Smouldering Fire

by D. E. Stevenson

  She said again, “What is it? I can bear anything—anything but uncertainty.”

  He still hesitated, wondering how he could tell her without shocking the fragile structure of her mind. At last he said, “A queer thing has happened, Linda.”

  “A queer thing?”

  “Medworth has—has disappeared.”

  “Disappeared?” she asked, looking at him in bewilderment.

  Iain nodded. “He has vanished. Nobody knows where he is. He never went to London at all.”

  “But he must be somewhere—where is he?”

  “They don’t know,” Iain said. He waited a little. It was better for her to get used to the idea gradually; better to let her mind work in its own way. She would begin to ask questions when she was ready.

  She sat forward on the rock. He could see the curve of her white cheek and the knot of dusky hair on the nape of her white neck. Her hands were clasped together rather tightly upon her lap.

  In a little she turned and looked at Iain. “Is he dead?” she asked in a low voice.

  “Nobody knows,” Iain replied. “He has just—just vanished.”

  “You know nothing about it?”

  “Nothing, except what I’ve been told. I have not seen him nor heard of him since that afternoon at the cottage. You know that, Linda. I should have told you if I had heard anything.”

  She was satisfied with his reply. For a moment she had been afraid—but she knew that Iain would not lie to her.

  “Tell me all about it,” she said. “How did you hear?”

  He told her about the Inspector’s visit and all that he had said. He softened down the high lights of the interview, and he did not allow it to appear that Howles had tried to trap him. He wanted to warn her that they must be careful, without frightening her—it was difficult because her brain was so quick to catch impressions. She was too intelligent to be deceived.

  “You think this man is dangerous,” she said quietly.

  “He would be if we were not entirely innocent,” replied Iain quickly.

  “Jack threatened us.”

  “But he doesn’t know that—and there is no way he could find out—if we’re careful.”

  “Yes,” she said thoughtfully. “Go on, Iain.”

  Iain went on. He glossed over the probability of Medworth’s death and dwelt more on the known fact of his disappearance. She listened to it all quietly, sitting very still with her face turned away from him, so that he could not see how she was taking it.

  At last she said, “He must be dead, Iain—they would not have called in Scotland Yard unless they thought that.”

  “People lose their memories—”

  “Not Jack,” she said. “He must be—dead.” There was a little silence and then she added, “You think so, too.”

  Iain did not answer. It was difficult to know what to say. She was upset, of course—it would not have been Linda if she could have heard of Medworth’s death unmoved. Iain hated Medworth at that moment—hated him more deeply than ever before.

  “Isn’t it sad?” she said at last in a low voice. “Isn’t it dreadful to think that his life is finished, and he has made nothing of it—attained nothing—learnt no lessons? He has gone on—somewhere—with all that cruelty still in him. He hasn’t learnt anything at all from his life here. He loved Life, you know; he was full of Life, full of confidence in himself. He thought he knew all about Life, but he knew nothing—nothing at all. He was not ready to—to go on.”

  “Perhaps he never would have learnt,” Iain said, following her train of thought.

  She looked round at him quickly. “You think there is a Purpose?” she asked.

  “We must think that, Linda. Otherwise everything is meaningless—a huge unhappy muddle.”

  “I’m glad you think that. You think that lives are really complete—when they end.”

  “Don’t you?” Iain asked her.

  “But—murder,” she said, in an awed voice. “God couldn’t intend—murder.”

  “Why should you imagine it was murder?” Iain exclaimed. “The man has disappeared—we know nothing more than that.”

  “How could it be anything else? What other explanation is there? He left here to go to London. You know how full of confidence he was, how full of purpose—and he never went to London. Do you think he could have changed his mind so suddenly? You don’t know him, Iain. He tires of things after he has got them—tires very quickly—but, until he has got them, he pursues them—avidly.”

  Iain thought: He pursues them as he was pursuing Richard—but he did not say that. He said, “Richard is safe. Have you thought of that, Linda?”

