“…okay …that’s what he said, constable, Morgan… Do you know who Morgan is? … So what should we do when we get back to Rahsaig? …I don’t like the idea of that …okay, I hear what you say …yup …yup, goodbye, constable.”
Dougie replaced the receiver with a frown and ran a hand through his hair.
“… Well?” said Rebecca, impatiently. “What did he say?”
“They won’t arrest this bogus laird until they hear it from Henry. I told him what we suspect and what we know but he wants evidence.”
“Doesn’t he believe it?”
“Don’t think so. Says he wants to speak to him personally. So I have persuaded him to go to Skye and call in on Lord McDonald on some pretext. He can get to Henry then.”
“And what about this Morgan?”
“He just said ‘Oh’. The way he said it sounded like he thought the guy was bad news.”
“So what do we do now?”
“The constable doesn’t want us going back to Rahsaig in case it’s dangerous. But he doesn’t believe us enough to arrest the Laird. So we need to find out what’s going on. If the thieves are going there, they must be pretty confident they will be safe, which probably guarantees we wouldn’t be.”
“We have two options then. One, you help me over the mountain and we camp out above Rahsaig and keep an eye out. There’s nothing we can do to help Drew and Uncle Henry yet. Sibley is going to Rahsaig on Friday with, we presume, both of them. We need to be around then to find out what they know and make a plan.”
“And the other option?”
“We go to Skye and try to see them there. And we must try to stop the thieves stealing from Lord MacDonald. Now we know how they operate, we might be able to switch paintings on them again, like Drew and I did before. We can meet the constable, tell him everything and hope he believes it this time, if he hears it from Henry and us.”
Dougie was lost in thought for a few moments. He looked at his watch.
“There’s a lighthouse on the Sandaig Islands at the mouth of Loch Hourn. I can get Willie to meet us there and then take us over to Skye before dawn. Lord Mac’s place is not far. We should get a chance to talk to Henry and wee lummox. I’d feel a lot better if we all knew what we were doing, rather than running over the hills in the dark … metaphorical as well as the no light kind.”
CHAPTER 20 – The Lighthouse
Under the brilliant starlit sky, Dougie and Rebecca pushed the small rowing boat out onto the black waters of Loch Hourn. The great dark amphitheatre formed by the loch and hills was silent. Their destination was the lighthouse on the Sandaig Islands, whose beam could just be seen flashing at regular intervals, several miles away beyond the mouth of the loch, into the open sea.
Dougie had managed to get through to Willie McHarg, who would set out from Mallaig to meet them in a few hours’ time. Rebecca looked at her watch. It was already midnight.
“What is the lighthouse keeper going to think when we turn up there in a rowing boat in the middle of the night?” asked Rebecca, as Dougie settled into his rowing.
“And isn’t a lighthouse supposed to warn people off dangerous places boats shouldn’t go? … Like our boat?”
“The last keeper left about ten years ago. It’s all operated remotely by the coastguard at Mallaig these days. And don’t worry – I know my way. Besides, the islands are usually covered in seals basking on the rocks when you go by.”
“We aren’t likely to run into Sibley’s boat, are we?” Rebecca peered anxiously ahead, noticing a red light bobbing up and down some way in the distance.
Dougie looked straight ahead, unconcerned. “It was still tied up at Barradale when we left. They’ll not leave till morning. Only an idiot would be out on these waters after dark, particularly near the Sandaig rocks.”
Rebecca gave him a disconcerted look. “Thanks … that is really comforting.”
***
Two hours later, a weary Dougie was guiding the boat carefully alongside a small jetty below the lighthouse. Already moored there was the motor cruiser Duke of Argyll, which Rebecca recognised from Rahsaig. Willie McHarg called out a greeting. A rope landed on Dougie’s knees.
“Dougie. Miss McOwan. It’s a fine night,” he said, pulling them alongside.
Rebecca smiled to herself. Willie’s manner suggested he found nothing out of the ordinary in this situation. His face was as straight as a statue in a museum. It was the first time she had really observed him close up. She could see vague traces of his sister, but his expression was altogether more open. She guessed his age as older than her uncle but could not be certain.
