“What’s your name?” he said grudgingly.
“Alasdair Cameron,” I said eagerly. “I don’t suppose Major Cassell has heard of me, but you can tell him I’m staying with Murdo Beaton at Achmore. He knows Murdo Beaton.”
“Come in,” said the man.
I followed him into a large hall, smelling of polished oak, and he told me to wait. He was back again in a few moments, moving silently on the thickly carpeted floor.
“The Major will see you now,” he said.
I followed him across the hall and along a passage that branched off to the left. He opened a door on the right and stood aside to let me enter.
“Master Alasdair Cameron, Major,” he announced.
I had never before been ushered into a room with such awesome formality, and I walked slowly across the thick pile of the carpet, acutely conscious of my mud-stained wellingtons and bedraggled appearance.
A man rose from a chair by the fire and advanced to meet me. He was a short, stocky man with a fine head of snow-white hair and a neatly trimmed white moustache. His face was pink and shining, and he looked as if he had been scrubbed with carbolic soap.
“How do you do, Alasdair,” he said, smiling. “Heard a great deal about you. Means a lot. Beaton’s not a talkative chap, y’ know.”
He spoke in short, clipped sentences, firing out the words in staccato bursts.
I took his extended hand and he shook hands the way he spoke, firmly and briefly. He guided me to a chair and sat down again himself.
Now that the moment had come, I did not know where to start. Major Cassell regarded his neatly manicured nails, and I noted with satisfaction the thin chain of gold hanging across the brown tweed of his waistcoat.
“Murdo Beaton’s up to no good,” I blurted out at last. “I saw him with all the money and he stole the message from me that I got from the man with the scar who jumped off the train.”
“Good gracious!” exclaimed the Major. “What’s this? Trouble? Never do on an empty stomach.” He smiled broadly. “Refuse to listen to you, my boy. Not until I’ve had my breakfast. Bad for the digestion. Have you had yours? I’ll bet not. Suppose you rushed straight to me, eh?”
“I came straight here,” I admitted, “and … and I’m jolly hungry.”
“Good oh,” he smiled. “Food first. Business second.”
He rang the bell and told the manservant that I would be breakfasting with him.
We had porridge and cream, and bacon and egg and sausage, and lots of thickly buttered toast, and I drank three cups of tea. Major Cassell chatted pleasantly about birds and their habits, and I remembered Duncan Mòr had told me he was a naturalist.
The window overlooked the drive, and I could see through the wrought-iron gates of the Lodge to the main road. On a hillock, beyond the main road, I saw the squat shape of a tinker’s tent. There was a cart alongside the tent and a horse was grazing nearby.
“See you’re looking at the tinks,” said Major Cassell. “They set up camp last night. Give the beggars ‘til tomorrow night. Not away by then, I’ll have the police on their tail. Tinks and poachers. Can’t stand ‘em. Make my blood boil.”
When we had finished breakfast, he settled back in his chair with a cigarette, but he waited until the manservant had cleared the table before he spoke.
“Now, my boy,” he said. “What’s the trouble? Must say I’m interested. Know Beaton pretty well. Always thought he was more dependable than most of the locals. However, go on. Doesn’t do to make prior judgments.”
I told him everything that had happened to me right up to the attempted arrest of Duncan Mòr. He listened attentively, firing a question here and there, but for the most part sitting in silence.
“So you see,” I concluded, “Duncan Mòr didn’t steal your money. It was Murdo Beaton.”
“Yes, I see that,” he said thoughtfully. “Man’s an absolute scoundrel. Unprincipled.”
“Was he with you in the library on Tuesday night?” I asked.
“Who? Beaton?”
“Yes,” I said.
Major Cassell nodded. “Wanted him to ghillie for a party. Good ghillie. Pity. Never thought the man was a rogue.”
“So there was nothing to stop him slipping into your study,” I declared triumphantly.
“Easy enough,” said the Major. “The desk was open. Money lying there.”
“What about the Hill of the Red Fox?” I said. “What are you going to do about it?”
