My Father Sleeps (Mrs. Bradley)

by Gladys Mitchell

  “You’ll need a candle,” he said.

  “No, no. I’ve got my torch.”

  “You’ll come down again?”

  “I will.”

  “And tell me”—he indicated the papers—“what you think about these.”

  Ian laughed and shrugged.

  “I can’t swear to do that. I don’t know what I think, except . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “Well, you’ve had a bad smash, and naturally you wouldn’t feel too good for a time, I suppose. Didn’t you say you’d had concussion?”

  “I know. I tell myself that. But it isn’t only that. I can’t explain how I know it, but I’m positively certain that I do hear him, and that—he comes.”

  “Oh, well,” said Ian uneasily. “Look, I’ll be back very soon. I just want to know how she is.”

  He went upstairs to his wife and found her wide awake and very restless.

  “Is he—are you all right?” she asked. Ian sat down on a chair at the side of the bed.

  “He’s a bad case of nerves,” he answered soberly. “I can’t make him out. He’s not mad. Look here, Kate, I’ll have to see him through for this one night. That means I may be very late to bed. Will you try to go to sleep?”

  “Yes. Come as soon as you can, and, darling, do be careful. I—well, look after yourself.”

  “Frightened?”

  “No . . . lonely.” She laughed, but she sounded most unhappy. Ian had switched off his torch and was holding her hand in the darkness. He placed it under the bedclothes and tucked her up. She clung to him as he leaned over to kiss her and urged him, almost in agony:

  “Take care of yourself. I don’t like it. It’s all rather horrid. Please take care.”

  Loudoun was pouring himself a peg when Ian went back to the dining-room.

  “Have some,” he said. Ian helped himself to the whisky, and for some time they sat in silence. Then Loudoun said, “Will you sit up with me to-night? Then—should I hear it again . . .”

  “I’ll sit up if you like, of course,” said Ian, not finding the prospect inviting, “but . . .”

  “Can you manage on a camp bed for once?”

  “Yes, of course I can.”

  “We’ll have two camp beds down here, then, when I’m sure old Morag is asleep. She mustn’t know anything of this. As soon as I think I’m hearing things I’m going to let you know. If you don’t hear them I’ll call in a doctor or a psychiatrist and find out what’s wrong with my nerves. If you do hear what I hear, it’s either someone playing the fool, or else there’s something to fear. I wouldn’t ask you—especially with your wife here.” He leered unpleasantly, and all Ian’s first dislike of him came back. “What do you think of my picture?”

  He jerked his pipe-stem towards the portrait over the mantelpiece. Ian nodded, and got up to examine the picture.

  “I’ve been wondering about that,” he said. “You mentioned it in your—your story.” The sheets, he noticed, had disappeared from the table.

  “Do you recognize the portrait?”

  “No, I can’t say that I do.”

  “Well, you ought to. That is Am Meinnearach before the Highland dress and the Gaelic language were proscribed. He was one of several chieftains painted at the time. I wanted to talk about that.”

  “About the proscriptions?”

  “No, no. About this—this dream of mine, or whatever it was. You see . . .”

  “Half a minute,” said Ian. “Look here, I did think—not to put too fine a point on it—that you were crazy when we met you out on the moor. But I’ve changed my mind. You’re no more mad than I am. I should say you’re in pretty poor shape still after your accident, and that’s no doubt the explanation of your experiences. Look here: I’ve a hunch I know the very person to put you right, and that’s my sister’s boss, a certain Mrs. Lestrange Bradley. She’s an uncanny old dame, but she’s very hot stuff at her job. . . .”

  “Her job being?”

  “Psychiatry. The very stuff you mentioned yourself just now. She’s at Ballachulish, and is going on to Inverness for a conference in a day or two. Say the word, and I’ll go and get her in the morning.”

  “If to-night brings what last night brought I’ll be only too glad—but I’m hoping it was only the leg, you know, and some—well, some rather bad news I had. It’s down in the script. You read it. I daresay I’m still run down. But if you’d rather go to bed . . .”

  “I wouldn’t dream of going to bed. But I’ll tell you what we will do, if you like. We’ll have a look round outside before we turn in. What do you say to that? You say you caught sight of some fellow snooping about . . .”

