MacTavish
Ben’s impression that this must be MacTavish, the innkeeper, was confirmed by the newcomer’s opening words.
‘Ah, Jean!’ he exclaimed. ‘Anybody come?’
Then he noticed Ben, and his sandy, protruding eyebrows went up. The eyebrows were thickly tangled, and had never heard of a comb.
‘Evenin’, sir,’ murmured Ben.
Ben’s brain was still spinning, but all one could do was to carry on and to see where the spinning led.
‘He’s called after work,’ explained Jean, quickly, ‘but I was tellin’ him—’
‘Weel, I’ll do the tellin’,’ interrupted her uncle brusquely. ‘Go awa’ and do some work. No, bide a wee. There was a car.’
‘Ay,’ answered Jean, frowning.
‘It stoppit. Was he in it?’ He jerked his head towards Ben.
‘He wasna.’
‘Weel, lass, weel! Wha was in it?’
‘I dinna ken.’
‘Dinna ken?’
‘You haird me.’
‘I haird ye, I haird ye fine, but now you can be hearin’ me! The car stoppit, I’m tellin’ ye, I saw it up the road, and somebody got out.’
He looked at her suspiciously, and she flushed with sudden anger.
‘Ay, somebody got out,’ she retorted, ‘and somebody looked in the window, and somebody got in again, and somebody drove awa’. And now somebody’s gaen back to her work, and you can get on wi’ your secrets wi’ Mr Wilkins!’
Whereupon she turned on her attractive heel and stormed out of the room.
Ben stared after her, but MacTavish was staring at Ben. All at once Ben became conscious of it.
‘Was Wilkins the name?’ inquired MacTavish softly.
‘Yus, that’s me,’ replied Ben.
The innkeeper walked to the door, peered out into the hall, and closed the door.
‘Weel, Mr Wilkins,’ he said, ‘and wha may you hae come to Muirgissie aboot?’
‘Oh! Yer dunno, eh?’
‘I ken wha I’m told.’
‘I see. Well, she tole yer.’
‘Oh, ay. You’re lookin’ for a wee bit worrk?’
‘That’s right.’
‘But wha brocht ye to Muirgissie?’
‘Well, I ’eard there was some goin’, see?’
‘Ah, ye haird?’
‘Yus, I ’aird.’
‘And wha tole ye?’
‘Wot?’
‘Dinna I speak plain?’
‘Yus, but I on’y unnerstand English. ’Oo told me, eh? Well, you know ’ow these things git abart. It was jest people torkin’, if yer know wot I mean.’
‘Maybe I know fine what you mean, Mr Wilkins. And maybe I respect your caution. We’ll say nae mair aboot that, juist for the moment. But will you be tellin’ me whit kind o’ worrk you hae in mind?’
‘I ain’t pertickler.’
‘No?’
‘When I tike on a job, I jest does wot I’m told,’ said Ben, watching the innkeeper as closely as the innkeeper was watching him.
‘Weel, that’s as it should be,’ agreed MacTavish, nodding his large, untidy head. ‘When a man taks on a job, he taks it on.’ The logic appeared unassailable. ‘But I’m no sayin’ I can gie you the job,’ he added quickly. ‘We’re juist—probin’. Ay, probin’. To see how the land lies. Why, ’tis easy to talk, but there’s a differ between talkin’ and doin’, ay, and between weel-doin’ and ill-doin’.’ He stared into the fire. ‘Tak’ this example. By your talk, your name is Wilkins.’
He paused. The probing was a slow, laborious business. He turned from the fire, and fixed his eyes on Ben again. He had two teeth missing, and the economy which had refused substitutes had not assisted his personal appearance.
‘That’s right,’ said Ben. ‘C. Wilkins. C fer Charles.’
‘Ay, but wha’s the proof?’
‘Well, I ain’t brort me birth certificate.’
‘Then you canna prove—’
‘Yus, I can! ’Arf a mo’!’ He dived into his pocket, and produced the visiting card given to him by Mr Smith, of Boston. ‘’Ow abart that?’
MacTavish took the card and regarded it closely. Then he handed it back.
‘Thank you, Mr Wilkins,’ he said. ‘You’ll be stayin’ the nicht, I’m thinkin’, but there’s mair to ken yet. How did ye come?’
‘Eh?’
‘Was it alane?’
‘No.’
‘No?’ MacTavish frowned. ‘Wha was wi’ ye?’
‘Eh?’