The Major blinked suddenly and said, “What was that? Didn’t catch you, my boy. Thinking hard. Bad business this, y’ know.”
“What are you going to do about the Hill of the Red Fox?” I repeated. “And the man who disappeared that night in the Sound?”
“Going to do plenty,” he snapped. “Must investigate the whole matter. Police job. Need to be careful Beaton isn’t put on his guard. Don’t want his accomplices to get off scot free. Hope you haven’t let word slip to anyone, my boy.”
“Nobody knows anything about it,” I said eagerly, “except Duncan Mòr and myself, and he won’t breathe a word to anyone. And I didn’t even mention it when I was writing home.”
“Very wise,” he said approvingly. “Never know who might see the letters. Safer to say nothing.”
I was about to speak when the door opened and a man came into the room. He was short and fat with an untidy mop of black hair and a pale face. But it was his limp I noticed most. He dragged his left leg along behind him in a sort of swinging movement from the hip.
The man was half-way across the room before he noticed me, and he stopped short and glanced at Major Cassell. The Major rose quickly and put an arm around the limping man’s shoulder and steered him to the door.
“My dear fellow, I shan’t be two minutes,” I heard him say before he closed the door behind him.
He did not sit down again, but stood in front of the fire looking down thoughtfully at me.
“Feel a certain responsibility for you, Alasdair,” he said at length. “Think you had better stay at the Lodge. Safer. Never know what Beaton might get up to. Besides, you look awfully tired. Good sleep is what you’re needing. Plenty of rest.”
“I am tired,” I admitted. “I didn’t get much sleep last night.”
Major Cassell rang the bell, and the man with the egg-shaped head glided silently into the room.
“Master Cameron is staying with us, Slater,” said the Major. “Put him in the special guest room. And, Slater, see that he has everything he wants. By jove, he’s an honoured guest. Understand?”
“Perfectly, sir,” said the manservant.
I stammered my thanks, but Major Cassell laughingly refused to listen and pushed me out of the room.
I followed the man Slater up two flights of stairs and along a narrow, uncarpeted passage. He unlocked a door and stepped aside to allow me to enter the room. He hovered for a moment in the doorway, and I thought he looked like Humpty-Dumpty, and tried to keep a straight face.
“Is there anything you require, sir?” he asked, his head bent forward and a little to one side in a deferential manner.
I noticed that he had become much more respectful since I had been invited to stay at the Lodge, and I wished that Aunt Evelyn had been there to hear him.
“No, thanks,” I said, and he withdrew silently, and closed the door behind him.
It was a small room with a high barred window and I supposed it must have been originally part of the nursery. But it was cheerful enough. There was an electric fire, a comfortable chair and a bedside table stacked with books and magazines. A portable radio stood on a corner shelf at the head of the bed, and the floor was so highly polished that the sheepskin rug by the bedside skidded away from under my feet when I crossed the room.
The window overlooked a courtyard at the back of the house and by standing on tiptoe I could see as far as the garage. A black saloon car was parked in front of the garage and a man in a chauffeur’s uniform was busy polishing the windscreen
.
I switched on the radio and sat down on the bed. Somebody was playing a cinema organ, and I listened drowsily to the music. Although I felt terribly tired, the nervous tension had relaxed, and my mind was at peace. I had the satisfaction of knowing that I had accomplished everything I had set out to do. I had proved that Duncan Mòr was innocent of the theft at the Lodge, and I had got Major Cassell to set the police on the trail of Murdo Beaton. Before long the mystery of the Hill of the Red Fox would be cleared up and Murdo Beaton and his accomplices would get their just desserts.
I wondered what my mother would say when I told her of the part I had played, and I would remark to Aunt Evelyn, in a casual voice, “Of course, Major Cassell insisted that I stay at Achmore Lodge as his guest. I had a very nice room and the servants called me sir.” Or perhaps it would sound better if I said, “It’s nice to do things for yourself again after having servants running around all over the place.”
At any rate, Aunt Evelyn could not call me a bookworm any more. Nobody could say I had not had more than my share of adventure since I came to Skye.
