The Hill of the Red Fox (16 page)

“Right,” said Duncan Mòr, meekly closing the door behind him.

I was stunned by the suddenness of the blow, and Duncan Mòr’s resigned acceptance of it. I had expected him to rage and storm; indeed, it would not have surprised me if he had leapt on the policeman and overpowered him, but I never thought he would submit without a struggle. I looked at the policeman and wondered
if I should tell him my story. But what was the use? I had no
evidence
, and he would think I was lying to help Duncan Mòr.

The policeman lit a cigarette and paced up and down the room. He was a young man with a red face and cold blue eyes, and I did not like the evident swagger in his walk.

He caught my eyes on him, and said, “Are you his son?”

“No, I’m staying here on holiday,” I said.

“Where are you from?”

“London.”

“Where did you hurt your knee?” he asked.

“Down the road,” I said evasively.

“Down at the pool more likely,” he retorted. “If your parents had any sense they’d have kept you in London. There is no respect for the law here. People think they can do as they please, and I can see you’ll be getting as bad as them.”

I looked down at the floor and saw the coloured label of a tobacco wrapper. It was lying in front of the bedroom door and it started to drift across the floor. The policeman saw it too, but he went on
pacing
up and down the room. It has always pleased me that I realized what had happened before he did. He crossed the floor twice before the meaning of the moving paper became clear to him.

When he rushed across the room and flung open the bedroom door, I was only a few paces behind him. The bedroom window was wide open and the curtains were billowing back from the wall.

The room was empty. Duncan Mòr had vanished.

The policeman never moved for a full minute. He seemed to be rooted to the spot, and his red face had turned a deep crimson. I drew back a pace, when he wheeled round, and he glowered at me.

“It’s the handcuffs for MacDonald when I get him,” he snapped.

I did not say anything, and he dashed out of the room leaving the door wide open behind him. I closed the door and went into the bedroom. I leaned out of the window and saw the light of the
policeman’s
torch as he searched the byre and the stackyard. The rain had stopped and the sky was lightening in the east. I saw the policeman go up the river bank to the ruins of an old black house, and I saw his torch flashing as he circled back to the track beyond the dyke.

I heard the door of his car slam and the whirr of the starter. The engine throbbed into life and his headlights lanced the darkness. I saw the car move slowly along the rough track and turn right at the main road. It was hidden from view where the road dipped sharply to the bridge, and although I watched for a long time I never saw it climb out of the hollow. I guessed that the policeman had stopped and switched out the lights. He would be making his way back on foot to watch the house in case Duncan Mòr returned.

I closed the bedroom window and went out to the byre to look for Glen. The byre door was open and although I whistled and shouted, the dog never came. He must have gone off after his master.

I returned to the kitchen and sat in the chair and looked around the room. It was strange to be sitting there without Duncan Mòr on the other side of the fire, but all the things he prized most were around me. It was a bare, untidy sort of room, and Aunt Evelyn would have said that it was full of lumber, but I loved it because it was such a man’s room.

Duncan Mòr’s split cane rod lay along the back of the bench,
and his twelve bore shotgun was propped up in a corner, its
well-oiled
barrel gleaming in the light. There was a small table under the window and it was littered with snaring wire and dozens of brass eyelets, tins of fishing hooks, two screw-drivers and a pair of pliers, a pair of binoculars and several volumes of Admiralty Charts in their faded blue covers.

There was a pail of sheep dip at one end of the bench and a pair of white rubber thigh boots propped up against the other end. Two long shepherd’s crooks, with ornamental handles that Duncan Mòr had carved himself, stood in the corner by the door, and several boxes of cartridges lay along the dresser top. A calendar from a seed merchant in Greenock hung on the wall above the bench, and on the opposite wall was a photograph of the crew of the
Empire Rose
with my father in the centre. Catalogues and price lists for seed oats, potatoes, fertilizers, feeding-stuffs, fishing tackle, farming implements and oilskin coats were scattered everywhere. It was not a room I could ever be lonely in.

I remembered how he had told me he never let the fire go out, and I went outside to the peat stack and selected two damp peats from the top of the stack. I flattened them down on top of the red peats, and pulled the old easy-chair closer to the fire. I turned out the lamp and curled up in the chair and shut my eyes.

Something dug into my back and I felt round the chair and pulled out a pointed wooden peg. There was a length of wire attached to it and I felt the eyelet at the other end of the wire making a noose. It was a rabbit snare. I thrust it into my pocket and closed my eyes again.

It is strange how your body can be dog-tired and yet your mind remains alert and active. All the events of the day flashed before my eyes in a series of vivid pictures. The climax could not be long delayed. Sooner or later we would have to come out into the open against Murdo Beaton, and the sooner the better if Duncan Mòr was to be cleared of the charge hanging over him.

