The Mammoth Book of New Sherlock Holmes Adventures (23 page)

“You must have feared for your life!” he declared in a tone of great sympathy; but the other shook his head.

“I was nae worried,” said he dismissively. “It was a matter of only five-and-twenty feet before my feet touched solid ground. I was more concerned about the walk home, I can tell ye! I came ashore on the south side of the bay, ye see, so I’ve had to walk the whole way round the loch to get back! My feet’ll never be the same again!”

“And you have lost all your equipment?” inquired MacLeod.

“Aye. All sunk wi’out trace.”

“We will of course compensate you for your loss – ”

“We can discuss it later,” said Morton, turning on his heel. “For now, all I’m interested in is a hot bath!”

“This season has been an unfortunate one for us,” said MacLeod, after Morton had left the room. “At this rate, we shall soon have no-one wishing to stay here. Why, only two weeks ago, a young lady from Peebles slipped and fell down the main staircase in odd circumstances, and, just before your arrival, a Mrs Formartine from Arbroath lost a valuable pearl brooch. Now this! I felt sure that all the rowing-boats were sound. Thank goodness it was not more serious!” He shook his head as he left the room.

“What an odd and unfortunate thing!” said I.

“Indeed,” said Holmes, and I seemed to read in his face that there was little point my raising again the idea of a fishing-trip.

It rained heavily that night, but the following morning dawned bright and clear, and there was much discussion at breakfast-time of plans for the day ahead. Several of the hotel-guests were to leave on the Friday, and were thus keen to make the most of their last day in Kilbuie. The Johnstone brothers, clearly undaunted by the previous day’s experience, intended, once they had replaced their lost and damaged equipment, to spend their time fishing once more.

“We’ll try among the islands today,” remarked Angus Johnstone as they were leaving. “Whatever happens, it canna be worse than yesterday!”

To my surprise, the meek and frail-looking Doctor Oliphant also announced that he would be taking a boat, his intention being to visit Stalva Island, where, he said, there were the remains of a Viking burial chamber. The Mortons hired a pony and trap and set off with a picnic hamper and Mrs Morton’s sketching equipment, to visit the Falls of Druimar, a well-known beauty spot, some dozen miles inland. The weather was fine and the wind light, and Holmes and I passed a pleasant day in ambling about the town and the harbour, and along the margin of the loch.

Despite MacLeod’s worries for the welfare of his guests, there were no more accidents, and they all returned in good spirits, if a little late. I observed as Holmes and I went into dinner that evening that an extra table had been laid, but no-one arrived to claim it, and I saw MacLeod glance at the clock over the mantelpiece several times, and shake his head. It was clear that he was expecting someone, but how they might arrive, unless it were by private carriage all the way from Inverness, I could not imagine, for the coach which connected with the train had long since been and gone.

This little mystery was soon solved, however. As we were taking coffee in the drawing-room after our meal, the door was opened to admit two men, introduced to us as Alexander and Donald Grice Paterson, father and son respectively, who had, they informed us, arrived in their own little yacht which they had just moored in the harbour. Alexander Grice Paterson was a small, wiry man of about fifty, dark-haired and clean-shaven, with a shrewd, crafty, almost fox-like appearance. His son, Donald, was perhaps two-and-twenty, a little taller than his father, and sported a black moustache, but with the same dark, fox-like look to him. Plates of sandwiches and cheese were brought in for them, which they devoured hungrily, and, thus restored, they began to speak in excited tones. It was clear that they had recently had a very singular experience, which they were keen to share with their fellow-guests.

The older man was a senior partner in an Edinburgh legal firm, he informed us, into which his son had recently been admitted as a junior. Their speciality was commercial law, which could sometimes be a little dry, he admitted, even for those whose vocation it was.

“It’s to remedy the dryness,” he remarked with a crafty twinkle in his eye, in what was clearly a much-rehearsed witticism, “that each year we spend as long as possible on the water! In short, we have a little boat, a twenty-five-footer, the
Puffin
, which we sail about hither and thither for a week or two each year.

