'Michael here lives on Lamb Island,' said the postmaster. 'He's by way of being a watch-dog to the Commander, and keeps unwelcome visitors at bay, you might say.'
He said this with the same knowing smile which she found so unpleasant, and she wished she could be away and out of it, back in the neat little bedroom at the Kilmore Arms, not here beside the sinister lake with these two strange men.
I'm afraid I can't give a message,' she said. 'It's a private matter. Perhaps it would be better if I wrote to Commander Barry from the hotel. He isn't expecting me, you see. It's all rather difficult.'
Her loss of composure was evident to the two men. She saw them exchange glances. Then the young man jerked his head at the postmaster and drew him aside, and they spoke together out of earshot. Her uneasiness increased.
The young man turned back to her. 'I tell you what I'll do,' and he was smiling now, but a shade too broadly. 'I'll run you over to the island in the boat, and the Commander shall decide for himself whether he wants to see you or not.'
'Oh no…' said Shelagh, backing away, 'not tonight. It's much too late. I'll come back in the morning, and you can run me across then.'
'It would be better to get it over with tonight,' said Michael.
Get it over with? What did he mean? A few months ago she had boasted to some friends after a first-night party that she had never been frightened of anything in her life, except drying-up. She was frightened now.
'They'll be waiting up for me at the hotel,' she said quickly. 'If I don't return soon Mr Doherty will get in touch with the police.'
'Don't fret yourself,' said the postmaster. 'I have a friend standing by up the road. He'll drive your car back to the Kilmore Arms and we'll make it all right between us with Tim Doherty.'
Before she could protest further they had seized her arms and were marching her between them down to the boat. It can't be true, she thought, it can't be happening, and a strangled sob escaped her, like that of a terrified child.
'Ah, sshh now,' said Michael, 'no one's going to touch a hair of your head. You said yourself it's a fine night. It's finer still on the water. You may see the fish jumping.'
He helped her into the boat and pushed her firmly on the stern seat. The postmaster remained on shore. That's better, she thought, at least there's only one of them.
'So long, Mr O'Reilly,' Michael called softly, starting the engine, then loosening the painter from the mooring-post.
'So long, Michael my boy,' called the postmaster.
The boat glided away from the reeds on to the open lough, the chug-chug of the little engine quiet, subdued. The postmaster waved his hand, then turned back and started walking up the shore towards the footpath.
The journey from mainland to island took barely five minutes, but seen from the lake the mainland appeared dark, remote, the hills in the distance an ominous smudge. The comforting lights of Ballyfane were out of sight. She had never felt so vulnerable, so alone. Michael said nothing until the boat drew in alongside a small landing-stage built out from the narrow shore. The trees clustered thickly to the water's edge. He tied up the boat, then held out his hand to her.
'Now then,' he said when he had helped her on to the landing-stage, 'the truth is that the Commander is away at a meeting the other side of the lough, but he should be back by midnight or thereabouts. I'll take you up to the house and the steward will look after you.'
The steward… The Ballyfane castle and the Georgian mansion had returned to the land of fantasy whence they had sprung, but steward had a mediaeval ring to it, Malvolio with a tapering staff, stone steps leading to an audience chamber. Wolf-hounds guarding doors. A faint measure of confidence returned to her.
Michael was not going to strangle her under the trees.
Surprisingly, the house was revealed after little more than a hundred yards, set in a clearing amidst the trees. A long, low, one-storied building, built surely of timber put up in sections, like pictures of relief hospitals erected by missionaries in jungles for sick natives. A verandah ran the whole length of it, and as Michael led her up the steps and paused before a door marked Galley Entrance a dog barked from within, not the deep-throated baying of a wolf-hound but shriller, sharper, and Michael laughed, turned to her and said, 'They don't need me as watchdog when Skip's around. She'd smell strangers twenty miles away.'
The door opened. A short, stocky, middle-aged man stood before them, dressed in the uniform of a naval steward.
'A small problem for you, Bob,' said Michael. 'The young lady here was wandering down by the lough just now in the darkness and all, and it appears she was enquiring off Mr O'Reilly for the Commander.'
The steward's face remained impassive, but his eyes travelled down from Shelagh's face to her clothes, and her jacket pockets in particular.
'There's nothing on her,' said Michael, 'and she must have left her handbag in the car beside the road. The young lady is staying up at the Arms, but we thought it best to bring her straight here. You never can tell.'
'Please come inside, miss,' said the steward to Shelagh, his voice courteous but firm. 'You're from England, I take it.'
'Yes,' she replied. 'I flew over to Dublin today, and drove straight here. My business with Commander Barry is a personal matter, and I don't want to discuss it with anyone else.'
'I see,' said the steward.
The little dog, a schipperke, with pricked ears and bright, intelligent eyes, was sniffing daintily at Shelagh's ankles.
'Would you give me your coat?' asked the steward.
A strange request. She was wearing a short tweed jacket and matching skirt. She handed over the jacket, and he examined the pockets and placed it over the back of the chair. Then-and this was disconcerting he ran his hands in a brisk professional way over her body, while Michael watched with interest.
'I don't know why you're doing this,' she said. 'You've hijacked me, not the other way round.'
'It's a way we have with visitors we don't know,' said the steward. 'It saves argument in the long run.' He jerked his head at Michael. 'You did right to bring the young lady along. I'll explain matters to the Commander when he returns.'
Michael grinned, winked at Shelagh, raised his hand in a mock salute and went out, shutting the door behind him.
'Will you come with me, please?' said the steward.
Reluctant to see the last of Michael, who seemed suddenly an ally, not a prospective rapist, Shelagh followed Bob the steward (not Malvolio after all) along a corridor to a room at the further end. The steward threw open the door and ushered her in.
'Cigarettes on the table by the fire,' he said. 'Ring the bell if there is anything you require. Would you care for coffee?'
'Please.' said Shelagh. If she was going to sit up all night coffee would help.
The room was spacious, comfortable, a blue carpet fitted wall-to-wall. A settee, a couple of deep armchairs, a large flat-topped desk near the window. Pictures of ships on the wall. A log-fire burning brightly in the hearth. The setting reminded her of something. She had seen some place like it in the past, reminding her of childhood days. Then she remembered. It was a duplicate of the captain's cabin in Excalibur, her father's cabin. Lay-out, furnishings, were identical. The familiar surroundings were uncanny, it was like stepping back into the past.
She wandered round the room, trying to take it in. She crossed to the window and drew aside the curtains, half-expecting to see the deck outside, and beyond, in the distance, other ships at anchor in Portsmouth harbour. There was no deck, though, no ships. Only the long verandah, the shrouded trees and the pathway to the lough, the silver water shining beneath the moon. The door opened once again, and the steward brought in coffee on a silver tray.