The Burry Man's Day (40 page)

‘He just stepped towards you, didn’t he, Mrs Murdoch?’ said Buttercup.

‘And down he went,’ said Cad. ‘And then clang!’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘So we heard.’

‘I think an apology is in order, Dandy,’ said Buttercup.

‘For what?’ I asked.

‘For telling us we were silly,’ she said. ‘Or at least for thinking it and for all the smirking. You said this castle was impractical.
Impractical.
Huh!’

‘Is he all right?’ said Alec, as the sound of the police motor car stopping and doors slamming shut came from outside.

‘He’s fine,’ said Cad. ‘Come and see.’

In the oubliette, with the grille firmly closed and a barrel resting on top of it just in case, Shinie Brown stood defiantly in his string vest with his braces hanging down and stared up at us.

‘Ye’re a very bad man,’ shouted Randall, which pretty much summed things up for me.

Chapter Eighteen

There was close to a party atmosphere in Mrs Murdoch’s kitchen once Brown had departed with a sergeant and two constables; except that Buttercup had only got as far as uncorking the cherry brandy when Flaming Donald Lamont arrived in search of his son. She finessed the bottle and corkscrew into a convenient breadbin with a sleight of hand born of many speakeasy raids and Mrs Murdoch put the kettle on instead. I noticed, nevertheless, that a good slop of something went into our cups which did not go into Donald’s (Mrs Murdoch’s broad back hiding the operation from all except me) and when I took a tentative sip I felt as though a hole had opened in the top of my head and let out a jet of steam.

‘Ginger bun, madam?’ said Mrs Murdoch, proffering a plate. ‘They’re ma own recipe too.’ And she winked. I took a cake but set my cup down. Nothing would ever change this little burgh, clearly, but I was off moonshine for a while.

‘What I still don’t understand,’ said the inspector, ‘is his motive.’

Alec studied the floor. I glanced at Donald, unsure of how much he knew, but all his attention was taken up listening to Randall retelling the tale for the dozenth time. Cad and Buttercup stared at me, their meaning quite plain: I was on my own.

‘Must you know his motive?’ I said. ‘There’s more evidence than you will ever need. We have the flask he left in Dudgeon’s pocket, and we have the bottle he took to the house in case the flask wasn’t drunk, not to mention the still. So why worry about motive?’

‘I’d be happier,’ said the inspector. ‘I know they were far from being pals, Willie and Rab, but it takes more than that.’

Inspiration struck me.

‘It went further than not being pals,’ I told him. ‘Willie Brown blamed Bobby Dudgeon for his son joining up. Young Bobby was a heavy influence on his friend by all accounts and the feeling is, very much, that if Bobby hadn’t volunteered, Billy wouldn’t have either. And then added to that, Joey – Miss Brown, you know – had got engaged to Bobby Dudgeon against her father’s wishes. And perhaps she’s determined to honour his memory, not to marry at all now. So it’s quite easy to see how, with enough brooding and enough grief clouding his mind, Brown could blame the Dudgeons for everything. Perhaps the Burry Man’s day was just the last straw – everyone cheering Robert Dudgeon on as though he were some kind of hero.’

The inspector nodded, reluctantly.

‘Be lucky to get murder on that, though,’ said the remaining sergeant, lugubriously. ‘It sounds . . . fevered like. The defence’ll go for manslaughter, unbalanced mind, diminished responsibility.’

‘You could be right,’ said the inspector. ‘And who’s to say it’s not true?’

The sergeant sighed.

‘Mind you,’ he added, ‘it would be a lot worse if young Bobby Dudgeon had come home.’

I tried not to look too astonished at this and I could see Alec trying to do the same.

‘How d’you mean, Sergeant?’ Alec said. It was the inspector who answered.

‘Well, if one son was lost and the other one was safe,’ he said, ‘a jury could easily understand the jealous grief of the one father making him hate the other. But seeing as Bobby Dudgeon fell too, you’d think Shinie could have found some compassion.’

‘Aye, sir, let’s look on the bright side,’ said the sergeant. ‘With both boys gone the same way, we might get murder and a hanging after all.’

The inspector looked suitably pained and Flaming Donald, catching these words as Randall paused for breath, seemed to decide that he had better get his boy out of earshot and home to his mother. The party, clearly, was breaking up.

