Skeleton Island (Mrs. Bradley)

by Gladys Mitchell

  Even this was not sufficient. Leaving the seabirds, he went on to speak of the hobby, the peregrine and the red-footed falcon. These also he hoped to study, although not from his perch on the lighthouse. They would have to be stalked and watched from vantage points inland. He took her round to the windward side of the lighthouse again, to indicate these vantage points.

  Laura, cold, dispirited, and experiencing the helpless anger of the irretrievably trapped, coupled with a bitter dislike of the trapper, suddenly noticed something much more interesting to her than her host’s interminable discourse. This was the sight of Colin leaving the bungalow by a door in the white-washed wall which protected the windows of the living-quarters of the lighthouse, and slinking—there was no other word for it—round the corner so that, almost immediately, he was hidden from view. So he had not been for a walk, she thought. Surely it had not taken him more than an hour and a half to wash up the dishes which had been used at lunch, and, anyway, why this obvious anxiety to be undetected leaving the lighthouse?

  Howard continued his natural history lecture. He had led the way round to the lee side again, so that she could hear him. He had dealt with the hobby and the peregrine, and was now embarked upon the red-footed falcon.

  “Known to ornithologists as Falco vespertinus,” he stated, “it is actually not unlike the hobby, but cannot be mistaken for it by the expert, as it is a more delicately built bird. Its colouring is similar to that of the hobby, of course, but its general habits make it distinguishable, for whereas the hobby, like the peregrine, will swoop on its prey (a small bird, for example) while the latter is in the air—albeit the hobby, as I pointed out, is also fond of insects, which the peregrine will not touch—the red-footed falcon, or Falco vespertinus, not only eats insects but is also interested in frogs, lizards, and small mammals. Of course, the peregrine will also eat small mammals—it has been known to take larger ones, such as the rabbit—but, as you see, there need be no confusion in identifying the species.”

  “Yes, I see that,” said Laura, with an effort.

  “Falco vespertinus—its name, again, renders it individuality, since peregrine is known as Falco peregrinus, as you would expect, and hobby is Falco subbuteo (two b’s)—vespertinus, as I was about to say, is rare, of course, being seen occasionally in eastern and southern England, but almost never, I believe, in the rest of the British Isles. It is a crepuscular bird and I do not expect to see it hunting—that is, if I am fortunate enough to see it at all—May is the likeliest month—until late in the evening.”

  Laura had almost ceased to listen. She had spotted Colin again. He had left the vicinity of the lighthouse and had begun to run. More often than not he was out of sight, for the terrain around the lighthouse consisted of humps and bumps from the digging out of quarries, and there were holes of considerable size where workings had been begun and then abandoned. In addition, considerable cover was provided by the naturally uneven surface of the island.

  At last, just when Laura had decided that she must put a stop to Howard’s eloquence by pleading that she was feeling very cold—this was true enough—she had squinted down her nose and decided that it had turned an improbable shade of pale mauve—Howard himself suggested that perhaps they ought to return to the living-quarters.

  “If Colin has gone out, and we are up here, I am afraid my wife may be lonely,” he said apologetically. “In any case, I ought not to monopolise our guest the whole of the time.”

  Laura said nothing. They were almost at the door to the lamp room. She opened it and led the way down the stairs. There was a gas fire in the living-room. Thankfully she went straight over to it and crouched down.

  “Good gracious, Howard!” said Fiona, coming in from the kitchen. “You’ve never kept Mrs. Gavin out on that windy little ledge all this time, have you?”

  “I got carried away, my dear.”

  “Pity it isn’t true in actual fact,” said his wife, sourly. “What can you have found to look at all this time? You’ve been gone for nearly two hours! I do think it’s too bad of you. Mrs. Gavin must be frozen!”

  “I’m sorry, my dear. I was telling Mrs. Gavin about the birds which will visit the island later on. Come to think of it, I am a trifle chilly myself.” He moved towards the gas fire. Laura moved aside to make him room. “How long has Colin been gone?”

