Stormy Petrel (9 page)

‘He had a gun,' I said.

That startled him. ‘Had he indeed?'

‘I think so. But go on, please!'

‘I'm not exactly a man of action – that kind of action. Who is, except in television series? There used to be guns in the house, of course, but it never occurred to me to look if they were still there. But I must have felt the need for some support, because I found I'd grabbed hold of one of my hammers – a geologist is always armed with a hammer – and when I got through to the back of the house he was there already, at the kitchen window.'

‘Good heavens! So?'

‘I'm not quite sure what might have happened then, but for some reason he gave up. He could have forced the window in time, anyone could, but he seemed suddenly to think better of it. One moment he was there on the sill, and then suddenly he was gone. I ran upstairs to see what I could, and there he was, torch and all, running down the garden and then dodging his way up to the cliff path, and fast, as if he knew exactly where he was going. Of course I knew the path led to the Camus na Dobhrain, and the lawyers had told me that the cottage was let to a girl, so I wondered why he was headed there. I mean, there was nowhere else he could have been going. So I decided to follow along and see what was going on.'

‘But you had a duffel bag . . . Was that just scenepainting to go with your story about the tent?'

‘More or less. I have got a tent here, as it happens, because I want to work on Eilean na Roin – that's Seal Island, where the broch is – and the tides are awkward, so I need a base there. I took the tent across next morning.'

‘I know. I saw it. But surely you weren't really here as a student? If you'd met Ewen Mackay then—'

‘He'd have recognised me now, of course. Yes, that was a lie, too. Not the igneous intrusion – that's there all right; a colleague of mine told me about it – and I did intend to work there while I was here in Moila. Something to do while the estate business is being settled.'

‘And did you bring the hammer, too, when you came chasing over to my cottage?'

‘Er – I hardly remember. I don't suppose I did. And then, of course, when he opened the door to me, I recognised him. And since he obviously hadn't recognised me, I didn't want to connect myself with the house, until I'd found out what his game was.'

‘And mine?'

‘Well, yes. And yours.'

I smiled. ‘Fair enough. But whatever your motives for coming over, I'm glad you did. If he was really up to no good the situation might have turned awkward – though as it happens he was perfectly civil, and I wasn't nervous.'

‘I could see that. And that made me wonder if you were in it, too, and he'd had a rendezvous at the cottage. I found out next morning that his boat was in Halfway House, but when I first saw him I had no idea he was a Moila man, and it didn't occur to me that he would know the mooring there. I just assumed he was making for Otters' Bay.' A pause, while he seemed to be studying the pattern of the carpet. Then he looked up at me. ‘What reason did he give you for coming all the way over to Otters' Bay when he could perfectly well have slept in his boat?'

‘Oh, that the cottage had been his home, and he said – or pretended – that he didn't know his people had moved away. I'm sure it was true that he didn't know the place was let to me.'

He was silent for a while, frowning at the prospect, from the window, of the neglected garden. ‘Well, I still can't imagine what his game is, and I can't say that I like it.'

‘When the pair of you went off to find your tent, what happened?'

‘Nothing much. We made a token search for it on the way back to the bay, but then he went straight to his boat, and it's gone, and I've no idea where to. No sign of him anywhere near you since then?'

‘None. So what happens now?'

‘Nothing, let's hope. I honestly don't see what's to be done except wait and keep our eyes open. Nothing's happened to justify reporting to the police. The man did nothing, after all, except shoot a line to you, and if it's a crime to wander round an empty house on a wild night, trying the windows, well . . .'

‘I take your point. Nobody's going to listen. Just one other detail; the key of my cottage. I don't believe he's been carrying a huge old-fashioned thing like that around ever since he left. I see there's a place on your key-rack by the back door for the cottage key, and it's missing. Unless you took it—?' He shook his head. ‘Then if Ewen Mackay took it, that wasn't his first visit to this house. He'd been here before, and—'

‘—And left the french windows open so that he could get in again! You're right! I did find the window open, and locked it myself because of the way it was rattling in the wind. I thought nothing of it, just that whoever closed the house up had overlooked it. So that could be it. He came back, and when he found the place locked up again, he got a scare, or he just decided to play it safe, and made off.'