  “I know,” she said. “It’s so difficult. I am feeling so many things all at once that I can’t feel any of them properly.” She twisted her hands together. “Richard is safe,” she said, “and I am free, and we shall not have to go through the ordeal of the Law Court . . . all this . . . all because . . . Jack is dead. I haven’t realised it yet . . . I can’t . . . Death is always dreadful. . . .”

  Iain waited in silence for a few minutes and then he began to talk of Inspector Howles. He wanted to prepare her for the Inspector’s visit. It was important that they should both tell the same story—the same in every detail. Iain had told the Inspector the truth, but not the whole truth, and Linda must do the same.

  “Do you think he will really come and see me?” Linda said. “I can’t see what he would gain. What could I tell him that he doesn’t know already?”

  “He may ask you if you know whether Medworth had any enemies,” Iain replied—it was better for her to be prepared.

  “I see,” said Linda. She thought about it for a few moments with a frown of concentration on her brow. “He had enemies, of course. He lived the sort of life that made him enemies. Racing and—and women are things that rouse passions in people. A lot of racing men disliked Jack, partly because he was successful and popular, and partly—partly because he was not—not generous in victory.”

  Iain thought: I can imagine what he was like—how they must have hated him when he won! He said aloud, “But I’m afraid that wouldn’t be much use to Howles.”

  “No, I suppose not,” Linda agreed. “He will want something more definite. There was a man who came to the flat and—and threatened Jack. It was something to do with a woman. He came twice, and the second time they quarrelled—I wasn’t in the room, of course, but I could hear them shouting at each other.”

  “What happened?”

  “Jack threw the man out—he was very strong,” she said simply.

  It was a glimpse into her life, a strange horrifying glimpse. How she must have suffered! thought Iain. What indignities, what fears, what agonies of mind she must have endured! She was so fine in herself, her spirit was so delicate—how could she have borne such things?

  Linda looked at him and smiled rather sadly. “Don’t look so miserable,” she said. “I bore these things—they hurt me at the time, but they taught me something. I don’t quite know what they taught me, but it is valuable, I am sure of that. Perhaps they taught me to endure, and to be able to recognise goodness when I see it. I was very ignorant before. Try to think of it like that, Iain. I would not be as I am if I had not suffered these things—and you like me as I am—”

  “Linda!” he said huskily. He laid his hand on hers as it lay on the sun-warmed rock.

  “You have been very good,” she continued, pressing his hand. “I do appreciate that. If you knew what it meant to me—your goodness, your consideration, your patience. Be patient just a little longer, Iain.”

  He saw tears on her cheek, heard them in her voice. He felt as if his heart would burst. It was dreadful that she should be so unhappy, and that he could do nothing—he would have given his life gladly to protect her from pain.

  “Oh, Linda!” he said again. His arm went round her and he drew her very gently against his shoulder. For a moment or two she stayed there, savouring his strength and gentleness. The peaty smell
of his Harris jacket was in her nostrils, its rough hairy texture against her cheek—and then she unwound his arm and stood up.

  “No,” she said brokenly. “Not yet—” and turned and fled from him down the stony path.

  ARDFALLOCH IN NOVEMBER

  CHAPTER XXVIII

  ARDFALLOCH HOUSE

  Ardfalloch House was swept and garnished, there were fires in the rooms, and lamps shed their soft circles of light upon the polished surfaces of tables and furniture. Everywhere there were vases, filled with chrysanthemums—yellow and bronze and white. The front part of the house was very quiet, there was an air of expectancy about it. Mrs. MacAslan sat in the drawing-room near the fire, she was making a cross-stitch mat in gay colouring. Sometimes her small white hands paused in their task, and she lifted her head and listened.

  In the kitchen premises there was a soft babble of talk. Janet and Donald, and Morag, and Alec MacNeil were sitting round the kitchen table—they had finished their tea and now they were waiting for the sound of a car in the avenue. The two young Highland maids moved about with their quiet tread, clearing away the remains of the meal, and chattering softly to each other in their own tongue.