There was an indefinable quality to him.
“Rebecca, please. Nobody calls me Miss McOwan.”
Willie McHarg raised his eyebrows almost imperceptibly. “You’ll be wanting me to take you on to Skye now then?”
“First light will be fine, Willie,” answered Dougie, breathing hard and shipping the oars thankfully. “Unless you reckon you can hit Isleornsay in the dark. We’ve got to pay a call on Lord Mac in the morning. The Laird and Drew will be along later. Besides, I think we’d probably like a wee rest before we go anywhere.”
“Funny,” said Willie. “The laird didn’t mention anything to me when I dropped him off this evening.”
Rebecca uttered an involuntary “Oh!” and looked at Dougie. Dougie’s eyes narrowed.
“You saw the laird this evening?”
“Aye. He was in Mallaig.”
Rebecca and Dougie exchanged puzzled looks but neither pursued this any further until Willie disappeared back inside his boat to the cabin for a moment.
“I don’t understand,” whispered Rebecca. “Henry is a prisoner. How can he possibly have been in Mallaig this evening? Unless he wasn’t and Willie is lying. You don’t think Willie is in with the crooks, do you?”
“Not a chance,” responded Dougie, swiftly. “Perhaps there really is a bogus laird and he convinced Willie that he’s the real one. I’ve known Willie for years and he’s as straight as they come. If he says he saw Henry, he believes it. I was intending to tell him everything.”
This last part was said with a questioning look, as if seeking Rebecca’s agreement.
“If you trust him, that’s good enough for me.”
They were interrupted by the reappearance of Willie, clutching three mugs. They jumped aboard and stowed their packs below.
“We’d best grab some sleep,” said Dougie.
“A dram first, lad,” said Willie to Dougie. “You’ve had a long day. And you’d better tell me what is going on, seeing as you’ve got me out here in the middle of the night.”
“Fair enough,” said Dougie and sat down. Willie produced a bottle from his pocket, lined up two mugs and poured a splash into each. He saw Rebecca eyeing the bottle.
“Uisge Beatha … in Gaelic, the water of life … Whisky! Not for you, I think.” He smiled and produced a bottle of lemonade out of his other pocket and held it out.
“Your uncle would fire the pair of us if we plied you with whisky.”
Rebecca took the proffered bottle and leaned forward to sniff the contents of the mugs. Instantly, she recoiled, making a face.
“Poo-wee! You can keep that!”
Dougie and Willie laughed.
As Dougie began to tell Willie the events of the last couple of days, Rebecca slipped ashore and climbed up the path to the lighthouse. They were five kilometres from the dark mass of the mainland away to the south. Ahead of them the southern tip of the mystic Isle of Skye was bathed in silvery moonlight. Although the weather tonight was warm and clear, Rebecca could imagine the small collection of rocks comprising the Sandaig Islands could be a wild, unforgiving place in bad weather. It would have been a lonely existence for a lighthouse keeper. She found it difficult to imagine what would possess anyone to want to live in a twelve-metre steel tube in the middle of the cold, stormy sea.
Back towards Loch Hourn, Barradale was no longer visible in the dark
of the night.
Rebecca noticed a glow on the water, some distance away. She narrowed her eyes to try and make it out. Gradually, it became bigger and Rebecca realised it was moving. She sensed it was travelling slowly in the direction of the lighthouse.
A sudden rush of cold air swept up the rocks at her and began to swirl around. She could now discern a low mist, preceding the light across the water. It quickly enveloped the lighthouse and reduced visibility to a few yards. But there was something else too… an atmosphere.
Rebecca’s feet were rooted to the spot.
Slowly, the thick fog swirling around the rocky island parted slightly. The luminous glow shone from within, now much closer and brighter.
Through the waves emerged a figure in a black hooded cloak.
It seemed to walk straight out of the water.
“Who are you?” Rebecca heard herself cry out.