‘He did tell me he'd been to the house,' I said. ‘He made out that he'd gone to take a nostalgic look at it, and of course he never said he'd tried to get in, or that he'd been before . . . I must say I thought at the time that it was a pretty rough night to choose for a sentimental journey . . . He did throw out a hint—' I stopped.

‘Yes? About what?'

‘No. It was – well, personal. Nothing to do with this.'

‘Till we know what ‘this' is,' he said reasonably, ‘everything may be to do with it.'

‘I suppose so.'

‘So go on, please. What did he hint at?'

‘Honestly I doubt if it matters, and I don't want . . . Oh, all right. He hinted that he might actually be connected with your family. At least that's what I thought he was trying to convey.'

To my relief, he laughed. ‘That figures. Great-Uncle Fergus's love-child, adopted, presumably for a consideration, by the gardener? Don't worry, I've heard that one before. And a few others even wilder. He lived in a fantasy world of his own, even as a small boy. He used to lie for no reason at all, as if he enjoyed it. I was only a couple of years older myself, but I knew enough never to believe a word he said. Did he shoot any more lines to you? Tell you where he's been since he left Moila?'

‘Only that he'd been abroad. I gathered that he'd been around in some pretty exciting – oh, do you mean he might have made that up, too? He didn't actually sail round the Horn?'

‘I'll believe that when I've seen the boat's log,' said Neil drily, ‘and only then after it's been checked by an expert. And talking of checking, I'd better have a look through the house to see if anything's missing. The lawyers gave me an inventory. Blast. I had hoped to take my time over sorting out the house contents, but I'd better take a look straight away – at any rate for the movable stuff. Tell me, how sure were you that he had a gun?'

‘Not sure at all. It was just the way his hand flew to his pocket when you hammered at the door.'

‘Hm. Then let's hope that was window-dressing, too. Well . . .' He set his hands to the chair arms, as if about to rise. ‘He's gone, so perhaps that's the end of the mystery. When did you say your brother was coming?'

‘Monday, I hope.'

‘Then all we can do is keep our eyes open for the next couple of days, and you see that your doors are locked and bolted at night.'

‘I certainly will. And you?'

‘As you saw, I've got my tent set up now on the island. I'll work there, and I'll come back and sleep in the house. If Ewen does come back, he'll see the tent, and if he thinks that “Parsons” is safely out of the way, then whatever his interest is in the house, he'll no doubt show it. And I'll be here to tackle him, hammer and all.'

‘And I?'

‘Stay safe at Otters' Bay, and wait for your brother. Forget all this,' he said, with decision.

‘I could try,' I said.

He got to his feet then, and I followed suit. The sun, slanting in through the window, showed up the faded shabbiness of the room, but outside the treetops were golden and the bees were loud in the roses. The scents of the garden, blowing in through the open window, had removed the last trace of stuffiness from the room. It smelt fresh and warm. He moved to open the door to the hall.

‘So before I see you safely home, would you like a cup of tea?'

‘I'd love it. But there's not the slightest need for you to see me home.'

‘Probably not. But I'm going to,' he said cheerfully. His spirits seemed suddenly to have cleared. The sun, perhaps. ‘This way, then, Mistress Fenemore. But I forgot, you've already explored my kitchen, haven't you? After you.'

10

After tea we walked down through the remains of the garden. The path was ankle-deep in weeds, and to either side the overgrown rhododendrons, heavy with flowers, crowded in over the mosses and ferns of a mild damp climate. Wild honeysuckle clambered everywhere, and the air was sweet with it.

‘We'll take a short cut. The grass is quite dry,' said Neil, and led the way through a gap in the rhododendrons into a broad, grassed walk leading directly down towards the sea. At the end was an opening, now almost closed by the crowding trees and bushes, through which one could see the glimmer of the sea and the northernmost hill of the broch islet.

