The Hill of the Red Fox (9 page)

“Maybe I do,” he answered, and his eyes were steel hard when he said, “This is no idle ploy, Alasdair, mark that well. One man has died already. The less you know about this business the better for you. Myself will keep an eye open tonight, and you can see me on Monday.”

“Perhaps we should go to the police,” I said, knowing the truth of his words.

“Well, aye, we could go to the
polis
,” assented Duncan Mòr, “but I am not for the
polis
as long as Murdo Ruadh is in this. You see, Alasdair Beag, it is a habit in this place to steer clear of the
polis
where our own men are concerned. We kept our own law before the English brought their law to the Highlands, and it is the old law that will try Murdo Ruadh in the end.”

I told him of the aircraft that had crashed on Sgurr a’ Mhadaidh Ruaidh during the war, and how Murdo Beaton had been the first man to reach the scene of the crash. When I said that the aircraft could have been carrying bullion I got the impression that he was not really listening. His grey eyes had a faraway expression and he kept tapping his teeth with the stem of his pipe.

When he spoke, it was not of the aircraft at all.

“That number on the message,” he said slowly. “Think now. Are you sure that it was MI5?”

“Positive,” I said readily. “It was a capital M and a figure one and
a figure five.”

“All the same, I would like to be seeing it,” said Duncan Mòr. “Bring it over with you when you come on Monday.”

I said I would, and he walked with me as far as the dyke.

Before I left him, he said, “When you get back to Achmore, Alasdair, be sure to tell Murdo Ruadh you met me today.”

“But why?” I asked, surprised.

“Well, we have two foxes to deal with,” he said slowly. “One o’ them is the Hill of the Red Fox and the other is that long red fox at Achmore. A harmless enough
cratur
the fox, Alasdair, until it is cornered. Then it can be dangerous. So if the Red Fellow should think to turn on you, I doubt himself will think again when he knows you and I have had a crack together.”

I saw the look in Duncan Mòr’s steely grey eyes. It was a look that would have quelled stouter hearts than Murdo Beaton’s.

I was cheered and heartened by my meeting with Duncan Mòr, although I could not help feeling disappointed by his refusal to consider my suggestion about the crashed aircraft. I was certain he was holding something back from me, but it could be, I reflected, that he was unwilling to acknowledge the fact that I had stumbled upon the truth in case I unwittingly betrayed my knowledge to Murdo Beaton. He had told me it was dangerous to know too much, and if he had made no comment on the crashed aircraft it showed how close I was to the truth.

The
cailleach
was reading the
Oban Times
. She had spread the long sheets across the table and was peering at the print through a large magnifying glass. Mairi told me it was the only paper her father allowed in the house, and I wondered from whom he had obtained the
Daily Express
that had fallen from his pocket when I knocked his jacket off the bench. Perhaps Blue Eyes, as Duncan Mòr called him, had given it to him.

I helped Mairi to feed the hens, scattering handfuls of grain on the grass, and laughing at their frantic foraging. They would start up at each fresh handful of grain and rush towards it, leaving untouched the corn already spread on the grass.

“I saw Duncan Mòr today,” I said.

Mairi was about to cast a handful of grain, and she checked herself, her hand poised in mid-air still clutching the grain.

“Don’t be telling himself,” she said quickly.

“Why not?” I asked.

She let the grain trickle slowly to the ground between her slightly opened fingers, and picked another handful out of the pail before she replied.

“He doesn’t like Duncan Mòr,” she said slowly. “He wouldn’t be
pleased if he knew you were seeing him.”

“Do you like him?” I said.

“Who? Duncan Mòr?”

I nodded.

“Everybody likes Duncan Mòr,” she said guardedly.

“But do you like him?” I insisted.

She glanced back at the house.

“I like him better than anyone in Achmore,” she said fiercely.

The surprise must have shown on my face, because she went on, “You should have seen him last Hallowe’en at the guising. He was dressed up as an old
cailleach
. I saw him over at Hector MacLeod’s, and he made me laugh so much that I got the hiccups, and Roderick MacPherson dropped a cold key down my back to try and stop me hiccupping.”

“I’ll bet your father didn’t know you were there,” I said, “or the
cailleach
.”

She tossed her dark head, sending her pigtails whirling.

“I don’t care,” she said defiantly, “but, anyway, the
cailleach
wouldn’t tell him. She tells me all sorts of things that he doesn’t know about.”

“But she is his mother,” I stammered. “It … it doesn’t seem right.”

