They were fortunate in that the train for Bridge of Orchy, on the line for Tyndrum, pulled in to the station within twenty minutes of the time of their arrival, and doubly fortunate in that the brightness of the morning had clouded over, and, in place of the innocent sky and the summer sun, enormous rain-clouds, inky with the weight of their moisture, hung on the mountain slopes and hid the peaks, and the whole land seemed to brood, awaiting the rain.
Over Rannoch Moor went the railway, with its wooden palings on either side to keep the drifts of winter snow and the red deer off the line, and with its little wooden bridges by which the deer could cross. At Bridge of Orchy they waited, nerves on the stretch, to make sure that their man alighted. As soon as he jumped out, they followed.
As though certain that he had thrown Laura off the scent by pretending not to know her, the man strode off without a glance behind to see whether anyone followed. The rain, which was sweeping down Beinn Dorain and Beinn an Dothaidh in sheets and torrents and leaping waterfalls and cataracts of water, was enough to deter the stoutest.
Jonathan glanced at his wife and then at Ian.
“I’m not going out in this,” he said simply and with finality.
“We must follow him now we’ve found him, Jon,” said Deborah.
“I agree,” said Ian, who had the Scottish contempt for rain. He put on his waterproof, pulled down his cap, turned up his collar, and stepped out. His sister strode out beside him. Jonathan held Deborah back.
“No, you don’t,” he said calmly. “This is where the luxury-loving southerner sits back and stops taking notice. In a minute I’m going to borrow an umbrella from the stationmaster, conduct you to an ancient but no doubt workable automobile which I think I see, between spots, in the middle distance, and we’re going to drive to the inn which is on the shores of Loch Tulla, a mile or two up a secondary road, and there we are going to eat and drink in the dry while those earnest Highlanders chase Stewart all over the moors, and, in the end, lose him because he knows the neighbourhood and they don’t.”
“I don’t want to go to the inn,” said Deborah indignantly. “We’re with them, and we ought to stick to them. It’s disgusting to let them down like this! I’m going, if you are not.”
“Neither of us is going,” said Jonathan, grinning. He took her firmly by the arm and conducted her to the stationmaster with a request for the loan of his umbrella to allow the lady to reach the station car. Deborah, rebellious but helpless, a state of things to which she was slow to accustom herself, was put into the interior of the vehicle, and with a lurch and a couple of bangs they shot forward into the deluge.
It certainly was not very far to the inn. They were welcomed. A fire was burning. Jonathan, who had had the forethought to bring pyjamas and toothbrushes for both of them in a rucksack, slung this informal baggage into a corner, took out his pipe and filled it, lighted it carefully, lay back in a long armchair, and smiled sleepily and serenely at his wife. Deborah made a grimace at him, took her shoes off, and held out a foot towards the fire.
“Well?” said he, nodding at the windows, against which the rain slashed and streamed.
“Perhaps you were right,” said Deborah, laughing. “But I’m sorry for Ian and Laura. And, after all, they are the ones who are doing the decent thing. I’m still ashamed of us both.”
“Yes, so am I,” said Jonathan, smoking tranquilly. “Very much ashamed. But there it is.” He caught the cushion Deborah flung at him and placed it behind his head. “Many thanks. You shall stay up an extra quarter of an hour if you continue to be a good girl.”
Just over fifty minutes later, Stewart, soaked to the skin, shed his waterproof coat in the hall and came into the lounge. Five minutes later, Laura and Ian followed his example. The sky grew less angry but more sullen. The rain came down as though in irritated answer to importunate and wearisome prayer.
At six the guests dined. At half-past six, a third of the way through the meal, Hector Loudoun walked into the dining-room and seated himself at the only vacant table. Ian drew back into the shadows. The table was in an alcove. He hoped he would not be seen. The game was in the hands of the seekers, but it would not do to play any of the cards too soon.
