by Mary Stewart
In any case, no need. I took a quick breath of relief as I heard it; the engine of another boat, throttling down to a murmur as she crept into the bay.
This time I waited to make sure before I ventured out on the jetty, but it was Neil’s boat, and Neil himself standing ready to step out of it as it nosed in alongside the landing-place.
15
I ran to him, stumbling and nearly falling on the rough stones of the jetty. He jumped out of his boat and caught my arm to steady me.
‘Rose? Rose! What on earth are you doing here?’
‘Sh! Keep your voice down! He’s been here again. I saw him go up to the house—’
‘Hang on. Take it easy. You’re shaking . . . Why, you’re cold—’
‘I’m not cold. I’m all right. Neil, it’s Ewen Mackay. I saw him – never mind how, I’ll tell you later, but the point is, he’s been up to the house and taken things. Brought them down here and then gone off along the cliff path with them. He’ll be coming back, because he left something here—’
‘Along the cliff path? Did you hear a boat?’
‘Yes. I thought he must have left it in that place round the point, Halfway House. Did you see anything as you came in?’
‘No, but you can’t see into that cove from the way I came. But what are you doing here? No, that can wait. You say you saw him go up to the house and take something? You mean you actually saw him breaking in?’
‘No. I was over on the island. I saw him take a look at the boathouse first, then, when I suppose he saw you weren’t home, he went up towards the house, and after a bit he came back with a bag, you know, like Santa Claus, slung over his shoulder. It looked like that duffel bag of yours, and it was heavy. He dumped it down behind the boathouse and went back towards the house, then after a bit he came down again with a picture, and dumped that, then he took the bag and made off up the path with it.’
‘Hold on a minute. A picture?’
‘Yes. A big one. It’s behind the boathouse, there. I took a look at it.’
‘There’s no picture in the house worth stealing.’ He moved quickly to knot the boat’s rope through a ring sunk in the jetty. ‘Let’s have a look. Maybe there was one I didn’t know about . . . Good God!’
‘Do you know it?’
‘I should. It’s Great-Uncle Fergus.’
‘Valuable?’
‘Good heavens, no. Not even good, apparently, though it’s very like him, and dear old Sam – the dog – and Aunt Emily loved it. She used to say it was the best thing in the house. It was in her bedroom.’ He was looking around him as he spoke. ‘This was all? This and the duffel bag?’
‘All I saw. I heard the boat, and then I saw him. He only made the two trips to the house.’
‘The duffel bag. Could he have been carrying guns – shotguns – in it?’
‘I don’t think so. Guns? You don’t mean—?’
‘Yes.’ His voice was grim. ‘I told you I was going to check the house. Uncle Fergus’s guns have gone missing. I’ve been to the mainland to report it. So if he did take them, it must have been when he was here before.’
‘And they could be in his boat, couldn’t they? Neil,’ I said, urgently, ‘he did take this picture tonight, and whatever he took it for, it’s got to mean he’ll be coming back for it, and soon. Look, if you put your boat into the boathouse now, he wouldn’t see it till he got right down here again, and then perhaps –’
I stopped. Clear in the silence we heard an engine start.
Neil grabbed my arm again. ‘Quick. Get in. He’s not coming back, he’s running for it. He must have heard me. Come on!’
Somehow I was in the boat, and Neil had cast off and was edging her out from the jetty. She backed in a gentle arc to face the open sea, and as Neil gunned the engine she jumped forward and then settled to a smooth, fast pace.
‘There he is. No, there! You’re too far out!’ I had to shout it above the noise of the engine. I pointed to where, just visible against the dark background of the cliffs, the grey boat raced, the foam white under her bows and in her long wake.
Neil shook his head and made some gesture which I could not interpret, but as it was obvious that he, too, had seen Stormy Petrel and knew what he was about, I let it be. There were a hundred questions still to be asked and answered, but at this speed and in this noise speech was impossible. I hung on, keeping one eye on Neil in case I could help him, and the other on Stormy Petrel.
