“They could give us false information and hope that we would believe it. That’s what they’ve done already.”
“They don’t even realize that we would like to have particular information about Stewart, child, and I was careful not to put the thought into their heads. The question at the moment is what we shall do with old Morag.”
“The question for me is, if Ure is not Stewart, why was he killed, and who killed him?”
“I still think Alexander Loudoun killed him whilst Hector Loudoun tried to give his brother an alibi at Craigullich.”
“Oh, so you still think Alexander Loudoun killed the man—either Ure or Stewart—on Rannoch Moor?”
“There seems nothing else to think. No suspicion has fallen on anyone else, since the police have formed no theory as to the identity of Mr. Ure’s assailant. I see now that Ure did exactly what Hector Loudoun in his typescript said that he did. Ure wanted to purchase Glen Ullich. He must have heard some rumour about the treasure. It may have been more than a rumour. I should say he met Stewart in prison, or abroad . . .”
“Stewart? In prison, or abroad?”
“Where else could he have been, except in prison or abroad, if the Loudouns could so easily take possession of his house and land? I repeat that he met Stewart and learned from him something about the treasure that was drowned in the lake. The Loudouns knew where the treasure was, too. They tried to fob off Ure at first, but when he grew persistent—and threatened to get in touch with Stewart and inform him of the theft of his property—the brothers, to deal with him, invited him down to the house, arranged a preliminary meeting on the moor and there Alexander Loudoun killed him. Hector Loudoun, incomparably the more intelligent of the brothers, had another object in view. He wanted an alibi for himself (an alibi which, as they were so much alike in appearance, Alexander could share) but he also intended to murder his brother and claim what was found for himself.
“The plan would have succeeded but for two things. One was that Alexander Loudoun could not sustain the character that his brother had built up at Craigullich, and, thanks to Catherine, he could be proved to be another and not the same Loudoun as she had met at Craigullich. The other was that Stewart was not so far away as the brothers had thought. In fact, he was hot on the trail, both of his false friend Ure and of the Loudouns themselves. We don’t know at what point he realized that Ure would betray the confidence he had reposed in him, and he may even have been prepared to take Ure into partnership in order to recover his property, but . . .”
“But the fact remains that Stewart is the son of a murderer. Malcolm Stewart, if he did shoot David Loudoun, deserved, according to the law, to be hanged.”
“There is a good deal of work to be done at some time on that case, child. I am prepared to wager that Rory Loudoun’s brother died as the result of a duel with pistols, and not as the result of a cowardly and murderous attack. But, whatever the truth about that matter—and it cannot concern us now—the young James Stewart was never allowed to forget that his father was hanged.”
She nodded towards where old Morag was seated on the low stone wall.
“Old Morag?”
“Oh, yes. She’s been telling me so herself. The old clan spirit survives, and the old clan hatreds, too. I know families now—in the colonies mostly, I must admit—where a MacDonald will not marry a Campbell. Don’t you recollect what Loudoun put in his script—‘there is Glencoe to remember.’ ”
“Yes, I did read that. But, look here, if your surmise is correct, and a duel was fought, couldn’t Malcolm Stewart have claimed self-defence at the trial?”
“With his wife another man’s mistress? He may not have known which Loudoun brother was the man—he may have picked the wrong one or the right one—that we may never know; it is one of the extraordinary secrets of this most extraordinary case—but he did know that he had been dishonoured. He had nothing to live for. The Highlander broods over wrongs. He prefers to suffer to the limit (and beyond it) of endurance if he feels that he has been wronged. It was one more sin to lay on his wife and her paramour; it was one more burden to bind on their consciences, and one more branding with which to sear their memories. It was part of his revenge on his wife that he should be convicted and hanged. He probably looked forward to laughing in hell at the thought of it.”
“I shouldn’t say this to Laura and Ian,” said Jonathan. “They are proud of their Highland blood,”
“I am proud of mine, although I boast only a drop,” said Mrs. Bradley sincerely. “Och, aye,” she added tentatively, somewhat to the amusement of her nephew. “But the loch,” she went on, “The loch. The treasure is in the loch, and I know now, from what Morag says, and because Malcolm Stewart allowed himself to be hanged, that when the treasure is discovered the whole of this mystery will be solved.”
