“Charles won’t come, because he can’t.”
“He can’t come, because something has happened.”
“He can’t come, because he’s hurt.”
“He can’t come, because he’s dead.”
Ann sat on a stone at the top of the knoll and stared at the strait. The mist had thinned and lifted, but the sky was not clear. There was a milky veil across the blue. The sun came through it, faintly warm and faintly golden. There were shreds and wreaths of mist in the clefts and hollows of the hills, and all their colours were faint, like colours remembered from a long time ago. The surface of the loch was dim, like bright glass that has been breathed upon. The outlet to the sea was lost in a thick haze. The air and the water were alike still and without movement.
Ann sat with her hands in her lap and looked at the road by which Charles must come.
She did not know how long she had sat there, when she heard a sound that was very far away. It jarred the edge of the silence. When it came again, it was louder. Ann strained towards it, listening. All at once her heart began to beat with a loud and joyful relief, because the sound was the throb of a motor. And it was coming nearer. Charles was coming. What a perfect, absolute fool she was to have been afraid! She wouldn’t dare tell Charles what a fool she had been. Yes, she would—she would. It would be lovely to tell him, and to hear him say, “Oh, Ann—you blessed little idiot!” Great stupid tears brimmed up in her eyes and ran over. She dashed them away and jumped up, leaning forward so as to see the car the minute it came round the bend. Perhaps he would stop behind the hill and walk down to the waterside. Perhaps—
The sound was louder. Ann’s hand came up to her breast and pressed down hard upon it.
Round the bend there came a motor-cycle.
The shock and the disappointment were so great that she felt quite numb. She watched the motorcyclist come down to the edge of the water, lean his machine against an angle of the ruined house, and cover it carefully with a tarpaulin. She saw him remove his cap and goggles. She recognized the little dark man who was Mary’s husband. They called him Hector. He stood above the water and hailed the island, and presently Jimmy Halliday put over in a boat and fetched him off.
Behind the numbness, Ann’s mind struggled with all this. Hector had been here the night before. Mary had told her that he had come, and she had passed him in the hall when she went down to supper—a dark man, small and strong, with eyes that looked aside as she passed. Mary was afraid of him. He was here last night, but he had come back from over the hills just now. He had come back …
When had he gone?
Why had he gone?
The two questions went on saying themselves in Ann’s mind. As the numbness grew less, they became more insistent. She felt suddenly as if she could not bear them any more, or to be still, or to watch the strait for Charles.
She turned, and, looking down, she saw something move on the slope below. The undergrowth stirred, and between the branches of the trees she could see that someone was passing along the face of the hill. She could not see who it was, and a desire to avoid either Gale Anderson or Jimmy Halliday made her crouch down so as to be as much out of sight as possible. Whoever it was moved fast.
Ann watched and listened with a queer feeling of expectation. She could see a long distance from where she was. The person moving in the undergrowth was going away from her towards the sea. Presently there was a bare space where the bushes ceased and stones and heather clumps took their place, with a few pine-trees thinning away to a bare slope. She watched this space and saw come out upon it the last person she had expected to see—not Gale Anderson, or Jimmy Halliday, or Hector; not a man at all, but Mary, with a grey homespun shawl about her and something hugged up under it. The shawl came over her head and crossed her breast. She held it close about her and went hurrying on among the trees.
Ann jumped up, scrambled down the slope, and followed her. It was a relief to move after that long waiting. She wanted to ask Mary where Hector had been. She lost sight of her as soon as she came among the undergrowth herself. There was a track here, too rude and undefined to be called a path, but quite easy to follow. She hurried along it until she came out upon the bare space under the trees. She could not see Mary.
She went on down over the slope towards the sea. On this side the island was bare and rugged. It ended in a tumbled wall of rock which went down steeply into the water. When Ann came to this place she stood still and looked about her. She couldn’t see Mary, but she could hear a voice speaking, and that not so far away. It seemed to come from the cliff. Climbing and scrambling, she got to the edge and looked over. The loch stretched away before her into the haze. The voice came from so close that it startled her.
She looked down and to her left, and saw Mary standing against the face of the cliff. There was a ledge of rock under her feet and a tall boulder upon either side of her, so that she stood like a saint in a niche. A cleft in the rocky wall behind her showed how she had reached this position. Upon the ledge beside her there was a basket full of fish. The shawl had dropped back from her head, leaving her grey hair ruffled. Her eyes were fixed and blind-looking. She was speaking in a strange high voice that reminded Ann of a sea-bird’s cry. She said,
“Hungry are ye, and roarin’ after yer prey? What ails ye, deil? Is there no meat eneuch for ye in the Almighty’s sea that ye maun seek it here? And if ye’re the muckle deil that gaes seekin’ his ain, then tak yer ain and let the lave o’ us gae free!” She stopped, groaned, put her hands before her eyes, and said in a more human tone, “Gude save us—we’re in the tents o’ wickedness!”
Ann felt a cold trickle down her back. The mist was thickening. There was still a faint shine on the water, but the sun looked like a pale moon above the shoulder of a high shrouded hill. She felt as if she were looking over the edge of the world.