  Fiona shot a quick glance at Laura.

  “Gone? Oh, I don’t know. He left me all the washing-up to do, I know that much. I wanted to ask him such a lot about the school. I didn’t get a chance to talk to him last week-end, because those frightful friends of yours were here.”

  “I thought you liked the Kempsons. I only asked them because I thought you’d be glad of some company apart from my own, and Ronald Ferrars never comes at week-ends. Arthur Kempson—”

  “Oh, he’s all right, I suppose, but you took him off directly after lunch, just as you did Mrs. Gavin today, and I got stuck with the awful wife. I have always detested that woman. She talked about her idiotic Yoga the whole time. Colin nearly went mad, and so did I.”

  “What did we go mad about?” asked Colin, choosing this moment to reappear.

  “Oh, nothing, really,” said his stepmother. “Come and help me get the tea. You cut thinner bread and butter than I do.”

  Colin made a small-boy grimace at Laura, and followed Fiona into the kitchen.

  “How does he make out at the school?” asked Howard, seating himself.

  “Pretty well,” Laura replied. “The boys think it’s marvellous to learn Russian. They all want to join the cast of U.N.C.L.E. or go into the Foreign Office or something.”

  “That’s what I have in mind for Colin himself when he’s finished his time at Oxford. He seems to have a real gift for languages. It seems a great pity that he has to miss a year because of that nervous breakdown. He’s very highly strung, I’m afraid. Clever boys so often are, and Colin is a very clever boy.”

  Laura did not contradict either of these statements, although she disagreed with both. She did not believe that very clever boys were particularly subject to nervous breakdowns. She regarded them as a lazy lot, on the whole, who could be trusted neither to worry about their work nor to burn the candle at both ends. In her view, it was the run-of-the-mill students who overworked and suffered from anxiety neuroses. As for Colin’s being a very clever boy, he had shown no particular signs of possessing supernormal brain-power, so far as she was aware. He was, in fact, rather childish in many respects.

  “They’re very quiet out there,” said Howard, when Laura offered no comment on Colin’s cleverness. “I wonder whether they need any help? Colin doesn’t like helping with the chores. I hope he hasn’t said anything unkind to Fiona. Usually they hit it off pretty well together, although Colin gets very moody at times.” He raised his voice. “Anything I can do to help in there?”

  There was no reply for a moment, but Laura, whose hearing was acute, thought she heard a slight scuffling sound, followed by short but urgent muttering. Then the answer came from Fiona.

  “Good heavens, no! We shan’t be long. How does Mrs. Gavin like her tea?”

  “Just as it comes,” said Laura, knowing that this was how she would get it, anyway. She had yet to meet the hostess who paid any attention whatsoever to the preferences of guests in this respect.

  “We cash in on the deliveries to the other lighthouse,” said Fiona, appearing with the tray, followed by Colin, who carried a cakestand, “but their butcher comes only twice a week, on Tuesdays and Saturday afternoons, and I haven’t a fridge. Oh, that will be the boy now.”

  “Have you got to know the people in the other lighthouse?” Laura asked Howard, when his wife had gone out to deal with the butcher’s boy.

  “I think Fiona has,” he replied. “There are three keepers, two of them married. Of course, they have their duties, and the two married ones have children, I believe. We ought to invite them over, I suppose, but I have my book to write and Fiona dislikes young children. All
the same, she needs the society of other women. I wish we could suggest that the women take it in turn to look after the babies. Then one or even two of them could come here and keep my wife company. I spend so much time either writing or studying or on the lighthouse gallery that I’m afraid she has a dull time with me.”

  “Not half so dull as when you’re gassing about your beastly herring-gulls and things,” said Colin. “I expect you bored Mrs. Gavin stiff.”

  “Not at all. But I was nearly frozen stiff,” said Laura, laughing quite convincingly and speaking the only half of the truth which was socially acceptable. “It’s amazingly breezy up there.”

  “More than it is down here, then,” said Colin morosely. “I never knew such a pest-house.”

