The Screaming Gull

by Angus MacVicar

  “But how did she manage to exhibit the gull, wearing her old costume?”

  “I forgot about that,” returned Gray. “Actually she is wearing a sleeveless frock that she got from Professor Campbell at Dalbeg. Apparently it is an old one of his daughter’s. Perhaps you remember reading about Miss Campbell during the Mistletoe Murders business. She married John James MacPherson shortly afterwards and they are now living in London… It would have been risky, of course, for Miss MacLaren to have continued to wear her old tweed costume, for at any moment a member of the society might have identified her as Mrs. MacNair, one of the people who had helped to capture Wotherspoon, Reid, and Mason. As a matter of fact she informed MacTavish that she was a Miss Llewellyn from Aberdeen, at present on holiday in the district.”

  “She’ll sune no’ ken richt wha’ she is!” remarked Peter. “First o’ a’ she was Miss MacLaren. Then she was Mrs. MacNair. An’ noo she’s Miss Llew — Llew… whatever ye ca’ it! I’m beginnin’ tae think she should ca’ hersel’ the Queen o’ Sheba an’ be done o’t!”

  “Peter!” I snapped. “That’s enough!”

  “Ha!” he observed. “Sorry, faither! I was jeest tryin’ tae be funny. I wadna say a thing against — against ma mither. Ye ken that?”

  I could vaguely discern in the darkness his solemn little face and the flaming hair which crowned it. I leaned over and patted his shoulder.

  *

  It was shortly before ten, I imagine, when the curtain covering one portion of the bay window in front of us was drawn back. We saw the figure of the minister of Castlebrae Church outlined against the light, and as he lowered the top sash about a foot we heard him speaking.

  “My friends,” he said, “the room has grown stuffy. There can be no harm in lowering the window a little for some fresh air. Luckily the wind is not directly on this part of the house.”

  “Closer!” breathed Lawson. “Closer! We may hear them talking.”

  Carefully we wormed our way across the sodden turf until we were almost immediately beneath the sill of the window. The hum of talk inside was strong, and in spite of warning glances from the two Secret Service men I raised myself gently until I could see into the brightly lit, luxuriously furnished room.

  About twenty people were grouped around a long oak table. Five of them, I saw, were ladies.

  Each had been supplied with paper and pencils, while at their head, as if he were chairman, sat a gaunt, clean-shaven man of uncertain age. His head was completely bald and his great nose and chin shot out in startling relief from the rest of his face. This person, I surmised, was ‘Lofty’ MacArthur, the Blind One’s farm manager and chief lieutenant. He was talking quickly, jerkily.

  “Then on the East Coast you, Farquhar, and you, Mollison, are responsible. At three thirty on Wednesday afternoon Edinburgh Castle will be stormed. At that time the troops will have finished their exercises. The municipal buildings will be attacked at three forty five and held by means of the machineguns which are coming over from Ireland tonight. They will be delivered by lorry at our Edinburgh headquarters at approximately two o’clock on the morning of the great day. The police will not, I think, give much trouble, for about twenty five per cent of their number are in our employment. Only a comparatively small body will be required to deal with the Police Station.”

  For an interminable period the curt, clipped voice went on, explaining with a wealth of minute detail the exact method by which the Blind One planned to achieve her end.

  Maureen sat at one corner of the table near the window. She was wearing a short-sleeved blue frock — the one which Gray had told us belonged to Professor Campbell’s daughter — and it precisely matched the colour of her eyes. Round her throat lay a string of pearls. Her dark brown hair, brushed back in waves, gleamed in the light from a cluster of electric bulbs above the table.

  Her face was pale, I saw, and even from my position outside I could see the strained set of her mouth and the dark shadows beneath her eyes. But apparently she was taking a deep interest in the proceedings. Many times she asked the chairman questions relating to details of the scheme which the meeting had under discussion. Obviously members of the Society harboured no suspicions against her, for no one seemed to take particular notice of her presence. I longed to tell her that I was near her in her ordeal and would give her all the help of which I was capable when the crisis arrived.

