Escort to Adventure

by Angus MacVicar

  "Anyone with you?" queried Hector, his face even gaunter than usual.

  "Only the laird," returned Kenneth, with quick sarcasm.

  "Look here,” he whispered, "stay under the bank here — and don't move until Ned feels better. I'll head him off.”

  He jumped to his feet and began to run along the top of the bank, stopping every now and then to peer over it. By this time Mr. Woodward had climbed the fence and was hirpling across the clearing in his wake.

  Suddenly Kenneth stopped and shouted. "Mr. Woodward — yonder they are! This way!”

  As if in pursuit of unseen individuals below the bank, he raced ahead in the direction of an arm of the wood which flanked the clearing and came down to the very edge of the river.

  "Stop there!” he yelled to the imaginary poachers. "Stop — in the name of the law!”

  The hiding-place of Veronica Jane, Hector and Wee Ned had now been left safely in the rear. But Kenneth meant to make a thorough job of his diversionary plan. Still shouting threats and orders to stop, he plunged into the wood and out of the laird's sight.

  Mr. Woodward was gasping like a dog-fish; but with dour, Lancastrian determination he plodded on after the younger man. He had just reached the plantation when Kenneth, as if returning from an unsuccessful chase, came back out from among the trees.

  "They got away!” he confessed. "They were in the bed of the river, about twenty yards in front of me all the way — young chaps wearing jerseys. I lost sight of them for a minute or two in the wood. The next I saw of them they were climbing out on to the main road, carrying bicycles which must have been left under the bridge. Before I could catch up, they had pedalled off towards Campbeltown.”

  Mr. Woodward struggled to regain his breath. "Hard lines!” he wheezed. "You — you made a grand attempt. Phew — I'm hot!”

  He rubbed his face with a white silk handkerchief. Kenneth glanced back along the burn. Nothing stirred.

  "Sorry I failed you, sir,” he said, humbly. "But those chaps have had a scare at any rate.”

  The laird nodded. "You did the best you could. No fault of yours. Now then — what about coming up to the house for a drink before you go?”

  “Thanks a lot.” Kenneth accepted the invitation with alacrity. If Mr. Woodward went indoors, his friends would be able to get away without further difficulty. “But are you sure I shan’t be intruding?” he added, with a show of politeness.

  “Not at all, lad. One good turn deserves another.”

  They made their way to Glendale House through the wood, Kenneth accommodating himself to his host’s short and deliberate pace. Mr. Woodward seemed to have taken a liking to his young acquaintance; and now that the danger to Veronica Jane had passed, Kenneth found that his original prejudice against him was gradually disappearing. The retired magnate from Manchester was not his ideal of a Scottish laird; but behind his cocksure, rather vulgar manner, there was kindliness and a genuine humanity.

  As they entered the wide hall, the laird looked round and lowered his voice. “Got a guest at the moment. Came yesterday. Hydro-Electric Board wrote and asked, could I give him hospitality? Professor Symington — archaeologist chap. Too scholarly and high falutin’ for my taste. But I couldn’t refuse to take him — got to look after my reputation as a local laird, you know.”

  Quite suddenly suspicion came to Kenneth. He had heard of Professor Symington, one of the best known archaeologists in Scotland. And yet…

  “Where does the Hydro-Electric Board come in?” he asked. “I mean, why should they write to you about the Professor?”

  Mr. Woodward shrugged his padded shoulders. “He visits all their excavations — mooching about for fossils and flints and things like that. Came back from the dam in Glen Eden this afternoon lugging a bag of pebbles that weighed about a ton. Archaeologists!” he sneered, tapping the side of his head. “They’re nuts! Pay them better if they forgot the past and used their brains to plan for the future!”

  He led the way towards the door of the library.

  “Between ourselves,” he said, in a hoarse undertone, “I’m darned glad you’ve come. He was driving me batty before I went out — droning away about Neolithic ‘barrows’ and cavemen and God knows what! You can give me a hand to entertain him — for a while at any rate.”

  As the door opened Kenneth had a glimpse of a big, softly lit room, lined with bookcases and hung with sporting prints. Near the fire a comfortable armchair contained the figure of a man. His back was towards the door, and only two parts of his body were visible — the top of a grey, partially bald head and the long, slim fingers of a right hand.

