‘Yes. As I knew that this man was in the laird’s employ, I thought a bit of blackmail might get me what I was after. I was, as Mrs Gavin has pointed out, every kind of a fool to think I could dent the hide of a man like that.’
‘So what did you do, Mr Grant?’
‘I did my job in Edinburgh and then, in the evenings, I went on my motor-cycle to the edge of Loch na Gréine to see what the chances were of getting into An Tigh Mór.’
‘Not a difficult matter if you know what to do,’ said Laura.
‘Quite, Mrs Gavin. Well, I had no luck at all, to begin with. I turned the lantern; I rang the bell. Nothing doing, except that some old fellow cursed me across the water from the island bank and said that they were not expecting anybody and that I was to gang awa’. Which I did. But the following night was different. That would have been the night Mrs Gavin turned up.’
‘Yes, possibly, but you must have got there later than I did,’ said Laura. ‘You weren’t on the island when they brought me across to Tannasgan.’
‘In the rain?’
‘In the rain? I should say so!’
‘I left Edinburgh at five, when the Conference rose – perhaps Dame Beatrice remembers? – and rode straight up to Inverness and on to Freagair and Tannasgan. I had turned the lantern and clanged the bell when I realised that the boat was tied up at the jetty, so I parked my motorcycle and rowed myself across. Goodness knows why the boat was there. I suppose I pulled a fast one, taking it over like that, but I didn’t hear any shouting, so perhaps the guest didn’t turn up.’
‘And when you landed on the island?’ asked Dame Beatrice.
‘Yes, well, thereby hangs a tale.’
‘Aha!’ said Laura. ‘Give us a summary.’
‘That’s not so easy. I walked up to the house and reconnoitred. An old wife – well, not so old, really – came out of the door and speired at me to know what I wanted. I said I wished speech with the laird and, with that, she said I should call again on the morrow, as he always saw reporters the morn’s morn.’
‘How did she know you were a reporter?’ asked Laura.
‘I dinna ken.’ He grinned. ‘Maybe we carry the mark of the beast on us.’
‘Well, what happened then?’
‘It was then I heard the pipes. The sound came from a room, I think, which faced the loch.’
‘Was there a light in it?’
‘Never a light.’
‘At what time would that have been?’
‘Now, now, Mrs Gavin! You don’t catch me like that’
‘So you never encountered the laird?’
‘I did not. The only person I encountered, apart from the old wife, was yourself, when you were leaving.’
‘Then why do you deduce that, when the piping ceased, the laird died?’
‘It’s the only thing to believe.’
‘Is that so? I can’t see the connection.’
‘Can you not?’ His expression was enigmatic. ‘There is only one thing on which we ought to be agreed, Mrs Gavin. If I’m right, and the laird was murdered when the piping ceased, neither you nor I can have murdered the laird, can we? I seem to have said this before.’
‘There’s no proof about the piping, and there’s nothing to show that the laird was on Tannasgan that night. I certainly didn’t see anybody except the red-haired man, the servants and you.’
‘Well, well! As I say, I did not see the laird either, but what does that prove?’
‘I don’t know, but I’m going to find out,’ said Laura.
‘And we’re sticking together over all this?’
‘Time will show,’ said Dame Beatrice, before Laura could answer.
Chapter 10
Loch Na Gréine
‘Deep asleep, deep asleep,
Deep asleep it lies,
The still lake of Semmerwater
Under the still skies.’
Sir William Watson
« ^ »
‘AND what are we supposed to make of that tale?’ asked Laura, when young Grant had gone.
‘What are your own reactions?’ asked Dame Beatrice.
‘Those of Sherlock Holmes and the dog.’
‘Yes, I noticed that point. I suppose you would have been bound to hear the bell if he had rung for the boat to be brought over?’
‘Absolutely. It’s a fine big bell and rings out like the knell of doom and, whatever my shortcomings, I’m not hard of hearing. So the bell, like the dog, did nothing in the night. You know, we shall need to check that whole story with the Corries.’
‘You would regard them as reliable witnesses?’
‘I don’t really know. She struck me very favourable, but one can’t go by that. The point is whether their story fits young Grant’s and, if it doesn’t, we’ve got a platform from which to question him. Anyway, now that I know he’s a reporter, I shall give up suspecting him of being the murderer.’
‘Why should you do that? Did you not notice that there was another point on which his account of the evening differed from yours?’
‘Was there? Let’s see, now. Ah, I’ve got it! The piping. According to him – let’s see – he left Edinburgh at five, when the Conference rose, and went to Loch na Gréine on his motor-bike. It’s – good gracious me! – it’s a sheer stark impossibility!’
‘Did you not realise that, while he was talking?’
‘No, I didn’t I believe I was thinking of Inverness, not Edinburgh. So he actually had the crust to think he could persuade us that on two successive evenings he rode from Edinburgh at five and got to Lock na Gréine and across to Tannasgan before I left at about half-past ten. He must be crazy to think we’d swallow it.’
‘But you did swallow it,’ Dame Beatrice pointed out. She cackled harshly and Mrs Stewart, who had been a silent, interested listener while her fingers had been busy on the never-ending knitting of the Scotswoman, joined in with an appreciative chuckle.
Laura grinned and acknowledged the palpable hit, protesting, however, that she had spotted the lie about the time he had heard the piping and that when she had thought over young Grant’s story she would have seen the light about the journeys from Edinburgh.
‘What do you think happened, then?’ she asked.
‘He did ride to Loch na Gréine, that is certain,’ said Dame Beatrice. ‘My guess, for what it is worth, is that he spent the night somewhere en route and came to the island on the same night as you did. It will be interesting to find out why he told such an obvious lie, and we must interview the Corries, as you say.’
‘If the police have been questioning them—and they must have done so – they may not be in much of a mood to confide in us,’ said Laura. ‘Mrs Corrie was a sweet soul so far as I was concerned, but I wouldn’t put it past her to be very, very sticky if she felt like it. As for Corrie, I didn’t hear him utter a word. All he did was to bring in the dishes at dinner and collect up as we finished each course. He might have been a deaf mute for all that I could tell.’
‘Well, you assert, on no evidence at all (so far as I can see), that young Grant is not the murderer,’ said Dame Beatrice, ‘so who is your candidate? I gather you do not suspect the Corries?’
‘Well, I don’t know about him. And, somehow, I can’t see my eccentric red-beard in the rôle. What do you think?’
‘I have no idea, but I look forward to meeting him. Let us hope that he is still at An Tigh Mór.’
The following two days passed pleasantly and talk of the murder was shelved. Dame Beatrice sat on Mrs Stewart’s broad terrace above the rock gardens and gazed at the sea and the mass of Ben Caraid, or read Professor John Dover Wilson on What Happens in Hamlet. Laura was carted round the garden, again in remorseless and systematic fashion, by her hostess, and heard a great many more Latin names than she expected to be able to remember, but the sea and the mountains which surrounded the gardens were satisfying and soothing, and her hostess’s gentle voice and Edinburgh speech were music in the ears of one who had lived long in southern England.