeling this machine came here for a definite purpose, although what that could be I haven’t a clue. I can see only one possible alternative. This might have happened in the winter, when the loch was ice-bound. When the ice melted the machine would go down quietly in the position in which we now see it. There are two arguments against that. The pilot would have to know the loch was frozen over, and secondly, having got down, would he just walk away and abandon the machine without reporting it?’
‘In winter conditions it wouldn’t be possible to get a rescue party here,’ put in Algy. ‘He might have died from exposure trying to reach help.’
‘In which case the body should have been found when the snow went. The Forestry people have been working about here, don’t forget, testing the soil.’
‘He might have been drowned,’ put in Ginger.
‘Even so the body would come to the surface. He wasn’t trapped in the cockpit. But why are we wasting time guessing? How many Gipsy Moths have you in that file of missing machines, Ginger? I saw you going through it on the way up.’
‘I can only recall three,’ answered Ginger, producing the file. ‘One went west on a flight to the Cape. Another, belonging to a planter flying back to Malaya, either went down in the Channel or disappeared somewhere in Europe.’
‘Neither of those would come this way. Carry on.’
‘The other was the case of that man whom the police wanted to interview in connection with a murder. A fellow named Alva Murray, an ex-commando, was thought to have shot his wife. He took off in a Gipsy and was never seen again. We helped in the search for him. You decided he’d found a hideout on the Continent.’
Biggles frowned. ‘I remember that business. It must have been seven or eight years ago. It was in June, so we can forget the ice theory should this turn out to be the machine. If ever there was a deliberately planned job that was it. Murray joined a flying club to get his “A” licence—as he said. Even then he must have known what he was going to do because while he was under instruction he drew all his money from the bank, about four thousand pounds, a few hundreds at a time. Then he shot his wife, took off in a club machine and vanished. It turned out he was a jealous type and thought she’d been playing him up. At least, that was what it looked like. What were the registration letters?’
‘GB-XKL.’
Biggles got up. ‘This could be it. If it is, it’s no wonder we never found it. But we’ll soon settle that. A man planning to disappear could hardly find a better place, or devise a more cunning method. I’ll go down. The sides of the fuselage, being vertical, should be clear of muck.’
He got into his bathing costume, lowered himself gently into the water and swam down. For half a minute the others could see him working his way along the side of the fuselage; then he shot to the surface.
‘Brr. That water’s cold!’ he exclaimed, as he climbed back on board. ‘No matter. At last we know where GB-XKL ended its career. But that’s still a long way from knowing where Murray finished up. While I’m getting my togs on run the machine up on the beach. We’ll stretch our legs and eat a sandwich while we think about this.’
In a few minutes they were sitting on dry stones, in warm sunshine.
‘Are we going to try to haul the Gipsy ashore?’ asked Ginger.
‘Not for the moment,’decided Biggles. ‘It’s better where it is.’
‘Why?’
‘I’m assuming Murray is still alive. If this story gets out he’ll hear about it and take fright. After all this time he must think he’s sitting pretty. If he learns that the machine has been found he’ll be more difficult to find than he may be at present. By thunder! He must have brains, and nerve, to work out a scheme like this.’
‘Then you think he ditched the machine here deliberately?’ questioned Bertie.
‘If you remember, I suspected someone had done just that before we knew who it was,’ returned Biggles. ‘Everything pointed to that. But one or two things still puzzle me. Murray must have known exactly what he was going to do, in which case he would have made the necessary preparations. That implies that he knew all about this place—the beach, the depth of the water, and so on. Obviously, he had been here before. His name tells us he was a Scot so he may have come from these parts. The ambition of every Highlander who leaves home is to get back to his beloved heather. It’s in the blood. Murray may have come home.’
‘These preparations you talk about,’ put in Ginger. ‘I don’t see that he would have to make any. Having ditched the machine all he had to do was swim ashore.’
‘He had to get other things ashore beside himself. If he intended to lie low for a while he’d need food. He’d want to dry his clothes. He also had a little matter of four thousand pounds with him. He’d have more
sense than to go straight to the village, knowing that in these parts the arrival of a stranger is a subject for conversation and conjecture.’ Biggles got up and walked towards the clump of birch.
‘What are you going to do?’ asked Algy.
‘I’m going to see if Murray left behind any signs of his arrival here. He wouldn’t leave anything on the beach and there aren’t many hiding places.’
