‘Ginger bun, madam?’ said Mrs Murdoch, proffering a plate. ‘They’re ma own recipe too.’ And she winked. I took a cake but set my cup down. Nothing would ever change this little burgh, clearly, but I was off moonshine for a while.
‘What I still don’t understand,’ said the inspector, ‘is his motive.’
Alec studied the floor. I glanced at Donald, unsure of how much he knew, but all his attention was taken up listening to Randall retelling the tale for the dozenth time. Cad and Buttercup stared at me, their meaning quite plain: I was on my own.
‘Must you know his motive?’ I said. ‘There’s more evidence than you will ever need. We have the flask he left in Dudgeon’s pocket, and we have the bottle he took to the house in case the flask wasn’t drunk, not to mention the still. So why worry about motive?’
‘I’d be happier,’ said the inspector. ‘I know they were far from being pals, Willie and Rab, but it takes more than that.’
Inspiration struck me.
‘It went further than not being pals,’ I told him. ‘Willie Brown blamed Bobby Dudgeon for his son joining up. Young Bobby was a heavy influence on his friend by all accounts and the feeling is, very much, that if Bobby hadn’t volunteered, Billy wouldn’t have either. And then added to that, Joey – Miss Brown, you know – had got engaged to Bobby Dudgeon against her father’s wishes. And perhaps she’s determined to honour his memory, not to marry at all now. So it’s quite easy to see how, with enough brooding and enough grief clouding his mind, Brown could blame the Dudgeons for everything. Perhaps the Burry Man’s day was just the last straw – everyone cheering Robert Dudgeon on as though he were some kind of hero.’
The inspector nodded, reluctantly.
‘Be lucky to get murder on that, though,’ said the remaining sergeant, lugubriously. ‘It sounds… fevered like. The defence’ll go for manslaughter, unbalanced mind, diminished responsibility.’
‘You could be right,’ said the inspector. ‘And who’s to say it’s not true?’
The sergeant sighed.
‘Mind you,’ he added, ‘it would be a lot worse if young Bobby Dudgeon had come home.’
I tried not to look too astonished at this and I could see Alec trying to do the same.
‘How d’you mean, Sergeant?’ Alec said. It was the inspector who answered.
‘Well, if one son was lost and the other one was safe,’ he said, ‘a jury could easily understand the jealous grief of the one father making him hate the other. But seeing as Bobby Dudgeon fell too, you’d think Shinie could have found some compassion.’
‘Aye, sir, let’s look on the bright side,’ said the sergeant. ‘With both boys gone the same way, we might get murder and a hanging after all.’
The inspector looked suitably pained and Flaming Donald, catching these words as Randall paused for breath, seemed to decide that he had better get his boy out of earshot and home to his mother. The party, clearly, was breaking up.
I took no part in the general leave-taking, however, for the sergeant’s words had hit me like a brick. I was dimly aware of the inspector talking to Cad and Buttercup about their formal statement; I knew that Mrs Murdoch was pressing a basket of treats on Donald to take back to Chrissie Dudgeon; I could hear the vague rumbling of the sergeant scratching his head over how to divide the departing bodies amongst the remaining police motor cars, but essentially I was alone, lost in the middle of a shifting cloud of impossible but irresistible new ideas.
‘I tell you what, Sergeant,’ I said suddenly, grabbing my chance, ‘if it’s all right with his father, I’ll volunteer to take young Randall home. We couldn’t have done it without you, you know, Randall, and you deserve a treat. How do you fancy driving my motor car across the park?’
Randall’s eyes, naturally, lit up at the prospect and his father made no demur. Alec, I was aware, was watching me closely as I prepared to leave.
‘Straight home?’ he asked, with an unreadable look on his face.
‘We might take a scenic route,’ I said, and then I turned to Flaming Donald. ‘If that’s all right with you?’
‘The laddie’s as high as a kite anyway,’ he said. ‘It’ll make no odds.’
‘Splendid,’ I said. ‘I’ll just fetch Bunty.’
‘Is that your spotty dog?’ said Randall, for whom the journey was getting steadily more enticing. ‘It’s a braw big dog, eh no? I’ve seen it.’
Bunty was indeed ‘a braw big dog’ and I trusted that in the dark where no one could see her polka-dots and her lolling grin she might pass for a guard-dog. But first we had to get there. I held my breath and gripped the edge of my seat as my precious little Cowley lurched and banged over the turf in Randall’s eager but incompetent hands and I was heartily relieved when we arrived at the edge of the woods; it would have taken a much bigger idiot than me to let him steer it between the tree trunks, no matter the pleading.
‘Randall,’ I said, back in the driving seat, ‘do you want to come on an adventure?’ He nodded faintly, expecting a trick to cure him of his sulks, I think. ‘And can you keep a secret?’ He nodded with a little more enthusiasm. ‘I mean it. You have to keep it secret from all the grown-ups and especially from your brothers and sisters. Can you promise?’
He was enchanted by the prospect, so I finalized the deal.
‘Cross your heart and hope to die?’ I said.
‘An’ devil find me where I lie.’
We spat and shook.
‘Right then,’ I said. ‘Whereabouts are these holes?’
I drove under Randall’s direction for a minute or so, through the woods and towards the riverbank, until he told me to stop.
‘Ye cannae get any nearer in the car, missus, but I ken the way. Follow me.’
‘You’re not frightened, are you?’ I asked him as we began walking. It was almost completely dark now, and my conscience was thrumming about mixing him up in this.
‘Naw,’ he said scornfully, and he certainly did not look perturbed, striding out with his head up, holding Bunty’s lead proprietorially. ‘I’m no’ feart of the ghostie.’
‘Splendid,’ I said, wishing I could say as much for myself. I took a deep breath and put my shoulders back.
‘Here,’ said Randall, suddenly stopping. Either he had eyes like a cat from all the time he spent in these woods, or he knew the place by scent and sound like a Red Indian tracker, for it seemed pitch black around us now and yet he moved decisively and spoke with absolute conviction. There was a creak of wood and a cold draught which bore upon it the tarry smell of a coal hole.
‘Doon here,’ said Randall. ‘There’s a ladder, but it’s fallin’ to bits so yell need tae be right careful.’ Although I could not see him I could hear that his voice was lowering towards my feet. I crouched and groped, finding the shoulder of his jersey before he disappeared completely.
‘Stop,’ I said. ‘Get out. I’m going down on my own.’
‘But there’s miles of it,’ he said. ‘You’ll nivver find him.’
‘Miles of it?’ I echoed. ‘Miles of what?’
‘Tunnels mostly,’ he said simply, as though I should have known this. ‘And some caves.’
Finally it fell into place: the ‘shell’ holes, the smell of coal, the little cart and the tiny pony, and Cad’s description of the failed business ventures on his uncle’s estate.