‘All right for the next stage?’ she asked.
‘All right.’
‘As soon as I get on the ledge I shall have to dive because you can’t keep your balance there. It’s too narrow.’
‘Let’s go,’ said Tim.
The girl squirmed through the rest of the tunnel quickly. Tim heard her heavy breathing as she emerged from the mouth of the tunnel and managed to haul herself into an upright position. Almost in the same movement she pushed herself away from the cliff face and dived into the black, peaty waters of the loch below.
Tim was already hauling himself into the short tunnel and pushing himself towards the blue opening where the bright rays of the sun caused him to blink rapidly.
His head and shoulders emerged from the tunnel and he saw the sunlight dancing madly on the waters below. He caught a glimpse of a bobbing head somewhere below him. An arm waved from the water. Morag had made it safely.
The ledge was not more than a few inches wide but the rock face was craggy. Tim heaved himself out of the entrance, trying to cling to the craggy outcrop in order to turn and balance himself for his dive. But his hand slipped. He felt himself falling backwards and, in desperation, he jerked his body outwards from the cliff in an attempt to give himself an impetus to fall away from the menacing rock face.
He was aware of falling backwards in a mass of waving arms and legs, aware of a kaleidoscope of sky, distant hills and mountains, granite cliffs and the sun dancing on the water.
For a brief moment, which seemed an eternity to Tim, he experienced a lazy feeling of drifting, as if he were some sky diver, floating, floating so gently, so lazily down to earth.
Then he hit the water with a sickening smack.
There was, for the second time in twelve hours, a brief vision of exploding colours, as if he were witnessing some colossal firework display, and then blackness.
Utter blackness.
CHAPTER TWENTY
As Tim recovered his senses, the first thing he became aware of was a gentle rocking motion and a hollow ‘slap, slap, slap’ sound. The sun was hot against his face and his eyes began to focus on a wide expanse of blue sky.
‘Dear me,’ said a dry, masculine voice. ‘Are you all right, young man?’
Tim blinked and raised his head, groaning as he felt the dull ache in the base of his neck.
‘Lie still and rest a moment.’
This time it was Morag’s voice.
Tim opened his eyes and focused them on the concerned face of an elderly man. It was a familiar face.
‘Professor Winstanley,’ he murmured as recognition dawned.
Morag, water running down her face, was peering over the professor’s shoulder.
‘Are you all right, Tim?’ she asked anxiously.
Tim sat up. He had been lying on his back in the bottom of a sailing dinghy which was lying hove-to about two hundred yards from the precipitous granite cliffs on which Balmacaan Castle stood, imposing, beautiful — but, to Tim, sombre and menacing. Apart from Morag and himself, Professor Winstanley, wearing a thick seaman’s jersey and slacks, with a jaunty yachting cap on the back of his head, was the only other occupant of the dinghy.
‘I’ve felt better,’ admitted Tim, gingerly rubbing the base of his neck. ‘What happened?’
‘You knocked yourself out when you fell from the cliffs,’ replied Winstanley, jerking a thumb towards the granite wall.
‘It was lucky this gentleman was sailing nearby at the time,’ confirmed Morag. ‘I couldn’t have held you up for very long … but he apparently saw the incident and picked us up.’
Winstanley nodded his agreement with her version.
‘How did you come to be scrambling over those cliffs and fall off?’ he asked curiously.
Tim heaved himself onto a side seat of the dinghy and rubbed some loch water over his forehead.
‘Look, professor … incidentally, you don’t know Miss Morag Ross. Morag, this is Professor Winstanley.’
They solemnly shook hands.
‘You’re lucky I was down this way,’ observed the professor. ‘I was just scouting this area of the loch in preparation for the establishment of our watching posts. You see, this area is fairly deep, in fact it is one of the deepest areas of the loch.’
‘The professor,’ explained Tim to a puzzled Morag, ‘is in charge of a scientific expedition which is trying to hunt down the Loch Ness Monster.’
