The Stalking Party Page 8

  ‘Telephone, my lady,’ announced Ishbel from the doorway, and Gwennie followed her into the hall.

  ‘I’m so sorry, I’ll have to cry off tomorrow,’ she told Sir Archie on her return. ‘The Kingswoods asked if they could come over, and I couldn’t very well say No.’

  ‘You could have.’ Sir Archie disliked having his plans altered. ‘Blast them! That means I’ll need another first rifle. Nicky?’

  ‘Sorry, Pa. I’m going up to the trout loch.’

  For the space of several seconds, Sir Archie wrestled with the impulse to tell his son to do as he was damned well told, and as if to assist him, Ashy said, ‘Oh, but that’s what I want to do. Maya and I have asked Donny to bring the pony here tomorrow morning, so I can take up my painting things. You go stalking, Nicks, and we’ll take care of the trout. Two’s company, three’s a crowd.’

  Nicky seemed unoffended by so clear a hint that he wasn’t wanted. ‘I tell you what we’ll do,’ he said diffidently. ‘You can paint and fish while I walk round the loch. How about that? I gave my knee a bit of a twist scrambling about in the plantation after that roebuck,’ he explained to his father, ‘and I don’t think it’s quite up to a full day’s stalking.’

  Since ‘scrambling about in the plantation’ had provided the party with at least two meals, Gwennie took her stepson’s part.

  ‘Much better get it right first,’ she said, nodding. ‘Knees can be the devil. Why doesn’t Johnny take the rifle?’

  No reason, except that some inner monitor was telling Sir Archie that Johnny was getting not only more than his share of shooting, but also rather too big for his boots. However, needs must when the devil drives, he told himself, and nodded with the best grace he could summon. ‘All right, Johnny?’

  ‘Very much all right, Uncle Archie,’ replied his nephew with a grin.

  Chapter Seven

  LOCH A BEALACH, the lake at the pass, was shaped like a great tadpole, with three miniature islands grouped at the head and a long curling tail ending in a reedy bog. On this brilliant autumn morning, the water’s glassy surface reflected hill and cloud with perfect clarity, and the occasional spreading ring showed where trout were feeding.

  Ten yards behind Ashy’s chosen viewpoint, firmly tethered to an angle-iron fence-post, the solid white pony stood with underlip hanging and eyes half closed. Carrying stags home from the hill was his job, his attitude implied, not toting easels and paintboxes. In the stable-yard he had objected quite strongly to these unfamiliar objects being loaded on to his saddle, and had only been persuaded to move by a smart thwack from Donny’s thumbstick.

  ‘Keep him moving, Miss Ashy,’ he had grinned. ‘Dinna gie him the chance tae stop or he won’t budge again. Grrr! Get on wi’ ye, Rory, ye daft bugger.’

  Nicky trailed behind as they climbed the winding track towards the pass, but when the two girls had unloaded the painting gear and set up the easel, he joined them at the water’s edge, and shyly produced a bottle of white wine to enliven their sandwiches.

  ‘You’re not as useless as you look, Nicks,’ Ashy told him by way of a compliment, and his cheeks flushed with pleasure.

  When she had finished eating, and posted the apple cores into Rory’s cavernous mouth, Ashy lay back in the heather, face raised to the sun.

  ‘Just a tiny kip,’ she murmured. ‘Away with you both, and let me court my muse in peace.’

  Nicky rose reluctantly, and the look of naked longing on his face as he gazed down at Ashy gave Maya a curious pang, reinforcing the need she felt to be on her own for a while.

  ‘I guess I’ll go catch some fish.’ She picked up her borrowed trout-rod and walked quickly away.

  The three small dots of islands shimmered in the haze, the best part of a mile away. Moving round the foreshore, making detours past inlets and squashy bogs, Maya at last found herself level with the little archipelago, where Gwennie had told her the fishing was best. Interlocking circles on the smooth surface showed trout feeding among the reeds, but the air was so still she found it impossible to put a fly over them. I need a boat, she thought. I wonder where they left it yesterday?

  Continuing along the water’s edge, stopping now and again to flick a fly into some promising bay, she reached a point where a feeder burn had created a delta of marshy tussocks, and there, some yards beyond the waterline in a sandy cove flanked by low cliffs, her eye fell on the unmistakable shape of an upturned rowing-boat.

