No, he was wrong. His eyes had been fixed on the rock and they weren’t focusing correctly. The object wasn’t rising or falling on the sea, it was stationary and riveted to the sea bed. It might look like the bows of a sinking vessel, but that was another illusion. The thing was an island, a stone pillar only just visible above the tide and he’d seen that pillar somewhere, though he didn’t know where.
Mott had never been near Glengyle before and he’d never climbed Ben S’Gurr, but he recognized that tiny island though for no reason he could imagine. A painting – a postcard or a photograph. There were several possibilities, but he had to be sure and there was a camera dangling around his neck. He could and would take a photograph; just for interest, just to refresh his memory, just . . . Just for curiosity.
A little more to the right was needed to get the island into perspective and he leaned right and never heard his belay creak in protest. Only a scrap more, the carabina would hold him. That’s it, his finger pressed the trigger, the rope below jerked, and the rock above his head slid forward.
Mott never realized what was happening till it was too late. A sledge-hammer seemed to split his skull – the sun vanished.
“Extraordinary! The fellow must have a cranium like a ruddy ape and it’s a miracle he survived.” The words seemed to come from a long way away off and Mott opened his eyes expecting to see the face of God smiling down at him. He didn’t. All he saw was a fierce old man with white hair and weather-beaten cheeks scowling over the pillow.
“And he’s coming round, Rhino – quite remarkable.” The aged face registered complete astonishment. “Must have hit that ridge at over forty miles an hour before your rope caught him. Constitution of an ox and beyond all my medical experience.
“What’s that? No, don’t try to talk, Mr Mott. Not yet.” Dr Duncan Angus, the local GP, looked at the figure on the bed with professional curiosity. “Let’s just check your reactions first. Does this hurt at all?” He gave the patient a sharp blow in the ribs and was rewarded with an instant reaction. Mott gave a howl of anguish and tried to pull himself up the bed. “It does, eh! Excellent, miraculous in fact. No damage to the nervous system and no bones broken either. Give your pal a drop of brandy, Rhino, though add plenty of water.”
“Brandy – from a bloody assassin!” Mott saw Rawson cross the room and reach for a bottle. “I don’t know who you are, sir, but that man tried to kill me. Jerked me off the rocks while I was talking a photograph and . . .”
“And then caught you on the rope after a fall of over a hundred feet.” Dr Angus registered astonishment. “No, sir, Sir Roland saved your life. Rhino lowered you to the ground and carried you to his Land-Rover, Mr Mott. He telephoned me for help and as a local medical man I naturally came at once. You slipped off the cliff or the belay came away when you were taking that picture. Sir Roland deserves thanks, not mindless recriminations.”
“Humph!” Mott had no intention of thanking Rhino, but he risked a sip of brandy. “I was photographing an island,” he said, and wondered whether his camera was still intact. “A little point of rock about a mile from the shore. I know I’d seen that point somewhere in the past, though I can’t say where. Any idea what the thing is, Doctor? Any local stories connected with it?”
“The Hag of Foulda?” Angus held out the glass again. “Plenty of legends about the old hag, but most of ’em go too far back to be credited. A notorious risk for shipping, as she’s under water at high tide, but why are you interested in the hag, Mr Mott?
“Oh, I know you were talking to Gourlay about David Glyde before Rhino met you. I was having a dram in the pub when he rang up for assistance, and James Gourlay is a great gossip. He told me about your interest in Glyde, and I’d like to hear more, Mr Mott.”
“Not sure what to say, Doctor.” The brandy was making Mott feel better and he was glad to hear Rhino groan and see him rub his shoulder. With any luck the rope might have damaged his collar-bone again when he caught him. Good show – the man might not be a murderer, but he was a damned objectionable fellow. “No, can’t be sure, but a cousin of Glyde’s, Miss Elsie Marley, a most intelligent woman, told me that your vicar was shifted up here after some trouble in London and she asked me to make a few enquiries regarding his death.” Though Mott’s head still throbbed the lie came fluently and easily. “You were one of his close friends, Doctor, so tell me what happened – fill me in.”
