She settled herself bolt upright in a comfortable chair at his bedside, took out her notebook and pencil, looked at him with the benign interest of a boa constrictor contemplating its next meal, and asked:
“How many brothers did you have?”
“None. I am an only child.”
“Tell me about your family, David, please.”
“I have no family. My father died eight years ago. My mother died when I was a wee laddie. That’s all.”
“I see. How much property have you? This house, the tower you leased to your Uncle Joshua—what else?”
“Why, nothing. There’s some tale that my grandfather owned a stretch of the moor with a bit house on it, towards Lanark.”
“On the Clyde?”
“Well, not precisely on the Clyde, although a wee burn runs through it.”
“I see. And could there be buried treasure on this land?”
“Not that I ever heard tell.”
“I see. Now, David, please tell me all about your grandfather, and all about his children and their descendants.”
“For why? It isna interesting, lassie.”
“It will interest me. Do, David, tell me, please.”
“My grandfather was just an old fellow who had four sons, of whom my father was the third, and poor old Uncle Joshua the fourth. Losh! That’s an ill business, in the old tower.”
“It is. But I know who’s responsible. Come along. What about the other two sons, and everybody’s descendants?”
“You’re still thinking of buried treasure. But, lassie, there is no buried treasure; not so much as a guinea.”
“Never mind that. Go on.”
“Aye. Well, the eldest son—my father’s eldest brother, ye ken—was called Graham. He died in 1927. His only son, Graham again, had been killed in France in 1916. He left a son, too, but we quarrelled, Graham and I, back in ’98 that would have been. Still, I had the boy here sometimes, for his sake. He wasna much of a laddie.”
“Don’t you know what happened to the boy?”
“Not since he was here last, a good many months ago, that was. The dominie laddie, you ken.”
“So he had plenty of chance to copy your map-markings. Well, I told you what happened to him, David. To the best of my belief, he was murdered outside a music-hall in Newcastle less than a month ago.”
“Murdered? Aye. Poor laddie.”
“Didn’t you read about it in the papers?”
“I dinna recollect. So that would have been young Graham. Eh, me. Well, we were always folk to die by violence. It’s a tradition in the family.”
“Yes, but that isn’t all. Was your second uncle named Geoffrey, by any chance?”
“He was. And he died two years syne.”
“Leaving a son?”
“No. Thomas was killed in 1915. There was naething but that poor lad—twenty-six would he be now?—aye, about that—lying killed in the tower with old Joshua.”
Mrs. Bradley nodded.
“I thought it must be. He told a young friend of mine that his name was Geoffrey, although he certainly did not give the name of Ker.”
“I haven’t seen the lad since he was a bairn. I wouldna have recognised him, except he was so like Graham, whom I knew pretty well, you ken, for his father’s sake.”
“One minute, David. Cannot you tell me more about this piece of land, which belonged to your great-uncle?”
“I canna. Nobody kenned when he bought it, or even, for certain, that he did. There was nothing about it in his will, for my father had a copy, which was always kept inside our Family Bible, and may be there yet for all I know. I use a smaller Bible.”
“Do look, David, please. I should like to see your great-uncle Graham’s will.”
David called for Elspat and demanded the Family Bible. This she brought. It was a vast and weighty tome, and it rocked the bedside table as she lowered it on the edge.
“It would be here,” said David, leaning up and turning the first few pages over. He soon found the copy of the will. It was sandwiched between a page for the births and a page for the marriages of the family. He took it out, and handed it to Mrs. Bradley.
For about half an hour there was silence, except for slight crackling of paper, as she remained absorbed in Great-Uncle Graham’s testamentary depositions.
“I see that, upon the deaths of the Graham Kers, and the cessation of their male heirs, the property passes to the Geoffrey Kers. From them, if there are no male heirs, it comes to your branch of the family, and then passes, in like manner, to that of the Joshua and James Kers,” she said.
“Aye, that’s it. Small chance that I would ever have got much, for Graham’s boy would very likely have married, and had boys of his own, and, if he had not, there would still have been young Geoffrey and his sons to come before me.”
