My Bones Will Keep mb-35 Read online

  This was of fair size but appeared to be servantless except for the baby-sitter, and the woman used her own front-door key to let herself in. The fact of a front door key in itself surprised Laura, who was accustomed to having her own Highland relatives keep open house to the extent of never locking up anything. An open-fronted shed formed the garage, it seemed, so Laura, left alone, drove into it, her headlights showing her the way. She switched off and went to the front door. Then she remembered that the babysitter would have to walk home in the teeming rain unless she was given a lift. Laura groaned.

  ‘Come in!’ called the woman. ‘Kirsty is just leaving.’ She switched on the light and in the hall Laura saw a tallish, round-faced girl wearing a raincoat, a head-scarf and gum-boots.

  ‘I’d better drive you home,’ said Laura. ‘Come on.’

  ‘No, no,’ said the girl. ‘It is pleasant with me to walk in the rain.’ Without another word she passed Laura and stepped sturdily out into the elements.

  ‘Let Kirsty be,’ said the woman. ‘She’s independent and she’ll take no harm. Come ben.’ She led the way into a room where there was a pleasant fire burning in the hearth. ‘Take off your things and draw up to the fire. The bairn’s sleeping fine, and she’s no trouble once she’s off. Have you any luggage in the car? I’ll go out and get it when we’ve supped.’

  Laura’s hostess was named Grant. After the meal the two women settled down by the fire, Mrs Grant observing that the washing-up could wait until the morning.

  ‘I’m without any help in the house, as you see, Mrs Gavin,’ she said, ‘and the Dear knows I could do with it.’

  ‘I suppose the local girls all move away to the towns,’ said Laura

  ‘Och, it’s not only that. It’s the curse that’s been put upon this house.’

  ‘The curse?’

  ‘I call it that. It’s that wicked old wretch who lives on Tannasgan—or so I believe. He is harmful to this house.’

  ‘Really?’ said Laura, not attempting to divulge that she had already heard of the laird of Tannasgan. Mrs Grant, certain of a listener, continued:

  ‘That old man is the devil himself. He can make anybody who is as simple as some of the folk in these parts believe anything he chooses to tell them. I cannot pin it down to him, and, if I could, I don’t know what I would do about it, because he’s so wicked and because he has influence. It goes ill with anybody who crosses him.’

  ‘But why should he wish to do you harm?’

  ‘Well, there are two reasons. It was dead against his wishes that the hydro-electric plant was established way back the other side of Tigh-Osda – you’ll have noticed the hydro-electric plant when you were after passing the loch of Cóig Eich? – it’s a big ugly thing on the left of you along that road.’

  ‘Yes, I didn’t miss it, I must say!’

  ‘Och, well, you see, my man has a very good job there, so the old devil has his knife into him.’

  ‘But aren’t other men working there?’

  ‘Och, ay, but they’re away to Crioch or maybe Freagair and he has no hold over them. Besides, there’s the second reason I mentioned. You see, he once made me an offer of marriage, but I was already promised to my man, and, in any case, I would have been terrified to have married on such an old warlock. So we’re both in his bad books.’

  ‘And too obstinate to move away from his neighbourhood?’

  ‘You may say that. This house is my own, willed to me by my grandfather, who had it before me. What way would I let myself be driven off from what is mine?’

  ‘Quite, But isn’t it an awful bore to be without servants in a house of this size?’

  ‘Och, my man gives me a hand with the rough. He’s kind. And Kirsty will sit in when we both go out, although she takes good care to speir at me whether it will be both of us out before she’ll agree to come ben the house.’

  ‘Well, I’ll do the washing-up before I go to bed,’ said Laura, getting up. The conversation embarrassed her. There was something unreal about it.

  ‘You’ll do nothing of the kind! No guest of mine does a hand’s turn here. I would be mortified to my death!’ exclaimed Mrs Grant.

  ‘What kind of a place is Tannasgan?’ Laura asked.