  The four at the table were speaking English out of politeness to Janet (she had never troubled to learn the Gaelic in all her long years’ sojourn at Ardfalloch. “What’s the use of yon outlandish gibberish?” she would say, tossing her head scornfully. “If folks canna speak like Christians I’ve no desire tae ken what they’re speirin’ at.”) As a rule the mere sight of Donald was enough to rile Janet—she was inordinately jealous of MacAslan’s affection for the sturdy Highlander—but, to-night, there was a temporary truce between them. Janet was too excited to be thrawn. Her excitement would not have been evident to a casual observer, nor to anybody who did not know her well; it was evident only in the unusual glitter of her eyes, as they darted about the kitchen after the maids, and in the unusual loquacity of her tongue.

  “I was jist thinking the ither day,” said Janet in a conversational tone. “I was thinking tae maser it’s changed days for Ardfalloch. There was naething ever happened in the place—but we’ve had oor share of excitement in the last wee while.”

  She looked round at her companions for their agreement, but they were all three silent and withdrawn.

  “You will be meaning the detectives, Miss Walker?” said Morag at last.

  “Jist that,” nodded Janet. “It was a queer-like thing—yon man’s deith. I declare it gives me the shivers when I think on it. A fine stir it made, too—Ardfalloch in a’ the newspapers, an’ pictures o’ MacTaggart’s Inn where the man bided when he was here, an’ pictures o’ MacTaggart at the door. I’m thinking MacTaggart made a guid thing oot o’ it, what with detectives drinking at the bar, and folks coming a’ the way fra’ Inverness tae see the place oot o’ sheer curiosity.”

  “It is an ill wind that blows nobody any good,” said Donald a trifle sententiously.

  “You’ll have seen the man, I doubt,” Janet asked him with interest.

  “I saw him often enough,” replied Donald. “He was often enough to be seen in the bar, or walking in the village. A big man with feet that turned outwards a little as he walked.”

  “Och, and I, too, have seen him,” put in Alec eagerly. “He was good company—so he was. He would stand a drink to anybody, and he was full of stories. Some of his stories were very funny. Did you be hearing the one about the miller’s wife, Donald?”

  “There’s nae need tae blacken the man when he’s deid,” said Janet quickly—it was obvious from Alec’s grin that the story about the miller’s wife was unfit for mixed company, and she was afraid it was going to be retailed, “There’s nae need tae blacken the man when he’s deid, Alec.”

  “But maybe he is not dead,” Morag said quietly. “They have found no proof that he is dead—it was in the newspapers I was reading that,” she added. “They were saying that he may have gone away to America—”

  “He’s done nae such thing!” exclaimed Janet. “It’s just noansense saying that he’s away tae America. Would the man be away tae America and leave his luggage lying in Glasgow?”

  “It is queer,” Alec agreed thoughtfully. “It is very queer that he did not be taking his luggage with him if it is to America he is gone—”

  “There’s naething queer aboot it,” Janet told him, “for the man’s not gone to America. The man’s deid, an’ doesna’ need his luggage—he’s deid, I’m telling you. They’re just saying he’s mebbe no deid tae clear themsel’s. They canna find the murderer an’ they dinna like tae look fules—an’ that’s a’ there is tae it.”

  There was nobody with sufficient temerity to contradict Janet’s assertion, and a little silence ensued. Their thoughts veered from the mystery of Medworth’s disappearance which had been more than a nine days’ wonder in the quiet glen.

  “They will be here soon now,” said Donald at last. He took his big silver watch out of his pocket and glanced at it as he spoke.

  “Och, they will be tired!” Morag said compassionately. “It is a long way to come—so it is—they will be very tired.”

  “It is to be hoped they will be here soon,” put in Alec, “for there is snow coming. I have been smelling snow in the air all day.”