  And there in the middle distance was Nicky, a small, spidery figure climbing the side of a heather-covered spur with long strides. On impulse, she ducked down behind the boat to wait until he was completely out of sight. She didn’t want him turning back and offering to row while she fished. For the first time in a week she had the chance to be alone, with no one to tell her where to go or what she should be doing.

  The sun-warmed wood was friendly against her back as she laid down rod and net, stretched out her legs, and allowed the peace of this remote place to sink into her soul. Her breathing quietened, and by degrees, she became absorbed into what seemed like silence until her hearing adjusted to take in the soft plop! of a rising fish, insects buzzing in the heather, the muted, far-off cry of birds. Sounds and landscapes that had changed little since Bonnie Prince Charlie’s call raised the clans over two hundred and fifty years ago.

  Lifting her face to the sun, she closed her eyes, revelling in solitude. No need to please anyone or talk. No need to worry about what she said or did, or wonder what Alec’s family thought of her. For this golden afternoon, at least, she could remember why she had come here.

  ‘Alec,’ she said softly. ‘Are you here, my love?’

  Silence; yet her sense of a presence was very strong.

  ‘Stay with me,’ she murmured. ‘Don’t leave me alone.’

  The heather was springy, and smelled of honey. Overtaken by lethargy, Maya yawned and took off her sweater, wedging it between her head and the boat. Comforted by the feeling that Alec was near, she drifted off to sleep.

  *****

  She awoke with a start, chilly and disorientated, unsure whether minutes or hours had passed. As she lay blinking the sleep from her eyes, light dazzled against them like the first blinding stab of a migraine. A breeze had sprung up, ruffling the loch into choppy waves, and the smiling hills now looked shadowed and forbidding.

  Shuddering, she got up and pulled on her sweater, then considered the boat. Was it worth hauling it down to the water and rowing back to the islands? That depended largely on finding the rowlocks and oars, and the most likely place for them was under the boat.

  She bent and raised the hull a few inches, and caught a glimpse of a polythene covered bundle. Oars! she thought, and with a strong heave rolled the boat the right way up.

  The breeze plucked at the polythene as, suddenly uneasy, Maya squatted on her heels and laid a tentative hand on the bundle. Soft. Lumpy. More like a kit-bag than a pair of oars. Without allowing herself to speculate further, she grasped the nearest edge of plastic and twitched it aside.

  Flat on her back, eyes turned sightlessly to the sky, Beverley’s pale, shocked face and scarlet gash of mouth gaped at her. Maya gasped and stepped back quickly. A dark veil clouded her vision, and she swayed, wondering if she was about to faint. I’m not seeing this, she thought wildly.

  Yet as her head cleared and the first shock passed, she knew it was real enough. Her mind took in details: a contusion above the right eye and scrapes down the right cheek; scraps of dry bracken in her hair; the astonished, outraged expression, as if her next words would be, ‘This can’t happen to me!’

  What had killed her? Who had killed her? How long ago? Maya stretched out a hand to touch the dead cheek, then drew back before making contact, fearful of destroying evidence.

  I must get help, she thought confusedly. Nicky. Ashy. They’re the nearest. I must find them, quickly.

  She stared round at the empty hills. High in the rocks directly above the burn, something flashed as it caught the
light. A deadly chill spread through her and her heart began to race, for who would be hiding in the rocks, spying on her, but the murderer?

  Adrenalin surged, and she heaved the boat back over the body as easily as if it had been balsa wood. With no thought beyond escape, she fled away from the loch, making for the dark shelter of the forestry that clothed the lower slopes of Ben Shallachan. That twinkling light came from binoculars, or possibly a telescopic sight. How far away was it? ‘A bullet can travel two miles,’ Sir Archie had said, ‘unless it hits something on the way.’ Any moment she expected to hear the crack of a rifle, or feel the jolting thud that would end her life.

  With bolting eyes and breath rasping in her throat, she reached the trees and plunged into the scratchy gloom of interlaced conifer branches. Pine needles carpeted the slope, and at first she made good progress, thankful to be out of sight of that long-distance eye. But as the trees thickened and the slope became ever steeper, she began to regret leaving the open hill where she could see ahead.

