The Man from the Sea (19 page)

Lady Urquhart, who was combing a Dandie Dinmont, shook her head. “No, Ian – not a Cocker. I never cared for their ears. But we might consider a Golden Retriever.” Lady Urquhart was very deaf. She was also a woman of somewhat circumscribed interests.

“But deuced like Alex Blair. Mark you, I never speak ill of a neighbour.” With great rapidity Lord Urquhart cut half a dozen slices from the ham. “And much less of a neighbour’s wife. It’s something I never knew good come of yet. The servants pick it up, you know, and pass it on to the tenantry. And that’s not good for any of us. So I never do it. What was I saying? Ah, yes. Damned foolish of Blair to marry that bitch.”

“A bitch?” Lady Urquhart was doubtful. “But don’t you think Alice would prefer a dog? One has to be so careful, in a town.”

“An eminent ichthyologist.” He turned to Cranston. “I think that’s what you say the fellow is?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And name of Knight?”

“John Knight.”

“Quite so. I’ve heard of him, of course. Positively an outrage. I’m uncommonly shocked.”

“No, dear – certainly not docked.” This time Lady Urquhart was decided. “I never approved of it. Of course it may be different with sheep. There, I would never interfere.” She turned to Cranston. “Is your friend Mr Knight interested in dogs?”

“I think he may know about Russian setters.”

“How very interesting! But such troublesome dogs to groom. A woolly and matted coat.”

“Now, why doesn’t the fellow join us?” Lord Urquhart looked about him hospitably. “Why doesn’t he come and get something to eat?”

Lady Urquhart nodded. “Yes, Ian – that’s just what I was saying. In town, not a bitch.”

“Knight’s making a long-distance call, sir. I believe he’s trying to make certain of the whereabouts of his wife.”

“To be sure. The poor lady will be very much distressed. Sheer barbarity. To be quite frank, I never regarded Alex Blair as one of us. Not even before that shocking low marriage.” Lord Urquhart looked at Cranston. “Know Lady Blair, my boy?”

“I’ve got to know her a little better, just lately.” Cranston wondered if he looked a fool. It was positively odd, he found, to be speaking a fragment of the truth.

“Take my advice and keep clear. If you ask me, the whole household’s a bit strange.”

“All spaniels do.” Lady Urquhart appeared to admit this with regret. “But it always means that something has been wrong with the diet. And much can be done by treating the skin at once.”

“Lady Blair’s girl, now – can you remember her name?”

Habituated to deceit, Cranston gave the impression of exercising his memory. “Sally Dalrymple.”

“That’s right… Have some salad, my boy.” For a few moments Lord Urquhart busied himself about the table. “Although who Dalrymple was, heaven alone knows. Certainly not one of the Dalrymples. Queer girl, too.”

“Sally’s quite sound.” Cranston found that, most indiscreetly, he had spoken with sudden fierce conviction.

“A hound?” Lady Urquhart took up politely what she plainly regarded as an inept suggestion. “An otterhound would be a possibility. But they are undeniably quarrelsome, you know. And there’s that oily underfur to consider. Definitely not a dog that is
ever
at home in a drawing-room. And poor Alice, I fear, is scarcely at home anywhere else. I always advised against a political marriage.”

“Quite right – quite right.” For the first time, Lord Urquhart arrived at some sort of cloudy contact with his wife. “The political people have gone to the devil. No enterprise. Won’t look forward. Travel in stage-coaches, if they had a chance. Now, take my grandfather. He wouldn’t let the old Caledonian Railway, you know, put a line across his estate. Suffered a lot of abuse as a result. Called a backwoodsman and a Stone Age Pict and things of that sort. But not a bit of it. What he had was prospectiveness, my boy. Knew that all that railroad stuff would be obsolete within his own son’s lifetime. Dipt into the future, as Tennyson said. Saw the heavens filled with commerce… Have I told you my scheme for flying fresh herring from Cromarty to Chicago?” Lord Urquhart broke off reluctantly. “Ah – here’s Knight.”

An ancient manservant had appeared at the door. His words were unexpected. “Miss Cranston, your ladyship.”

“My cousin, Georgiana Cranston.” As George made her necessarily somewhat surprising appearance, Cranston offered what explanation he could. She was safe and sound, and his relief was enormous. But he did a little wonder what the Urquharts would make of her, and how much it would be necessary to fit her into the extravagant yarn he had delivered himself of. “Georgiana lives in Australia.”