The girl’s eyes widened perceptibly.
‘But,’ interposed Winstanley, ‘what were you two doing?’
‘Well, professor,’ Tim felt suddenly tired, ‘if you take us back to Foyers, I’ll tell you the entire story.’
‘Of course, dear boy,’ the professor said, solicitously. ‘Just let me hoist the sails … do either of you sail by any chance? No? Ah well, would you mind sitting in the well of the dinghy so that I can handle the sheets?’ He indicated the spot he meant.
The professor hoisted the mainsail which he controlled by two ropes — he called them sheets. These he held in one hand, with the other on the tiller as he sat in the stern of the little craft.
‘I’ll have to tack back,’ said the man, cheerfully, ‘the wind is blowing nor’ nor’ east. Hang on, I’ll have to turn her.’
He seemed to be lining the boat up and then he suddenly cried ‘Lee ho!’ and swung the tiller over.
Tim and Morag experienced a momentary panic as the boat careered over on its side, swung precariously and then partially righted itself. The wind was blowing fiercely into the sail, causing the dinghy to skim over the choppy waters of the loch with one side high out of the water and the other almost under.
Winstanley observed their consternation with amusement.
‘Don’t worry,’ he called. ‘I’ve had this little craft some time. She’s what is called a Wine Glass and it would take an absolute idiot to overturn her. Nevertheless, you’ll find a couple of lifejackets under the seat there. You’d best put them on.’
Every so often Winstanley would change course, repeating the manoeuvre with the sail, crying ‘Lee ho!’ which he pointed out was the obligatory warning to all that he was about to put the craft about, a warning not only to other craft in the vicinity but to the occupants of the boat to avoid the swinging boom as the craft came about.
Although he was interrupted often by this manoeuvre, Tim explained the entire story to Winstanley, with Morag confirming points along the way.
Winstanley’s initial look of disbelief gradually gave way to amazement.
‘A rather incredible story,’ he muttered, but to Morag and Tim’s surprise, he appeared to accept it. ‘What are you going to do now?’
‘There’s a policeman in Foyers. I’m going to tell him what I have told you. We must get Jeannie out of that place.’
‘Isn’t that Foyers now?’ cried Morag.
The dinghy swung out from behind a small headland in a wide arc.
Winstanley nodded.
‘That’s Foyers Bay and that’s our hotel up on the hill.’
He cast a sidelook at Tim and the girl.
‘You’d best have a change of clothes first.’
Tim nodded his assent.
‘But I haven’t anything I can change into,’ observed Morag. ‘My duffle bag was in the car when we crashed.’
‘A young lady student of mine joined our expedition yesterday,’ returned Winstanley. ‘She must be about your size.’
He brought the dinghy into the shore, to a point where some members of his scientific expedition were checking equipment. In answer to brief enquiries, the professor dismissed speculation by saying that Tim and Morag had taken a tumble from the boat. He then ushered them into the hotel where a surprised manager dryly observed that he had wondered what had happened to Tim and cast a disapproving glance at Morag.
Within half an hour Tim, Morag and Winstanley met in dry clothes in the lounge where Winstanley had already ordered hot coffee and sandwiches. Feeling refreshed after their ordeal, Tim and
Morag, accompanied by Winstanley, went to the house of the local constable which was pointed out to them.
Constable Fergus Fraser’s wife was plump, homely and sympathetic, but she shook her head.
‘I’m afraid that Fergus, my man, has had to go over to Bailebeag again. He seems to live over there these days. It’s the illegal fishing in Loch Mhor. It is causing a great deal of trouble just now. Can I give Fergus a message?’
They left no message and, in the adjacent bar, discussed the problem.
‘Why don’t you just ring the Inverness police and tell them the story?’ demanded Winstanley. ‘I believe you.’
Tim shook his head.
‘The police are not exactly as perceptive as you are, professor. Can you imagine what their reaction would be to someone ringing them up and repeating the story I told you?’
‘Yes, but you and Miss Ross here are obviously speaking the truth.’