Now I thought I could see what Neil was trying to do. The two boats were running along the coastline on almost parallel courses, Ewen close in, perforce following the jagged line of the shore, and our boat (I found later that she was called Sea Otter) on a straight course some way out. When on two occasions Ewen turned to make for the open sea, Neil, increasing our speed slightly, held on to what looked like a collision course. Even though it must have been obvious that he would not hold to it at the last, the threat was enough to make Stormy Petrel veer again to her original course, and though she was trying to increase speed, and was perhaps a little more powerful than Sea Otter, we, on our straight line, could hold her comfortably.
We were almost round to Otters’ Bay now. The headland looming ahead of us out of the growing daylight would be the one immediately to the west of the cottage. Stormy Petrel wheeled again towards us, and this time Neil gave her sea-room. In a moment I could see why. From the tip of the headland and for some way out to sea the waves were breaking white against half-submerged fangs and stacks of rock that had in time past broken away from the main cliffs. They were no real danger to anyone who knew the coast, and all the time the light was growing stronger. Ewen obviously knew his way, but although Neil gave him room he made no further attempt to break free, or even to reach open water. He slowed down to pick his way among the patches of white water quite close inshore, at one point even vanishing between a towering sea-stack and the main cliff, then, once past the headland, he throttled right back and motored tamely into Otters’ Bay, making for the jetty there.
I turned in surprise to Neil, to see him pointing away from the bay towards where, in a cloud of spray, a powerful-looking launch was heading fast towards us. I had never seen a police launch, but this one had an unmistakably official look about it, and in size and speed would be more than a match for either Stormy Petrel or Sea Otter.
Ewen Mackay was still tying up when we nosed gently in to rub shoulders with Stormy Petrel, and Neil jumped ashore and turned to hand me out.
‘Why, Miss Fenemore! You were out with Mr Parsons, then?’ Ewen straightened with a look of surprise and pleasure. With dark hair rumpled by the wind, flushed face and those brilliantly blue eyes, he looked very handsome. His expression was one of uncomplicated welcome, which altered as he turned to Neil. ‘Or is it Mr Hamilton? Oh, yes, it took me a bit of time to recognise you, but I got there in the end. Did you have a good night’s fishing? I’ve been out myself, and I didn’t get a thing. Not a thing.’ Another glance at me, apparently quite free of guile. ‘Well, I’m glad he got you home safely . . . It seems you’ve forgotten how to handle a boat, Neil, all those years in Dismal Swamp with canoes and muggers and billabongs, whatever they may be. Just what the hell were you doing? A game’s a game, but you could have piled me up back there, and then you’d have had a few questions to answer!’
‘I have one to ask.’ Neil made no attempt at a normal tone. His was grim and totally unfriendly. ‘Where are the guns?’
‘Guns?’ asked Ewen blankly. ‘What guns?’
It was some time later, and the scene had shifted to the cottage sitting-room which, with myself and the two men, and two large detectives, was rather crowded.
Ewen had shown surprise, which of course looked genuine, when the launch, on coming alongside the jetty, turned out to belong, not to the police, but to Customs and Excise, who announced their intention of searching the Stormy Petrel, while the detectives had ‘a few questions to ask.’ He did make the inevitable protest of the recently released priso
ner: was he to be hounded wherever he went, just because of the recent trip ‘abroad’, and surely that debt was paid in full and he could be allowed to start again in, of all places, his old home, which he was only visiting in the hope of finding where his parents had moved to; to lose touch with his dear mother was not to be borne; he needed to talk with his parents, to explain things to them, and ask for their forgiveness. And why the Customs men anyway, and what on earth did they hope to find . . . ? And so on, still in that pleasant, reasonable voice, with eyes that were just guileless enough, appealing for sense and clemency from his audience.
The official section of that audience was attentive but impartial. Far from hounding him gratuitously, they said, they were acting on information received. They would like to search his boat. No, they had no warrant, but they could take him and the boat back to Oban, where a warrant could be obtained. No objection? Then, sir, they were much obliged, and we’ll leave it to you chaps while you, Jimmy, come with me to the cottage and talk with Mr Mackay there.