“Australia? How very interesting!” Lady Urquhart received her new guest with cordiality. “You must tell me about the dingoes.”

“Dingoes?” Lord Urquhart was puzzled. “Never heard of such a family in my life. You can’t mean the Stillgoes, Anne – the people poor Kinross’ daughter married into?”

“Of course not, Ian. Dingoes are dogs. But are they pariah dogs? Nobody appears to know.”

“Oh – dogs.” Lord Urquhart’s interest evaporated. “Can I give you some ham? Did you come with the hearse?”

George accepted ham. “I walked – through the forest.”

“Perfectly proper, perfectly proper. I’ve no doubt you took reasonable care. You don’t carry matches?”

“Never.” George shook her head as she munched. Being introduced into the presence of the ancient nobility of Scotland did not appear to induce in her any access of self-consciousness. “Just a map and a compass and some lollies.”

“Some – ?” Lord Urquhart was at a loss.

“Sweets – usually barley-sugar. That sees you through twenty-four hours easily, if you get lost in a mist.”

“Perfectly true, perfectly true.” Lord Urquhart was delighted. He turned to his wife. “You see how well informed and well conducted the younger people are, Anne? And then a fellow like Blair goes and behaves in this disgraceful way. Has a gun fired under the nose of an eminent scientist – more eminent by a long way than Blair himself is, I don’t doubt – and virtually blinds him and then hounds him over a moor. Supposes that everyone interested in fish must be a poacher.”

“Certainly not. A lurcher would be quite impossible, Ian. We might as well send a greyhound while we were about it.”

“Keeps keepers that are no better than thugs. Young Cranston here actually has to smuggle the fellow away in a hearse. Think of it – an ichthyologist in a hearse! But I must remember to commend this young Sandy Morrison. Most resourceful. I’m minded to give him a job on my ground staff.” Lord Urquhart looked at Cranston. “How would that be?”

“Capital, sir – although Sandy has rather looked forward to doing funerals all the time.”

“Then why shouldn’t he?” Lord Urquhart was suddenly inspired. “Why not get that line of business into the air? Tiresome things, funerals, among surface traffic. Do it by helicopter, eh? I must consult my nephew. My nephew Porp, you know. He’s the great helicopter wallah.” Lord Urquhart turned to George. “What about Australia? Any room for air-funerals there?”

“Well, there’s plenty of
room
.”

“We must think of it. What does your father do – make paper-bags?” Lord Urquhart paused and then appeared to recognise this as a somewhat random question. “Just that I get some money, from time to time, from people who do that out there. Make them out of gum-trees, I’m told. Deuced odd trade.”

“My father raises sheep.”

“Does he, indeed?” Lord Urquhart was interested. “Graze many acres?”

“I’m afraid I can’t say how many. It’s rather a hard sum.” George considered. “But it works out at just under eight hundred square miles.”

“God bless my soul!” Lord Urquhart was impressed. “What breed does he go in for?”

“Merinos, mostly.”

“Capital, capital.” Suddenly Lord Urquhart put down his carving-knife and looked at George with something like awe. “Not the Cranston Merino?”

“You’re telling me. And aren’t they beaut?” George was enthusiastic. She caught Cranston’s eye, and seemed to be moved by it to a further exercise of her vernacular. “Dinkum,” she said.

Lord Urquhart accepted it gravely. “Precisely, my dear. The only word for that astonishing sheep. But – let me see – how did we get to sheep from fish? Cranston, what about your fish man? Isn’t he going to join us?”

“I think he will in a minute, sir. But he’s in a good deal of pain. You saw his eyes. They’re in a shocking mess.”

“Bless my soul – why didn’t I think of a doctor?” Lord Urquhart was contrite. “Could we get your father over?”

“I doubt whether he could come, sir, just at the moment. He’s standing by for rather a difficult confinement.”

“I see, I see.” Lord Urquhart considered. “What about old Anderson, then? He’s said to be not bad. Some of the tenants swear by him.”

“Then perhaps we’d better have him sir, although he mayn’t know a great deal about eyes. But one can’t pick and choose at the back of beyond.”

“Eh – what’s that?” Lord Urquhart was instantly indignant.

“Sorry, sir – but you know what I mean. The Highlands are shockingly out of reach of the great medical centres. Sir Mungo Lockhart of Edinburgh would be the man. My father says he’s one of the best oculists in the country. But there’s no hope of making Edinburgh under seven or eight hours.”

