Mrs. Tim of the Regiment

by D. E. Stevenson

  I can see that Guthrie feels he has been made to look a fool, and does not like it – few men do.

  ‘Look here,’ he continues, ‘let’s keep the whole thing dark – it’s no use worrying Mother by telling her about it – she might be nervous if she knew it was so easy to get into the house. Those two just walked in by the veranda door. There’s something funny about the lock. Sometimes it locks all right, and sometimes it doesn’t.’

  ‘Anyone might get in!’ I exclaim, sitting up in bed.

  ‘There’s just where you’re wrong. Nobody would except an ass like Bones. No burglar would ever think of trying the handle of a door. Besides I know now, and I’ll make it my business to lock it every night, so you see there’s no need to tell Mother.’

  ‘She’ll miss the poker and the warming pan.’

  ‘Oh, well, we must trust to luck,’ he says. ‘You’d better go to sleep; it’s nearly dawn.’

  ‘I can’t go to sleep with you standing there looking like a giant,’ I announce pettishly.

  ‘Oh no, of course not,’ he says. ‘Well, good night, Hester. You won’t say anything to Mother, will you?’

  I make no reply, except to snuggle down in bed, and he goes away, shutting the door carefully. As a matter of fact I have made up my mind to tell Mrs. Loudon the whole story at the earliest opportunity – she is the last woman to be alarmed at the idea of burglars, and she would thoroughly enjoy the joke.

  Eighth June

  Guthrie is late in appearing for breakfast, and admits that he did not sleep well. Mrs. Loudon commiserates him on his insomnia, and says the rain was awful, but she supposes the country needed it, and anyway it was better to rain at night if it had to rain at all.

  I wait until I see Guthrie going off with his gun to shoot rabbits, and then track my hostess to her desk.

  ‘Well!’ she says, looking up at me. ‘What happened last night?’

  ‘How did you know that anything happened?’ I ask in amazement.

  ‘Circumstantial evidence,’ she replies, smiling rather strangely. ‘The warming pan has vanished from the hall, Guthrie owns to a sleepless night, and a pair of his socks have been discovered in the pocket of your dressing gown.’

  I can do nothing but laugh.

  ‘You may laugh,’ she says. ‘The whole thing’s a mystery to me. I’ve been trying to unravel it for the last hour.’

  ‘You never will.’

  ‘No, I dare say not, but there’s no need for me to worry my head any more about it since you followed me in here to tell me the whole thing. I could see you were like a cat on hot bricks till you got Guthrie out of the house.’

  ‘He said I wasn’t to tell you,’ I reply. ‘But I made up my mind I would – you will enjoy the joke.’

  ‘I’m glad of that,’ she says, with her twinkle.

  Without further ado I embark upon my tale.

  Mrs. Loudon follows with interest, and laughs at the right moment; she is an admirable listener. ‘Well,’ she says, ‘I never heard the like of that the idea of a girl racketing about all night with a man in a car collecting baby’s bottles. Mercy me! You’re quite right, Hester. I never would have guessed that, if I’d spent the rest of my life at it.

  ‘Wait and see what I’ll say to Guthrie,’ she adds, chuckling to herself. ‘I’ll get on to him about this.’

  ‘You are not to say a word about it to Guthrie,’ I tell her firmly. ‘If you do I’ll have nothing more to do with that ridiculous plan of yours and Tony’s.’

  This threat is enough, and she reluctantly consents to spare Guthrie this time. We are still discussing things when a large car drives up to the door, and a wooden-faced chauffeur hands in the warming pan and the poker. Mrs. Loudon says she is glad to see them, for she would not know how to account for their absence to Mrs. MacRae. We restore them to their rightful places without further comment.

  The afternoon being fine and warm, with no suspicion of the all-essential breeze, it is decided to give the fish a holiday, and that the whole party shall take car for Loch-an-Darroch and picnic there. Everyone assures me that I really must see this loch, and the castle upon its brink, as it is one of the wildest and most beautiful spots in Scotland. Feel suitably excited and impressed.