Then, to me: ‘If we may? I understand that you have rented the cottage, miss. Miss Fenemore, isn’t it?’
I said that it was, and they were welcome to come in. He thanked me, and introduced himself as Detective-Sergeant Fraser, and his companion as Detective-Constable Campbell.
I unlocked the door and led the way in. Ewen came, with a shrug and a smile and a lifted eyebrow, and the two detectives close behind him. Neil followed them in and shut the door. He was rather pale, and tended to watch the policemen rather than Ewen. I noticed that Ewen did not look in his direction.
‘“On information received?”’ he said, looking from one detective to the other. ‘From whom, and about what? It must be serious, to have brought you out on that TV-type chase? And why the Customs people? Just what is this all about?’
The sergeant consulted a notebook. ‘You hired the boat Stormy Petrel on June fifteenth from one Hector McGillivray of Uig on the island of Faarsay?’
‘Yes. At least, I suppose it was the fifteenth . . . It was three days after – Yes, the fifteenth. So what? I paid him, didn’t I?’
‘We have reason to believe,’ said the sergeant, taking no notice of the question, ‘that this boat has recently been involved in illegal traffic, and that the said operation was centred on the island of Faarsay.’
‘Illegal traffic?’ Ewen looked taken aback, then he laughed. ‘Faarsay? Do you mean that old Hector’s been poaching salmon again? But how does that affect me? I’ve only had the boat since the fifteenth, and before that I was –’ A quick glance at me. ‘I don’t need to tell you where I was, do I?’
Once again the sergeant ignored the question. He watched Ewen steadily, while the constable, who had seated himself at the kitchen table, was taking notes. I thought that Neil, still over by the door, had a puzzled look. He glanced from time to time out of the window, as if to see what was happening down at the jetty.
‘Not salmon,’ said the sergeant. ‘No. That would not bring the Customs here. They are looking for drugs.’
‘Drugs?’ This time, unmistakably, the shock was genuine. Ewen went as white as paper, and jerked upright in his chair. ‘Drugs? What are you talking about? What’s it got to do with me? Do you mean that that bloody fool Hector McGillivray fobbed me off with a boat that’s – that’s been—?’ He stopped abruptly, biting his lip. The two detectives watched him, unmoved. Ewen sat back in the chair, and managed, very creditably I thought, a wry little smile. ‘No wonder I got the damned boat cheaply,’ he said. ‘That comes of trusting chaps you’ve known all your life. Like Neil here. Well? Just when did all this so-called traffic take place? While I was safely locked away, I hope? As far as I’m concerned, I went to Hector because I knew him and I knew he’d let me have a boat cheaply, and I’ve used it since then – since the fifteenth – for pleasure, and now to come over and look my people up. So the Customs can search all they like; they won’t find a thing.’ And he included Neil, and then me, in the smile.
‘Thank you, sir.’ The sergeant glanced across at his colleague, saw him busily writing, then turned back to Ewen. ‘You must understand that the boat’s history is the affair of the Customs officers. They will talk to you later. We have our own inquiries to make. The launch gave us a lift over, to save us waiting for the ferry in the morning, that is all. But their search of your boat will save us time, as well. We have been lucky there.’
‘Haven’t you just?’ said Ewen. ‘Search for what, since you’re not after all the heroin, or whatever I’m supposed to have been ferrying around the islands for a week?’
‘We have reason to believe that you recently broke into Taigh na Tuir, the house belonging to Mr Hamilton here, and that you know something of the whereabouts of two valuable guns.’
‘Guns?’ repeated Ewen blankly. ‘What guns? And who gave you reason to believe—?’
‘I did,’ said Neil.
The surprise and shock registered yet again on Ewen’s face were so real that even I, if this time I had not known better, would have thought them genuine. He turned to face Neil, and their eyes met. Ewen’s were wide, injured, unbelieving; Neil’s stony, but I could see the effort that kept them level. He was hating this. So, as a matter of fact, was I. I took the woman’s way out. I retreated to the scullery to fill the kettle for a cup of tea.
