He set her down at the junction with what she had expected would be a side road, but was in reality a rough track. “Sure you’ll be all right, hen? Twenty past the hour, dinna forget now!” And tootling a farewell blast on the horn, he drove the old bus away in a rattle of blue smoke.
How restful everything about her was, mused Miss Seeton, as she watched the bus disappear around a bend in the road, leaving her by herself among the sheep, the heather, and the wheeling birds above. Of course, one would hardly describe one’s setting as deserted, when there was so much movement, so much life all around: the calling of birds, the bleat of sheep, the rustle of grass as the breeze tousled its scrubby tufts into elflocks . . .
“Deserted,” she said aloud, as she checked once more on the map before setting off along the track towards the loch. “No, perhaps that is not quite the word, although certainly there was almost nobody on the bus . . . but it does seem perhaps a little strange . . . though no doubt everyone has gone to Larick to assist in the making of the film—but I would nevertheless have supposed . . .”
She broke off, because, now she came to think of it, she wasn’t sure just what she had supposed, except that whatever had caught her attention had seemed, well, a little strange. “Earlier,” she remarked, as she walked with care, her eyes fixed on the ruts and potholes of the track rather than on the scenery. She would be glad when she’d reached the shelter by the loch, so that she could catch her breath and take her bearings; it was so much farther from anywhere than she had at first realised. “Yet not exactly deserted,” she told herself, frowning. “Although earlier . . .”
But she was so busy concentrating on not twisting her ankle that the thought drifted away again. It took a little while for her to remember how strange it had seemed—except that it hadn’t, at the time, because she’d only just now thought of it—but, now that she had thought of it, surely it must be unusual for the main street of Glenclachan to have been almost totally devoid of masculine presence, only half an hour ago.
“Unbalanced,” said Miss Seeton, retired art teacher, who was not bothered by empty spaces and lonely places, but who found other forms of irregularity . . . disconcerting. Life, she felt, should as far as possible imitate art: with shape and form and, well, order. As her life was ordered. Which pleased her greatly. Not that she would call herself tidy—but dear Martha took such good care of her that it hardly mattered if one was . . . a little less enthusiastic about the niceties of broom and duster on the days when Martha didn’t come. But, on the whole, an orderly, peaceful existence, blessed by a routine which was so pleasant, being one’s own choice, after the bells of Mrs. Benn’s school. Like living with an alarm clock permanently in one’s pocket, when, after a sensible eight hours’ sleep, there should be no need—
“Worn out after the night’s exertions, of course. The fire,” she said, delighted to have solved the mystery to her own satisfaction. “And the falling weather vane, as well. I must remember to sketch it—so unusual—before the smith replaces it. If he is anything like dear Mr. Eggleden—such a painstaking craftsman—it may have been repaired before my return, and possibly in the correct order, which would not be nearly so interesting. Whereas—”
She stopped, and looked about her for somewhere to sit, so that she could jot down a few ideas for her subsequent sketch of Glenclachan’s kirk before she forgot them, with so much else to see. And what she saw was the waters of the loch, sparkling just a hundred yards in front of her, at the bottom of a gentle slope. She’d been concentrating so hard, on the uneven track and on her little self-imposed puzzle, that she’d come farther than she had thought.
She recalled hearing in the shop about the monster, and wondered if this was where it might be found, and chuckled at herself for being so foolish. “A rather improbable specimen of natural history,” she said firmly, “though a romantic notion, to be sure—and, as the talk was of attracting visitors . . . one might hide somewhere with binoculars . . .”
And there was a suitable place to hide: the shelter of which the bus driver had spoken. A plain wooden hut, nestling between two clumps of low trees and tall, knotted shrubs: the perfect place, overlooking the loch, to look for its monster and (more realistically) to watch the waterfowl and other birds which frequented this quiet region.
Or—was it so quiet, after all? To her surprise, as she stood admiring the view, Miss Seeton thought she could hear—muffled, as if through walls—a man’s voice . . .