  Tony Morley arrived soon after lunch in his Bentley. Betty greets him rapturously, for they are old friends, and asks if she can sit beside him on the front seat. There is no false pride about my daughter. If she wants a thing she asks for it, and usually attains her desire, very few people having the moral courage to urge their own preferences in the face of her demands. Guthrie and Miss Baker who – is also of the party elect to travel in the Bentley, which leaves Mrs. Loudon, Mrs. Falconer and myself for the Austin. We squeeze into the back seat, and the picnic baskets are piled up beside Dobbie.

  Tony calls out that he will wait for us at the loch, and away goes the Bentley with a scrunch of gravel. Dobbie remarks enviously that they could be there and back before we have started, which is an obvious libel on his mistress’s comfortable car. We follow the others at a reasonable pace, cruising along very peacefully over the white roads, and admiring the scenery. Mrs. Loudon is subdued, owing, I feel sure, to the knowledge that Guthrie and Miss Baker are ensconced in the back seat of Tony’s car, and therefore at liberty to hold each other’s hands without fear of intrusion upon their privacy.

  ‘I suppose Dobbie knows the way,’ Mrs. Falconer suggests, in a dubious tone.

  Mrs. Loudon replies that he does.

  ‘Well, it’s really extraordinary to me how he knows which road to take. All these roads look just the same to me mountains on one side or the other, or in front or behind, and forests scattered about! If I had to drive we should probably go round in circles, and end up at Burnside in time for tea. Imagine Mary’s feelings if we walked in at teatime after all the trouble she’s had cutting the sandwiches and filling the Thermoses. By the way, I often wonder if it is correct to say Thermoses for the plural. Dear Papa was very particular about grammar. There were no Thermoses in those days, of course, but I remember how he jumped on me for talking about crocuses or it may have been irises. I can’t remember what the right way is, which shows it did not do me much good, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Dear me, what a dangerous place!’ she continues, as we skirt a precipice at the bottom of which a small blue loch lies dreaming in the afternoon sunshine. ‘If Dobbie were to take his hands off the wheel for an instant we should shoot over the edge, and nobody any the wiser. You may smile, Elspeth, but look at the dreadful accidents you read of in the papers. Who knows but Dobbie might take it into his head to put an end to us all, and nobody to know it wasn’t an accident? People do get queer ideas like that sometimes. It was only this morning I read in the papers about a man who shot his wife and three children, because they could not agree where to go for their holidays – only it turned out afterwards that the woman was not really his wife, which, of course, makes a difference.’

  Mrs. Loudon usually bears Mrs. Falconer’s wanderings with remarkable patience, but she has evidently reached the end of her tether. Quite suddenly she rouses herself, and remarks irritably, ‘Do you mean that Dobbie is likely to murder us all because he is not married to me?’

  ‘Married to you? Dobbie? my dear Elspeth, I am sure the man has never thought of it,’ says Mrs. Falconer, aghast.

  ‘I could suggest it to him, of course,’ replies Mrs. Loudon reflectively.

  ‘Elspeth, you can’t be serious! What put such an extraordinary idea into your head?’

  ‘You did, Millie.’

  ‘I?’ gasps poor Mrs. Falconer.

  ‘You seemed to think we should all be safer if I were married to Dobbie.’

  ‘Elspeth, you misunderstood me entirely ’

  At this moment we fortunately arrive at our destination, and the subject is dropped. Tony Morley is waiting for us. ‘The others have gone on,’ he says. ‘Young Betty decided to go with them she is one of those fortunate people who never know when the
y are de trop. Young Betty is in great form today. Give me that basket and the rug, Hester.’

  Through the trees I can see glimpses of green water. We follow Tony down a narrow path, and presently find ourselves standing in the shadow of a towering mass of rock. A toy castle is perched securely on the top, its windows gape with sightless eyes, and, here and there, a piece of crumbled wall or a roofless tower shows that it is no longer habitable. The whole thing is so battered by the weather, and so welded with the natural rock, that it is impossible to tell where the one ends and the other begins. Down the dark smooth sides of the cliff there trickles a constant film of water, and in every crevice grow moss and feathery ferns.

  ‘What an impregnable fortress!’ I whisper to Tony – there is an eerie silence in the place which one fears to break.

  ‘Shall we climb the rock?’ he suggests. ‘It is fairly steep, but there is a wonderful view from the top.’

