Cold, Lone and Still mb-64

by Gladys Mitchell

  ‘Why the hurry? What’s the matter? Couldn’t you get the blocked end of the passage open?’ she asked, understandably surprised by the force I had used to get her back into the other room.

  ‘I didn’t try. We’ve got to get away from here as quickly as ever we can. Don’t ask questions. Just get changed.’

  ‘You’ve got to tell me why. Did you see a ghost in the passage? — or what?’

  ‘Not a ghost, although there might be one in the future. There’s a dead man in there. I kicked him. Now for heaven’s sake shut up and get changed. There’s no point in getting two sets of clothes soaked through.’

  Shivering with distaste, we climbed into our damp trousers and gave our anoraks, which were waterproof, a final shake before we put them on. ‘Now let’s have a good look round and make sure we haven’t left any traces to show that we were here,’ I said.

  ‘But why? The police will have to be told about — about him.’

  ‘Not on your life! We only found the body by the merest accident. It is no business of ours if people get themselves killed in ruined forts and I’m damned if I’m going to get myself mixed up with Scottish law and procurator fiscals and all the rest of it. What we’ve got to do is to step it out as soon as we leave here and trust to luck that we can find either Bridge of Orchy or Inveroran before dark. The mist is excuse enough if we get there late. We’ve got to alibi ourselves, don’t you see?’

  ‘But why? And why did you drag me away from the passage like that? I wouldn’t have minded seeing a corpse.’

  ‘We’ll go through that opening in the hall where the wall’s gone. It will be easier than scrambling through that window again,’ I said. ‘I’ll tell you more later. Come on! Come on!’ So we passed through another, smaller yard which was strewn with fallen masonry, crossed into the first yard and so out of the precincts by the postern door. The road was plain enough to follow. We headed on to it and I set a cracking pace as we left the ruins behind us.

  ‘Oh, do slow down a bit,’ said Hera, after about the first half-mile. ‘We’re walking as though the Devil himself is behind us.’

  ‘Who knows that he isn’t?’ I said, slackening the pace; and then I gave her the bad news. ‘The dead man was Carbridge,’ I said, ‘and he wasn’t merely dead; he’d been murdered. That’s why I hauled you away before you saw him.’ She said nothing in response to this, but, from then on, she set the pace herself and there was no more talk about going to the police. All she said was: ‘I didn’t want it to happen that way.’

  ‘What didn’t you?’ I asked foolishly.

  ‘I did want to get to Fort William before he did, but now he can’t get there at all. But, look here’ — she slowed down and almost stopped walking — ‘are you sure it was Carbridge? It couldn’t have been, you know. I mean, how did he get there and where are the other three?’

  ‘Lost in the mist, the same as we were. He must have lost contact with them somewhere or other on the moor. Perhaps they were too slow for him if Jane Minch’s feet are hurting her.’

  ‘Todd wouldn’t have been slow. They would have gone on together, wouldn’t they? Where is Todd?’

  ‘Fleeing from justice, perhaps. I tell you Carbridge was murdered. I saw that he was. It looks to me as though Todd —’

  ‘No! You are not to say that! It’s wicked. You have no proof!’

  ‘Sorry! No, of course I haven’t. Now let’s hurry on. I can’t forget I had a row with Carbridge last night and there were witnesses. I can’t afford to report his body to the police. How can I?’

  ‘I hadn’t thought of that,’ she said, ‘but it was only a passing tiff. It would never occur to anybody who was there that any thought of murder was in your mind.’

  ‘It would never occur to anybody?’ I repeated, but in the form of a query, not a statement. ‘Well, if you’re interested, I might as well tell you that it occurred to me. If I had been alone with him last night —’

  ‘If you had been alone with him, the situation would never have arisen. Look here, I was right the first time about reporting what you saw. Don’t you see that the body is bound to be found soon. I suppose they’ll either take it to Fort William or to Stirling, but I really haven’t a clue about these things and I simply don’t want to know, but can’t you see, Comrie, we must tell the police we found him. There’ll be the most awful trouble if we don’t, when it all comes out that we were in that ruin.’