‘You’re gey fond o’ that worrd!’ exclaimed the innkeeper, his frown increasing. ‘Wha was wi’ ye, mon, wha was wi’ ye?’
‘Well, I carn’t unnerstan’ yer if I carn’t unnerstan’ yer, carn’t I?’ retorted Ben.
‘Nobody was with me.’
MacTavish cast his eyes towards the ceiling.
‘Naebody was wi’ ye—’
‘No—’
‘But when I ask how ye came you said it wasna alane!’
‘That’s right, I came over the moor.’
‘The moor? Wha’ hae the moor to do wi’t?’
‘It wasn’t a lane. Leastwise, not afore I was leavin’ the moor, see? Then I come dahn a lane. Now ’ave we got it?’
MacTavish crossed to a small cupboard on the wall and took out a pipe. He seemed to need soothing. Then he drew a deep breath, and began again.
‘You walked into Muirgissie by yersel’?’
‘Yus. Ay. That’s right,’ agreed Ben.
‘And when you say that, you’re meanin’ that naebody was wi’ ye?’
‘If you mean wot I mean, then that’s wot I mean. Corse, I might ’ave got a bit of a lift part o’ the way, but that wouldn’t ’urt, would it? Och, ay?’
The innkeeper let the question go while he filled his pipe and lit it. He had momentarily lost his power to concentrate. Then, after a few consoling and mind-clearing puffs, he proceeded:
‘Now, leesten, Mr Wilkins. We maun bide a wee to comprehend the language o’ the other and learn the differ, but I hae a notion we can get along fine and needna wait if we dinna fash oursel’s.’
‘I can fash any dinner yer put afore me in a couple o’ ticks,’ answered Ben.
The innkeeper let this go, also.
‘There’s ane mair question,’ he went on, doggedly, ‘and it’s aboot that car. My niece, you haird her, she said that somebody got out o’ the car and looked in at the window. Was that the truth?’
‘Yus.’
‘Did you see wha it was?’
‘No. It was gorn too quick.’
‘But you can say if it was—a woman?’
‘Couldn’t say if it was a snike! See, orl I spotted was the eyes, and when yer don’t spot wot’s rahnd ’em, yer done. They jest looked in and ’opped it.’
MacTavish glanced towards the window as though attempting to recreate the vision, but the red curtains refused to oblige. In the little silence that followed it was obvious that MacTavish was worried.
‘Well—’ave I got the job?’ inquired Ben, breaking the silence.
‘Job?’ repeated the innkeeper, vaguely. He turned from the window. His expression was moody. ‘Maybe—I’ll want you for it in the mornin’.’
‘Mebbe,’ thought Ben, ‘the pleece’ll want me fust fer somethink else! Do they ’ang yer in Scotland, sime as England? Or is it that eleckertrooshen?’
13
And so to Bed
Then MacTavish left the room. His heavy footsteps receded across the hall.
In a few minutes Jean returned, with a cloth over her arm. Her manner was composed, but by will-power rather than instinct, and beneath her deliberate movements there was a nervous tension. She had smoothed her gold hair—it was the gold of nature, not of the shop, and had merely slipped out of light brown—and Ben wondered vaguely why she had bothered. It couldn’t have been for him that she had patted disobedient curls into place; or for her uncle, whose personal example stood for tangle.
It did not cross Ben’s mind that she might have done it for herself.
‘So you’re stayin’ the nicht,’ she observed, as she drew a small table near the fire and spread the cloth over it.
‘That’s right,’ answered Ben. ‘And the on’y one ’oo is, by the look of it.’
‘Ay, there’s naebody else,’ she replied.
Something in her tone caught Ben’s attention. Was it an underlying weariness against which her brightness warred—or had she been crying since he had last seen her? There was a suspicious heaviness around her eyes, and the extra touch of tidiness might have been part of a necessary process to conceal some new distress.
‘Then there won’t be no dancin’ ’ere ternight,’ remarked Ben.
A look of surprise was followed by a smile.
‘We dinna dance in Muirgissie,’ she said.
‘That’s a pity,’ he commented. ‘I like a bit of a ’op, yer know—watchin’. I carn’t do it meself, I falls over.’
‘Maybe you wouldna if you had some teachin’.’
‘It wouldn’t mike no differ. Dif’rence. Lumme, I’m catchin’ it! I ’ad a dancin’ lesson once, but it laid us both up for a fortnight!’
Jean laughed. It was the first time he had heard her laughter, and it transformed the room for an instant. The instant was short-lived, however, for she relapsed abruptly into solemnity as though she had been guilty of joking at a funeral.