I had started to take off my wellingtons when the music faded and there was silence. I thought there had been a breakdown, and I was just going to try to get another station when an announcer’s voice said:
“This is the BBC Home Service. This programme is being interrupted to broadcast the following special announcement from No. 10 Downing Street.
“Dr Ernst Reuter, Head of the Atomic Research Centre at Marwell, has disappeared from his home. After consultations with the Cabinet, the Prime Minister has decided that the news should be made public immediately in order that the entire nation can be alerted in an attempt to locate the missing scientist.
“Dr Reuter is the third prominent atomic scientist to have disappeared within the course of the past six months. It is believed that the other two scientists have left the country and are now in the service of a foreign power.
“All ports and airfields are being watched and it is believed that Dr Reuter has not yet succeeded in leaving the country. Dr Reuter is forty-eight years of age, heavily built, and of medium height. He has black hair and a pale complexion. Some years ago his left leg was crushed in an accident, and he walks with a pronounced limp.
“It will be recalled that a few weeks ago Dr Reuter’s deputy, Mr Geoffrey Hunt, disappeared from …”
I never heard the rest of the announcement and I was hardly conscious of the strident notes of the cinema organ when it came back on the air. Dr Reuter’s deputy, Mr Geoffrey Hunt, I repeated soundlessly to myself. Mr Geoffrey Hunt! Hunt! Hunt at the Hill of the Red Fox. Geoffrey Hunt at the Hill of the Red Fox. So that was the meaning of the message. And like a silly bookworm I had thought of buried treasure! What a fool I had been.
My thoughts spun wildly. It will be recalled that a few weeks ago Dr Reuter’s deputy, Mr Geoffrey Hunt, disappeared … now in the service of a foreign power … The men in the dinghy rowing out to the coble. Two coming back. Now in the service of a foreign power … But how? Yes, yes, before the coble came back with one of the passengers missing … After it disappeared into the mist and rain across the Sound, Duncan Mòr had cocked his head on one side … That was it. The noise. The low humming noise. What would make a low humming noise. Not a ship. A ship would be seen. But what about a submarine. Of course! A submarine. It could rise up silently out of the depths, take a man aboard, and submerge again. Now in the service of a foreign power …
Oddly enough the organ swung into the lilting refrain of the Skye Boat Song, and the words of the song crept into my mind and persistently refused to be dislodged. “Speed bonnie boat like a bird on the wing: onward the sailors cry. Carry the lad that’s born to be king, over the sea to Skye.” The organist switched to a popular tune of the moment, and the solemn words of the special announcement came hammering back into my mind.
Dr Ernst Reuter, head of the atomic research centre at Marwell, has disappeared from his home. He has black hair and a pale complexion. Some years ago his left leg was crushed in an accident and he walks with a pronounced limp …
My head swam dizzily. Everything was suddenly frighteningly clear. I rushed across to the window and looked out. The chauffeur was leaning against the bonnet of the car, looking up at my window. His eyes were obscured by dark glasses, but I had only to look at his hands to recognize him at once. He was busy filing his nails.
Even before I ran to the door and tried it, I knew it would be locked.
Chapter 20
I let go of the handle and leaned against the door. The door was locked and the window barred, and I had no doubt that the Lodge was well guarded. Blue Eyes, as Duncan Mòr called him, was watching my window, and for all I knew another guard lurked outside the door. I was trapped.
I thought of all the books I had read in which the hero, armed with a knife or a file, made a dramatic escape from a dungeon or a fortress room in a tower. It seemed simple enough, reading about such escapes in books, and I had never stopped to think if they were really possible. But I had no knife or file, and even if I had I doubt if I could have succeeded in bursting open the door. Only a miracle could get me out of Achmore Lodge alive, and in my dejected state of mind I could not believe in the existence of miracles.