They all walked to the bushes.
Almost at once they came upon a spot where, long ago, a fire had been lighted.
‘I’d say that’s where he dried his clothes,’ remarked Biggles. ‘Hello! What’s this?’ Stooping, he lifted from the tangle of encroaching heather a length of window cord. As he pulled on it more and more came to light until there must have been fifty yards of it. At the end was an object so strange that it produced ejaculations of astonishment from all except Biggles. It was the deflated remains of a pair of water-wings, sometimes used for swimming instruction.
‘So he couldn’t swim,’ said Ginger.
‘As a commando he’d have to be able to swim,’ reminded Biggles. ‘But he had other things to get ashore beside himself. A kit-bag, for instance. I’ve never tried swimming with one but I imagine it would be awkward. Don’t forget he had four thousand in notes. He wouldn’t want to get them soaking wet. I’d say these wings kept his luggage afloat while he hauled it ashore with the cord. I told you this chap had his scheme cut and dried. If he put the machine down carefully it wouldn’t sink at once. He’d have time to take off some of his clothes and put them in a bag brought for the purpose. All he had to do then was inflate the wings, tie them on, swim ashore with the cord and pull his luggage after him. Well, this answers one question. All we have to do now is follow his trail, but after all this time that won’t be easy. Let’s go back.’
Biggles thrust the cord into the heather where he had found it and led the way back to the machine.
‘You’ll never catch up with him now,’ asserted Algy. This chap was too smart to leave a trail.’
‘Don’t you believe it,’ argued Biggles. ‘Even the smartest murderers usually make one slip. This chap has already made one by leaving that cord there. No doubt he was in a hurry to get away.’
‘It was thousands to one against anyone finding it,’ said said Ginger.
‘That may be what he thought, but as you see, a thousand to one chance can come off. The trouble with these rural jobs is, there’s no one on the spot to question,’ concluded Biggles, as, seated on the stones, they finished their meal with biscuits and cheese and coffee from the thermos.
‘There’s someone coming now,’ observed Ginger.
They all looked up. Striding down a deer track from the hill behind them came a powerfully built man, black-bearded, wearing a kilt of Lovat tweed, carrying in his hand a Highland cromach—a long, strong, ash stick with a crook at the end, an instrument that serves many useful purposes in such country. On his head he wore a Laggan bonnet, sometimes called a deer-stalker. With the handle of a skean-dhu, the Highland name for a dagger, showing above the top of his stocking, where it is usually carried, he fitted into the scene perfectly.
‘I wonder what he’s doing here,’ said Biggles. ‘He doesn’t look like a Forestry worker. Might be a shepherd looking for lost sheep—no, if he was a shepherd he’d have a dog. So he would if he was a gamekeeper.’
The man came up. Biggles spoke. ‘Good morning, Mr—’
‘Macrae’s the name. I saw the plane circling and came to see what ye were at.’
‘What did you think we might be doing?’
‘I thought ye might be after the eagles’ eggs.’
Biggles smiled faintly. ‘I’d never have thought of that. Do people come after eagles’ eggs?’
‘Aye, they do that, with yon devils of collectors in London paying five pounds a time, and up to fifty pound for a clutch.’
‘So you take care of the eagles,’ prompted Biggles.
‘Aye. For the Scottish Bird Protection Society.’
‘An interesting job. How long have you been doing that?’
‘Five years.’
‘Do you live here all the year round?’
‘Aye.’
‘How do you manage in the winter?’
‘I manage fine.’
‘Then you have a house here?’
Macrae pointed with his stick. ‘I have a wee place doon the glen. In the old days it was the stalker’s hoose.’
‘It must be the only house this side of Balashlin.’
‘Aye. It is.’
‘What about the big place I noticed over there, standing in some trees, as I flew over?’ Biggles pointed.
‘Och, ye mean the old lodge. It’s a ruin. The laird didna do a thing about it, tho’ they say he should have done.’
‘Why, if there’s no more deer-stalking?’
‘He had money from the Government to put it right. They took it over in the war.’
‘For what purpose?’
‘They put some troops in, and they knocked the place to pieces like they always do.’
‘What troops did they put in?’
‘I couldna tell ye that. But you’re free with your questions, mon. What might ye be doing here?’
