The Screaming Gull Page 14

  “But what if ‘The Screaming Gull’ are planning revenge on the people who helped to get Wotherspoon and his friends arrested? Our names were fairly prominent in the newspapers.”

  “Get that idea out of your head, Bill,” returned Lawson patiently. “If ‘The Screaming Gull’ believe that we are ordinary citizens they won’t molest us. If they did attempt revenge, then the police, in their investigations, might upset all their calculated secrecy.”

  “Why,” I complained, “didn’t Maureen tell us where she was going to meet Merriman?”

  I saw Lawson’s jaw-muscles tighten, and I thought for a moment he was going to strike me. Then he laughed shortly.

  “We’re lucky she left a note at all,” he said with silken bitterness. “She risked a great deal to ease our minds. Why should she risk the whole fabric of our work by giving an address which might lead ‘The Screaming Gull’ to Merriman? For all we know — for all she knew — this hotel may be filled with members of the Society. Her note to you might have been discovered by one of them and read.”

  I was a little comforted and said so.

  “But if I don’t hear from Maureen before we set off in that fishing skiff this afternoon I’ll go berserk.”

  “Bill,” said Lawson slowly, “we’re working for the Secret Service. Maureen knows her job, far, far better than you do. Furthermore, it is an axiom of ours that personal feelings must be crushed down when opposed to loyalty to one’s country.”

  I was on the verge of quarrelling openly with my companion.

  “Maureen’s safety,” I muttered, “will always come first with me, and my country can wait its turn.”

  “You’re a damn fool, Bill!” growled Lawson. “For God’s sake get to bed and don’t keep me standing here in the cold… Stop worrying! Take my word for it, Maureen and Peter are in no great danger. And if Merriman and his friends are with them they’re in far safer hands than ours.”

  *

  I dozed fitfully until ten o’clock in the morning, when I rose, shaved and went downstairs to the dining room in a filthy temper.

  I was beginning to perceive a remarkable change both in my appearance and in my character. When I had looked in the glass on rising I had seen someone rather different from the smooth-faced, moustached youth who had grimaced at me each morning for the period of my shaving-days. Now my cheeks were finely drawn and little lines were beginning to appear at the corners of my mouth. Without the little moustache my chin seemed broader and more determined than of old. Then this temper of mine. I had no memory of ever having given way to ill-feeling. I had always been meek and mild and considerate.

  I was a trifle annoyed with Maureen, I admit, for having deserted me at this stage, and in so cool a fashion. She hadn’t even waited to discover whether or not we would return safely from Innish-na-gobhar. I thought rather bitterly that while I had told Lawson that I would put Maureen’s safety before my country, she had actually put her country before my well-being. Then, just to indicate the queer state of mind in which I found myself, I may record that I began to curse my folly in thus giving evidence of my childishness. Maureen, I knew, must have had good reason to leave the hotel so hurriedly. It was not my place to question the validity of that reason.

  Lawson was engaged in eating toast and marmalade when I greeted him with a kind of truculent shame. He was the typical Jew again, and he continued to play his part until I had breakfasted, for the benefit of the maids and of the few other guests who were in the room. We talked in desultory fashion of the pleasant weather and on various other subjects unconnected with the matter of ‘The Screaming Gull’.

  After we had smoked and glanced at the morning papers, which contained only a passing reference to the search for William Dunbar, the suspected murderer, we decided to take some exercise.

  “We’ve got to get some information,” said Lawson quietly at last. “And the best place for that is in a pub. Do you drink?”

  “No,” I admitted, “I don’t.”

  “Neither do I,” he retorted shortly. “But surely we can at least consume a glass of beer in a good cause.”

  We passed beneath the imposing portals of the Crown Bar in Main Street, and at the back of my mind I found lurking a feeling of guilt as I thought of my sister Annie and Aunt Jane.

  It was the first time I had been inside a public-house; and a strange awe settled upon me for a few moments. I had the twisted notion that, having up to this point led a sheltered, practically teetotal existence, I was utterly unworthy to step inside this rendezvous of loud-voiced, opinionative men of the world. These were the kind of people, I had imagined, who frequented public-houses.

