Suddenly Kenneth spoke. “What makes you all so sure that he didn’t? He had the opportunities, after all, and Ogden couldn’t have come within a thousand miles of seeing that device. He might have arranged for it to be planted on Lysander – what you’ve told us isn’t proof, but it adds up to a very strong possibility – but he couldn’t have stolen or filmed it. Someone else must have done that: Michael Twiss. Of course they were in cahoots. Why otherwise would Ogden have taken Michael to South Rona and back?”
The wind, blustering against the windows, drove another squall of rain over the art nouveau acorns: water hissed into the hearth. Slowly Johnson got up from the chair arm, bearing his pipe, and knocked it out into the fireside and pocketed it. “No. Ogden didn’t take it,” he said; and clasping soft hands stood surveying us. Bob and Nancy, drawn and big-eyed, followed every flash of his glasses; Hennessy beside me breathed slowly and deeply; Kenneth’s pale face was full of thin, frowning lines; Ogden, who had listened motionless, sulkily sprawling, to the last part of this recital, brought up his long fingers and tented them, pursing at Johnson his pale, fleshy lips. At length, reflectively, Johnson resumed.
“Michael Twiss might have pinched your little contraption and put it back later. Equally, Holmes, you might have staged the whole thing yourself.” And as Kenneth, flushing, grunted and sat up: “I want to go into that in a minute. But meanwhile,” added Johnson, “you’re wrong about one other thing. We have proof that Ogden is guilty . . . Glasscock?”
Rupert stepped into the firelight. Johnson took from him a small, heavy object and set it on the lionskin before us.
It was a tape recorder. “A small precaution,” Johnson was saying. “I radioed here just after we left Skye this morning, and had Dr Holmes’ room wired for sound. If I am right, you are about to hear the voices of Cecil Ogden and the late blackmailing Michael Twiss.” He pressed the button.
Ogden jumped. Ogden, the inefficient, the lethargic, his long face contorted, hurled himself on the lionskin and scrabbled at the circling tape. For a moment, his pixie cap bobbed below us; then he had the reel wrenched from its socket and was back on his feet.
Johnson spoke. “Stand still, Ogden,” he said. “Or I shoot.” And in his fist was the gun which was not a cigarette lighter.
His back to Kenneth, one hand with the tape in his pocket, the other on the Buchanan’s sofa, half thrusting past, Ogden stopped, and the fire gleamed on his eyeball as he turned.
“That’s a good chap,” said Johnson. “Handcuffs, Rupert.” And Rupert, fishing in his pocket, began to move forward. Without warning, every light in the house went out.
For an instant, there was perfect silence. Then, as the shouting began, the hall rang and resounded, unspeakably, with the deep voices of bronchial trolls, beating in despair against curtains and panelling: to be free, to reach Trallval and Hallival in the wind and the rainstorms outside. Induced by God knew what fiendish short circuit, the organ was playing Cavalleria Rusticana all over again.
Johnson fired.
I saw the stab of the flame. Then as my pupils widened, the familiar faces about me, dusky in the firelight, jerked apart by the shock. In the place where Ogden had stood, there was nothing. Then from beyond our chairs, the sound of feet running: Rupert, with Johnson vaulting, gun in hand, after him.
Beside me, Hennessy suddenly said: “You stay here. They’ve got guns. It’s dangerous,” and thrusting me to one side, followed, too. Bob and Nancy had both risen. Bob I saw made a movement to go, then stopped, Nancy’s arm in his own. Then her hoarse voice exhorted him. “We’ll need to give them a hand, Bob. Come on. Stay together.” And the darkness swallowed them up.
Then I shouted to Kenneth, above the clash of cymbals and the roll of the small wooden drumsticks and the stuttering roar of the music. “He’ll get out somehow. There’s no sense in following him. There’s only one place he can go, and that’s Seawolf.”
For a moment, I sensed Kenneth’s pale face staring at me in the gloom. Then he, too, understood. “Quickly. The boats.”
The great front door was locked, and the key absent. In the end, it was the caretaker’s entrance which we used. As we stepped out and the wind caught our breath a torch blazed, blinding us both, and a man’s voice, interrupting Kenneth’s curse, said: “Sorry, sir. Orders. Mr Johnson said if he made a break for it, everyone else was to make for the boats. We’re not to let a rat through, tonight.”
