‘If wishes were horses…’
‘In Mazeppa’s case, of course, they were. Did you ever have to learn those fearful verses?’
‘Don’t think so. Anyway, you think the laird was a blackmailer?’
‘Well, I mentioned a while ago that I had what you call a hunch. It may seem farfetched, but did it never occur to you that Mr Macbeth (for want of his real name) was trying to find out from you, that evening you spent on Tannasgan, whether the names of fabulous animals had for you anything more than a slight academic interest?’
‘Good heavens, no! I just thought the poor old red-beard was bats.’
‘Did you? You have an excellent verbal memory and, I am pretty sure, you reported your conversation with him verbatim. I have my notes.’
She produced a small, black-covered book and studied it thoughtfully.
‘Verbatim? Well, I wouldn’t be surprised,’ said Laura. ‘The whole thing was more than a bit outré, if that’s the word I want, so I wasn’t likely to forget anything that was said. But what’s your idea?’
‘Vaguely, that the fabulous animals represent some kind of code.’
‘Whatever for?’
‘That is what we have to find out. Cast your mind back to the evening in question, and I will read out what you told me of what passed between you and Mr Macbeth. But, first, were you not a little surprised when you were welcomed, dried, warmed and fed?’
‘Well, after what Mrs Grant had said about the laird, I suppose I was, although Highlanders are always hospitable. But, of course, I was so horribly wet and cold that I was only too thankful to get into the house, and when the old boy actually welcomed me, in his odd sort of way, all my critical faculty left me.’
‘Not altogether. You knew that it would be wise to leave Tannasgan instead of waiting until the morning. Well, now, this is what you told me. I give it in the form of a dialogue. I may add my own comments if I see fit.
Macbeth: Are there werewolves in your part of the country?
Laura: No. They live in the Hartz Mountains. (An equivocal answer, if he was trying to pump you.)
Macbeth: They live in the Grampians; they thrive in the Cairngorms; they have been known at Leith and now they are here.’
Laura: So is the basilisk.
Macbeth (interested to a degree which makes Laura wonder whether he is rather more than eccentric): Do you tell me that? (Did you not think that there was something in your answer which caused him to deepen his suspicion that there was more behind your unexpected visit than he had supposed? No, don’t answer now. Just think it over.)
Laura: And what about the cockatrice? (And it was with this question that you really put the cat among the pigeons, I think. He thought you were one of the cognoscenti or else had been sent as a spy. The same sort of thing happened a moment later. Do you remember?)
Laura (continuing after he has explained that the basilisk and the cockatrice were one and the same creature): I should have asked about the salamander.
Macbeth (speaking, I think, allegorically): I had one once … until he fell into the fire … There was a blaze! It nearly had my house burnt down … Half-way to the Golden Gate – I mean the Antipodes – is the salamander. Ay, on fire he feeds and grows … (At this point he was quite certain that you knew what he was talking about. Now, does nothing strike you as significant?’)
‘The mention of Leith and the slip of the tongue about the Antipodes,’ said Laura.
‘The mention of Leith I am taking to be a deliberate attempt to test you. The Antipodes reference I am inclined to leave for further investigation. The other was no slip of the tongue. The Golden Gate, if I am right, meant something other than a geographical location. I think it referred to money.’
Laura knitted her brows.
‘Down in the forest nothing stirs,’ she said. ‘Ought it to?’
Dame Beatrice waved an apologetic claw.
‘All will be gay when noontide wakes anew the buttercups,’ she said. ‘Meanwhile, what of our other suspects?’
‘Well, we have mentioned the Corries, but you know what I think about her.’
‘Like you, I think we may forget Mrs Corrie as a suspect, although I still wish to talk with her. You did remark once, though, I believe, that the Corries did not seem the kind of people who would have consented to serve a man such as the laird.’
‘No. In a way, though, Mrs C. seemed quite the type to look after the loony Macbeth. I thought her simple and dignified and kind, and no end fond of a joke.’
