The Portcullis Room

Chapter 3

3

STEPHEN GARRISON was a restless soul. He hated to be kept waiting—when he wanted anything, it had to be done instantly, as Dwight, his long-suffering manservant, knew full well. Verity would have liked to have gone ashore comfortably in the very elegant power-boat which the Ariel carried slung on her after-deck, with the pilot to show them the channel. But this did not suit the owner's impatient nature at all. They had reached their destination: he must go ashore. He would not wait for the power-boat to be launched, he would not wait for the pilot, still occupied with the task of bringing the yacht to her anchorage. Nothing would suit him but that he and Verity should put off in the dinghy without an instant's delay—they could come to no great harm in the little dinghy, he told Verity, whose mind was filled with visions of shoals and currents and whirlpools. So the dinghy was lowered and towed round to the accommodation ladder and they set off, Stephen, as excited as any schoolboy, at the oars.

Beyond the bluff the loch opened up again and they came in view of the castle mirrored at full length in the darkling, unruffled water. It stood right on the edge of the loch, rising from a rocky platform washed by the high tide and protected from the fury of storms by a lofty rampart. The rampart was pierced by a low arch with a flight of worn steps leading down to the water.

Between the channel they were threading and the castle, a battered wooden jetty was thrust out from the shore. Here three or four tiny whitewashed houses with thatched roofs were huddled above the beach with sign-boards above their narrow entrances—from his seat in the stern of the dinghy Verity read 'Post Office' and 'Donald McDonald Grocer,' thought of Phyllis and her face cream and smiled. Some ragged children lined the quay, staring at the intruders in a frightened silence. The four or five hundred yards separating the jetty from the projecting rock on which the castle was built was spanned by a rough track where a few miserable cabins, each with its brown peat stack and line of nets hung under the eaves, were strung out. The two Americans were conscious of faces peering at them out of the dimness of low doorways as the boat, with row-locks softly thudding, glided by.

In the comparative shelter of the landlocked sea, the thunder of the waves upon the rocks in the outer bay was now no more than a deep murmur in their ears. Little sounds were wafted to them from the misty shore—the barking of a dog, the bleating of sheep high up among the heather, the distant clatter of a cart. The dark mass of the castle, however, remained inhospitably silent. No smoke arose from its innumerable chimneys; the flagstaff that crowned the top of the central tower was bare; and most of the windows visible appeared to be shuttered.

Such details Verity made out as, to Stephen's vigorous pulling, they neared the steps. Contemplating the rugged pile the man in the stern marvelled to perceive how cunningly it was disposed to withstand surprise attack by foes. In front was the loch, behind the soaring sugar-loaf of Ben Dhu, rearing its grizzled head so steeply that it seemed a man from its summit could look straight down the laird's chimneys. Tall firs, with gaunt white herons perched on the topmost branches, screened the house from winds blowing up and down the loch and from the mountain. From the slopes behind, the thin blue smoke of heather fires, where the land was being cleared, strayed under the low ceiling of mist, the only sign of human presence. The silence was so profound that Verity could hear the plovers shrieking on the mountain-side and the hollow sound of the row-locks, and the quiet drip of the water, as Stephen dipped his sculls. In the deathlike hush of the place he found himself once more invaded by the unaccountable misgivings which had beset him ever since their departure from Port Phadric.

It was high water and the lower part of the steps was awash. They fastened the painter to a huge rusty ring riveted in the rock and mounted the stairs, scooped out with the feet of the centuries and slippery with kelp and barnacles. From a landing under the archway a short flight, which showed signs of repair with concrete, led up to an immensely solid, iron-studded door. A bell-handle, eaten with rust like all the ironwork they saw, hung down beside it. Stephen tugged it vigorously. A chain squeaked and a bell, as solemn as a convent's, clanged twice.

There was no response and, after an interval, Stephen rang again. Once more the bell tolled through echoing emptiness. Still no one came.

Verity doffed his smart new yachting cap and tugged at his ear. 'Well, there you are!' he said. 'There's nobody home. We'd have done better to have sent Shamus ashore with a note in the launch and lunched comfortably on the yacht, as I suggested...'

'Darn it, there must be servants about!' cried his companion and plied the bell-handle again.

'You're a real American, Steve,' Verity remarked complacently. 'Always in such a darned hurry to go places!' And, surveying him scathingly, he added, 'And a nice sight you look, I must say, to go calling on a Scottish chieftain! That jacket of yours is a disgrace and your sweater's filthy! Of course, you couldn't even spare the time to change! I made Dwight buy you a new yachting cap at Southampton—he promised me to throw that old one away. Why on earth couldn't you wear it?'

