The Crow Road (54 page)

‘Oh, yes.’ She looked surprised. ‘Fergus’ll see them on Friday, won’t he?’

‘Well, they’re in storage in the cellar,’ I said. ‘I haven’t actually seen them. They’re in the inventory. I took a note of them. But I thought if he did want to look at them, maybe I could look them out in time for Friday.’

‘Oh.’ Mum shrugged, tipped oil from a bottle onto the brown-stained cloth. ‘Okay, then. Say hello from me.’

‘Yeah,’ I said. I closed the door.

I walked away thinking I should have said more, should have said ... well, the conventional things you tell people when you’re going in fear of your life. But I couldn’t think of a way to say them that wouldn’t sound ridiculous and melodramatic. I’d closed off the letter I’d left in the desk with quite enough of that sort of thing, I thought.

I took the Golf out of Lochgair, along the Gallanach road. The Bowie knife was an uncomfortable lump down and across the small of my back, its wood and brass handle cold on my back at first, then warming.

I stopped and made a phone call in Lochgilphead.

‘Mr Blawke, sorry to trouble you at home -’

Ostensibly I was just checking out whether it was all right for me to mention the Lalique to Fergus, before the expensive French glass-ware was included in any auction, but really I was making sure the lawyer Blawke knew where I was going.

It wasn’t until I was at the foot of the castle driveway that I realised all this time I’d just been assuming Fergus would be there. As I hesitated, hands shaking on the wheel, it occurred to me there was probably a good chance he wasn’t. I hadn’t checked, after all, and Fergus frequently went away for the weekend; maybe he wasn’t at the castle. Relief coursed through me, along with an annoying current of shame that I felt so relieved.

I took the Golf up the drive.

The gravel circle in front of the castle held five cars, including Fergus’s Range Rover. ‘Oh God,’ I said to myself.

I parked the Golf behind a Bristol Brigand which sat half on the gravel and half on the grass. I walked up to the doors and rang the bell.

‘Prentice!’ Mrs McSpadden roared. ‘Happy New Year to you.’

‘Happy New Year,’ I said, realising only then that I hadn’t seen Mrs McS since the turn of the year. I was permitted to kiss the formidable ramparts of one of Mrs McS’s cheeks. ‘Is Uncle Fergus in?’ I asked.
Say,
No, I thought,
Say,
No!

‘Aye, he is that,’ she said, letting me into the castle. ‘I think they’re playing billiards. I’ll take you up.’ She stood aside to let me into the entrance hall with its glassy-eyed audience of stags’ heads.

‘Actually, it’s sort of personal,’ I said, smiling faintly, aware I was blinking a lot.

Mrs McS looked at me oddly. ‘Is that a fact? Well, then, would you wait in the library?’

‘Ah ... all right,’ I said.

We walked through the hall. ‘Isn’t this Gulf thing terrible?’ Mrs McSpadden shouted, as if trying to be heard there. I agreed it was terrible. She showed me into the library, on the other side of the lower hall from the kitchen entrance. I stood in there nervously, trying to breathe normally, letting my gaze flick over the ranked rows of impressive, dark leather spines. I wished my own was half so noble and upright. The room smelled of leather and old, musty paper. I went to look out one of the room’s two small windows, at the garden and the wood beyond. I adjusted the knife down the back of my jeans so that I could get at it easily.

‘Prentice?’ Fergus Urvill said, entering the library. He closed the door behind him. He was dressed in tweed britches and a Pringle jumper over a checked country shirt, with thick socks and brogues. He brushed some grey-black hair away from his face. His jowls flexed as he smiled at me, lifting a little from the collar of his shirt.

I cleared my throat.

Fergus stood there, his arms folded. After a moment he said, ‘What can I do for you, young man?’

I moved from the window to the large wooden table that filled the centre of the room, and put my hands lightly on its surface to stop them shaking. A seat back pressed into my thighs.

‘Fergus ...’ I began. ‘I wondered ... I wondered if you knew where ... where my Uncle Rory might be.’

Fergus frowned, then one eye closed and he sort of cocked his head. Still with his arms folded, he leaned forward a little. ‘Sorry? Your uncle -’

‘Uncle Rory,’ I said. Maybe a little too loudly, but at least my voice didn’t sound as shaky as I’d expected. I lowered it a little to say, ‘I thought you might have an idea where he is.’

Fergus stood straight again. The frown was still there around his eyes, but his lips were smiling. ‘You mean Rory, who disappeared ...?’

