Two ridges beyond that he reached the long slope which rose through the vanished village to the Macdonalds” cottage. The mad collie scratched in its doorway; gale-shredded smoke from the roof suggested life inside. Boozy with self-pity Pibble lurched towards it, wondering how he could ever have placed any hope in this hopeless refuge. They should never have wished all this on him, this bashing and careering with no play anywhere for ordinary stolid logic. They couldn’t ask a man—a quiet, civilised, diesel-breathing man—to endure and cling to this piffling rock while the waves of unreason threshed over him. They were trying him out, they wanted him to break, they …
They?
He glimpsed the panel, the inquisitors, through a rift of mind-fog. Braybrook was there, gold-eyed, and Sir Francis, and Father in his plus-twos, and …
The last time he fell his hands slapped on to ancient cobbles, all displaced by roots and sprouts of grass and heather. He got up and stood swaying; the cottage was only fifty yards up the invisible street. His feet and shins were scarlet with the slashing heather, but the bog-slime had been brushed clean away except in the crannies between his toes.
The collie yelped towards him, taut on its many-knotted rope, but before he could start to circle round beyond its reach in the hope of coming to a back window, a brown arm poked through the door and jerked at the rope; the collie stopped its clamour in mid-yelp and trotted back to the doorway to complete its scratching. It didn’t even glance up as Pibble passed beside it.
“Who are you, you damned fellow?” creaked a voice from the dimness, a dull voice without a brain behind it.
“It is the Prince, Sire,” fluttered another, “in his new uniform.”
A monotonous snoring rose from ground level.
Pibble groped away from the door, and with the main light no longer falling from behind him he could see. Sir Francis sat in a rocking-chair, hands crossed on his walking-stick, arms poking out from a complex of cloaks and shawls, eyes staring without interest at the light that came through the door, as a new-born child stares at the brightest object in its vision. A square brown parcel lay on his lap. Either Pibble was early and his period of genius was not yet on him; or he was late and it was over. Rita sat at the old man’s feet, smiling her uncanny smile. Two grey-haired weather-beaten women—the ones he’d seen gutting herring that morning, were peering at Pibble through narrowed eyes, as if he were a portent of a storm.
“Mo chreach!” said one. “’S fhada nach robh sex maniac againn’s an eilean!”
“Ged a bha doighean,” said the other, “gu math eibhinn aig brathair do sheanair na latha.”
They lifted their aprons a fastidious inch and walked to a position where the rough table stood between them and the intruder; the fatter one picked up a gutting knife and felt its blade.
“I’m Pibble, sir.”
“Come with another of your damned messes to show me, hey? Let’s have a look at it.”
Pibble could think of no answer to this sleep-talking out of another era. The dead voice droned on suddenly. “Solidifier? Damned rubbish. Two damned waxes will melt as easy as one.”
“Your father has pretended madness since I came,” said Rita. “And see, his attendant is most amusingly pretending drunkenness. I admire her loyalty, Your Highness, more than her taste.”
The snoring came from beyond the table where Sister Dorothy lay on the bare earth floor, mouth open, face purple.
“Do you speak any English at all?” said Pibble.
“Put it in the cupboard,” said Sir Francis. “I might think of a use for the damned stuff.”
The Macdonalds shook their heads at Pibble. The fatter one put the knife back on the table, but neither moved from behind its protection.
“Pibble!” barked Sir Francis. “What are you doing in that idiot attire?”
“Thank God!” said Pibble.
“Got someone to think for you now, hey? Where’s Dorrie?”
“The other side of the table.”
Sir Francis craned to look.
“Damned dipso,” he snarled. “Brought her here to get her off the stuff, and what does she do but persuade these idiot women to use their old still?”
The Macdonalds cackled an incomprehensible protest at the recognised word. Sir Francis turned and spoke to them in Gaelic, quite gently and slowly. They smiled and curtsied, and one turned and started to rummage in a splintered tea-chest by the wall.
“Well, man, how are you going to get us off this damned island, hey?”