  ‘How can it come out? Even if it was discovered that we were there, there is nothing to prove that we saw the body. I didn’t even touch him.’

  ‘You fell over him. You accidentally kicked him. Bodies can bruise, even if they’re dead.’

  ‘Which proves what? Look, now, Hera, if you go to the police, you’ll land us in a whole lot of trouble and we may be held up for days, even if we’re not actually placed under suspicion. The first thing the police are going to ask is whether we knew the man.’

  ‘We could say no to that.’

  ‘And have them round up Todd and the rest of the gang and prove us to be liars? That would help a lot!’

  ‘Oh, dear! I don’t know what to do.’

  ‘That doesn’t sound like you. Anyway, when in doubt, do nothing and let Time pass. What did somebody call it? — masterly inactivity. That’s our ticket and we can’t afford to swop it for any other. Can’t you see that?’

  It must have been at about this point that the rain eased off and we could see further ahead of us than we had been able to do since leaving the ruins. I had an idea that we were approaching the spot where we had deviated from The Way. I heard voices and laughter. Hastily I dragged Hera into a dip in the moor and pulled her down among the soaking plants in the hollow.

  ‘Keep quiet,’ I whispered. ‘If anybody spots us here, they’ll only think of Lady Chatterley in the rain, but we mustn’t be seen walking away from the ruins.’

  The voices died in the distance. Cautiously I reconnoitred. There was nobody to be seen, so I pulled Hera to her feet and hand in hand, muddy now as well as wet, we ran forward. Almost the first thing we set eyes on was one of the signs used to mark The Way.

  ‘So this is where we went wrong,’ she said. ‘Just our luck! How do you know Carbridge was murdered?’

  ‘Saw a dirty great knife sticking out of him. It was something I didn’t want you to see.’

  ‘And you’re certain he was dead, although you didn’t handle him?’

  ‘Quite certain. He was cold and stiff.’

  ‘Then you must have touched him, or you wouldn’t have known that.’

  ‘All right, I did touch him, but nobody will ever know, unless you tell them.’

  ‘Oh, that’s not fair!’ she said passionately. ‘Look here, I want to go home. I want to get on a train and go back to Glasgow, and then I want to get on another train and get to Euston, and then I want to take a taxi to my flat and never go on holiday again.’

  ‘Cool it,’ I said. ‘Forget all about today. We’ve done nothing wrong and there certainly was nothing anybody could do for poor Carbridge. Let it ride. The most stupid thing we could do now is to go straight home. People would begin wondering why. When people begin wondering why, trouble starts.’

  ‘What people?’

  ‘People at home, for one thing. They would know we must have had some reason for cutting our holiday short and, naturally, they’d begin to speculate and then, once the body is discovered —’

  ‘That might not be for ages, unless we —’

  ‘Oh, my dear girl, use your loaf! The poor chap will be missed and a search will be made. Those ruins are not all that far off The Way and there are plenty of his gang to testify that he was walking The Way when he went missing. In fact, he will have been reported missing already, I wouldn’t wonder. The sooner we get to Inveroran and pick up our planned schedule, the better. As it stands at present, nobody can prove that we ever deviated, let alone that we holed up in the ruins. The mist and the time we spent at Bridge of Orchy will account for that ga
p in the time scheme. Thank goodness we took so much time over lunch. It may turn out to be our alibi.’

  ‘It still think we ought to go to the police.’

  ‘In heaven’s name, no! Do you want to land us both in the cart?’

  ‘If he was murdered, the murderer ought to be found.’

  ‘He will be found. No doubt about that.’

  ‘Even a few hours may make all the difference.’

  ‘Oh, Hera, it’s no business of ours. Hang it all, we didn’t even like the chap!’

  ‘That’s all the more reason for doing our best to see that justice is done.’

  ‘Punishing his murderer won’t bring Carbridge back.’