“Yes, it certainly ought not to have come to you,” Mrs. Bradley agreed, with a curious emphasis, which did not pass unremarked by David Ker. “What is this poem at the end of the will?” she went on.
“Oh, that! The old fellow, they say, was a rare one for quoting the Border ballads. I should think he put it in as a kind of decoration,” David answered.
“Yes, but it isn’t a quotation from an old ballad. It’s original, and very bad, at that,” said Mrs. Bradley.
“Original? But Great-Uncle couldn’t write poetry,” his relative announced with scornful confidence.
“Evidently not. But, listen, David, and tell me what this conveys to you.”
“I’ve read it before, you ken.”
“No, you haven’t; not what I should call reading it,” Mrs. Bradley said firmly. She read it aloud.
“Go draw to me a chevron vert
’Twixt uni-horns erased,
In silver these, then mullets black.
And so my name be praised.
“And seek by Clyde, in Clyde, his dale,
By Bonnington so free,
Nor dead bell wight, nor Border light—
But good Saint Rosalie.”
“Now,” she said, looking up at him, “if you are not too tired, let us construe this mysterious piece of verse. First: on a chevron vert between three unicorns’ heads erased, argent, three mullets sable. What is the answer to that?”
“Why, the family arms,” replied David Ker promptly. “We worked out that bit long ago.”
“ ‘And so my name be praised,’ ” quoted Mrs. Bradley solemnly. “Let us continue. We can take for granted that when he says Clyde he means Clyde, and by Bonnington he means Bonnington. I’ve been there once already, guided by the painstaking and careful research of another of your talented relatives. That leaves us with ‘the dead bell wight.’ What is the dead bell, David?”
“Oh, it’s a Scottish superstition that before the death of a friend you’ll be hearing a sort of a tinkling in your ears, that’s all.”
“I see. Well, we are to ignore this superstition, it appears. That brings us to ‘Border light,’ which again, we are asked to ignore. What is a Border light?”
“Nothing but a tar-barrel on a pole. In old days they would fire them, you ken, to spread news of war throughout the Border country. ‘Border beacon’ is the name, by right.”
“See, also, how, in England, they spread the news of the coming of the Armada,” said Mrs. Bradley. “Now, David, we come to the point. What do you know of good Saint Rosalie?”
But here David Ker shook his head.
“Dear me,” said Mrs. Bradley. “Have you not read your Walter Scott?”
“I have that. But the reference escapes me.”
“It appears to have escaped the other members of your family, too. Saint Rosalie’s body was buried in a cleft of the rocks.”
“But I dinna see what that’s got to do with my great-uncle’s will,” said David Ker.
“Very well, child. But don’t be obstinate. At this moment it seems to me that you are the heir to all the family property by the deaths—the deaths by violence—of your ne
phews Graham and Geoffrey.”
“But, Beatrice, what’s afoot? What does it mean, these murders?”
“Have patience, David, for a bit. Did old Uncle Joshua have sons?”
“Aye, one son he had, a weakly, sickly boy called James. I mind hitting him on the neb when we were youngsters.”
“Did he go to the war?”
“No. They wouldna take him; he was always sickly, ye ken. Losh! I can see him now, with his thin, sandy hair and his spiteful white face! He died last year. I went to the funeral, but I only did it for duty’s sake, for deil knows I never liked him.”
“Did he marry?”
“Aye, he married. She was a lass he got into trouble, a richt bad lot, and more to blame than he was, I would say.”
“Did the child live?”
“Aye; with his mother.”
“Was he born after the marriage?”
“Aye; three months after. He was as miserable as his father and as wicked as his mother.”
“Yes, he is wicked,” Mrs. Bradley agreed. “He has murdered three people already, including his own paternal grandfather, and, if we are not very careful, my dear David, I’m afraid he may set upon you. He has made one attempt already—the poisoned caviar.”
“And when will he come?” asked David.
“At any time now, I should think. And I don’t believe he will come alone. We should take the point of view that we are in a state of siege here. Let me tell you the rest of the story.”
