From London Far (41 page)

‘But you can’t get on without a tradition,’ said Drummey, ‘and a tradition has to be embodied in these material things.’ He jerked a thumb towards the piled and ranked rows of pictures behind him. ‘Neff tried to steal it and keep it to himself. That’s what makes me mad – kind of ashamed to be an American.’ He sat frowning into air. And then his brow cleared.

‘Of course,’ he said slowly, ‘there’s this to it. It all came of you people over here – all of you, from the Tagus to the Volga – getting in a mess. You couldn’t help it, I dare say. But – well, you lost it and we brought it back.’

Meredith sighed. The flying-boat was dropping to a calm estuary and he was tired and well content. ‘Yes,’ he said; ‘there’s something in that. It isn’t easy to bring back even now. But it would have been a hundred times more difficult if you hadn’t come along… And what about Jean? Is she going to be restored to us too?’

Drummey appeared to consider. ‘Didn’t somebody say something about Neff being a dragon? And isn’t my craft bringing back the stolen treasure? You know what happens to the princess in stories like that.’

A long, melancholy wail rose, hung for a moment strident upon the ear, ebbed rapidly away. ‘Tibbie,’ cried Miss Dorcas Macleod, ‘can this possibly be the second Thursday of the month?’

‘Of course it is the second Thursday, Dorcas. And it is much to be hoped that Mrs Cameron has not forgotten the capers. She has been something disturbed since this distressing matter of Shamus. Pray hurry and welcome Captain Maxwell by the Seaway. I will meet you in the base-court, so that what we have in mind to show him we may go to at once.’

The throb of the
Oronsay
’s engine reverberated from the anchorage; sheep baahed and a dog barked; overhead the gulls screamed round a Flying Fox which hung, rusty and already derelict-seeming, above the ramparts. And Captain Maxwell, his formal salutation given from the bridge, stepped ashore and advanced with serious mien up the Seaway and past the grille to the precincts of Castle Moila. Miss Dorcas received him with hurried words, to which he listened with close attention, silent and unsurprised.

‘…So it would seem’, said Miss Dorcas, ‘that the blackest magic must be in question once more. We had been given to understand that her power would not extend over water, but now we fear that Mr Properjohn’s Foxes – which appear to have been out of order for some time – must have formed a fatal link.’

They walked to the base-court. ‘We connect it, too, with the visitors who were here a month ago. They disappeared most unaccountably, after telling a strange story of how we were virtually besieged. Tibbie will say little about them, but it is my opinion that they were trolls.’

Captain Maxwell looked at Miss Dorcas doubtfully. ‘I can’t be saying that the lassie looked to me just like a troll.’

‘But, Captain, have you ever seen a troll?’

‘That I have not.’

‘Then it is surely hardly possible for you to express an opinion.’ Miss Dorcas paused momentarily over this small logical triumph. ‘And what is more likely than that Patuffa should have commerce with trolls? At her great age she must be far advanced in her arts. And it was the lad Shamus, we fear, who was first brought under a spell – on the very day marked by the appearance of our uncanny visitants. At first our opinion was this – that Shamus must have had an experience.’

‘An experience?’ asked Captain Maxwell uncertainly.

‘A
religious
experience. He returned to the island much changed. Already we think that Patuffa had tried to ensnare him in that way. Some months ago – I do not know if we told you – a small statue was found in the Great Ditches. It was classical – indeed, it would be better to say pagan – in character; but whether a fawn or satyr I cannot tell. My Uncle Archibald, who was a virtuoso, and for long resided in–’

‘Aye,’ interrupted Captain Maxwell hastily, ‘I’ve heard tell o’ him many a time.’

‘And it seemed to us that Patuffa must have sent this object – which was indelicately posed – with the intention of subverting Shamus’ moral character and religious convictions. Now, of course, our speculation is confirmed. Having failed to wean him to paganism she has endeavoured, and we fear successfully, to convert him to popery – and by a similar resource. But here we are.’

