From London Far

by Michael Innes

  Again the Oronsay hooted from the anchorage. And Captain Maxwell, having completed his narrative to the evident satisfaction of his own artistic sense, advanced to take a ceremonious farewell of the Misses Macleod. ‘Awfu’ times,’ he said. ‘Scourging at Dundargie and dancing on Larra. It’s right comforting to think there’s no’ likely to be anything scunnersome on Moila.’

  VII

  It was three o’clock when Meredith set off on his reconnaissance. The Oronsay was hull-down on the horizon. Its decks, he had noticed, were crowded with white-faced sheep; and now the black-faced sheep were spreading over Moila. This mysterious exchange would no doubt be re-enacted in reverse upon the next second Thursday – and in the interval the castle would maintain its unbroken feudal solitude. Meredith, as he crossed the island under Shamus’ guidance, found himself more than once turning round to watch the diminishing trail of smoke from the little steamer’s funnel; before he reached the farther side all trace of this had vanished, and beyond the grey, eroded line of the ruined buildings was only the white gleam of Inchfarr, and empty sea already glittering beneath the westering sun.

  An irrational sense of being left in the lurch seized Meredith. Captain Maxwell was a reliable man. Moreover, being a Lowlander, he was thoroughly comprehensible. Meredith glanced with some misgiving at Shamus, with whom articulate communication was no more possible than with a Chinese, and who was assuredly no less inscrutable than the most impassive oriental. Not that the lad was himself by any means impassive, for he combined with slow movements and an expression sufficiently withdrawn a lively eye which seemed to converse with whatever it fell upon. Here again, however, was a language as closed to Meredith as was the Gaelic in which Shamus occasionally uttered a few absent words. Whether Shamus knew that Moila was besieged and that this was a foray upon enemy ground Meredith had by no means determined. Nor was it possible to hazard a guess as to how he would comport himself should some untoward situation arise – this if only because he had the trick of appearing now a grown man and now a child scarcely of years to hold a sheep-hook. But when he had rowed Meredith across the Sound in a cockshell whose gunwales came much too close for comfort to a choppy sea, and when they were climbing up through broken cliffs to the swell of the moor, his speaking eye appeared to hold its discourse with invisible but beckoning powers. It was the strain of Celtic mysticism, Meredith decided; and Shamus’ vision was penetrating beyond the tangible and visible surfaces of nature to some superior reality beyond. Mildly pleased by company so little Saxon and everyday, Meredith held on his course to whatever fate awaited him.

  The sea was only a faint murmur behind them; they trod heather and by old association the smell of it reinforced a rapidly intensifying sense of loneliness abundantly warranted by the landscape. For what now revealed itself was both monotone and featureless; Ben Carron itself had through some odd configuration of the ground flattened itself before them, and the infinite roll of the moor was unbroken even by those protuberances and nodosities which had once a little relieved the wearied eye of Dr Johnson. Matter left in its original elemental state, thought Meredith, or quickened only with one sullen power of useless vegetation. Marvellous writing. But the point lay in the absence of landmarks to which to relate oneself; it was this that quickly shrivelled one to the stature of a fly crawling over the interminable curves of some small barren brownish-purple planet.

  It was to be noted, however, that Shamus appeared not affected in this way. He walked with what was almost a rapid stride, his eye was on the horizon, over his set features played the ghost of a triumphant and not notably innocent smile.

  Was it possible, thought Meredith – suddenly changing his mind about Shamus’ being in communion with a transcendental order – was it possible that the lad was in the pay of the monstrous Properjohn, and very well knew what reception was being prepared for the stranger under his guidance? Chance or calculation had made this remote island the linch-pin of a ruthless and ramifying criminal organization; was it not likely that in the castle they would keep a servant fee’d? And Shamus – he had surely heard Miss Dorcas remark – was the most recently acquired of the hereditary Captain’s retainers. Meredith glanced cautiously at the enigmatic youth striding beside him. There was an increasing purposefulness in his bearing – whereas his instructions had surely been merely to transport Meredith to the mainland and there give whatever attendance was required of him. Was this not a sign of the real state of the case? Properjohn, then, had known well that morning that it was an enemy with whom he was confronted, and now his agent was leading that enemy into a trap.

  But Meredith had no sooner cast Shamus for this sinister role than he saw that it was a superfluous one. Properjohn had hinted at a meeting; the hint had been freely accepted; and now no particular leading into a trap was required. Were Properjohn’s intentions immediately lethal, he had only to scan this barren space with a telescope and then manoeuvre himself with a rifle behind some convenient tump of heather. If, on the other hand, he hoped to get information by means of either ruse or threat, his obvious course would be to contrive what had the appearance of a casual encounter. Perhaps, then, Shamus’ part would come later, when there was question of putting the body of an intrusive scholar in a sack and rowing out with it by night somewhere beyond Inchfarr. Or perhaps this was all wide of the mark, and Properjohn even more doubtful of the true state of the case than Meredith. Perhaps he did indeed believe or hope that he was about to contact his new associate, Vogelsang. In which case the presence of Shamus, whether as enemy or ally, was neither here nor there.

