The Stalking Party Page 9

  When they got near the stooping figure, Gwennie said with a hint of steel in her tone, ‘Good day to you. Have you lost something?’

  The man straightened and swung round. Tall, square-shouldered: a Viking, thought Maya, taking in the long-featured, Nordic face, straight nose, straight mouth, the dusty-fair hair tied back in a queue.

  ‘Ian!’ exclaimed Gwennie, in a voice that left no doubt of her irritation. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I was told you’d had a spot of bother hereabouts,’ said Ian McNeil easily, smiling at Maya. ‘I came up to see if I could help at all.’

  ‘Bringing your rod on the off-chance of doing some fishing at the same time?’ Gwennie picked up the slender split-cane from where it lay against a gorse-bush, and swished it to and fro.

  ‘Not mine – wish it was,’ said McNeil. ‘Actually, Gwennie, it belongs to your husband. See?’ He pointed to the name engraved on the butt. ‘Odd sort of place to leave it...’

  Maya said quickly, ‘I left it there. I’m sorry. I forgot all about it.’

  ‘Finding a body under a boat does tend to drive other things out of one’s head.’

  ‘What rubbish!’ snapped Gwennie, but without conviction. Obviously the story was all over the peninsula.

  ‘Is this where you found the boat?’

  ‘I – I guess so,’ said Maya. ‘But there’s nothing to show I didn’t dream it all.’

  ‘Why should you dream something like that?’

  She raised her hands, then let them fall. ‘I just don’t know. It was hot. I went to sleep...’ her voice trailed away.

  As abruptly as if she had thrown a switch, Gwennie’s hostility became sociability. ‘So good of you to come and check, Ian, but I think we’ve seen all we need to. As Maya says, the oddest things appear normal in this part of the world.’ And while Maya struggled with her inclination to point out that this was Gwennie’s theory, not her own, she added in the same bright, brittle manner, ‘How’s your brother? And Janie? We were hoping to see more of them this year, but they’re always so busy.’

  ‘True enough.’

  ‘Have they had a successful tourist season?’

  ‘Busy, anyway.’ His quick grimace hinted at his own view of the summer invasion. ‘Plenty of punters, mostly foreign, and they tend to come in waves. It’s pretty difficult for Janie, never knowing how many she’s got to cook for.’

  ‘I can’t think how she manages.’ Gwennie didn’t quite hide her disapproval that the laird’s wife should be running a hostel.

  ‘Needs must when the devil drives,’ said McNeil cheerfully. ‘Anyway, we’re all looking forward to seeing you and your party at the Ceilidh after the Sports on Saturday. Oh, and at the Sports too, of course. We’ll catch up with your news then.’

  ‘I do wish you’d persuade Janie to let us feed the hordes at Glen Buie for once.’

  ‘Not a hope. She wouldn’t hear of it – and nor would my brother. You know how they love opening up the old house once in a while, and it makes a change to entertain their own friends and neighbours, after all those backpackers.’ He picked up the net which Maya had left beside the rod. ‘Don’t forget this! You’ll all be coming, then?’

  ‘Yes – if you’re sure it won’t be the final straw for Janie?’

  ‘The more the merrier.’ McNeil fished in a pocket and drew out a scrap of paper. ‘I suppose you dropped that yesterday?’ he said, turning to Maya.

  Crumpled, unbleached tissue, sodden from last night’s rain, but its waffle pattern overprinted with tiny formalised trees was still clearly recognisable.

  ‘Recycled paper,’ he pointed out. ‘Can’t have been here long or it would have disintegrated.’

  Maya shook her head. ‘Not mine.’

  Her eyes met Gwennie’s, and she knew the same scene was in their minds. Pre-dinner drinks round the drawing-room fire. Beverley sniffing, fishing in her sleeve, blowing her nose. Moving away, leaving on the carpet a crumpled whitish scrap overprinted with tiny green trees.

  Lady Priscilla stooping to retrieve it, tossing it on the fire, rubbing her fingers on her skirt, saying with distaste, ‘I can never understand why girls like that won’t carry a proper handkerchief.’