  “It may not have been,” said Loudoun, frowning. “And, even if there were, he could have had nothing to do with my dream. Still, perhaps—it’s a lovely night . . .”

  They stepped out among the bushes, the stunted pines, the rough brownish grass, and the heather. The moon was up and the loch shivered slightly in the night breeze. The air was fresh and very pure. There was no softness in it, but almost the snap of autumn cold.

  The two young men together covered the policies before they returned to the house. It took them just on an hour, and, by the time they returned, Loudoun’s knee was reminding him that he had done enough. He helped to carry the camp beds and the bedding into the room with the fire, and by midnight the two men were lying, warm but still wakeful, staring at the shadows that leapt and slid on the wall.

  By one o’clock Ian was asleep. At half-past he was awake, and sweating with an uncomfortable feeling of fear. Loudoun had lighted a candle. It shone grotesquely on his wax-white glistening face. His lips were trembling like those of a man who had lost control of himself. Aware of the movement made by Ian in waking up, he cried in a voice of agony:

  “He’s here! He’s here! He wants to speak! I’m willing him not to speak! I don’t want to hear what he says! I don’t want to hear what he says!”

  “Well, tell him to hop it,” said Ian, loudly and lightly. His own hands were wet with perspiration. There is nothing so catching as panic, and the blood that pounded in Loudoun’s veins was hammering, likewise, in his own.

  “He’s gone,” said Loudoun, just like a child, lying down again. “I’ll keep the candle alight, but I’m sure he’s gone. And he didn’t say it. He didn’t say it, did he?”

  “He didn’t say it,” said Ian. He lifted his head, and listened with the utmost intentness. Somewhere in the house, he could have sworn, someone had quietly shut a door. He swung his legs over the side of the narrow bed. As he did so, he heard a man cough.

  “Loudoun,” he said, “there’s somebody up and about. Let’s make certain it’s either your housekeeper or Catherine.” He knew perfectly well it was neither.

  “No, no! It’s all right,” said Loudoun. “I shall go to bed now. He won’t come back. He never does.” He flung off the blankets and got up. “I’m awfully grateful, old man. And, if you think Mrs. Bradley would see me, perhaps, if I drive you over in the morning . . . ?”

  “A good idea,” said Ian. He got out of bed and they folded the blankets and put away the camp beds. They went up the stairs together, and parted at Catherine’s door. “Good night. Sleep well.”

  “I shall sleep well enough,” said Loudoun. “I can’t tell you what it’s meant to me, having you here. Some time I’ll repay you. Be sure of that. There’s only one more thing. In the morning I’m going to give you that story of mine. Let Mrs. Bradley read it before she comes. Don’t bring it back to this house. Keep it—or let her keep it—and keep it safe. Some time, I swear, I’ll repay you.”

  Catherine was awake. She was also trembling.

  “I’m so thankful you’ve come,” she said. “I’ve been horribly afraid. And people have been walking about all the time.”

  “All the time?” said Ian, startled.

  “Well, it seemed like all the time.” But, pressed to be more exact, it seemed that all she could say was that she had heard the so
unds of doors opening and shutting, and the sounds of feet and a cough, earlier than Ian had been aware of them from his place in the downstair room.

  He was a long time getting to sleep. In the morning his host faced him apologetically.

  “I’m afraid I made a fool of myself last night. Will you get Mrs. Bradley to come? I’d be awfully glad. I hope I didn’t make a row last night? You didn’t hear anything, did you, when you said there was someone about?”

  “Only a door shutting.”

  “Banging, probably.”

  “All right,” said Ian, good-temperedly. “Banging, then.” Loudoun glanced at him sharply, but made no further remark. The two men breakfasted together; Catherine had breakfast in her room.

  “And now,” said Loudoun, “I’ll drive you over to Ballachulish. I can meet Mrs. Bradley there, perhaps, and fix up a consultation.”

  Catherine’s foot was swollen, and she could not put it to the ground. She had to be carried downstairs and out to the car. Ian was contrite.

  “I ought to have got Loudoun to let me have the car to fetch a doctor last night,” he said. “I’m awfully sorry, Kate. Does it hurt much?”

  “No,” she answered, smiling. Ian kissed her.