  And there was a point of comfort – thought Meredith, trudging deeper into solitude – in the absence of Jean. With the departure of Captain Maxwell, that monthly link with an external and contemporary world, the mind of Miss Isabella Macleod had again embraced the conception of a state of siege, and it had been only reluctantly that she had agreed on the strategic expediency of a reconnaissance. And that Miss Halliwell should go she had declared altogether out of the question. Lady Flora Macleod, with a kiss instead of the king’s shilling, might have raised a regiment for Prince Charles Edward in the Forty-five, but she had not thought it proper to appear in person at Prestonpans or Culloden. Miss Halliwell, therefore, must remain behind the security of Castle Moila’s portcullis. And Jean, since she already owed something to the hospitality of the Misses Macleod and recognized that their continued countenance might be vital, had reluctantly agreed. Which – thought Meredith – was a capital thing, for had he not already seen this young woman enjoy more than her fill of danger? For danger, it was true, she had made this journey to the Western Highlands of Scotland. But of danger – if it was possible that an alarmed and desperate Properjohn might indeed after a fashion besiege Moila – future acts held sufficient store. For this afternoon at least it was all to the good that Jean should rest in the wings.

  Meanwhile from behind that farther clump of heather a rifle might at this moment be pointing at his, Meredith’s, heart. To remove his mind from this speculation, he fell to considering anew the mystery of Dr Higbed, that eminent practitioner of psychological medicine and widely celebrated polymath of popular science. Not so widely celebrated, however, as to be a familiar name in these fastnesses, where the announcement of his identity had nowhere scored any very notable effect. Meredith tried to imagine himself roaring ‘I am Meredith!’ by way of invoking the special clemency of men or calling down the special favour of heaven. It occurred to him – disturbingly – that this was something which, after all, one does every day, Higbed’s particularity consisting only in bellowing, under severe stress, what one commonly does no more than whisper to one’s own secret ear.

  Here, however, was not the point in the Higbed story that called for present consideration. Properjohn’s business, and presumably the business of the late Vogelsang with whom he was proposing to affiliate himself, consisted in the stealing, receiving, smuggling, and disposing of important works of
art. But it was more evident than ever that Higbed did not come within this category – unless, indeed, he were ingeniously to be driven mad and then exhibited in some choice private Bedlam?

  Both metaphorically and in point of physical motion, Meredith paused on this. Shamus halted beside him and, momentarily suspending his mute conversation with persons or powers in the middle distance, eyed this abstracted Sasunnach with what might, or might not, have been a sinister curiosity. It was remarkable, Meredith was thinking, to what bizarre thoughts untoward circumstances rapidly brought one. A wealthy collector of recherché lunatics in the interests of whose cabinet furniture vans prowled the cities of Europe from Edinburgh to Gorki; here surely was a conception that even the inventors of horror films might envy. That it should occur to a sober and ageing student of the classics while walking amid the severe beauties of Northern Britain spoke volumes for the unsettling effect of the past few days.

  The Higbed problem must have some less picturesque solution. Was it possible that in the course of his practice as an analytical psychologist the unfortunate man had received – perhaps without at once understanding its significance – information endangering the whole vast organization of which Properjohn was the head or near-head? But if this were so a sack and the Firth of Forth would surely have ended the matter, and Jean’s unfortunate acquaintance would not now be enjoying a rest cure at Carron Lodge. Without further data, Meredith decided, continued speculation was futile; he was without hold on any thread leading towards a solution of the mystery.

  But straight above his head – he now realized – were several stout cables leading directly over the sweep of moor before him. And even as he noticed this the cables swayed, a clank and creak was audible, and from behind the next rise appeared the now oddly sinister shape of one of Properjohn’s Flying Foxes on its long journey to Inchfarr. There were, he calculated, not many of these weirdly impending contrivances: perhaps a dozen all told, so that when the system was in motion six were always travelling towards, and six away from, the island. But the size of each was considerable, so that it somewhat resembled (Meredith now saw) a covered railway truck suspended upside down, with the invisible upper side presumably exposed to the sky, and the lower so constructed as to fall open when required and precipitate its load into some conveyance stationed below.