There was a rifle, I saw, in his hands. In Scotland no one shoots on a Sunday. Kenneth took my hand, and leaving the arcades for the path, we ran round Kinloch Castle and over the grass to the woodland road to the shore.
The wind had risen, but not enough to vanquish the rain. Under the giddy, turbulent trees the road was full of pebbles and mud: the little river, as we rushed over it, was jumping in hummocks and craters and spread dimly with foam. Behind the tossing rhododendrons an army could be marching in safety. We had to shout to each other to be heard.
Once, veering off the path, we found ourselves in a clutter of poultry. A moment later, shockingly, we broke through the dark undergrowth and something flung itself screaming against the blowing coils of my hair. A light shone, and I saw Kenneth’s face, perfectly white, the eye sockets turned on me wild with shock and fatigue. There was another scream and I saw him fling up an arm as something frantically beating and dark began to thresh at his shoulders. The screeching, in odd, barking whoops, tore at the ear, mixed with a confused guttural muttering. Then I remembered the shearwaters, and lowering my head, I seized Kenneth’s hand and ran past the Warden’s back door. No one came out.
On the shore something moved: there was a deer in the water, its dark coat staring with damp underneath.
Here, in the last of the afterlight, the hills behind us were black on the sky, which was charcoal grey to the east, with slate storm clouds massing low over it. Behind us in the west all was dark except on the horizon. There the day had left a wash of green-blue, with a dash of storm-russet low in the saddle of hills, where the black castellated tower of Kinloch Castle rose like an obelisk above the terraced mass of the building. No lights showed. Kenneth slowed up, and I found we had come to the pier.
Sioras was locked: no one could take her out that night. And Seawolf’s pram which had been there, had transported an upset Victoria back to her cabin and was neatly stowed now, where, dark on the light waters, Seawolf herself swung and jolted to her anchor. Down below, the portholes of the main saloon were lit.
From Binkie, moving uneasily close by, there were no lights; nor were there any but riding lights on the lovely Symphonetta. Hennessy’s boys, clearly, had dropped off to sleep. We looked in silence; then Kenneth said: “Right. The other jetty,” and running, led the way on. For with his own dinghy gone, Ogden had those of Binkie, Symphonetta and Dolly to choose from, all tied up at the small pier further round the shore of the loch. It was then, as we stumbled over the shale-layered stone slabs and lichenous boulders and sand patches pale among the black rocks of the shore, that we saw, far ahead against the dim, moving sea, a black figure running.
“Ogden,” said Kenneth shortly; and releasing my hand, began to run in real earnest, towards the boats and the sea.
SIXTEEN
Even a scientist can be illogical when wrought-up and tired. In the tape Ogden was carrying there was proof, I supposed, in the counter-accusations between Michael and Ogden, confronting each other in that wrecked laboratory, that Ogden and not Kenneth was responsible for what happened to the Lysander. That there was proof of anything more, in spite of all that Johnson had said, I tried not to believe. But to get that tape, Kenneth was there with me, unarmed, outdistancing all our supporters, without considering that, surely, Johnson by now would have radioed news of Ogden’s escape to his colleagues, and he would be intercepted long before he reached the mainland.
In so far as it was incriminating, of course, Ogden might well have thrown the tape away or concealed it already. But in so far as it was also an ins
trument of power he might be keeping it at all costs. With it, he could bargain. With it, perhaps, he could also blackmail. But I should not think of that. Kenneth had intelligence as well as principles: that kind of man does not change. He was by my side now. I wanted him to be at my side when this was all over.
There was a moment, as we approached the dark jetty and heard the slap of the waves, when behind us there broke out a faint outburst of what sounded like shouting, and I tried to look back. But the wind was blowing hard in our faces, and the noise, whatever it was, had been snatched clean away. Then suddenly, all other sound was lost in the roar of a motor launch engine.
As we ran down the jetty, Symphonetta’s speedboat cast off and, picking up revs, charged out into the loch. Ogden, black against the small running waves, was sitting crouched at the wheel.
We stopped. And there, in the blowing darkness, Kenneth confronted me. “I’m going after him. Tell Johnson I’m sorry I had to borrow his boat.”
“I’m coming with you.”