  The man whom I took to be ‘Lofty’ MacArthur was speaking again.

  “This is the culmination of all our efforts. In another forty-eight hours, instead of being mere ciphers, mere cogs in the grinding wheel of modern conditions, we should be free — masters of Scotland’s destiny and guided only by the glorious lady who is our queen.”

  “Guid sakes!” whispered Peter. “Is he no’ a gran’ speaker! He’s like wan o’ they fellows that lecture on Glesca Green on May Day.”

  I bent down and shook my fist in his face to enjoin silence; but like Lawson and Gray, I was hard put to it to control my countenance. Peter’s view of the situation was so light-hearted that this talk of treason, which otherwise we might have taken seriously, now seemed mere bathos.

  “My friends,” continued MacArthur, “each of you has now a separate task allotted to you. You will go and perform those tasks and on Thursday we shall meet again. Some of us may pay with our lives for the great cause; but let us remember the countless hundreds who sacrificed themselves on Culloden Moor in a similar brave endeavour. The blood of those men and the crying of their womenfolk has whispered through the ages for revenge. Now we are about to accomplish that revenge. The Blind One has urged me to impress upon you the importance of following faithfully the schedules I have drawn up. Only by acting strictly according to our timetables can we hope for success.”

  I was listening intently; but I could scarcely credit the evidence of my ears. ‘Lofty’ MacArthur and the whole of that queer mob around the table must be mad — utterly mad. And yet there was something so confident and so compelling about the manner of the gaunt man’s speaking that I believed, were the people in the room to leave Ringan unmolested, that Wednesday would prove the greatest day of horror Scotland had ever seen.

  “One last word did my mistress tell me to communicate,” said MacArthur. “One last word — ”

  He stopped abruptly, unexpectedly. I saw the faces of his listeners grow pale and strained. A little rustle, like a breeze passing over a grove of trees, ran round the table.

  Outside the door of the room, as if coming nearer and nearer along a narrow corridor, came the tap, tap of a stick.

  Chapter 16

  The events which occurred during the next few moments within the front room of the Blind One’s home remain clear-cut and vivid impressions in my mind. I can still close my eyes and picture every detail of the strange scene, as if they had been permanently photographed by some small brain cell. And often when the film-like recollection comes back to me I feel a little uneasy and uncertain, and I have to find Maureen to give me comfort.

  Slowly the white varnished door immediately behind MacArthur swung inwards. And as the Blind One entered the room a sudden gasp fluttered around her startled guests. Not a single person in the place had, I believe, actually seen Lady O’Brian before that moment. ‘Lofty’ MacArthur must have spoken with her on many occasions, but, if the bartender’s gossip was to be credited, these conversations had been carried out with a door between them. Now, however, a queen was about to show herself to her eager subjects.

  She was dressed in a skirt and plaid of the vivid red tartan of the Royal Stuarts. Despite her age she carried herself with a dignity and uprightness which set off correctly the Highland costume. She was tall and slim, and her face… I looked again and shivered. Save for the dull, sightless eyes, her face might have been that of the youthful Prince Charlie. Smooth, round, and imperious, it was graced by a wealth of fair, curling hair. I know now that she wore a wig, but at the moment it seemed as if she were one of the loveliest women I had
ever seen. In one of her thin hands, both of which were bedecked with gleaming rings, she carried a gold-headed cane.

  ‘Lofty’ MacArthur rose swiftly from his chair, a great, lean hulk of a man; and, going over to his mistress, knelt down awkwardly on one knee and kissed her left hand.

  Then she spoke, in a thin, silvery voice which contained only the slightest trace of a foreign accent.

  “My good people,” she said, “there is a traitor among your number.”

  The company remained silent and awestricken, but I saw Maureen’s hand leap to her throat and colour flood her cheeks with painful suddenness.

