Stormy Petrel (18 page)

It was reaction, I suppose, from the sleepless night, the unpleasant tensions of the recent interview in the cottage, and now this totally unexpected irruption into the scene. I wanted to laugh, and saw, suddenly, that the girls, clinging together on the jetty, were about to succumb to the same near-hysteria. I beckoned to them, controlling myself sharply, and when they came, introduced my brother.

‘Ann, Megan, this is my brother. Crispin, meet Ann Tracy and Megan Lloyd.'

That did it. If I had hoped that the semi-formal introduction would sober us up, I had not reckoned on my voice sounding exactly like the lecturer's voice Megan had so wickedly imitated on the broch island; and now it was accompanied, in a cruel counterpoint, by another spate of angry and idiomatic speech from Mr Bagshaw, every word of which carried clearly up the beach to where we stood. The girls did manage to take Crispin's hand and say something, then they both went off, helplessly, into peals of laughter.

‘His friend, he said . . .' That was Ann, wiping her eyes. ‘What d'you suppose he calls people he doesn't like?'

‘If we stay a bit longer,' quavered Megan, ‘we might learn.'

‘I would like,' said Crispin, ‘to know just what has been going on here? If you three idiots will stop laughing for a moment and tell me—'

‘Idiots, he called us,' wailed Ann. ‘So rude. And we've only just met. Oh, R-Rose –'

I took a hold of myself, and of Crispin's arm. ‘Come on, let's go in and get ourselves some coffee. Cris, I suppose you had breakfast on the boat? Well, I haven't had mine, and I don't suppose the girls have either. I haven't a clue what's going on now, but we can talk in the house. Come on.'

‘They're coming back,' said Megan.

She was at the window, opposite me where I sat at the table finishing my coffee. All four of us – myself, Crispin and the girls – had started by declaring that we could not possibly eat any breakfast, and we had all ended up at the table with mugs of coffee and a stack of toast and marmalade, with a jar of local honey on the side. Crispin had even produced a bag of fresh doughnuts which he had bought on the ferry, but we did jib at those, and put them aside ‘for afters'. No one said ‘After what?' but we all knew. There would be no peace on this peaceful island until its storm centre had been removed.

Which might be at any moment now.
Sea Otter
was still at the jetty, rubbing shoulders with
Stormy Petrel
, but the Customs launch had gone, not back to the mainland, but along the coast towards Halfway House and the broch island. The detective-constable had gone with it, and Neil, along with Ewen and the Customs officers. It was to be assumed that they had gone to look for the dumped duffel bag: I wondered if, having admitted to the major theft of the guns, and with the picture sitting behind the boathouse as witness of my story, Ewen would settle for cooperation as the most sensible course.

If so, they might not be gone long. It seemed that Mr Bagshaw was nursing the same hope; he was down at the jetty, talking volubly to an impasive Sergeant Fraser, with Archie McLaren as an apparently fascinated listener. I had hoped that the latter was waiting to take Hartley Bagshaw back with him, but from what Crispin had told us, it seemed that he was here on business, and had come to see Neil.

Over our non-breakfast we had exchanged news and stories. First of all, Crispin's injury: this was still painful, but mending normally, and though it would inconvenience him for some time, would not stop him getting around reasonably well, and the elbow crutch would allow him, he said, to use both hands for his camera. That being disposed of, we all – the girls and I – clamoured for an account of Mr Bagshaw, but Crispin refused to speak until we had filled him in on what Ann called the Great Moila Mystery, and the girls, who of course knew very little of what had been going on, supported him, so I told my story, and afterwards answered the questions they asked, while we drank coffee and munched toast, and watched the window for the return of the launch.

‘More coffee?' asked Ann, when question and answer ran at length to a standstill.

We all refused, and Megan, picking the pot up, looked a question at me. ‘What about Archie and Mr Bagshaw? Shall I make some more for them?'

‘Not until we've heard my brother's side of it. Cris, who is Mr Bagshaw, what is he? And did he tell you what he wanted with Neil Hamilton?'

‘And there did seem to be some connection between him and Ewen Mackay,' said Megan, reaching absently for a doughnut. ‘Wouldn't you say?'

