Religion, history and golf — they give St Andrews life and make it for me the best place in Scotland for a satisfactory holiday. Here in the quiet of the burying-ground, while the coffin was lowered and the three handfuls of earth rattled on its lid and the minister prayed, my thoughts kept darting into odd crannies of knowledge concerning all three of them.
I looked across at the Cathedral, ruined, stark, yet strangely beautiful in the sunshine, its rondel soaring up like a lighthouse. Despite a crumbling outline, it looked solid and secure against a moving background of scudding white clouds in a blue sky.
Nearly a thousand years old it was — founded by Bishop Arnold and King Malcolm the Fourth in the middle of the twelfth century, though the consecration ceremony hadn’t taken place until 1318. I pictured the coloured scene as Bishop William Lamberton blessed the new building — some of it constructed out of stones of an older Celtic church — while King Robert the Bruce looked on and promised the annual gift of a hundred marks in gratitude ‘for the mighty victory vouchsafed to the Scots at Bannockburn by St Andrew, the guardian of our realm’.
In later years, in this same great church, James the Fifth was married to Mary of Guise; and here Patrick Hamilton, George Wishart and Walter Myln were tried and condemned. John Knox has often been blamed for destroying its beauty; but I felt grateful to modern historians for pointing out that there is no evidence for this. Many of the most valuable decorations of the Cathedral were no doubt carried off for safety before the storm of the Reformation burst; but the damage to the fabric was almost certainly due to plain neglect.
Thirty yards away — to the south-east — the tall square structure of St Rule’s Tower stood like a sentry guarding the Cathedral and the tiny monuments in its graveyard. The name of the Tower — St Rule’s or St Regulus’s — reminded me of the fabled origin of the tower itself, for the story goes that in the fourth century St Regulus arrived in Fife with relics of St Andrew and settled there with his followers.
The minister’s prayer was long and fervent and, in the Presbyterian style, more concerned with the mourners than with the dead. Under my eyebrows I saw that Debbie was trembling in her fight against tears.
It was none of my business, and I tried to subdue the affectionate pity I felt for her. I glanced away towards the vast cemetery. I saw ‘Divinity Corner’, where the great divines are buried — Samuel Rutherford, Principal Anderson of St Leonards, Principal Forrester and Thomas Haly-burton of St Mary’s College. I saw nearby the gravestones of three mighty golfers of international fame — Allan Robertson, Old Tom Morris and Young Tom Morris: champions all, whose prowess with hickory-shafted clubs and ‘feathery’ and ‘gutty’ balls helped to establish the reputation of the Old Course and of the Royal and Ancient Golf Club, since 1754 the premier golf club in the world.
The prayer ended with a Bendiction. There was a moment or two of awkwardness during which nobody moved or spoke. Then the undertaker carried forward three small wreaths. Debbie, Erica Garson and O’Donnel each took one and laid it at the head of the grave.
Bill made a move as if to speak to Debbie, but the minister reached her before him and he turned away with a look both disappointed and puzzled.
Surprisingly, Aidan put an arm about his shoulders. “I told you — not long now,” he said, quietly. “Keep your heart up, Bill.”
We waited.
Presently the minister shook hands with the ladies. Then he took O’Donnel’s arm and together they moved away towards the main gate through the ranks of headstones. The chauffeur’s head was bowed.
Debbie and Erica Garson still clung together, any jealousy or coldness that may have existed between them apparently submerged in their common grief. They seemed reluctant to leave the grave; but the undertaker’s men began to handle their shovels with some impatience, and after a while they turned away and began to follow the minister and O’Donnel towards the gate. Aidan and Bill and I prepared to bring up the rear.
Then Debbie stopped, and we heard her say, in a clear, controlled voice: “Don’t let’s go yet, Erica. I’d like to climb St Rule’s Tower. Just to look around. To fix in my mind a picture of the place where Uncle Conrad will be staying.”
“Are you sure, honey? Do you feel up to it?”
“Of course I feel up to it.” The stubborn sharpness showed again. “We’re neither of us all that old or decrepit, are we?”
“Okay. If you’re set on it. Let’s go.”