‘Just so. Well, the only reason for her to have murdered the laird would seem to be that she was tired of his ways and preferred those of his successor.’
Laura laughed. ‘Could be,’ she said. ‘Well, who’s next?’
‘Young Grant wanted his newspaper scoop so badly that he murdered the laird and then reported the death.’
Laura laughed again.
‘That rabbit? Oh, rot, whatever you may say. We agreed, long ago, I thought, that, liar though he’s proved himself to be, he isn’t a murderer.’
‘I am not convinced that I fully associated myself with that opinion. What was he doing on Tannasgan?’
‘I should say that he’s got reason to hope for some sort of scoop – that part of his story may be true – and had the horrors when he found out that he might have let himself in for being suspected of murder. He was in a panic all right, following me about all over the place like that. Don’t you think so?’
‘I shall call upon the editor of the Freagair local newspaper,’ said Dame Beatrice. ‘In fact, we might make it our next assignment.’
‘Well, we didn’t get much out of Ye Ed., did we?’ said Laura, an hour or two later.
‘Only that young Mr Grant, although permanently employed as a reporter, is allowed to act as a freelance when the editor has no particular assignment for him; only that the editor’s his father’s friend and, for that reason, he a person of some importance on the paper; only that he receives an expenses allowance out of all proportion to his salary—’
‘Ye Ed. being his father’s friend would account for that, I suppose. It’s his way of giving him an allowance which doesn’t actually come out of his own pocket. Quite an idea, in a way. Wonder what the other reporters think of it?’
‘I doubt whether there are any other reporters, child.’
‘Ye Ed. is his own newshound? How dashed improper! I thought they always sat glued to a swivel chair and wore a green eye-shade and got all hectic beacuse they’d got a blank half-column or their advertisers weren’t kicking in the dough at the appointed time.’
‘From what I gathered, the editor covers all the purely local or Freagairian excitements, sometimes accompanied by a photographer, but that young Mr Grant has a roving commission, over a wide area, but no photographer.’
There’s an office boy, anyway. Did you see him? – a freckled, intelligent-looking kid of about fifteen.’
The son of the editor, I understood.’
‘You seem to have understood a whole lot more than I did. You think the kid is left in charge while father is out nosing around for news? Is that the set-up?’
‘It may be. You know, young Mr Grant was not reporting our Conference all the time he was in Edinburgh.’
‘Well, he said he liked crowds and the bright lights and soft music, so I expect he went to the pictures and did himself well at the best restaurants and all that kind of thing.’
‘I think he may have spent some of his time in Leith, child.’
‘How that place is beginning to crop up! What’s its importance in this tangled history?’
‘What is its general importance?’ asked Dame Beatrice. ‘Or did you never study geography?’
‘Shades of Cartaret Training College and the ghost of one Tweetman, whose jogger notes I inherited from one Cartwright! Remember? Oh, no, you weren’t in on that one. Leith is the port for Edinburgh, not that that bit of information was in Tweetman’s notes, those being of local importan
ce only. Leith – my Uncle Hamish used to point in its direction when I was a child of tender years and during those times when he used to instruct, inform and entertain me on the heights of Edinburgh Castle. And talking of Edinburgh, what about that bit of young Grant’s story?’
‘The death of the man in the street?’
‘I told you at the time that it was murder.’
‘He seemed quite sure of it, too. It must have startled him when he recognised you as the woman who had made one of the crowd with him at that time.’
‘Once seen, never forgotten,’ said Laura smugly. ‘But what did you want me to tell you about Leith?’
‘Leith does not quite fit in with my ideas and yet it has been mentioned. What I am in quest of is something smaller, less important and populated by people who can emulate the three wise monkeys – people, in short, who are conservative, inbred, not particularly interested in strangers, can mind their own business and—’
‘Newhaven,’ said Laura. ‘My uncle took me there once to have a special fish dinner. It’s a fishing port just west of Leith and the fish dinners there are quite something. The population are all decended from Danes and Dutchmen and keep themselves to themselves. They don’t care to marry anybody from outside and their women are enormously tough and strong. They seem to be a community quite on their own. How will Newhaven suit your book?’
