Don't Look Now (18 page)

'Your dinner is ready when you are.' said Mr Doherty.

She took the cue and slipped from the bar-stool and so on into the dining-room, feeling about ten years old. Soup, fish, roast beef the trouble they had taken, when all she needed was a wafer slice of ham, but impossible to leave anything on her plate. Trifle to finish with, doused in sherry.

Shelagh looked at her watch. It was only half-past eight. 'Will you take your coffee in the lounge?'

'Thank you, yes.'

'There's a television set. I'll switch it on for you.'

The little maid drew up an armchair close to the television, and Shelagh sat down to the coffee she did not want while an American comedy, vintage 1950, flickered from the box. The murmur of voices droned on from the direction of the bar. Shelagh poured the coffee back into the pot and crept upstairs to fetch her coat. Then, leaving the television blaring in the empty lounge, she went out into the street. There was nobody about. All Ballyfane was already in bed or safe within doors. She got into the car and drove away through the empty village, back along the road she had travelled earlier that afternoon. A turning, the postmaster had said, a mile or so out of Ballyfane.

This must be it, here on the left. A crooked signpost with the lettering 'Footpath to Lough Torrah' showed up in the glare of her head-lights. The footpath, narrow and twisting, led downhill. Silly to attempt it without a torch, and the moon, three-quarters full, giving only a fitful gleam behind banks of racing cloud. Still ... She could go part of the way, if only for the benefit of the exercise.

She left the car close to the signpost and began to walk. Her shoes, luckily flat, squelched in the mud. As soon as I catch a glimpse of the lake, she thought, I'll turn back, and then be up early tomorrow and come here again, bring a packed lunch, decide upon my plan of attack. The footpath was opening out between the banks, and suddenly before her was the great sheet of water, encircled by jutting lips of land, and in the centre was the island itself, shrouded in trees. It had an eerie, sombre quality, and the moon, breaking through the clouds, turned the water silver, while the island remained black, humped like the back of a whale.

Lamb Island.... Inconsequentially it made her think of legends, not of Irish chiefs long dead or tribal feuds, but of sacrifices to ancient gods before the dawn of history. Stone altars in a glade. A lamb with its throat cut lying amidst the ashes of a fire. She wondered how far it was from the shore. Distances were hard to judge by night. A stream on her left ran down into the lake, fringed by reeds. She advanced towards it, picking her way carefully amongst the pebbles and the mud, and then she saw the boat, tied to a stump, and the figure of a man standing beside it.

He was staring in her direction. Foolish panic seized her, and she backed away. It was no good, though. He walked swiftly up the mud and stood beside her.

'Were you looking for someone?' he said.

He was a young man, strongly built, wearing a fisherman's jersey and dungarees. He spoke with the local accent.

'No,' Shelagh answered, 'no, I'm a visitor to the district. It was a lovely evening and I thought I'd take a walk.'

'A lonely spot for a walk. Have you come far?'

'Only from Ballyfane,' she told him. 'I'm staying at the Kilmore Arms.'

'I see,' he said. 'You're here for the fishing, maybe. The fishing is better the other side of Ballyfane.'

'Thank you. I'll remember that.'

There was a pause. Shelagh wondered if she should say any more or whether she should turn and go, bidding him a cheerful goodnight. He was looking beyond her shoulder towards the footpath, and she heard the sound of somebody else's footsteps squelching through the mud. Another figure loomed out of the shadow and advanced towards them. Shelagh saw that it was the postmaster from Ballyfane. She was not sure whether to be sorry or relieved.

'Good evening again,' she said, her voice a shade too hearty. 'You see I didn't wait until morning after all, I found my way successfully, thanks to your advice.'

'So,' replied the postmaster. 'I noticed your car up there on the road parked by the turning, and thought it best to follow in case you came to harm.'

'That was kind of you,' said Shelagh. 'You shouldn't have bothered.'

'No bother at all. Better be sure than sorry.' He turned to the young man in the fisherman's jersey. 'It's a fine night, Michael.'

'It is, Mr O'Reilly. This young lady tells me she's here for the fishing. I've explained she'll have better sport the other side of Ballyfane.'

'That's true, if it's fishing she's after,' said the postmaster, and he smiled for the first time, but unpleasantly, too knowing. 'The young lady was in the post office this evening asking for Commander Barry. She was surprised he was not on the telephone.'