  These fingers were drumming out a silent tune on the chintz-covered arm of the chair…

  Chapter 9

  Nerves

  As Mr. Woodward and Kenneth came into the room, the drumming fingers grew still and Professor Symington rose quickly from his chair.

  A spare man of medium height, with the flaccid grey cheeks of a scholar, he wore steel-rimmed spectacles which distorted the shape of his eyes. But those eyes were blue and keen as steel; and to Kenneth's suspicious mind, the slim suppleness of his body seemed to be at variance with his general attitude of learning and advancing years.

  And yet, as the laird offered introductions and fussed around hospitably with whisky and a siphon, Kenneth admitted to himself that if his old premonition were correct, and this man was indeed Max Bergman, alias the Actor, he could find no definite points of resemblance with the man he had encountered on Rest-and-be-thankful. The voice, the carriage, the very mode of speech — all were different. And his bodily fitness could be accounted for by his work as an archaeologist, which meant constant exercise in the open air.

  There was nothing shy or backward about the Professor. He smiled amiably, showing irregular, tobacco-stained teeth, and for Kenneth's benefit launched into an animated description of his work in the Glen Eden excavation.

  'Tools and cooking utensils — that’s what I’m after," he said, while Mr. Woodward, at his back, winked and shrugged fat shoulders in a gesture of resignation. “I have a theory that the first inhabitants of Scotland came from Ireland about eight thousand years ago and settled in Glendale. Men of the Middle Stone Age — small and dark and slant-eyed — with distinctive stone axes and a type of drinking-bowl which is unmistakable. I am looking for these relics below the dam, Sergeant MacDonald, and if I find them I shall have a solid basis of proof.”

  “Any success so far?”

  “Unfortunately, no. This afternoon I carried home a sackful of chips, but none of them appears to be artificially shaped. Mr. Woodward is very patient and kind. I litter up his house with rubbish, and then he treats me like this.”

  Professor Symington turned with a smile and raised his brimming glass. Mr. Woodward grinned.

  “Every man to his own hobby,” he returned, pleased by the compliment. “But go on, Professor. Tell MacDonald more about your job. I can see he's interested.”

  The laird’s irony was appropriate enough at the time; but as Professor Symington enlarged on his theme, Kenneth’s suspicion gave place to a fascinated interest — the interest of a layman introduced for the first time to the meaning of archaeology.

  The steel-blue eyes held his, like the eyes of a hypnotist. “I chose Glen Eden for my investigation because the valley is formed of conglomerate sandstone — a relic of the Devonian age. Sir Archibald Geikie calls it the Old Red Sandstone, formed of pebbles from the shore of a primaeval lake, gradually cemented together by sand and silt as the earth grew colder. It came into existence three hundred million years ago.”

  Kenneth racked his brain for half-forgotten knowledge gleaned in his boyhood from the learned tomes in his father’s library. “But surely there was no human existence then?” he ventured.

  “Of course not, Sergeant MacDonald. Man came into being scarcely more than a million years ago. I am speaking of a time when Britain was a dead place — a hot, empty, seething desert, with the wind whining ove
r the semi-molten rocks and burning sand.”

  Mr. Woodward grinned and took another gulp of watered whisky. “Gives me a thirst just to think of it,” he said.

  The Professor ignored this remark of a philistine.

  "But the point is,” he continued, "where you find the Old Red Sandstone you find evidence of the life which preceded Man — trilobites and armour-plated fishes, which swam through the warm, scummy seas and finally turned into human shape. And almost invariably it is in the vicinity of the Sandstone that you find traces of Man himself, who would first of all inhabit the shores of the long-dead lakes. In Glen Eden several fossil trilobites have been found; and now, as I said, I am looking for relics of the Mesolithic men — Mesolithic men from Ireland, with flint arrows and flint tools stuck in their reindeer belts — the first human beings to settle in Glendale after the Ice Age, and almost certainly the first inhabitants of Scotland.”

  In spite of his wariness and Mr. Woodward’s all too obvious boredom, Kenneth was becoming absorbed.