“I tried to talk reason to Brother Providence, but he shut me up in a cell and started to brainwash me …”
The old man snorted and grinned.
“I think I could have persuaded some of the others to see reason—the doctor, Patience, for instance. But Providence is beyond argument. He thinks he’s God. I knew him before, when …”
“Don’t waste time telling me. He used to be a damned usher at a nobby crammers, then they put him in clink.”
“If you knew that,” said Pibble slowly, “why did you trust him enough to let him have a letter telling him who I was?”
“Course I didn’t trust him, you blazing ass, any more than I did you. I put my seal on it.”
“A hot knife. . .” began Pibble.
“Stop wasting time!” screamed the old man. “Haven’t I had enough damned trouble with Pibbles and seals? They’ve tried to kill me and they’ve tried to shut you up. Now it’s your job to get me off the island.”
“Can you persuade the Macdonalds to lend us their boat?”
“Your cronies in brown will come after us,” snarled the old man.
“I put their launch out of action,” said Pibble, “and I broke the helicopter pilot’s leg.”
“That fat one can fly,” said Sir Francis. “He used to be Hackenstadt’s chauffeur.”
“I don’t see what harm they could do us from a helicopter, once we’re at sea,” said Pibble. “The only other thing I can think of is to hide out until I can get to the radio telephone and ask the mainland for help.”
“No hope of that, you damned idiot. They take a couple of valves out when they aren’t using it, in case any of the other ninnies tries to get in touch with someone sane. Damned ironic, hey? You, girl, take my spat off.”
He thrust out a foot. The spat was the palest violet. Rita unlaced the strap with obsequious fingers and passed the garment up into his mittened hands. He scratched in his waistcoat pocket and brought out a fat, many-gadgeted old penknife, with whose scissor-device he picked at the stitching of the spat until he could put both index fingers into the slit.
“Get dressed, you gawping ninny,” he grunted as he tugged with surprising power at the cloth. Pibble saw that two grey jerseys and a pair of dun-coloured trousers lay on the table and a pair of calf-length gumboots stood beside it. The woman was putting more clothes back into the tea-chest. Pibble dressed, wondering what was so ironic about the monks’ security precautions over their radio, and watching Sir Francis squeeze coin after coin into his lap.
“Cousin of mine,” croaked the old man, “stupid girl, volunteer nurse, got caught in Serbia in ’fifteen. Prisoner of War for a year. By the time she was exchanged, things had got damned primitive. A reel of cotton sold for a sovereign. Plenty of sovereigns, see, and damned little else. All their mammas had made ’em sew gold into the lining of their petticoats. Good thing for British virtue the guards never found out, hey? But a damned good notion—I’ve carried a bit of gold about ever since I could spare it.”
He turned and spoke again to the Macdonalds. The slowness and meekness of his Gaelic, Pibble now saw, didn’t come from any respect for them but because he was not at home in the language. They looked worried. One spoke. He counted twelve of the coins out on to the table. The thinner Macdonald picked one up and carried it over to the door, where she peered at it and then bit it. T
he other one spoke with her in the soft, brushing syllables of their own language, then they both turned to Sir Francis and shook their heads.
“Chan fhaigh, gu dearbh,” said the more vocal one.
“You could tell them what my job is, sir. They’d be in trouble if we told the customs about their still.”
“Blackmail runs in the family, hey?” snarled Sir Francis.
He spoke again in Gaelic, and Pibble caught a word which might have been “police”. The Macdonalds flicked their eyes, towards him, and away. Sir Francis put three more sovereigns on the table. They nodded unhappily.
“Done that for you,” grinned Sir Francis. He was blatantly pleased with the excitement, his adrenalin busy. Crippen, would that mean he was using up his last pill faster? Pibble tried to phrase his next question carefully.
“I think it’s about forty miles, sir.”
“Sixty by sea, nincompoop.”
“So if we leave now we ought to be there in twelve hours or so.”
“What of it?”
No good, except that the old demon knew what he meant and wasn’t worried.
“Would you ask them if there’s enough fuel on board, sir? We don’t want to get stuck half way.”
