My Father Sleeps (Mrs. Bradley)

by Gladys Mitchell

  By the time he returned to the hotel she had made up her mind to seek the two girls first. Ian was disappointed, since she did not give him her special reason for this decision, but he agreed very readily to accompany her, and they hired a car and set off.

  As the girls were walking, and had set off through Glencoe, she thought she might overtake them along the Old Road before they reached Kingshouse. Laura, with nothing to go on, had decided to track the bagman back to the inn on Loch Laggan, and although the Glencoe road was fantastically out of her way, she had some idea that as she had once met him there she might possibly find him there again.

  This hope proved to be vain. She had reasoned that it must be so, but was rarely content to listen to reason only. She had accommodated herself to Deborah’s pace, and they were having an early lunch at Kingshouse by the time Mrs. Bradley caught them up.

  The change of plan took both girls by surprise, but neither asked any questions—Deborah because she did not much mind whether she walked or cruised, and Laura because she realized that some definite purpose lay behind the orders they were given, and she deduced from this that something had been discovered at Craigullich which bore closely on the change in the arrangements.

  As they returned in the car along the New Road, Mrs. Bradley recounted the discovery of the inscription at Craigullich and described the reluctance of the Highland policemen to enter the haunted room. She also told of the change in the portraits.

  “I see,” said Laura. “Down with the Menzies and up with the Stewarts, that means,”

  “Up with the Stewarts, anyway, I’m afraid,” Mrs. Bradley soberly replied. Laura, who remembered that her clan had been ‘out’ for Charles Edward, rebuked her sharply for this treacherous observation, and even Ian grinned and said that she ought to have joined the right side. It was Deborah, who, more perceptive and a good deal more imaginative and intuitive than either, asked what it was that Mrs. Bradley feared.

  “The death of the first Mr. Loudoun,” she responded.

  “Son of the heir, judge. Son of the heir, free,” quoted Laura, frowning. “And the change in the portraits. Yes, I suppose it could be. In fact, it must be; it has come to my recollection that Am Mèinnearach, the original of the portrait which hung there first, was not on the side of the Stuarts in the Forty-Five. The clan was ‘out’ under Menzies of Shian, who was not the chief. The chief took no part in the rising.”

  The Kerisaig was ready for sea. Ian took his place at the controls, and the auxiliary cutter was backed out gently, her nose turned westwards out of Loch Leven and then soon southwards down Loch Linnhe. The cruise back to Skye, to the magic island to which all who have ever made a landfall there are bound to return at some time, had begun.

  It was a calm and a lovely evening. There was a smoothness on the long sea-loch and a peace of unearthly beauty in water and sky. On the banks the occasional trees were as still as the rocks, and the mountains on either side were remote as dreams. Ian steered by the eastern shore. Behind the boat Sgurr Dhonuill dropped away and soon they were drawing level with Meall Ban. On the further shore they passed Creach Bheinn with the lower and smaller Glas Bheinn close at hand. Green Lismore came in sight, a long lizard of land. They took the Lynn of Lorne passage and ran up the Sound of Mull to Tobermory, where they decided to remain for the night.

  Meanwhile on Skye the prisoners had been taken to Uig and back to the bothy on the croft they had annexed from the lawful heirs and assigns (if any) of the Widow MacShuffie. Jonathan had no intention of informing the police against them until Mrs. Bradley had seen and questioned them.

  It was clear that their proximity was unwelcome to old Morag. They were dumped on the floor, still tied up, whilst MacIver and the MacNeills went back to their homes to report their return. Highlanders being naturally secretive, it had been almost unnecessary to swear them to silence concerning the illegal and highly questionable proceedings in which they had taken part, but Jonathan thought it well to obtain their promise that they would say nothing about the kidnappers.

  He sent Brian to telegraph Mrs. Bradley the news of the captive and gave him the form of words to use. He told him to drive in with Rory MacIver to Portree and send the message from there.

  “Two birds in a cage,” the message ran. “Ask for them from Morag.”