“I see,” said David Ker, when she had finished. “So the cataleptic Dark Gentleman is to have a share of the spoils for his part in the trick, and the coffin getten ready for him is really for me.” He gave a deep chuckle. “Well, we’ll lead them dancing.” He looked thoughtful for a minute, and then he chuckled again. “I am in hope they made the coffin wide enough,” he said. “I like to turn over, nights.”
• CHAPTER 11 •
“ ‘There came a cat to my cage, master,
I thought ’twould have worried me,
And I was calling to May Colvia
To take the cat from me.’ ”
There was no doubt that to Gillian the sight of Geoffrey had been a shock, although not a severe one. Almost immediately she had pulled herself together, conferred swiftly with Lesley, and driven on farther from the village.
“Now what?” she asked, as she brought the car to a standstill on the moorland road.
“Obvious, I should say,” her sister responded. “You stay here ready to start the car at five seconds’ notice or less, and I’ll go and see whether I can spot that Mr. Joshua in the village. I suppose it’s got a pub. I’ve got his appearance clear, with any distinguishing characteristics, as the police would say.”
“But, Lesley, you can’t go alone. I’m coming with you.”
“My good ass, don’t muck the whole show. These men know you too well for us to take any silly risks. Me they don’t really know at all. It’s a pity if I can’t take a slant at a young man without your assistance. Toodle-pip! Shan’t be long. Don’t go to sleep before I get back.”
Far from requiring this facetious piece of advice, Gillian felt nervous and ill-at-ease. She had conceived a horror of Mr. Joshua, brilliantly though she had tackled him at the hotel. She hoped that her sister would not be more than ten minutes gone. She chewed her lower lip and kept glancing at her watch. The sun, which for some time had been giving indications that this was to be its policy, set in a glorious haze, which at any other time would have delighted her with its colour. At the end of a quarter of an hour Lesley had not returned.
Gillian was in an agony of indecision and alarm. She longed to leave the car and go in search of her sister, but, at the same time, she realised that on no account must she lose such advantage as the shelter of the car might give her. It would never do to let Mr. Joshua know of her presence in this little village, where, so far as he was concerned, there was no reason for her to be unless she were dogging his movements.
At last she heard lightly running footsteps. Cautiously she backed the car to give her sister a shorter distance to run.
“I’ve seen Mr. Joshua, I think,” said Lesley, tumbling in. “Drive on a bit. I don’t think I’ve been twigged, but you never know. I’ve messed up his beastly bike.”
“We’re off the main road,” said Gillian. “Hadn’t I better…?”
“No. Carry on, and make it slippy,” Lesley said urgently.
So Gillian drove on across the moor along a wild rough road, which showed signs that at any moment it would peter out altogether. This it did, and Gillian, stopping the car at a point where the dusk of the evening indicated nothing but a slight bareness among the heather, enquired what they were to do next.
“Park for the night,” said her sister. “Just take the vehicle out of the fairway, lovie, and we’ll try a spot of shut-eye. I’ve had enough for one day.”
They switched on the car lights and lay back, pulling the car rugs up to their armpits, and wondering how much colder the night was likely to grow.
At about midnight Lesley awoke from a very uneasy and rather uncomfortable doze, and said that she thought she could hear someone running.
“What’s more, I bet it’s our precious Mr. Joshua,” she said. “What shall we say if he asks us to give him a lift? Look here, he’d better not spot us. And you lie low, in case.”
She switched off the lights of the car.
The runner came nearer, and trotted up to the car. They heard him stumble and curse as he left the path for the heather. He slowed down into a walk, and then flashed a torch. It shone on the gleaming paintwork of the car, and he stopped with a cry of relief.
“I say,” he said, coming up, “do you mind if I ask you for a lift? I’m desperately anxious to get on to Moffat before morning and I’ve had a breakdown in Culter.” It was, of course, Mr. Joshua.
“We’re here for the night,” said Lesley. “We ran off the high road further back, and came to a dead-end here. I’m not going any further until daylight.”
