‘Your trousers are wet!’ he said accusingly.
‘So are yours,’ retorted Elphinstone. ‘What would you like to do – form a club?’ He gave a pleased snort, wished me goodnight, and went off, but not without another wary glance back as he reached the door.
‘Damned impertinence!’ fumed the Admiral. ‘Mark my words, that fellow wants watching. Did you see him just now – looked as though he’d had his hand in the till? What’s he been up to, eh? Outsider!’
Aunt Alison was knitting placidly and listening to the wireless in the warm comfort of her room. ‘Home from the wars!’ she said, smiling, exclaimed at the wet state of our feet, rang for coffee and sandwiches, placed us before the fire, dispensed whisky, and listened with soothing attention while the Admiral poured out his troubles from the hearthrug, starting with the insolence and evil cunning of the Dipper (‘which won’t save him, I’m glad to say, once the evidence is recovered’) and ending with a scathing denunciation of the luckless Inspector. He didn’t refer to our encounter with Elphinstone, but I noticed his glance strayed to the muddy tracks on the carpet, as though he were trying to deduce how long his detested rival had spent on the premises.
‘My, it’s the exciting night you’ve had of it!’ said Aunt Alison admiringly, and sighed. ‘And the poor old Dipper’s nabbed at last. Well, I won’t pretend I’m not sorry for the old devil.’
‘Old devil is right. But your sympathy, my dear, is far too precious to be wasted on him,’ chided the Admiral. ‘The fellow’s been a menace for years. Well, now he’s going to pay for it – and so,’ he concluded grimly, ‘are those infernal poachers.’
‘Didn’t you tell me they’d got away?’
‘Thanks to that yokel policeman, yes. But the truck didn’t,’ said the Admiral triumphantly. ‘And if the fingerprints on its steering-wheel belong to anyone named McLaren . . . well, I’d say that was conclusive, wouldn’t you?’
I’d been listening with one ear, preoccupied as I was with visions of McAuslan roaming the Highland night while I sat powerless to rescue or prevent him, but at the suggestion that my truck would be Exhibit A in a poaching trial I was all attention. So was my aunt, only she seemed amused.
‘Conclusive of what? Only about who was driving the truck, and took it away. But that,’ she reminded him, ‘is Dand’s concern, Jacky. Not yours.’
‘Not mine?’ The Admiral went into his halibut impersonation. ‘But . . . but, goodgoddlemighty, they were using it to poach my stag! They were – ’
‘Were they? What stag? You haven’t even found it yet.’ She rose, holding the decanter. ‘And until you do, you’ll be ill-advised to cry “Poacher!” just because you’ve got a bee in your bonnet about the McLarens. More toddy?’
The Admiral gargled, going puce. ‘A bee? In my bonnet? You know as well as I do they’ve got my stag cached out there – ’
‘You’re blethering,’ she said pleasantly, filling his glass. ‘I know no such thing, and neither do you. Fingerprints, indeed! You’ve been seeing too many Thin Man pictures. Well, nobody’s been murdered – ’
‘Alison!’
‘ – and all that’s happened is that Dand’s truck has been taken without his permission – and now he’s got it back . . .’
‘Alison, I – ’
‘. . . And the last thing he wants is a lot of handless bobbies crawling over it with magnifying glasses. Even if every McLaren in Scotland had his pug-marks on it, what could they be charged with except taking it away without the owner’s consent? And I don’t suppose you’ve considered the trouble and embarrassment that would cause my nephew with his superiors? Well . . .’ She gave him her level, blue-eyed look. ’. . . I wouldn’t think much of that, I can tell you.’
She wasn’t alone there: I could think of one Colonel who would hit the roof. And the Admiral, to do him justice, took the point, although it was nothing to him compared to the prospect of incurring her displeasure. That was what took him amidships, and his indignation vanished like May mist; he blinked at her in a distraught, devoted way, and admitted he hadn’t thought about that side of it . . . last thing he’d want to do . . . and no doubt she was right, there was no positive proof . . . yet. But what could he say to the police? If they had reason to believe the truck had been used for criminal purposes, he didn’t quite see how he . . .
‘Och, use your wits, Jacky! Tell them Dand’s satisfied, and doesn’t wish to press matters. Bully them, man, if you have to! Goodness me, the Inspector wants to be a superintendent some day – he’s not going to cross the leading man in the district, is he?’
The leading man looked doubtful. ‘Well, I suppose . . . if you say so . . . it’ll look a bit odd, though, after all the fuss . . .’
