The Hill of the Red Fox (17 page)

I switched on the radio and sat down on the bed. Somebody was playing a cinema organ, and I listened drowsily to the music. Although I felt terribly tired, the nervous tension had relaxed, and my mind was at peace. I had the satisfaction of knowing that I had accomplished everything I had set out to do. I had proved that Duncan Mòr was innocent of the theft at the Lodge, and I had got Major Cassell to set the police on the trail of Murdo Beaton. Before long the mystery of the Hill of the Red Fox would be cleared up and Murdo Beaton and his accomplices would get their just desserts.

I wondered what my mother would say when I told her of the part I had played, and I would remark to Aunt Evelyn, in a casual voice, “Of course, Major Cassell insisted that I stay at Achmore Lodge as his guest. I had a very nice room and the servants called me sir.” Or perhaps it would sound better if I said, “It’s nice to do things for yourself again after having servants running around all over the place.”

At any rate, Aunt Evelyn could not call me a bookworm any more. Nobody could say I had not had more than my share of adventure since I came to Skye.

I had started to take off my wellingtons when the music faded and there was silence. I thought there had been a breakdown, and I was just going to try to get another station when an announcer’s voice said:

“This is the BBC Home Service. This programme is being
interrupted
to broadcast the following special announcement from No. 10 Downing Street.

“Dr Ernst Reuter, Head of the Atomic Research Centre at
Marwell, has disappeared from his home. After consultations with the Cabinet, the Prime Minister has decided that the news should be made public immediately in order that the entire nation can be alerted in an attempt to locate the missing scientist.

“Dr Reuter is the third prominent atomic scientist to have
disappeared
within the course of the past six months. It is believed that the other two scientists have left the country and are now in the service of a foreign power.

“All ports and airfields are being watched and it is believed that Dr Reuter has not yet succeeded in leaving the country. Dr Reuter is forty-eight years of age, heavily built, and of medium height. He has black hair and a pale complexion. Some years ago his left leg was crushed in an accident, and he walks with a pronounced limp.

“It will be recalled that a few weeks ago Dr Reuter’s deputy, Mr Geoffrey Hunt, disappeared from …”

I never heard the rest of the announcement and I was hardly conscious of the strident notes of the cinema organ when it came back on the air. Dr Reuter’s deputy, Mr Geoffrey Hunt, I repeated soundlessly to myself. Mr Geoffrey Hunt!
Hunt! Hunt
at the Hill of the Red Fox.
Geoffrey Hunt
at the Hill of the Red Fox. So that was the meaning of the message. And like a silly bookworm I had thought of buried treasure! What a fool I had been.

My thoughts spun wildly.
It will be recalled that a few weeks ago Dr Reuter’s deputy, Mr Geoffrey Hunt, disappeared … now in the service of a foreign power …
The men in the dinghy rowing out to the coble. Two coming back.
Now in the service of a foreign power …
But how? Yes, yes, before the coble came back with one of the passengers missing … After it disappeared into the mist and rain across the Sound, Duncan Mòr had cocked his head on one side … That was it. The noise. The low humming noise. What would make a low humming noise. Not a ship. A ship would be seen. But what about a submarine. Of course! A submarine. It could rise up silently out of the depths, take a man aboard, and submerge again.
Now in the service of a foreign power …

Oddly enough the organ swung into the lilting refrain of the
Skye Boat Song, and the words of the song crept into my mind and persistently refused to be dislodged. “Speed bonnie boat like a bird on the wing: onward the sailors cry. Carry the lad that’s born to be king, over the sea to Skye.” The organist switched to a popular tune of the moment, and the solemn words of the special announcement came hammering back into my mind.

Dr Ernst Reuter, head of the atomic research centre at Marwell, has disappeared from his home. He has black hair and a pale complexion. Some years ago his left leg was crushed in an accident and he walks with a pronounced limp …

My head swam dizzily. Everything was suddenly frighteningly clear. I rushed across to the window and looked out. The chauffeur was leaning against the bonnet of the car, looking up at my window. His eyes were obscured by dark glasses, but I had only to look at his hands to recognize him at once. He was busy filing his nails.