“Well, I wouldn’t describe meself as a friend, Mr Mott.” Angus’s white hair fluttered as he shook his head. “Davie Glyde wasn’t a man to make friends easily; far too bitter and sour for that. Felt that life had let him down and he’d failed both as a priest and a publisher’s reader.
“Quite an amusing old cove in a way when he wasn’t feeling sorry for himself, though that was not often. Said or implied that there was something in a book he’d edited that could make a lot of people sweat blood. Never told me what it was, but I suspected – only suspected – that it was somehow connected with the Hag of Foulda.”
“And you could be right, Doc.” In spite of his discomfort Rawson decided to put an oar in. “Glyde was always pottering about on Ben S’Gurr, chuckling at times when he looked at that rock; chuckling and rubbing his hands together.
“Once I stopped him and asked the cause of his amusement and he replied with a twisted text cribbed from the scriptures. ‘Sir Roland Rawson, they hate me with cause.’
“Never knew what he meant – never discovered who they were, but somebody got Glyde in the end. In spite of what your son and the police thought, we know better eh, Doc.”
“The official version was that Davie Glyde had slipped, knocked his head on a lump of rock and been drowned when the tide came in, though I knew it was murder.
“How did I know, Mr Mott?” Angus scowled at the interruption. “I may be an elderly man, but I’ve still got a pair of eyes in my head and the intelligence to use ’em, whatever my fool of a son and the police surgeon from Inverness may have said to the contrary. They believed that natural decomposition and the action of sea creatures accounted for David’s injuries, but I knew better. Got a pair of pliers handy, Rhino?”
“Of course.” Rawson hurried to a cupboard and produced them.
“Good! Now hold out your right hand, Mr Mott, and I’ll show you.” He gripped one of Mott’s fingers between the jaws and gave a slight squeeze. “Yes, that hurts, doesn’t it, but not a tenth as much as Glyde suffered. David was tortured before he died, you see.” He released the grips and smiled. “Some bastards crushed his fingers with screws – thumbscrews.”
Twelve
“No, Janet. Nothing from Mott as yet, but we can only hope. And talking about that, what news about your uncle. Any improvement?”
“Not really, and if I didn’t know him, I’d think he wants to die or has lost the will to live.” Janet considered the complexities of human nature. “Also the wish for salvation, you might say, and he’s already made his funeral arrangements quite clear, as Peter Kent explained to me this morning. Uncle does not wish for burial or cremation. He wants his body to be weighted down with chains and dumped into the sea from Bully Boy.
“I’m not sure that the arrangement is even legal, but that’s what Uncle wants and I won’t try to stop him. No priest, no funeral service, no last rites; a sort of Viking end, with his original crew around him, though they and the Bully won’t join in the final plunge.
“The Bully Boy! Oh, she’s an old motor yacht which he bought soon after the war as a sort of memorial to the tugboat Sam. He and his fellow survivors from the Sam took the Bully everywhere when they had the chance, which wasn’t often and there are only three left now.
“Peter and Uncle and . . .” She broke off as the shop door opened. “But I’m interrupting you and you’ve got a customer.”
“So I have, Janet, and a rather embarrassing one.” Tom stood up an
d smiled at the woman in the doorway, who was old and thin and clutched a brief-case. “Ah, Mrs Rayner. Got a few more books you wish to sell?”
“Yes, Mr Mayne, and you’ll be pleased to have these: the pick of Jeffrey’s collection.” She lifted the case onto a shelf and opened it to reveal a treasure trove. An imagined trove and Tom’s heart sank as he looked at the titles. Sixty Years a Queen – With the Flag to Pretoria – The Collected Works of Sir Walter Scott with at least three volumes missing. Also two rather pretty copies of Roger’s Selected Poetry, but who read Roger’s today?
“I’m sorry, Mrs Rayner,” he said. “But I’m afraid I can’t use these. They’re not bad books, of course, but I’ve got too much similar stock on my shelves as you can see. One copy of Sixty Years, two of With the Flag and . . .”