  I agree, and we set off up a steep stony path which leads us – after a breathtaking climb – into the courtyard of the castle. This is paved with solid rock and is open to the sky. There is a well in the centre. Only one of the towers remains in reasonable repair. It contains a stone stairway worn by countless feet, and a small round room which actually boasts a roof.

  The view from the window of the tower is indeed marvellous. The loch stretches in both directions. It is a peculiar shade of green, and is surrounded on all sides by tall trees which, in some places, lean over the water. There is something rather uncanny about the place; perhaps this feeling of something uncanny and awesome exists only in my own imagination – which was so stirred by the tale of Hector and Seónaid – perhaps not. I can well believe that this loch is not like other lochs.

  Tony points out Seónaid’s Bay – a little cove of white sand about two hundred yards from the castle. It was here that her body was discovered by the women going down to wash their clothes.

  We visit the dungeon – a damp, dark cave in the solid rock – and peer through the rusting bars into the green water below us, as many a poor creature must have done long ago. ‘I don’t suppose the MacArbins kept their prisoners here very long,’ says Tony comfortably. ‘It was so easy to get rid of them on account of the peculiarity of the loch. Just one little push, and away they went, never – to be seen again ’

  I ask Tony if he thinks the castle is very old.

  ‘It was built sometime in the thirteenth century by one Dermid MacArbin,’ Tony replies. ‘The clan was here before that, of course, but just living in hovels or caves in the mountains. This Dermid was the second son, and therefore of little importance in the scheme of things, but, being of an ambitious turn of mind, he killed his elder brother, and threw his body into the loch, thereby becoming head of the clan. Dermid’s first act as chief was to set about the building of a stronghold – Castle Darroch. Some say he imported an Italian architect, others that he designed the place himself; in any case it is a very creditable piece of work, considering the primitive tools at his command. Every stone had to be hewn out of the solid rock, and carried up the cliff by human labour – of course, the whole clan toiled at it, and, I expect, they cursed old Dermid properly when his back was turned. Dermid must have been very proud of the castle – it must have been exciting watching it grow, day by day, and seeing his dream take – shape but he never lived to enjoy it, for the very day that it was finished his brother’s ghost rose up out of the loch and carried him off.’

  The scene is so awe-inspiring that the story is easily believed – those dark green waters look as though they could hold many a fearsome secret.

  ‘But Dermid’s dream fortress remained,’ I suggest thoughtfully.

  ‘Yes, it was the MacArbin stronghold for many centuries, until civilisation taught them to value comfort higher than safety,’ replies Tony, who seems to have the history of the place by heart. ‘The present MacArbin’s grandfather built a hideous square house farther down the loch and allowed the castle to fall into ruins. Perhaps he felt slightly unsafe in the new house after his fortress, for he surrounded it with a palisade of high iron railings, so that it looks for all the world like a lion in a cage at the zoo. There are no ghosts there, but their absence is made up for by three bathrooms, complete with hot and cold. My informant was the waiter at the hotel; he is keeping company with Miss MacArbin’s housemaid, so, of course, he knows all there is to know about them.’

  ‘What a pity!’ I exclaim.

  ‘Good heavens, would you rather have ghosts than bathrooms, Hester?’ cries Tony in amazement. ‘You are incurably romantic! Or do you mean that you would like to see the MacArbins living in their stronghold with their ghosts, but not to live here yourself ? If so, I agree with you, people should not think of their own comfort; they should continue to live in their ancestral halls to add to the interest of the countryside.

  ‘Let us people these ruins with long-dead MacArbins. There was the one who threw herself into the loch because her lover was killed at Culloden Moor, and another who was drowned in the loch in a sudden storm beneath the very walls of his home and in full view of his wife and children. His wife pined away and was dead in a month, so they threw her body into the loch to keep him company. I will show you the stone commemorating their fate as we go back – and then there was Seónaid, of course – ’

  ‘Were there no happy ones?’ I ask sadly.

  ‘Look at the surroundings,’ he replies. ‘Nobody could be happy here. The stage is set for tragedy. One could imagine wild scenes of excitement, and orgies of feasting and banqueting, but there could never be peace and happiness amongst scenery like this.’

