My Father Sleeps (Mrs. Bradley)

by Gladys Mitchell

  “Do you mean you’ve lost her her job?”

  “Aye,” said he, looking at his sister oddly. “Or found her another. Just whatever you like.”

  “You’re going to marry her, do you mean?”

  “I have married her. First thing yesterday morning. Special license. I wrote to mother last night.”

  “Well!” said his sister. “And you, that hate women, and haven’t been to a dance since you left College!”

  “Oh, the dance was in aid of something, I believe,” said Ian, vaguely. He grinned reminiscently and then began singing under his breath, glancing sidelong at his sister as he did so.

  “Wull ye gang tae the Hielands, Leezie Lindsay?

  Wull ye gang tae the Hielands wi’ me?

  Wull ye gang tae the Hielands, Leezie Lindsay,

  My pride and my darling to be.”

  “Well, I’m awfully glad,” said Laura. “I never thought we’d get you off our hands.” She lagged a little, and Ian, slowing down, received a warm sisterly kiss which surprised and touched him. The party then took to the boats and crossed to Ballachulish pier.

  The road, which, from Fort William, remained on the margin of Loch Linnhe, had crossed a little river north of Onich, and then bent inland a little, but it soon rejoined the coast to cross Loch Leven at Ballachulish ferry. It was windy in the narrows of the loch, but the day was fine, and the strangely assorted party—the beautiful woman, the less beautiful but very individual one, the tall and strong young girl, and the elderly, tough, thin, rather witch-like old woman—halted, with the young men and the lad, near the southern slip of the ferry. Here was the grassy mound upon which James Stewart of the Glen was hanged for the murder of Colin Campbell of Glenure in 1752. Jan pointed it out to Catherine.

  “An odd sort of murder,” said Laura. “I wonder who really did it? It is said there are still people who know. Campbells, I suppose. Let’s go and look at the cairn.”

  “There’s no road, child,” said Mrs. Bradley.

  “Does that matter? It’s broad daylight, and we’ve plenty of time.”

  “What is the story?” asked Deborah. “I’ve never heard of James Stewart of the Glen.”

  “Haven’t you?” asked Ian. “Well, it happens to be one of the mysteries of history, because, although a man was murdered, the murderers were never named, and there seems no doubt the wrong man was hanged for the crime. Seven years after the Forty-Five, a man called Colin Campbell of Glenure became factor on some of the estates forfeited by the men who had followed Prince Charles Edward. Glenure was not a bad man, and he took as his adviser James Stewart of the Glen, who had been pardoned for his share in the rising but who was still ardently loyal to his own clan, the Stewarts of Appin. The two men are supposed to have been related, and at one time had been friends. A third person important in the story was the foster-son of James Stewart, a young man called Allan Breck Stewart. He was a bit of a swashbuckler, and was a sort of liaison officer between the tenants of Appin and their chieftain, Ardshiel, who had fled to France after the Forty-Five.

  “Well, the time came when, under pressure, Glenure dismissed Stewart from his job, and that caused bad blood between the two of them. Glenure was murdered on the fourteenth of May in 1752 near the wood of Lettermore on this road we’re following now—or as near it as the old road used to run. Two shots were fired by a man who escaped across the hills and was, when he fired the shots, too far off to be recognized.

  “Although it seems most unlikely that he was the murderer, James Stewart of the Glen was arrested, tried, and sentenced to be hanged. The sentence was carried out on that knoll we saw just south of Ballachulish Ferry. Some families in the neighbourhood are still supposed to know the name of the actual murderer, but are under a vow of secrecy which has never been broken.”

  “Excellent,” said Mrs. Bradley, who had come up whilst this story had been told. “Excellent, child. All the essentials, and no unnecessary trimmings. What is your own opinion?”

  “I suppose Allan Breck must have done it, but as I’m not in the secret, I can’t tell whether I’m right.”

  “I thought it was almost certain that two men committed the murder?”

  “That is, and was, the general opinion, I believe. I do know they didn’t catch Allan, and rather appear to have taken it out on James. Oddly enough, I was telling Kate the tale as we cruised up the Sound this morning.”