Chapter Fourteen
★
Victory or death!
Buaidh no bas!
War cry of the MacDougalls and of the MacNeills of Barra
★
The pursuit of Stewart, which, as presupposed by Mrs. Bradley, included the pursuit of Hector Loudoun, offered the supreme problem that no one knew where to begin it. Laura’s original plan, framed before Mrs. Bradley had taken her and Deborah off to Skye, was therefore followed, as it had the merits of logic and commonsense.
The search-party consisted of Deborah, Laura, Ian, and Jonathan. Mrs. Bradley and Catherine were left in charge of Brian and were taken off on the Kerisaig to Ballachulish as soon as the police had arrested the kidnappers. Old Morag was left on the croft of Mrs. MacShuffie. She could do no harm, it was felt, and, apart from Craigullich, which was still in possession of the police, she had no home, so far as anyone knew, for she would give no details of kith and kin and it was taken for granted that she had no one to whom she could go. There was just the chance, too, that if Mrs. Bradley were right, and Stewart was still alive, he would make some attempt to get in touch with her. The police had been warned of this, and were requested to combine vigilance with discretion. This they were able to do partly because they did not believe any harm of the poor old woman, partly because of their own innate courtesy, partly because their conceptions of vigilance were hazy and their ideas of discretion very liberal, and partly because they were afraid of the old carline’s tongue and grandmotherly curses. The Gaelic lends itself to cursing of a peculiar and religious intensity quite divorced from profanity and ordinary, vulgar invocation of the Deity and the devil. The old woman, according to an evocative and silken-tongued inspector with a dark moustache and a sing-song, dulcet accent which rivalled that of Morag herself, was capable of calling down upon any offending heads the wrath that broods in the mountains and hovers on cairns and in the glens. Mrs. Bradley did not pretend to believe him, but paid silent respect to his opinions.
To Loch Laggan, therefore, went the search-party, with a word and a hint to Inspector Cameron and his relatives on the way, and Laura enquired for the bagman. He had gone towards Kingussie, they were told. Was he walking, or had he gone by bus? He was on foot when he set out, but they thought perhaps he might have picked up the bus along the road.
The party had come by car from Ballachulish by way of Fort William and the road through Glen Spean. They filled up the petrol tank at Kingussie, and there went into conclave. It seemed the most likely thing that Stewart was taking a roundabout way back to Craigullich. If it were so, it followed that he would have turned off southward at Newtonmore, through which they had passed on their way to Kingussie. It was only about four miles back along the road. Whether he knew that the police were still at Craigullich was doubtful, but, in any case, he probably would not hurry. It would have been useful to know whether he proposed to walk all the way, part of the way, or not at all, but there seemed no method by which this could be determined, as, having no official standing in the matter, they did not want to ask too many questions.
“One thing we ought to do,” said Jonathan suddenly, as the car turned out of Newt
onmore and began to drive slowly across Badenoch. “We ought to look out for his suitcase. If we’re right in thinking he’s chasing Hector Loudoun, he’ll want to travel light, I should imagine, and he may not need to keep up the fiction of the bagman.”
“He’d need the suitcase to stay at hotels each night,” Laura pointed out.
“Probably not. They’re used to hikers up here. And if he is on foot, he’d make himself suspicious lugging a hefty great suitcase along the roads.”
“But he may still be acting as a pedlar.”
“Yes, he may, of course.” And there they left it. The railway followed the road, and at Dalwhinnie Station, at the northern end of Loch Erricht, Laura got out of the car and gave a description of Stewart to the porter on duty. He had no recollection of such a man, either with or without a suitcase. Laura was not disappointed. She had hardly expected any luck, but had felt a moral compulsion to ask the question. She rejoined the others, and the car crawled on through the Pass of Drumochter between mountains—Creagan Mor, Carn no Caim, Geal Charn on the borders of Erricht, Meall a’ Chaeruinn, A’Mharconaich, higher than the others, Glas Mheall Mor with its sudden, soaring peak, and, highest of all, Beinn Udlamain, flanked by Sgairneach and the Atholl Sow rising from the road.