  As it happened, the Kerisaig had left Ballachulish before this message was delivered, but it came to the same thing in the end, as the party from the mainland were already on their way to Uig. They left Tobermory as early as they could in the morning, and by midday were off Arisaig and pointed for Cuillin Sound. Long before evening they had reached Uig Bay and were anchored and signalling young MacIver to take them ashore in his boat.

  Old Morag seemed glad to see Mrs. Bradley, and observed with great composure that now there were sensible people about, no doubt some sensible proceedings would ensue.

  “Do you know these men?” asked Mrs. Bradley, surveying the scowling captives and the placid old woman. Morag pulled her shawl more closely about her shoulders, and replied:

  “I will have seen them, indeed, and they wishful to be killing me and mine.”

  “Come outside,” said Mrs. Bradley, “and let us talk. Who are these men?”

  Morag seated herself on the low stone wall within the compound. It had been built to help stack up the peat. She folded her hands in the end of the shawl, shook her head, and then replied:

  “I will be telling you all I know.”

  “Good. I hope you will go back to the late Mr. Stewart’s marriage.”

  “You will be meaning I should tell you of Malcolm Stewart of Glen Ullich, who was hanged for the death of Loudoun.”

  “Yes, that’s it.”

  “Och, aye, then. It will not be a very long story. It is plain enough, I am thinking.”

  She retold the story as far as Mrs. Bradley already knew it from Janet Forbes. Then she said:

  “After the death of Malcolm Stewart and the marriage of his wife to his murderer—for it was Rory Loudoun that was minded to have him hanged, and would not be resting night or day until he was dead—I was teaching the laddie to remember and to destroy.”

  “The little boy, James Stewart?”

  “He grew up to hate his mother and her man. I was the cause of it, and the heart of me rejoices that it was so.”

  Mrs. Bradley could not concur in this, and remained silent. Feeling this coldness as a rebuke, the old woman paused for a moment, and then broke out again:

  “And why would not I have been doing so, let you ask you! Why would I be sitting by the hearth and going to my grave with all that black hatred upon me, and I not to be revenged? Is a man to be hanged like a dog and no one to be caring for him at all?”

  “If you are asking for my opinion,” said Mrs. Bradley, “I think you are expressing an archaic point of view, understandable, lamentable, and false.”

  “Well, well,” said Morag, who did not follow a word of this intentionally circumlocutory criticism. “Well, well, indeed.”

  “You brought up young Stewart not only to hate his stepfather but also his half-brothers. I suppose they were twins,” said Mrs. Bradley.

  “There is an end of the Loudoun brothers. There are none to be coming after them. It is the end, if the fires of hell burn me,” said old Morag.

  “But one of them, surely, is alive? Hector Loudoun is still alive. These men are his servants, are they not?”

  “They will be nobody’s servants now,” said Morag with finality. “You may let them go when you wish. They can do no more than they have done, and that is little enough, poor fellows, God knows!”

  “The police will decide,” said Mrs. Bradley. Old Morag looked obstinate, but said no more until Mrs. Bradley, after a moment, asked:

  “And why were you content to stay on at the house and serve Hector Loudoun, I wonder?”

  “I was not serving him, but James Stewart. There was that in the loch of which many fine tales were told, and I was to stay the
re, to keep all safe. My name is Morag Stewart, and I was hearing all secrets.”

  “You talk in riddles,” said Mrs. Bradley, indicating that this fact made her impatient. “Tell me directly what you mean.”

  “I am not sure that I should be telling, and until I have leave from James Stewart I will not tell.”

  “Very well. When do you return to Craigullich?”

  “At any time I could be going there. I will be going to-day if you, or some of you, will go with me. I am not knowing how to find my way, and the sea to be between me and my home, look you.”

  “Very well. You shall come with us when we go. But I warn you that the police are there. They will question you, and you will be required to answer their questions candidly, and not as you answer mine.”

  “Indeed, indeed, I am willing to answer anything you ask, but I canna tell secrets that have been trusted to me by James Stewart, aye, and by Malcolm Stewart before him.”