“Moonshine,” said Miss Philomena Beigg. “Hooch, firewater, rotgut—call it whatever you like, producing the stuff is still, if you’ll pardon the pun, a cottage industry in these parts. Keechin’s another name—peat reek, jute—”
“Keechin? Why, I thought,” said Mel, “when they started muttering about the kitchen, and the white sheet, they were talking about curtains or tablecloths or something.”
Philly Beigg laughed. “They talked like that—in front of you? After you’d been asking questions, no doubt.”
“It’s my job,” said Mel at once. “But yes, it was—how did you know? Is it the traditional way of making people feel at home? Because, if it is—”
“It’s the traditional warning,” Philomena broke in, “for the presence of a government spy—an excise man or, in your case, woman.” She ignored Mel’s sudden yelp, and continued: “They used to spread white sheets out on bushes—ostensibly to air in the sun, or for bleaching—when word went round that the Preventives were in the neighbourhood. It would appear, Miss Forby, that your professional reputation isn’t as great in these parts as you might have hoped. It seems probable, from what you’ve told me, that I’m the only person in Glenclachan who knows who you really are.”
Mel was still feeling insulted. “Do I look like a spy, for heaven’s sake? I’ve been called a lot of things in my time, but a government snoop, never. Amelita Bond? Forget it.” She struck an attitude, and laughed. “Double-oh-eight in person, right? Wrong!”
“I,” said Philomena, “know that very well, and so do you—but does everyone else?”
Mel sobered at once. “Guess they don’t, if you’re talking about the locals. I just turned up here and said I’d be staying a few days—but I didn’t say who I was, or why I’d come. There’s less chance of getting the truth behind a . . . a certain type of story if everyone knows who . . .”
Then she realised what she’d started to say—the shock of being thought a Customs officer must still be preying on her mind—and shut up at once. Miss Beigg regarded her thoughtfully.
“If you’re after a story, I suppose I shouldn’t appear too inquisitive. But I have to deduce that it wasn’t about the illicit still, was it?”
“If it exists,” returned Mel quickly, trying to deflect her in another direction. Philomena’s smile was knowing.
“It exists. I couldn’t tell you where, or who runs it—but it’s somewhere around, and not far away. Never mind what might be called other considerations, Miss Forby: doing the government down is in the blood, through uncounted generations, believe me.”
“Oh, I do,” said Mel with a sigh, “now I’ve had time to think about things. It explains why Hamish McQueest was so keen to get me sl— er, to put me out of action that first night—I’d almost forgotten about it—and why he gave me such a funny look when he passed on the message a policeman friend of mine rang through. It convinced him I was after his pals running the still, so he did them a big favour and, well, tried to keep me out of the way—”
“No, Miss Forby.” Philomena’s upraised hand stilled Mel in her flight of fancy. “Or rather, yes, I am prepared to believe what you say—at least, part of it—but not for the reasons you suggest. Hamish McQueest is hardly the type to court popularity—you may have noticed—and he certainly is not on sufficiently good terms with his customers for him to wish to deflect a Customs officer when she arrives and starts asking awkward questions.
“Why on earth do you suppose,” she demanded, “that they set up the still in the f
irst place?”
“Cheap booze,” said Mel, with barely a moment’s thought. “I’ve heard all those jokes about mean Scotsmen! And when it comes to not having to pay tax, well . . .”
Philomena was shaking her head. “With the size of the operation they’ll be running—a few yards of copper tubing and a kettle, no more—the tax saving isn’t going to break the Exchequer. Of course, some of them might not realise they aren’t running an enormous risk—apart from the risk to their health: I’d hate to have their livers in a couple of years’ time—and could think they’ll be in for a hefty fine, maybe a prison sentence, instead of a slap or two on the wrist and fifty or a hundred pounds maximum penalty. On the whole, though, it’s not considered a heinous offence.”
“Oh,” said Mel. “So—unless it was someone who didn’t realise that—not worth . . . killing anyone for, then?”
“Ewen Campbell, you mean? Good gracious, no. He’d have been in sympathy with the whole scheme, if not one of those who set it up in the first place—probably in cahoots with Dougall McLintie, who’s our local rebel. Poor Ewen wasn’t the only person in Glenclachan inclined to be hot under the collar—and he didn’t like Hamish any more than the rest of them. Which will be the reason for setting up this still in the first place—sheer dislike of Hamish McQueest.”
