“Surely that was a source of satisfaction to him?”
“Well, no. You see, my mother will not allow gambling in her house, not even for the most trifling stakes and, as it is her own house, her word is law. When we discovered what a brilliant player he was, I don’t think anyone was sorry. I thought you would have known of her little foible in that respect.”
“I do not play cards,” said Dame Beatrice. “I have always thought card games a waste of time and intelligence.”
“Well, well, so they are, maybe. Then, Bradan was no reader, except of newspapers, and those, of course, could not be got at in that weather. The telephone was off, too, and the man became more and more morose. I am afraid he sorely taxed my mother’s patience.”
“You said, I think, that you were not snowed up with him.”
“As it happened, I was not. I had to go to Edinburgh on business and was expected back, but then came the blizzards and I could not make it. When I did manage to get through, I found a very disgruntled Bradan, with his bags packed, just ready to go. It was hopeless to reopen our business conversations. I could see that. I felt it would be wiser to give him time to cool off before I mentioned the matter again. His last words to me were that my invitation to him to visit Gàradh had lost him a business deal worth ten thousand pounds. Oh, he wasn’t pleased with me. He wasn’t pleased at all.”
“Yet he sent your mother some plants for her rock garden.”
Stewart’s eyes twinkled.
“Oh, that!” he said. “No, no. I let my mother think so, because if she’d known that I bought them myself as a wee bit of compensation to her for having had to put up with the curmudgeonly old fellow, she would have been vexed at my extravagance.” He laughed. “It amazed me to discover what you can pay for rare little plants for a rockery.”
“And did you ever get the chance to reopen negotiations with Mr. Bradan?”
“I tried again, three months later. I visited him on Tannasgan. He was curt to the point of rudeness and told me, in the most uncouth manner, to take my business elsewhere. He was not prepared to carry our extra freight any longer.”
“Really? And what did you deduce from that?”
“As I think I said, there was not much doubt but that he wanted to get rid of us, having found some more lucrative use for his ships. I guessed it might be something questionable, but that was none of my business and I’d found another connection, anyway, in case he should refuse to play ball.”
“You were well out of it,” said Laura. “I’d like you to meet my husband at some time.”
“It will be a pleasure,” said Stewart courteously.
“You say you visited Tannasgan,” said Dame Beatrice. “Can you tell me whether anyone besides the laird was living at An Tigh Mór?”
“There were two servants, a man and his wife, named Corrie, Bradan’s son (with whom, it struck me, he was at loggerheads) and a rather curious character with red hair and a red beard—a tall, thin man wearing a kilt in a tartan which he said was of his own designing (and I can well believe it!), who told me that, although he had been introduced to me as Bradan’s cousin, he was, in fact, the poet Ossian. He was, of course, M. D. Macbeth.”
“Mad, would you say?” enquired Laura. “He introduced himself to us by the same fancy name.”
“An eccentric; not, I thought, mad. Maybe he had a quirky sense of humour.”
“Not a pawky one?”
“No, no. Mind you, Mrs. Gavin, he appeared to take himself very seriously, but it is characteristic of the Scots to be able to keep the solemn face of an elder of the kirk when they’re telling a funny story.”
Laura herself had not this gift. She had lived in England too long for that, but she agreed with the observation and, to show this, she gave a vigorous nod of approval.
“On what terms were the poet Ossian and Mr. Bradan?” Dame Beatrice enquired.
“On very good terms, I would say. I cannot recall any particular happening or conversation which may have caused me to think so, but the general impression was of two men in harmony. Their relationship was in contrast to the relationship of father and son.”
“How did you yourself get on with Ossian?”
“He seemed an agreeable although an eccentric fellow, but I was so much incensed by Bradan’s attitude that I did not stay very long.”
“Who took you across the loch to the island?” asked Laura.
“Who but Bradan himself? He said he liked to scrutinise his guests before he allowed them to land.”
“Oh, yes, so we heard. Who rowed you back across the loch?”