‘Yes,’ I nodded. My mouth felt dry and I had to fight to swallow.

‘I’ve no idea, Prentice.’ Fergus scratched behind one ear with one hand. He looked mystified. ‘Why do you think I might know?’

I felt myself blinking too much again, and tried to stop it. I took a breath.

‘Because you got a man called Rupert Paxton-Marr to send match-book covers to my dad.’ My hands were shaking even though they were planted on the surface of the table. I pressed down harder.

Fergus rocked back a little on his brogues. His frown-smile intensified. ‘Rupert? Sending your dad ... what?’ He looked a little amused, a little confused, and not nervous in the least.
Oh God, what am I doing?
I thought.

Of course, I hadn’t thought to bring any of the match-book covers with me. ‘Match-book covers,’ I said, my dry throat rasping. ‘From all over the world, so that dad would think Rory was still alive.’

Fergus looked to one side and unfolded his arms, sticking his hands in his pockets. He looked up at me. ‘Hmm. Would you like a drink?’ he said.

‘No,’ I told him.

He moved to the other end of the table, where there was a small wooden desk like the top of a lectern. He opened it and took out a squat decanter and a crystal glass. He took the glittering, faceted stopper out of the decanter and poured some of the brown liquid into the glass, frowning all the time. ‘Prentice,’ he said, shaking his head and mating stopper and decanter again. ‘I’m sorry, you’ve lost me. What are you ... what is ... what do you think is going on? Rupert’s sending, or was sending Kenneth ...?’

‘Match-book covers, from hotels and restaurants and bars in various parts of the world,’ I told him, as he stood, relaxed, one hand in pocket, one hand holding the glass, his face scrunched up in the manner of one trying hard and with some sympathy to understand what another is saying. ‘Somehow,’ I struggled on, ‘they were meant to convince dad that Rory was still alive. But I think he’s dead.’

‘Dead?’ Fergus said, drinking. He nodded at the seat I was standing over. ‘Aren’t you going to take a seat?’

‘No thanks,’ I said.

Fergus shrugged, sighed. ‘Well, I can’t imagine ...’ The frown came back again. ‘Has Rupert told you he was doing this?’

‘No,’ I said.

‘And are you sure it wasn’t Rory?’ Fergus shrugged. ‘I mean, was it his handwriting?’

‘There wasn’t any handwriting.’

‘There wasn’t ...’ Fergus shook his head. He smiled, an expression that looked to be half sympathy and half incomprehension. ‘Prentice, I’m lost. I don’t see ...’ His voice trailed off. The frown returned. ‘Now, wait a moment,’ he said. ‘You said you thought I might know where Rory is. But if he’s dead ...?’ He stared, looking shocked, into my eyes. I tried hard not to look away, but in the end I had to. I looked down at the table-top, biting my lip.

‘Prentice,’ Fergus said softly, putting his glass down on the table. ‘I’ve no idea where your uncle is.’ There was silence for a while. ‘Rupert is an old school friend of mine. He’s a journalist who goes all over the world; he’s out in Iraq at this moment, in fact. I haven’t seen him for a couple of years, though he used to come and shoot on occasion. He is a bit of a practical joker at times, but ...’ Fergus looked thoughtful. He shrugged. ‘Rory did tell me something once about setting fire to a barn on the estate once; accidentally, when he was very young. That might tie in with these match boxes ...’ He shook his head, inspected the contents of his glass. ‘But I don’t
think
I ever mentioned that to Rupert.’

I felt sick. ‘Nothing about ... some pieces of writing makes any sense, does it?’

‘Writing?’ Fergus said, tilting his head, one eye narrowing. He shook his head. ‘No. Whose writing?’

‘Rory’s. Based on something that you saw here; up in the roof-space of the castle, and which you told Rory when you were in that bothy together. The night you shot the rat.’

Fergus had leaned forward again. He looked totally bemused. Finally he jerked upright and laughed. He looked at the glass he held. ‘Maybe I should lay off this stuff. You’re making less and less sense as you go along here, Prentice. Rory and I did spend a night in a bothy once, on the estate. But there wasn’t any ... rat.’ He smiled and frowned at the same time. ‘Or any shooting. I don’t think we even had guns with us; we were fishing some of the out-of-the-way lochans and streams.’ He sighed, giving the impression of patient weariness. ‘Is this something you’ve read?’

‘Yes,’ I conceded.

‘What, in your father’s papers, since his death?’ Fergus looked as though he felt pity for me.