  Loudoun, who had gone back into the house, came out again looking perturbed.

  “I can’t make it out,” he said. “Old Morag’s gone.”

  “Gone? But she cooked the breakfast,” Ian objected.

  “And I enjoyed mine,” said Catherine.

  “Well, I can’t find her anywhere. Maybe she heard something, too, and has run out on me.”

  Ian thought this unlikely.

  “She’d have told you she was going,” he protested.

  “Look here,” said Loudoun. “You take the car into Ballachulish and get Mrs. Menzies’ ankle attended to, and bring back the car when you can.”

  “I’ll bring Mrs. Bradley in it, then,” said Ian. “I shouldn’t worry about Morag. She’s bound to be somewhere about. Anyway, I’ll be back with the car directly after lunch if not before, and thanks a lot.”

  “You’re welcome,” said Loudoun. He stood and waved them good-bye.

  “That’s a funny fellow,” said Ian thoughtfully. “He told me something last night about that picture he has. I don’t think he’s right about it, but he may be. I thought it was a copy of a picture by an artist called John Michael Wright, which is supposed to be the earliest known painting of Highland dress. I suppose he wanted to flatter me. But why?”

  Mrs. Bradley, examining the ankle with professional fingers, pronounced that Catherine had wrenched the foot rather badly, and prescribed rest. She glanced sympathetically at Ian as she said it, but he seemed unperturbed, and merely remarked:

  “That means the boat, then; unless you order her to bed.”

  “I won’t go to bed,” said Catherine. So Ian carried her out to the car again, Mrs. Bradley superintending.

  “Don’t let her use the foot for two or three days,” she said. “It isn’t anything serious, but it is probably quite painful. I’m afraid this has upset the beginning of your holiday. Laura is rather concerned.”

  Ian laughed, and shook his head.

  “It hasn’t spoilt it. I’m sorry for Kate, but I’d intended to stick to the boat and cruise about, in any case, so there’s no need for Laura to worry. Oh, and about this chap Loudoun.” He recounted, very briefly, Loudoun’s story. “He wants to consult you professionally. Could you find time, do you think? He’s in a bad way, I’m certain. He could do with some advice and help. He’s also, I deduce, a bit of a liar. The story he told and the story he wrote don’t tally in all particulars.”

  Mrs. Bradley nodded.

  “Interesting,” she said, “and the story is highly suggestive, of course. I will certainly egg him on to tell me about it himself. It contains elements which any psychologist would recognize. It seems fairly clear that his subconscious mind is prompting the conscious mind to efforts of memory. I wonder who his real father could have been?”

  “Name of Menzies, or one of the septs of the clan, according to what he indicated.”

  “Really? You mean because of your name, in which he took interest? It is a starting point, of course. If we could discover that a man named Menzies, for instance, had been hanged for murder when Mr. Loudoun was a very young child, we could get at the root of the mental disturbances, no doubt.”

  “If they were mental,” said Ian. Mrs. Bradley glanced at him sharply.

  “I heard someone about, and it wasn’t Catherine, and, presumably, it wasn’t the housekeeper,” he continued. “Ergo, it was somebody who had no right in the house. That was a queer tale he told about his accident, don’t you think? Get him to tell it to you, and make sure that it checks with the version he gave to us yesterday.”

  “I will,” said Mrs. Bradley. “And don’t you bother to come back. You get Catherine on to the boat and make her rest. Laura can drive this make of car. There’s no particular reason for you to see Mr. Loudoun again, I take it?”

  “None at all, except to return the car.”

  “Very well, then. That settles itself. I’ll get Laura, and she can drive us down to the loch to your boat, and help to get Catherine on board.”

  “Another fairly odd thing happened just before we left,” said Ian, as they drove north-westwards towards the pier. “Loudoun lost his housekeeper, old Morag or Minnie.”

  “Lost her?”

  “Well, he couldn’t find her. She was supposed to have cooked breakfast, and then, when we were coming away, she had disappeared.”

  “It seems a strange house,” said Mrs. Bradley.

  “Yes. Loudoun was coming with us, you see, but he didn’t like to leave until he had discovered where she had gone.”

  “He must have a tender regard for her.”