  Here was no path, not even a game-trail, and soon she lost all sense of direction as she veered this way and that, unable to see the sky through the thick canopy of firs. All she could do was keep moving downhill, praying that sooner or later she would strike a track.

  Chapter Eight

  IT WAS AFTER two in the morning when the tramp of boots over boards warned of the search-party’s return. Sir Archie pushed open the drawing-room door, and his wife and Lady Priscilla, seated either side of the embers, rose quickly.

  ‘Nothing,’ he said wearily, in reply to their unspoken question, and headed for the drinks table. ‘Sweet bloody eff all. That girl’s a fantasist.’

  ‘Where are the men?’

  ‘Just coming. I told them not to worry about their boots. Ah!’

  The men clumped in, tired and pale. Sir Archie sloshed malt whisky into glasses. ‘Sandy, Fergus, take a dram. By God, you’ve earned it. Johnny? Nicky? The same?’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Sit down, all of you,’ Gwennie urged. ‘Tell us what happened. Did you find the boat?’

  ‘Aye, my lady,’ said Sandy. ‘Abune the jetty, just where it should be.’

  Gwennie shook her head in puzzlement. The men drank, slumped in their chairs, the tension draining out of them. Sir Archie took a long pull at his whisky, set it down, and rubbed his eyes.

  ‘We found nothing,’ he said heavily. ‘The boat was in its proper place, as Sandy says. Hauled up, with the oars under it. No polythene sheet. No body. We walked the whole way round Loch a Bealach, and disturbed a lot of deer and a couple of hill foxes. We fell into holes and stumbled over rocks, but in the matter of dead women, we drew a complete and utter blank.’

  ‘She must have seen something,’ said Gwennie. ‘She was in a real state – well, you saw her yourself. I mean, why would she – ?’

  ‘God knows. Where is she now?’

  ‘I made her go to bed. She was tired out, but I think she was having second thoughts as well, especially when we heard about the message from Beverley.’

  ‘What message?’

  ‘Apparently she rang about five o’clock. One of the maids took the call. It was Beverley, saying she’d caught a cold and wouldn’t be back for a day or two.’

  ‘Thank God for that.’

  ‘She wanted to speak to Nicky, but of course he wasn’t back by then.’

  ‘One for the road, Sandy?’ Sir Archie heaved himself out of his chair, but Sandy rose, too, shaking his head.

  ‘No, thank you, sir. I maun’ be awa’ or Kirsty will wonder what’s keeping me.’

  ‘Of course. Well, thank you all, and I’m sorry we had such a wild goose chase. If you’d like to call off tomorrow’s stalking, that’s all right by me.’

  ‘Nae need for that, sir. Fergus and I ha’ done without sleep afore now, and none the worse,’ said Sandy with his slow smile. ‘Good night to you now, my lady.’

  When the boots had retreated, Gwennie said sombrely, ‘I’m afraid that’s not the last we’ll hear of it.’

  ‘Oh, I think we can trust our chaps to keep their mouths shut.’

  ‘You’re forgetting the lad from the fish-farm.’

  A pub-bound pick-up had found Maya shivering, scratched, and almost incoherent beside the sea-loch road, and brought her back to Glen Buie. In a place where every tiny incident provided food for gossip, her rescuer was bound to talk.

  ‘And he works for young Ian McNeil,’ said Sir Archie slowly. ‘Damn and blast!’

  They thought it over in silence, then Gwennie nodded to Lady Priscilla and rose. ‘Nothing we can do about it now. Let’s get some sleep. So long as Beverley is alive and kicking in Stornoway, there’s really no great harm done.’

  Next morning, Maya found it hard to face the breakfast table. Curious faces turned when she came in, but they greeted her without comment and the usual chatter quickly resumed.

  So British, she thought. Pretend something doesn’t exist, and with luck it will go away. Close ranks. Freeze out the alien. It worked with Bev, after all. Perhaps I, too, should go explore the islands, or remember an urgent appointment in London.

  She sought out Gwennie to apologise, and waylaid her in the passage, going to discuss menus with Mary Grant.

  ‘Silly child!’ Gwennie smiled and patted her arm. ‘There’s no need to cut short your visit. Archie’s an old bear, I know, but surely Alec told you that his bark is much worse than his bite?’

  ‘I really did see her, you know,’ said Maya unhappily.