Meanwhile Mrs. Bradley was employing her time in collecting such evidence as she had gathered about the whole of the extraordinary circumstances in which she had decided to interest herself. It made an interesting survey. She headed it:
Evidence of Survival of Clan Hatred and of the Blood Feud in North-West Scotland in C 20, and tabulated it under sub-headings:
1. Loudoun (A) and the ghost-voice at Craigullich.
2. The disappearance of Morag the housekeeper.
3. The corpse on Rannoch Moor, including the comparative inaccessibility of the moor and the readiness with which the body was discovered.
4. The artist of Glencoe.
5. The substitution of Loudoun (B) for Loudoun (A) at Craigullich, the institution of a new housekeeper, and the fact that Loudoun (B) was surprised by the ghost-voice.
6. The introduction of the name of Ure into the typescript shown to Ian by Loudoun (A), and the fact that Ian was allowed to carry the typescript away.
7. The truth told in the typescript.
8. The falsehoods told in the typescript.
9. The evidence of Janet Forbes.
10. The evidence of old Morag.
11. The evidence of the criminals captured in Skye.
12. Laura’s discovery of the artist turned bagman at Loch Laggan hotel.
13. Discovery of the body (from Craigullich) on Beinn Cruachan.
14. Change of employer by the two criminals.
15. The search of Craigullich.
16. Mysterious references to Loch Ullich.
She filled in her notes under these various headings and went off to Oban to lay the sum total of her deductions before the inspector. Cameron was impressed.
“Well, well,” said he, very pleased.
“But we must not have another murder,” said Mrs. Bradley. “Therefore I suggest that your people remain in charge of Craigullich, and that others are warned to take Stewart and Hector Loudoun into custody whenever and wherever they appear.”
“I cannot arrest men for nothing.”
“It is not nothing. Stewart can be arrested for—what can Stewart be arrested for? In America it would be for spitting on the sidewalk. Surely there is something in the law of Scotland . . .”
The inspector gave a sudden, illuminated smile.
“I will be seeing to it,” he promised. “And Hector Loudoun is to be arrested on the suspicion of having murdered his brother Alexander Loudoun and of having transported his body to Beinn Cruachan with intent to hide all traces of his crime. I canna think,” he broke off, turning to Mrs. Bradley confidingly, “why he should have been doing that same. What way would it be helping him to have his brother on Beinn Cruachan?”
“I’ve been thinking that over myself,” said Mrs. Bradley. “I think it was to get those men out of the way. He gave them a hint, I think, that the plan of the buried treasure was to be found on Alexander Loudoun’s body. Thus he got rid of the men from Craigullich, thinking that he could then seize the opportunity to drag the loch. He did not drag it because your people were there. Now he knows, thanks to the message scrawled on the dining-room door, and the change in the portraits, that he has to account for Stewart, the rightful heir, returned unexpectedly (probably from abroad) before he can steal the treasure. Stewart wrote the message.”
“Aye, that will mean another murder,” said Cameron, nodding. He went off equably to deal with it, but returned in a moment to say, “Will you be after knowing that there is a half-built boat in the woodshed west of the house? ”
“Ah, so the loch is the place! I knew it must be. That accounts for their delay in dragging it, then. It must be a good deal deeper than it looks,” said Mrs. Bradley. She went off to resume her work on the Ordnance map, and began to plot out the way that the two men wou
ld come to Craigullich. She took for a working hypothesis the theory that the house itself, or, at any rate, the glen, would be the prearranged meeting-place. She was interested, therefore, in finding some point of intersection at which two routes would converge. At this point she would place the attempt at murder, or, if not at this point, then at some place between it and the house. She deduced that Loudoun would know that the police were at the house. She did not know whether Stewart would know this or not. It was not likely to be in the papers, and she imagined that from Stewart’s point of view the fewer people he spoke to en route the better. There was also the point that the police could have read the message.
Her maps became a series of circles and crosses as she patiently plotted the ways of approaching the house, and worked out the likeliest spot at which the two men might attempt to ambush one another.