I took no part in the general leave-taking, however, for the sergeant’s words had hit me like a brick. I was dimly aware of the inspector talking to Cad and Buttercup about their formal statement; I knew that Mrs Murdoch was pressing a basket of treats on Donald to take back to Chrissie Dudgeon; I could hear the vague rumbling of the sergeant scratching his head over how to divide the departing bodies amongst the remaining police motor cars, but essentially I was alone, lost in the middle of a shifting cloud of impossible but irresistible new ideas.

‘I tell you what, Sergeant,’ I said suddenly, grabbing my chance, ‘if it’s all right with his father, I’ll volunteer to take young Randall home. We couldn’t have done it without you, you know, Randall, and you deserve a treat. How do you fancy driving my motor car across the park?’

Randall’s eyes, naturally, lit up at the prospect and his father made no demur. Alec, I was aware, was watching me closely as I prepared to leave.

‘Straight home?’ he asked, with an unreadable look on his face.

‘We might take a scenic route,’ I said, and then I turned to Flaming Donald. ‘If that’s all right with you?’

‘The laddie’s as high as a kite anyway,’ he said. ‘It’ll make no odds.’

‘Splendid,’ I said. ‘I’ll just fetch Bunty.’

‘Is that your spotty dog?’ said Randall, for whom the journey was getting steadily more enticing. ‘It’s a braw big dog, eh no? I’ve seen it.’

Bunty was indeed ‘a braw big dog’ and I trusted that in the dark where no one could see her polka-dots and her lolling grin she might pass for a guard-dog. But first we had to get there. I held my breath and gripped the edge of my seat as my precious little Cowley lurched and banged over the turf in Randall’s eager but incompetent hands and I was heartily relieved when we arrived at the edge of the woods; it would have taken a much bigger idiot than me to let him steer it between the tree trunks, no matter the pleading.

‘Randall,’ I said, back in the driving seat, ‘do you want to come on an adventure?’ He nodded faintly, expecting a trick to cure him of his sulks, I think. ‘And can you keep a secret?’ He nodded with a little more enthusiasm. ‘I mean it. You have to keep it secret from all the grown-ups and especially from your brothers and sisters. Can you promise?’

He was enchanted by the prospect, so I finalized the deal.

‘Cross your heart and hope to die?’ I said.

‘An’ devil find me where I lie.’

We spat and shook.

‘Right then,’ I said. ‘Whereabouts are these holes?’

I drove under Randall’s direction for a minute or so, through the woods and towards the riverbank, until he told me to stop.

‘Ye cannae get any nearer in the car, missus, but I ken the way. Follow me.’

‘You’re not frightened, are you?’ I asked him as we began walking. It was almost completely dark now, and my conscience was thrumming about mixing him up in this.

‘Naw,’ he said scornfully, and he certainly did not look perturbed, striding out with his head up, holding Bunty’s lead proprietorially. ‘I’m no’ feart of the ghostie.’

‘Splendid,’ I said, wishing I could say as much for myself. I took a deep breath and put my shoulders back.

‘Here,’ said Randall, suddenly stopping. Either he had eyes like a cat from all the time he spent in these woods, or he knew the place by scent and sound like a Red Indian tracker, for it seemed pitch black around us now and yet he moved decisively and spoke with absolute conviction. There was a creak of wood and a cold draught which bore upon it the tarry smell of a coal hole.

‘Doon here,’ said Randall. ‘There’s a ladder, but it’s fallin’ to bits so yell need tae be right careful.’ Although I could not see him I could hear that his voice was lowering towards my feet. I crouched and groped, finding the shoulder of his jersey before he disappeared completely.

‘Stop,’ I said. ‘Get out. I’m going down on my own.’

‘But there’s miles of it,’ he said. ‘You’ll nivver find him.’

‘Miles of it?’ I echoed. ‘Miles of what?’

‘Tunnels mostly,’ he said simply, as though I should have known this. ‘And some caves.’

Finally it fell into place: the ‘shell’ holes, the smell of coal, the little cart and the tiny pony, and Cad’s description of the failed business ventures on his uncle’s estate.

‘Do you mean mines, Randall? Is that where we are? An old shale mine?’

‘Aye,’ said Randall, patiently. ‘I telt you. It’s supposed to be all blocked up but there’s holes everywhere where it’s collapsin’.’

I took a huge breath and let it out in a tune of little puffs.

‘And there’s miles of it?’

