Escort to Adventure

by Angus MacVicar

  “H'm… Know who's here in Glasgow? Fraser MacKay — Veronica Jane's father. Flew from New York last night, having completed the O'Sullivan case much earlier than he expected.''

  “Then — er — Miss MacKay is out of danger? My job is finished?''

  “Yes. As a matter of fact, Fraser and I are going down to Glendale this afternoon — by car. He's a bit anxious about his daughter.''

  “How do you mean — anxious?"

  “We’ve heard rumours, MacDonald. It seems that as her escort you weren't altogether a shining example of police rectitude.''

  Kenneth missed the banter in his Chief's voice. He took the words literally. At that moment he was at the end of his tether, and this was the last straw. His habit of discipline and obedience to his superiors went by the board.

  “So that's what you think!" he exclaimed. “Then you and Fraser MacKay — and your precious Veronica Jane — you can all go to blazes! The whole blasted lot of you!''

  He banged down the receiver.

  At the other end Superintendent McIntosh, otherwise Bulldog Bill, reflectively fingered his heavy blue chin. Then he grinned delightedly at the portrait of the Lord Provost of Glasgow on the opposite wall. His aim in giving Sergeant MacDonald the task of protecting Veronica Jane had been to change his cold and academic outlook on the art of police detection. It now seemed that his plan had proved even more successful than he had intended.

  Chapter 18

  Bulldog Bill Has A Bet

  Kenneth had every intention of resigning from the police. He had had no rest since his ordeal on the cliff; he was cold and hungry, and his nerves were still on edge.

  In addition, it was firmly implanted in his mind that Veronica Jane was more than friendly with Hugh Cameron.

  Against this disturbed and abnormal background, Bulldog Bill’s joking remark about his lack of success in dealing with Veronica Jane assumed for him the proportion of a major insult.

  His Celtic blood, so long repressed and disciplined, grew hot with annoyance — perhaps even hotter because there was a solid basis of truth in his Chief’s remark.

  To himself he admitted that as Veronica Jane’s official escort he had been in many respects a failure. At every turn, against his better judgment, he had allowed personal feeling to sway his actions. On two occasions, so that she might be rid of his company, which he imagined irritated her, he had relaxed his guard; and both times the result had been neardisaster.

  Not only that. His crowning, unpardonable weakness was that he had fallen in love with his charge — desperately, illogically in love; he, Sergeant Kenneth MacDonald, the cold and calculating investigator, the man whose sole interest had been The Science of Police Detection, the man who had so long remained impervious to the wiles of women.

  Well, in this world you always paid for weakness, and like a true Celt he was determined to annoy and disturb other people by imposing a penalty on himself — immediate resignation from the Force. One of his old army friends would give him a job — an obscure and unimportant job for preference, in which his proved human weakness would not be liable to conflict with duty.

  As soon as he had banged down the receiver after his telephone conversation with Superintendent McIntosh he left the hotel, ignoring the others, and made his way to Mrs. Connacher’s, where he had a bath and a good meal. Then he lay down on top of his bed, hoping to have a few hours' sleep before the arrival, later in the afternoon, of Bulldog Bill and Veronica Jane's father.

  Nellie scarcely spoke to him. Intuition told her the state of his feelings, and she had a motherly trick of keeping silence in a crisis. It was different with Sheena and Hector. When they returned to the cottage, having left Veronica Jane and Hugh Cameron to rest at the hotel, they sat outside in the cloud-dispelling sunshine to discuss the situation.

  Veronica Jane and Kenneth were a difficult pair. On that they were agreed.

  'They're so strong-willed, both of them," said Hector, worriedly fingering his long chin. "There she was, desperate to rescue the chap — and doing it, too, with terrific courage. Then as soon as he’s safe she goes cold on him again, and naturally enough he thinks she prefers Dr. Cameron."

  Sheena leaned back on the garden-seat. "She can't throw herself at him, you know."

  "That’s true. But the poor fellow's all upset. He's even decided to give up his job. If she gave him the slightest encouragement''

  "But she has encouraged him — in a lot of ways. Only he's so blind and stubborn and thirled to his ‘duty’ that he just can’t see it."