“Now what, I wonder?” muttered Ian. The two men, apparently unconscious of each other’s presence, said nothing to anyone in the lounge except the waiter. He brought whisky to the one and a long draught of ale to the other. The hounds watched the hares drinking; Deborah more or less indifferently, because the whole affair seemed to her to lack any sort of reality and significance; Jonathan sardonically, because he did not propose to over-exert himself in a matter which seemed to him no affair of his; Laura with a certain amount of excitement because she was young, romantically-minded, and keenly delighted in the childish pleasure of the chase; Ian soberly, weighing up the chances which he and Jonathan would stand against two presumably desperate men, one of whom was already a murderer by commission, the other (and the more dangerous) of whom was probably a murderer in anticipation, and one would not brook interference in the consummation of his private vengeance.
The time passed slowly. Then Loudoun got up and went out. At a word from Jonathan, Ian got up and followed him. Laura, without hesitation, followed her brother. Jonathan glanced at Deborah, leaned back in his seat, picked up his glass and said quietly:
“My turn when the other one leaves. Stay here until we come back, if I have to go.”
“Be careful, won’t you? ” she said.
“Of course. You’re worth coming back to. Talk about something while I watch him. He’s very fidgety. I wonder whether he knew the other fellow was here?”
“I think he did know. He’s getting up. It’s of no use to ask you how long you’ll be. Good-bye.”
Jonathan did not answer, but, as Stewart went out at the door, he followed him. The rain was still coming down, although not as desperately fast. It was coming down now with what seemed a steady purposefulness. In two minutes Jonathan was wet through. There was no sign of any of the others, and he was old-fashioned enough to wish that Laura had kept out of the way.
Stewart, regardless of the rain, strode on like a mountaineer. The road he was taking led westward three-quarters of a mile, and then turned northwards and crossed two very small rivers which emptied themselves into the loch. Their waters were slate-grey and whipped to a frenzy by the rain. The waters from Beinn Inverreigh were sucking and laughing and splashing, and everywhere was a roaring of waters in spate.
The road was full of pot-holes and little puddles. Head down and hands in pockets, Jonathan trudged through the mud, wet grit and loose stones, and, as he trudged, cursed the weather, the adventure, and the sense of duty which had sent him out from the table and the bright, cheerful fireside of the inn.
He could only keep Stewart in view by walking fast. He began to sweat, for his rainproof coat did not let the air through, and the weather, though wet, was not cold. Water squelched out of his shoes and his socks, and the turn-ups of his trousers were clogged and heavy with the rain. His hair was wet, his face, although he kept his chin tucked in his collar, was as though he had splashed it with water and then forgotten to wipe it. His nose dripped rain, and his trousers dragged, sopping, cold, and clammy against his shins.
At last he saw the others. Ian and Laura seemed to have caught up with Loudoun, for the three were standing in a line at the edge of some woods which hereabouts bordered the road. They were sheltering under trees, and were talking earnestly.
Stewart did not slacken his pace, and Jonathan thought for a moment that he was going to walk past the three. As he came near them, however, he shortened his stride and seemed to hesitate a little before going up to where they stood.
Jonathan broke into a trot, and gave a shout. Stewart did not so much as turn his head, although he must have heard him.
“Good Lord! He’s afraid of Loudoun’s bullet in his back,” thought Jonathan, lengthening out and hurriedly catching him up. He dropped into a walk, and side by side they walked up to the trees and halted.
No one spoke, except Laura at once to Jonathan.
“Here you are,” she said. This supplied Ian with a cue. He introduced Loudoun to Laura, and then to Jonathan. Loudoun, who looked extremely ill, said nothing. He bowed to them both, but kept his eyes fastened on Stewart. He was rather like a dog which expects a kick. Laura said brightly to Stewart:
“I don’t know your name, but we’ve met before—three times.”
“Three times,” repeated Stewart. “I recognized you, of course. Exactly what were you wanting?”
“We thought we might help you,” said Laura, not knowing in the least what to say, for all speech, even the noblest, would have had the effect of banality, she felt, at such a time.
“Help me!” He laughed. “I need no help.” He took a step nearer to Loudoun, who took a step back and collided with the trunk of a tree. His hat jerked off, but he did not pick it up. He merely stared anxiously at Stewart.