Even before I ran to the door and tried it, I knew it would be locked.

I let go of the handle and leaned against the door. The door was locked and the window barred, and I had no doubt that the Lodge was well guarded. Blue Eyes, as Duncan Mòr called him, was
watching
my window, and for all I knew another guard lurked outside the door. I was trapped.

I thought of all the books I had read in which the hero, armed with a knife or a file, made a dramatic escape from a dungeon or a fortress room in a tower. It seemed simple enough, reading about such escapes in books, and I had never stopped to think if they were really possible. But I had no knife or file, and even if I had I doubt if I could have succeeded in bursting open the door. Only a miracle could get me out of Achmore Lodge alive, and in my dejected state of mind I could not believe in the existence of miracles.

The radio was blaring out a stirring marching song and I crossed the room and switched it off. Blue Eyes was still leaning against the car, filing his nails, his eyes fixed on the window. I thought of what he had done to the man with the scar and I could not repress a sudden shiver. Duncan Mòr had said it was dangerous to know too much, but I had never appreciated the dread reality of those words until now. I sat down on the bed and tried to think calmly.

A few minutes ago (or was it a few years?) I had been
congratulating
myself on my cleverness; even boasting of the things I would say to impress Aunt Evelyn on my return home. Would I ever be lucky enough to return home, or was I doomed to share the fate of the man with the scar? Terror seized me. I moved from the bed to the door, and from the door to the window, and back to the bed again; stumbling about in a blind panic and expecting at any moment to hear the dread sound of the key turning in the lock.

After a while, when nothing happened, I calmed down. I sat on the
edge of the bed again and tried to think clearly. What galled me most of all was the fact that I had walked blindly into a trap. I had sought the aid of the very man responsible for smuggling atomic scientists out of the country. I had told him everything I knew and he had solemnly assured me that the whole matter would be investigated. I squirmed at the thought of Major Cassell’s flattery, and the deference of the man, Slater. How they must have laughed to themselves!

It was the thought of the humiliation I had suffered that finally dispelled the panic I had known and made me reason calmly. Duncan Mòr was still free, even if he had taken to the hills. Once word reached him that I was missing, he was bound to do something about it. Perhaps he would break into Achmore Lodge and rescue me. It was a slender hope, but I seized upon it eagerly and my spirits rose.

Then doubts assailed me. How could I be sure that Duncan Mòr would guess I was imprisoned in the Lodge? Did he really suspect Major Cassell? I recalled what he had said about the futility of going to the police to accuse men with gold chains on their waistcoats. Perhaps that had been a veiled reference to Major Cassell. Certainly, the Major wore a slim gold chain across the front of his waistcoat, but so did many other men. My newly won confidence gradually ebbed away, to be replaced by a feeling of blank despair.

Who would know I was missing and guess that I was being held against my will? Murdo Beaton would spread the story that I had gone fishing off the rocks and had not returned. Everybody would think I had been drowned, and Duncan Mòr dare not come down from the hills because the police would be searching for him. No matter how desperate my plight, I could not depend on any help from outside.

My misery deepened. How would my mother manage on her own, when I was gone? And what agonies of remorse would poor Aunt Evelyn suffer, knowing that she alone was responsible for my holiday in Skye? She would never forgive herself. She would never be able to pick up one of my books again, or see a photograph of me, without thinking that she had sent me to my death.

I abandoned myself to self-pity. It was Aunt Evelyn’s fault; she had persuaded my mother, against her better judgment, to send me to
Skye. It was the fault of the man with the scar, he ought never to have placed me in danger by giving me the message. It was Duncan Mòr’s fault; if he was suspicious of Major Cassell he should have warned me. Everyone was to blame but me. All I wanted was my freedom; I had no desire to harm anyone, I told myself tearfully. Even Dr Reuter could go wherever he liked, if only they would let me out.