“Oh, Corrie.”
“Did you find him taciturn?” asked Dame Beatrice.
“Yes, to some extent. He broke silence to ask me whether I’d got what I had come for, and I told him that I had not, to which he replied that nobody ever did who had dealings with Cù Dubh.”
“Did he actually call him that?” asked Laura, interested in this unfeudal appellation.
“He did, indeed. I thought it an apt description.”
“Black Dog?” said Laura. “Oh, yes! But Black Dog was in Treasure Island.”
“Ah, but not on it,” said Dame Beatrice, “and that, you know, may prove to be a very significant fact—or, of course, of no importance to us whatsoever.”
“Treasure Island?” said Stewart. “One never knows.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The Prodigal Son
“From here the cold white mist can be discerned.”
Matthew Arnold
* * *
“WELL!” said Laura, when she and Dame Beatrice were again alone together. “What did you make of that?”
“I do not think that Mrs. Stewart’s son can help us any more than he has done. He told us what he could and it has not got us very much farther.”
“What business do you think he had with Bradan?”
“Just what he said. In other words, Mr. Bradan’s firm was acting as a kind of carrier’s service. Beyond that, it was not for Stewart’s firm to enquire. I can see that Bradan’s business was perfectly respectable at first, but became illegal later.”
“I wonder what Stewart’s did when they knew they’d lost the service?”
“I imagine that the other directors were just as much relieved as Stewart was. Firms with a good reputation do not care to be mixed up with even the mildest of shady transactions, and there must have come a point when Stewart’s became suspicious.”
“What do we do now?”
“Well, of course, we might endeavour to contact Mr. Bradan’s son.”
“But he’s in prison.”
“It might be interesting to hear his story. But, if I mistake not, I hear our dear Robert at the door.”
“Well, I’m dashed!” said Laura. Her husband was shown in by Célestine. “What are you doing here?”
“Come to eat you, my dear,” stated Detective Chief-Inspector Robert Gavin, fondly embracing his wife. “How is the girl, after all this time?”
“None the better for seeing you,” responded his loving spouse. “Well, what’s the news?”
“Very interesting,” said Gavin. “Meanwhile, what’s to eat?”
Célestine, summoned from the kitchen, reported that Monsieur Robert’s wishes had been complied with, and that a steak and kidney pudding would be at Monsieur Robert’s disposal, together with potatoes and greens, in a matter of minutes.
“Oh, many cheers,” said Gavin. “Just what the doctor ordered.”
“It is as monsieur ordered,” retorted Célestine, tossing herself out. “Over the telephone today.”
“I envy you, Dame Beatrice,” said Gavin. “Your household never seems to change, except for my wife, who’s getting fat.” Laura hit him over the head with a folded newspaper.
“And now, precious idiot, expound. We’ve been told of your exploits. Be precise,” she said.
“Well, I can’t be terribly precise,” said Gavin, relapsing into gravity. “I don
’t think that what we’ve found out will do your case much good, Dame Beatrice. I don’t really believe that the rum-running, or even the arms racket, has anything to do with Bradan’s death.”
“As I supposed,” said Dame Beatrice. “But I think I hear your meal going in. Away and sup. We will hear more when you are refreshed.”
“Looks well, doesn’t he?” said Laura, when her handsome husband had taken himself off to the dining-room. “Very bronzed and sunburnt.”
Dame Beatrice agreed.
“I wonder how much money Mr. Bradan left?” she added. Laura looked surprised.
“I thought we’d decided it was a revenge job. I certainly had that impression,” she said. “Hadn’t we discarded the idea of a murder for gain?”
“Well, it would not have been the first of those, child.”
“I suppose,” said Laura thoughtfully, “that rum-running and gun-running could be pretty lucrative. Yes, it’s quite an idea you have there. The only thing about all this which puzzles me—apart from the identity of the murderer, of course—is why you think the police are wrong about Bradan’s son. You do think they’re wrong, don’t you?”
“What causes you to ask such a question?”