'Fancy that, now,' said the young man, and disconcertingly he produced a torch from his pocket and flashed it in her face. 'Excuse the liberty, miss, but I haven't had the pleasure of meeting you before. If you'd care to tell me your business with the Commander I will pass on the message.'

'Michael here lives on Lamb Island,' said the postmaster. 'He's by way of being a watch-dog to the Commander, and keeps unwelcome visitors at bay, you might say.'

He said this with the same knowing smile which she found so unpleasant, and she wished she could be away and out of it, back in the neat little bedroom at the Kilmore Arms, not here beside the sinister lake with these two strange men.

I'm afraid I can't give a message,' she said. 'It's a private matter. Perhaps it would be better if I wrote to Commander Barry from the hotel. He isn't expecting me, you see. It's all rather difficult.'

Her loss of composure was evident to the two men. She saw them exchange glances. Then the young man jerked his head at the postmaster and drew him aside, and they spoke together out of earshot. Her uneasiness increased.

The young man turned back to her. 'I tell you what I'll do,' and he was smiling now, but a shade too broadly. 'I'll run you over to the island in the boat, and the Commander shall decide for himself whether he wants to see you or not.'

'Oh no ...' said Shelagh, backing away, 'not tonight. It's much too late. I'll come back in the morning, and you can run me across then.'

'It would be better to get it over with tonight,' said Michael.

Get it over with? What did he mean? A few months ago she had boasted to some friends after a first-night party that she had never been frightened of anything in her life, except drying-up. She was frightened now.

'They'll be waiting up for me at the hotel,' she said quickly. 'If I don't return soon Mr Doherty will get in touch with the police.'

'Don't fret yourself,' said the postmaster. 'I have a friend standing by up the road. He'll drive your car back to the Kilmore Arms and we'll make it all right between us with Tim Doherty.'

Before she could protest further they had seized her arms and were marching her between them down to the boat. It can't be true, she thought, it can't be happening, and a strangled sob escaped her, like that of a terrified child.

'Ah, sshh now,' said Michael, 'no one's going to touch a hair of your head. You said yourself it's a fine night. It's finer still on the water. You may see the fish jumping.'

He helped her into the boat and pushed her firmly on the stern seat. The postmaster remained on shore. That's better, she thought, at least there's only one of them.

'So long, Mr O'Reilly,' Michael called softly, starting the engine, then loosening the painter from the mooring-post.

'So long, Michael my boy,' called the postmaster.

The boat glided away from the reeds on to the open lough, the chug-chug of the little engine quiet, subdued. The postmaster waved his hand, then turned back and started walking up the shore towards the footpath.

The journey from mainland to island took barely five minutes, but seen from the lake the mainland appeared dark, remote, the hills in the distance an ominous smudge. The comforting lights of Ballyfane were out of sight. She had never felt so vulnerable, so alone. Michael said nothing until the boat drew in alongside a small landing-stage built out from the narrow shore. The trees clustered thickly to the water's edge. He tied up the boat, then held out his hand to her.

'Now then,' he said when he had helped her on to the landing-stage, 'the truth is that the Commander is away at a meeting the other side of the lough, but he should be back by midnight or thereabouts. I'll take you up to the house and the steward will look after you.'

The steward ... The Ballyfane castle and the Georgian mansion had returned to the land of fantasy whence they had sprung, but steward had a mediaeval ring to it, Malvolio with a tapering staff, stone steps leading to an audience chamber. Wolf-hounds guarding doors. A faint measure of confidence returned to her.

Michael was not going to strangle her under the trees.

Surprisingly, the house was revealed after little more than a hundred yards, set in a clearing amidst the trees. A long, low, one-storied building, built surely of timber put up in sections, like pictures of relief hospitals erected by missionaries in jungles for sick natives. A verandah ran the whole length of it, and as Michael led her up the steps and paused before a door marked Galley Entrance a dog barked from within, not the deep-throated baying of a wolf-hound but shriller, sharper, and Michael laughed, turned to her and said, 'They don't need me as watchdog when Skip's around. She'd smell strangers twenty miles away.'

The door opened. A short, stocky, middle-aged man stood before them, dressed in the uniform of a naval steward.

'A small problem for you, Bob,' said Michael. 'The young lady here was wandering down by the lough just now in the darkness and all, and it appears she was enquiring off Mr O'Reilly for the Commander.'

