Fear by Night (14 page)

She ran up the stairs with her shoes in her hand, and was in her room with the door shut, whilst the blood still drummed in her ears. She leaned against the panels, holding the handle in a hard terrified grip. There was no key that she could turn and no bolt that she could shoot. And there was someone coming up the stairs. Her terror took her past all reason. It might have been the formless shadow of the loch rising up into the house, by the fear she felt.

Then Jimmy Halliday spoke, and Gale Anderson answered him. She couldn't hear any words, only the two voices, and the sound of their feet. Both sounds died away. A door shut with a click, and another more softly.

Ann felt very cold. She took off her clothes with fumbling fingers and crept into bed. She did not think that she would sleep, but she slept at once, and only woke when the sun looked in through her uncurtained window.

CHAPTER XVI

When Charles Anstruther got into his car and drove away he had every intention of returning to the island. He did not stay, because he could not continue to swim the strait every time he wanted to talk to Ann. He proposed, therefore, to find the nearest fishing village and there hire a boat. He supposed that this would be possible.

He came in the morning to Ardgair, which boasts a small square whitewashed inn and a cluster of little grey cottages down by the water-side. Having breakfasted, he inquired of the landlord as to whether a boat could be hired and of whom, and was presently in conversation with Mr. John McLean, a very polite old gentleman with a grey beard and frosty blue eyes. He had a boat to be hired—oh yes, by all means. And on this promising opening some pleasant digressions on the weather, the fishing season, and kindred topics—a conversation between gentlemen neither of whom would be so impolite as to hurry the other.

And where might Mr. Anstruther be wanting to fish?

Mr. Anstruther hesitated to confess that he didn't really want to fish at all, but this seemed to be the moment to mention Loch Dhu. And at once an unmistakeable blight fell upon the proceedings. There was some tacking backwards and forwards, and then a definite retreat.

When was it that Mr. Anstruther would be wanting the boat? To-day? Well then, he was afraid it couldn't be managed. To-morrow?—“Indeed, I am very sorry, Mr. Anstruther, but it just will not be possible.” The day after?—“Perhaps there is someone else who could oblige you.”

And so, with no reason given, the prospect of hiring Mr. McLean's boat receded and became one of the vast company of might-have-beens. Courtesies passed, and Charles went on his way. It took him, after recourse to the inn-keeper, to a black-haired and black-browed young man who was mending a net on the doorstep of one of the cottages. This, it appeared, was Donald McLean, part proprietor of a boat with his brother John.

Once again everything went smoothly until Loch Dhu came into the conversation, when the young man's black brows drew together and he said abruptly,

“We'll be overhauling the boat this week—we'll not be able to hire her.”

Charles leaned against a low stone wall in front of the cottage.

“What's the matter with Loch Dhu?” he said.

The young man mended his net in silence.

Charles repeated his question.

He got a dark look and the rough side of Donald's tongue. The boat was his own and he was overhauling her, and that was the end of it.

Charles went back to the inn.

“What's all this about Loch Dhu?” he said. “Everyone's got a boat to hire until I say I want to fish Loch Dhu, and then they're off. What's the matter with it?”

The landlord was a little brisk man with a quick way of speech. He rubbed his chin and took up Charles' words as a man does when he wants to gain time.

“The matter with it? There's nothing the matter with it that I know about, but there'll be better fishing along the coast—oh, without doubt there'll be grand fishing if you go the other way. There's no fishing worth mentioning to be had on Loch Dhu. And that's not taking into consideration that there are very dangerous currents setting in that way, and the channel just crowded with rocks.”

“Rocks?” said Charles with a sarcastic intonation.

The landlord nodded. He was another Donald McLean. His natural flow of speech returned. The blessed word rocks appeared to have restored it. Nowhere along the whole coast were there such rocks as beset the entrance to Loch Dhu. In fact, between the rocks and the currents, if you were to get a boat in without smashing her, you'd need to stay there, for you'd never get her out again.