At Dalnaspidal Laura enquired again. There was still no sign of their man and nothing to be learned of him at the station.
There was a footpath on the western side of Loch Erricht, but it was thought unlikely that the man had followed it, as it seemed to peter out at Alder Bay, three miles from the southern end of the loch just below the Alder Burn, which had its source in the magnificent heights of Ben Alder, above Prince Charlie’s Cave and Ben Alder Lodge.
Laura rejoined the party, and the car crawled on through Glen Garry on the way to Struan (which was just off the road) and Blair Atholl. At Blair Atholl they had their first bit of luck, for there was gossip at the hotel about a bagman’s suitcase filled with odds and ends of combs, toothpaste, cards of elastic, toothbrushes, cheap fancy handkerchiefs, cards of buttons, hooks and eyes and press-fasteners, shaving soap, brilliantine, and safetypins. It had been picked out of the River Tilt below the Old Bridge, about a mile north of the town.
Laura could scarcely ask to be allowed to see whether she could identify it, and doubted whether, after its immersion, she would be able to, even if she had the chance, but it seemed more than likely that it was the one which Stewart had carried and now had got rid of to make his journey easier.
“Almost looks as though he might have ridden this far, perhaps on the train,” said Ian, “and that now he’s going on on foot. If he did come this far by train, or bus, or whatnot, we’ve no time to lose, I should say. I suppose he chucked the case in the river overnight, and that may have been several nights ago. One thing, he won’t be able to slug Hector Loudoun at Craigullich. The police and Mrs. Bradley will see to that. The trouble is, where is Loudoun? And does Stewart know where he is?”
The road went on through Killiecrankie, dropping sharply southward through the Pass. The old road was just to the west, and from it a turning led to Loch Tummel, on the direct route to Loch Rannoch and so to Glencoe and the Kingshouse Inn.
“I don’t know whether we can get the car that way,” said Jonathan. “And, if we do, it is only as far as Rannoch Station.”
“We can get as far as Kinloch Rannoch and ask again,” said Laura. “Better still, we can separate. Two can take the car and go on to Pitlochry and turn off to Aberfeldy and along Loch Tay to Killin, and the other two can hike to Kinloch Rannoch.”
“It is over twenty miles to Kinloch Rannoch,” said Deborah, who did not usually join in the discussions but had patiently and intelligently read the map, “and I think we can get the car as far as that.”
So they drove past the falls and along the north shore of Loch Tummel, due east, and along the River Tummel, past Tummel Bridge with its generating station, and across the little streams from Beinn a’ Chullaich, then past a wooded plantation and on to the hotel which stood at the eastern end of Rannoch Loch.
“If he’s passed through here we may catch him,” said Laura confidently. “If he’s gone the long way round and is riding on buses and coaches, he may have done us after all. If only we knew where Loudoun is hiding, we could make our way directly to him and wait for Stewart to catch up with him, I suppose.”
Their quest, indeed, seemed rather hopeless. Enquiries in Kinloch Rannoch, a very small place, produced no result whatsoever.
“He may be disguised again,” said Laura. “It wasn’t so easy, having seen him in a beard as the artist, to recognize him as the pedlar. These people, or somebody here, may have seen him and yet not recognize the description. I don’t really suppose they take all that much notice of tourists. If he came as a fisherman or something . . .” Her voice trailed off. She was discouraged.
“Aunt Adela’s probably rounded him up by this time,” said Jonathan cheerfully. “But never mind. We’re here, and the weather is grand, and there’s plenty to eat. Don’t fret. You’ll be losing weight. Anyway, there’s nothing more doing to-day. We’ve come over a hundred miles, and I’m not taking Deb any farther.”
“Oh, please don’t make a nuisance of me!” said Deborah. “Let’s go on to Rannoch Station, if everyone wants to.”
“Nonsense,” said her husband. “You and I are going to stroll about half a mile by the side of the loch and back, and then I’m going to sit still and smoke another pipe, and then we’re going to bed. I’m not going to share my married life with a hag, and a hag you’ll be if you don’t have a rest and get some sleep.”