  “Very well. We will proceed upon that understanding. How long were you living at Craigullich?”

  “I was living at Craigullich since I was a young girl.”

  “All the time? Did you stay, then, after Malcolm Stewart was dead?”

  “I did that. Does that puzzle you, then? It is what I was telling you before. I had treasures to look to.” She chuckled with senile malice.

  “You have never left Craigullich at all?”

  “No, no, I have never left. Where would I go, and what would I do among strangers? I was born in the clachan beyond the glen, and I do not know any place, indeed, besides that place.”

  “How long was the house empty except for yourself?”

  “I am thinking you know the answer to that. It is trying to make a net for me you are.”

  “No, I would not do that with you if I knew you were speaking the truth. Please answer me.”

  “The house was empty from the time Malcolm Stewart was taken.”

  “Arrested?”

  “Aye. Taken by the police and hanged by the neck until he died. Och, ochen, my sorrow, my sorrow!—until the day of his death.”

  “Mrs. Stewart went away, then, and left the little boy with you.”

  “Aye, she did that, and was marrying again very soon. Mr. Loudoun, Rory Loudoun, the thief, the murderer, the false-spoken wicked man, was marrying on her in England, and then I heard tell they went away.”

  “But you never heard of twin boys?”

  “I did not hear all, no doubt. But one thing I know. I ken well where James Stewart will be finding a fortune, but I am to tell no one where that may be.”

  “What had Tobermory to do with it?” asked Mrs. Bradley, remembering a puzzling point. The old woman looked at her sharply.

  “And what would you be knowing of Tobermory?”

  “Nothing,” said Mrs. Bradley patiently. “That is why I am asking you what bearing Tobermory could have on your story about the treasure.”

  “Are you after hearing of the Tobermory galleon?”

  “That old story? Yes.”

  “Then that is of it, and more I canna tell.”

  “Who is Mr. Ure?”

  “I dinna ken.”

  “He is the man who intended to purchase Craigullich. He represents himself to be a friend to your James Stewart. Have you never heard his name before?”

  “He is no friend to James Stewart, or I would be hearing.”

  “But he is. He told us so.”

  “Are you after speaking with the man’s ghost, then, that you ask me that? Those that ill-wished James Stewart—aye, and Malcolm Stewart, too—are dead. They are ghosts that walk the moors, and not living men.”

  “Ghosts? Ah, yes, and that reminds me,” said Mrs. Bradley, delighted to have some evidence that her last and wildest theory might be a fact, and anxious to change the subject before old Morag realized the tremendous piece of news she had given away. “What about the ghost at Craigullich?”

  “I do not understand. There is no ghost at Craigullich. There is not even the ghost of Malcolm Stewart, and if any haunted there it would be he. Unless, maybe . . .” She broke off, and looked both cunning and confused.

  “Hector Loudoun believes that he haunts there.”

  “Maybe he would be the one that would see and hear him. But he sleeps sound enough now,” said Morag.

  “Who does?”

  “Malcolm Stewart sleeps sound. He has been avenged. They are dead men that wished him hanged. There is not one of them left. Och, aye! He sleeps sound enough now, for the last will soon sleep beside him.”

  They sat side by side, each meditating on the past; Morag on what she knew, Mrs. Bradley on what she surmised. Then Mrs. Bradley said gently:

  “And Hector Loudoun? Will he haunt Craigullich, do you think?”

  “It is not Hector Loudoun, but Alexander Loudoun, who is after being killed at Craigullich, and it is not in that one to haunt anywhere. There was no treachery in the killing of him, no more than in killing a wee lamb. There was nothing ill in killing Alexander Loudoun, and now there is nothing at all of him left, at all, at all, at all.”

  Mrs. Bradley got up and brushed her skirt, although this was an unnecessary action, for the wall, scoured daily by the sea-winds, was clean and free from dust. Not even moss grew between its crannied stones. Without another word she went into the bothy, where Jonathan still mounted patient guard over the prisoners.

  “What next have you to do?” she enquired of them. They grunted, but did not answer.

  “For whom did you work?” she went on.