  "Perhaps you're right."

  "And there's another thing, Hector. I shouldn't worry too much about what's happening at the moment. Reaction is Kenneth's trouble. And if Veronica Jane loves him — as we both believe she does — then she'll get him in her own way and in her own time. She's like that!"

  He chuckled. "You women always seem to know each other far better than men do."

  "It's our cattish natures!" She put her hand on his arm. "In any case, men are usually far more innocent — as far as human nature is concerned."

  "You’re a queer girl." He turned to her with a puzzled expression. Something in her voice touched him — and troubled him, too, because he could not quite understand it or bring himself to respond to its guileless invitation. "What are you thinking about?" he inquired.

  "Nothing much," she answered, getting up. "Come on, Hector — let’s go and have something to eat. I hear Mrs. Connacher moving pots on the range."

  He never knew the sadness in her heart or the quietly undramatic renunciation she had made at that moment. She loved him, awkward and boyish as he was. She loved his complete lack of sophistication, his integrity as an artist. But she was instinctively aware that he did not fully return her love. He liked and admired her — as a model, a decorative item in a picture; and if she chose to exert her feminine arts she was certain he would one day ask her to marry him. But she realized that marriage might be bad for him as an artist. The constant demands of a family for care and attention, and the need for earning a safe livelihood, might stifle the carefree urge which at present ruled his work.

  She sighed, therefore, as she led the way into the kitchen; but her sigh was not altogether unhappy. She was a real woman, and the sacrifice of her own desires for what she believed to be the benefit of another was accompanied by a certain feeling of satisfaction.

  Some hours later Mrs. Connacher knocked gently at the door of Kenneth’s room.

  "It’s six o’clock," she told him. "Fraser MacKay and Superintendent McIntosh should be at the hotel by this time. Perhaps you’d better go along and see them."

  He flung back the quilt. "Right-ho, Nellie," he returned, and his voice was grim. "I’ll see them all right!’’

  The food and rest had resolved some of his bitterness; but he was still determined to resign and cut clear of that unappreciative trio — Superintendent McIntosh, Fraser MacKay and Veronica Jane.

  As he washed, however, the very thought of Veronica Jane began to soften his mood still further. After all, she had done a very brave thing on the cliff — so brave that it had brought his heart to his mouth and upset his mental equilibrium for a long period — and it occurred to him that he had never even thanked her properly. He felt mean and selfish: a boor as always, he thought, and entirely unworthy of her regard. It wasn't surprising that she preferred Hugh Cameron — blast his good looks and educated poise!

  He marched up to the hotel with chin thrust out, as if he were assaulting a castle. In the hall he was met by Veronica Jane.

  She had obviously been resting during the afternoon. Pale tension had given place to flushed cheeks and an enigmatic glint in her eyes. Her shining hair was carefully brushed, and instead of jumper and slacks she was wearing a white blouse and tartan skirt. MacDonald tartan, Kenneth noticed with some surprise — probably from the same length which had supplied her sash on the night of the Kintyre Gathering.

  She noticed his dour expression. “Hello, Kenneth,"
she smiled. “Had a good sleep?"

  He nodded, his heart beating faster. “I have an apology to make," he returned, with a growl which was quite unintentional. “I should have thanked you before for — for that magnificent effort on the cliff. I've never seen…"

  She interrupted, shaking her head. “It was the only thing to do. I'd have done the same for anybody."

  His brows came down. “I expect you were thinking just as much of Bergman as of me!"

  It was a damned stupid, incredibly childish thing to say, and he realized it almost before the words were out. But Veronica Jane did not appear to take much notice.

  “Naturally I was thinking of Bergman," she replied, airily. “Even more than of you. He was in much worse physical condition."

  “So that's it?"

  “I guess it is."

  For a moment they stood facing each other, oblivious to the curious glances of the Ericsons, who were at that moment passing through the hall. Then Kenneth lost his head.

  “No doubt you're rather relieved," he said, dourly, “that from now on you and Cameron will be free from my annoying supervision."