‘They were friends, he said so,' said Ann, on a little bubble of laughter. ‘But somehow not very likely ones. I wonder where they met?'

‘I can guess,' I said, and Crispin cocked an eye at me. ‘Am I right? Prison? Or didn't he confide in you that far?'

‘Yes, it was, and oddly enough he did. There's something about coming through a disaster together that seems to lower the barriers, and he knew I was a doctor, of course. People get used to talking to us. He made no secret of the prison bit, in fact he seemed to want to go public on what had happened to him, so I'm not betraying a confidence. We travelled up together, and he did quite a lot of talking. He had just come out after doing two years, though he'd been innocent, he said, of any part in the fraud.'

‘Of course. But – fraud? Do you mean he was in Ewen Mackay's beastly racket, watching the obit columns and robbing lonely old women?'

‘No, no. He was one of the men caught up in the Prescott take-over scandal. You remember it? Three or four years ago.'

‘I can't say I do. I don't take much interest in City goings-on. Do you remember it?' This to the girls, who shook their heads.

‘It doesn't matter,' said Crispin. ‘Actually, I may say, I believe him. He told me a good deal about the Prescott affair, and when I said he was “caught up” in it I meant just that. He's a tough little chap, self-made, from a rough background – you can ignore the Guards tie – but I'm sure he's relatively honest, and it was partly bad luck and partly a rotten partner that landed him with a conviction. However. The point is – the reason he's here – he's a property developer, and when Ewen Mackay, who was due out at about the same time, told him that he knew Moila, and that an old lady had died there recently, and there might be a good property for sale, Bagshaw was interested, and apparently Mackay promised, for a cut, of course, to help him negotiate with the family. Made out that he was practically one of them himself.' He raised a brow at me.

I shook my head. ‘No connection,' I said, ‘and there's no family to negotiate with, apart from Neil, who doesn't need any persuading anyway. But it figures. Ewen had plans of his own, didn't he? Go on.'

‘Well, from what you've just told me, I gather that poor little Bagshaw was lined up as a victim even before Mackay got out of jail. Bagshaw arranged for Mackay to have funds to hire a boat and get up here to start things moving with the family . . . Which he certainly seems to have done.'

Megan said, forcibly for her: ‘You were right, Rose. Not Judas stuff at all . . . Do you see? It means that even when he was in jail he was watching the papers for someone else to cheat!'

‘Leopards,' said Ann, ‘probably wouldn't change their spots even if they could.'

‘I wonder how much Mr Bagshaw gave him for the boat hire?' said Megan. ‘And he even tried to make something out of that by taking the poor old
Stormy Petrel
.'

‘His mistake,' said Ann. ‘Go on, Crispin. So that's Mr Bagshaw's business with Neil Hamilton? He's going to buy the house?'

‘And Seal Island?' asked Megan, and looked distressed when my brother nodded.

‘He's already made an offer,' I told them. ‘At least, I suppose it was he. Through an agent. He must have set it in motion on Ewen's say-so while he was still in jail.' I told them what Neil had said.

Crispin nodded again. ‘Yes, it was Bagshaw. He's very keen. Apparently Mackay really sold him on it. I doubt if the house matters; he'd want something a good deal bigger, but of course there's plenty of room to build. It's the beaches and the island that are the attractions; you know the sort of thing, a marina and what he calls a big “leisure centre”, and a “luxury apartment block” with a golf course—'

‘Along the machair?' asked Megan, almost in a whisper.

‘If that's what it's called. The strip along the west coast. He showed me the map when we talked in the train. I did try to say something about the beauty of the islands and what this kind of development does to it, but it was no use. I know. It's grim. But what can one do?'

‘Surely, there must be something?' I said. ‘I know Neil's thinking of selling, and in fact he's granted the option, but I doubt if he'd want to see that kind of development here, and there might just be some way to stop it, and wait for a different offer?'

‘From what you've told us, I doubt it,' said my brother. ‘Bagshaw told me about the option, and I gather he's paying a very good price – more than this sort of property usually fetches nowadays. I've no idea how binding the agreement is, or what the details are, but as I said, he's still very keen. That's all I know.'