  ‘It is an island in Loch na Gréine, and Cù Dubh, as the people call him, lives in the Big House, An Tigh Mór. He keeps a wee boat and visitors have to use a special signal and then he brings the boat over for them. You’ll see the same arrangement at other places just here and there about the Western Highlands.’

  ‘You say he brings the boat over. Hasn’t he servants, then? Can’t he get them, either?’

  ‘He has a couple, I believe, but he’s all on his own and I heard tell that most of the house is shut up. He brings the boat over himself to see whether he wants a visitor. He mortally offended some of the local folk when first he came, because they went to call on him and were refused. I believe nobody signals now except the tradespeople.’

  ‘Surely he doesn’t row over to take in the shopping?’

  ‘As to that, I would hardly know. I never go near the place if I can help it. Eh, but I’m glad to have company in the house this night!’

  ‘When do you expect your husband to get back?’

  ‘The Dear knows! He was for Inverness and then on to Edinburgh. That will be tomorrow. He doesn’t know whether he’ll need to go back and spend another night in Inverness, but I’ll be hearing.’

  She went on to give Laura a detailed description of the hardships of her own and her husband’s life owing to the evil machinations of the laird of Tannasgan. Laura listened without much interest. Her day at Gàradh, spent mostly in the open air, her journey and now the warmth of Mrs Grant’s fire and the heavy supper she had eaten, had made her sleepy. Her long limbs demanded a bed, and her general comment on the diatribe would have been that she thought the lady did protest too much.

  Mrs Grant’s tales of slights and petty tyrannies, of slanders and mischief-making were, however, apparently endless. She had an audience and was only too obviously prepared to make the most of it. It was two in the morning before the flow ceased and Mrs Grant proposed that they should retire for the night. She brought whisky and some brownish peat-stained water for a night-cap and then, when she had escorted Laura to her room, she said:

  ‘I’ll be bringing a can of hot water, so if you’ll just give me the key of your car I’ll get your luggage up to you.’

  ‘Oh, please don’t bother.’ said Laura. ‘I’ll get it myself.’

  ‘No, no! I couldn’t think of that. You just get yourself ready for bed and I’ll be along with it in two ticks.’

  Laura handed over the car keys. In two minutes the hot water came and, before she had finished washing, her suitcase was deposited at the door and Mrs Grant said goodnight, adding:

  ‘You’ll not need to mind the wean if you hear her crying. She’ll soon drop off again.’

  Thankfully Laura fell into bed. It was a very comfortable bed and she was asleep immediately. In the ordinary way she needed very little sleep, but on this particular morning she did not wake until eight. The rain was over and the sun was shining. She did not know whether to get up or whether there was any prospect of early tea, but this problem was soon solved, for her hostess came in with a tray. On it were a large cup of very strong tea, milk, sugar and her keys. Breakfast would in half an hour, she was told, and there was another can of hot water at the door.

  Breakfast was porridge, kippers and thick slices of bread and butter, reinforced by bapps, scones and a home-made sultana loaf. Laura did full justice to it, thanked her hostess and hoped that her man would soon be home. There was no sign of the child, but this did not disappoint Laura, who was no baby-worshipper. She left the house – it was called Coinneamh Lodge on the direction-sign which fronted the road, she noted – at just after ten o’clock. It was a twenty-mile journey to Freagair and, as was her habit, when she had garaged the car she glanced at her mileage record.

  Arithmetic w
as not Laura’s strong point, but her memory was excellent and she had checked her mileage at Gàradh. According to her reckoning, the car had done thirty-two miles more than it should have done.

  “Funny! So that’s why my keys didn’t come back until this morning!’ thought Laura. ‘Wonder where she went and what she wanted the car for? Dash it, she might have mentioned she was going to borrow it! I suppose her bringing it back was what woke me up this morning! Wonder whether the whisky was doped? I don’t usually sleep like that!’

  Chapter 3

  A Visit to An Tigh Mór

  ‘Now who be ye would cross Lochgyle,

  That dark and stormy water?’