‘Ah, you realise that because of personal contact; you felt I was speaking the truth by watching me tell the story, not from what I said.’
Winstanley admitted that Tim was probably right.
‘Then what do you propose to do?’
Tim thought.
‘Every moment’s delay now might endanger Jeannie, especially when they discover that we have escaped. I can’t afford to go up to Inverness and spend time trying to persuade the police to raid Balmacaan.’
He paused.
‘You have some students with you, don’t you, Professor?’
‘Yes.’
‘Any transport? Can one of them drive?’
‘Yes, but why?’
‘I have an idea. Morag, I want you to go to Inverness and see a solicitor named Simpson Kyle … he’s Jeannie’s solicitor and he runs the Balmacaan estate. I am going to write him a note and I want you to tell him what has been going on here. If the Inverness police believe anyone, they will believe him. He can get things started.’
Morag smiled.
‘All right, Tim. But … but what if Simpson Kyle is involved in this weird business as well?’
‘I don’t think he is. Anyway, if the professor can give you some able young men as an escort, Kyle would not be able to try any funny business if he is involved. I simply don’t believe he is, though. I’m sure he will do what is best.’
‘But what will you be doing?’
‘My prime concern is Jeannie. I have to go back to Balmacaan and see if there is some way I can get her out or prevent them from harming her.’
Winstanley plucked at his lower lip.
‘Surely that’s a bit dangerous, my boy? From what you have told me already, there are three able-bodied men and a woman involved … and one or more of them are armed.’
‘Agreed,’ replied Tim. ‘But if there is a way into the castle cellars without touching the house itself, I might stand a chance of getting her out. It’s such a big, rambling sort of place that I suspect there might be several ways in … ’
‘A way into the cellars at Balmacaan without touching the house?’
A strange light glistened in Winstanley’s eyes.
He stood up.
‘Come on; let’s go back to my room. On the way we will get Miss Ross safely off to Inverness.’
Outside the hotel, Winstanley hailed a burly young man named Dave, whose muscled, handsome appearance, told of the rugger fields. Winstanley instructed him in a low, urgent voice, while Tim scribbled a hasty note to the Inverness solicitor. The young man disappeared towards the hotel carpark to re-emerge within a moment in a sleek MG sports car.
‘Come on, Miss Ross,’ he called. ‘You’ll be in Inverness in no time.’
Morag turned to Tim and suddenly reached forward and kissed him impulsively on the cheek.
‘Good luck, Tim,’ she whispered, and added: ‘Damn it, I’m jealous of Jeannie.’
Even before the low sports car had vanished along the road to Inverfarigaig, Winstanley was pushing Tim to his room. It was untidy and scattered with documents and books, mostly — Tim noticed — concerned sightings of the Loch Ness Monster. Winstanley immediately started to burrow into them.
‘When you mentioned about finding a way into Balmacaan Castle from the outside, it struck a memory chord, dear boy,’ said the professor over his shoulder. ‘You see, one of the theories about the monster is that it lives in underwater caves … this would explain why all the expeditions so far have been remarkably unsuccessful in finding it.’
Tim was puzzled.
The professor continued to rummage for some minutes and then gave a sudden cry of triumph and emerged with a large photostat of what seemed to be an ancient map.
‘One of the aims of our expedition is to see if we can track down these underwater caves and eliminate them, one by one, as possible dens or nests for the creature.’
‘I see,’ said Tim automatically and meaning the exact opposite.
‘In my background research on underwater caves, I have examined almost every ancient map connected with the loch. This is a map of the area around Balmacaan drawn up about the late seventeenth century. Now do you see what I mean … ?’
Winstanley jabbed a finger at a place on the map which showed the site of the castle and what appeared to be a series of caves marked with a broken line to demonstrate them running under the building. There was a mark on what was plainly the granite cliff face with an arrow and the single word ‘isteach’.
‘I’m afraid it doesn’t mean much to me, professor,’ confessed Tim.’