  “Madam!” exclaimed MacArthur. “It is impossible. I have taken all the usual precautions. I — ”

  “Silence! I had my secretary read to me half an hour ago the list of guests which you give me before each meeting. Among the names I found one which was not familiar to me. My secretary, therefore, telephoned our Aberdeen headquarters. No member called Llewellyn comes from that town.”

  ‘Lofty’ MacArthur sprang to his feet. Every guest turned to Maureen, who stood, pale now and swaying a little, at the corner of the table. It was as if a pack of wolves crouched round her, ready to spring. The Blind One continued to speak.

  “We understand,” she said in her silvery tone, “that this person was brought to Ringan by the Reverend Norman MacTavish. Hitherto the gentleman has been zealous in our interests and this fact alone saves him from death. He shall, nevertheless, suffer the consequences of his error.”

  “Madam!” screamed the minister, half-rising from his chair on MacArthur’s right. “I implore you — ”

  “Will you please be silent, sir, while I speak? …MacArthur! Kindly have the girl and the ignorant clergyman seized.”

  I saw Maureen stoop suddenly and her hand flash down to take the revolver from her stocking; but before she could even raise the hem of her dress her neighbours, two powerful, middle-aged men, one of whom, I learned afterwards, was Higgins, the tenant of Innish-na-gobhar Farm, clutched her arms and held her firmly between them, MacArthur himself had caught the minister’s right wrist and was twisting it with a kind of unsatisfied cruelty.

  “Now take them away!” commanded the Blind One.

  I had the lower sash of the window raised in a split second and with a wriggle and spring I landed on the floor of the room, facing the assembled company.

  “No,” I said. “The girl remains here! Put your hands up — all of you! The house is. surrounded by police.”

  I pointed my revolver at the Blind One, for I knew that none of her followers would dare to put her life in danger by attempting a sudden sally. The weapon, I noticed, shook ever so slightly; but I was comforted by the fact that immediately behind me Lawson and Gray, both much better shots than I, were twisting through the window.

  Suddenly Peter was at my side.

  “If ony o’ ye move a muscle,” he announced, “ma faither’ll plug the ould wife… Hullo, mither! Were ye feared?”

  Maureen smiled a little wanly and came over beside us. I was quite unaware of what was going to happen next. My reference to the police had been made on the spur of the moment, and for all I knew they might have been still in Campbeltown. But the statement had taken effect upon members of ‘The Screaming Gull’. I saw their faces drawn and lined, and in the eyes of several there was a light of desperation which was not good to see.

  “Peter,” said Lawson, “go round those people and search their pockets for weapons.”

  Maureen had now produced her revolver and the four of us stood covering the silent crowd, while Peter carried out Lawson’s order.

  I was watching the Blind One. Her expression had not changed. Her face was still round and smooth and imperious, and yet I knew that within her crazed mind a riotous jumble of thoughts must be coursing. ‘Lofty’ MacArthur stood beside his mistress, his gaunt cheeks like putty, his great shoulders rounded and stooped. The tall, lean minister of Castlebrae Church had fallen forward when his wrist had been released. His thin arms were sprawled across the table, pillowing his sagging head. I wondered if he had fainted.

  *

  The four ladies, who with Maureen had made up the feminine number at the council table, were crouching back from us, their eyes strained and their cheeks unnaturally white. One of them, who appeared to be little more than a girl, was weeping softly; but her companion, a tall, elderly woman, had the look of a fiend stamped on the long, firm lines of her jaws. I saw frustration and passion marked there and I trembled that anything might go wrong with our plans.

  Some of the men were in little better state than the girl; and one old man with a grey spade beard and fine silken hair was openly sobbing. I imagined that he must have been utterly sincere in his love for the Blind One’s cause.