  Sir Walter Scott

  « ^ »

  THE girl in the hotel reception office at Freagair smiled sympathetically when Laura explained that she had been held up by the bad weather. She added that she would require her room that night, provided that it was still vacant, as she proposed to explore the countryside before returning to Inverness.

  She was too early for lunch, so she bought herself a drink and, over that and a cigarette, she wrote a letter to Dame Beatrice describing her visit to Mrs Stewart at Gàradh and summarising her subsequent experiences.

  Lunch over, she left Freagair in the hired car (which seemed none the worse for its extra trip), in quest of a place where she could park it and go for a walk. Before she left the garage she checked her petrol and discovered that Mrs Grant must have had a supply at Coinneamh Lodge, for the tank contained more than it had held when Laura had checked it at Tigh-Osda before driving Mrs Grant home.

  ‘Oh, well, that’s something to her credit, and she certainly looked after me well. I wonder what on earth she was up to? Went back to Tigh-Osda to make sure their van was all right, knowing that I was at hand to look after the kid, perhaps? I suppose the rain had left off when she went. I wonder when she did go? At about six, I should think. She’d hardly drive in the dark. She can’t have had much sleep, anyway. Oh, well, she hasn’t damaged the bus and she’s given me lots of free petrol, so that’s all right’

  She left Freagair by the road to Uinneag and parked the small car on the grass verge of a little, noisy stream which was racing through a wooded glen. It seemed possible to follow the course of the stream and, even if it proved necessary to return the same way, Laura reflected, the scenery would not look the same, seen from the opposite direction.

  The grass verge soon ended, she discovered, and then the going became rough. Boulders, like passive grey sheep, were strewn all over the narrow valley and the birches grew so thickly that Laura welcomed the change when, some time later, she came out among pines. Here the little stream, still rippling, shouting and tumbling, wound freely, finding its way. Sometimes it narrowed between walls of rock, sometimes it broadened into shallow, brown, shining pools.

  The going, beside the shallows and pools, was much easier, and after about an hour Laura sat down beside one of the pools and took out a cigarette. The trees here were not birches and pines, but slightly stunted oaks growing less than five feet from the water.

  The opposite bank was similar to the one on which she was seated, but the glen had widened considerably and beyond a hill, on whose lower slopes the deciduous trees were clustered, rose the high peaks of mountains. A little farther on, when she resumed her walk, she could see, on the opposite bank, a rough stone wall dividing neighbouring policies, but on her side of the river there seemed to be no obstacles.

  In the next two or three miles the scenery changed again and the mountains altered their shape with the continual windings of the river. Laura found herself walking uncomfortably on shale, and on the opposite bank the pines reappeared, dwarfing the oaks and looking almost black against their greenery. Occasionally thick bushes on Laura’s side of the water hid the river from her view.

  At last she came out upon a path and in full view of the mountains. There was bracken beside the path, and here and there, as the path mounted, there was heather among the boulders. A long, bare ridge of solid rock ran from the path down to the river, which, by this time, was churning its narrow way in the gorge below. A solitary Scots pine with a writhing trunk on whose smoothness the sun shone, was the only tree Laura could see, and the shadow it cast was a long one.

  Laura glanced at her wristwatch. It was later than she had thought, but the sky was clear and she was thoroughly enjoying her walk. She made a mental note of the time and decided to give herself half an hour longer before she turned back. The path had been travelling steadily upwards for some time and she thought that the return journey would be speedier than the outward one.

  Before the half-hour was up, however, her luck changed and so did the weather. The path went steeply downhill instead of up, then, for no obvious reason, it petered out as soon as it reached a clump of birches on a little knoll above the river, which here, having left the gorge and the boulders behind, ran shallow and clear, with low banks of dry pebbles dividing it into channels.

  Beside the birch trees Laura paused to take stock. The sunshine had gone and a menacing little wind shivered in the delicate branches. The sky was ominously overcast and the river had lost all its colour. The mountains seemed suddenly nearer, and then down came the mist and blotted them out Then it began to pour with rain. Laura took what shelter she could from the birches, but their attenuated branches and light, small leaves offered almost no protection.