  She looked up, really angry with him for the first time. “Yes!" she blazed. “But relieved isn't the word. Overjoyed is much more like it!"

  “I was sure of it," he returned. “Well — I'd better see the Superintendent. He thinks I made a mess of the whole thing, too."

  Instantly her mood changed. "What do you mean?” she asked, catching his arm.

  He gave a short laugh. "Your dear, kind Uncle Bill phoned me up just after we got back from the cliff. According to him I was a complete failure as your escort. Your father was very disturbed about it.”

  "Uncle Bill said that?”

  "Yes.”

  "He must have been joking!”

  "By no means. And in the circumstances I’m going to resign. I don’t think I’m cut out to be a policeman anyway.”

  "Kenneth — don’t be utterly idiotic!” Veronica Jane’s fingers tightened on his arm, and had he been in a sober frame of mind he might have noticed the consternation in her eyes. "You’re not going to resign just because Uncle Bill and I have been — have been kidding you!”

  "Kidding me?”

  "Yes. Oh, Kenneth — you’re such a prickly old Scotch thistle!”

  He hesitated. Something in her expression, something in the warm quality of her voice got through the armour of his injured pride.

  "What’s the big idea?” he asked.

  "You — you’ll see. Go on, now. Father and Uncle Bill are waiting for you in the private lounge.”

  “But I say”

  "Go on!” She pulled him towards the door at the other end of the hall. "And you mustn’t resign — please! Afterwards — well, I’m going for a walk, down by the river…”

  Then she was gone, and he was entering the small room with a puzzle in his mind.

  Superintendent McIntosh was standing by the fire, talking to a rangy, keen-faced man with close-cut, greying hair, whose features were not unlike Veronica Jane’s. As Kenneth came in Fraser MacKay glanced at him with narrowed eyes — the glance of a man used to summing up character with quick precision.

  He smiled and shook hands. "Glad to know you, Sergeant MacDonald. My old friend here has been telling me great things about you.”

  Kenneth was taken aback by his genial tone. Then it occurred to him that this might be the polite preliminary to a 'rocket". He decided to grasp the nettle and turned to the Superintendent.

  “You said on the phone you weren’t satisfied with my work, sir. May I ask why?”

  Bulldog Bill inspected the bowl of his pipe. He was rather enjoying himself, though this was unapparent on his heavy, pugnacious face. He bent down to light a spill at the fire, and in the process, unseen by Kenneth, he winked to Fraser MacKay.

  “I said nothing of the kind,” he replied, uttering the words between loud puffs as he lit his pipe.

  “Well, you — you inferred it, sir.”

  “Nonsense! I said that as Veronica Jane’s escort you weren’t a shining example of police rectitude.”

  Kenneth glowered. “That’s the same thing,” he began; but Bulldog Bill waved him to silence.

  “It isn’t the same thing at all. As events turned out you proved a first-class escort. But that doesn’t mean to say I approve of what went on. That poaching expedition, for instance.”

  Kenneth reddened. “That was a mistake,” he said. “I’m sorry…”

  “My dear boy,” interrupted Fraser MacKay with a smile, “don’t be sorry. We all make mistakes. You looked after my daughter as no one else could have done. I for one am very grateful.”

  “Thank you, sir,” stammered Kenneth. The interview was getting beyond him altogether. Bouquets were coming instead of brickbats, and he was quite unprepared to deal with them.

  “Veronica Jane told me herself,” her father continued. “Anything that did go wrong — so she says — was entirely her own fault.” Fraser MacKay grinned. “I can well believe it,” he added. “I often wish someone would take that girl off my hands. She needs strong discipline.”

  Bulldog Bill cleared his throat. “That’s what I mean,” he said. “You should have supplied the discipline, MacDonald — while you had the chance. And you didn’t.”

  Suddenly he chuckled. “At the same time,” he went on, “I’ve come to the conclusion that you handled the situation with a great deal of tact — and, well — humanity. And it’s for that reason — not because you laid Bergman by the heels: any policeman worth his salt would have done just as well — it's for that reason I have recommended you for an Inspectorship. Dated from the beginning of last month.”