Stephen laughed good-humouredly and ran his eye over his costume. 'I suppose I do look a bit of a bum!' he agreed with equanimity. 'But I do love old clothes. Never mind, Phil, I'll tip the laird a dime and he'll think I'm John D. Rockefeller!' He broke off. 'Say, are they all dead in this blooming castle or what?'

He had just laid hold of the bell-handle again when a hollow voice resounded close at hand. 'What wad ye be wantin'?' it boomed. The visitors then perceived that a grill had opened in the door and a pale, bearded face was looking out.

It was Verity, who was wont to call himself, jestingly, Stephen's 'contact man,' who responded. 'This is Mr. Garrison, Mr. Stephen Garrison,' he announced importantly. 'He'd like to see Mr. McReay!'

The door remained immutably closed. The face at the trap—it was the face of an old man with an immense spread of grey beard—replied sternly, 'The McReay's fra' hame!'

He was about to close the trap, but Verity stopped him. 'But Mr. Garrison wired Mr.—er—the McReay, from Port Phadric yesterday that he was arriving today. Didn't you receive his telegram?'

'I dinna ken annything aboot it,' was the uncompromising reply. 'The laird is nae here!'

'Then where can we find him?' Stephen now struck in—perceiving that the old man was about to shut the grill he had thrust his fingers between the bars.

'Ye micht be askin' after him at the factor-r's?'

'The factor's?' Stephen repeated, puzzled.

'He means the bailiff, Mr. Jamieson,' Verity explained in an undertone. 'McTaggart, McReay's lawyer in London, mentioned his name.' He turned to the trap again. 'And where do we find the factor?' he demanded.

''Tis the big stane hoose abune th' vullage!' was the curt answer. With that the trap was closed so swiftly that Stephen had a narrow shave of having his fingers pinched.

'Well, that's that!' Stephen observed with his imperturbable grin. 'We'd better go and hunt up this factor guy...' He broke off. 'Hullo, what was that?'

The sharp crack of a shot had come rolling down the mountain, followed, almost immediately, by a second report. 'I bet the old boy's up there, taking a pot at the grouse,' Stephen declared positively. 'I'm going to find him. The sooner he knows we're here, the better I shall be pleased. The old beaver behind the bars don't seem to know it, but McTaggart told us the laird would be glad to put us up and I've no intention of letting Mrs. Dean and Phyllis spend the night on the yacht if, as McKenzie says, it's coming on the blow...'

'Aw, pshaw, Steve, you're crazy,' Verity replied. 'How do you know it's McReay shooting up there? We'll only get lost in the mist!'

'Don't worry,' his companion told him placidly. 'You're going to dig out the factor. Whichever of us first comes across the laird, brings him here. There's a patch of beach beyond these steps where you can land me. Come on, boy, let's step on it!'

With Verity still protesting that Stephen had much better accompany him to the factor's, they descended the stairs to the dinghy.

TO reach the grassy slopes above the beach Stephen had some rough scrambling to do among the boulders of the foreshore. A sheep track upon which he blundered, after he had made various ineffectual attempts to burst a way through the heather, eventually brought him out upon a path which, above him, coiled itself about the flanks of the mountain and, below, disappeared in the belt of trees screening the rear of the castle.

With scratched hands and sopping shoes, bathed in perspiration and panting for breath, he paused to rest. He always prided himself on being fit, but, as he felt his heart thumping against his ribs, he realized that shipboard life had made him soft—for five weeks he had not thrown his leg across a saddle or touched a squash racquet. He sat down on a rock and, surveying the view, discovered that the rain had ceased and that, under a warm sun and a blue sky, the waters of the loch had turned from a blackish green to a deep azure. The birds were singing, there were butterflies among the heather and the bees made drowsy noises in the air. He was suddenly conscious of a great joy at being alive, at having come to Toray. He was glad that the weather had cleared up on Phyllis's account—he wanted her to have a good time. A sweet kid! He wagged his head approvingly and groped in his pocket for a cigarette.

The sound of whistling coming from behind, as he sat with his face to the loch and his back to the mountain, reminded him that he had heard no more shots. He looked round, then stood up. A boy in plus fours, whistling rather discordantly, came swinging down the track.

It was a mere lad, who carried a double-barrelled gun on his shoulder and a stained canvas haversack slung at his side. He wore a disreputable old tweed hat with salmon flies stuck in the band and a shabby shooting coat of brown Harris check several sizes too large for him. His thin legs were encased in tartan stockings which ended in a pair of well-worn and well-greased brogues. A red setter rambled at his heels.

His eyes cast down as he picked his way along the broken path, the youth did not see Stephen until the latter hailed him. 'Excuse me,' the American said, 'is Mr. McReay up there?'