Philomena shrugged. “When Glenclachan makes up its mind about anyone or anything, it’s not easy to change—not easy at all. And they seem to have decided they can’t agree with the new landlord—not that I’m altogether surprised. He’s annoyed me, from time to time. So, rather than give up what every Scot sees as his God-given right to enjoy the creature in congenial surroundings, they’ll have a dram or two at the hotel just to lull suspicion, and then away afterwards back to someone’s house for more than a few drams of what’s come from the hills, or wherever. Leaving landlord McQueest to worry at his falling profits, and—I know how their minds work—with luck, before long, he’ll cut his losses and move on to another hotel, leaving them back in charge of their local once again.”
“He doesn’t strike me,” said Mel, “as the sort of man to go under without a fight. There’s a tough streak in Hamish McQueest, I’d say.”
“And so would I, my dear. He has a look in his eye—it sounds like an old maid’s fancy, I’m sure—but there are no flies on Hamish McQueest, Miss Forby. He’s clever, yes, and devious enough to know when he’s being manipulated—and to try to turn it to his own ends . . .
“Whatever they might be. But running a still isn’t one of them, I’m sure. So, if you’re right to remember that he tried to stop you asking questions—then I’d say the man has something else to hide . . .”
chapter
~24~
THEY HAD COME there one by one, secretly, looking over their shoulders, taking care that when they parked the vehicles in which they’d sneaked away from home, nobody would notice them among the low trees and tall, knotted shrubs, thickly green with the lush foliage of high summer. Each had been charged with taking care of some particular item; each had retrieved his charge from its hiding place, slipped it into the boot of his car or truck or four-wheel drive, and, on arrival at the appointed place, lugged it from beneath its protective sacking to join with what the others had brought.
“Now, that’s a sight to gladden a Scotsman’s heart,” the first arrival remarked to the last, as the final component was added to the collection. “We’ve worked and waited for this all these weeks, and now—”
“Weeks? Man, it’s longer than weeks we’ve waited—that Scotland’s waited—for justice to be done. Twa hunnert years or more, that’s how long it’s been—and now, at last . . .”
The speaker put out a hand to touch, almost fearfully, his own contribution to the strange assortment on the floor in front of him; a close observer might have seen his fingers tremble.
A general sigh went round the group. He drew his hand away, looking guilty. Nobody met his eyes.
“A grand sight,” said someone—very loud, very certain. “But better to be used than looked at, any day!”
Everyone murmured their approval of this sentiment, one voice adding, “And today’s the day we start putting it all to use—the culmination of all our endeavours.” He paused pondering the beauty of that phrase. “All our endeavours—working together towards one end, and that the proudest and most glorious a trueborn Scot could have . . .”
“Aye, we’ll go down in history, right enough. For it’s to be us that achieve what has not been achieved in over two centuries—after these many woeful years, to set the House of Stuart back on the throne where it rightly belongs . . .”
There was a silence, while they all contemplated what glory was to be theirs. “And Balmoral,” someone pointed out in a voice preternaturally gleeful, “up in flames . . .”
There was an even longer silence. “The symbol of Victorian oppression,” somebody said at last. “What use have the Highlands for German queens pretending to be what they never were?”
“John Camden Neild,” chipped in somebody else, “has much to answer for. If he hadnae left her that daft bequest, she’d never have thought of building—”
“But he did, and she did, and we’ve been stuck with yon . . . yon excrescence for over a hundred years. So, here’s our chance to right the situation—and tomorrow the time.”
“I’d not forgotten,” came the reply. “Glenfinnan Day,” he added, in a hushed, almost reverent tone, and everyone murmured again.
“Have we the standard ready to raise over the ashes of the castle?”
“Himself will bring it, he says, when what’s needful to be done has been done.” The speaker fumbled in his pocket.
“The sealed orders—you have them, Alexander? Can you be telling us what’s to be done?”