Mary flung out her hands with a sudden loud cry.
“Haud off, deil, and tak yer ain—or tak what I gie ye!”
She plunged her hands into the basket and flung a large fish out over the water. It described a gleaming arc and fell with a splash. Her voice dropped again to that lower tone.
“If I bow down in the house o’ Rimmon, Gude forgie it me!” She stooped and flung another fish. “Hey, deil! And may it choke ye! Tak yer ain and gae yer ways to him that sent ye—and ye ken wha that is—Gude keep us!” She flung the last and largest fish, and as the drops sprang up where it met the sea, she began to recite in an even, monotonous way and with much less than her usual accent:
‘Thou wilt be the friend o’ God,
And God will be thy friend.
Iron will be yer twa soles.
And twelve hands shall clasp yer heid.
Thy affliction be in tree or holly
Or rock at sea or earth on land,
A protecting shield be aboot thee,
To protect thee from elfin bolts,
And from the enclosures o’ pain,
From the troubles o’ this world
And o’ the ither world.”
She said “Amen” and drew a long sobbing breath. Then she wrapped herself in her shawl and went back through the cleft between the boulders.
Ann ran after her. Not for all the world would she be left behind in the mist. She ran, and called Mary and caught her by the shawled arm.
“Oh, Mary—wait for me!”
There was a startled jerk, and then Mary turned. She pushed back her hair under the shawl and shivered.
“Ay. Is’t you, lassie?”
“Yes. Mary—what were you doing? What was that thing you were saying? I couldn’t help hearing it—about being the friend of God.” She felt the need to speak, and this was the nearest she dared come to the strange things that she had heard.
Mary pulled her shawl about her with a jerk that twitched her arm away from Ann.
“Yon? Yon’s a Hieland charm Hector’s mither taught me. She was aye kind tae me—but Hector’s an ill man.”
&
nbsp; “He’s come back,” said Ann. “Mary, when did he go? He was here last night. Why did he go?”
“Back is he?” said Mary. “Ay—trouble’s nae far when Hector’s near. I tell’t ye he was an ill man.”
“When did he go?” said Ann.
“In the nicht.”
“And why did he go?”
“Ask them that sent him,” said Mary. She had begun to hurry. Ann had hard work to keep up with her.
“Mary—wait! I want to talk to you. I’ve no one to talk to, and I’m afraid—”
Mary looked back at her over her shoulder, her features white and sharp, with the grey line of the shawl cutting straight across her cheek.
“Ay—ye dae weel tae be feared, lassie.” And then, “Ye mauna keep me, or it’ll be the waur for the baith o’ us.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Before they were half-way back to the house Ann had fallen far behind. It was not only that Mary moved with an extraordinary quickness, but the impulse which had made Ann hurry soon failed her. She didn’t want to ask Mary any more questions about the queer things that she had said. The questions frightened her, and she had a dreadful feeling that the answers might frighten her a great deal more. Her feet lagged, and she saw Mary disappear amongst the green bushes and the over-arching trees.
Why should she hurry to go back into the house which held an old woman who had turned bitter to her, and three men of whom she was afraid? She began to think whether she really was afraid of Jimmy Halliday.… Not yet—and not in the same way that she was afraid of Gale Anderson and of Hector. It was strange that of the three she feared Hector the most—a man whom she had hardly seen and who had not spoken a single word to her. There was something about him that gave her a cold, sick feeling of dread.
She found herself wandering off the track and not sure where she was going. She kept pushing her way through the undergrowth and expecting to find the track again. Instead, she came out suddenly upon a bare, narrow place above the sea. The bushes had been so thick that she had had no idea of where she was. There was only just room to stand safely between them and the edge where the rock fell away to the water. There was something like a path going on in the direction where she guessed the house must be. It wound along the cliff with trees and bushes on the one side and scattered boulders on the other. Sometimes it dipped very sharply and then climbed again. She came in a few minutes to a dip which took her almost to the level of the loch. The climb on the other side was a very steep one. There were signs here of a made path which ran in zig-zag up the cliff.
Ann was nearly at the top, when she heard a sound—a heavy scraping sound. It seemed to come from overhead. She looked up and saw immediately above her one of the grey boulders—tilting. She saw it move, and heard it grate as it moved. And then she knew that it would fall, and that she was right in its track. It moved, hung on the verge above her, and came crashing down. As it fell, Ann jumped, and went slipping and clutching over the edge of the path and down the cliff. Her hands caught at a bush which tore them. She could not hold it, but that desperate clutch had checked her fall. She fetched up in a kind of cleft, her skirt caught on a point of rock and her feet with a bare standing space and no more. The world span dizzily. The crash of the boulder which had just missed her reverberated in her ears. Some fifteen feet below, the waters of the loch were waiting, smooth, and grey, and deep.
The world stopped spinning. The noise in her ears grew less. Then it ceased. She looked down in a dazed sort of way and saw the loch—and her hands which were bleeding. There seemed to be some connection in her mind between her hands and the water. She looked at the blood with a frown. Water—and her hands were bleeding.… That was it—she wanted to wash off the blood. She made a movement, but it was checked. Something was holding her.
