‘Actually, Mr MacLeod, I’m here on other business. I didn’t know that there had been a death on the island until I arrived, I’m afraid. Who, might I ask, was the deceased?’
The news that the old man had died was not a surprise – his illness and age were well known – but it was a blow nonetheless. Not least, it made his duties more delicate. The publican watched the boy’s frown for a short while, unsure of its cause, while his mind raced around the possibilities as to the nature of the officer’s business on the island. With hungry curiosity, MacLeod placed his hand on the constable’s shoulder to guide him towards the warmth of the Bell.
‘It is a sad day indeed. Death comes to us all of course, but Fingal Buchanan was well respected by many on the island. Even if he was loved by very few.’
In a few minutes, the head of the black snake winding back from the church reached the little timber jetty of the old harbour, and then the entrance to the Bell. MacLeod swung the door back and led the constable, his wife and the others into the lounge bar. The tables were pushed against one wall and were covered by an assortment of table-cloths and platters of sandwiches and sausage rolls and slices of meat pie. While Mrs MacLeod pulled the cling film from the plates, her husband took his place behind the bar. The first drink, a measure of whisky, he offered to the constable who, to his surprise, accepted. In three short sips he had drained the glass, while MacLeod looked on quizzically. Only the arrival of Mrs Robertson, her arm supported by Mr McCulloch, pulled him away and he turned reluctantly to fetch the sherry; when he had dealt with Mr McCredie’s insistent thirst, Alasdair McLeish was nowhere to be seen. Soon, there was such a bramble of hands reaching for the bar, that he had no time to wonder where he might have gone.
Despite the throng, the bar hushed as the Buchanans arrived. Davey took each hand presented to him and shook it robustly but with appropriate solemnity. When Cameron MacLeod strode through the parting mourners with a double whisky proffered in his outstretched hand, Davey Buchanan accepted it with grace and put an arm around the publican and embraced him without reserve. Their glasses clanked, and Davey wondered how things might have been had he stood up to his father all those years before.
Time passed, mellowed by good whisky, and the mixed emotions for the deceased blurred into a hopeful nostalgia. The sandwiches were exhausted; the mourners left as the afternoon wore off until all that remained were the Buchanans and the McCleods, the Reverend and Mr Galbraith. Mrs Robertson, who had remained as long as her duty to her husband demanded, slipped out before Chrissie MacLeod could refill her glass.
‘It is a sad day, of course,’ Galbraith shifted in his chair, the wooden feet scraping painfully at the stone floor, ‘but it is also a time for hopefulness, no? We have the nuptials of Shona and Fergus to come. And we have the triumph of that young man to celebrate – bringing home the bullaun stone. It might be considered inappropriate, this being his grandfather’s wake, and if it is you have my most profound apologies, but I would nevertheless like to raise a toast to the labours of our Fergus and, of course, to his success.’
The whisky slopped over the side of his glass as he reached up his arm abruptly. A moment passed before MacLeod joined the school teacher in raising his glass; Davey Buchanan did the same, and was followed by the others; Shona beamed in pride. Fergus dropped his eyes to his hands, which seemed unusually large, clumsy and pink.
‘Thank you, John. If I may, I’d like to say some words myself about my son, and about my father too…’
Davey had hauled himself to his feet, but was interrupted by the shudder of the door in its frame and the subsequent appearance of Constable McLeish who stood uncertain at the threshold for some moments before intruding further. His steely face could not mask the uncertainty that quivered about his mouth, laced his eyes. He looked from each face to the next until he found Fergus. Despite his gaze, he addressed the Reverend.
He explained that he had taken a short walk up to the meadow behind the village, where the nearer of the island’s ancient crosses was to be found, weathered and forlorn. There, at the foot of the monolith, he had found not a puddle in the bowl worn into the pediment, but a stone, round and smooth, a cross cut into it. He was curious to know, he continued, if the Reverend could explain how such a thing had come to be there, in that meadow, at the base of that cross. He was certain that it had not been there that last time he had visited Hinba.
Shreds of grass still clung to his black boots. Fergus watched a bead of dew crawl over the curve of leather and spread across the stitching at the sole and smiled: how had Alasdair McLeish known so precisely where to look? It had been at the insistence of Mr Galbraith that the cursing stone had been placed under the shattered cross above the village, pending its return to St Ernan’s ruined monastery. The Reverend had been uncertain of the theological propriety of housing the artefact within the church and, while the islanders squabbled over the alternatives, Galbraith had simply acted, silencing the grumbles of Mr MacLeod with a look familiar to every pupil of the little island school. He would have wasted no time in letting the world know that the stone was back on Hinba, that his decade-long search had at last borne fruit.
‘Now, Alasdair, surely you can see that this is not the time. Can we not finish mourning my father first? No-one is going anywhere: everyone will still be here in a day or two. As will that stone. We’ll be happy to answer your questions then.’