“You’ll not quarrel here, Mr. James, in front of witnesses?” he said. There was pleading and conciliation in his tone.
“I’ll not quarrel at all. My quarrels are with men, not with rats,” said Stewart concisely. “At the old place, to-morrow, you should be praying for your guilty soul and your sins.’’
“At the old place, to-morrow,” said Loudoun. “Very well.” Then he stepped past Stewart and walked back towards the inn. Stewart shrugged and followed him. The others came close behind, having no idea what to do. Stewart turned his head over his shoulder.
“I’ve known him all my life,” he said. “He’s a bad man. Keep to your business, and let me manage mine.”
Chapter Fifteen
★
The Ridge of Tears!
Druim nan deur!
War cry of the Maclennans
★
Careful and prolonged study of the map had brought Mrs. Bradley to a conclusion which was unsatisfactory in that there was no means by which she could put it to the test. It answered, however, those conditions which she deemed essential, being very near Craigullich, although not on the actual policies thereof, being also sufficiently remote from human habitation, and being on a road wide enough to take a small car if a car were seen to be necessary by either of the protagonists in what she hoped and expected would be the last act in a singular and interesting drama.
South of Glen Ullich ran an almost similar glen, except that it was wider and wilder. It was not to be confused with the long Glen Salachan with the little village at its head and its secondary road west to the coast road and south down the even longer Glen Stockdale. This was a little glen, comparatively speaking, unnamed on the map, remote, tucked away in a fold of the high moor that ran to the mountains, and having its own little river and a loch not unlike Loch Ullich, except that it seemed living and not dead.
Not only work on the map, but diligent enquiry in the neighbourhood, particularly from Dugald the Post, had caused Mrs. Bradley to select this sheltered spot as the most likely meeting-place of deadly enemies. It was called, in English, the Glen of the Oath, although she was told no legend to account for the name. Half-way up the glen was a bothy without a roof, but with its four stone walls still standing and not decayed.
She did not know what time was at her disposal, but she employed, next day, some
men to thatch the bothy, and to weight the thatch with nets and stones, as she had seen done in Hebridean islands to prevent the wind lifting the thatch.
Brian and Catherine amused themselves on the shores of Loch Linnhe and Loch Leven, and scarcely missed her at all. The next day passed. At nightfall Mrs. Bradley, without a word to either of her companions, made her way to the bothy in a car driven by a henchman of hers, one Euan MacDonald, and, setting up the camp bed which she had had sent from Inverness for the purpose, she slept in the bothy all night.
Euan MacDonald, expert in such matters, brought peat for a fire, got it glowing outside in the evening, and brought it into the hut. Mrs. Bradley thanked him, paid the amount they had agreed on (which included a substantial tip which was never mentioned between them, but came in as part of the contract) and composed herself philosophically to rest.
The night passed, and at dawn she rose, ate a breakfast of dry biscuit, butter and marmalade, drank tea from a thermos flask in which the liquid was not altogether cold, and sat in the doorway of the bothy waiting for what should come to pass.
“What do we do?” asked Ian. The party of three, having followed Stewart and Loudoun back to the inn, were left, wondering what to do next.
“Go to bed, and wake up early,” said Jonathan. He set the example by carrying Deborah off at a quarter to ten.
“What do you think will happen now?” she asked. Jonathan, snuggling down beside her and taking her in his arms, said he did not know or care.
“Sufficient unto the day,” he said indistinctly. And then, with considerable vigour, “And sufficient unto the night, so don’t ask a lot of silly questions.”
Ian, temporarily divorced, spent an hour or more in the serious mental effort of trying to decide upon the morning mood of the protagonists in the drama, and the actions which might reasonably be expected to follow. He could come to no conclusion. The road they were on was lonely, the woods were near, there were mountain passes and corries where, so far as he could tell, any number of violent deeds could be accomplished and yet lie hidden from general knowledge, so, owning himself at a loss, he gave up thinking and was asleep as midnight struck.
My Father Sleeps (Mrs. Bradley) Page 21