“Indeed?” Lord Urquhart had risen and was eyeing his young guest with unusual severity. “And just where is this Lockhart to be found in Edinburgh?”

“Moray Place.”

“Very well. Do you know Turnhouse?”

“Is that some sort of little airfield?”

“It is an airfield.” Lord Urquhart contrived to utter this through a sort of snort. “And how long, do you think, would it take some wretched taxi-cab to get from Turnhouse to Moray Place?”

“I’m afraid I’ve no idea. But my guess would be half an hour.”

“Very well. Add an hour and a half to that – or two hours with the devil of a head-wind – and you’ve got the time in which I can deliver this Lockhart his patient.”

Cranston looked at his host with every appearance of astonishment. “You mean, sir, that you’ll fly him there?”

“I’ll fly the lot of you.” Lord Urquhart had taken to pacing up and down in high excitement. “Go and find him. Go and tell him about it. And then send a telegram to Lockhart… Sir Mungo, did you say? He must be one of the Lockharts of Lee. Perfectly sound people… Ah, here your fellow is.”

Day was led in by Lord Urquhart’s butler. He wore the dark glasses Sally had provided in the summerhouse, and Cranston wondered whether he was really still as blind as he made out. His appearance in this fashion, guiding himself on the arm of a venerable family retainer, had for Cranston a displeasing effect of masquerade. But then the whole thing was that, and he himself was up to the neck in it. And he was suddenly abominably ashamed.

He was both ashamed and bewildered – bewildered that the quality of his shame over this merely graceless aspect of his situation was indistinguishable from that which he had been experiencing at what he thought of as his betrayal of Sally in the horror of his affair with her mother. Only some hours ago he had been feeling that to be utter dishonour – and the feeling had landed him, as a species of penance, with this queer mission. He still felt it as that now. But he found that he was quite as ashamed of this present charade – which was a mere harmless vulgar deception – as he had been of fornication and adultery. And the unexpectedness of this worried him. He could have enjoyed playing all sorts of outrageous jokes on old Lord Urquhart, just as a year or two ago he could have enjoyed stealing his trout. But this was the wrong sort of joke. And he found that he greatly cared about being committed to it.

But the feeling only made him plunge the more resolutely now. In for a penny, in for a pound. “Lady Urquhart,” he said, “this is my friend John Knight.” He had to put some emphasis on the name. He was afraid that Day might have forgotten it. And, even as he spoke, he had a sudden absurd panic about something else. Again and again since this adventure began, it seemed to him, he had blundered through over-confidence. And perhaps he had done it once more. It was wildly unlikely that either of the Urquharts had ever set eyes on John Day, the eminent nuclear physicist. Even if they had, it was most improbable that they would recognise him now. But it was not merely John Day who had just come into the room. It was also a complete outfit of Sir Alex Blair’s. What if Lord Urquhart was accustomed to cast a noticing and satirical eye at his detested neighbour’s sartorial tastes? What if he now gave a cry of astonishment and indignation? Cranston had managed a harrowing account of his friend’s brutal treatment at the hands of hirelings of the Laird of Dinwiddie. It would take some explaining if it appeared that his friend was dressed in the Laird’s clothing now.

The fear was, of course, baseless. Day – or Knight – was civilly received and accommodated with whisky and cold ham. He was convincing enough in his role – remarkably so, considering that he had to pick up much of it as he went along – but at the same time he was to Cranston’s eye discernibly ill at ease. And Cranston conjectured with astonishment that it was a species of social embarrassment that was at work. The man who had been so confident with Caryl Blair was uncertain with harmless old doggy Lady Urquhart. He must have had dealings, in his final years of importance in England, with all sorts of eminent and exalted persons. Yet he couldn’t quite get the Urquharts right. Not that it mattered. They were accustomed to it. But it was queer that this inwardly driven and outwardly hunted man, with his
idée
fixe
and his passions and his small span of years or months to live, should retain the slightest responsiveness to the notion of comparative social elevations. Surely Day –

Abruptly Cranston realised that he had got it all wrong. Day’s trouble was not embarrassment but some sort of distraction. The man was failing to keep his attention civilly on what was being said – whether by Lady Urquhart on the subject of Skye Terriers or by her husband on the insufficiencies of the Ministry of Civil Aviation. Perhaps it was sheer fatigue. Perhaps it was pain. Or perhaps – Cranston suddenly found himself thinking – it was a trick. Perhaps it was some sort of trick within his own trick – a matter of Day going one better.