Alexander nodded. “Our final instructions before we disband—before there’s no more need for us, because the task will have been carried out. Death to the oppressors!”
“Death to the oppressors,” came the dutiful chorus, and fists were raised in defiant gestures, and feet stamped with fervour on the wooden floor, so that the whole edifice began to rock. Alexander glowered round at his colleagues.
“Will you be having the floor give way beneath our feet, and everything dropped in the mud below and fit for nothing? Will you hush now, and listen like sensible men while I tell you how we’re to do the deed, tomorrow as ever is.”
“Tomorrow,” echoed his fascinated audience. Alexander, conscious of his responsibilities, nodded.
“Didn’t I hear him say so myself? A whispered voice on the telephone—a message, hidden under the grey stone by my front gate, wrapped in plastic against the storm . . .”
He took a piece of paper out of his pocket, followed by a box of matches. “I’m to burn this, the same as ever—no trace to be left, and the ashes tossed to the four winds.” He held the paper aloft, the gaze of everyone fastened upon it where it wavered, a symbol of defiance, until he hastily lowered his shaking hand, unfolded the paper, and cleared his throat, several times.
“That’s a gey host you have on you, Alexander,” observed one whose own throat sounded husky. “No doubt you caught a wee bit chill last night, with fighting the fire up at the—up at MacSporran Castle,” he amended swiftly. At present, “the castle” could only signify one place—and that place was fifty miles from Glenclachan.
“Aye, well, it was a stormy night,” agreed Alexander, as his fingers pleated the paper of instruction open, and shut, and open again, without his seeming to notice they did so. He cleared his throat again, and turned his gaze from one conspirator to the other. “Now, gather round—and not a word from any until I’m finished . . .”
Mel was still frowning over Philomena’s words when the older woman leaned forward and took the unfolded sketch from where she had placed it on the table. She held it first at arm’s length, then closer, studying it with care.
“An interesting composition,” she remarked, “and locally very sign
ificant, of course. But I don’t seem to recognise the style. Do I know the artist?”
“You mean because of the blackbird?” Mel answered Philomena’s spoken, rather than her unspoken, question with a question of her own; she was still anxious to protect Miss Seeton’s privacy as far as she could. “Does this make you think of . . . well, think that a Jacobite rising is rather more likely than you thought earlier?”
Philomena, too, could answer questions with questions. “Should it? I know of the song, of course, but this sketch is in pencil. The bird could be a rook, a crow, a raven—we have nothing by which to judge the scale. The necklace might be of any length, although the crown . . .”
Now she was taking a more detailed look at the drawing, especially at the crown where it rested at the foot of the rock on which that anonymous bird perched. “Well, now, yes. I do see what you mean, Miss Forby: that there could be some connection with the Royal House of Stuart. This crown . . . it isn’t the one you see on official documents and letter boxes—it isn’t King Edward’s Crown. That is part of the English regalia—worn by the sovereign at state functions such as a coronation, or the opening of Parliament. But this . . . this looks very much like the crown that’s kept in Edinburgh Castle, and has never been near England, despite all Cromwell’s efforts during the Civil War. He tortured the wife of the Keeper of the Scottish Crown Jewels, Miss Forby—a Mrs. Ogilvie—and she died rather than reveal the whereabouts of the Honours of Scotland . . .
“Robert the Bruce wore it to be crowned King of Scots,” said Philomena. “Oh, it’s been remodelled since then, but it’s stayed the same now for four, five hundred years. Did I tell you about Mary Stuart’s necklace—the one of Scottish pearls set in gold, and how my fancy is it was Glenclachan gold she wore? Well, this crown, too, is of Scottish gold—and it’s set with pearls—and just take a look at the cross, will you? Unmistakable. A pearl at the end of every arm, and four in the corners, too. The whole crown is rich with pearls and jacinths and white sapphires and carbuncles—to my taste rather less gaudy than the jewels your English monarchs wear. Though King Edward’s cross,” she had to admit, “is not so ornate as this one. Almost plain, one might s—”
Miss Seeton Rocks the Cradle (A Miss Seeton Mystery Book 13) Page 19