“Oh, come, now, Mrs. Croc, dear! If you thought they were right, you wouldn’t still be spending time on the case. Besides, as the police have pinched young Bradan and stuck him in the nick, they must believe that the murder was done for revenge on his part because he’d been disinherited. Now you think it was done to get Bradan’s money, and that looks like Macbeth.”
“We shall know more when we find out how much Mr. Bradan had to leave and exactly how he left it.”
“I’d still like to know more about how the body got on to the island, or, in fact, whether it did. Do you suppose the inspector knows? If he does, he may not tell us. I suppose you’re going to use Gavin as a sort of stool-pigeon when we get to Edinburgh.”
“I am not certain that I understand you.”
“Go on with you! Of course you understand me. Gavin is to be our surety. The inspector will be tickled to death to meet him, and will spill all sorts of beans.”
“Possibly in private to our Robert, but with a suggestion that the disclosures are for no ears but Robert’s own.”
“Oh, no, that would be too bad. Anyway, he would naturally suppose that Gavin would pass the gen to the wife of his bosom.”
“I am not at all sure about that, and, even if it were so, it might not be possible for the said wife to pass on the information to a third party—myself.”
“Oh, well, let’s not cross any bridges until we come to them. I’ll go into the dining-room and tell him what we expect, shall I?”
At this transparent excuse for Laura to have her husband to herself for a bit, Dame Beatrice cackled, but not until Laura had gone out of the room. At the end of about three-quarters of an hour the two returned and seated themselves. Gavin gently patted his stomach.
“Best meal I’ve had since I dined here last time,” he said. “And now, Dame B., I am at your service.”
“Well, what can you tell us?”
“As I said before, very little that can help you. We found out—thanks to Laura and my own rather talented young son—that there were some interesting goings-on in the West Indies and so on with regard to liquor and guns, but what on earth can be the connection between them and the death of Bradan is, at present, beyond conjecture. In fact, nothing ties up.”
“I’d better tell you about the Edinburgh murder,” said Laura.
“But, my dear girl, one doesn’t murder people in Edinburgh nowadays,” said Gavin, looking incredulous. “It’s no longer done, particularly since the introduction of the Festival.”
“Oh, no?” said Laura. “Well, big boy, listen to this.” She gave him a vivid but not an exaggerated account of the street death she had witnessed. “Mrs. Croc was not impressed at first,” she concluded, “but now I think she believes that what I said was true. It’s been confirmed, you see, by an impartial and independent witness.” She went on to tell of their various encounters with the young reporter Grant. Gavin listened without interrupting her until she concluded with the words: “So you see.”
“Um—yes,” he said. “I do see. Pity he doesn’t know, or won’t give, the name of this chap he says he recognised. The fact that he says the chap was in Bradan’s employment doesn’t help much, as you point out. Got any theories, Dame B.?”
“Well, I have formed some during the investigation (which, now, properly, I should give up), but there is no proof.”
“Why should you give up?”
“Because I began it only to make certain that Laura was not arrested,” replied Dame Beatrice, accompanying, or, rather, concluding, this statement with her unnerving cackle.
“Laura?”
“Well, yes,” his wife admitted. “I was on the island more or less at the time of Bradan’s murder and my story of why I was there would have sounded pretty thin in court.”
“And now?”
“Since we have met the inspector, I am no longer concerned for Laura’s safety,” said Dame Beatrice.
“What were you doing on the island, anyway, chump?” demanded Gavin. Laura grinned.
“Getting wet. That is to say, I got wet and Bradan’s son—I didn’t know that’s who it was at the time, but we found out afterwards—signalled the island and a huge old man with a terrific red beard brought a boat over and dried, warmed and fed me. But when he wanted to keep me on the island for a week I thought it was time to make my get-away. It was then that I first ran into this reporter. The rest of that story you know.”
“Nice goings-on for a respectable wife and mother! When are you going to grow up?”
“Anyway, now you know it all, what are you going to do?” demanded Laura, ignoring the criticism.