  We climb the slimy stair and emerge once more into the courtyard. It is very still, and the sun shines down, painting strong shadows across the stones.

  ‘Who’s that?’ says Tony suddenly in a queer voice.

  I look up in time to see a tall woman, all in white, disappear into the doorway of the little tower.

  ‘I suppose it was Elsie Baker,’ he adds in a not very convincing tone of voice.

  ‘It was much too tall,’ I reply breathlessly. ‘And Elsie has a bright green frock on – who could it have been?’

  ‘Somebody playing jokes, I suppose,’ says Tony. ‘I’ll go and see who it is. Wait here for me, Hester.’

  I sit down on a corner of the ruined rampart to wait for him. Far down below, like toy figures on the green grass, I can see Mrs. Loudon and Mrs. Falconer laying the cloth for tea. It is strange to see everything so quiet and to remember the wild scenes this place has witnessed. How many times have these old walls echoed and re-echoed with the wild cries of battle when the MacQuills attacked their hereditary foes! From this eyrie the fierce Hector stole his bride, and here, within this very building, she revenged his death and met her own. These walls have sheltered joys, and sorrows, and hopes and fears innumerable; they have rung with the noise of revelry and the sound of grief; children have been born, and grown to manhood and died within their shelter – and now they are crumbling to ruin, fit only for the owl and the jackdaw to live in and build their nests.

  It would not be strange if the place were haunted, visited by some of the fierce creatures who have dwelt here, and suffered, and known it as their home.

  Thus musing I pass the time until I see Tony returning from his quest.

  ‘There’s nobody,’ he says with a laugh. ‘It must have been the effect of light on the wall.’

  ‘Nonsense, Tony,’ I reply sharply. ‘It was a woman dressed in white; she must have gone out some other way.’

  ‘She must have had wings, then,’ says Tony. ‘I’ve looked everywhere, and there’s no other way out of the tower.’

  ‘But I saw her.’

  ‘Well, I suppose she flew out of the window, then,’ he replies rather crossly.

  ‘You saw her first,’ I point out.

  ‘I thought I did, but now I know I didn’t,’ he retorts.

  We wrangle half-heartedly about the disappearing lady as we climb down the
steep path to tea.

  By this time the rugs have been spread out and the tea laid beneath the spreading branches of a great oak. I am relieved to hear my daughter’s voice, and to see her appear with Guthrie and Elsie from among the trees. This place has a disquieting effect upon my nerves; it is the sort of place where anything horrible might happen.

  Betty comes running up to us, calling out that Guthrie found an owl’s nest in a big tree and there was a little owl in it all soft and furry. The others say nothing about their adventures, but take their places in silence, Guthrie sitting down between me and Tony, and leaving Miss Baker to find a place for herself.

  ‘I say, Loudon, you’re sitting on a thistle,’ says Tony with solicitude. ‘Wouldn’t you be more comfortable on the rug?’

  ‘I am quite comfortable where I am,’ Guthrie replies ungraciously.

  ‘I wouldn’t like to sit on a thistle,’ gurgles Betty, between two mouthfuls of egg sandwich.

  Apart from this slightly acrimonious exchange, tea is a silent meal. Mrs. Falconer is in one of her silent moods, and confines her remarks to requests for more tea or another scone. Elsie and Guthrie are obviously out of tune, and my thoughts are busy with the phenomenon of the lady in white.

  The place itself is sufficient to depress the spirits of most people. There is a damp chill feeling in the air, for the sunshine never falls on this side of the rock. The trees are covered with moss and lichen and a few bright red toadstools cluster round their roots. A huge black bird flies past slowly, the flap of its wings echoing strangely from the overhanging cliff.

  ‘Raven,’ says Tony quietly.

  Just at this moment there is a loud peal of thunder, and a gust of wind steals through the trees, shaking their heavy branches and stirring the green water on the loch.

  ‘We had better get back to the cars,’ Mrs. Loudon says, looking anxiously at the sky, which has clouded over with remarkable suddenness. ‘It’s going to rain, and when it rains here it comes down in buckets.’

  ‘Oh no, don’t let’s go!’ cries Betty. ‘It’s lovely – just like the pantomime before the wizard appears. It gives me the same shuddery feeling in my spine.’