‘But if Mr Bagshaw's fury at Ewen Mackay was because Ewen had come up here on his own and couldn't resist a spot of easy pillage, perhaps he – Mr Bagshaw – is afraid that may have queered his pitch? It sounds as if it may not be all that binding,' I said hopefully. ‘I mean, if Ewen's a crook, and he's had something to do with the offer Mr Bagshaw made—'

‘We'll soon know,' said Megan, at the window. ‘They're coming back.'

I am not sure what I had expected to happen when the launched returned, but it was a relief to find that we were not to be confronted again with Ewen Mackay. He did not, in fact, reappear, but must have been below with the detective-constable. The launch came round neatly and reversed in beside
Sea Otter
, stern to the jetty, and Neil got out, then he and the sergeant made for the cottage.

Not before, predictably, they had been ambushed by Mr Bagshaw, who still apparently had a great deal to say, but the sergeant forged placidly through it, and came on up, with Bagshaw close beside and still talking. Neil stopped for a few moments' chat with Archie, then he, too, came up.

The sergeant was brief. The duffel bag had been recovered, he told us, and found to be full of small stuff, mostly silver, but with a few pieces of china and other objects of virtu wrapped in towels and various kitchen cloths, and the clock from the drawing-room mantelpiece. Apart from one vase, which was cracked, and the clock, which would never be the same again, nothing was damaged. The bag had been dumped into shallow water when Ewen's boat had slipped out of sight behind the rock stack, and had sunk gently to lie on a sandy bottom. And yes, they had found the portrait of Great-Uncle Fergus, propped just as I had said behind the boathouse, and yes, Mr Mackay had been helpful in the recovery of the duffel bag, and would now go back to the mainland to assist the police with their inquiries . . . And no, there was no need for any further search of
Stormy Petrel
. They were satisfied that Mr Mackay had nothing to do with any Customs offence, so the boat could remain here. He understood that Mr Bagshaw had in fact provided the money for the hire, so if he wished to use the boat he was free to do so.

Meanwhile, said Sergeant Fraser, suddenly human, he was sorry to have had to intrude on Miss Fenemore's holiday, and he hoped there would be no further trouble. Of course Mr – or was it Professor? – Hamilton would have to be called upon later, and statements would be taken from Miss Fenemore and the young ladies, but in the meantime he hoped that we would forget all about it and enjoy our holiday, and now he really must go . . .

I shook hands with him and murmured something, conscious again of that missed night's sleep, and of quite a lot of talking to get through before peace came back to the ivory tower. But, mercifully, Mr Bagshaw seemed content to keep quiet and let the sergeant go. From the fragments of speech I had overheard as the men came up to the cottage, I thought that he, Mr Bagshaw, had been eagerly trying to dissociate himself from Ewen Mackay's latest exploits, except as the innocent provider of
Stormy Petrel
, and was now only anxious to be allowed to sink into the background and see the Customs launch safely on its way.

Finally the sergeant took himself off. Neil went with him down to the jetty, stood for a few moments more talking, then the two men shook hands, and the policeman jumped aboard. The launch moved off, took a gentle curve out of the little bay, then, with a suddenly white wake, headed fast for open water and was lost to sight beyond the headland.

It was as if its disappearance had been a signal, as definite as the dropping of the curtain in a play. Drama and mystery were finished with; here was only a group of ordinary people who wanted to get on with their ordinary lives; who had been touched for a moment with the end of a live wire and shocked into unaccustomed and unpleasant action, then left to recover themselves and hope for the burns to heal.

Archie, with a muttered word, went down to the Land Rover and lugged Crispin's cases out of the back. Crispin, limping after him, lifted out the precious camera equipment himself. They took the things upstairs and into the bedroom I showed them. Megan was busily clearing the table, and Ann had vanished into the scullery, from which presently came the sound of washing-up and the smell of fresh coffee brewing. Mr Bagshaw, silent now and looking exhausted, had sunk into the chair recently vacated by Ewen Mackay, and was staring at the ashes of the fire. In the wrinkled clothes that had fitted him before the years in prison, he looked deflated and absurd, and, somehow, suddenly vulnerable.