‘As you see, having a picnic. I imagine it’s the first time a plane has landed on the loch.’
‘Aye. I’d think that. Ah weel. I’ll awa’ an’ look to me nests. Good dee to ye.’
‘Good morning, Mr Macrae. We shan’t touch your eagles.’
‘I’ll be after ye if you do. They’re protected by law, ye ken.’
The man strode off at the long, ground-covering gait of a man born in the hills.
‘Well, old boy, there’s one man not likely to die in a road accident,’ remarked Bertie. Biggles lit a cigarette.
‘What do we do next—go home?’ queried Ginger.
‘No.’
‘But there’s nothing else we can do here.’
‘There’s one thing I’m going to do. I want to cast an eye over this empty lodge.’
‘Then let’s get on with it.’
‘Not yet.’
‘Why?’
‘Because that chap on the hill will be watching us. I don’t want word to get around that we’re poking about here.’
‘You think Murray might still be in the district?’
‘He might.’
Algy stepped in. ‘But what are you expecting to find at the lodge?’
‘According to Macrae the Government requisitioned it during the war. They put troops in it. I want to know what troops they were.’
‘What troops have you in mind?’ inquired Ginger.
‘The place might have been a Commando Training School,’ returned Biggles. ‘I don’t say it was, but there were some in the Highlands in the war. If I’m right it would give us a line on how Murray knew about the loch. He was a commando. We’ll wander round presently. There’s no point in going home only to come back again to-morrow. Fetch the torch from the machine, Ginger. We may need it.’
They waited until the sun sank behind the hills, throwing the valley into gloom, and then set off at a brisk pace.
It was a long walk over hard going, and Ginger was thankful when the stand of Scots pines that hid the lodge loomed darkly against the sky.
The once smart lodge, now silent and dilapidated, with rotting hutments accompanying it to ruin, presented a depressing spectacle in an atmosphere of melancholy which the interior, when Biggles opened the door and went in, did nothing to dispel. All furniture had been removed. Some foolscap sheets of type-written matter hung from the wall in the empty hall.
Biggles walked over. ‘Number Seven Commando Training unit. Daily Routine Orders,’ he read aloud. Turning to face the others he went on. ‘So now we know. Murray was stationed here during the war. That’s how he knew of the place. What a hide-out! I’d say he came back here.’
Followed by the others Biggles went down a corridor to the kitchen. A cheap frying p
an and kettle were rusting on the stove. An enamel plate, with a knife and fork on it, were in the sink. He opened the back door and went out. In a corner was a heap of brown, long-dead heather. He kicked away some of it to expose a pile of empty cans. ‘These weren’t army rations,’ he said, picking up a sardine tin. ‘Yes,’ he went on. ‘This was Murray’s objective when he ditched his aircraft.’
‘Is there any reason why he shouldn’t still be here?’ asked Ginger, looking slightly alarmed.
‘Plenty of reasons, one of which being the Forestry Commission people have been here.’ He pointed to a row of long-handled brushes: ‘There is some of their fire-fighting equipment. No. Murray only came here while the hue and cry was on, long enough perhaps for him to change his appearance. He couldn’t bring a lot of food. Enough to last him a week or two at the outside. Then he’d have to go where some was available, to lay in a fresh stock.’
‘So it’s a question of where did he go from here,’ said Ginger.
‘Exactly.’
‘There might still be fingerprints on the handle of that frying pan,’ observed Algy.
‘Even if they turned out to be his they wouldn’t help us to find him. We needn’t bother with that at this juncture.’
‘What are you going to do?’
‘We’ll go back to the machine and spend the night in the cabin. In the morning we’ll have a look round. Murray might not be far away.’
The walk back to the loch, in the dark, was tiring work, and would have been dangerous had they not had the advantage of a moon, nearly full. As they trudged along the stony beach towards the machine suddenly Ginger stopped, gazing out across the star-reflecting water.
‘Can you see what I can’t see?’ he exclaimed, in a puzzled voice.
‘What can’t you see?’ asked Algy.
‘The rudder.’
‘Well, blow me down!’ muttered Bertie. ‘The water must be rising.’
‘Either that or Biggles caused the machine to move when he went down to it,’ opined Algy, casually.
‘That could have happened,’ agreed Biggles. He walked on towards the bushes.
‘Where are you going?’ asked Ginger.