‘How do we get hold of Lloyds’ Register?’
‘We do not. I write to a friend of mine who sees a copy yearly upon publication. He is one of Lloyds’ underwriters and will thoroughly enjoy playing detective for us.’
‘And while he’s doing that?’
‘We return to Tannasgan and endeavour to track down and interview the Corries. There may be considerable importance in what they tell us.’
‘If they tell us anything. As I say, I don’t feel sanguine about getting them to talk, especially after the police have had a go at them – several goes, in fact, if I know the police. That reminds me! I’d better write to his grandparents and find out to what extent my son Hamish has wrecked the home and how soon they want to get rid of him. Gavin, bless his heart, is still happy with his barracuda and won’t be back in harness for another week.’
‘His grandparents will probably refuse to part with your son.’
‘What a hope! Anyway, you’ve now put me wise about Macbeth and his fabulous beasts. The very fact that I’d forgotten for the moment that the basilisk and the cockatrice are one and the same creature means that there are sister ships… the reference to the salamander, a lizard which is always connected with fire, means that a ship got burnt out… I say, do you really think so?’
‘It is only a theory and may be wildly wide of the mark. It gives us something to work on, that is all.’
Chapter 13
Story told by the Corries
‘Heard the rivulet rippling near him,
Talking to the darks tone forest.’
H. W. Longfellow
« ^ »
IRRATIONALLY to Laura’s surprise, the lantern and the bell on the mainland were answered at once. The boatman was Corrie, whom she had known previously only as a waiter at table. Also, to her astonishment, he spoke.
‘You’re welcome. Maybe you can speak up and save us all this anxiety.’
‘Right,’ said Laura. ‘All aboard!’ She handed Dame Beatrice (who needed no such assistance) into the broad-beamed rowing-boat. ‘And how’s the laird?’
‘He does well enough in his grave.’
‘Oh, come now! You know perfectly well that I was speaking of the one who calls himself Malcolm Donalbain Macbeth,’ said Laura, stepping into the boat.
‘He’s awa’ to Dingwall.’
‘Did he do it? Did he kill the laird?’
‘I dinna ken. Maybe he did, and maybe he did not.’
‘Fair enough. What is your own opinion?’
‘I have given it to you. What will be your business this time at An Tigh Mór?’
‘You’ll find out when we get there,’ said Laura, matching her tone to his. He dug the short oars into the calm waters of the loch and soon was tying up on the other side.
‘Come ben,’ he said, leading the way to the house.
‘Is your wife at home, Mr Corrie?’ asked Dame Beatrice, addressing him for the first time.
‘Ay.’ The front door was open. ‘She will be speaking to you in the dining-room. Mr Macbeth said to be always keeping a fire in the dining-room, for he didna ken when he would be coming back.’
He showed them into the dining-room and drew an armchair a little nearer to the fire for Dame Beatrice. She and Laura seated themselves and in a moment Mrs Corrie came in and stood between them and the enormous dining-table.
‘Well, well!’ she said, grimly smiling at Laura. ‘Such a to-do when the laird came down to breakfast and I had to report that you were missing.’
‘Yes, it was very ungrateful of me to sneak off like that after all his kindness – and yours. But I had to get back to Freagair, to my hotel, you know. I didn’t want to be reported to the police as a missing person,’ said Laura, improvising with some success. Mrs Corrie wagged her head in sympathetic agreement.
‘Police!’ she exclaimed. ‘We were swarming with them after they discovered the old laird’s body. Police all over the house and all over the policies. They rowed themselves about on the loch and they searched the wee inch with the trees on it – ay, and every nook and cranny on the other rocks that stands up out of the water.’
‘Ah, yes,’ said Dame Beatrice. ‘I wonder what they made of the statuary?’
‘They speired at us about that, but we could tell them nothing. My man had seen the strange beasties, but I had not. Those were here before our time, and that’s as much as we could say.’
‘Mr Corrie told us that Mr Macbeth had gone to Dingwall. Did the police take him there?’
‘No, no. He went of his own will to make a statement and to see a lawyer.’
‘And he went – when?’
‘Corrie took him across the loch the morn.’
‘Today?’
‘Ay.’
‘How much do you know about the death of Cù Dubh?’
‘Well, there’s mony a mickle mak’s a muckle, as they say. Things were adding up. There was the visit of the young laird.’
‘Not a chap who translates his sentences from the Gaelic into literal English?’ asked Laura.
‘That same. Dinna tell me you are acquainted with him!’
‘Considering that he was the man who got me on to Tannasgan in the first place, and that I saw him on Skye a day or so later, I think I may claim that I’ve met him.’
‘Deary me! Did it come to you that you should visit at An Tigh Mór, then?’
‘No, it most certainly did not. I was terribly wet and this man was near the little quay and insisted upon turning the lantern and ring the bell.’
‘Ay,’ said Corrie. ‘I heard it, but the laird insisted that himself should take the boat over. “I ken well who it is,” he said, “and I have a thing or two to say to him,” he said. “It is not he who is the heir to Tannasgan, but myself.” And with that he ordered me to the kitchen to help with the dinner, and himself rowed the boatie over the loch to bid the visitor come ben.’
‘He must have had a surprise when he saw me there,’ said Laura.
‘Surprise? You couldna surprise that one gin you were putting a charge of dynamite in his breeks! No, no, he was not surprised. Said he to me whiles you were to your bed and he was waiting on his dinner, “The poor-spirited clarty gowk! He sends a lassie to speak for him!” Those were his words, mistress, and that is what he thought.’
‘So the man who signalled for the boat was the laird’s son?’
‘Disinherited.’
‘And you think he killed his father?’
‘Him? No, no, mistress. He hasn’t it in him to kill anybody.’
‘What do you know of some people named Grant who live this side of the hydro-electric power station?’ asked Dame Beatrice.
‘Grant? Ay, Grant.’ He stopped to think. ‘Would that be the Grant who lives at Coinneamh Lodge?’
‘It would.’
‘Ay.’ He spent more time in thought. ‘I canna tell you anything about him.’
‘Can’t, or won’t?’ asked Laura.
‘I canna. Aiblins he killed the old laird; aiblins he didna. There was nae love lost between them.’
‘Oh? How do you know that?’
‘I dinna ken. It might be something I overheard. The old laird kenned something about Grant that was no to his credit.’
‘Such as?’
But Corrie shook his head.
‘Who fashioned those curious animals on the little island with the trees and the maze?’ asked Dame Beatrice.
‘The fabled beasties? I dinna ken. All I ken is that they used to travel.’
‘Travel? Travel where?’
‘To Leith.’
‘What for?’
‘For advertisement, so I was told.’
‘Who told you? The laird?’
‘Ay. I had to row them, two at a time it was mostly, across the loch to meet Grant from Coinneamh Lodge wi’ his motor van and tell him the wee shop in Leith was doing badly again and needed a window-dressing to attract customers. That was all. When I had handed over whichever of the beasties I had been given, I would walk in for the laird’s letters and then row myself back here.’