I marvelled at the cunning of Murdo Beaton. He had tried to kill me, and he intended having Duncan Mòr imprisoned to get him out
of the way. Duncan Mòr was afraid the police would never believe him, and certainly they would never listen to him so long as they believed he was guilty of theft from the Lodge. I would have to tell my story to Major Cassell. No matter how strongly he felt about poachers, he was bound to acknowledge Duncan Mòr’s innocence when I explained everything to him. I would go to the Lodge first thing in the morning. Once Major Cassell heard my story, it would not be long before the secret of the Hill of the Red Fox was
uncovered
, and Murdo Beaton was safely behind bars.

With that reassuring thought in my mind, I drifted off to sleep.

I was stiff and cold when I awoke and I had cramp in my right leg and arm. The fire had gone out. That worried me more than my own discomfort. It was the first time the fire had gone out since Duncan Mòr came home from sea. The crofter’s fire never goes out, that was what he had told me, and there was something splendid about it, something heartwarming and stirring. The dead peats in the black hearth looked like a bad omen, but I laughed at myself. Mairi would say I was being as superstitious as the
cailleach
.

There was a pail of water in the scullery and I poured some into the basin and hurriedly swilled my face. The fire would have to wait until I got back from the Lodge. With a last glance at the cold hearth, I left the house.

At close quarters Achmore Lodge was much bigger than I had imagined. It was built of grey stone but the bleakness of the stone was lightened by the creeper-covered walls. Three wide stone steps led up to a large square porch, and I climbed the steps and stood outside the door. There was an old-fashioned brass bell-pull by the side of the door and, after a moment’s hesitation, I reached up and pulled it. I heard the ting-a-ling-ling of the bell echoing inside the house, and felt suddenly nervous and unsure of myself.

The door was opened by a large, egg-shaped man. His head, which was completely bald, looked like the highly polished top of an egg. He looked at me curiously and I tried to tear my eyes away from his bald head.

I gulped, and said, “I want to see Major Cassell, please.”

“Major Cassell hasn’t breakfasted yet,” said the man at the door, “but if you will leave a message I’ll see that he gets it.”

“I … I can’t leave a message,” I stammered. “I must see him. It’s terribly important.” The man did not seem impressed, and I added desperately, “It’s a matter of life and death.”

“What’s your name?” he said grudgingly.

“Alasdair Cameron,” I said eagerly. “I don’t suppose Major Cassell has heard of me, but you can tell him I’m staying with Murdo Beaton at Achmore. He knows Murdo Beaton.”

“Come in,” said the man.

I followed him into a large hall, smelling of polished oak, and he told me to wait. He was back again in a few moments, moving silently on the thickly carpeted floor.

“The Major will see you now,” he said.

I followed him across the hall and along a passage that branched off to the left. He opened a door on the right and stood aside to let me enter.

“Master Alasdair Cameron, Major,” he announced.

I had never before been ushered into a room with such awesome formality, and I walked slowly across the thick pile of the carpet, acutely conscious of my mud-stained wellingtons and bedraggled appearance.

A man rose from a chair by the fire and advanced to meet me. He was a short, stocky man with a fine head of snow-white hair and a neatly trimmed white moustache. His face was pink and shining, and he looked as if he had been scrubbed with carbolic soap.

“How do you do, Alasdair,” he said, smiling. “Heard a great deal about you. Means a lot. Beaton’s not a talkative chap, y’ know.”

He spoke in short, clipped sentences, firing out the words in staccato bursts.

I took his extended hand and he shook hands the way he spoke, firmly and briefly. He guided me to a chair and sat down again himself.

Now that the moment had come, I did not know where to start.
Major Cassell regarded his neatly manicured nails, and I noted with satisfaction the thin chain of gold hanging across the brown tweed of his waistcoat.

“Murdo Beaton’s up to no good,” I blurted out at last. “I saw him with all the money and he stole the message from me that I got from the man with the scar who jumped off the train.”

“Good gracious!” exclaimed the Major. “What’s this? Trouble? Never do on an empty stomach.” He smiled broadly. “Refuse to listen to you, my boy. Not until I’ve had my breakfast. Bad for the digestion. Have you had yours? I’ll bet not. Suppose you rushed straight to me, eh?”

“I came straight here,” I admitted, “and … and I’m jolly hungry.”

“Good oh,” he smiled. “Food first. Business second.”

He rang the bell and told the manservant that I would be
breakfasting
with him.

We had porridge and cream, and bacon and egg and sausage, and lots of thickly buttered toast, and I drank three cups of tea. Major Cassell chatted pleasantly about birds and their habits, and I remembered Duncan Mòr had told me he was a naturalist.