  Kenneth swallowed. He was bereft of speech.

  Fraser MacKay laughed. “So all’s well that ends well,” he said. “My congratulations, MacDonald.”

  Superintendent McIntosh accompanied Kenneth to the door, a puckish expression in his eyes. As they stood in the hall he posed a confidential query.

  “Pulled it off yet?”

  Kenneth looked puzzled. “What, sir?” he asked.

  “With Veronica Jane, I mean.”

  “I — er — I don’t understand.”

  “Don’t be coy, man! Haven’t you asked her to marry you?”

  “No, indeed, sir. Young Dr. Cameron…”

  “Young Dr. Cameron, my foot! That girl’s crazy about you. If you’d heard her singing your praises an hour ago… Look here,” he went on, lowering his voice still further, “I have a bet on with Fraser. Don’t let me down.”

  “What bet?”

  “That you’ll be engaged to her before I leave Glendale tomorrow. Now then — what about it? If I lose that bet I shall hold you personally responsible!”

  Suddenly Kenneth felt extraordinarily light-hearted. He smiled.

  “All right, sir,” he answered. “We’ll see what can be done.” He felt completely ashamed of himself. He had been a grouchy pessimist; but in the outcome his pessimism had proved to be unfounded. When it came to reality, Bulldog Bill and Fraser MacKay were his friends — and so also, it seemed, was Veronica Jane. Veronica Jane — it made his heart turn over just to think about her…

  What a self-centred, unbelieving fool he had been! His absorption in The Science of Police Detection must have warped his outlook, making it suspicious and unyielding. But now he had learned a lesson — the hard lesson that is always revealed sooner or later to misguided men: that happiness is based on trust and friendship for one’s fellow-mortals, not on books and theories and the careful planning of one’s career.

  As he strode quickly across the shore, with the black and white oyster-catchers wheeling and screaming at the edge of the water, he saw Hugh Cameron's red sports car leave the hotel and go off on the Glasgow road. The evening sun flashed on its windscreen, making it resemble, for a moment, a shooting star. Kenneth noted the fact without much interest, for his immediate purpose was to reach the north bank of the Con in the shortest possible t
ime.

  It was quiet and peaceful that Monday evening, with the scent of coming summer — of thyme and heather and young bracken — hanging in the air like incense. The river ran softly over the weedy stones and was so clear, even after the rain of the previous afternoon, that Kenneth saw hosts of small trout darting away from his shadow.

  He had a feeling that he was living again in his lost boyhood. His memories of that time were all based on the river: a quiet summer river on an evening like this. Through the hard layers of his police and commando training, through the blunting repressions of experience, part of the magic of youth was returning to him, quickening his perceptions and making his heart beat with a new zest in life.

  He remembered the thrill of setting out with a thin wire snare on the end of a stick — a “snigger” they called it — to stalk and capture a big, speckled salmon; the thrill of the waiting minutes as he worked the wire slowly over the salmon's head; the thrill of the sudden lunge and pull — and the great fish lashing and struggling at the end of the stick.

  That was living. That was the real thing, as compared with the stuffy study of criminals and criminal law. And that youthful thrill had come back to him — back a thousandfold as he thought of Veronica Jane…

  She was sitting on a secluded part of the bank near the old mill, her tartan skirt a spot of bright colour against the grass and hazel-trees. Seeing him coming, she looked up and smiled; but he noticed that her mood was unusually uncertain — even shy. She patted the bank beside her and he sat down, hands clasped about his knees.

  “Well, Kenneth — did you resign?" she asked, plucking a blade of grass and threading it about her fingers.

  “I didn't,” he answered.

  “So you still remain Sergeant MacDonald?"

  He grinned. “As a matter of fact, I don't. In future you will please address me as Inspector."

  “Inspector!" She turned suddenly and caught his hands. “Oh — that's wonderful! So the job of looking after me wasn't so bad for your career after all?"

  “Seems it wasn't."

  She leaned away again and threw a small stone into the burn. The ripples widened until they reached the opposite bank.