The lad had abruptly stopped his whistling and was considering the stranger with every evidence of extreme suspicion. Stephen told himself he had never seen a pair of eyes so brightly blue—with their long, closely set black lashes and slight, delicately pencilled brows they gave the smooth, young face quite a girlish expression. Then, as the newcomer spoke, he had a sudden shock of surprise—the timbre of the voice made it apparent that the speaker was a girl. 'You wired, didn't you?' she said in a surly tone.

'Then you got my telegram?' he replied eagerly.

She shifted her gun to the other shoulder prior to resuming her descent. 'It's no use your trying to see the McReay,' she answered coldly, 'because he won't see you!' And with a wriggle of the shoulder to readjust the position of her haversack—the speckled plumage of a grouse was visible under the canvas flap—she stepped past him.

'But wait a minute, can't you?' Stephen protested. 'The laird's expecting me!'

'I know all about that,' she retorted with the same air of unyielding hostility. 'But you'll no see him. And the sooner you and your friends take yourselves back to the mainland the better!'

The American laughed. 'Correct me if I'm wrong,' he said pleasantly, 'but I get the impression that we're not welcome at Toray!'

As he spoke he let his quizzing glance rest on the blue, angry eyes. She was quite young, he judged, not a day over eighteen, and slim and straight as any of the young birches that grew about them. Her voice was low and warm and plaited with the faintest Scottish inflection that he found infinitely pleasing. She was obviously gently bred, too, for all her funny clothes—the small brown hand that clasped the gun butt was well-kept and finely made. Her face, whipped into colour by the morning's rain, was evenly browned but the glimpse of arm he had under the sleeve of her shooting coat was milky white. A wisp of hair that straggled from under the brim of her woeful hat was raven-black and lustrous—blue eyes, black hair, this was the true Highland type. He wondered who she might be. McReay had had a son, now dead; but there had been no talk of a girl—perhaps she was the factor's daughter. Whoever she was, he was prepared to like her—there was a little haughty expression stamped upon her small, grave features which stirred some far-off, untouched hunter instinct in his blood.

With a scathing air she looked him up and down. 'Will you please understand,' she said—try as she might, her voice was not very firm—'that there's nothing left here for you and your sort to plunder? Good-morning to you, Mr. Berg, or whatever your name is!'

So saying she clutched her bag of grouse to steady it and started running down the steep path. 'Come back!' he shouted. 'My name's Garrison...' As she paid no heed, but went on scrambling down in and out of the boulders, he set off in pursuit. She had him soon outdistanced—on the stony, broken track she was as nimblefooted as any chamois.

He was standing there, looking after her, when he heard his name called. Turning about he perceived Verity up to his middle in the heather on the high ground above him, with scarlet, irascible face, waving frantically to him.

'My goodness, Steve,' Verity observed fractiously, when the other had joined him, 'what a dance you've led me! I've been almost to the top of that damned mountain looking for you! Listen, the laird's away on the other side of the island until this afternoon. But I've seen Jamieson and it's all right—they're expecting us up at the castle. We're to go ashore for tea—Jamieson's coming on board to fetch us at four o'clock: he'll have a cart at the jetty for the baggage. Is that okay with you?'

But his friend disregarded the question. 'Phil,' he said suddenly, rubbing his nose, 'Berg, that's a Jewish name, isn't it?'

'I guess so...'

'Would you say I was Jewish-looking?'

'In those dreadful old duds I don't know what you look like. I hope to God you'll let Dwight pack some decent clothes for you to wear at the castle...'

'Do you know whether McReay has a daughter?'

'I don't believe he has any children. His only son's dead...'

'I know that. Has Jamieson, or whatever his name is, a daughter?'

'Yes...'

'Rather tall and slim, with...'

Verity laughed. 'I can't tell you how tall she is. She was in her perambulator when he introduced us. Are you aware that it's past two and that we haven't had lunch yet? Don't you think we might go back to the yacht and get Hans to fix us a snack? Or do you propose to spend the afternoon here and lunch off heather like the sheep?'

The other sighed. 'Oh, all fight. Lead on! The trouble about you, Phil, is that you have no soul. Just another Babbitt! The sordid commercial existence you lead has crushed all the romance out of you!'

His companion chuckled tranquilly. 'Oh yeah? Well, if it wasn't for my sordid commercial activities and the sordid activities of a couple of other Babbitts like me in New York and Chicago, you'd be selling apples, Steve, my boy!'

'And a darned good job of it I'd make!' Stephen declared.

Verity laughed uproariously. 'You! Why, you couldn't land a first payment on a fire extinguisher in one of those villages on Vesuvius!'

Thus amiably sparring, as was their invariable wont, they descended to the beach.