  The curved, solid counter, decorated by myriads of winking tumblers and a series of bright brass levers, seemed to raise a vast hand to wave me outside again. The rows and rows of artistically labelled bottles behind the counter filled me with a vague disquiet; and I had a queer feeling of being childishly ignorant of many things when I observed the flaunting advertisements for various kinds of liquor which decorated the walls. There were curveting white horses and flimsily clad girls and red-coated, sprightly, gentlemen wearing monocles.

  But very soon my original feeling of inferiority passed, and I began to behave less like an initiate to some mysterious cult. I forgot about Aunt Jane and my sister Annie. A mild amusement possessed me, and I marched up to the counter at Lawson’s side as if I were a regular habitant of such a place.

  *

  Ordering the necessary beer, we sipped it slowly. To me it tasted not unlike cascara, but that may have been on account of its having been un-bottled. Lawson, however, gave every evidence of enjoying the beverage to the fullest extent, but I knew that it was Levison the Jew and not Lawson the Secret Service man who took pleasure in the drink.

  The bartender was an affable young man with a round, pink countenance, and, luckily, he did not seem disinclined for conversation. At that hour of the morning customers were few and he had plenty of time to talk.

  We told him our assumed names and regaled him with an account of our adventures on board the Kilkerran. He was deeply impressed, and had he been the owner of the public-house he would undoubtedly have had us drink at the expense of the bar, so great an honour did he consider our presence.

  From the tale of our adventures we turned to the subject of local gossip, in which the youthful bartender seemed to be extremely well-versed. We learned about many of the notabilities in Kintyre and of their little idiosyncrasies. On Lawson’s orders I took the leading part in a series of questions, for, in his character as a Jew, he was not likely to be deeply interested in the small-talk of a Highland countryside.

  “By the way,” I remarked casually, “my friend here is rather a keen archaeologist, and someone in the hotel has been telling us that there are some fine old ruins in Ringan. There’s a crumbling church on the island, isn’t there, dedicated to St. Ninian of Whithorn?”

  “Ay,” agreed the bartender. “Ye couldna get a better place than Ringan for ould beeldin’s. The trouble is tae get there!”

  “How do you mean — get there?” asked Lawson mildly.

  “The ould wife that owns the island — she’s a pure terror!”

  “What’s the matter with her?” I said, trying not to sound too interested. “Is she mad?”

  “I wouldna say she was mad. But she’ll no’ alloo anywan tae set fut on Ringan, forby frien’s o’ her ain an’ o’ ‘Lofty’ MacArthur, her ferm-manager. She’s wild an’ suspeecious. Maybe it’s because the poor ould body’s blin’!”

  “Have you ever seen her?” I asked.

  “Naw, nor has anywan seen her that I know. She’s never left the island since she bocht it ten year syne. Folk say that she doesna even alloo MacArthur tae see her. She gi’es him his orders frae ahint a closed door. An’ the servants dinna set eyes on her, eithers. Her meat’s left ootside the door o’ her room, an’ they say she tidies up her ain quarters.”

  “Curious person, surely,” I rema
rked. “What’s her name?”

  “She’s cried Lady O’Brian,” he answered. “But where she cam’ oot o’ naebody knows. The funny thing aboot her is that whiles she has big pairties, an’ croods o’ folk in Cam’eltoon an’ Blaan get invitations. But the servants say that she never mixes wi’ her guests. Her ferm-manager entertains an’ gi’es them any message her leddyship cares tae send.” The bartender lowered his voice and leaned across the polished oak. “Gentlemen,” he continued in a stage whisper. “There’s a rumour that them pairties are… weel, naebody can understand why the meenister o’ Castlebrae Kirk gangs tae them at odd times.”

  “Interesting story,” I said, and the bartender beamed. “Oh, and while on this subject,” I continued, “haven’t I heard that the tenant of Innish-na-gobhar Farm is a friend of Lady O’Brian’s?”

  It was a shot in the dark, which, rather in the fashion of my first revolver practice early that morning, proved successful.