‘So beautifully that I regard you with reverence, my dear Laura.’
‘It’s Uncle Hamish you should regard with reverence. There’s nothing about the environs of Edinburgh that he doesn’t know. What do we do? – dash to Newhaven and put the inhabitants in a panic? I really doubt whether we could.’
‘I feel sure we could not. Neither would it be desirable. We need not even go to Newhaven at present – if, indeed, at all.’
‘Pity! I could easily manage another of those fish dinners. What next, then?’
‘Next we find out the significance of the fabulous animals and supply the authorities with a code. To do this we shall need a digest from Lloyd’s Register of Shipping.’
‘I begin to see daylight – at least, I think I do. You mean that each of Macbeth’s fabulous beasts represents a ship?’
‘That is my theory, and, of course, it is nothing but a theory. I may be hopelessly wrong.’
‘And these ships use Newhaven as a base?’
‘If I am right, these ships bring sugar and coffee from a self-governing island, and, so far as anybody on this side is concerned, they are owned by a reputable and honest trading company whose name we shall learn in due course.’
‘How do we get hold of Lloyds’ Register?’
‘We do not. I write to a friend of mine who sees a copy yearly upon publication. He is one of Lloyds’ underwriters and will thoroughly enjoy playing detective for us.’
‘And while he’s doing that?’
‘We return to Tannasgan and endeavour to track down and interview the Corries. There may be considerable importance in what they tell us.’
‘If they tell us anything. As I say, I don’t feel sanguine about getting them to talk, especially after the police have had a go at them – several goes, in fact, if I know the police. That reminds me! I’d better write to his grandparents and find out to what extent my son Hamish has wrecked the home and how soon they want to get rid of him. Gavin, bless his heart, is still happy with his barracuda and won’t be back in harness for another week.’
‘His grandparents will probably refuse to part with your son.’
‘What a hope! Anyway, you’ve now put me wise about Macbeth and his fabulous beasts. The very fact that I’d forgotten for the moment that the basilisk and the cockatrice are one and the same creature means that there are sister ships… the reference to the salamander, a lizard which is always connected with fire, means that a ship got burnt out… I say, do you really think so?’
‘It is only a theory and may be wildly wide of the mark. It gives us something to work on, that is all.’
Chapter 13
Story told by the Corries
‘Heard the rivulet rippling near him,
Talking to the darks tone forest.’
H. W. Longfellow
« ^ »
IRRATIONALLY to Laura’s surprise, the lantern and the bell on the mainland were answered at once. The boatman was Corrie, whom she had known previously only as a waiter at table. Also, to her astonishment, he spoke.
‘You’re welcome. Maybe you can speak up and save us all this anxiety.’
‘Right,’ said Laura. ‘All aboard!’ She handed Dame Beatrice (who needed no such assistance) into the broad-beamed rowing-boat. ‘And how’s the laird?’
‘He does well enough in his grave.’
‘Oh, come now! You know perfectly well that I was speaking of the one who calls himself Malcolm Donalbain Macbeth,’ said Laura, stepping into the boat.
‘He’s awa’ to Dingwall.’
‘Did he do it? Did he kill the laird?’
‘I dinna ken. Maybe he did, and maybe he did not.’
‘Fair enough. What is your own opinion?’
‘I have given it to you. What will be your business this time at An Tigh Mór?’
‘You’ll find out when we get there,’ said Laura, matching her tone to his. He dug the short oars into the calm waters of the loch and soon was tying up on the other side.
‘Come ben,’ he said, leading the way to the house.
‘Is your wife at home, Mr Corrie?’ asked Dame Beatrice, addressing him for the first time.
‘Ay.’ The front door was open. ‘She will be speaking to you in the dining-room. Mr Macbeth said to be always keeping a fire in the dining-room, for he didna ken when he would be coming back.’