“In the past we’ve been blown all over the Firth of Clyde, back and forth from the Ayrshire coast to Kintyre. This year we thought we’d venture further afield, and plotted a course up the West Coast of Argyll and beyond. We’ve not had the best of wind, but we’ve done pretty well, all things considered, and two nights ago we slipped through the Sound of Sleat and moored for the night in Loch Alsh. Since then, we’ve not hurried, running in and out of bays and inlets, and exploring any nook of the coast which promised interest. We expected to arrive in Kilbuie this afternoon, but the wind has been unfavourable, and we’ve been beating this way and that for the last few miles. At last, earlier this evening, we turned into Echil Bay – and now we come to the most singular experience of my life! We knew when we first set off that we were sailing into unknown waters, to the land of myth and magic, but we never expected that we’d be the victims of Highland magic ourselves!”

He paused and took a large mouthful of the whisky and water which stood at his elbow, glancing round as he did so, as if to judge the effect of his words, for all the world like an advocate addressing a packed court-room. His opening remarks concluded, he now came to the crux of the matter.

“We steered a course between the islands, but the wind was not so much against us now, as almost non-existent, and our progress was slow. It was just as the sun was setting behind us, and the shadows were long ahead, that we noticed what appeared to be a ruined tower, on one of the larger islands. Donald consulted the charts, and was able to inform me that the island was Uffa, and that upon it were the ruins of an ancient religious establishment. This seemed too good an opportunity to pass up, and we determined to go ashore and explore.

“We moored the
Puffin
some thirty yards from the shore, and rowed the dinghy into a little natural harbour among the great jumbled rocks at the extreme western end of the island. By the time we had our feet on dry land, the light was fading fast, but there was a well-worn path through the heather, so we were confident of soon reaching the ruins. The path meandered steeply up and down, however, and after a few minutes, we had quite lost sight of the ruins, and it became apparent that to get from the west end of Uffa to the east, where the ruins were situated, was going to take us longer than we had expected. Still, as we had by this time gone some considerable distance, we thought, like Macbeth, that it were as well to go on as go back. A mistake, perhaps, but we were not to know.” He paused. “Perhaps you could tell them what happened next, Donald,” he said, turning to his son.

“It was fairly dark by then,” the younger man continued after a moment. “We couldn’t really see very much. There seemed to be paths everywhere, and we were just wondering if we’d taken the wrong one, when we came over the brow of a small hill and saw the ruins dead ahead of us. We’d thought the sky was dark, but the ruins were darker still, and showed up as a black silhouette. To the left stood the ruined tower, tall and stark, with a huddle of lower buildings surrounding it, to the right, some more disordered ruins; and then – ” He broke off and swallowed before continuing.

“As we drew closer, picking our way carefully along the rocky path, there came all at once the sound of movement somewhere just ahead of us, and then a dark, crouching shape scuttled across the path not more than twenty feet away.”

“The Black Pig!” cried Murdoch MacLeod.

“What?” cried the elder Grice Paterson in return.

“You are in superstitious country,” said Doctor Oliphant. “There is a belief in these parts that the appearance of the Black Pig is an omen of evil.”

“There are some,” said MacLeod in a low tone, “who say that the Black Pig is the Evil One himself!”

Alexander Grice Paterson snorted. “Perhaps it is fortunate for us, then,” he said, “that what we saw did not remotely resemble a pig. It was more like a man, crouching down.”

“Aye,” said his son. “Furtive and creeping, with his robes all draggling out behind him.”

“I need hardly say that we were somewhat unnerved by this apparition,” the elder Grice Paterson continued. “Then, as we stood there, rooted to the spot, a faint, wavering light sprang up in a window high in the tower. I think Donald must have cried out – ”

“With all respect, Pa,” his son interrupted, “I believe that you were the one doing the crying out.”

“Well, well. Be that as it may, next moment an oblong of bright light appeared suddenly before us, as a door was flung open at the base of the tower, and a giant of a man with a great ginger beard stepped out, carrying a lantern.

“MacGlevin,” said MacLeod softly, as Grice Paterson continued:

“ ‘Who’s there?’ the giant’s voice boomed out.”

“Why, man,” cried Angus Johnstone, laughing, “it sounds more like a Grimm’s fairy tale every minute!”

“No doubt,” returned Alexander Grice Paterson, appearing a little annoyed at this interruption, “but it did not strike us that way at the time. We stepped forward and introduced ourselves.