  “Weren’t they believed to have been in collusion over it? Was it not brought forward at the trial that James could not be tried until Allan had been tried?” asked Jonathan.

  “I don’t know, or else I don’t remember. But I don’t think we’re going to find that cairn.”

  Traces of the old road, narrow as a footpath, along which Campbell of Glenure and his companions had ridden in single file on the fourteenth of May, a Thursday, in the year 1752, were not to be recognized by strangers. The travellers followed the new road, which, passing the Duror Inn on level ground, skirted the hills and was alternately flanked and crossed by the railway.

  Apart from people in a hurry in cars, they met no one, and at last Laura, disappointed but not at all disheartened, suggested that they should return to Ballachulish, and ask at the hotel to be directed to the spot the next day. They had already walked a good many miles since they had left the pier, and, by the time they regained the hotel at Ballachulish, the best of the day would be over, and, as Brian, the lad, pointed out, there was dinner to think of. Ian, however, was anxious to have Catherine to himself, and said that the two of them would walk a little farther.

  The group, which had planned to do so long before the end of the afternoon, thereupon began to break up, but arrangements were made by all to meet at Ballachulish Ferry on the morrow.

  “Well,” said Ian, abruptly, when he and his wife were alone, “what did you think of my sister?”

  “I liked her, but she’s rather terrifying, considering that she’s so young.”

  “Terrifying? Laura? Good heavens, of course she isn’t!”

  “She terrifies me.”

  They walked on. Ian felt no desire for conversation. He was entirely, contentedly happy. After they had walked on southwards for about two miles, he said:

  “Tired?”

  “Not a bit,” she answered.

  “Good.” They smiled at one another, and walked on again in silence. The silence around them was equally undisturbed. The land, with its primitive contours, seemed asleep in the late afternoon. The light was still brilliant, the sun fairly high in the sky. The path the two lovers were following was rough but well marked. At times they had to go in Indian file, and when they were able to walk side by side again Ian took Catherine’s hand and they walked along then like children, swinging their clasped hands in loving and unconcerned comradeship.

  “Better have a few minutes’ rest, and then get back,” said Ian, at the end of the next half hour. They lay in the heather, dreamy, drowsy, and at ease, and then stood up and gazed around them before turning back. It was then that they were aware of a bareheaded man on his way towards them. The couple looked at him, for there was something wild and, at first sight, menacing about him. The man began waving his arms. The clear air made him look larger than life-size. There was an air about him which was quite impressively alarming, and when he saw that they had observed him he quickened his pace, almost running over the heather. They could see then that he was limping. His hair was disordered and long, his eyes, in a white, strained face, were unduly large, and he was breathing fast and painfully by the time he reached the spot where the pair were standing.

  He addressed them immediately. His voice was more reassuring than his appearance. His words, however, were fantastic, especially heard in the middle of a fine afternoon in that breezy upland air.

  “Do you believe in hauntings?” he demanded.

  “Of course,” said Ian, taking Catherine by the arm and pressing it gently and reassuringly before he stepped in front of her. The man looked perplexed,
and then said:

  “Please tell me your name.”

  “Ian Stewart Menzies.”

  “Thank God for that. I’m a Campbell, I’m afraid. That alone is enough to haunt me, I suppose. Your name is Menzies? I’ve got a picture at home. . . . You wouldn’t come and look at it, I suppose?”

  “Sorry, but I’m afraid we’ve got to get along, Mr. Campbell.”

  “Loudoun,” said the crazy-looking man. “Hector Loudoun. Don’t forget. Hector Loudoun. Hector Loudoun of Craigullich. And, really, I’m not mad. I’m haunted. That’s what I am; and I want . . . I really do want . . . company. I’ve had enough of myself. In fact, I can’t stand being alone. Do you know what it’s like to be alone . . . and not alone?”

  The bright day seemed to cloud over, Catherine, stepping up beside her husband, glanced at him, and he returned the glance. His look was fleeting. He was keeping his eye on the stranger.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. It sounded stiff, although he wanted to sound sympathetic. “We must get along, I’m afraid. Some other time, perhaps.”