  “Dae you say so!” Janet exclaimed. She had lived in the glen too long to disbelieve in such weather prophecies. Snow had no smell for her, and she was never aware of its imminence until the first flakes fell, but the Highlanders were seldom wrong when they smelt snow—Janet knew it to her cost. She went to the window and drew aside the heavy curtain; a few big flakes of snow had begun to fall, they floated past like feathers in the black darkness of the night.

  “Aye, it’s begun,” she said, frowning.

  “It will not be much, and they will be here very soon,” Donald assured her with his usual optimism.

  Janet dropped the curtain and went back to her seat. The young maids had withdrawn, there was a light clatter in the scullery to show that they were busy washing up the dishes.

  Donald broke the little silence that had ensued.

  “Does Mistress MacAslan know?” he enquired in a low voice.

  “Know! Of course she knows,” replied Janet with a truculent look. She was always on the defensive when her mistress’s weakness was hinted at. “She’s been told that they’re married and expected home—how would she not know?”

  “I was chust wondering if she had taken it in,” said Donald meekly.

  “You and your wonderings!” Janet said scornfully. “Could anybody fail tae see that MacAslan was expected? The whole hoose is prepared for him an’ his bride. Mistress MacAslan kens mair than you’d think, she was as pleased as a bairn when Miss Finlay came over wi’ flowers—helping her tae pit them in vawses—”

  “Did Miss Finlay bring flowers, then?” asked Donald with interest.

  “She did indeed,” replied Janet. “Great bunches o’ thae chrysanthemums—the hoose is like a wedding wi’ them. Miss Finlay brocht them hersel’ and dressed them—she was here the whole forenoon at it.”

  “Och, and that is very nice—it is very nice indeed,” said Donald. “MacAslan will be glad.”

  “I’m no sae sure of that,” said Janet with sudden jealousy—what did Donald know of MacAslan’s likes and dislikes—“I’m no sae sure he’ll be pleased. MacAslan likes fine tae see flowers growing, but he’s no sae partial tae them in the hoose—”

  “MacAslan will be glad,” said Donald with gentle stubbornness.

  There was a threat of war in the air. Alec averted it with commendable promptitude.

  “Will Richard be coming with them, Miss Walker?” he enquired.

  “Richard!” exclaimed Janet, her attention distracted by this new foolishness. “Richard’s biding wi’ Mistress Hetherington Smith. You never heard tell of a bairn going on a honeymoon, did you, Alec?”

  “I did not,” admitted Alec meekly. “But I do be knowing very little about honeymoons at a
ll.”

  “This puts me in mind,” said Janet in a more amiable tone—she had squashed Alec successfully and felt all the better for it—“This puts me in mind o’ the time the old Chief brocht hame his bride. It’s the waiting puts me in mind o’ that, for it was a deeferent kind of hame-coming they had.”

  “Tell us about it, Miss Walker,” said Morag.

  “Och, there’s little tae tell. The hoose was full then—there’s the deeference—auld Mistress MacAslan was alive, and she was fond of company. There was a wheen o’ tenants tae welcome the couple, and an airch on the drive, and there were folks frae Cluan and Achnafettel and Balnafin in the drawing-room, an’ pipers skirling forbye.”

  “I could be giving them a wee skirl,” suggested Alec diffidently.

  “Weel, an’ there would be nae hairm in that,” agreed Janet with surprising graciousness. “I’m no saying but what MacAslan might like a wee bit tune.”

  Alec smiled with pleasure. He had brought his beloved pipes with him in the hopes that there might be a chance of playing a welcome for MacAslan and his bride.

  “Weel, there we waited,” continued Janet. “There was nae motors in those days, and the Chief and his lady had tae drive frae Balnafin in the carriage. We haird them coming in the distance, an’ auld Mistress MacAslan called us in tae the hall. It was dark as pitch an’ the lamps o’ the carriage were shining in the drive—”

  Janet broke off. There were steps outside and a knock on the back door. “Wha’s that?” she said in surprise.

  It was Calum Mor. He entered rather sheepishly with his pipes under his arm.