“With Dame B.’s permission, I am going to use her telephone and ring up Edinburgh.”
Dame Beatrice nodded, and he went out of the room.
“Wonder what his idea is?” said Laura.
“He is going to find out whether young Bradan has been arrested for murdering his father, or for some other reason,” said Dame Beatrice. This inspired guess turned out to be correct. Gavin came back looking pleased with himself.
“Well, dog with two tails?” said his wife. Gavin slumped into a chair and spread his long legs over the hearth-rug.
“What do you think?” he asked. Laura, from the opposite side of the fireplace, kicked his ankle. “Oh, well,” he said resignedly, “if you’re in militant mood, you’d better know all. There’s no secret about it. Young Bradan is held in custody for assaulting the police.”
“Really? I shouldn’t have thought he had it in him,” said Laura. “Exactly what did he do?”
“He appears to have gone berserk when your friend Macbeth of the flaming beard sent for the police to order him off Tannasgan, where he was not only trespassing…”
“Who cares about trespass?” demanded Laura, a keen supporter of Access to Mountains.
“Wait for it—but was destroying valuable property—viz. to wit, sculpture owned by the new laird of Tannasgan, Malcolm Donalbain Macbeth.”
“Sculpture? Not the fabulous beasts? And surely he didn’t give that pseudonym to the police? I thought it was just his little joke.”
“Sculpture, yes. The fabulous beasts, yes. And his name really is Malcolm Donalbain Macbeth. He’s got a birth certificate to prove it. So the police from Dingwall stepped in and young Bradan went all hysterical, I gather, and ran at them, brandishing a piece of one of the beasties. It appears that he got in a whack at the law which necessitated the insertion of eight stitches. So he got pinched and is up for trial charged with inflicting grievous bodily harm on a police constable while the latter was in the execution of his duty. He may also be wanted on an even more serious charge.”
“More serious than hitting a policeman? Why, he might have killed him with that chunk of stone,” said Laura. “I�
�ve seen those fabulous beasts. They’re tough babies.”
“As it happens—probably luckily for the bobby—it wasn’t a lump of stone; it was a lump of metal.”
“Oh, dash it, not the basilisk! That was my favourite!”
“I’ve no idea what it was called. It’s immaterial, anyway. The serious charge against Bradan was that, in his screaming hysterics, he accused Macbeth of assisting him, in Edinburgh, to push a man named Grant under a car so that the said Grant was killed.”
“Is Macbeth arrested too, then?”
“No. It seems that he was able to furnish the police with a complete alibi for that particular time. He was on Tannasgan, and Mrs. Corrie swore to him. What is the man Corrie like, by the way?”
“Taciturn and unhelpful,” said Laura, “but, I should say, honest and loyal and all those things which old-fashioned retainers used to be, and which present-day servants on the whole are not.”
“So you don’t think that Corrie would have had anything to do with shoving that man under the car?”
“It doesn’t seem very likely to me, but I’ve nothing to go on except instinct.”
“Instinct is not often at fault,” said Gavin thoughtfully, “and I’d usually trust yours. Anyway, that’s all I know and I have work to do. I’ve been away too long and I have a consultation tomorrow with the Assistant Commissioner about some robberies in—er—well, about some robberies.” He grinned into his wife’s furious face. “No, really, Laura,” he added, “there’s nothing more I can do for you. With the end of Bradan, I think his schemes will just die a natural death. As for his murder, well, that isn’t my pigeon.” He glanced at his watch. “I’m afraid I must go. Apart from seeing the Assistant Commissioner, I seem to have a date with a citizen named Good Egg Symes, who guarantees—for what it is worth—to tip us off about a job that was done in the West End two nights ago. It was a smash and grab. Friend Symes was unlucky enough to receive the smash—in the form of an empty milk-bottle which a scared nightwatchman slung at him—but failed to obtain the grab.”
My Bones Will Keep (Mrs. Bradley) Page 19