  “For a fellow called Ure,” one answered. “He told us what to do and gave us our pay when Loudoun quit.”

  “Then you cheated him, and worked for somebody else?”

  “We took our pay where we could get it. It isn’t easy for us to get anything to do.”

  “It wouldn’t be easy for you to be honest, you mean. I understand and agree. Why did you take the body of Mr. Loudoun to Beinn Cruachan?”

  “We were told to get it out of the house. His brother told us.”

  “Did he tell you where to take it?”

  “He told us to take it away. He said we could chuck it in the lake.”

  “What lake?”

  “The little lake by the house.”

  “Why didn’t you do it?”

  “We figured on holding him up.”

  “Blackmailing him?”

  “I never used that word, lady. Lady, be a sport and let us go. We haven’t done anything wrong. I’m real sorry about the little boy, but we did him no harm. He’ll tell you that himself.”

  “He didn’t give you much chance to harm him,” said Jonathan.

  “Why did Hector Loudoun suggest the lake?” Mrs. Bradley enquired. But the men could not answer except to tell what they seemed to believe was the truth—namely, that they supposed their erstwhile prisoner on Skye to be called Ure.

  “But Ure gave us something to leave it be,” said the first man.

  “What were you going to do, then? Turn King’s Evidence as soon as the murder was discovered?” asked Jonathan, trying to disentangle this muddled evidence.

  “You didn’t know that the body had been taken to Beinn Cruachan, did you?” said Mrs. Bradley. She knew the whole story now, and could press them hard. “I suppose you realize, all the same, that you’ve laid yourselves open to arrest as accessories after the fact? And what do you know about the ghost which haunted Craigullich?” The men did not answer. “And what were you looking for in the house when you heard the ghost-voice and ran away?”

  “Looking for nothing,” growled the man who had spoken least.

  “You were looking for buried treasure, or, rather, for a plan to show where treasure was hidden. If you had found anything, I would have had you arrested on a charge of stealing by finding.”

  “If you know all about it, why ask us?” said the man bitterly. “That’s a busy all over, that is.”

  “A female nark,” added his companion, continuing with a succe
ssion of epithets which Jonathan interrupted with a threat of his boot in their ribs. Mrs. Bradley, who had been called most things in her time, and had no particular objection to being called them all over again, cackled grimly and told her nephew not to trouble.

  “You won’t let them go?” said he. She shook her head, evoking, by this god-like gesture, another stream of profanity from the floor.

  “I don’t think we shall get much more from them,” said Jonathan, leading the way outside. “What’s the next thing to be done? Do their lies lead anywhere?”

  “We can do nothing much until the police arrive,” Mrs. Bradley answered, “and when that will be, and from where, I have no idea. We shall charge the men with kidnapping Brian. That will keep them safely out of the way whilst we put our best foot forward to prevent the third murder.”

  “Prevent—what do you mean?”

  “Stewart will murder Hector Loudoun unless we prevent it.”

  “Stewart? I thought you knew Stewart was dead.”

  “From what I have learned, I do not see how he can be. The trouble is that I don’t know where he is, and I don’t know how to get at him. I think he is Laura’s bagman.”

  “But that man who was killed on Rannoch Moor?”

  “A certain Mr. Ure, child. That seems certain.”

  “I thought you had decided that Ure was Stewart.”

  “I had. I have changed my mind.”

  “Why?”

  “Old Morag’s evidence has caused me to reconsider my opinion, that’s all. Several opinions, in fact.”

  “I see. Why, what did she say?”

  “It wasn’t so much what she said, child, as what she didn’t say. I am led to infer that she knows James Stewart is alive. We know, too, that Stewart has been to Craigullich, and has left his warnings to Loudoun. He will kill him unless we can stop him.”

  “What do we do, then?”

  “I have not the faintest idea. I wish I had.”

  “Sounds helpful.”

  “Doesn’t it? There’s another thing I’m sure of, too. These men do not know where either man is, any more than we do. Nothing would suit them better than to have another card to play to save themselves from arrest. They haven’t one.”