I nodded, trying not to look down from his gaze. ‘Sort of,’ I breathed.

‘And who is meant to have seen what?’ He raised one finger to his mouth, bit briefly at a nail and examined it.

‘None of that makes any sense to you, does it?’ I said. ‘No ... confession, revelation? Nothing to do with Lachy Watt?’

Fergus looked hurt. He swirled the glass, drained it. ‘That was a very long time ago, Prentice,’ he said quietly.

He looked at me more sorrowfully than accusatorily. ‘We were only children. We don’t always appreciate the seriousness of what we do ...’ He glanced at his empty glass ... ‘when we’re younger.’

He put the glass on the table.

I couldn’t match his gaze, and lowered mine again. I felt dizzy.

I heard Fergus take in a breath. ‘Prentice,’ he said, eventually. ‘I was quite close to Kenneth. He was a friend. I don’t think we saw eye-to-eye on anything really, but we ... we got on, you know? He was a gifted man, and a good friend, and I know I feel the loss. I can imagine how you feel. I ... I’ve had my own ... What I mean is, it isn’t an easy thing to cope with, when somebody that close dies so suddenly. Everything can look ... Well, everything can look very black, you know? Nothing seems right. You even resent other people their happiness, and, well, it just all seems very unfair. It is a terrible strain to be under; don’t think I don’t appreciate that. And just now, when the world seems ...’ He took another deep breath. ‘Look, old son -’

‘I’m sorry,’ I said, stopping him. I smiled shakily. ‘Uncle Fergus; I’m very sorry I came here. I’ve been silly. I don’t know what I was ...’ I shook my head, looked briefly down. ‘I don’t know what I was thinking. I’ve not been getting much sleep recently.’ I smiled bravely. ‘Watching too much television, maybe.’ I waved one hand round a little, as though flailing out for something just beyond reach, then shrugged. ‘I’m sorry,’ I concluded.

Fergus looked serious for a moment. Then he gave a small smile. He crossed his arms again. ‘Oh well. I think everything looks a bit sort of mad, really, at the moment, doesn’t it?’

‘A bit,’ I agreed. I sniffed, wiped my nose with a paper hanky.

‘Sure you won’t have that drink?’ Fergus said.

I nodded, stuffed the hanky back into my jeans. ‘No thanks, I have to drive. Better be getting back.’

‘Right you are,’ Fergus said.

He saw me to the door. He patted me on the shoulder as I stood in the doorway. ‘Don’t worry, Prentice, all right?’

‘Yeah,’ I said.

‘Oh, and I don’t know if your mother’s mentioned it -’

‘Opera; Friday.’ I smiled.

Fergus smiled too, jowls wobbling. ‘Ah, she has.’

‘Yes. No problem,’ I said.

‘Jolly good. Well, that’s all right then.’ He offered me his hand.

We shook. ‘Thanks, uncle,’ I said. He nodded, and I walked down the steps and across the gravel to the Golf.

He waved goodbye from the steps, looking concerned but encouraging.

I let the Golf trundle down to the bottom of the hill, where the drive levelled out and joined the tarmac single-track which swept round the base of the hill towards the main road between Gallanach and Lochgilphead. At the junction I stopped. I just sat there for a while. I raised my right hand and looked at the palm for a while, then spat on it and rubbed it hard on the side of my thigh. I tore the knife and its sheath out from my jeans and threw them down into the passenger footwell. I looked in the rear-view mirror, where I could just see the reflection of the top of the castle - its battlements and silver observatory dome - through the limbs of the leafless trees.

‘Guilty as charged, you bastard,’ I heard myself say. Then with a quick look either way, I revved up, slipped the clutch and sent the VW screaming along the road away from the castle.

 
 
 
The courtyard was empty and the house storm doors were shut when I got back to Lochgair. I parked the Golf in the yard and got out; my hands were shaking. I felt like getting furiously drunk. I stood there, breathing hard in the calm air, listening to gulls crying above the drive down towards the loch, while crows crackled in the trees around the house like some drunken chorus, scornful. My heart was thudding now and my trembling hands were slick with sweat. I had to rest back against the side of the car. I closed my eyes. The cries of the birds were replaced by a roaring noise in my ears.

Jesus, I thought, if this was how I felt, how must Fergus be reacting, if I was right, and he was guilty? Now would be the time to watch him, study him. But I could barely have walked just then, let alone drive back to the castle, even if I had been able to summon up the courage to return.