Deborah examined her lovely face in a mirror, looked up and smiled, and gave in. It was then almost half-past seven, for the car had crawled most of the way, and there had been frequent stops whilst Laura asked news of their quarry at stations and inns.
They were up at seven and on the road again by half-past eight. They left the car at the hotel, and walked by the side of Loch Rannoch. The first three miles were uninteresting, but, once past the chemical works on the northern bank, the country, flanked by mountains lower than those they had passed on the previous day, was wooded, although still sparsely, and the road was lonely and wild. The way crossed brooks, and passed the little village of Killichonan and a tiny island in the loch, and at the end of eight or nine miles of picturesque walking they crossed the River Erricht and came round by the end of the loch.
“The other side would have been much prettier,” said Laura. She referred to the woods which, from Meall Druidhe to beyond Coille Mhor, had shaded the banks and grown thickly—especially the Black Wood of Rannoch—for more than a mile inland.
At Rannoch Station the road petered out except for a branch which ran northward from tiny Loch Bigheach and crossed the slopes of Sron Leachd a’ Chaerruich, west of Beinn Pharlagain, but this did not seem to be helpful. Laura made her usual remarks, and asked what had now become routine questions at the station, but still there was no result. Unless the bagman was lost among the mountains, he had either taken a different route from the one which the party had been following, or else had disappeared into air.
“Well, I don’t know,” said Laura, returning disconsolate to the others. “There seems nothing for it but to slog back to Kinloch Rannoch and try again.”
“Not to-day we don’t,” said Jonathan firmly. “We’ve done about eighteen miles already this morning. If we can get a conveyance, well and good. If not, we wait for a train and proceed to Bridge of Orchy, there to pick up a bus or coach, or anything else that’s going, and so home to Ballachulish, where, ten to one, Aunt Adela has already laid this Stewart by the heels.”
“And what about the car?” demanded Laura.
“Telegraph for it to-morrow. Bound to be someone able and willing to drive it back for us at some time. Anyway”—he glanced at his wife, for whom the tramp had been more than enough already—“here I am, and here I stick until I can get on the train.”
“I hope it snows,
and you stick in a drift,” said Laura.
“He’s talking sense,” said Ian. “None of us wants to tramp back to Kinloch Rannoch, and there’s no hotel within miles.”
“There’s a refreshment place by the loch. I saw it as we came past.”
“But I shouldn’t think they would put us up for the night. And anyway, it’s still the middle of the day. What should we do until dark? We can’t keep on walking. It’s crazy.”
“All right,” said Laura, gloomily. Her brother laughed.
“Cheer up,” he said. “Everything comes to him that waits—even trains. Let’s park ourselves on the platform, and you, if you’re still so full of beans, go and get speech of the porter again, and find out whether we’ve a chance of getting to Bridge of Orchy any time this side of Christmas.”
“Don’t look now,” said Laura, masking sudden excitement under the imbecile catch-phrase, “but that’s our man coming along. What had I better do? I’m the only one he will recognize.”
“Oh, nod to him, and speak. If he’s shy, he’ll soon shake us off. Not a hint we’re trailing him, of course. Behave as though we’re a hiking party simply and solely.”
“Hullo! The world’s a small place,” said Laura chattily to the bagman as he came up to the station entrance.
The man turned a keen but spectacled gaze on her. She was certain of her facts, but pretended to hedge as she met no responding smile or word of greeting.
“I beg your pardon,” said the man, “but . . .”
“I’m awfully sorry,” said Laura. “I thought for the moment I knew you. Well, now that we’ve broken the ice, have you any idea at all when we get a train? ”
“Where to?”
“Well, it doesn’t matter to us particularly. We’re just roving round, you know. Here to-day and gone to-morrow sort of thing.”
“I don’t know the times of the trains,” said the man indifferently. Laura went back to her party and announced loudly that she had made her usual gaffe of accosting utter strangers believing them to be persons that she knew, but that, in this case, it did not matter in the least, as the man, whoever he was, knew nothing about the trains, so she supposed they had better just wait and see what train turned up and where it was going.
My Father Sleeps (Mrs. Bradley) Page 20