  It sounded idiotic now. He racked his brain for a parting remark at once intelligent, kind, and final. Nothing came. The stranger cried desperately:

  “Listen, man! You must come! My life, my sanity, anything may depend upon it! You can do as you like when you get there. You can send messages to your friends to tell them where you are and that you’re safe. The post calls nearly every morning. You can walk out on to the highway from my place and send a message by any passing car! Oh, heavens! Is it much to ask? I want to live, and I can’t live unless you help me! I can’t stand it, I tell you! I can’t stand it!”

  Catherine slipped her hand under Ian’s arm and gave it a gentle tug.

  “I’m sorry,” said Ian again. “Really, I’m beastly sorry, but you’ll have to get someone else. Or you could leave the house, surely, for a bit, if you need a change! I can’t oblige you. I have my wife to consider. I’m sure there are plenty of people . . .”

  His voice tailed off, as, following the stranger’s wild and despairing eye, he glanced around at the deserted landscape. Across the water the gloomy, splendid hills of Morvern rose green and purple to a sky against which their precipices and fastnesses were inky-black and their contours sharpened to the outlines of flat and guillotined cardboard. The railway near at hand seemed to emphasize rather than mitigate the loneliness of the landscape through which it ran. The deep, untroubled loch, sea-estuary though it was, enhanced the peace and added to the loveliness of the hills, and the gulls which sailed on spread pinions over the water, and skimmed its ruffled surface, were like birds seen in a dream or glimpsed between lines of a song.

  Catherine now tugged at Ian’s arm. Loudoun saw the gesture.

  “If you leave me I’ll follow you,” he shouted. “My curse will rest on you. For God’s sake stay with me to-night! I can’t stand it again! I can’t!”

  Ian took Catherine’s hand and hurried her away. He strode so fast over the heather, humpy and in hillocks, that Catherine could scarcely keep up with him. In less than five minutes Loudoun was far behind them. Ian then slackened his pace, for Catherine was gasping and perspiring.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’ll have to sit down for a bit. I’m a nuisance. I didn’t know I was quite so tired.”

  “If that fellow doesn’t follow us!” muttered Ian. They sat down in the heather, and he glanced rather anxiously at his watch. They had rested for three or four minutes when Loudoun caught up with them. He seemed quite calm this time, and spoke in an ordinary voice.

  “You’ll have to come back with me,” he said. “I have the gift, and I know. You’ll see. By the way, I live just over that hill. Craigullich is the name of the place. Good-bye. I’ll be seeing you soon.”

  He turned and walked off. Ian stared doubtfully after him. He could see how badly he limped and how thin and frail he looked. Loudoun turned round and waved his stick.

  “Obviously potty,” said Ian, in self-defence. “Do you think you could start again now? I’m awfully sorry, but we’re quite a long way from the boat, or even from Duror Inn. Curse that madman for holding us up!”

  Catherine rose to her feet and at once they began to walk on.

  “I don’t think he was mad. I think he’s had an awful shock of some kind. I wish we could have helped him,” she said, “although he gave me the creeps.”

  “Couldn’t possibly,” said her husband. “Help him, I mean. Don’t know who he is, or anything about him. Besides . . .” He looked again at his watch . . . “we’re already later than we ought to be. It’s getting towards sunset. Can you step it out a bit faster, do you think? I didn’t really mean to come so far, but I wanted to get rid of the others, and couldn’t see how else to do it.”

  Catherine quickened her pace, and they almost ran, but suddenly she caught her foot in a clump of heather. Ian picked her up and looked remorseful.

  “All right?” he asked. She nodded.

  “I think so. Let’s go on.”

  “No. Take it easy.” He noticed she was biting her lip.

  “Let me go. We must get along,” she said. He released her and took her by the arm.

  “Are you sure you’re all right, Kate? We’ve the deuce of a way to go.”