For a moment he stood, staring at me, and I wondered what he was thinking. He said: “It’ll be dangerous.”
“I know. I want to be with you, Kenneth.” For a second, his hands touched my shoulders and his cheek, wet with rain, was pressed hard against mine. Then he was in Dolly’s dory, handing me down, and the outboard was ripped on and the painter inboard and we were off, bouncing through disturbed sea, with the iron triangle of wake following rigid behind and the salt water clattering over us unheeded and soaking us through.
Symphonetta’s boat was faster than ours. As we stared at the remote, rocking discs of Seawolf’s portholes, we could see Ogden for a moment, dark against her green topsides as he climbed up the companionway, and a shape which must be Victoria, roused by the noise of the speedboat. Then he was on board, and Symphonetta’s launch had been cast off to drift, and after standing for a moment, no doubt in startled enquiry, Victoria slipped forward to get up the anchor while Ogden disappeared below.
Soon, the engine would start, and Ogden would help Victoria get the anchor aboard, and then running back to the cockpit, would put the engine in gear and away. I wondered what story he had told to Victoria. And I thought, we can’t catch them now. Then the stutter of a starting motor, stammering again and again, came faintly over the beat of our outboard and I remembered, with a cold excitement and nausea combined, that Lenny had been on board Seawolf that night, ostensibly to look at the battery. Whatever you thought of Johnson and his friends, they were efficient. Of course Seawolf’s engine wouldn’t work.
Kenneth had realised it, too. He said: “They’ll have to raise sail. That means he’ll have to get rid of us first. Can you manage this outboard?”
“Yes. I think so.”
“Good. Look, we’ll have to divide forces. I’m going to steer over to Hennessy’s speedboat and get myself aboard. Then while I have his attention, I want you to get on his blind side and somehow get on board Seawolf. Once she sees what’s happening, Victoria will help you. He may realise what we’re doing, but he’s only one man. He can’t be in two places at once.”
There were many things one could say: sensible things. He can’t get far, under sail. Why not wait for the others? There was still Binkie’s boat, there on the pier, and along the shore now, a twinkling of torches, jerking and streaming. The Buchanans, Hennessy, Johnson and Rupert were all coming. Then I looked at Kenneth’s face, and I thought of the tape and all that it might contain; and I said only: “Be careful. He’ll have a gun now.”
Then we had reached the rocking black shape of Symphonetta’s smart speedboat: there was a lurch, and I was alone, the helm in my hand. On Seawolf, something light flapped near her bows – Victoria had untied the jib and was trying to raise it while Ogden cranked up the anchor.
But he had left it too late. As Symphonetta’s speedboat, hissing, curved and made straight for his gangway, I saw Ogden drop what he was doing and run back along deck. As he passed the skylight something silver glinted in his hand, and I drew a long, shallow breath. Then I put the helm down and made for Seawolf’s opposite side. A moment later, and I was tied up to her rail.
It was as I was standing there seesawing in the dinghy, staring upwards, that someone let off a revolver on the other side of the boat. I counted three shots. Then Victoria screamed.
I had drawn breath to call her when I heard running feet, and she came. “Tina?” Either she had seen me sail round, or Kenneth had managed to tell her. Silhouetted against the dim glow from the hatches her face was staring and white, half-hidden by her rough flying hair. Poor Victoria, who thought she could treat men as ponies. She saw me and said: “Cecil’s gone crazy, I think. They were fighting . . . Dr Holmes had an oar . . . Cecil’s flung him back in the water and taken the companionway up . . .”
“Victoria. Listen. Get the companionway, if you can without Ogden noticing. And bring it here.”
She stared at me, hardly listening. “He’s got a gun! He’s shooting! Tina, we have to get help.”
“Victoria! Get the companionway.”
She obeyed orders. That is why she does so well, on a boat. In two quiet steps she had it lifted over the coachhouse roof, and let down beside me. A moment later, I was on deck beside her. “Now listen. Is Kenneth hurt?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think so. He dived, and Cecil went on shooting into the water. Then Cecil left it and jumped into the cockpit. I think he’s trying to find out what’s wrong with the engine . . . Listen!” She looked distraught. “He’s calling. He’ll want help with the anchor. Tina, let’s get back in the boat.”