The old, high building with its steep newel stair and unguarded ports always makes me feel nervous, because I’m dead scared of heights. Now, as Aidan, Bill and I followed the ladies in through the horseshoe arches of the main entrance, my nervousness developed into a kind of panic — not on my own account but on Debbie’s. She was living with danger. The idea that she should expose herself needlessly to more filled my mind with misgivings.
I’m pretty certain Aidan and Bill had similar thoughts. There was no excuse we could use, however, to prevent her making the climb. Indeed, the exercise and the fresh wind at the top of the Tower might help to take her mind off the unhappiness of the past few days. All we could do, therefore, was to maintain as close a watch on her as possible, and this we were determined to do, though as the ladies began to mount the stair they moved so quickly that soon we lost sight of them in the spiral.
Aidan’s gangling legs moved faster to catch up. Bill and I began to take two steps at a time.
Then we heard the light, rapidly clicking footsteps stop. Rounding a draughty bend, we found them standing still and straight, waiting for us.
Debbie said, evenly, “Please, if you don’t mind we’d prefer to go up alone.”
Bill moved a step higher, shoulder to shoulder with Aidan. “Look, darling, can’t you see it’s because I — because we care about you.”
“I don’t subscribe to this extraordinary theory that I’m in danger!” Under the black veil her eyes were bright with an emotion as intense as her voice. “I’m certainly not in danger here,” she said, “and for once Erica and I would like — ”
“Miss Lingstrom,” interrupted Aidan, with cold authority, “Inspector McLintock has instructed us to look after you. These instructions we propose to carry out, no matter what you may say or do!”
It was so uncompromisingly final that even I felt the shock of it.
Bill shifted his feet and said, “Look, Professor, I don’t think there’s any need to — ”
“What you think, Bill, is neither here nor there. The police are in charge of this case. I intend to do as they say. So does my friend Angus, I imagine.”
Even Bill, who at other times could display a brittle authority of his own, made no further attempt to argue.
Erica Garson put her right arm about Debbie’s suddenly drooping shoulders. In the light from a port immediately above, I saw the sparkle of a small silver watch on the secretary’s wrist.
In a calm and kindly way she said: “Maybe the Professor’s right, honey. Come on. Let’s not make an issue of it.”
Debbie bit her lip. Then, after only a momentary hesitation, she turned away from us. Together they began to climb again, this time more slowly.
On the exposed roof the wind rushed at us with violence. I felt cold and uneasy. The flat stone floor, reinforced with lead, was safe and secure enough; but the coping around it seemed precariously low.
Debbie and the secretary stood by the south-eastern parapet, looking out at the harbour and the East Sands; at the Lady Chapel and the Bishops’ Hall; at the burying-ground itself with its railed enclosures in which families who thought themselves important had planned vainly to enshrine their importance; at the Precinct Wall stoutly sheltering the relics of Christianity.
For a brief unguarded moment, Aidan, Bill and I had our backs to them. We saw the Cadillac and its companion vehicles at the gate of the burying-ground, like toys, and beyond them the couthy, lovable expanse of St Andrews — the grey of the Castle and the slate-roofed houses, the sparkling blue of the S
tep Rock Pool, the yellow of the West Sands, the variegated green of the Old Course with the players and spectators moving over it like ants.
I wished I could have been one of those ants, anonymous and carefree.
The post-lunch news was that O’Connor had equalled Garialde’s 71. Will had done a respectable 74, as had Phil Rodgers, the American. I’d been slightly chilled to hear that Tony Lema had handed in a 73. ‘Lying Handy’ was the phrase Jock would probably use in connection with Lema — a true description, especially as the wind was growing stronger every minute, and the competitors due to go out in the afternoon — including Allis, Eric Brown and Coles — would be certain to find low scoring difficult, As I stood there, with the half-gale buffeting the Tower, I wondered how anybody could play decent golf at all in the conditions. Had I been asked to use a card and pencil on the Old Course that day, my score would probably have been well over a hundred.
There was a quick cry, a scuffle and a scream. We spun round. Erica Garson was struggling with Debbie against the stone parapet.