‘Did my uncle tell you wha you could get some work?’ she inquired.
‘’E ses ’e might ’ave somethink fer me termorrer,’ responded Ben.
‘What! Himsel’?’ she exclaimed, startled.
‘Well—p’r’aps I didn’t unnerstan’ ’im quite correck,’ he answered, wondering whether he could ever engineer a complete conversation without putting his foot in it somewhere. ‘See, some o’ these Scotch words tike a bit o’ learnin’.’
On the point of leaving the room she paused to look at him rather suspiciously.
‘My uncle wasna as cross wi’ you as I expeckit.’
‘Corse ’e wasn’t,’ Ben replied to the almost challenging statement. ‘Why should ’e?’
‘He’s in a bad humour with every one.’
‘Yus, but I ain’t hevery one, and it tikes two ter mike a quarrel.’
‘My uncle can quarrel for baith!’
‘Not when I’m one o’ the baith! People don’t quarrel with me, miss—they jest ’its me or leaves me.’
She gave an odd little sigh, and departed.
‘She ain’t sure o’ me yet,’ reflected Ben. ‘Becorse ’er uncle didn’t kick me aht, she thinks I’m the bloke wot ’e’s expeckin’—yus, and I am!’
For a moment he thought he really was, till he suddenly recollected that he wasn’t.
In a short while Jean returned, bringing a plate packed with meat, greens, and potatoes. Momentarily life took on a rosier hue as she placed the plate before him.
‘Where are you ’avin’ your’n?’ he inquired.
‘In the kitchen wi’ uncle,’ she answered.
‘The kitching would ’ave done fer me.’
‘He prefaired you to hae it here.’
‘Oh! I see,’ said Ben. ‘And wot ’appens arterwards? When I’ve done?’
‘If you’re tired as I’m thinkin’ you are,’ she replied, ‘you’ll be wantin’ your bed.’
He was tired, and physically ready for bed, but he did not want to be sent there.
‘We ain’t goin’ ter ’ave a ’ob-nob, then?’ he asked.
‘I’ll be finishin’ me work,’ she said, after a moment’s hesitation. ‘We’ve nae servant.’
‘Wot—jest you and yer uncle?’
‘Ay.’
‘Yer kep’ at it, ain’t yer?’
‘There’s aye muckle to do.’
‘Well, see, could I lend a ’and with the muckle? You could show me ’ow?’
Her lip trembled for a moment, and then, as though the situation were beyond her, she shook her head, turned abruptly, and left him alone again.
It was disappointing.
But disappointment did not spoil his appetite, and he had reduced the plate to its pattern long before a second plate was brought to him. The second plate contained apple pudding, and the bearer this time was the innkeeper himself.
Ben noticed at once that MacTavish’s demeanour had undergone a subtle change. It was less guarded, more friendly. The eye that gleamed blackly beneath its tangled eyebrow had lost most of its suspicion and antagonism, and in their place was a suggestion of dry, secretive humour. ‘We’re getting to understand each other,’ his attitude hinted, ‘though, of course, we’re still being careful!’
‘Weel, Mr Wilkins,’ he observed, as he regarded Ben’s work on the first course, ‘You’re no doin’ so bad!’
‘When it comes ter puttin’ food away,’ replied Ben, ‘I’ll play anybody.’
‘Nae doot. But I hope you recognise, Mr Wilkins, that you’re receivin’ quality as weel as quantity.’
‘I reckernise that,’ nodded Ben. ‘And p’r’aps there’s somethink I orter reckernise, too, afore we gits much further.’
MacTavish looked a little surprised, and dropped his voice.
‘You’ll mention it the noo?’ he murmured.
‘Why not?’
‘Maybe there’s nae reason at all why not,’ responded the innkeeper.
‘See, I b’leeve in knowin’ where yer stand—speshully when it’s ter do with fernance.’ He winked. ‘Wot’s goin’ ter be the damage?’
Now MacTavish looked more surprised, and glanced towards the door.
‘You’ll not be expectin’ me to name that?’ he exclaimed.
‘Oh!’ said Ben. Had he put his foot in it again? Perhaps Scottish innkeepers were sensitive about their bills. ‘Leave it ter the mornin’, eh?’
‘Ay,’ frowned MacTavish. ‘’Tis nowt you’ll be gettin’ frae me!’