If I had carried on for long in that vein I would have broken down and cried like a baby, but my self-respect forced me to admit that I alone was responsible for my plight. I blushed at the shameful thoughts that had passed through my mind and decided I had been thinking too much. Hopeless or no, I would try to find a way out of the room. Any action, however futile, was better than dwelling hopelessly on my plight.

I got up and examined the door. It was hung on concealed hinges and built of stout wood and the lock was on the outside. I gripped the handle with both hands and strained with all my strength, but I could make no impression on the lock. It would take a
sledgehammer
to burst it open.

I pulled the chair to the window and climbed up on it. The
window
was set into a recess in the wall and crossed by heavy iron bars at intervals of about six inches. Even if I had a file, and managed to break the glass undetected, it would be the work of weeks filing through one of the bars.

The garage doors were open, and I could see a Land Rover parked inside, but there was no sign of the black saloon. It must have started up silently and left the Lodge. The back of the garage abutted the boundary wall of the Lodge and I noticed a small green door to the left of the garage. If only I could get out of the house and through that door I would be on to the moor.

I moved the chair away from the window and sat down once more on the bed, determined to plan a way of escape. Somehow or other, I had to get out of Achmore Lodge and rejoin Duncan Mòr. But whichever way my thoughts turned, and no matter how I schemed, I always came up short against the problem of the locked door and the barred window.

It was almost one o’clock when I heard footsteps approaching along the uncarpeted passage. I shrank back against the wall,
watching
the door fearfully. The lock must have been well oiled because I never heard the key turn. The door opened and Slater came in with a tray. I wondered how I could have laughed at his likeness to
Humpty-Dumpty
. I could see nothing funny about him now. His eyes were small and cold and there was a hard, vicious line to his mouth.

He put down the tray carefully on the table, and said, “The Major thinks it would be advisable for you to rest, so I trust you have no objection to taking lunch in your room.”

He spoke in the same deferential manner as before, and backed out of the room and closed the door behind him. After a moment, I heard footsteps retreating down the passage. I realized that my legs were shaking and I sat down unsteadily on the bed. They were playing with me, like a cat toying with a mouse, and it was more frightening than the direct violence I had anticipated.

After a while, I went over to the table and tried to eat. My mouth was dry and I had difficulty in swallowing. The appearance of Slater had strained my nerves to breaking point, crumbling my resolution and inducing a state of near panic. I fought down my swiftly rising fears and thought desperately.

If I were to take all my meals in the room, then at least the door was not locked all the time. In the brief moment it was open, lay my only chance of escape. Slater was almost bound to leave the key in the lock when he came into the room and I could easily dodge past him. I could slam the door and lock him in whilst he still had the tray in his hands. It was doubtful if his cries would be heard because the room was on the second floor and at the back of the house. Even if I gained the passage there still remained many hazards to overcome before I reached the safety of the moor, but at least it was better than passively awaiting my fate.

I determined to make my bid for freedom when he returned for the tray, but it was five o’clock before I heard the sound of footsteps in the passage again.

I sat at the foot of the bed close to the door, my muscles tensed for
action. Slater opened the door and moved into the room and I glanced swiftly over his shoulder, ready to take to my heels the moment he was past me. My heart sank. A tall, broad-shouldered man was standing outside the door, blocking my escape route. I realized dismally that he had probably accompanied Slater at lunch-time, but I had been too panic-stricken then to take my eyes off the manservant’s face.

Slater set down the tea tray and gathered up the lunch tray.

“Dinner will be served at seven, sir,” he said smoothly.

With an ironical bow, he made his way out of the room and the door closed behind him. I heard the faint click of the lock and there was a terrible finality in the sound. It marked the shattering of all my hopes.

I ate a tiny salmon sandwich and a cake and drank a cup of tea. There was nothing to do but wait, and I stood at the window
looking
down into the courtyard. The wind was rising steadily. I could hear it soughing round the house, and an oil drum outside the garage suddenly overturned and went careering across the
courtyard
. It crashed against the wall and the cap burst off and a thin stream of oil stained the ground.