The window overlooked the drive, and I could see through the wrought-iron gates of the Lodge to the main road. On a hillock, beyond the main road, I saw the squat shape of a tinker’s tent. There was a cart alongside the tent and a horse was grazing nearby.

“See you’re looking at the tinks,” said Major Cassell. “They set up camp last night. Give the beggars ‘til tomorrow night. Not away by then, I’ll have the police on their tail. Tinks and poachers. Can’t stand ‘em. Make my blood boil.”

When we had finished breakfast, he settled back in his chair with a cigarette, but he waited until the manservant had cleared the table before he spoke.

“Now, my boy,” he said. “What’s the trouble? Must say I’m interested. Know Beaton pretty well. Always thought he was more dependable than most of the locals. However, go on. Doesn’t do to make prior judgments.”

I told him everything that had happened to me right up to the
attempted arrest of Duncan Mòr. He listened attentively, firing a question here and there, but for the most part sitting in silence.

“So you see,” I concluded, “Duncan Mòr didn’t steal your money. It was Murdo Beaton.”

“Yes, I see that,” he said thoughtfully. “Man’s an absolute
scoundrel
. Unprincipled.”

“Was he with you in the library on Tuesday night?” I asked.

“Who? Beaton?”

“Yes,” I said.

Major Cassell nodded. “Wanted him to ghillie for a party. Good ghillie. Pity. Never thought the man was a rogue.”

“So there was nothing to stop him slipping into your study,” I declared triumphantly.

“Easy enough,” said the Major. “The desk was open. Money lying there.”

“What about the Hill of the Red Fox?” I said. “What are you going to do about it?”

The Major blinked suddenly and said, “What was that? Didn’t catch you, my boy. Thinking hard. Bad business this, y’ know.”

“What are you going to do about the Hill of the Red Fox?” I repeated. “And the man who disappeared that night in the Sound?”

“Going to do plenty,” he snapped. “Must investigate the whole matter. Police job. Need to be careful Beaton isn’t put on his guard. Don’t want his accomplices to get off scot free. Hope you haven’t let word slip to anyone, my boy.”

“Nobody knows anything about it,” I said eagerly, “except Duncan Mòr and myself, and he won’t breathe a word to anyone. And I didn’t even mention it when I was writing home.”

“Very wise,” he said approvingly. “Never know who might see the letters. Safer to say nothing.”

I was about to speak when the door opened and a man came into the room. He was short and fat with an untidy mop of black hair and a pale face. But it was his limp I noticed most. He dragged his left leg along behind him in a sort of swinging movement from the hip.

The man was half-way across the room before he noticed me,
and he stopped short and glanced at Major Cassell. The Major rose quickly and put an arm around the limping man’s shoulder and steered him to the door.

“My dear fellow, I shan’t be two minutes,” I heard him say before he closed the door behind him.

He did not sit down again, but stood in front of the fire looking down thoughtfully at me.

“Feel a certain responsibility for you, Alasdair,” he said at length. “Think you had better stay at the Lodge. Safer. Never know what Beaton might get up to. Besides, you look awfully tired. Good sleep is what you’re needing. Plenty of rest.”

“I am tired,” I admitted. “I didn’t get much sleep last night.”

Major Cassell rang the bell, and the man with the egg-shaped head glided silently into the room.

“Master Cameron is staying with us, Slater,” said the Major. “Put him in the special guest room. And, Slater, see that he has everything he wants. By jove, he’s an honoured guest. Understand?”

“Perfectly, sir,” said the manservant.

I stammered my thanks, but Major Cassell laughingly refused to listen and pushed me out of the room.

I followed the man Slater up two flights of stairs and along a narrow, uncarpeted passage. He unlocked a door and stepped aside to allow me to enter the room. He hovered for a moment in the doorway, and I thought he looked like Humpty-Dumpty, and tried to keep a straight face.

“Is there anything you require, sir?” he asked, his head bent
forward
and a little to one side in a deferential manner.

I noticed that he had become much more respectful since I had been invited to stay at the Lodge, and I wished that Aunt Evelyn had been there to hear him.

“No, thanks,” I said, and he withdrew silently, and closed the door behind him.

It was a small room with a high barred window and I supposed it must have been originally part of the nursery. But it was cheerful enough. There was an electric fire, a comfortable chair and a
bedside
table stacked with books and magazines. A portable radio stood on a corner shelf at the head of the bed, and the floor was so highly polished that the sheepskin rug by the bedside skidded away from under my feet when I crossed the room.

The window overlooked a courtyard at the back of the house and by standing on tiptoe I could see as far as the garage. A black saloon car was parked in front of the garage and a man in a chauffeur’s
uniform
was busy polishing the windscreen.