  When Peter approached him and asked if he carried a pistol he shook his head sadly, and none of us had hearts hard enough to insist that his pockets should be searched as had occurred in the case of all the others. He was so dejected and woebegone, and physically he was so frail, that we apprehended no danger from him.

  I saw the Blind One approach more closely to the switch of the electric light.

  “Lady O’Brian!” I called. “Please remain in your present position. If anyone touches that switch your life will be forfeit.”

  She turned to face me and her blind eyes seemed to pierce my very soul.

  “Who are you?” she asked.

  “I am William Dunbar,” I said. “Draper.”

  “I was afraid of you,” she returned. “I have always been afraid of cowards. They rise to desperate heights of courage.”

  Peter had by now completed his duties and about his person he had collected a small armoury of miscellaneous weapons.

  “Go outside, son,” said Lawson, “and bring in the policemen.”

  It was a bold move. I heard Peter clamber through the open window, and I wondered painfully if he would find our friends. We had no guarantee that they would be in the vicinity of the house; though, if they had left Campbeltown at seven o’clock, as arranged, they ought to have been near. If they had not yet arrived I shrank miserably from the thought of facing much longer this desperate company.

  “You have played your game, Lady O’Brian,” I said. “You have lost. It remains for you and your friends to surrender.”

  She threw back her golden curls and laughed, and her laugh was like the chuckle of a clean burn.

  “Surrender!” she exclaimed. “None of my race knew the meaning of the word.”

  “I should be sorry to have you suffer the indignity of handcuffing.”

  I was playing for time. I could have yelled frantically for the police. Surely they were long in coming. To me every second seemed like an eternity. Where was Peter?

  *

  Then suddenly, even as the Blind One was about to reply, the whole world appeared to shift on its axis. I had a glimpse of the old, sobbing, silken-haired man whipping a revolver from the side pocket of his old fashioned jacket and firing at the cluster of bulbs above the table. I heard the stunning report, and in a quick second I saw the smoke wreathing from the barrel of the weapon. Then the lights went out and black darkness descended on the room.

  There were screams and curses and a sudden clamour outside. Whistles blew shrilly near the window, and I felt a great wave of thankfulness possess me that the police had at last arrived. I tried to find Maureen, but in the darkness and tumult I failed. I remembered having seen her, just as the old man fired, darting forward towards the Blind One. I stood stock still, and I heard the door of the room open and shut with a crash.

  All at once, it seemed, the room was lit by erratic gleams. The police were using their torches. Lawson was shouting:

  “The Blind One! She’s gone. The Blind One and MacArthur have gone. Outside! Outside! They’ll make for the slip on the other side of the island.”

  I did not move.

  “Maureen!” I roared. “Maureen! Where are you?”

  There was
no answer.

  “Maureen!” I cried again.

  All around me was stamping and shouting; but there was no answer to my call. I was hustled and pushed this way and that. Once a policeman shone his torch into my face.

  “I’m Dunbar!” I shouted.

  After a moment’s hesitation he passed on.

  A terrible agony settled on my mind. They had carried off Maureen. She had rushed forward gallantly to keep the Blind One from the door, but MacArthur must have dragged her away with his mistress. They had taken Maureen. There would be no rising now in Scotland, but they had taken Maureen… I tried to find Lawson.

  Someone — I learned afterwards that it was Inspector McKinven of the Campbeltown police — threw open the door of the room and the prisoners were pushed out into the lit hall. I followed rather dully. Looking round the assembled company I could see no sign of Maureen. But Lawson, Gray and Peter stood there, watching the long rows of captives and policemen.

  “We have nineteen prisoners here,” said the stout, Highland-spoken inspector.

  “That leaves the Blind One, MacArthur and the old greybeard — Bailie Grant — to be accounted for,” snapped Gray. “And where is Miss MacLaren?”

  I saw the distorted face of the elderly lady whom I had noticed particularly among the members of ‘The Screaming Gull’. She was looking at me now with a kind of devilish satisfaction. Suddenly she laughed.