‘The map,’ sighed Winstanley, ‘is of the series of caves which run under Balmacaan Castle and which are, apparently, actually part of the cellar complex. The entrance to these caves is clearly marked here,’ he pointed to the arrowed spot. ‘The word isteach is the Gaelic for entrance.’
Tim looked dubious.
‘But I didn’t see any cave entrance at this point. This is exactly opposite the point where you picked me up … the granite cliff face.’
The professor smiled.
‘You didn’t see the entrance because the entrance is now under water. The waters of the loch have risen, like the sea level, about ten feet since the map was made.’
Tim sat back and sighed.
‘Then how can we use that entrance to get into the caves? And, another thing, how can we be sure that the entrance to that particular cave leads up into the cellars?’
‘The map is very explicit.’
‘And it’s several hundred years old.’
‘Even so, it shows three distinct routes from the caves into the cellars; I can’t believe that all three routes would have become inaccessible through the years. Besides,’ he added, ‘if you wish to enter the caves without going through the house I do not see that you have any alternative.’
‘Granted,’ agreed Tim. ‘There is no alternative. But is this an alternative? I say again, how can we use the entrance into the caves … you say it is ten feet under water. I’m not that good a swimmer, you know.’
‘My dear young man, I told you that one of the purposes of my expedition was to explore the underwater caves. We are prepared for some degree of underwater exploration and part of our equipment consists of two wetsuits and breathing apparatus. I suggest that we take the equipment in the rubber dinghy and make our way along the shoreline to this spot and enter the caves … and, being selfish, I can kill two birds with a single stone — you get into the caves and I can check them and eliminate them from my search.’
Tim looked at the elderly professor in surprise.
The old man suddenly grinned.
‘I wasn’t born an elderly academic, my boy. Back in ’43 I was one of Lovatt’s Scouts, a commando unit, you know. What do you say?’
Speechless, Tim shook the professor by the hand. ‘Professor,’ he said slowly after a pause, ‘I’ll admit that if I were in your shoes and someone like me came along with a wild tale, such as mine, I don’t know whether I would be doing what you are.’
‘But you are not me, you
ng man,’ returned the professor. ‘I have learnt enough in life to know when people are telling the truth. The greater the improbability, the greater the truth. For some reason, which we don’t know, your lady friend has been kidnapped. There is no one on hand to do anything about it and our only choice is to act on our own or wait until Miss Ross returns from Inverness with, hopefully, the police. I don’t consider we have a choice.’
He turned and looked at Tim critically.
‘You are lucky that my assistant, my number two diver, is about your build. His wet suit should fit you.’
Within an hour, Tim and Winstanley, together with one of the professor’s assistants — a blond, bearded man named Terry — were bobbing along the shore line of Loch Ness in a rubber dinghy powered by an outboard motor. They had not told Terry the real reason for the underwater exploration and he had assumed it was part of the search for the monster’s den. Winstanley had told the man that, if they were not back within two hours, he should return to Foyers and contact Morag Ross, who should then be back from Inverness. The young man seemed surprised but did not comment. Apparently Winstanley was well known among his students for his eccentricity.
The rubber dinghy was halted before an outcrop of rock and they drew it in close to the shore. Winstanley showed Tim how to test his wetsuit and check the equipment, which included a powerful hand torch and a watertight pouch in which were matches and a candle so that they could make primitive tests for oxygen content once in the caves.
Everything seemed in order and, with Winstanley leading, they set off to swim the fifty yards from the outcrop, behind which they were hidden from the castle, to the foot of the tall granite cliff.
Tim had been underwater swimming only twice before in his life and then it had been in the crystal-like waters off Cornwall where one could see for comparatively lengthy distances. But as soon as they were submerged in the waters of Loch Ness, Tim found himself swallowed by a blackness like ink. The few feet of surface water was comparatively clear, but, once deeper, it began to cloud with the stain of peaty soil which even the torch did not penetrate.
The Curse of Loch Ness Page 21