  “Yes, I’m all right.” She looked pale, however, and limped when she tried to walk. Ian was greatly concerned. To add to his lover-like and humanitarian anxiety, he could see that a mist was drifting in from the sea-loch over the moor.

  “You know,” he said, “I’m afraid that beggar’s curse has come home to roost. I don’t like the look of you, and I don’t like the look of the weather. We might be able to hold up a car if we get back on to the road, but otherwise it looks as though we must visit the lunatic, after all.”

  “What do you mean? I don’t think . . .”

  “He must live somewhere near. He said he lived over the hill.”

  “But that might mean anything in country as wild as this.”

  “I was afraid of his curse. I’m superstitious. He looked as though he meant it, didn’t you think? Anyway, you’re not going to do ten miles on a gammy foot, and I don’t think I’ll offer to carry you quite that distance. Still, let’s see what can be done.”

  He lifted her up and slung her across his shoulder. Then, turning towards the water, he walked out on to the road and stepped out in the direction towards which Loudoun had been going. He did not think that the ankle would be particularly troublesome in itself, but he realized with a pang of compunction that the girl was completely tired out. He blamed himself bitterly for this. He had been selfish and inconsiderate. But since the time they had left London she had been so quiescent and uncomplaining, so ready to do exactly as he wished, so apt to follow his lead and, on the boat, to carry out his orders, that he had failed to realize the limits of her strength and that her powers of endurance could come to an end some hours before he was tired.

  He was contrite and self-accusing. Catherine begged him not to trouble. She reiterated that she was quite all right; perfectly all right; if only he would allow her to walk he would see.

  Ian strode on, the hard road under his feet, his long legs making nothing of the distance and his strong shoulder making nothing of her weight. He only hoped that they would be lucky enough to stop a car.

  They were not lucky. Nothing passed them except a car going in the wrong direction. Ian began to hope that Loudoun had not misled them, that he really lived where he had said. A long glen whose stream made a water-splash over the road seemed to run in the right direction.

  “Ghosts!” he said to himself, as a long, low house came in view. “I wouldn’t wonder!” He tightened his grip on Catherine. “Cheer up, Kate!” he said. “There’s the house in sight, and, with any luck, some food and a seat by the fire!”

  Chapter Two

  ★

  The Loch of the Host!

  Loch Sloigh!

  War cry of the MacFarlanes

  ★r />
  The house, built of stone, low-walled but grim as a castle, lay about fifty yards from the tiny loch which was enclosed in its hilly policies. Ian put Catherine to the ground and gave her his arm to the door. There was a great bell which clanged far back in the kitchen and brought an old woman to the door. The owner of the house was close behind her.

  “Hurt her ankle?” he said. “Then you’d both better stay the night, hadn’t they, Minnie? You can get beds ready, I expect.” He continued, in Gaelic, “Make them as welcome as you can. It’s the fine spirit they are giving me, and the great hope and joy. Their company is welcome to me this night.”

  He turned again to his guests. It was difficult to believe that he was the windswept, desperate man they had met on the moor. His hair was brushed back from his brow, and he wore the lozenge-buttoned black velvet jacket, and the kilt in dress tartan, of Highland Scottish evening dress. His buckled shoes were low-cut and his hose were of knitted web in the chief colours shown in the kilt. A sgian-dubh protruded nattily from his stocking, and a tasselled sporran of goat’s hair completed the picture of a pleasing, hospitable Highland gentleman ready for dinner and glad of someone to share it.

  He showed concern for Catherine, had the old woman help her to bathe the badly-wrenched foot, and hovered sympathetically whilst Ian, who had carried her first up and then down the staircase, settled her in an armchair with her foot on a stool.

  After dinner, feeling very much better for the rest and attention received, Catherine proposed to read the hands of her husband and their host. There was teasing and laughter from the men, but Catherine herself did not seem at all amused as she looked at Loudoun’s hand. She gave up the pretence of palmistry very soon on the plea of fatigue, and said she would go up to bed.

  Ian carried her upstairs, waited on her whilst she undressed, and then said, putting her into bed:

  “Is it very painful, Kate? You look a bit hipped about something.”