The figure did not reply. It seemed to glide slowly up the rocks towards her.
Rebecca shrank back, frightened.
“What do you want?” She pleaded.
It came inexorably on. A yard from her, it finally stopped. She could see nothing in the hood other than blackness.
Silence.
Rebecca was about to call out in fear when, slowly, a hand rose to the hood and pulled it back, revealing tresses of long dark hair and a pale but beautiful face that Rebecca realised instantly she knew.
“Becca?” Rebecca’s voice faltered slightly.
The woman made no reply.
“I have read your journal… I… I’ve seen you, that dress, your paintings in the castle … Siobhan has told me about what Lachlan did.”
Two dark eyes looked at her expressionlessly.
When, at last, the woman spoke, it was in a strange, echoing voice that seemed to come from all around and inside Rebecca’s own head.
“I come to warn you of Lachlan. He is here. He means you harm.”
“Lachlan is here? What do you mean? Where? Why does he mean me harm?” Rebecca looked around anxiously, almost expecting Lachlan himself to emerge from the mist. She felt as if she knew this woman, and yet she now felt more frightened than in any of her encounters with the Wolf and the Warrior. There was no trace of the gentle soul whose life she had read about, who had been spoken of with such love by Siobhan. The tone of Becca’s voice was chilling.
“You would try to stop him. If you return the treasure to its rightful place, he will be lost to eternity. But be warned, he will stop at nothing. You must be on your guard.”
“But how will I know him?”
“You will know him. He is the man you do not know but yet you do know. I cannot stay here, I must go back.”
Becca swept the hood back over her head and began to slip back down towards the sea. Rebecca stood up.
“Wait!” she cried.
Becca stopped. The hooded head turned.
“You will help. You must help. Only you can help. Help us!”
With that, she turned again.
“Don’t go, please!”
But Rebecca’s pleas went unheeded. The hooded figure slipped back into the waves.
The mist evaporated and, just as soon as it had changed, everything was as before.
Rebecca wrung her hands. This encounter had shaken her.
There was so much she had wanted to say to Becca, so many questions to ask.
Yet Becca had spoken in riddles. Rebecca did not understand what she had meant about Lachlan being here and meaning to do her harm.
For the first time since she had come to the Highlands, she was really frightened.
CHAPTER 21 – Over The Sea To Skye
Down on the shore below Barradale Castle, a small group of birds were searching for food, as the tide slowly receded, their shrill calls the only noise disturbing the peace. To the north and the south, the glens, corries and ridges of the mountains of Knoydart looked on, majestic and timeless.
“I wish we knew what was going on at Rahsaig,” said Drew, gazing out from the castle tower. “You don’t think we’ll get back to find the place robbed?”
“No,” said Henry McOwan definitely, stretching out on a lumpy mattress.
“My guess is they want a few very specific things – all of which are worth a great deal of money on the black market. What time is it?”
“Just before seven. I wonder where Rebecca and our Doug are now?”
“Back at Rahsaig, if they rowed through the night. I hope they take heed of what we told them. They must be careful around Morgan. He’ll latch on in an instant if he thinks they’re acting strangely.”
“He had everyone fooled after we got back from Rum. None of us had an inkling it wasn’t you. Although, that might explain why you – I mean ‘he’ – agreed to us going on our little trip so easily. Took very little persuading. A good deal less than you might have needed, boss – I s’pose he wanted us out of the way.”
Henry gave a wan smile. He was not really concentrating on what Drew was saying.
“I’m worried they are going to get away with it. We cannot let them. I wonder if people even realise they have been robbed. Dougie has to get the police to arrest Morgan. And we have to warn Lord Mac. It won’t be easy as Sibley won’t let us out of his sight. They’ll try the switch at some stage – probably after dark. That painting on Skye is part of our heritage, it must not be lost. And it’s worth a fortune.”
“Why would anyone pay lots of money for a painting they can never sell?” Drew rested his chin on his hands as he looked out of the window. “If it’s been stolen, and people know it’s been stolen, nobody would buy it, surely?”