“Well, she doesn’t like him,” said Mairi flatly. “She is getting old right enough, and she talks to herself and she is deaf, but she doesn’t miss much for all that. She tells me stories of long ago. She told me Duncan Mòr was going to marry my mother until himself told a lot of lies and put an end to it, and that is why Duncan Mòr hates him.”

I could not understand Mairi. She had never seen a train or a railway station or a city street, but there were times when she spoke like a grown-up and seemed much older than I. She went down to the main road and bought the groceries off Lipton’s van, and worked at the peats and the potatoes, and fed the calves and herded the cows, and did many things that I could not have done. She had a small, serious face, and did not laugh easily, no matter how much I teased her. There was always a watchful look in her eyes, as if she were waiting to hear a footstep behind her,
so that she would be ready to shut the smile off her face and dart away to take up some workaday task.

Caileag suddenly appeared, sniffing at the scattered grain, and Mairi picked up the pail and darted off to the house. When I looked round, Murdo Beaton was standing in front of the cottage.

After tea, when Mairi and the
cailleach
were clearing the dishes, I said, “I was talking to Duncan Mòr today.”

I tried to speak casually but my voice sounded unnaturally loud. Mairi straightened up suddenly and dropped a cup. It smashed on the floor, and Murdo Beaton spoke to her sharply in Gaelic. I wondered if he had heard me, for he went on picking his teeth with a matchstick, his eyes on his mudstained tackety boots. At length, he laid the match on the table but his eyes were still on his boots.

“Well, well, so you were talking to Duncan Mòr, eh?” he said. “A great talker, Duncan Mòr MacDonald, but the MacDonalds had aye an active tongue in their heads. Look you at Duncan Mòr. He has the souming for six cows and their followers, and forty sheep and a horse forby. And what does he keep? I will tell you, boy. He keeps one old rag of a cross Ayrshire cow and a handful of sheep, the most o’ them cast ewes that should have been cleared long since.

“Mind you, the same fellow will not go hungry — not Duncan Mòr MacDonald. See you, there is many a way to turn a shilling in this world forby the honest way o’ the poor crofter struggling with his sheep and cattle and a few acres o’ barren soil. There is salmon in the river and the same salmon fetches big money in Portree. But whose salmon, boy? Aye, that iss the question. Whose salmon?”

His long index finger prodded me in the ribs.

“It iss Major Cassell’s salmon. Think of the poor Major paying a big rent for the Lodge and the fishing, and the bold Duncan Mòr creeping down to the falls on a dark night to net the pool. Some poor folk must spend all their days in labour, but not Duncan Mòr MacDonald. The big fellow can use his big tongue in idle gossip, and wait for the rain to make a flood on the river, so that he can net the Major’s salmon. Oh, a fine man, I grant you, with the smooth tongue of the MacDonalds on him and all their false pride. But
wait you, boy, if you are spared, you will see the day when Duncan Mòr MacDonald is humbled in the dust, even as it says in the Good Book.”

I had never before heard him say more than an odd word or two, and I realized that I must have touched him on the raw to have provoked such an outburst. He had started by speaking softly, but his voice rose steadily and the colour crept into his sallow cheeks. By the time he reached the last sentence, he spat it out with such concentrated venom that I became aware, for the first time, of the depth of the enmity between himself and Duncan Mòr.

“Well, I like him, anyway,” I said stubbornly.

Murdo Beaton’s hands gripped the chair between his legs, and I knew he was trying to control himself.

“I have warned you, boy,” he said flatly. “I will say no more.”

“Duncan Mòr was a friend of my father’s,” I persisted.

“There are good friends and bad,” was all he said.

He got up and pulled on his cap.

When he had reached the door, he turned and said, “You come and go as you please, boy, but tomorrow is the Sabbath and as long as I am in this house the Sabbath Day will be kept holy. See that you are in your bed early for the door closes in this house long before twelve o’clock on a Saturday night.”

And with that he was gone, leaving me wondering if there was any connection between the whispered words
midnight Saturday
and his insistence on my being indoors early. Not that it was really early, I had to admit. Indeed, it was far later than my normal bedtime at home, but nobody here went to bed early, young or old.

Mairi leaned across the table, her eyes wide.

“My, he was wild,” she whispered. “You are a daft beggar, Alasdair Cameron, after I told you not to say anything.”

But there was a new respect in her look, and for once I felt older than her and strangely proud.