“Then why don't those men say so?” said Charles.

Mr. McLean stole a sly look at his guest.

“They would not be wishing to give offence,” he suggested.

“The last one didn't seem to be bothering himself about that.”

The landlord rubbed his chin.

“Would that be Donald?”

“Yes.”

“He is a rude fellow You will not be taking any notice of him. He is a good fisherman, but he has no manners.”

Charles smiled.

“Yet he didn't tell me this story about rocks and currents. He said he wanted to overhaul his boat.”

Mr. McLean shrugged his shoulders. Donald was a young man without any manners and quite unaccountable.

Charles continued to smile.

“Is there anyone in this place who will take me into Loch Dhu?”

In the end, and after a good deal of talk, he arrived at the conclusion that there was not. It was all very mysterious and very exasperating. Two undoubted facts emerged. Loch Dhu was considered dangerous. And no one would hire Charles a boat.

He sat down to lunch in a puzzled frame of mind. If Loch Dhu was dangerous on account of its rocky inlet and its currents, why didn't the men say so frankly? He had tried three or four of them, and they had all shut up like clams the moment he mentioned the loch. When questioned no one had anything to say. No one mentioned rocks or currents, no one mentioned anything. There was something odd about it.

He paid for his lunch and drove off. He certainly wasn't going to be put off, but it was no use going back without some means of reaching the island. He wanted,

1. A bathing suit, and

2. A collapsible boat.

Probably the nearest place which would produce both these things was Glasgow. His immediate objective, therefore, should be some place from which he could telephone to Glasgow. On the other hand, telephoning was a most devastating performance. He had a vivid recollection of a conversation with a motor-works in the Midlands from a Welsh village where he had broken a back axle shaft—and in that case he had at least known the name of the firm he wanted and every possible particular about the article he required. It had been a nightmare of voices off and sudden fadings out. A succession of people all most anxious to be helpful came and went upon the wire, whilst he automatically repeated the number of his car, the number of the chassis, the number of the engine, the year of manufacture, and a few more oddments of technical information. When some hours later he received a telegram inquiring the number of his car, words, perhaps fortunately, failed him. A further seance at the telephone resulted in the only possible train in the twenty-four hours being caught at the expense of a really prostrating effort on the part of everyone concerned.

Recalling this experience, Charles felt that he might be equal to telephoning for a bathing-suit, but not for a collapsible boat—definitely not. He could get to Glasgow by midday to-morrow if he hustled. A glorious afternoon's shopping, a night in bed, a start at cockcrow, and he could be back at Loch Dhu by nightfall. He thought he would add a tent to his equipment. He felt adventurous, and pleased with his dispositions. By taking a collapsible boat to the landward shore of the loch he would avoid the dangers of the inlet. If the weather held, camping out would be delightful. It was a good world, and with luck he would be seeing Ann the day after to-morrow.

He sang aloud as he drove. There were moments when, in addition to the bathing-suit, the tent, and the collapsible boat, he contemplated the expenditure of the rest of his bank balance upon an engagement ring. Ann having just refused him for the second time, the Highland air must be held accountable for this. It was indeed a most exquisite and intoxicating draught for a lover—cool under a cloudless sky, and full of the sunny fragrance of heather and pine.

Charles continued to sing.

CHAPTER XVII

Charles shopped with energy and enjoyment. He bought a bathing suit, and a collapsible boat, and a number of articles of camp equipment which he added to his bill under the persuasive eye of a salesman who would have inspired a maiden aunt with a desire to go camping. In retrospect, Charles thought himself fortunate to have escaped without buying a caravan or a tent. He managed to weigh one against the other and thus stave off a decision until he could nerve himself to say that he had an appointment and couldn't possibly wait any longer.

After this he thought he would have some tea.

He was threading his way amongst the small tables at Crawford's, when someone said his name—“Charles Anstruther!” and, turning, he saw Hilda Paulett smiling and beckoning. He had just time to think she was the last person on earth he expected to see, when he remembered that she lived in Glasgow—with an uncle. Yes, that was it—an impossible old beast of an uncle—horribly rich. The name escaped him.