“ ‘A strange time to come paying a visit,’ the giant boomed back at us. I explained our situation, that we had had no idea that the island was inhabited.

“ ‘On our map,’ said I, ‘this building is marked only as a ruin.’

“ ‘Oh, is it?’ replied he. ‘Then your map, sir, is sadly in error – reprehensibly so – and I recommend that you buy yourself a new one! But, come! A MacGlevin does not turn even the meanest wretch from his door – no offence intended, Gentlemen! Pray step this way!’

“We followed him into his castle. He was most hospitable, I must say, and showed us into the clan museum that he has established there. ‘I’ll not light the lamps in here,’ said he, ‘for I ken you’re in a hurry to be off, but take this lantern and have a look about, while I prepare something to warm you!’ Shortly afterwards, we joined him before a blazing fire and drank his health, and five minutes later set off back to our boat, carrying the lantern he had lent us.”

“Had you mentioned to him the creature you had seen earlier?” queried Holmes.

Grice Paterson shook his head. “I’d thought it best not to.”

“Does he keep a dog?”

“No, and there are no sheep or other animals on the island, either.”

“It’s the Black Pig!” said Murdoch MacLeod again, in a tone of awe.

“One moment,
if
you please,” said Grice Paterson. “Our story is not yet finished.”

“Dear me!” cried Doctor Oliphant. “Yet more adventures?”

“Indeed! You have not yet heard the strangest episode. We eventually reached the western extremity of Uffa, although it was not easy finding our way in the pitch blackness, and the lantern was little help. There, where we had secured the dinghy, was – ” He paused and looked about the room.

“Well?” queried Doctor Oliphant impatiently.

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“Not a thing. No sign whatever of our boat. Just the dark sea splashing over the black rocks. We could see the
Puffin
riding at anchor a little distance off, for we’d lit a lamp on her before we’d left, but we’d no way of reaching her. And I was as certain that the dinghy had been secured properly as I’d ever been certain of anything in my life.”

“What did you do?” queried Fergus Johnstone.

“We had no choice but to trudge all the way back to MacGlevin’s domain and throw ourselves on his mercy. He seemed none too pleased to see us again, but said he would row us round to the
Puffin
in his own skiff, which was moored in an inlet just below the castle. You continue, Donald.”

“Just as we were rounding the western head of the island, approaching the
Puffin,
my father cried out. I looked where he pointed, and there was our little dinghy, neatly tucked in the inlet, just as we had left it. Of course, Mr MacGlevin was a wee bit upset at this, and expressed himself somewhat warmly. Even a whelk would realize, he said, that we had simply taken the wrong path and looked for our boat in the wrong place. His parting words to us as he rowed off, after setting us aboard our own dinghy, were that we should henceforth confine our inept navigational activities to the streets of Edinburgh.”

“There it might have ended,” continued the elder Grice Paterson: “as an embarrassing experience, but no more – although I was still convinced that the boat had not been there when we had looked for it before – but, as we were climbing from dinghy to yacht, Donald found something by his feet. Show them, my boy.”

Donald Grice Paterson put his hand in his pocket, and pulled out a large, wooden-handled clasp-knife. He unfolded the blade, which was broad and strong-looking, with a curiously square end.

“It’s not ours,” said his father, “so how came it in the bottom of our boat?”

“May I see it?” said Holmes. He took the knife and examined it closely. “Made in Sheffield,” he remarked; “which is hardly surprising information. The tip has been snapped off, which must have taken some considerable force.”

The knife was passed around the room, amid much murmuring of interest, but no-one could make any useful suggestion regarding it.

“Someone has been playing tricks upon you,” declared Doctor Oliphant.

“Someone – or
something,”
said Murdoch MacLeod.

“A mischievous sprite,” suggested Mrs Morton.

Sherlock Holmes offered no observation of his own, and later, when I queried his silence on the matter, he shook his head and smiled.

“My dear fellow,” said he, “you must have observed in the past that an unresolved mystery possesses a charm and romance which its solution can rarely aspire to. It is for this reason that – unless it is likely to involve them in a personal loss – men often prefer mystery to enlightenment. I could have suggested at least seven possible explanations, but all of them were fairly prosaic, I’m afraid, and not really what the company was seeking!”