“No . . . Wait! Go forward and do what he wants,” I said quickly. “He won’t harm you. He can’t, he needs you to help him sail. The engine won’t start: Lenny fixed it – never mind why. It’s a long story. The others will come and help soon – look, there’s Binkie’s boat putting off from the jetty now. We only need to delay him a little, and try not to let him see the companionway is down on this side. If Kenneth’s all right, he’ll swim round to it, and then we’re three against one. But if he sees you trying to leave he’ll shoot, Victoria. Pretend to help. That’s safest and best.”
She said: “All right,” although she was shaking. “But you—”
“Never mind me. You go and get the anchor in and the jib up, and take your time about it.” And as she ran forward, in answer to another command in Ogden’s sharp voice, I slid into the cockpit, and found my way down a small flight of steps to the wide four-berth saloon down below. Here the motion was violent – the anchor must be tripping and the jib either down still, or up and not yet trimmed. A book Victoria had been reading slid backwards and forwards on the floor, and unwashed tea things rattled in the steel sink. She had been feeling very low, Victoria, it was clear. At the far end of the fo’c’sle, a door opened and shut slackly with every roll. Running below for his revolver, Ogden had left the fo’c’sle unlocked. In a moment, I was inside.
At first, I despaired. It was a mess of patched clothing and old tumbled blankets mixed up with capstan handles and tarred twine and cakes of marine glue and old boathook heads, all tipped out on the floor when the starboard bunk had pulled away from its fixing. Then I saw that it was made to pull out, and that the old lining boards which formed the curving walls of the fo’c’sle were also partly dismantled, showing behind a gleam of something neat in plastic, with cables and dials. I pulled aside the rest of the lining then, but there was no sign of the tape. Instead, I found Ogden’s two other guns. I pocketed them while on the deck above me there was a confused trampling of feet, the sound of Ogden’s voice, giving orders, and thinly, Victoria’s breathless replies.
I realised that the running rattle of the anchor chain through the hawsehole had stopped, and what I was hearing now was the creak of blocks and the clink and shuffle as the mainsail leapfrogged up. As Seawolf caught the wind I saw, across the dark fo’c’sle where I stood and beyond the galley and the lit oasis of the deserted saloon, a stir as Ogden entere
d the cockpit to take his place at the helm. I saw his arm reach behind him and sheet in the mainsail. Then the deck below me threw me off balance, and suddenly I was on my side in a tangle of bedding, the two revolvers digging hard in my flesh.
We were sailing. Victoria and I were alone on Seawolf with this mad and desperate man.
There was a hatch above me, locked on the inside. I glanced just once through the fo’c’sle door, to see his bulk, tethered now to the tiller. I wondered if he had seen Dolly’s empty dinghy, which I cast off as I scrambled aboard, and if he was wondering where I had got to. Kenneth, he must suppose, was swimming somewhere out there, or wounded, or drowned. It was possible. But with luck, he might reach one of the boats safely, and the Buchanan’s launch, now heading for Dolly, would find him and take him on board.
I hoped so, for Kenneth was not really a practical person. And to get what you want in this life, you cannot always play a clean game. I closed the door and began, gently, to unlock the hatch. I had a job to do. And on the whole, I should be better off doing it on my own.
It was dark on deck, and slippery, and very wet. At first I lay full length quite still where I was, between the brass handrail which ran along the side of the coachhouse roof and the ridge of the gunwale. It was not a very happy position. I was against the lee rail of a hard sailing ship, and if I released my grip of this icy brass rail, I should be hard put to it not to slip sideways between those wide man ropes and thence into the sea. As it was, the sea was coming to me. Ogden was aiming for speed, not finesse, and there was a good-going wind blowing up from the south-east. Every now and then, she put her head down and dug into a good one, and then a cold body of water streamed down my left side. A little earlier I had zipped up my hood and my pockets, and I was grateful: there was no famous hair blowing to obscure my sight or give me away. I wondered fleetingly what the management of the Colón, where I ought to be performing, would say if they were watching me now. Lying there, I breathed deeply and easily. Even against the blustering pressure of wind, my chest muscles were supple and strong. I could have lifted up my voice then and quelled the sea and the wind: I could have sung Brünnhilde and Isolde. I could deal with Ogden. I knew it.
Rum Affair: Dolly and the Singing Bird; The Photogenic Soprano Page 21