  “Ye mean Higgins, the Englishman? He’s certainly gey sib wi’ her. He gets the winterin’ o’ her sheep. ‘Lofty’ MacArthur an’ him’s aye claverin’ thegither. It’s funny, tae… Noo that I mind, Innish-na-gobhar’s another place where there are gey often queer things happenin’. They tell me that last nicht a wheen o’ Higgins’s frien’s were that drunk that they putt a car intae the ditch in front o’ the hoose. Then the meenister’s car was took awa’ by another o’ the guests… I forgot tae tell ye that MacTavish, the meenister o’ Castlebrae, was at Innish-na-gobhar tae, an’ that he was lookin’ a’ ower the place this mornin’ for his car. The polis found it aboot a mile oot frae Cam’eltoon in a side road, but ould MacTavish wouldna gi’e anybody in chairge. He said it was jeest a childish prank.”

  I could scarcely refrain from smiling, and I promised myself to tell Peter, once I saw him, of the discomfiture of another of his clerical enemies. “Who’s was the other car?” I asked.

  “They tell me it was Davie Grant’s. He’s a draper an’ a bailie — wan o’ the high heid yins on the Toon Cooncil.”

  Our beer, even though we continued to sip it with exceeding slowness, was running down, but I persevered with a further question. The bartender began polishing glasses in preparation for the midday rush and answered readily enough.

  “Are there many dwelling-houses on Ringan?” I asked. “I mean, apart from those occupied by Lady O’Brian’s employees.”

  “Nane at a’. Her leddyship has a big castle o’ a place on the west side o’ the island, wi’ a high stane wa’ beelt roon’. Her servants a’ hae a wee bit o’ the castle putt by for them. Lady O’Brian hersel’ leeves in a kind o’ turret at the north end. They tell me that durin’ the nicht there’s twa Great Danes let loose in the grounds for fear o’ burglars. As if any burglar could get ower the wa’ tae begin wi’! It’s as smooth as ice an’ there’s broken gless on the tap. Poor Watty Wulson — him that’s in the poor-hoose noo — wance tried tae get intae the place at nicht, for there’s a story that Lady O’Brian has some fine jewellery, an’ Watty thocht the ould blin’ wumman wad be a soft mark. But it wasna her leddyship that was the soft mark. It was Watty. He managed tae get tae the tap o’ the wa’ somehow, but nae sooner did he start tae lever himsel’ ower the broken gless than there was the wildest noise frae the castle — a kind o’ screamin’ an’ wailin’, as if somebody was blawin’ a steam-whustle. Watty got siccan a scare that he fell doon — inside — an’ the dogs gripped him. He wakened in hospital.”

  Lawson shook his head and spread his hands.

  “I vill not pursue my researches in sooch a place!” he said smiling, and the bartender joined heartily in the joke.

  We were about to leave the public-house when the genial youth recalled us.

  “I forgot something,” he said. “Her leddyship believes that she’s a direct descendant o’ Prince Chairlie.”

  After lunch I began to get jumpy and irritable again. Lawson went out to make a few purchases for use in our forthcoming expedition. But he returned in less than half an hour. There were still no signs of Maureen and Peter, and we had our appointment to keep at four o’clock with Williamson, the fisherman. Lawson did everything he could to curb my restlessness, but I am afraid the poor fellow found me a difficult person to deal with.

  I sat in the big bay window of the lounge moodily smoking cigarette after cigarette — I, who had been a non-smoker less than a week ago — and gazing out into the bleak afternoon.

  The morning sunshine had vanished and a chill south wind was blowing into the harbour, sending the white-caps flying in spume against the quay. Davaar Island, guarding the mouth of the Loch, looked like some huge beast crouching amid the haze, ready to spring. I compared it mentally with the power of the Blind One, whose home was on another island.

  Three o’clock came, and the twilight, I thought, had already begun to fall. I saw oil-skinned fishermen, wearing high gum boots, begin to make their way down the quay to their skiffs. Some of them were carrying baskets of stores, in preparation for a long night’s work. A few were singing lustily and several of the youngsters scrapped cheerfully among themselves.

  At half past three the first of the skiffs left the harbour for the fishing ground. The trim little craft, her engine running strongly, curtsied prettily as she negotiated the waves beyond the quay, and I thought gloomily of what the sea must be like outside the comparatively sheltered Loch.