  "Can you imagine those men,” the Professor went on, "scrambling ashore under the shadow of Dunaverty Rock, seeking the shelter of Glen Eden — standing on the shore of the silent lake, lonely and afraid, terrified of the dark and the monsters of the dark? The sea behind them; in front the cold grey jungle, peopled with strange birds and dangerous beasts. Building their huts of wattle and clay in the shelter of the Glen — and each day venturing farther and farther afield into the jungle…”

  Kenneth came out of a silence. "I didn’t realize before that there was so much imaginative power in archaeology. I suppose, by the same token, it can trace the development of Man from his earliest time to the present day?”

  "That is the main purpose of our work, though at a certain stage we hand over our findings to the anthropologists. In the Glen Eden excavation I hope first of all to find evidence of the Mesolithic and Neolithic periods. Traces of the Bronze Age and Iron Age, which came after, have already been found in Glendale. In the relics of each successive settlement we can trace how our ancestors gradually became more and more interested in their living conditions — in tribal culture, if you like. How they began to think — to work out theories about themselves and their future. For instance, the primitive stone 'barrows’ on the eastern shoulder of Cnoc Ban mark a recognized burying-place, one of the first in Scotland. I expect you have seen it?”

  “Yes. My father showed it to me — long ago.”

  "It’s arranged like a triangle, you remember, with the apex pointing towards the east — where the sun-god rose each morning. In Mesolithic times Man was moved only by the instinct of self-preservation. He looked on birth and death with indifference. But in the Iron Age, when these graves were built, he had learned to be more introspective. He was puzzled by his own existence, by what happened after death. He had begun to suspect that there was something — a mysterious power responsible for his life. The sun-god, perhaps, or the thunder-god. In fact, Man was now searching for an ideal. Or for love… In one of these ancient 'barrows’ as perhaps you know, my colleagues found some tiny coloured stones — the remains of a bracelet, placed there by a father in the grave of his child.”

  For a moment Kenneth saw it all, like a little light at the end of a dark tunnel. He remembered the theme of one of his father's sermons: Man's search for an Ideal. In Glen Eden pre-Christian man had lifted his eyes to the sun, happy in its heat and radiance. In Glen Eden he had cowered in the thunderstorm, whispering and afraid. But he had begun to ask questions. He had begun to recognize a destiny which shaped his ends…

  The Professor talked on; and it was after eleven o'clock when Kenneth finally said good night to Mr. Woodward and his voluble guest. He walked back to the village in a puzzled mood, two questions burning in his confused thoughts like neon signs. Was Professor Symington the Actor? Or was he himself so worried on Veronica Jane's account that he was again imagining danger where none existed?

  He had seen the Professor’s fingers drumming out a silent tune on the arm of his chair — a definite characteristic of Max Bergman's; but when he came to think of it calmly, he realized that it was a characteristic of a great many other people, too. And could an American criminal have put such warm imagination and genuine scientific knowledge into his impersonation of an archaeologist?

  It was his duty, however, to take as few chances as possible. When he reached the outskirts of the village he stopped at the public kiosk and telephoned the Campbeltown police. The bar-officer was surprised by the nature of his business so late at night; nevertheless, he promised to make inquiries about Professor Symington and report the following day.

  At the cottage he found that Mrs. Connacher, following her usual custom, had gone to bed at half-past ten; but Sheena Mathieson and Hector, who had returned from his poaching adventure an hour before, were sitting by the kitchen fire, examining some of the latter’s sketches. Sheena’s dark head was bent close to his, and when Kenneth came in she jumped to her feet in some embarrassment. But she was obviously relieved to see him.

  “We were beginning to think the laird had kidnapped you!” she exclaimed; and added: “If you wait a minute we’ll have a cup of tea.”

  “Thanks, Sheena. Just what the doctor ordered.” Abruptly Kenneth turned to Hector. “What about Wee Ned and — er — Veronica Jane?”

  As the young schoolteacher set a comer of the table and rummaged for biscuits and cheese in a cupboard, Hector leaned back and chuckled.