  “Did you have a good walk?” asked his father.

  “If you call it that. By the way, I shan’t be over next Saturday. I’m going to Bournemouth.”

  “Bournemouth? I thought you detested seaside resorts.”

  “They’re putting on Uncle Vanya. A party of us are going to see it. Incidentally, there’s a spare ticket. I suppose you wouldn’t care to come?” It was safe enough to make the offer. He knew quite well that his father would not accept it.

  “It’s very kind of you to invite me, my boy,” said Howard, in noticeably cold tones, “but I could hardly leave your mother here alone. The performance will be in the evening, I suppose?”

  “Yes. Seven-thirty.”

  “What’s at seven-thirty?” asked Fiona, coming into the room again.

  “My dear, Colin and his friends are going to Bournemouth next Saturday to see a play. He has a spare ticket and has very kindly offered it to me, but, of course, I can’t leave you here alone. I should not be back, very likely, until the early hours of the morning.”

  Fiona looked out of the window at the white-washed wall and shuddered.

  “No, I couldn’t be here alone,” she said. “I really couldn’t stand it. It’s so lonely, and the wind makes such a noise.”

  “Well, look here,” said Colin, as though inspired, “why shouldn’t you have the ticket? It seems a pity to waste it. I’ll pick you up here at ten o’clock on Saturday morning. We’re going to have lunch in Bournemouth, and then some of the blokes will watch football, and then we’ll go on to the show. You could have a push round the shops in the afternoon, and meet us for tea, and so forth. Then I could run you back here, and stay over Sunday, as usual. How’s that for an idea, do you think?” He gave her another of the glances which had passed between them before.

  “I’d simply love it,” said Fiona. “Would you mind very much, Howard? I’m dying to see some shops and a civilised town.”

  “It will do you the world of good,” said Howard, after an embarrassingly long pause, “and, of course, I shall enjoy a day on my own. My dear, give Mrs. Gavin another cup of tea. Mrs. Gavin, another slice of cake? Are you proposing, by the way, to make one of the party next Saturday?”

  “Chekhov isn’t my cup of tea,” said Laura. It was the first she had heard of the expedition. Colin’s eloquent gaze implored her not to mention the fact that he had invented it on the spur of the moment. “Oh, Lord! Not Rattenbury and Stoner!” she thought. It was a dismaying idea.

  What was equally dismaying was a row which flared up between father and son as Laura was preparing to leave. It was half-past six. The sun had set and a misty dusk enveloped the island. Howard had gone outside to look at the sky, and came back to report that he should do no star-gazing that evening. He added that, in any case, he and Colin would escort Laura back to the school.

  “It will only need one of us to do that,” said Colin. “You go, and I’ll stay here and keep Fiona company.”

  “I wish you would not refer to your mother as Fiona.”

  “Why on earth not? She’s nearer my age than yours, and she’s not my mother. Don’t be a fool!”

  “I suppose,” said his father, in tones which trembled, “I have asked for that. Perhaps I have been a fool. Exactly how far did your walk take you today? And how long did you stay out?”

  Colin stared at his father, and then began to bluster.

  “What on earth do you mean? What are you accusing me of? Where has your little mind wandered to?”

  “Oh, Colin! Oh, Howard!” cried Fiona. “Remember we have a guest!”

  “Who is now going to take herself off,” said Laura, loudly and cheerfully.

  “I shall drive with you,” said Howard. “Colin, you will follow us in my car, and we will drive back together. I should like an opportunity to talk to you, man to man.”

  “Oh, and what about Fiona? Is she to be left here alone?”

  “You have your choice. Either do as I say, or drive to the school in Mrs. Gavin’s car and walk back. It will do you good to take a little real exercise instead of philandering here in the kitchen and pretending to go for long walks. Do you think I could not see you from the gallery of the tower? Did you suppose that I was unaware of the time at which you left the house this afternoon?”

  “Really, Howard!” protested his wife. “After all, there was a good deal of washing-up to be done.”

  “With which, on your own admission, he did not help you!”