  ‘Oh, my dear, I don’t doubt that for a moment.’ Her mother-in-law’s tranquil eyes showed neither impatience nor surprise. ‘People see the oddest things up here. I expect what you saw yesterday was what we call a Fetch. Have you heard of them? Sort of a ghost in advance.’

  ‘A Hant?’ Maya shook her head. ‘Sure, I’ve heard of them, but this was real. Look, I broke my nail when I turned over that boat. I wasn’t dreaming.’

  ‘I’m not suggesting you were. What you experienced was real enough, only it hasn’t happened yet.’

  ‘You mean it will happen again?’ Maya wondered which of them was mad.

  ‘Maybe not for years. Maybe not in the form it appeared to you. Strange things happen here on the rim of the world. There seems to be a particularly fine line between reality and fantasy. Past, present, and future tend to blur.’ She looked attentively at Maya’s troubled face. ‘I remember a friend of my parents’ – the stuffiest, most blimpish old brigadier you could imagine – who was sitting on the river bank one day when he saw – or claimed he saw – a little man in a green hooded cloak, about the size of a six-year-old child, hurrying about on the opposite bank, picking up sticks and tying them in bundles. Every time he put up his binoculars for a better look, the little chap vanished, but he could see him clearly with the naked eye. What do you make of that? We all teased him terribly, of course, and said he must have had a dram too many, but he swore that he was wide awake and stone cold sober. To his dying day he was convinced that he had seen one of the Wee Folk.’

  ‘But what I saw was …’

  ‘I know, I know. Your apparition belonged to the future, and his to the past, but when you think, they’re not so different. Just a blurring of time-zones.’

  Gwennie gave her a moment to consider this, then said, ‘What do you plan to do today? I’m afraid both stalking-parties have gone, but will you come with me to the river?’

  Maya hesitated, then said quietly, ‘It sounds weird, I know, but I’d like to take a look at that boat again. Or the place where I thought I saw it. I guess I won’t get it out of my mind until I’ve done that.’

  ‘Excellent idea,’ said Gwennie briskly. ‘May I come with you?’

  How could she refuse? ‘If you’re not too busy, I’d appreciate it,’ said Maya, bowing to the inevitable.

  ‘I must have a word with Mary, and after that my day’s my own. Shall we say halfpast ten?’

  *****

  It was all very differe
nt from the gold-and-purple landscape through which she had climbed with Ashy and Nicky. Now a sharp wind buffeted them head-on, and when they got their first glimpse of the loch, white horses were cresting the surface that had yesterday lain smooth and shiny as treacle.

  Gwennie pointed. ‘There’s the boat.’

  The green, clinker-built rowing-boat lay hull-up above the stone jetty where they had picnicked in the sun.

  ‘It wasn’t there yesterday,’ said Maya. ‘Leastways, I don’t believe it was.’

  ‘Are you sure? One can easily walk past something without noticing if you’re talking and not actually looking for it.’

  Uncertain now, Maya stared about her. The green and russet hill. The loch with its humpy shore-line and many little inlets and bays, were at once familiar and alien. Yesterday’s small clear burns had been turned into jets of white water by overnight rain, and low cloud obscured the skyline.

  ‘I can’t be sure,’ she admitted. ‘Shall we go on?’

  Hurrying as if to grasp at memory before it faded away, she led Gwennie along the thread of path worn by fishermen round the loch’s eastern shore.

  ‘Steady!’ panted Gwennie. ‘Was it really this far? We never bring a boat past the islands, because of the reeds.’

  ‘I can see the place from here.’

  Silent now, conserving breath, they climbed to the ridge from which Maya had first seen the boat, and paused to look out across the narrow bay into which the feeder burn was now discharging a lazy trail of foam. In the dull light, it was hard to tell where water ended and land began, but it had been there – just above the crescent of shingle –

  ‘Who’s that?’ Maya exclaimed. A few hundred yards below them in the bay, a kammo-clad figure moved to and fro, head bent, scanning the ground.

  ‘Not one of our chaps.’ Gwennie was perched on a rock, binoculars to her eyes. ‘Could be a hiker.’

  ‘That’s just where the boat was.’

  They stared at one another. ‘Whoever he is, he has no business there,’ said Gwennie firmly. ‘Let’s see what he’s up to.’