  ‘Oh, hell!’ she said aloud, and, as though the infernal archangel had heard her invocation and had decided to come to her aid, she saw, on the other side of the river, what she took to be a crofter’s cottage. Faith in the traditional hospitality of the Highlands made up her mind for her. She was opposite a part of the river where it was safe enough to cross. She decided to seek sanctuary.

  Still keeping within what little shelter she could get from birches, she chose the likeliest fording place, where a long spit of shingle-shale almost cut the river in two. Here she faced the full of the teeming rain, slithered on the stones and stepped out into the water. At its deepest it reached to her knees and she found it difficult to keep her footing, but she was almost immediately in the shallows and soon reached the opposite bank. It was higher than the one she had left, but, with the aid of another spit of shingle – a small one this time – and a low-growing bush, she mounted the bank and, head down against the elements, battled her way towards the croft.

  There was a stone wall to be surmounted, for there was no visible opening, and in climbing over this she tore her skirt. Then, when she approached the forlorn little dwelling, she saw that it was roofless. She saw something else, too. Because of the bends in the river she had not realised that she had almost reached the point at which it flowed into the loch, but there, in front of her, was not only the loch but a narrow road. What was more, as she came out on to the road through a gap in the stone wall which bounded the deserted croft, she saw that there was an island in the loch and against a black background of trees a big house on the island stood out eerily white.

  ‘Pity it’s on the island. I could have asked for shelter there,’ thought Laura, pausing before she stepped out along the road in the hope—forlorn, she supposed – of coming upon a clachan. Suddenly a man’s voice said, from just behind her:

  ‘If it might be for the laird you are wishing, it is known to me that it is necessary to you turning the sign at the side of the small quay. There is a boat at the laird.’

  Laura had not even seen the small quay. The man, a bearded figure in a stout anorak and fisherman’s waders, pointed out where it lay to the left, about forty yards from where he was standing.

  ‘Oh, thank you,’ said Laura. Before she could say any more, the idiosyncratic stranger, whose pleasure it appeared to be to converse in a direct and unwieldy translation from the Gaelic, had made for the small quay and was operating what Laura, following him, perceived to be a large lantern, half of green and half of red.

  ‘They’ll never see that from over there,’ said Laura, ‘unless
we light it, and I don’t see how we can do that in this rain. Besides…’

  ‘Is terrible this rain, but it is pleasant with me to ring the bell,’ said the stranger. He swung the lantern round so that it showed green towards the loch and red towards the road and then took up a tarpaulin, which was pegged down by four large stones, and disclosed a handbell. This he swung vigorously until its harsh clamour violated the air. He put it back, replaced the tarpaulin and the stones, touched his dripping tweed hat and scrambled back on to the road. Laura, as wet as though she had fallen into the loch, looked across the water and saw a boat putting out from the island.

  ‘Here’s hoping!’ she muttered, wriggling her feet in their squelching shoes. ‘Now for the sacred claims of the wayfarer!’

  At this the rain eased a little and, as the boat approached the quay, she could see that it was a stout coble pulled by one man. She stood at the end of the quay and the boatman, a huge, red-bearded brigand in oilskins and a sou’-wester, brought the boat round with the skill of long usage, reached over and gripped an iron ring.

  ‘If you’re for Tannasgan,’ he said, in a voice which matched his frame, ‘you had better get in.’

  Laura’s pulse quickened. It was a fantastic quirk on the part of Fate, she felt, to have brought her, in this roundabout fashion, to the lair of the ogre of An Tigh Mór. She stepped into the boat and, almost before she was seated, the boatman had released the ring, given a hearty push off from the side of the jetty, and was rowing, with short, powerful strokes, across the choppy water.

  There was a boat-house on the island. Here the bearded man tied up and handed Laura out. The house was a mere thirty yards away. The man took Laura’s wrist in a strong grasp and ran with her up to the front door, which was open.