Then the rain came. It came in a sudden deluge and in a matter of minutes pools had gathered across the paved floor of the courtyard. I could hear the water pouring down the pipes outside the window, and beating against the asbestos roof of the garage.

The noise of the wind and rain drowned the approach of the black saloon. It swept silently into the courtyard, swung round in a wide sweep, and the driver reversed into the garage I think it was Blue Eyes who climbed out of the driving seat and four men clambered out of the back. They dashed across to the house, leaving the garage doors wide open. The doors were hooked back to the walls of the garage, or they would have been torn off with the force of the wind.

Punctually at seven o’clock I heard the familiar footsteps in the passage and Slater came into the room with the dinner tray. The broad-shouldered guard leaned against the door jamb, and Slater picked up the other tray and left the room without a word.

I had no stomach for the food and I made no attempt to eat it. I wondered if the other man stayed on guard in the passage and I
tiptoed to the door and peered through the key-hole. I could not understand why I could see nothing, and it was only when I drew back from the door that I noticed the bright metal tip of the key. It had been left in the lock.

If there was no guard in the passage, and if only I could manage to extract the key, my way of escape was clear. My spirits soared, only to drop again as quickly. The solid expanse of the door lay between me and the key and I did not possess even a knife to try to poke it out of the keyhole.

I lay down on the bed and closed my eyes in a mood of hopeless resignation. If only I could go to sleep and wake up and find it had all been a bad dream. I rolled over on my side and pillowed my head in my arm. Something hard prodded me in the ribs and I sat up and felt the bed. There was nothing there. Then I remembered the
rabbit
snare in my pocket. I pulled it out and toyed with it, idly pushing the wooden peg through the wire noose of the snare.

It must have been fully five minutes before the idea struck me, but once it came I wasted no time. I leapt off the bed and ran to the door. I could hardly control my trembling fingers as I pulled the brass eyelet of the snare run to its fullest extent so that the wire was doubled. Then I gripped the wire between the thumb and forefinger of both hands and twisted it into a single thin rod about two inches long.

My heart was hammering madly as I bent over the lock and inserted the wire in the keyhole. I gave it a gentle, exploratory push and felt the key move back. I took out the wire and peered into the keyhole. The key had been pushed back a full quarter of an inch.

I got down on my knees and examined the base of the door. The floor of the bedroom was of bare polished wood and there was a narrow gap between the bottom of the door and the floor. It was sufficiently wide to enable the laying of a floor covering, and wide enough, I prayed, to permit the passage of the key.

I doubled the snare wire a second time, making four thicknesses of wire, and thrust it under the door. It was a tight squeeze, but I managed to pass it backwards and forwards under the door, and I was sure that the thicknesses of wire were fatter than the key.

There was now nothing to stop me poking the key out of the lock, and if I could hook it under the door I had only to unlock the door and step out into the passage. The temptation to get to work at once was almost too great to overcome, but I steeled myself to walk back to the bed.

It was too early in the evening to attempt an escape. Supposing Slater returned for the dinner tray and I met him and the guard in the passage? Supposing a man was always on guard in the passage? The latter was a risk that had to be taken, but it would be safer to wait and see if Slater returned for the key before attempting a break-out. I decided to give him until eleven o’clock before making a move, and I lay down on the bed and closed my eyes.

Sleep was out of the question, but at least with my eyes closed I could not see the door and be tempted to make an immediate move. The wind was approaching gale force and I heard the slates rattling as successive gusts made furious onslaughts on the house, and behind all the noise of the wind was the steady gurgle and flow of running water as it flooded off the roof into the drain-pipes.

I tried counting up to a thousand, and repeating all the history dates I knew from the Battle of Hastings onwards, and saying the alphabet backwards, and going through the multiplication tables, and saying to myself, when I look at my watch it will be ten o’clock; when I look at it again it will be a quarter past ten; but no matter what I did I could not speed the passing hours. From the time I discovered the rabbit snare in my pocket, I seemed to have lived another life, much longer than the one I had known up to then.