Bill moved like lightning, thrusting the secretary aside and taking Debbie in his arms.
Aidan and I supported Erica Garson, who was shaking, her face colourless beneath the make-up. I felt the muscles in her arms hard and tense.
“I — I caught her just in time,” she whispered. “She tried to throw herself over!”
Aidan was looking into her scared eyes. “So it’s come to this?” he said.
She nodded, her mouth trembling. “I — I don’t understand. There’s something she won’t tell me.”
Bill had taken off Debbie’s black wisp of a hat. He was smoothing her bright hair, like a father with a frightened child. She made no attempt to draw away from him. But neither did she surrender her mind and will to him.
“Why won’t you let me go?” I heard her say. “Can’t you see, I’m to blame! I know I’m to blame. Uncle Conrad died because of me!”
Back in the hotel, in the room upstairs, Big Sam listened to our report in silence. When we had finished, he made no comment. Aidan made no further comment, either, which was odd.
I wanted them to comment. There was a sense of unreality about the incident on St Rule’s Tower which worried me. And yet I couldn’t bring myself to ask the obvious twin-edged question, on account of Bill’s constant presence. He remained with us, listening and looking unhappy, like a puzzled teenager reluctant to leave the reassuring company of grown-ups.
He kept repeating that Debbie must be made to reveal the source of her desperate anxiety. I can do nothing with her. On the Tower this afternoon, after the — after what happened, I thought she was going to break down and tell me everything. But no — she stiffened up and froze on me again. Once upon a time — only last weekend, in fact — I thought she wanted to marry me, just as much as I wanted to marry her. But now — oh, hell, why can’t somebody do something about it?”
Big Sam was about to make a sharp observation, but before he could do so, Aidan chipped in: “She’s a brave, strong-willed person, Bill. My own theory — for what it’s worth — is that she’s trying to protect you.”
“Protect me?”
“Yes. From her contaminating influence.”
“What the hell!”
“Easy on, man! Women in love are seldom rational. I could cite you instances.”
“Professor, what’s the good of all this theorising? The plain fact is — something damned awful is going to happen unless we can make her talk!”
“I agree,” growled Big Sam, from the back of his throat. “Well — ”
“Look,” said Aidan, blandly, “I’ve been thinking. Maybe I’m wrong and Miss Lingstrom’s behaviour stems from a cause completely different from what I imagine. However, let’s assume that she does have a secret, which may or may not have to do with the murder. She refuses to confide in you, Bill — for a reason I can guess at. She refuses to confide in Erica Garson, because — well, because for a start Miss Garson is another woman and she doesn’t quite trust her. She refuses to confide in the Inspector and me, either, because we represent officialdom — and no one confides in officialdom when there’s a matter of emotion at stake. My suggestion now is that Angus here should try and see what he can do.”
“What’s that?” I said, in alarm.
“You have a kind, avuncular look about you,” he replied. “As a writer, you’ve learnt something about feminine psychology — maybe not much, but enough to turn the scales in this case. I think you should make an effort to talk to her — to break her down to the verge of the confessional.”
“But I don’t know her all that well.”
“This is the point. None of us know her well — not even Bill, who thought he did.” Young Ferguson frowned darkly, but said nothing. “Nor do we know much about Erica Garson or Cliff O’Donnel,” Aidan went on. “We could bear to learn a lot more concerning their characters — through her eyes. You’re the man for the job, Angus. You like Debbie Lingstrom — that’s plain enough. And you haven’t roughed her up with questions as the Inspector and I have done — or as Bill has done, to some extent — so her defensive mechanism may not be so firmly erected against you. You have a nice, kind face, as I said.”
“I could muff it. I could handle the situation so clumsily that Debbie’s defensive mechanism might become permanently fixed. I could do more harm than good”
“Rubbish!” he declared, with finality.
Big Sam nodded, a trifle gloomily. He wasn’t yet quite used to Aidan’s manner and style, but he was catching on.
Bill put in: “Please try, Mr MacVicar. If you don’t, it may be that.”
He stopped. I knew exactly the unexpressed idea that was torturing him. It was torturing me, too.