All at once her head cleared and she realized why it was that she had not been able to move. Her skirt was caught on a rough point of rock, and as long as it held she could not move and she would not fall. If it gave way, there was nothing to stop her from pitching down into the water. If it hadn’t been foggy to-day, she would have been dead by now, because if it had been fine like yesterday, she would have had on her blue cotton frock, and it would have torn like paper. It couldn’t have held her weight for a moment. It wouldn’t even have broken her fall. This old tweed skirt was strong. It would hold her here till somebody came.
She called out as loudly as she could, looked up, and saw Gale Anderson looking down at her. He was a little to the left on one of the zigzags of the path from which she had fallen. He looked down at her with a blank expression on his face, and as she called again, he moved up the path and out of sight.
Ann’s heart began to beat, and all at once she was horribly, sickeningly afraid. The words she had heard him use came into her mind—“It will have to be a boating accident.”
“No, it won’t—not now. A fall from the cliff will do just as well. He’s going to make me fall. He’s going to kill me. He pushed that stone over.”
“Oh no!” said Ann in a vehement fervour protest. “He can’t—he couldn’t! I’m not going to die!”
She didn’t know whether she said the words out loud or not, she didn’t know that she gave one high agonized scream, because the shock of what happened next blotted out the memory of what had gone before.
It was a repetition of the grinding which made her scream. The next moment, with a horrible rending sound, a second mass of rock crashed past her into the loch. The spray flew up and wetted her. It stung her eyes and was salt upon her lips. It stung her bleeding hands. The booming echo ran along the cliff.
It died away. She was still there. The noise and the violence had passed her by. The rock had missed her by no more than a foot. She looked up shaking, and saw why it had missed her. Just above her a great rounded boulder jutted out. A rock pushed from above would be deflected and fall a little to one side or the other.
This had hardly passed through her mind before another stone fell, a smaller piece this time; but because it was smaller it came nearer, actually passing within a few inches of her shoulder.
Ann screamed again, this time with a conscious purpose. She did not know how far she was from the house, but someone might hear her, or Gale Anderson might be afraid that someone would hear her. She screamed as loudly as she could and went on screaming. No more rock fell, and a little hope was springing up, when, to her despair, she saw Gale Anderson climbing towards her along the cliff. He had left the path and was edging his way across a steep rocky place which afforded only the slightest of hand and foothold. In the midst of her terror Ann felt a last stab of fear, because he still looked so entirely calm and ordinary. He was risking his life to take hers, and he looked like a bored young man at a picnic. Ann’s scream had all the terror in the world behind it.
Gale Anderson went on edging his way along the rock, feeling carefully for the least crevice or projection that would help him.
And then suddenly from the sea Ann’s last long scream was answered by a hail. A boat came into view round the point. Jimmy Halliday bent vigorously to his oars and hailed again.
“Where are you? Miss Vernon!”
And with that he saw her and began to pull in under the cliff.
Gale Anderson looked down for a brief instant. In another minute he would be clear of this difficult place. He could reach her before Jimmy did. And then, as he came within view of the drop between Ann and the loch, he smiled a little. Nobody could climb fifteen feet of sheer, smooth water-worn rock. Jimmy certainly couldn’t. At the moment that he reached this gratifying conclusion Jimmy Halliday was staring up at Ann.
“However did you get there?”
“Mr. Halliday, he’s coming! He’s trying to kill me!” Ann’s voice was choked with terror. She looked sideways and saw Gale Anderson smile. Not a bored young man any longer, but a pleased young man with something he desired just within his grasp. Her voice rose to a shriek. “Save me! He’s coming! Mr. Halliday!”
> It was at this moment that Jimmy saw Gale Anderson. He roared out,
“Let her be, Gale! Give over!”
And then, as he realized that he was wasting his breath, he shouted to Ann.
“Jump! The water’s deep—it won’t hurt you.”
“My skirt’s caught!” Ann’s voice shook in an extremity of terror. She had never thought to admire Jimmy Halliday, but her heart gave a jump of hope and gratitude as he dived into a capacious pocket, produced a clasp knife and a ball of twine, fastened the end of the twine to the knife, and with a brief “Catch!” tossed it up to her. She missed it, and it went down into the water with a splash.
Gale Anderson was clear of his bad place and was swinging himself round a jutting boulder. She looked down and saw the knife in Jimmy’s hand. He said “Catch!” again and threw it up, and this time she caught not the knife, but the string.
Gale Anderson was round the boulder and out of sight, but she could hear him. She could hear him coming, his boots grinding and slipping on the rock. And she couldn’t open the knife. Her wet, bleeding fingers fumbled with it. She felt the blade move. She dragged at it with breaking nails and got it open. She had to reach up and slash at her skirt, and as she did so, Gale Anderson came into view again, not two yards away on her left with a great stone poised in his hand. Something like a mist came between them. She felt her skirt give way and the knife drop from her nerveless hand. She heard Jimmy bellow, “Jump!” and felt herself falling blindly down, and down, and down.
Fear by Night: A Golden Age Mystery Page 17