  *****

  ‘The one person I’d prefer not to find poking his nose into our affairs,’ exclaimed Gwennie, striding downhill. ‘It’s lucky you were with me, though, or I might have been rude to him, and that would have made Archie cross. He tries to keep on good terms with our neighbours, no matter how tiresome they are.’

  ‘You don’t get along?’

  ‘Oh, the Strathtorrans are all right, poor things. They work like – like slaves to keep the place together, and live on a shoestring. Ian is a different kettle of fish altogether. He’s poached too many of our stags and salmon for one to feel easy about seeing him on this side of the ground.’

  ‘Poached?’

  ‘Stolen. He was hauled up before the local Bench last year, but of course they’re far too soft. All they gave him was a miserable fine, because he’s Torquil Strathtorran’s brother. What sort of deterrent is that? One of these days he’ll go too far and land up in jug.’

  Gwennie brooded, hurrying downhill so fast that Maya had to jog. ‘Of course it’s hard luck on Torquil, and worse for Janie. Torquil takes his paying guests out sailing and climbing, but Janie has to do all the cooking and admin with only a half-witted old woman to help. That’s why I tell her we should host the Ceilidh at Glen Buie Lodge. At least we’ve got enough staff. But Janie battles on and won’t hear of it. I’m afraid she’s heading for a nervous breakdown.’

  ‘What is this Cayley?’ asked Maya.

  ‘Oh, just a general jollification. Sports in the afternoon on the football field, and then the Strathtorrans open up the old house for the evening. Music. Dancing. All that sort of thing. Some people recite ballads that go on for ever. Archie presents the prizes, and the ferryman plays the pipes. It’s a lot of work for Janie, and I don’t suppose either Torquil or Ian is much use when it comes to setting up trestles and peeling spuds.’

  ‘Does Ian live with them, then?’

  Gwennie nodded. ‘Archie says if Torquil and Janie can put up with that lazy layabout, why should he annoy me? I’m sorry, but he does. I can’t bear deliberate idleness, especially in someone who was brought up to know better. He battens off his brother, spends half his time in the pub, and does a bit of poaching on the side. He’s a rotten example to the local riffraff. If the laird’s brother can get away with it, they think, why shouldn’t they?’

  They walked for a time in silence, then Gwennie said abruptly, ‘Odd about that paper hankie, though.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘You couldn’t have dropped it? You’re sure?’

  ‘I never use that stuff. It makes my nose sore.’

  ‘Still, lots of other people do.’ She sounded as if she was trying to persuade herself. In thoughtful silence they made their way back to the lodge.

  Chapter Nine

  ON SATURDAY AFTERNOON, Everard Cooper cried off the Strathtorran Sports. ‘I’ll join you for the Ceilidh this evening,’ he said. ‘That’s more my style nowadays.’

  ‘Oh, but I was counting on you to partner me in the Three-Legged Race!’ wailed Ashy in mock anguish, and he gave a snort of disgust.

  ‘You can count on someone else, you horrible child. I’ve better things to do than break an ankle for your amusement.’

  As soon as all the cars had driven away, and he was sure the Lodge was deserted, he installed himself in his host’s study, locked the door, drew the curtains across, and settled down to peruse the contents of the files stacked in an untidy heap on the corner of the desk. He would have liked a cigar, but that would have given him away. Archie might be deaf, but he had a nose like a labrador, and even a man of his absurdly trusting nature might wonder at Havana fumes in his private sanctum.

  It was always instructive to see where Archie Hanbury was putting his money. Last year, Everard h
ad gleaned advance warning of a bid for a brewery, and managed to buy shares before the price rocketed. One couldn’t expect that sort of luck every time, but there was no harm in sniffing the wind.

  He spread open half a dozen files and copied what information he needed, then re-stacked them with artistic attention to how it had looked before. Next he looked about for some indication of his host’s intentions regarding the future of Glen Buie itself. Gwennie had admitted to Priscilla that the doctor insisted this should be Archie’s last stalking season, so would he hand the place over to Nicky, and what would Nicky do with it if he did? Sell, or follow in Torquil Strathtorran’s footsteps? Plainly that bossy bitch Beverley Tanner had spotted the tourist potential of this unspoilt wilderness. If she should get her hands on Glen Buie, bang would go his own plan of buying it for the entertainment of corporate sportsmen.