“Fuel, hey?”
“Yes. Petrol or diesel or whatever they use.”
Crippen, was he going soft already?
“There’s no damned engine in that boat, Pibble. She’s gaff-rigged, loose-footed, and you’re going to have to sail her home.”
“Sail her?”
“Sail her, Pibble. My saints, but you remind me of your damned dad! Done any sailing?”
“No, sir.”
The old man tilted himself forward from the rocking-chair until it looked as if he’d go sprawling across the floor. He caught himself deftly on his stick and was standing, still clutching the parcel.
“You’ve got twenty minutes to learn, then,” he said. “No wonder the damned police never catch anybody.”
He spoke again in Gaelic and tossed his last coin onto the floor. One of the women fetched more clothing while the other brought out of a cupboard a flat, dark loaf and a bottle containing a liquid paler than oat-straw.
“Couldn’t the Miss Macdonalds sail us over?” said Pibble. “That way they’d get their boat back sooner.”
“They’re Mrs Macdonalds,” snarled Sir Francis. “Married the same man. Genius he must have been to commit bigamy on an island this size. But the damned fool got himself torpedoed during the war, and they’re still waiting for him to come back. One can’t leave the other, for fear he’ll come when she’s away. They can’t go together, because then they think the brown brothers will come and pull their house down to build the City with. That’s where the rest of the village went. These two are loopy, Pibble, loopy with loneliness. I’ve done damned well to wheedle the boat off ’em as it is. You carry Dorrie and the food. This ninny of a girl can take the spare clothes and help me.”
“Countess,” said Pibble, “my father is weary with age. Would you lend him your shoulder while we walk to the boat?”
Rita rose from the floor in a swift curtsy. “I am His Majesty’s servant to command. With my life if need be.”
Sir Francis peered at her, snorting.
“Another loony, hey?” he shouted.
“My father pretends madness again,” explained Pibble.
“It is His Majesty’s pleasure,” simpered Rita, as sweet as barley-water.
“Three loonies, one drunk, and a bone-headed peeler!” exclaimed Sir Francis, raising his whiskery old head towards the God he had dispensed with. He bowed over his walking-stick.
“Giddap then, m’lady,” he croaked. “All the countesses I’ve known have been a damned sight older and uglier.”
Rita’s sick smile flashed at the compliment.
“You carry the clothes in your left hand, my beauty,” he said. “You’ll need ’em, and so will Dorrie. That’ll leave your right side free to help me.”
Rita tucked the bundle of oily wool under her arm, then moved to the old man’s side and drew his free arm over her shoulder.
“She’s not all that strong, sir,” said Pibble. “She’s been very badly treated.”
“So’ve I, dammit,” grumbled Sir Francis and hobbled through the door.
Pibble walked wearily round the table and hauled at Sister Dorothy’s limp wrists until she slumped into a sitting position. He knelt, dragged her torso across his shoulder with his left hand and slid his right hand through the hampering folds of habit until he could grip her by the right thigh. Her snoring did not cease, but slowed and deepened a semitone. He knew his stomach muscles would never be up to lifting her.
A cackling broke out above his head and he felt his ribs being prodded. Craning from beneath Sister Dorothy’s armpit he saw the Macdonalds making signs at him. The fatter one bent and held the shoulders so that he could stand again. The other bounced sprightly on to the table and sat there, legs dangling, head hanging. She emitted three convincing snores, then nodded brightly to Pibble and pointed to the inert mass of Sister Dorothy. Pibble nodded too. Yes, he might just manage it that way.
The thinner beldam went to the wall and poured water from a big pitcher into an enamel mug, which she gave him. The water was sweet, pale brown and almost magically refreshing. The Macdonalds nodded and smiled while he took a second mug; when he was not gulping the stuff down he realised that most of the taste was not fresh natural sweetness of peat-water but a good lacing of home-made whisky. Cunning old harridans! Suborning a police officer. He smiled, and they smiled back with peasant-cunning eyes.