“All right, all right,” I said, quickly. “I’ll do my best.” But I hated the whole idea. And, not being the stuff heroes are made of, I was also dead scared.
*
After dinner I went into the lounge. Debbie and Erica Garson were sitting together at one of the glass-topped tables, smoking cigarettes and sipping frugally from tall glasses of gin and bitter lemon.
I ordered a Drambuie for myself and sat in a nearby armchair, pretending to read a newspaper.
Cliff O’Donnel came in. For a time Debbie talked to him, possibly in connection with the expected arrival on Friday morning of the family lawyer. I heard Prestwick mentioned, and it may have been that she was arranging for the chauffeur to meet him at the airport there with the Cadillac.
I think she asked O’Donnel if he’d like a drink, but he shook his head and spread his hands in a gesture which seemed to indicate that he was in a hurry to be elsewhere. He gave a small, respectful bow and left, erect and handsome from the back.
A few minutes later Bill Ferguson appeared, on his way through to the front door. He was wearing a thick blue sweater and brogue shoes, and I guessed his intention was to try and walk off some of his anxieties.
He stopped and spoke to the ladies. Debbie made no response; but I saw her mouth tighten, whether on account of anger or in order to prevent it revealing emotion I couldn’t be sure. He leant over the table for a second, as if attempting to impose his presence on her. Then, as Erica Garson smiled and said something to him, he straightened his shoulders, nodded in angry misery and clumped out into the hall.
Finally the secretary finished her drink, made a small remark to Debbie and got up. With square vigour she slalomed through the tables in the direction of the reception-desk. Through the glass doors I saw the receptionist nodding an answer to her query and taking up the phone. Erica Garson chose a cigarette from her silver case and lit it. Casually, as she waited, she began to turn over the pages of a St Andrews guide-book which lay on the counter. It appeared that her business was going to take a little time.
I put down the newspaper and crossed to Debbie’s table.
“I’d like to talk to you about Bill Ferguson, Miss Lingstrom.”
Momentarily she neither moved nor spoke. Then
she looked up, with a tight-lipped expression and cheeks that were chalky-white.
“Why?” she said, her coldness almost routing me.
But I cleared my throat and persevered. “I’m fond of Bill. I hate to see him so unhappy. You could help him, I think.”
Her eyes softened. Fleetingly I saw what I believed was the real Debbie — warm, affectionate, happily impulsive.
Then, almost immediately, the warmth changed into wariness again. “Did he send you to tell me this?”
“Not at all,” I said. “You know Bill. As proud and brittle-tempered as they come — a fighter of his own battles. No, he didn’t send me — but I know how he feels. I saw how much he was hurt just now when you ignored him. If you could spare a few minutes, I believe I could make you understand his point of view.”
She glanced away and saw that Erica Garson had completed her business and was coming back into the lounge from the reception-desk.
With an odd haste and breathlessness, she said: “I’ll be in the hall out there in an hour’s time. We”ll meet as if by chance and go for a short walk. My — my watchdogs will allow it, I guess, so long as you’re with me.”
“Thanks,” I said.
I found Aidan in the cocktail bar. He was drinking whisky with a man whose narrow, close-cropped head, sloping shoulders and swelling hips made him look like one of the inflated rubber puppets used by the Goons. I caught my friend’s eye and tried to beckon him away from this questionable-looking character, but he grinned and called me over.
“One of your fans, Angus. A constant reader of your stuff — or so he says. Mr Ringo Jenks, bookmaker extraordinary.”
Mr Jenks patted my shoulder with a flabby hand. His condescending familiarity made me want to throw up.
“Always had a yen to meet you, Mr Mac. You make books. So do I, eh! Rogues stick together!” He chuckled and spluttered and licked small splashes of saliva from the fat borders of his mouth.
“I’ve been doing a deal with Mr Jenks.” Aidan’s voice was as solemn as that of a Tory M.P. in the presence of a steel magnate, and I wondered what on earth had got into him. “He’s offered me thirteen to one against George Will and I’ve taken it.”
Murder at the Open Page 9