  Everard poked in drawers and riffled through correspondence, but found nothing to show what Archie planned. No luck today, then. He sat back in his chair, hands planted on his broad thighs, and considered his next move.

  Already it was four-fifteen, and the races on the football field would be in full swing. Every man, woman and child on the peninsula would be watching or taking part, and the coast was as clear as it would ever be for him to put a spinner through the Greeting Pool.

  He had been careful to keep his spinning-rod concealed in the boot of his Jaguar. Sir Archie allowed only fly-rods on his river, even though most of the pools had lies which could not be reached by casting. The Greeting Pool was potentially the best fishing on the river, and it had always annoyed Everard to know that it was out of bounds.

  He sauntered into the gun room to pick up his fishing-bag and the spiked stick he used for wading, then drove down to the river.

  Although there wasn’t much chance of anyone seeing him, he parked the car behind some bushes which concealed it from the track. The evening sun slanted low through the trees, and the Greeting Pool lay still and dark on either side of the strong, sinuous current that swept from the Strathtorran bank at the head of the pool to the Glen Buie bank at its tail.

  Under the bridge’s central pier, a marker showed the water’s height: four feet – just about perfect. Everard heaved himself on to the parapet and stared towards Strathtorran House, whose roof was visible in the distance, and the glittering sea beyond. Between them lay the football field, where glints of sun on serried ranks of windscreens showed that the Sports were, as usual, attracting a capacity crowd.

  Satisfied, he pulled on his waders and took the spinning-rod from the boot. He eased himself waist-deep into the water, and began deftly flicking the silver-winged, triple-hooked ‘spoon’ into a dark backwater just below the bridge, systematically covering every foot of water, and moving a couple of paces on alternate casts.

  At first he was tensely expectant, placing the spoon meticulously, his nerves fine-tuned to the movement of the twinkling wing as it rotated through the water. At any minute, he expected to feel the thrilling bump on the line that tells a fisherman he is in business: that in the unseen depths his lure has been noticed, inspected, and is about to be swallowed. But as time passed and no swirl of interest disturbed the dark water, he grew blasé and began to spin carelessly, mind easing into neutral.

  When he reached the unfishable shallows at the tail of the pool, he climbed out, disillusioned, and sat on a log to smoke a cigar. What the hell was the matter? This pool must be stuffed with fish – fat, lazy, undisturbed. Why wouldn’t they look at his spoon? The water was the right height and temperature. He had been careful not to show himself against the sky, yet nothing had stirred since he arrived.

  Quarter of an hour later, after some desultory conscience-searching, he threw away the stub of his cigar and crossed the bridge. After another careful look round to be sure he was unobserved, he lowered himself into the stream on the Strathtorran side of the river. Now he was compounding his felony, breaking the law as well as Archie’s fuddy-duddy rules. If caught, he would have difficulty explaining his conduct. A guest of such long standing could hardly plead ignorance of who owned which bank.

  The pool was easier to fish from this side. The swirling current carried his spoon in a long arc, right under the opposite side as he reeled it back towards his own waders. Now he could be sure he was covering every inch rather than every foot of water.

  No action.

  Everard reeled in, cut off the spoon, and substituted a sand-eel lure, its hooks attached to a hank of yellow tow. Was he fishing deep enough? After some thought, he chose two small lumps of split shot from his weight-box, and bit them on to the line a couple of feet from the lure.

  Then he waded up to the top of the pool again, just below the bridge. He thumbed the bail across the top of his reel, slung the weighted lure into the current, and began to wind in.

  Immediately he felt a quick, snatching tug of resistance, and his heart jumped. At last! Trembling with excitement, he counted to five then struck, but to his intense disappointment the hook floated free.

  Never mind, things were looking up. He tried to cast again at the same spot, but the weighted line overshot and caught the bushes on the opposite bank. Too impatient to go across and free the hook, he heaved brutally until it snapped, sacrificing both the weights and the sand-eel lure. These he replaced with a golden articulated minnow and slightly smaller split shot, returned to the bridge-pillar, and tried again.