“They are very good books, Mr Mayne. Jeffrey, my husband, bought them himself and he was a great collector and knew what he was doing.” The woman was not only small and old, but she looked tired and frightened and Tom remembered her husband well. A man who liked certain subjects and thought everyone else did. A retired clerk who came into the shop at least once a week and left clutching a volume Tom was glad to see the back of.
Well, Jeffrey Rayner was dead now and he’d left his widow nothing except memories, a small pension and a collection of junk he’d imagined to be bargains. And debts, of course. The rates were overdue, the gas and the electricity bills had to be settled, so Mrs Rayner had pulled a little pile from the shelves, thinking she had at least some capital.
“And most of them came from your shop, Mr Mayne,” she said, opening the cover of Sixty Years a Queen. “That’s your mark, isn’t it?”
“Yes, that was my price, Mrs Rayner.” Tom winced at the amount he had charged and then tried to explain the working of his trade. How one only bought run-of-the-mill items in the hope that there might be a few readily saleable volumes amongst them. That the rest would sit on the shelves in the hope of finding a mug who might buy them and the rest would then be thrown into sacks and sent away to be pulped.
He couldn’t use the word ‘mug’ of course, and he didn’t get the chance – Janet intervened. “May I have a look?” she said and flicked through the collection. “No, not bad, madam, and would you accept thirty pounds for the lot?”
“Thank you, miss. Thirty will be just right.” Mrs Rayner almost snatched the notes out of Janet’s hand. “And as you seem to be Mr Mayne’s partner, you might come round and see what else I’ve got at home. My Jeffrey knew what he was up to and there’s some really valuable stuff; genuine first editions, some of ’em.” Like many uninformed persons, she used the term ‘first edition’ as though it was some kind of lucky charm or prayer.
“I’d love to come and look at them, Mrs Rayner,” Janet answered and smiled. “Have you got the lady’s telephone number, Tom?
“Good, then I’ll give you a ring in a day or two, madam.” She held open the door as the woman closed her case and departed in triumph.
“Why?” Tom could only gape at her. “Thirty quid for a pile of rubbish which isn’t worth as many pence. You must be mad, Janet, even if you are rich. Partners indeed! It will be a long time before I sign any agreement with you, my dear. You’d have me out of business before I was . . .” He glanced at one title and scowled. “Before I was sixty seconds a bookseller.”
“Sorry, Tom. I know that woman will brag about the price I paid her, and you’ll get more rubbish offered because of what she got, but don’t – please don’t begrudge me a little moment of charity.” She returned to the desk and sat down. “The woman looked so pathetic and lost and I couldn’t really help myself.”
“Well, don’t worry. No real harm done as long as you don’t want me to repay you out of the till.” Tom moved to join her and then turned as the door opened again and a man he didn’t recognize for a moment appeared. “Can I help you, sir,” he said and then saw who the visitor was. “You – where the hell have you been?”
“Yes, me, Mayne.” Mott stepped forward and he looked quite different. He walked with a limp and had a stick to help him. His left eye was black and a bandage encircled his forehead.
“Home is the sailor – home from the sea, and the hunter home from the hill.” He spoke cynically, but his manner had changed too. All his normal arrogance had vanished and he sounded abject and almost apologetic. “Hill is the reason for my delay, as it happens. Fell off a blasted mountain in Scotland. Damn near broke my neck and for no good reason as far as I’m aware. Followed a wild-goose chase and discovered that the goose was a ruddy duck.
“But, you’re here, Miss Vale. My apologies for not seeing you at once, but with one eye temporarily out of action, you must forgive the lapse.”
He eased himself into Tom’s chair and groaned. “So very sorry to hear on the plane radio that your uncle has shown no sign of improvement to date, but not to worry unduly. The sun always rises given time, and we’ve got the time.
“Got till tomorrow, Mayne, because your auctioneer pal has played ball. He slowly reached in his pocket and drew out a copy of Foden’s catalogue. Men of Courage, adequately described and the last lot in the sale. No mention of the reserve price of course, and that’s going to bring our killer into the sights.