  “You mean it was only an excuse not to come?”

  “I don’t know, child. I have not yet seen Mr. Loudoun. Why did you say that the housekeeper was ‘supposed’ to have cooked breakfast?”

  “I don’t know, except there was really no evidence that she did.”

  “Evidence? Evidence?” said Mrs. Bradley, pleased. “There was evidence of the presence of somebody else in the house last night, you think; there is evidence—or is there?—that Loudoun’s name may be Menzies; and now there is no evidence that old Morag cooked the breakfast. Who cooked it, then, do you suppose?”

  “Loudoun himself, I shouldn’t wonder. He was sort of in and out all the time, and the dishes were on the sideboard, except for the porridge. That was ready in our places, and was almost cold when we came down. And I’m still puzzled about the portrait, unless he really didn’t know the first thing about it, and was only trying to show off. Still, you’d think he would know what it was. Oh, and it made another discrepancy in the typescript. You see, in this picture he’s got, you can’t really see a claymore. The fellow has a dirk and a claymore, of course, but what you notice is the very long musket he’s holding.”

  “Yes, that is odd,” said Mrs. Bradley. “I confess that I am anxious to meet this mysterious gentleman who is half-murdered by perfect strangers who want to buy his land; who hears ghostly voices; who has night-prowlers skulking in his policies and who mislays his housekeeper.”

  Ian looked at her suspiciously, but she seemed perfectly serious. He did not know that he envied his sister her job.

  Chapter Three

  ★

  Sons of the hounds come here and get flesh!

  Chlanna nan con thigibh a so’s gheibh sibh feoil!

  War cry of the Camerons

  ★

  Ian and Catherine having loosed from their moorings near Ballachulish pier, and Jonathan and Deborah having assumed temporary responsibility for Brian, Laura and Mrs. Bradley set out for Craigullich to return the car and give Loudoun what assistance and encouragement they could.

  The distance to be covered was short, the weather remained fine, a splendid breeze blew from Morvern over Loc
h Linnhe, the heather was at its best and the road was deserted. A small engine, drawing a few coaches, crossed the road twice on its journey south to Appin, and before it could cross it a third time on the narrow coastal plain between the shores of the sea-loch and the high moors north of Loch Creran, Laura, following the directions given her by her brother, took the car off the main road and up a firm but secondary track which led through a very small glen.

  In this glen, known locally as Glen Ullich, stood the house of which they were in search. It had a deserted air, and, with its surround of heath, pine, and low-growing birch, gave the impression of a habitation set up by settlers in a wilderness or a house not of the locality although constructed from its materials.

  The house was not deserted, however; at Mrs. Bradley’s first knock the door was opened by an old woman and behind her stood a thin man.

  He was older than Mrs. Bradley had expected, and his face, although worn and cadaverous, was not that of an invalid. It bore traces ascribable to vice as much as to suffering. He pronounced her name immediately, and seemed pleased to see her.

  “Come in; come right in. I’m Loudoun,” he said, motioning the old woman to the background and offering Mrs. Bradley his hand to bring her in over the step. He wasted no time after that, but led her, Laura following, to the dining-room, seated her, and took up his stand beneath the portrait over the hearth.

  “Now, what can you do for me?” he asked. He sat down opposite her. Mrs. Bradley smiled. It was a smile not destined to put Loudoun at his ease. He shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

  “Well, now, Mr. Loudoun,” she said, “for your affairs. I have heard something from Mr. Menzies. What was your father’s name?”

  “Loudoun, of course. Roderick, usually known as Rory, Loudoun.” He seemed surprised at the question, but answered it readily enough.

  “And your mother?”

  “Her Christian name was Lorna. But what . . . ?”

  “What are the septs of the Clan Menzies?”

  “I don’t know that I can tell you all of them.” He paused to consider. “The septs of Clan Menzies? Let’s see: the ones I know are the Dewars—although some of them are Macnabs—the Macindeors, the MacMenzies, MacMinns, MacMenies, Means, Meins, Meines . . .” he spelt the last three. Mrs. Bradley nodded as she scribbled down the names—“Mengues, Mennies, Meyners, Minns, Minnuses, the Menzies themselves—I’m afraid that’s all I know.”