  “I am afraid I must be going,” said Laura. “I promised to play chess this evening. And, really, I don’t need an escort. It is only a few miles, and my headlamps are in perfect working order.”

  “I’m coming with you,” said Colin, his face puckered dolefully as though he was going to cry. “And I shan’t come back, Father, do you hear? If Mrs. Gavin will give me a lift, you can jolly well keep your own car here and bring it back to the school when you jolly well like!”

  “Mrs. Gavin will not give you a lift,” said Laura coolly. “I’ll see you in school on Monday morning.”

  “I’m very sorry,” said Howard miserably, when he had seen her into her car. “The boy is at a difficult stage, I’m afraid. He doesn’t mean any harm, but he makes himself a nuisance to my wife. I’ve watched it going on for some time, and I must put a stop to it. It isn’t fair on Fiona, this kind of calf-love. To begin with, I was immensely glad and relieved that he seemed to take to her so readily, but this adolescent devotion is begrinning to be rather trying.”

  “Yes, but it’s a phase they all go through,” said Laura, keeping to a casual tone. “One comfort, it soon passes over when they meet the real person. I expect your wife has been very kind to him, and this is his way of expressing his gratitude. Young men are like that, aren’t they?”

  “Oh, well,” said Howard, in a tone of relief, “I hope you are right. I hate being at odds with the boy, and, of course, he isn’t really fit yet after his illness.”

  Colin came out to them.

  “I am sorry, Father,” he said. “I did get gassing in the kitchen about school and so forth, and I didn’t go for much of a walk. No—er—no hard feelings, I hope?”

  “Of course not, my boy,” said Howard, making his tone much too brisk. “Now, about seeing Mrs. Gavin home…”

  “Oh, nonsense, Mr. Spalding!” said Laura, in definite and vigorous protest. “Goodbye, and thank you very much for having me, and for giving me such an interesting talk about birds. Goodbye, Colin! Be seeing you!”

  She let in the clutch and bowled away northwards, thankful that the unpleasant episode was over, but wondering how often it was likely to be repeated. She made a private resolve that she would never again accept an invitation to visit the lighthouse, but reflected that, after having been the witness of such a scene between father and son, it was unlikely that either of them would want to see her there.

  CHAPTER SIX

  News from Nowhere

  “…had seen a little lugger in what we called Kit’s Hole.”

  “…when they got down to the Hole the lugger was already under way, though still close in.”

  It was Laura’s custom to write twice a week to Dame Beatrice, of whose relatives’ various addresses she had taken note. She missed the
company of her employer, and the letters were a way of keeping in touch, although the correspondence was inclined to be one-sided, since Dame Beatrice seldom replied except by laconic postcard.

  A funny thing happened on the way to the bathroom (wrote Laura, on the day following her visit to the disused lighthouse). I have to climb a flight of stairs from my room in order to gain access to the tubbery and on these stairs I pass a tall, narrow window which overlooks the cove where I swam. You can’t see the shore of the cove, but only the end of the Point and a fair amount of salt water, because forward from the cove the next landfall is one of the Channel Islands, I don’t know which, but I think it is Guernsey.

  Well, I always pause at this window and take a butchers at the view. This morning, as usual, I was up at the crack of dawn, because I share this particular bathroom with Mr. Grange and Mr. Skelton, and they (although just and Godfearing persons, and men of good repute) are apt, like all too many of their sex, to leave the bathroom not at all as they would wish to find it. It is my habit, therefore, to make sure I get first dip, which means a scum-free bath, unsplashed walls, and a dry bath-mat and surrounding floor.

  Well, as I paused at this window, I noticed a boat coming in. Nothing odd in that, you may say. A cove is a cove is a cove. Yes, I know. I also know that a boat can lie not so very far off shore at this particular cove, and still be in five fathoms—which is, by interpretation, thirty feet—of water. It all sounds perfectly reasonable, and it would be, if the time had been, say, ten-thirty instead of six-thirty in the morning, and if the month had been May instead of mid-March.