  Overhead the Flying Fox crept by. And at once – as if it were some piece of theatrical machinery operating a transformation scene – Meredith was aware that the landscape had changed around him. He had come to an elevation at which the sea was again visible; far out, two large aircraft were flying north; and on the remote horizon, obscure behind the broad glittering path of the sun, floated the ghosts of islands. In front of him the mass of Ben Carron had reared itself again in massive grandeur, its lower slopes sparsely clothed with larch and fir, its middle reaches bare rock and scree across which floated wisps of vapour, its summit lost in cloud. He was looking up a shallow valley through which ran a brawling burn; here and there the hurrying water stilled and deepened in a dark brown pool; the faint sound of its tumbling progress was drowned beneath the cries of peewits cutting their arabesques in air. And now two buildings were visible. High on one side of the valley at its farther end a white house, solid, low, and featureless save for a stunted and unmeaning central tower, stood amid a meagre plantation of spruce and pine. This must be Carron Lodge, where Mr Properjohn played the highland laird and where the unhappy Higbed was presumably immured. Along the other side of the valley ran the pylons which carried the cables for the Flying Foxes, and these ended not more than half a mile away in a raw and ill-proportioned structure of corrugated iron, high, unpainted, and – because windowless – displeasingly blind. Up to this building from beyond the valley, and ending before closed and solid doors, was a roughly metalled road along which there doubtless travelled those lorries which collected the guano and transported it to a railhead farther on.

  All this had as its setting absolute solitude still. And here, then, was the nerve-centre of the conspiracy. It was amid these august presences of mountain and moor and ocean that frescoes from Florence and statues from Budapest, figurines from Cnossos and canvases from Venice, trundled out to sea against a counterweight of the immemorial droppings of birds. But what happened to them after they went bucketing over the battlements of Castle Moila? Meredith shook his head, never more vividly aware than now of the monstrous disorder of the world’s affairs. A weary Canadian soldier, it was said, had made his bed on what turned out to be the Primavera of Botticelli. The manuscripts of Goethe had been found fantastically mingled with a nation’s gold at the bottom of a mine. What had just passed overhead might very well contain the Horton Venus… And these confusions were the product of a diabolic possession of the European body politic such as posterity would find it hard to forgive. Again Meredith shook his head, distrustful of his own preponderant concern for stuff out of museums. After all, people – and by the million – had had a rougher ride than Titian’s resplendent lady could ever suffer.

  Suppose that all the world’s Titians were up there in one Flying Fox, and the always unsound and now demented Higbed were in another. And suppose that he, Meredith, could preserve only one or the other from falling to destruction – what would be the right thing to do? William Godwin, the friend of Shelley, had maintained that it would be one’s duty to rescue the philosopher Fénelon from a burning house before attempting to rescue Fénelon’s pretty maidservant, or even one’s own aged and blameless mother – this because the philosopher had more potential ability to benefit mankind than the prettiest girl or most estimable old woman. Was Godwin right? And if one had to balance the assured cultural importance of the Titians against the very doubtful benefits which a rescued Higbed might bestow upon posterity – Meredith knitted his brows over this obscure question. But had not Bishop Butler, long ago, evolved some argument to dispose of quandaries like these? And Meredith looked absently about him, rather as if expecting the bishop to rise up helpfully from the heather. The bishop, however, was nowhere visible. Nor was Shamus. During this fit of metaphysical abstraction the lad had disappeared – unless, indeed, he had been transformed into what Meredith now saw not forty yards before him: the figure of a man in meagre knickerbockers and a deerstalker hat, absorbedly engaged in casting a fly over a small and improbable pool.

  Here, then, was the critical encounter, unavoidable and imminent. And Meredith realized that once more it was an occasion for the lightning brain. Hours ago he ought to have gone over every possible opening, every likely move. Instead of which here he was tramping absently up to the fellow while harmlessly but ineptly meditating Political Justice and The Analogy of Religion. Ought he at once to reassume the role of Vogelsang? Or – since conceivably Properjohn knew that Vogelsang was dead, but understood little concerning the visitor to Moila – would this be wantonly to give the game away? And, if not Vogelsang, then what? The question was urgent, and, unfortunately, the lightning brain altogether refused to act. What, at this moment, came into Meredith’s head instead was that particular philosophical argument after which he had been fumbling some minutes before. Men are quite without the sort of prescience which can determine what amount of human happiness a specific action may ultimately achieve, and before the burning house conscience will be a surer guide than any attempts at utilitarian calculation. But it was, of course, someone earlier than Godwin that Bishop Butler was confuting… ‘Shaftesbury!’ Meredith triumphantly exclaimed – and was aware of being almost up with Properjohn as he did so.

  And Properjohn – who had hitherto maintained a sinister and commanding immobility by his pool – turned, dropped his rod, and threw up his hands in despair. ‘Passworts!’ he cried. ‘Four, five, eight, ten passworts nobody tells me what. And natchly you reckon us ninnyficient all alonk.’ Properjohn looked much mortified and upset. Then his expression cleared; he kicked his expensive fishing-rod carelessly into the heather and took Meredith by the arm. ‘D
ear feller,’ he said – and chuckled gleefully at this assuming of the laird – ‘Dear feller, charmin’ to have you drop in. Toppin’ year, what? Birts deuced stronk on the wing, eh? Come up and have a peg.’ And Properjohn marched Meredith off in the direction of Carron Lodge.

  The moors were empty. Only the peewits looked down. Was it, or was it not, Vogelsang who was being thus hospitably led to entertainment? Still Meredith did not know. And still anything in the nature of brilliant improvisation failed him. So he walked in silence, waiting for Properjohn to speak again.