“Collectors are a strange breed. Some of them want things just to have them, not to show off or profit from. Possessing something of great beauty is enough for them.”
“Seems daft to me,” said Drew, dismissively.
The metallic rasp of the key in the lock caused both of them to turn. The door opened to reveal the portly frame and bristling moustache of Simon Sibley.
“Good morning, Gentlemen. I trust you slept well. Please join me downstairs for breakfast. I see no reason why, even in the current circumstances, we cannot still be civilised. We shall be departing for the Isle of Skye after breakfast – that is Mr McOwan and I will be. You –” he addressed Drew “– will remain as our guest at least until we are long gone from this country. And as insurance, my dear Mr McOwan, that you do not try anything, shall we say, unwise. ”
In a flourish, moustache and upturned nose revolved one hundred and eighty degrees and disappeared back down the staircase. One of the Frenchmen leaned around the door and gestured that they should follow.
“Great!” muttered Drew. “Looks like I’ll be enjoying the view a while longer then.” He followed Henry through the door, giving the grinning Frenchman a glare.
***
“Beyond misery, despair, hatred, treachery,
Beyond guilt and defilement;
Watchful, heroic, the Cuillin is seen
Rising on the other side of sorrow.”
Willie McHarg stood at the wheel of the Duke of Argyll, as they approached the Isle of Skye, gazing at the distant jagged peaks which formed the famous Cuillins. Dougie and Rebecca turned to look at him.
“Very lyrical, Willie,” said Dougie, smiling.
“Is that Shakespeare?” asked Rebecca.
“Sorley MacLean, Gaelic poet of modern times. I don’t spend all my time on boats and heaving seaweed, you know.” Willie’s face creased into a smile.
“The Cuillins inspire many things. Mystery, music, poetry – somebody even tried to sell them a while back. Then he realised they were not his to sell.”
A police car was parked on the pier at the small harbour of Isleornsay on the south end of Skye. Willie moored the boat alongside. As Dougie and Rebecca jumped ashore onto the jetty, Constable Lennie’s tall, angular frame extracted itself from the passenger side of the car and strode purposefully towards them.
“The lo
ng arm – and legs – of the law,” murmured Rebecca, just loud for Dougie to hear.
“Mr Campbell.” Lennie nodded briskly in greeting.
“I’m trusting this is serious, since I’ve come all the way to Skye and disturbed the Sergeant in Portree before his breakfast, in order to meet you.”
“It’s straight from the Laird, Constable, I promise you, and it concerns major art theft,” replied Dougie. As he began to recount the full tale of the past few days, the Constable listened, his face betraying nothing.
“And you say this Sibley will be visiting Lord Mac today, and Henry with him?”
“That’s right,” said Rebecca. “They’re coming from Barradale this morning. We must get to talk to Henry and –”
“A moment there, lass, before we get to deciding what we will be doing.” A tone of reproof was introduced by the Sergeant, who had been listening in silence but now saw fit to exercise the authority of rank.
“These are serious matters. One thing is for certain and that is that you two must stay out of sight. If this Sibley sees you, the element of surprise will be lost.”
“But we must talk with Uncle Henry –” Rebecca began but the Sergeant held his hand up, as if directing traffic on the Skye Bridge, thought Rebecca uncharitably.
“You will please leave the talking to the constable and myself,” he said, a little frostily. Rebecca ground her teeth. Why would these policemen listen patiently to Dougie but not take her seriously? The Sergeant continued.
“Now, Mr Campbell. What is this demand that we arrest a ‘bogus Laird’ at Rahsaig? Would you mind telling me who this bogus person is and what they have done? Without evidence there is no crime and without a crime, there will be no arrest.”
The Sergeant looked challengingly at Dougie. Rebecca decided he perhaps required a sound reason why he had missed his breakfast that morning.
“That is why we have to talk to Uncle Henry,” interjected Rebecca, determined that this man would not block their purpose today and that he would listen to her.
“Only he knows why. His message said to arrest the Laird at Rahsaig.”
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