‘Yell have to take me,’ he said. ‘Or yell get lost.’ I think I must have relaxed my grip on him while I tussled with this because suddenly he ducked away from me and I heard his feet pattering lightly down the rungs of a ladder.

‘Stop at the bottom and wait,’ I ordered, fear making me harsh. I felt around for the edge of the hole and, finding it, began to search for the top of the ladder with a foot. It felt rather soft.

‘Bunty, I can’t carry you, darling,’ I said. ‘So you must decide for yourself whether you feel like jumping.’

The ladder was on its last legs and I slipped a couple of times at the start of my descent as the rungs gave way under my feet. Bunty was whining at the sound of me moving away from her and, as I looked up to speak some reassurance, I suddenly shot all the way down, scraping my chin against the rocky side of the shaft as the ladder disintegrated. There was a thump as I landed and I swore viciously, making Randall giggle.

Once I had righted myself he took my hand, squeezing it as though
he
were exhorting
me
to be brave, and we set off feeling the dank walls on either side of us as close as breath and the weight of the earth above us lowering down. When we had gone no more than a yard, there was a slithering and yelping behind us, then the click of Bunty’s toenails on the stone floor.

‘Oh, good girl,’ I said. ‘She’ll take care of both of us. Walk on, Bunty.’

‘I dinnae need tooken care of,’ said Randall, but his voice had a little lift as he grabbed Bunty’s lead again and I thought I could hear a slightly more determined note as his feet struck along behind her.

It seemed hours that we tramped along like that, our feet ringing on stone or crunching in slivers of shale, our heads being dripped on from above and always with the fetid, filthy-smelling damp all around us. Once or twice a heap of earth and shale in our path cut us off and we had to retrace our steps and strike out in a different direction.

‘It’s like a maze,’ I whispered.

‘Aye,’ Randall whispered back. ‘They had tae make wee tunnels and leave bits in between so it didnae all jist collapse.’

I wished I had not spoken. Every so often, a faint breath of fresher air would tell us we were passing a ventilation shaft. At least that is what I told myself, preferring not to think that these were unofficial holes caused by subsidence. Randall was still fairly jaunty however, on his home ground, and Bunty seemed to view this new kind of walk with perfect equanimity. I could tell from the sound of her snuffling that she was pacing forward with her nose down. I wished Hugh could see her now.

After a while, although there was nothing new to be heard around us, and certainly nothing to be seen, Randall paused and hissed to me to be quiet. I reached forward and caught Bunty’s muzzle in my hand, guiding her head and holding her face against my leg to keep her quiet too. Then I heard it. Breathing, and the slap of bare feet on the dank stone as someone not far from where we stood moved away. If this was a ghostie, it was a much more fleshly ghostie than any I had ever imagined.

‘Stay here!’ I said to Randall, holding him hard by both arms and shaking him in time with each word. ‘No more nonsense. Do you promise?’ Randall, ten years old again, the intrepid sherpa quite driven off by the sound of fear in my voice, trembled and nodded.

‘I’ll stand guard and keep an eye on Bunty,’ he said, which was much better psychology, of course.

‘Excellent,’ I told him. ‘Now point me in the right direction.’ Randall stretched out his arm and I felt along it then, with some difficulty, I let go of him and walked away. It was a narrow passageway and I bumped against the walls a couple of times as it twisted around corners. It was lower too than the main corridor where I had left the boy and soon I was walking slightly hunched and wondering also if I was only imagining the downward slope under my feet. I could hear Randall murmuring words of encouragement to Bunty and could just about hear, if I strained, the sweep of her tail forward and back across the floor. It was while I was straining to hear that comforting sound that I became aware of the breathing again. I stopped, fumbled in my pocket and struck a match.

When it flared I caught sight of a face, deathly pale, or rather half a face above a beard, before a bare arm rose to shield its eyes from the light.

‘Put it out,’ said a cracked and muffled voice. I shook the match and pinched it carefully with wetted fingers before dropping it. ‘Who are you?’ said the voice. ‘What do you want?’

‘Billy?’ I said. ‘How long have you been down here?’

‘You tell me,’ said Billy Brown, in a lost voice. ‘What date is it? You tell me.’ He was shaking, but whether from fear or cold I could not say. I walked towards his voice with a hand outstretched but when I touched his flesh he flinched away.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I’ve only just worked it out, or I would have come sooner.’

I crouched down before him. ‘Your father’s been hiding you? Keeping you safe here?’

Billy gave a short sound that could have been a laugh.