Davey was the first to understand and had moved to stand between the constable and his son. Alasdair McLeish clasped his wrist behind his back and fixed his eyes to the run of bottles on the shelf behind the bar. He did not want to pursue the matter, but orders were just that. He had been instructed to return to Mallaig with the suspect in custody and he had little choice but to do so. Perhaps he had been wrong to seek to soften the blow by beginning with friendly questions, when he had sufficient evidence simply to arrest Fergus Buchanan. He had, it would seem, only managed to postpone the inevitable.
‘It’s OK, Alasdair. Officer. I’ll not make you dance around this any longer. I’ll come with you.’
Fergus had gently moved his father out of the way to stand before the constable. Despite his efforts, the young officer’s face belied his dispassion and the two schoolmates smiled their understanding to each other.
‘Fergus, what’s going on?’
Shona’s voice quavered. Fergus interrupted Alasdair before he could set out the full details of the case, to explain in his own words.
‘It’s like I said, Shona. Did you think that there’d be no reckoning? There’s always a reckoning, even on Hinba.’ Fergus turned to the others. ‘You see, Dad, Mr Galbraith, to get the cursing stone back, I had to break into Maltravers’ house. He wouldn’t see reason. When I heard how sick granddad was, I had to do something, and that was the only something I could do. So I broke in. In the circumstances, it was only a matter of time before the police came. I’m sorry. Mum, dad, really I am sorry. But I had to bring the stone back before granddad died. You see that don’t you?’
Morag embraced her son, but Fergus slipped loose from his mother and went to the door to stand beside Alasdair McLeish. He gave a brief soft smile towards his sister.
‘Mr Galbraith, if you wouldn’t mind, I would be grateful for your assistance in carrying the stone to the harbour.’ Galbraith looked about him in desperation, but no-one came to his aid, unconcerned by his anguish, his loss. That it should be him that should carry from the island that which he had sought for so long was such cruelty, but he was too afraid to refuse the constable’s request.
Once the three men had left the Bell, MacLeod stood up, rising to something beyond his full height. He sought to maintain a sombre and serious demeanour, postponing his full enjoyment of the moment until after everyone had gone home, until his wife and daughter had gone to bed and he was alone, able to drink a toast to his victory. For now, he turned to Davey Buchanan.
‘I think we both know that there will be no wedding now. I’ll not let my Sh
ona endure the shame of being married to a convict.’
‘He’s not yet convicted of anything, you sanctimonious bastard!’
Morag was grateful for some target for her rage. She looked imploringly to Shona, but the girl stayed silent as she wrestled with her own wretchedness, struggling to accommodate herself to her shattered world; she made no defence of Fergus. Morag turned and ran from the pub, after her son.
There was silence for a moment or two. The others looked at their feet, their pints, and shrank into their most unobtrusive shapes. Without a word, Davey Buchanan stood squarely in front of Cameron MacLeod, so that his eyes were level with his tormentor, but he said nothing. In the past five days, he had lost his father, his son, and now these MacLeods wanted to have what was left of his pride as well. He was Davey Buchanan. He was better than this. He picked up his pint and drained it in one long swallow; the empty glass he thumped onto the table.
‘I’m away to my son. You’ll not be gossiping while I’m gone.’
Davey Buchanan turned calmly to the door and left the silence behind him.
47
At the sound of the engine, Duncannon paused and tilted his attention towards the sea. Unable to be sure without seeing for himself, he left the spool of packing tape on the work bench and ambled from the barn. Sure enough, the police launch was rounding the headland on its return journey. It was a less lumbering vessel than McCredie’s boat, and it cut a clean swathe through the waves as it motored swiftly away from Hinba. Despite the speed, Duncannon could clearly see two figures on the little deck: one a police officer, the other unmistakably Fergus Buchanan. Duncannon’s frown passed soon enough. It didn’t matter what the Buchanan boy had done, only that the Buchanans’ mourning had been deepened further.
Whatever crime the boy had committed was as nothing to that of his grandfather, but it was reassuring all the same to see that the family’s criminality was at last being punished. He allowed himself a small smile: being punished by the law, rather than by Duncannon. If only the old man had lived long enough to see this. A murmur of regret washed through him on the wind, but was soon gone. Fingal’s passing was sweet enough, certain as he was that Fergus would have asked about the pendant, would have shown it to Fingal, asked how Duncannon could have come by his grandmother’s love token, a token so clearly given to another man. That would have been poison enough, even without the turns of the cursing stone.
Thirty years. For thirty years, Duncannon had held his hatred close, waiting. Befriending Fergus, encouraging him to spend time at Duncannon’s farm, in the place where his grandfather had made his threats, where Fingal had committed his crime; this had been the first blow. The discovery of the cursing stone had been an unexpected boon: his grandfather had swaddled him in the old stories, of the curse that had rid the island of the Clanranalds, of the magic worked by the Buchanans and MacLeods, of their brief truce in which they had hidden the stone so that neither could use it against the other, of insidious magic that could bring down both houses and the island itself if wielded with sufficient loathing. The rediscovery of the stone had provided the petrol, but Duncannon’s revenge had been a slow fuse that had burned through all these years. Now at last it had burned to the nub; there was no more fire. His whole adult life had been spent under the shadow of the crime and the retribution and now he did not know how to live. Except to leave.