He went over to Hilda, and found himself being invited to sit down at her table. She was alone, and she looked really pleased to see him.

Charles sat down, and was not quite sure whether he was pleased or not. On the one hand, he had never cared very much for Hilda Paulett. He didn't exactly dislike her, but he loathed her relations, the Craddocks with whom she stayed near Bewley. She had stayed with them every year for the last ten years, and he supposed he knew her pretty well, but as their acquaintance had never got beyond a little desultory conversation at a point-to-point, or an occasional dance at a hunt ball, it didn't amount to very much. On the other hand, it was pretty dull having tea by oneself, and he was bursting with conversation about camp equipment.

“What on earth are you doing in Glasgow?” she said.

“Shopping,” said Charles, and ordered a comprehensive tea.

“Lucky you! I can't shop, because I haven't got any money, and if I were to run up bills, my uncle would hear of it and cut me out of his will.”

Charles began to wish that he had not caught her eye. He loathed people who talked about other people's wills, and he remembered now that Hilda Paulett did it all the time. The uncle was rolling, and she would inherit, and she kept shoving it under your nose all the time. He said,

“I nearly bought a gadget that calls you in the morning, boils a kettle, measures out a spoonful of tea, puts in the milk and sugar, boils an egg, and fries a rasher of bacon. I didn't take it, because they wouldn't guarantee that it would cook sausages.”

Hilda Paulett looked a little blank, and when she looked blank she looked sulky. She was dressed in the bright green which had been the fashion of a few months ago and was now dead. It could never have been becoming to her dark skin. Charles thought her gone off, and remembered with surprise that she was considered handsome. He answered a number of questions about the Craddocks—a revolting fellow Craddock—and was edging the conversation round to the point from which he might begin to talk about collapsible boats, when all of a sudden Hilda was saying earnestly,

“Charles, I want to tell you something—only you mustn't speak of it, please.”

She had her elbows on the table and was gazing at him with an air of soulful secrecy which was very intimidating.

“Look here,” said Charles, “here's a bit of advice—if you're going to confide in me, don't. You'll probably be sorry as soon as you've done it, and loathe me like poison for the rest of your life.” He smiled at her pleasantly. “I'm assuming that you're going to confess to a murder or something like that.”

Hilda Paulett had no sense of humour; he ought to have recollected that. He had meant to head her off any possible approach to a serious confidence, but to his discomfort she turned pale and said in a low, agitated voice,

“It isn't one yet.”

“What isn't one yet?”

She looked over her shouder nervously. It was rather late, and the two nearest tables were empty.

“Charles, I'm so awfully worried.”

Charles groaned inwardly. Why had he not insisted upon conversing about his boat? Why had he flung himself to the wolves by asking her what she meant? He was for it now and had only himself to thank. An expression of pensive melancholy gave him a misleading air of sympathy, and would have encouraged Hilda if she had been in any need of encouragement. She had, however, reached the stage at which a confidant was a necessity, and it is to be doubted whether it would have been possible to head her off.

“I must tell someone,” she said, and with a sharp sensation of surprise Charles registered the fact that she was frightened.

He said, “What's the matter?” and immediately there came tumbling out a lot of disconnected and agitated sentences. It was rather like having a jig-saw puzzle thrown at one.

“Of course he said no one must know.” (Who on earth was he?) “And it was a legal marriage all right, because I went and asked a lawyer. And besides, he wouldn't be so angry if we weren't really married—would he?”

Charles threw a swift glance at her left hand and found it ringless. She must have seen the look, for she answered it.

“Of course no one knows—at least some of his friends do, but none of mine, and that doesn't seem fair—does it? But of course if Uncle Elias knew, I wouldn't have even an off chance of coming in for anything, so I do see Gale's point there.”

Charles could see no point anywhere. But the girl undoubtedly had the wind up. He said,