‘All right,’ said Ewen to Neil. ‘So supposing you explain. When am I supposed to have broken into the house, and why on earth should you think I know anything about any of the guns?’ He sat back, apparently at his ease now, and crossed his legs. He was sitting in the same chair he had had before, on that late-night chat. ‘Go on, Mr Parsons. Explain.’
There was a slight flush on Neil’s cheekbones, and he seemed to be avoiding Ewen’s eye. In view of the latter’s steady, incredulous gaze, I could not blame him. He spoke to the hearthrug.
‘I have already told Sergeant Fraser what happened. I was in the house the night you came back, and I watched you try the french windows, and then go round to the back to find the kitchen window locked, too. Possibly this made you uneasy, or possibly, with the storm blowing up, you did not want to take your boat across to the mainland again, so you decided to let things alone, and not risk taking any stolen goods on board. I watched you make off along the cliff path, as if you were making for Otters’ Bay. The lawyers had told me that the cottage was let to a girl, who was here alone. For all I knew she was with you, but if she was just a visitor, I had to make sure she would be all right. So I followed you over, and found you here in the cottage. You had told Dr Fenemore that you thought your parents still lived here. That may have been true, but for the moment it’s irrelevant.’
‘That’s wonderful!’ Ewen was letting anger show now through the hurt. ‘Anything that “may be true” is irrelevant! I’ll tell you what is irrelevant, all that breaking and entering bit. You’ve just said yourself that all I did was try the windows. And why not? I’d been welcome in that house for as long as you had – longer, because you were away and I just about lived there. So go right ahead. What’s all this about stolen goods and, for God’s sake, guns?’
‘Only that it wasn’t your first visit since my great-aunt’s death,’ said Neil. ‘You heard me say you “came back”. I don’t know when the first visit was, but it must have been very recent, possibly within a few days of your, er, release.’ He paused, and looked across at Fraser.
The sergeant nodded. ‘We know you hired a boat,’ he said, ‘straight away after you came out of prison, and came up to Oban. It was possible that you would come over to Moila, and of course there was nothing suspicious about that. And of course, to start with, we knew nothing about the boat’s history. That, if you will allow the word, is also, for the moment, irrelevant.’ An explosive sound from Ewen, which was ignored. The sergeant continued: ‘But then Mr Hamilton found the valuable guns missing from Taigh na Tuir, and he reported that, with the story of your attempt to get into the house last Wednesday night. So our inquiries – and
possibly the search of your boat—’
‘Will get you nowhere. In fact,’ said Ewen, and was there just a shade of genuine relief in his tone? ‘you don’t know anything at all. And as for the guns that are supposed to be missing from Taigh na Tuir, I can tell you all you want to know about that. When the Colonel was alive, he always took me shooting with him, and I helped look after his guns. He had quite a few, half a dozen there in the gunroom, with the light one he got for Neil as a boy, and I used to use. Mrs Hamilton hated guns, and never shot.’ He looked up at Neil. ‘Nor did you, when you could get out of it. And I was here when the Colonel died. You were in Australia, but even if you didn’t know, the police here should have known . . . The guns were sold. There were some that were quite valuable, a Churchill, I think, and a Boss, but they were sent to his gunsmith in Glasgow, Peterson and Briggs, and they were sold. As far as I know, the gunroom’s been empty ever since. You should know, inspector. Don’t you have to check them all nowadays, ever since the Hungerford affair?’
It was Neil who answered. ‘You haven’t mentioned the Purdeys.’
‘Purdeys?’
‘Don’t pretend you didn’t know about them. His favourite guns, the “specials” that were made for his father, my grand-uncle, in 1906, in the great days of shooting-parties. He shot once with King Edward. You knew all that, it was one of his favourite stories, and you must have known all about the guns. If they were valuable when Uncle Fergus died, they’re astronomical now.’
‘Well, and so what about them? Of course I remember them. He would never let me touch them, always cleaned them himself. They were sold with the rest, weren’t they?’