He showed them into the dining-room and drew an armchair a little nearer to the fire for Dame Beatrice. She and Laura seated themselves and in a moment Mrs Corrie came in and stood between them and the enormous dining-table.
‘Well, well!’ she said, grimly smiling at Laura. ‘Such a to-do when the laird came down to breakfast and I had to report that you were missing.’
‘Yes, it was very ungrateful of me to sneak off like that after all his kindness – and yours. But I had to get back to Freagair, to my hotel, you know. I didn’t want to be reported to the police as a missing person,’ said Laura, improvising with some success. Mrs Corrie wagged her head in sympathetic agreement.
‘Police!’ she exclaimed. ‘We were swarming with them after they discovered the old laird’s body. Police all over the house and all over the policies. They rowed themselves about on the loch and they searched the wee inch with the trees on it – ay, and every nook and cranny on the other rocks that stands up out of the water.’
‘Ah, yes,’ said Dame Beatrice. ‘I wonder what they made of the statuary?’
‘They speired at us about that, but we could tell them nothing. My man had seen the strange beasties, but I had not. Those were here before our time, and that’s as much as we could say.’
‘Mr Corrie told us that Mr Macbeth had gone to Dingwall. Did the police take him there?’
‘No, no. He went of his own will to make a statement and to see a lawyer.’
‘And he went – when?’
‘Corrie took him across the loch the morn.’
‘Today?’
‘Ay.’
‘How much do you know about the death of Cù Dubh?’
‘Well, there’s mony a mickle mak’s a muckle, as they say. Things were adding up. There was the visit of the young laird.’
‘Not a chap who translates his sentences from the Gaelic into literal English?’ asked Laura.
‘That same. Dinna tell me you are acquainted with him!’
‘Considering that he was the man who got me on to Tannasgan in the first place, and that I saw him on Skye a day or so later, I think I may claim that I’ve met him.’
‘Deary me! Did it come to you that you should visit at An Tigh Mór, then?’
‘No, it most
certainly did not. I was terribly wet and this man was near the little quay and insisted upon turning the lantern and ring the bell.’
‘Ay,’ said Corrie. ‘I heard it, but the laird insisted that himself should take the boat over. “I ken well who it is,” he said, “and I have a thing or two to say to him,” he said. “It is not he who is the heir to Tannasgan, but myself.” And with that he ordered me to the kitchen to help with the dinner, and himself rowed the boatie over the loch to bid the visitor come ben.’
‘He must have had a surprise when he saw me there,’ said Laura.
‘Surprise? You couldna surprise that one gin you were putting a charge of dynamite in his breeks! No, no, he was not surprised. Said he to me whiles you were to your bed and he was waiting on his dinner, “The poor-spirited clarty gowk! He sends a lassie to speak for him!” Those were his words, mistress, and that is what he thought.’
‘So the man who signalled for the boat was the laird’s son?’
‘Disinherited.’
‘And you think he killed his father?’
‘Him? No, no, mistress. He hasn’t it in him to kill anybody.’
‘What do you know of some people named Grant who live this side of the hydro-electric power station?’ asked Dame Beatrice.
‘Grant? Ay, Grant.’ He stopped to think. ‘Would that be the Grant who lives at Coinneamh Lodge?’
‘It would.’
‘Ay.’ He spent more time in thought. ‘I canna tell you anything about him.’
‘Can’t, or won’t?’ asked Laura.
‘I canna. Aiblins he killed the old laird; aiblins he didna. There was nae love lost between them.’
‘Oh? How do you know that?’
‘I dinna ken. It might be something I overheard. The old laird kenned something about Grant that was no to his credit.’
‘Such as?’
But Corrie shook his head.
‘Who fashioned those curious animals on the little island with the trees and the maze?’ asked Dame Beatrice.
‘The fabled beasties? I dinna ken. All I ken is that they used to travel.’
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