Tonight however, despite the expense, he would venture down to the village, to the Harbour Bell, to buy Cameron MacLeod a large whisky. He would stand at the bar with him and they would drink down the smoke together, and he would curse the ghost of Fingal Buchanan, not caring who might hear. And then he would announce the sale of the farm and the land and everything that he could not carry from the island. And he would be free of it all.
There was nothing further to keep him on Hinba. He had no more obligations, to the living or to the dead. He could start his life now, now that his work was done. Now the cursing stone had done its work. He had two decades more before he could claim his pension; the insurance money was practically spent, but the sale of the farm would raise enough to keep him comfortable for a time. To stretch it further, he could take a job in the fish sheds at Mallaig; better yet, he could travel, live simply, on his wits. He was well practised in such a life. Or there was that cousin at Kinlochleven, of course. Duncannon laughed at the richness of the choices that his freedom gave him and his laugh spiralled up on the wind to carry far across the hills, to weave among the yellow gorse.
The engine’s stutter no longer carried to shore and the launch itself was little more than a vanishing dot. Duncannon held up his arm in a gesture of farewell to the tiny boat before turning back towards the barn. Most of his good hand tools were already packed into boxes, along with the few other things of value. He had only to seal them tight and carry them to the house, and then he could start packing his things there. He would talk to McCredie in the morning about arranging passage to Mallaig, once he knew how much he would take and how much would be left behind.
48
The gulls’ cries pierced the roar of the wind and rattle of the boat’s motor. All other sound was lost, drowned. Fergus found the enveloping cacophony comforting, and he was grateful that it allowed for no intrusion upon his mute vigil. He was at liberty to watch the shores of Hinba recede, fading from green to purple to blue. And then it was gone, lost like some mythical land that he could no longer reach.
Behind him, Alasdair was in silent conversation with the pilot of the launch. He was grateful that he had left him undisturbed to watch the island vanish this last time. He would probably avoid a custodial sentence, the officer had said: a first offence and a guilty plea counted in his favour. Most likely, there would be community service and Fergus had felt a little hope that he might be able to serve his sentence in London, maybe in EC1 or even in E1 itself. But whatever the outcome of the trial, he knew that he would not return to Hinba, or at least only as an outsider, a visitor; a mourner at another funeral perhaps, or to bring flowers to his mother’s sick bed. He wondered who would become post master after his father; he only knew that it would not be him. A MacLeod perhaps.
Maybe Cameron would finally have his victory, and maybe Shona would come to live in his childhood home after all.
Even bulky Rum was fading behind them now: they would soon be in Mallaig. He would be taken to the cells at the police station to await his transit to London. And the cursing stone would be taken from the launch and away from Hinba once more. Maltravers would have his treasure restored, to be lost and ignored among all the others. And the island would go on without it, as it had before. Nothing had changed yet everything was different.
‘Sorry about the handcuffs, Fergus. Procedure. You understand?’
Fergus felt the hand of his friend and captor rest gently on his shoulder, a faint act of well-meant consolation. The launch was nudging its way into the bay. The smell of seaweed and fish coursed on the breeze pouring from the shore, colliding with memories and dreams. The light of the low sun burst onto the hillside that rose above the harbour, paving the land beyond Mallaig with a golden glow. Fergus closed his eyes, drew the salt tang into his lungs. He felt his feet rise from the deck, slowly at first and then with growing certainty. He could picture the startled face of Alasdair McLeish beneath him, feel the curiosity of the gulls as he rose among them, see the golden slopes fall away, the harbour and the boats, the railway station and the school, the sea. The sensation was effortless and familiar. It was not weightlessness; the lull of gravity still pulled at him. But the air beneath him felt solid enough and carried his weight without complaint, without danger of injury, without fear of falling.
THE END
Acknowledgements
A number of people have played their part in turning a loose set of ideas into The Cursing Stone. Early on, Graeme Laughlan gave me valuable advice on ferry times and convivial pubs in
both Lochaber and in Glasgow; later, Mairi Robertson Carrey rescued me f
rom the Glasgow night and went on to provide inspiration, advice and insight; and insightful comments came also from Tom Bolton, Rachel Fisher and Mark Harvey. The errors that remain are mine, despite their good counsel.
I also want to give special thanks to the inimitable Matthew Smith for his support, enthusiasm and wisdom, and to Katherine Heaton for, well, everything really.
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About the Author
Since escaping the East Midlands to find adventure in the big city, Adrian Harvey has combined a career in and around government with trying to see as much of the world as he can. He lives in North London, which he believes to be the finest corner of the world’s greatest city. The Cursing Stone is his second novel.
The Cursing Stone: a gripping mystery and family saga Page 25