“Oh, no, look here—” began the pedestrian.
“I’m sorry,” said Lesley with finality. “And please don’t wake my friend. He’s apt to be violent when roused.” She indicated Gillian hidden in rugs.
“Look here,” said Mr. Joshua again, “you’ve got to take me on. It’s a matter of life and death.”
“All right. Climb into the dickey, then. But please don’t disturb my friend. We’ve had a very hard day’s driving. I’ll back on to the road, and then turn.”
“No, no. Across the moor is the quickest. I can guide you,” Mr. Joshua insisted.
“Well, I don’t know…I suppose it’s all right,” said Lesley. She gave an added tug to the rug, which was covering her sister. “Get in, then. I’m sorry I can’t have you in here, but there isn’t room if Geoffrey’s to get any rest.”
“Geoffrey’s to get any rest?” said Mr. Joshua. His tone was filled with horror. He sounded like a man who had seen a ghost. They knew why, later on.
“Yes, my friend Geoffrey Smith.”
“Ah. Yes, well, keep to the course of the burn. We shall come to it in a minute. There’s plenty of room to run a car beside it. How fast do you think you can go?”
“Twenty-five, when I get the hang of the bumps,” said Lesley.
It was a most eerie journey. Once they were started upon their way, Gillian pulled down the rug an inch or two, so that she could breathe, and Lesley, her eyes strained forward to the fantastic shadow, which lay always ahead of the car and beyond the orbit of its lamps, was racking her brain to remember the map, and to try to make out for what reason Mr. Joshua had chosen this way to get to Moffat.
Just as the day was dawning Mr. Joshua asked her to stop. She obeyed, and he got out. Black against the tender colour of the faint and greyish sky stood one of the Border watch-towers, an ancient keep with narrow windows, one balustered, another almost in the roof, and an arched doorway black as the night.
“�
��‘Childe Roland to the dark tower came,’ ” muttered Lesley.
The light was just sufficient to give some impression of what a truly nightmare journey it had been. Great boulders, lying like dragons’ heads cloaked in the heather, were strewn about the moor. Among them the harebells, faint-blue, fragile-stemmed, incongruously, delicately flourished. Lesley looked at the burn, and then at her passenger.
“If we’d crashed, I’d have sued you for damages,” she observed, with a grin. In response to it Mr. Joshua showed his little white fangs. In the early, revealing light, his face was wolfish and terrifying. Lesley, fortunately, had almost no imagination. She looked him over with a girl’s crude curiosity.
“We didn’t crash,” said Mr. Joshua, with something more than ordinary satisfaction in his tones. “Now, girlie, you’re going to drive straight on, and the sooner you get a move on, the better for everyone concerned.”
“Is that so?” drawled Lesley. She looked enquiringly at the revolver, which Mr. Joshua had produced. “Gangster, huh?” she observed.
“Get going,” said Mr. Joshua. Lesley shrugged (as heroines, she had noticed, usually did on the films at moments of crisis like this one), and let in the clutch.
Mr. Joshua walked down to the burnside, and stopped to bathe his face and wash his hands.
“What next?” said Gillian, appearing from under the rug.
“Goodness knows. Did you see him pull his gun?”
“I’ve got a gun,” said Gillian. She produced it.
“Good egg. Give here. I’ll go and stalk him,” said Lesley.
“Put both your hands on the wheel. You’ll ditch us,” her sister said shortly. “I suppose we must get somewhere if we only go on long enough. How much petrol have we got?”
“Heaps. As soon as we get beyond that little bend there, I vote we have a look at the map. I—hullo! Look! A house! It looks rather decent, too. Let’s go and ask them whereabouts we are.”
There was no bridge across the burn, but they found a place shallow and clear of boulders, and put the car across with little trouble. The house was some distance away, but they arrived before its iron gates within twenty minutes of leaving Mr. Joshua and the castle, and both got out of the car to look at this monument of man in a place, which nature seemed to have reserved for herself.
Hangman's Curfew (Mrs. Bradley) Page 17