  Maureen and Peter had not yet put in an appearance. I looked across at Lawson, who sat by the fire, calmly reading a copy of the Campbeltown Gazette. We were alone in the big, comfortable room, and I could have blubbered in my anxiety.

  “Lawson,” I said, “it’s twenty to four. And yet Maureen hasn’t turned up.”

  “That’s obvious, Bill,” retorted Lawson, and his coolness irritated me beyond measure. “But there’s no need to get panicky. The great axiom in this life is ‘Never meet your troubles half-way’.”

  “Oh, damn your axioms!” I blurted. “There’s something wrong somewhere. I feel it in my bones.”

  “Probably it’s only rheumatism,” replied my companion with a queer smile, “contracted in that stubble-field last night. We’ve still twenty minutes. Maureen said she would try and see us before four o’clock. If she can she will. If she can’t — well, there’s still no need to fall into despair.”

  I began to drum on the windowsill with my fingers. I drummed until the tips were without sensation. Suddenly, with a frantic gesture, Lawson sprang to his feet.

  “Bill!” he exclaimed. “Stop that drumming! Stop that drumming!”

  For the first time I realized that despite his appearance of calm his nerves were actually taut and frayed like my own.

  The minutes whisked past, until it was time for us to prepare for our fishing expedition. I said nothing more concerning my anxiety, for my friend’s brave front in the face of grievous worry shamed me into silence. We told Miss Cunningham that we intended to pass the night with Mr. Williamson at the fishing. She shivered.

  “You’re plucky,” she said. “It’s going to be hateful weather by all appearances.”

  Down on the quay we found Williamson himself waiting for us.

  “Man!” he exclaimed. “I thocht ye wadna be. It’s gaun tae be coorse, coorse! But if it’s yer ain pleesure… come on!”

  My heart was as heavy as lead. I had no stomach for the adventure in front of us. But as I was about to place my foot in the first rung of the quay ladder a big saloon car came racing down the pier in our direction. And out of one of the side-windows was stuck a head. It was a boy’s head and it was red as a flame.

  “Dad!” yelled Peter with brazen lungs.

  Chapter 13

  I sprang back from the ladder and stood impatiently on the slushy quay until the saloon car had drawn up opposite the berth occupied by Williamson’s fishing skiff, the Noblesse. The driver, I saw, was a complete stranger. He was young, ruddy complexioned and had a little scrubby moustache, not unlike the one which I, at one time, had
boasted. He wore a bowler hat and carried at the rear of his car an assortment of cardboard boxes. To all appearances Peter’s friend was a commercial traveller.

  “Good lord, Peter!” I exclaimed. “Where have you been?”

  “He stopped me about two miles out on the Blaan road,” chuckled the driver, “and demanded that I should drive like hell to the pier at Campbeltown.”

  “I say, sir,” I began, “you’ve been extremely decent. That son of mine — ”

  “Please don’t mention it,” said the bowler-hatted stranger hurriedly. “I enjoyed the run tremendously. Any little incident out of the common rut helps to relieve the monotony of trying to sell dud clothes. Besides, your son has very decided views on certain subjects — views of which I heartily approve.”

  I wondered what Peter had been saying; but I endeavoured to show as little anxiety as possible on the matter.

  “Very much obliged to you, old man!” remarked Peter in a choice Kelvinside accent, addressing the commercial traveller as if they had been friends for many years. “You can handle a car, and no mistake!”

  The stranger bowed to the compliment and laughed softly.

  “You must excuse me now,” he said. “I have a good many calls to make in the town.”

  The car moved slowly on, turned and sped back along the quay towards the Main Street.

  “Peter! What’s happened?’

  I saw now that he was coatless and that his clothes were dishevelled. His red hair stood up like wisps of fire, and though his little lined face was pale, his eyes shone like stars.

  “When ye’re ready, gentlemen!” shouted Williamson impatiently from the fishing skiff. “When ye’re ready!”

  Lawson went over to explain to the old man that my ‘son’ had just come after me with an urgent message, but that I should be ready to come aboard in a moment or two.