The atmosphere became a little less comfortable. Failing to find the reason, Ben gave up, and fell back upon the more understandable operation of eating. The innkeeper watched him glumly, as though he were reckoning the cost of each mouthful.
‘You’ll be goin’ to bed when you’ve finished?’ inquired MacTavish heavily.
‘I dunno,’ answered Ben. Everybody wanted to send him to bed! Or didn’t they? Maybe he was reading significance into the most ordinary remarks. If a cat had come in and scratched itself, he would have regarded it with suspicion. ‘P’r’aps I’ll stay up fer a bit.’
‘You’ll nae be goin’ oot?’
‘Matter if I did?’
‘Weel—we lock up early here, ye ken.’
Ben shrugged his shoulders. After all, he didn’t want to go out. He might meet unpleasant things in the wind that was moaning around Muirgissie! So why worry to argue?
‘That’s O.K. with me,’ he said. ‘I ain’t goin’ ter the pickchers.’
As though to ensure that he did not escape, MacTavish remained in the room while Ben demolished the apple pudding, wandering about vaguely and pretending to do things. When the plate was empty he pounced upon it and carted it to the kitchen. He was back again in a few seconds, a candle in his hand.
‘I’ll be showin’ ye your room,’ he announced.
The hall, with its stuffed fish and stags’ heads and general atmosphere of preserved dead, had been gloomy enough when Ben had first entered it, but it seemed doubly gloomy now that MacTavish was substituted for his niece and the light of a flickering candle created fantastic shadows. As they left the parlour, the antlers immediately over the door were momentarily repeated in exaggerated blackness on the ceiling. It was as though their dark soul had escaped for an instant, to slide back the next moment into the static source from which they had leapt. At the top of the staircase were more antlers, from which shot more momentarily moving shadows. ‘Tork abart black spiders!’ thought Ben.
Queer idea of decoration some people had! Animals’ heads and fishes’ bodies. If y
ou had to put things on your walls, why not pictures of Shirley Temple?
And why, too, this candlelight?
‘Savin’ helectricity?’ inquired Ben, as they reached the top of the staircase and began moving along another unlit hall.
‘There’s nae electreecity here to save,’ answered the innkeeper, ‘but if there was I’d be savin’ it after bedtime.’
‘Oh, it’s arter bedtime, is it?’
‘Ay, fer them as rises airly.’
‘Oh! But s’pose some ’un comes along as wants a room fer the night.’
‘They’ll be ringin’, I reckon.’
‘Not if they don’t see no light. They’ll go by the ’otel and miss it!’
‘You dinna miss whit you dinna ken,’ answered MacTavish, ‘and as I wouldna ken they had missed the Black Swan, the Black Swan wouldna miss them.’
He opened a door, thrust his hairy hand in, and deposited the candle on a stool just inside.
‘Guid-nicht, Mr Wilkins,’ he said. ‘You’ll be called i’ the mornin’.’
‘Yes, and we’ll finish our chat in the mornin’,’ added Ben.
‘Ay,’ nodded MacTavish. ‘Ay.’ Suddenly his manner changed again, and there was a return of the friendliness that had evinced itself in the parlour for a few moments. ‘This is a delicate business, Mr Wilkins, there’s nae need to remind you,’ he said, ‘and it’s my dooty to be cautious. We’re no wantin’ a repetition of wha’ happened the first time, ye ken.’ He lowered his voice in lugubrious reminiscence. ‘Losh, no! So if mebbe I hae been a wee bit short wi’ you, you’ll tak’ it in an understandin’ speerit?’
‘’Oo’s complainin’?’ answered Ben, wondering anxiously what calamity had happened the first time, and whether there existed any means by which he could find out, to avoid the undesired repetition.
‘That’s a’ recht,’ muttered MacTavish, ‘that’s a’ recht,’ and turned to go. But something still seemed to be bothering him. Pausing in the doorway, he suddenly said, ‘That face at the window, Mr Wilkins—I wunner—are you sure you canna bring it to mind, now? Are you sure you canna say if it was a woman?’
‘I couldn’t say if it was a cat,’ replied Ben.
‘Weel, there’s some haud there’s nae differ,’ observed MacTavish, as the candlelight flickered on the wraith of a smile. ‘Which reminds me of ane mair thing.’ The smile vanished, and the innkeeper’s features became heavy again. ‘It’s aboot my niece. It will be juist as weel if you do not get too conversational wi’ her. Though, after all,’ he added, ‘I’m thinkin’ there wull be nae sic danger o’ that.’
Detective Ben Page 9