The radio was blaring out a stirring marching song and I crossed the room and switched it off. Blue Eyes was still leaning against the car, filing his nails, his eyes fixed on the window. I thought of what he had done to the man with the scar and I could not repress a sudden shiver. Duncan Mòr had said it was dangerous to know too much, but I had never appreciated the dread reality of those words until now. I sat down on the bed and tried to think calmly.
A few minutes ago (or was it a few years?) I had been congratulating myself on my cleverness; even boasting of the things I would say to impress Aunt Evelyn on my return home. Would I ever be lucky enough to return home, or was I doomed to share the fate of the man with the scar? Terror seized me. I moved from the bed to the door, and from the door to the window, and back to the bed again; stumbling about in a blind panic and expecting at any moment to hear the dread sound of the key turning in the lock.
After a while, when nothing happened, I calmed down. I sat on the edge of the bed again and tried to think clearly. What galled me most of all was the fact that I had walked blindly into a trap. I had sought the aid of the very man responsible for smuggling atomic scientists out of the country. I had told him everything I knew and he had solemnly assured me that the whole matter would be investigated. I squirmed at the thought of Major Cassell’s flattery, and the deference of the man, Slater. How they must have laughed to themselves!
It was the thought of the humiliation I had suffered that finally dispelled the panic I had known and made me reason calmly. Duncan Mòr was still free, even if he had taken to the hills. Once word reached him that I was missing, he was bound to do something about it. Perhaps he would break into Achmore Lodge and rescue me. It was a slender hope, but I seized upon it eagerly and my spirits rose.
Then doubts assailed me. How could I be sure that Duncan Mòr would guess I was imprisoned in the Lodge? Did he really suspect Major Cassell? I recalled what he had said about the futility of going to the police to accuse men with gold chains on their waistcoats. Perhaps that had been a veiled reference to Major Cassell. Certainly, the Major wore a slim gold chain across the front of his waistcoat, but so did many other men. My newly won confidence gradually ebbed away, to be replaced by a feeling of blank despair.
Who would know I was missing and guess that I was being held against my will? Murdo Beaton would spread the story that I had gone fishing off the rocks and had not returned. Everybody would think I had been drowned, and Duncan Mòr dare not come down from the hills because the police would be searching for him. No matter how desperate my plight, I could not depend on any help from outside.
My misery deepened. How would my mother manage on her own, when I was gone? And what agonies of remorse would poor Au
nt Evelyn suffer, knowing that she alone was responsible for my holiday in Skye? She would never forgive herself. She would never be able to pick up one of my books again, or see a photograph of me, without thinking that she had sent me to my death.
I abandoned myself to self-pity. It was Aunt Evelyn’s fault; she had persuaded my mother, against her better judgment, to send me to Skye. It was the fault of the man with the scar, he ought never to have placed me in danger by giving me the message. It was Duncan Mòr’s fault; if he was suspicious of Major Cassell he should have warned me. Everyone was to blame but me. All I wanted was my freedom; I had no desire to harm anyone, I told myself tearfully. Even Dr Reuter could go wherever he liked, if only they would let me out.
If I had carried on for long in that vein I would have broken down and cried like a baby, but my self-respect forced me to admit that I alone was responsible for my plight. I blushed at the shameful thoughts that had passed through my mind and decided I had been thinking too much. Hopeless or no, I would try to find a way out of the room. Any action, however futile, was better than dwelling hopelessly on my plight.
I got up and examined the door. It was hung on concealed hinges and built of stout wood and the lock was on the outside. I gripped the handle with both hands and strained with all my strength, but I could make no impression on the lock. It would take a sledgehammer to burst it open.
I pulled the chair to the window and climbed up on it. The window was set into a recess in the wall and crossed by heavy iron bars at intervals of about six inches. Even if I had a file, and managed to break the glass undetected, it would be the work of weeks filing through one of the bars.
The garage doors were open, and I could see a Land Rover parked inside, but there was no sign of the black saloon. It must have started up silently and left the Lodge. The back of the garage abutted the boundary wall of the Lodge and I noticed a small green door to the left of the garage. If only I could get out of the house and through that door I would be on to the moor.
The Hill of the Red Fox Page 16