They had arrived at a corner of the base-court, where Miss Isabella was already standing before a white marble figure which had been propped in the corner formed by a buttress and an ivy-covered wall. The representation was of a monkish person in an attitude of agonized piety, and anyone familiar with the art of the Counter-Reformation might have recognized it as the work of José de Mora. Captain Maxwell scrutinized it thoughtfully. ‘Aye,’ he said at length, ‘there’s no doubt that it’s in the spirit o’ them as is given to idolatry and false devotion. But we maun no’ be ower-critical o’ the lower forms o’ Christianity. Only a few days syne the Reverend Wooley was saying to me–’

‘And we have reason to believe’, said Miss Dorcas in a low voice, ‘that Shamus has been
praying
to it.’

Captain Maxwell shook his head. ‘Have I no’ always said’, he asked, ‘that ye hae but to take a Highlander outside the reformed Kirk and scratch him, and straightway ye come to a coarse Catholic creature underneath? Begging your pardon, Miss Macleod.’

The hereditary Captain of Castle Moila looked darkly at the writhing St Bruno. ‘It is now some generations’, she said, ‘since our family has embraced the Protestant faith in its Presbyterian branch. And, of course, all our retainers have done the same. For instance, there is Mrs Cameron. She has just completed a sampler of the great red dragon, having seven heads and ten horns. Naturally, she is very perturbed. And so I fear there is only one solution.’ Miss Isabella compressed her lips. ‘Our brother must act decisively. It is, of course, an unpleasant thing to happen in a family. But there is no help for it. Great-aunt Patuffa must be burned.’

‘Burned!’ exclaimed Captain Maxwell.

‘Certainly – and as soon as the necessary store of faggots can be collected. This may take a little time. For our countryside, as a visitor of some distinction remarked in the late age, is sadly deficient in timber. He is said to have been apprehensive lest we should steal his walking stick.’

Slowly Captain Maxwell drew a newspaper from his pocket. ‘Miss Macleod,’ he said, ‘there’s an auld proverb to the effect that it never rains but it pours. And I’m thinking that there’s been more dropping from the skies than your uncanny kins-woman could contrive. Do you ever see the
Oban Argus
? As a journal o’ opinion, it may be a wee bit more circumscribed than the
Scotsman
or
The Times
, but I’ve never had occasion to question the accuracy o’ its reporting. So be pleased to listen to this.’

Captain Maxwell drew a pair of steel-rimmed spectacles from his pocket, inserted them between his bushy eyebrows and abundant beard, and read with slow emphasis:

‘The death is reported, in obscure circumstances, of Mr Properjohn, senior, of Carron Lodge, Glen Carron. The deceased, who was an invalid of independent means residing with his nephew, Mr Amos Willoughby Properjohn, was found dead in bed on the morning of the 14th inst., having been crushed beneath the immense weight of a large marble statue which appears to have crashed with irresistible violence through the roof of the building. A fatality at once so mysterious and so awful has naturally aroused much speculation, but as no certain intelligence has yet been communicated by the investigating police we refrain from comment, and would at the same time warn our readers against giving any rash credit to the irresponsible conjectures of our sadly misnamed national Press.’

Captain Maxwell paused in his reading. ‘It’s no’ a bad one, that,’ he said. ‘But now listen to this:

‘Mr Nigel Fairbrother of the Scottish National Gallery, who chanced to be on holiday in the district, was called to Carron Lodge, and upon being shown into the dead man’s study was surprised to observe a painting by the celebrated Jan Vermeer of Delft which, he declared, was indubitably the property of the Duke of Horton. It is believed that any explanation of this curious circumstance must await the return of Mr Properjohn, jnr, who is absent upon business believed to be connected with the box-making industry. Mr Fairbrother then proceeded to the scene of the fatality, and was the first to notice that at the moment of his death the deceased had apparently been reading
Der Untergang des Abendlandes
of the German idealogue, Oswald Spengler. Mr Fairbrother then identified the statue. It proves to be by a well-known contemporary Yugoslavian sculptor, and is an allegorical group known as the
Europa Rediviva
, or Europe Restored.’

Captain Maxwell took off his spectacles and folded the paper. ‘What they ca’
The Decline of the West
,’ he said. ‘And then
Europa Rediviva
. Now, would ye no’ be thinking there was some inwardness in that?’ He shook his head. ‘Awfu’ times, Miss Macleod. Dances on Larra, and a Judgement in Glen Carron. Awfu’ times, indeed.’

(Both Series & ‘Stand-alone’ Titles)

Published by House of Stratus

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