“Oh yes, there’s a killer all right, Miss Vale. Don’t know his name or his motive, but I do know he exists.” He paused as the phone rang and Tom picked up the receiver. “Mayne speaking. Yes, she’s here and please hang on a moment. Someone called Kent, for you, Janet.”
“Thank you, Tom. I left your number just in case my uncle had a turn for the worse.” She took the instrument from him and spoke very slowly. “Janet Vale speaking, Peter. Yes – yes. I see, and I should be there in half an hour. Goodbye for the present.” She replaced the instrument, and there was a hint of tears in her eyes.
“Must go, Tom. He’s still alive but moving to the Bully Boy up the Thames.” She picked up her handbag, and eased back the chair. “The Viking’s funeral will shortly begin.”
“Just a precaution, Miss Janet.” Peter Kent stood in the Bully Boy’s saloon, and he tried to appear cheerful but failed. “The chief may live for months – years even – according to the specialists, but he wanted to be sure of dying afloat.
“And what better place is there to die? The chief, your uncle, bought the Bully out of his gratuity in 1946 and she was his base and our home for wellnigh three years till the business started to grow.
“Lord, what years they were, miss. Planning, scheming and gathering in every penny piece we could lay our hands on, but they paid off. The chief and survivors of the old Sam saw that they paid.”
The chief! Janet almost shuddered, because the term had no connection with what she had seen in the cabin. Sir Simon Vale had not even recognized her. He lay on his bunk with Mackenzie in attendance and he was deaf, sightless and speechless. A human cabbage, ready and ripe for death.
“Yes, they paid, Miss Janet.” Kent’s voice interrupted her thoughts. “Seven plants in operation once the Wandsworth buildings are completed, next June. Five thousand hands on the payroll and the last dividend stood at a hundred and nine, yesterday. Not a bad achievement for a few merchant seamen to have made.”
“Merchant seamen, Peter?” Janet frowned at him. “But I always imagined my uncle was in the navy.”
“So he was, Miss. Gunnery lieutenant, but apart from the gunners all those big ocean-going tugs had mercantile marine crews including the sick-bay attendants. The master was killed when the Sam went down, so the chief took over on the lifeboat.”
“I’m sorry what happened just now, miss.” As though in answer to Kent’s voice, Mackenzie appeared in the alleyway. “The chief was having one of his bad turns when you arrived, but they come and go and he’ll recognize you now. Asked to see you, in fact, Miss Janet, so please have a word with him.”
“Of course, Bill.” Janet hurried past him towards the cabin and hardly believed what she saw at first. Her uncle was up and standing by the open porthole. He wore pyjamas and a dressing-gown, his shoulders were as straight as ever and his hair was neatly combed. “Ah, there you are at last, girl. Taken your time getting here, but shut the door and sit down.” He turned and looked at her and his eyes were very bright and he had recently been shaved.
“That’s better, and we’re going to have a little chat, my dear. Won’t take long. I’ll probably pass out again in a few minutes, so listen carefully.” His voice was harsh and rasping – a voice she had never heard before. “First, I’ve got a question to ask. Do you believe that the Devil may take human form?”
“No, Uncle, I don’t.” Janet frowned and considered the problem. “I think there is an impersonal force of evil which can infect certain individuals or groups, but . . .”
“Yes, that’s the kind of meaningless reply I might have expected, Janet.” He interrupted her before she could finish the sentence. “Both your parents would have spoken in the same way. Two liberal-minded schoolteachers who always infuriated me. Glad that car happened to crash and killed ’em.
“Happened to crash, Uncle?” He had accentuated the word and Janet leaned forward.
“Happened, or was made to, Janet. What does it matter?” He dismissed the point with a flick of his thumb. “Your father (my brother) was a socialist who didn’t believe in private enterprise. Wouldn’t have anything to do with our business. Couldn’t bring himself to congratulate me when I got a knighthood. Glad he died with your mother, because that’s how I got you, Janet.
“Brother Ted claimed that power corrupts, and so it can, though not as much as poverty and illness. But you’ll never be poor, Janet. I’ve seen to that.
A Book of the Dead Page 11