  This time the minnow dropped exactly where he wanted, and once more he was rewarded by a tug – not a quick snatch, but steady, heavy resistance.

  By God, this is more like it! he thought. And then, more doubtfully, Am I on the bottom?

  Gentle exploratory pulls proved to his satisfaction that the fish was definitely moving, though lying so deep in the pool that his line disappeared almost vertically.

  A big one. A really big one! he thought, heart hammering. Thirty pounder? Even bigger? His mind raced ahead. How could he bring such a monster to the bank? Would it fit in his net, or must he use the gaff? It seemed little disposed to fight, but he had often heard that real leviathans were sluggish. They towed you down to the bottom, and might simply sulk there for an hour. You had to be patient.

  He glanced at his watch – ten past seven – and took long, calming breaths. He imagined carrying his huge fish back to the house, and the excitement it would cause. Very lucky that he had brought a fly-rod in the car: he could pretend he had caught it on that.

  The relentless pressure was making his arm ache, and bending the stiff, short spinning-rod, but as soon as he relaxed a fraction, the line pulled away from him. Slowly, with many pauses, Everard began to reel in, using the brake on maximum, and moving downstream so that the fish had the current against it as well as the line. The light was fading behind the trees, and in the black water it was difficult to tell just where the long silver shape would break the surface.

  Net and gaff to hand, he peered into the murky depths, waiting tensely for the flurry of foam, the desperate plunge for freedom which the fish would make when it caught sight of him.

  A paleness showed under the surface, and his heart raced again. God! It was enormous. No chance of getting that in a net. He would have to beach it where the shingle curved steeply at the tail of the pool. Carefully he waded backwards, feeling for submerged rocks that might snag the line. His arm was tiring, the muscles lumped in one solid ache from shoulder to hand, and he was blowing hard.

  Three steps to the beach...two...

  Reaching the shallows, the fish grounded on underwater shingle and lay still. No struggle. No frantic thrashing. Just a long, inert...shape beneath the glimmering surface.

  His elation drained away. What have I caught? he thought, bending forward to peer into the water. A dead deer? A sheep?

  The current plucked at the obstruction, trying to float it away. Everard gripped his line and heaved, and a human arm rose out of the water in macabre salutation. Horrified, he stumbled backwards. His foot skidded on a weed-covered rock
, and he toppled into the pool.

  An icy wave flowed into the bib of his chest-waders, weighing him down, while the air trapped round his feet forced his legs upward. He dropped his rod and clawed at the clip on the shoulder straps of those deadly waders, but the more he thrashed about, the faster they filled.

  With his feet in the air and his head under water, Everard realised he was about to drown.

  Chapter Ten

  ‘TWENTY-EIGHT, TWENTY-NINE, thirty... That’s the lot, then, Morag,’ said Janie Strathtorran. ‘Go and tell his lordship we’re ready to eat. Morag!’ she said more loudly as the old woman stared blearily into space.

  ‘Verra guid, my lady.’ Eyes glazed and snowy hair already escaping from its pins, Morag teetered away more unsteadily than could be explained by her best shoes.

  She’s been at the sherry, thought Janie, and hoped she wouldn’t drop anything that mattered.

  Critically she surveyed the rows of heaped plates which had taken her most of the day to prepare. Boring food for boring people, she thought heretically, and wished – not for the first time – that tradition played a smaller part in local eating habits. She was a first-class cook, and this standard of fare was anathema to her.

  She imagined the shocked faces of the stalkers and ghillies, the ferrymen and crofters and shepherds and fish-farm lads, if she followed her own inclination and served Indonesian curry or garlicky goulash as refreshments after the Sports, instead of plastic sliced ham and heavily-Heinzed potato salad. Or sushi. Or a bubbling, wine-laden fondue.

  The women were more adventurous, gastronomically speaking, and might welcome a change, but their men would not; and here on the Western rim of the world, feminism was a lost cause.

  She shrugged and turned to the ornate gilded mirror which, together with half a dozen portraits of long-dead Strathtorrans in heroic kilted poses, was all that remained of the original dining-room furniture. She was slender, tense, mousy: the deep groove between her eyebrows and perennially anxious expression testifying to the strain of keeping up appearances on too little money, and running a business with too little help.