I sat on the side of the bed, chewing the end of my pen, and trying to think of something to say to my mother. I had sent her a postcard after I arrived, but her first letter remained unanswered.

I wrote:

I wondered if I should tell her what he had told me about Murdo Beaton, and how he had secured the croft by a trick, but I decided against it. My mother would be worried and there was no knowing what she might do. It never even occurred to me to tell her about the mystery of the Hill of the Red Fox. I wondered if every boy felt like me. Here was I, writing to my mother, and keeping back all the things that really mattered. Was I so different from other boys, or did everybody behave like that? It was strange how you could love someone like your mother, and yet always keep a part of yourself locked away, so that it was easier to talk to Duncan Mòr than to her.

I went on:

There did not seem to be much more to add, so I signed it, “
Love Alasdair
.”

I read the letter through, and as I did not want to appear to be too happy away from them, I added, “
P.S. — I am missing you both.
”

I had taken off my sandals and was pulling off a stocking, when I remembered the whispered conversation I had overheard.
Midnight Saturday!
And Murdo Beaton had been insistent that I should be indoors early! Duncan Mòr had said that he would keep an eye open, but how could he possibly watch Murdo Beaton’s movements? I drew back the blankets and slipped into bed fully dressed. At least I could see what Murdo Beaton did. He had said that nobody left the house late on a Saturday night, so if he went out it must mean that he was keeping his midnight assignation.

There was a wind rising. It came in sudden, sharp gusts that shook the branches of the rowan trees, and I heard a wild flurry of leaves and then silence until the next gust came. From far down the croft came the harsh croak of a corncrake; on and on and on with never a break. It made my throat feel sore listening to it. It was like the steady drip of a tap; at first no more than a background noise but steadily thrusting its way into your consciousness to the exclusion of all else. I started to count, saying to myself, when I have counted sixty it will have stopped. I went on from sixty to a hundred, and then two hundred, but the steady croaking went on and on. I dozed off to sleep with the sound of it loud in my ears.

Had it not been for a dog’s angry barking, I would never have heard the door opening. The sound of the dog barking in the distance awakened me, and I struggled up in bed and glanced at my watch. It was half past eleven. At that moment, I heard the scrape of the front door as it was opened and pulled carefully shut again. I leapt out of bed and pulled on my wellingtons.

Tiptoeing across the room, I opened the door and eased my way into the lobby. I opened the front door a little and peered through
the crack. The sky had darkened but it was still clear enough to see to the bottom of the croft, and I saw the long figure of Murdo Beaton hurrying past the byre. I waited until the byre hid him from view, then I opened the door wide and stepped outside. A sudden gust of wind drove a spattering of rain into my face, and I stepped back and snatched my raincoat from the nail on the lobby wall. Closing the door quietly behind me, I ran down to the byre.

In the shelter of the byre, I struggled into my coat and watched Murdo Beaton. He was walking fast with his head down and he never once glanced back. When he disappeared over the dyke at the bottom of the croft, I ran after him.

I wondered what I would do if he suddenly turned back and I met him face to face, but I steadily put the thought from my mind and carried on. When I reached the dyke, I was panting hard, and I leaned against it and peered cautiously over the top.

I thought I had lost him, but then I made out his stooping figure cutting across the bog in the direction of Achmore Lodge. He was moving faster than I had realized, and I clambered over the dyke and ran after him, ready to fling myself flat at the first sign of him turning his head.

After I had covered a few hundred yards the ground sloped sharply to the burn, and I sprinted along, bent almost double. I was so intent on keeping my quarry within sight that I was careless of my footing, and I pitched forward heavily on my face. When I picked myself up again there was no sign of Murdo Beaton.

I moved on more cautiously, following the line of an old peat cutting, and I could hear the swift flowing waters of the burn before I spotted him again. He was on the other side of the burn, still moving rapidly in the direction of Achmore Lodge.

By good fortune I must have kept to his path because I reached the burn at a point where four large, flat stepping stones made its crossing a simple matter. Taking care to keep well down, I pressed on behind him.

Before he reached the Lodge he veered left and cut across the main road. By the time I had reached the road, I had lost sight of
him again and I stood for a moment not knowing which way to go. I plunged across the road and came on to a narrow winding track. I raced on and almost gave myself away when I rounded a bend, where the track dropped steeply, and saw him directly below me. I fell flat on my face in the wet bracken by the side of the track, and watched him carefully until he vanished around an outcropping of rock. I scrambled to my feet and followed him slowly.