The steward's face remained impassive, but his eyes travelled down from Shelagh's face to her clothes, and her jacket pockets in particular.

'There's nothing on her,' said Michael, 'and she must have left her handbag in the car beside the road. The young lady is staying up at the Arms, but we thought it best to bring her straight here. You never can tell.'

'Please come inside, miss,' said the steward to Shelagh, his voice courteous but firm. 'You're from England, I take it.'

'Yes,' she replied. 'I flew over to Dublin today, and drove straight here. My business with Commander Barry is a personal matter, and I don't want to discuss it with anyone else.'

'I see,' said the steward.

The little dog, a schipperke, with pricked ears and bright, intelligent eyes, was sniffing daintily at Shelagh's ankles.

'Would you give me your coat?' asked the steward.

A strange request. She was wearing a short tweed jacket and matching skirt. She handed over the jacket, and he examined the pockets and placed it over the back of the chair. Then--and this was disconcerting he ran his hands in a brisk professional way over her body, while Michael watched with interest.

'I don't know why you're doing this,' she said. 'You've hijacked me, not the other way round.'

'It's a way we have with visitors we don't know,' said the steward. 'It saves argument in the long run.' He jerked his head at Michael. 'You did right to bring the young lady along. I'll explain matters to the Commander when he returns.'

Michael grinned, winked at Shelagh, raised his hand in a mock salute and went out, shutting the door behind him.

'Will you come with me, please?' said the steward.

Reluctant to see the last of Michael, who seemed suddenly an ally, not a prospective rapist, Shelagh followed Bob the steward (not Malvolio after all) along a corridor to a room at the further end. The steward threw open the door and ushered her in.

'Cigarettes on the table by the fire,' he said. 'Ring the bell if there is anything you require. Would you care for coffee?'

'Please.' said Shelagh. If she was going to sit up all night coffee would help.

The room was spacious, comfortable, a blue carpet fitted wall-to-wall. A settee, a couple of deep armchairs, a large flat-topped desk near the window. Pictures of ships on the wall. A log-fire burning brightly in the hearth. The setting reminded her of something. She had seen some place like it in the past, reminding her of childhood days. Then she remembered. It was a duplicate of the captain's cabin in Excalibur, her father's cabin. Lay-out, furnishings, were identical. The familiar surroundings were uncanny, it was like stepping back into the past.

She wandered round the room, trying to take it in. She crossed to the window and drew aside the curtains, half-expecting to see the deck outside, and beyond, in the distance, other ships at anchor in Portsmouth harbour. There was no deck, though, no ships. Only the long verandah, the shrouded trees and the pathway to the lough, the silver water shining beneath the moon. The door opened once again, and the steward brought in coffee on a silver tray.

'The Commander won't be long now,' he said. 'I've just had word his launch left fifteen minutes ago.'

Launch ... They had more than one boat, then. And just had word. There had been no sound of a telephone ringing, and anyway the house wasn't on the phone. He went out and closed the door. She began to panic once again, realised she was lost without her bag, left in the car. No comb, no lipstick. She hadn't touched her face since before going down to the bar at the Kilmore Arms. She peered into the mirror hanging on the wall beyond the desk. Hair dank, face white and pinched, she looked frantic. She wondered whether it would be best for him to find her sitting in one of the armchairs, drinking her coffee, seemingly relaxed, or standing rather boyishly before the fireplace, hands in her jacket pockets. She needed direction, she needed someone like Adam Vane to tell her what to do, how to place herself before the curtain rose.

She turned round from the mirror, facing the desk, and saw the photograph in the blue leather frame. The photograph of her mother as a bride, her veil thrown back, the irritating smile of triumph on her face. There was something wrong, though. The groom standing beside her was not Shelagh's father. It was Nick, the best man, hair en brosse, supercilious, bored. She looked closer, baffled, and realised that the photograph had been cleverly faked. Nick's head and shoulders had been transposed on to her father's figure, while her father's head, sleek-haired, smiling happily, had been shifted to the lanky figure behind, standing between the bridesmaids. It was only because she knew the original photograph on her father's desk at home, and had a copy herself somewhere, stuck away in a drawer, that she recognised the transposition instantly. A stranger would think the photograph genuine. But why on earth? Whom did Nick want to deceive, unless it was himself?