I was looking at this, and not at where I was putting my feet. I stubbed my toe, swore, tripped, and almost fell, to be saved by a robust grip above the elbow.

‘Are you all right?' He held me while I stood on one leg to massage the injured toe. ‘It's so long since anything was done here, the place is cluttered with storm damage. Is it bad?'

‘Not a bit. It's OK now. Thank you.' He let me go, and I massaged my arm instead, where he had gripped me. ‘But you know how a stubbed toe hurts. It must have been a pretty hefty bit of storm damage. It felt like – yes, look at this!'

Deep in the grass, embedded like a sleeper in soft green, lay a naked figure. Perhaps four feet high, a girl, daintily made, her body stained and streaked green with moss. A marble girl, once white, blind eyes staring. Somehow, you could see that the eyes were blinded by tears.

‘I tripped over her hand. I hope I didn't damage it. No, it looks all right. Who is she?'

‘I think she's meant to be Echo.' He stooped to push the grass and ferns back. ‘She stood there, can you see where the plinth is? And there was water in a stone basin, but yes, that's broken, too. I remember when she arrived, and was set up. My great-uncle brought them from Italy; he was terribly proud of them.' He laughed suddenly. ‘I'm no judge, but I believe they're quite good. Dear old Uncle Fergus's one successful venture into the art world. His taste in pictures was pretty awful. You may have noticed.'

‘I wouldn't have said a word, but yes, I noticed.' I was still looking down at the girl in the grass. The breeze stirred the shadows over her, as if she breathed. ‘I'm not an expert, either, but I love Echo. You said “them”. Are there more?'

‘There were four. There should be another across from this, on the other side. Yes, here it is, and still standing.'

He crossed the ride, pushing some of the strangling boughs aside, to show the other figure, which was in fact kneeling. The stone basin was intact, and half-filled with black, dirty rainwater. A marble boy, a youth, knelt over the water, gazing down.

‘Narcissus?'

‘I suppose so,' he said. ‘I don't remember. The others are along there, at the end of this walk. My great-uncle made a little belvedere there, with that view of the sea and the Eilean na Roin. I can't see them, though. The trees grow at such a rate here that you can hardly even see the sea.'

He turned and stood looking back at the house. In this sunlight the dilapidation showed up clearly, and the mess of the garden.

There was something in his face which made me say, gently: ‘“
But beauty vanishes, beauty passes, However rare, rare it be.
”'

‘What's that?'

‘Walter de la Mare. “
And when I crumble, who shall remember That lady of the West Country
?” And heaven knows, there's beauty here and to spare, without anything men have built.'

He was silent, still looking at the house. Eventually he said, as if to himself: ‘I'm glad I came back.' Then, briskly, to me: ‘I sometimes think it's a mistake to have been happy when one was a child. One should always want to go on, not back. Poor old Echo. Maybe whoever buys the house will set her up again where she can see Narcissus – and much good did that ever do the poor girl.'

‘Will you really sell?'

‘What else can I do? I can't live here.'

‘I suppose as a holiday house it is a bit far from Sydney.'

‘Not Sydney. I was going to tell you earlier, but somehow Ewen's misdeeds threw us off track – I'll be in Cambridge next term. Living at Emma.'

‘Well, that's great! Congratulations. You'll be looking forward to it.'

‘Sure. And more than ever now.' He did not explain what he meant, but went on rather quickly to tell me about the appointment, and for a while we talked about Cambridge, and places and people that we both knew well. He would be living in college at first – Emmanuel was his own college – but he would like, he said, to find a place of his own, preferably outside the town.

This brought us back rather abruptly to the present, and the house he already possessed. It appeared that although Taigh na Tuir had not been formally put on the market, there had already been some interest shown. A London agent, apparently acting for someone anxious for an island property, had made a good offer ‘sight unseen', and Neil's solicitors (who knew the place and the difficulties involved) had strongly advised him to accept it. Neil had taken their advice, and there had been the exchange of missives which, I gathered, served in Scotland as a binding contract.