  ‘Finding out who killed him may help a lot of people. Don’t you see, Comrie, that one of his gang must have killed him? I wouldn’t let you put it on to Todd, but one of that four —’

  ‘Not necessarily at all. There are plenty of thugs and muggers about. He may have had a toss-up with the rest of them and gone off on his own and run into trouble.’

  ‘Can you imagine that, though? He was the most gregarious pest I’ve ever met. He would never have gone off on his own.’

  ‘Well, that could boil it down to just three people. So far as we know, he was left with Todd and the two Minches. Tansy and Rhoda had cried off and the students and Perth were way, way behind. Any of the other three could have had a reason for killing him. We don’t know what the relationships were like among them.’

  We tramped on, and were soon clocked in at the Inveroran hotel. No questions were asked about our wet and muddy appearance. They are used to wet and muddy people in the Highlands, I suppose. They promised that our clothes would be sponged and would be dry by the morning, so we went to our rooms, had a bath, changed (Hera into the slinky frock again), and went downstairs to have a drink before dinner. I began to relax, however temporarily.

  Most of the other guests appeared to be climbers, and there was much talk of mountains I had never heard of, or else I did not recognise the pronunciation of their Gaelic names. We listened and admired and I hoped that our recent experiences were being overlaid in Hera’s mind by pleasanter thoughts.

  As the evening wore on, however, I myself again became very far from happy. I did not know much about rigor mortis, but I knew enough to realise that, if Carbridge were as stiff as I reckoned he was, he could have been dead for hours. This was very puzzling. I attempted to remember all that I had read about rigor mortis. My partner Alexander Storey and I run a literary agency which had been set up by Sandy’s father and one or two of our clients write crime fiction, so, to that extent, I have had to undertake a certain amount of reading-up on forensic medicine in order to check the information given in the story before we send the book to a publisher.

  To become as stiff as the corpse over which I had stumbled in that blacked-out passage, the man would have been dead for about twelve hours or even longer, for, so far as my recollection of my reading took me, the rigor, once completely established, could last another twelve hours until it began to pass off in the third twelve-hour period.

  ‘It doesn’t make sense,’ I told myself. Carbridge had left the hotel at about eight that morning and I had found the body not more than ten hours later. Well, allowing for the individual vagaries of its onset, I supposed that it would have been just about possible for the corpse to have stiffened in that space of time, but the legs, with their powerful muscles, were always the last parts of the body to be affected, and it was his foot and leg that I had stumbled against and then touched. They had been as rigid as marble.

  I had another try at working out the times. With Jane Minch in tow and her sore feet, Carbridge could not have travelled all that much faster than we did. We had stopped for lunch, but, presumably, so had the others. It did not seem possible that Carbridge could have been dead for more than a few hours. Further speculation seemed useless. I tried to tell myself that it was not Carbridge I had found, but it was of no use. True, I had had only a glimpse of a grossly distorted face, but the jeans and the anorak the man was wearing were identical to the clothes Carbridge had been wearing when last I had seen him alive.

  5: The End of a Holiday

  « ^ »

  It was between nine and ten miles to Kingshouse from Inveroran and, as the challenge from Carbridge could now be ignored by Hera, she agreed to make an easy business of next day’s journey.

  We left the hotel at half-past nine, and by the time we reached the beginning of the climb up the Black Mount when we left the head of Luch Tulla I realised that Hera was very tired. There seemed nothing to do but to press on or return to the Inveroran hotel, have lunch there and then try to get a lift in a car or lorry to carry us to Ballachulish, Kinlochleven or even all the way to Fort William itself.

  When I suggested this, however, she vetoed it in such a forceful manner that I realised it was useless to argue, so we began the ascent. The surface of The Way on this stretch was good, but the track became extremely exposed and windy. However, the weather remained fine and the mountain views were wonderful and so was the expanse of Rannoch Moor we saw before we descended.

  We rested for a while on Ba Bridge and watched the tumbling water as it swirled over its rocks brought down from the mountain crags, but there was more climbing to do and, although I stopped and pointed out a rough track which would have taken us to the road and the chance of a lift, Hera refused to consider the project and lowered her obstinate head to the wind as we looked over to where Schiehallion reared his noble pyramid out of the moor.