Even with the three of them there was a tedious amount of heaving and dragging before they had the drunkard on the table; but once they’d settled her there the fireman’s lift became a practical proposition. Pibble grunted as he took the weight, stood upright, jerked his shoulder to settle the soggy body to a better posture, and staggered towards the door.
The cackling broke out again and wearily he turned. The fatter Mrs Macdonald was holding the food-bag towards him; he took it. The thinner one began to speak to him in Gaelic, tragic, pleading, earnest. When she finished he nodded and smiled, as though no torture on earth could have drawn from him the secret of their experiment with alcohol. Once more he staggered towards the door. He eased his burden through, bent-kneed.
The wide light of the headland dazzled him like the glare off a snow-field. He had been longer than he meant. Rita and Sir Francis were already out of sight round the abrupt shoulder. Pibble plodded after them with small and straining steps, blessing the diet that had kept Sister Dorothy leaner than civilised food might have made her. Suddenly the hiss of the wind and the creaking of the gulls vanished beneath a nearer noise—the collie’s maniac yelp. He swung heavily round to see what had interrupted its scratching.
A brown blob was hurtling up the slope below the cottage, faster than cloud-shadow. Love, freed from the leash of his training, was back now at the true centre of his nature, hunting. Love hunting Pibble.
The collie had raced to meet the intruder but was hoicked onto its hind legs by its lunge against the rope. Pibble began to lumber downhill, hoping to make it back to the half-safety of the collie’s protection. A shadow moved in the doorway and the same brown arm that he had seen before reached out, but this time it didn’t tug at the rope to quiet the collie. Instead steel gleamed for a moment in the bitter light.
The collie was loose, still yelping, stretching into a curving gallop with the slashed rope trailing behind it. Love never noticed this new enemy in his hurling across the wind-flattened grass. The collie was fresher, and perhaps naturally faster. Pibble teetered to a halt—no point in running now, anywhere. Thirty yards from him the curved path intercepted the straight path, coming not quite at a tangent; as the dogs” shoulders met the collie’s alligator jaw closed on Love’s neck, but
it was the surprise of the impact that bowled the bigger dog over, eight legs flailing as the collie clung to the brindled fur.
Love was up first. The fall had broken the collie’s hold, and for a moment Pibble thought its back must be damaged as it threshed upside down in a patch of heather. Love shook his beautiful head and the tear behind his right ear showered a visible and arching spray of blood into the wind. Then he was leaping on, unbaffled.
But before he had made another five yards the collie was on him again and had bowled him over without letting go. As they flailed on the ground the long cord tangled round them. Mrs Macdonald was marching up the slope, her gutting knife held high above her head. She was yelling like a clansman. Far on the southern skyline a straggle of brown, skirted figures was beating through the heather. Pibble turned again and wallowed up the headland.
Ten minutes ahead of them, say; and there’d be a coracle for getting them to the boat, built for two at a pinch, and he’d be faced with one of those instant-logic problems—cannibals and missionaries crossing a river—one drunk, one loony, and one dotard, and poor old Pibble to ferry them over the water. Take Rita first, to climb into the boat. Then Sir Francis, and she could help him up. Wrestle with Dorothy last, if the monks hadn’t come by then. They …
It turned out to be a big inflatable rubber dinghy, of the kind used for air-sea rescue. Rita had dragged it down into the water. As Pibble came swaying down the path, his hurt hip feeling as if there were lumps of gravel between bone and bone and his bruised feet slipping sockless in the unfamiliar boots, she was handing the old man over the rounded gunwale as though he were squiring her into a cotillion. By the time Pibble reached the weedy shore Sir Francis was grinning in the stern while Rita stood beside the foot-high wavelets, the diminished wind of the inlet swirling her habit about her in Diana-of-the-Uplands folds.
“Think you’ve got the whole damned afternoon to loiter about?” yelled the old man.
“She wasn’t easy to lift,” said Pibble. “The Virtues are coming up this way.”
“Maybe, maybe. Shake a leg, man. I’ll be done for if I catch cold.”
The Sinful Stones Page 15