  “What a pair!” he said. “It was the best night’s fun I ever had, until we heard your voice — and the twig snapping — and realized that you were trying to warn us. When Wee Ned twisted his ankle we thought it was all up.”

  “Did you get him home all right?”

  “Yes — but the air was blue! However, it’s only a simple wrench. He’ll be up and about tomorrow, I think.”

  “Then you took — er — Veronica Jane to the hotel?”

  Hector nodded, and to Kenneth’s keen but carefully camouflaged embarrassment a glance of amusement flickered between him and Sheena, who had now begun to pour out the tea.

  “She thoroughly enjoyed herself,” continued the artist, stretching for the sugar-bowl.

  As he spoke his huge hand missed its mark and upset a small milk-jug. His words tailed off and his smile vanished in a look of guilt and contrition. “Sheena!” he groaned. “I’m so sorry!”

  She laughed and wiped up the mess with a dish-cloth. “You’re hopeless!” she sighed. “Pot-stands, milk-jugs — nothing’s safe when you’re around.”

  “I knocked you down, too,” he reminded her, with the guileless candour of a child. “So you’re not safe, either!”

  Sheena flushed crimson. To hide her confusion she got up and vigorously stirred the fire in the range. Hector’s brows furrowed, and he watched her with a puzzled expression.

  “I say,” he muttered, “I hope I haven’t said anything to offend you…”

  “Of course not!” she interrupted, sharply. She returned to the table. “You’d better tell Kenneth what Miss MacKay said,” she went on, changing the subject.

  He scratched his head, his elbow narrowly missing the milk-jug again. Suddenly he grinned. “Oh, yes. Sheena and I don’t quite understand what it means. She said, Tell Kenneth that after what he did tonight Jane Dallas would have liked him a lot.’”

  Kenneth took out a packet of cigarettes and offered them to the others. As he gave Sheena a light she said: “Jane Dallas? The name’s familiar…

  “She lived here — in Drumeden,” he returned. “She was Veronica Jane’s grandmother.”

  “Oh — I know! Mrs. Connacher was saying just today that Miss MacKay is Jane Dallas come to life again.”

  Hector’s bushy eyebrows rose. “That’s interesting!” he said.

  Though he tried hard not to exaggerate its importance, Kenneth went to bed absurdly pleased by Veronica Jane’s message. In spite of the knowledge that by helping the poachers to escape he had failed in his du
ty as a policeman, he was happier than he had been for a long time. But as so often happens, the events of the following day, which was Saturday, brought reaction.

  After breakfast, Sheena put on the yellow frock and went off with Hector to model for his picture of the beach and the Rock of Dunaverty. Kenneth intended going to the hotel to see Veronica Jane; but before doing so he accompanied Mrs. Connacher on a tour of her small garden, which she was eager to show him. They were examining a bed of early potatoes — the young leaves beginning to show dark green against the rich brown earth — when the gate clicked open and they turned to see Veronica Jane and Miss Cunningham coming up the path.

  Nellie — all curlers and primness — was slightly put out.

  “Well, well, Miss MacKay," she said, abruptly, “you're early on the road today!"

  In a fresh white blouse and green drindl skirt, Veronica Jane seemed to be in excellent spirits. She introduced Miss Cunningham, who, in spite of the warm spring weather, had on a grey tweed suit — the skirt of which reached almost to her ankles — and a pair of old-fashioned lace gloves which only partially concealed her skinny, hairy wrists.

  “I understand you are deeply interested in our African missions," remarked this angular lady, fixing Nellie with a sharp eye. “I am pleased to meet you."

  Mrs. Connacher glanced at Veronica Jane, whose expression was as innocent as the little white clouds which flecked the sky. The hint of a smile touched Nellie's straight mouth.

  “There's a wheen heathen nearer home," she said, obliquely. “But I have great regard for missionary ladies like yourself. Maybe you would like to step in and have a cup of tea?"

  Miss Cunningham nodded. “Thank you," she replied, in her deep resonant voice. Then she turned to where Kenneth was standing awkwardly by the fence.

  She sniffed. “Young man," she said, severely, “Miss MacKay tells me she has been trying hard to get you to sign the pledge, but so far without success."