  I have always thought about this extraordinary mountain ever since I first met its magical name in J. A. Ferguson’s one-act play Campbell of Kilmhor and shall never forget the closing speech by the old woman Mary Stewart after the heroic and defiant death of her son Dugald. He told the despicable Campbell, ‘Till ye talk Rannoch Loch to the top of Schiehallion, ye’ll no talk me into a yea or nay.’ Apart from that, it was during rehearsals of this play that I had fallen in love with Hera. She had been cast as the girl Morag Cameron, while I played the tiny part of the toadying and sycophantic James Mackenzie. Amateur material were the whole lot of us, but the play itself carried us through, although I wouldn’t go bail for our Campbell’s Scottish accent! However, I digress, as the lecturer said when he was extolling the beauties of the Clifton Blue butterfly and stepped backwards off the cliffs at Beachy Head.

  Slowly, and with many pauses for rest, although it was too wet everywhere to sit down, we made progress towards Kingshouse. Of one thing I was determined. If the hotel there could accommodate us, we were going to stay there at least a second night. We had allowed a fortnight for the holiday and still had a day or two in hand, but, apart from that, there was nothing to stop us from putting in another week if we felt so inclined. Our return tickets to London from Glasgow were valid for a month, so no problem there, and I had money enough to cover any extra expenses and could get more in Glasgow if we needed it.

  At last the climbing was over and The Way began to descend. I knew, however, that to get to Kinlochleven there was more climbing ahead of us and I was becoming more and more anxious about Hera’s powers of endurance. She knew what I was thinking, for, when we stopped to admire the view we got of Buachaille Etive Mor, she said, ‘Stop worrying, Comrie. Women are much tougher than men. We have to be.’

  We passed the way to the ski-lift and came on to a well-surfaced road and a car park. We passed Blackrock Cottage and then, thankfully, we found that The Way took us downhill again and across the moor to the remote but more than welcome Kingshouse hotel. I enquired at once about the possibility of extending our booking and, to my great relief, this turned out to be possible.

  The hotel and its pine trees were grandly situated under the protection — or the menace — of mighty Beinn a’Chrulaiste and all around were other mountains and the moors. Fortunately Hera was so greatly taken with the setting that she made no objections to my booking us in for an extra night and, although I knew she would n
ever admit it, I am sure she was relieved to think that we were to take a whole day off from walking.

  I had one other card up my sleeve, but I had to be wary about how and when I played it. To get to the Kingshouse hotel we had had to cross a main road and I knew from the guidebook that a bus route went along it to Fort William. It was my intention to insist, when the omens seemed favourable, that we should catch a bus and finish our journey that way. I thought of complaining of blisters on my feet, but the necessary evidence for this was lacking. I wondered whether I could fake a sprained ankle, but this would be inconvenient later if I had to cry off climbing Ben Nevis, a project on which she had set her heart.

  In the event, I adopted neither subterfuge, but opted for yet another night at the hotel, pointing out to Hera that a stay of three nights entitled us to a rebate on the day-to-day terms charged, although whether this was the case I neither knew nor cared. Finally I put it to her bluntly that I had booked us for the third night as well as the second one and that she must please herself about what she wanted to do, but that I was determined to stay.

  ‘We’ve covered sixty miles since we left Drymen,’ I said. ‘A good deal more, if you count the extra miles we covered when we lost our way in the mist. We’ve proved our point, don’t you think?’

  ‘I’m not sure about that,’ she answered. ‘I don’t terribly care for your protective attitude. It isn’t really protective, you know. It’s mere self-assertion and male vanity. I detest this ‘women and children first’ nonsense. On a ship the sailors are the people to be considered. As for the Victorian ideal of the captain’s either being the last to leave the vessel or even going down with it, I never heard such poppycock! The leader ought to be the principal survivor, not the inevitable casualty.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘For obvious reasons, I should have thought. Where would the sheep be, if the shepherd died?’