‘Havers!’ laughed Aunt Alison. ‘I can just see McKendrick raising objections. A word from you and he’ll be jumping through hoops and saluting.’ She smiled warmly on him and sweetened the pill still further. ‘You can come and tell me about it at dinner, and we’ll talk it all over, the two of us.’
The Admiral cheered up considerably at this, and when he took his leave after a final toddy it was with expressions of good will all round. As the door closed Aunt Alison gave a long, delicate sigh and subsided into her chair, reaching for a cigarette.
‘My God, and they talk about Sarah Bernhardt! If I’d had to be ladylike a minute longer I’d have burst!’ She inhaled deeply, raising a hand to still my clamour. ‘Not now, Dand. I know you’re full of desperate news, but it can wait. Now . . . stiffen your drink, because I have a wee surprise for you, and I want you to sit there, keep calm, and hold your peace till it’s over.’
She rose, and opened the door to the little box-room off the study. ‘Come out of that,’ she said, and before my disbelieving eyes Lance-Corporal Macrae sidled warily into the room, and behind him, like an anxious tomb-robber emerging from a pyramid, shambled Private McAuslan.
I don’t know what I’d have said if I hadn’t been bidden to silence; nothing, probably. Unexpectedness apart, they were a sight to numb the senses: Macrae was wild and dishevelled, but McAuslan looked as though he had been in the ground for centuries. Filthy I had seen him, but never like this; he had broken all previous records. Mud and slime of every shade and texture seemed to cover him, his hair was matted with it, through the beauty-pack on his face he was regarding me in terror, and then he quivered to attention as my aunt addressed them.
‘You two men,’ and she looked and sounded like a Valkyrie at the end of her tether, ‘will haud your wheesht, now and hereafter. Do you see? Mr MacNeill will have something to say to you later, but just now you’ll go out by the back way, like mice, and up to the house without being seen. Is that clear?’ She raised a finger. ‘And Macrae – if ever you put your neb into West Perthshire again I’ll have you hung by the heels. Aighe-va.′
I counted five when they had gone and, restraining myself with difficulty, asked for an explanation. Aunt Alison gave me a look.
‘Are you sure you want to know?’
I pointed out that since they obviously knew, I ought to, if only for discipline’s sake, and she sat, resting her brow on her fingertips, and finally said: ‘I could greet. Dand, next time you come to see me, just bring a couple of nice wee city criminals, will you? Not reivers like Macrae. Mind you . . . if he’s looking for a job when he leaves the Army . . . ach, never mind. Well, bide and listen, if your nerves can stand it.’
It seemed that on the first evening Macrae and McAuslan, refreshing themselves in the public bar, had made friends with the lads of the village, including the notorious McLarens, the Dipper’s crew. They and Macrae had discovered mutual interests, and in no time he was abreast of local affairs, such as the pressing danger to the Dipper’s illicit still from the Admiral and the gadgers. A raid was imminent, and what was needed, said the Dipper, was some diversion to keep the Admiral busy while the still was moved to a new hideaway – shooting a stag, for example. A task for a skilled night hunter . . . aye, but it would
be worth his while. Oh, Macrae was a bit of a stalker, was he? And then they would be needing transport for the carcase the next night . . . what, Macrae knew where a truck was to be had? Here, Erchie, come you and listen to this . . .
I could contain myself no longer. ‘Aunt Alison, are you telling me Macrae was bribed to poach a stag before he’d been here five minutes? I can’t believe it! How do you know this, anyway?’ I regarded her in sudden terror. ‘Have you known all along?’
‘Will you hold your peace? And don’t jump to unflattering conclusions,’ she said with some asperity. ‘I’ve been telling you that since you could toddle. I knew nothing at all until this evening. But I’m not a gommeril, and like everyone else I knew the McLarens would try some ploy to set Jacky running in circles. And when he came yelping to me this morning that a stag had been shot, I thought, aye, that’s their red herring. There was no point saying anything to Jacky, with the steam rising from him; besides, it was no business of mine. But when you came to the hotel in the evening, and said your truck was missing, and two of your lads nowhere to be found – then, it was my business.’
‘When the Admiral was here, planning his raid? You never said anything. You went to arrange a snack for his men.’
She gave me a pitying look. ‘Aye, didn’t I just? I also went to get Rab, my grieve, because he’s one that knows every mortal thing that goes on hereabouts. I don’t pry as a rule, but I knew this was an emergency, and I grilled the whole black tale out of him, with the promise that if he held back he’d be on the dole tomorrow. Now, may I continue?’
Rab, under pressure, had described what my aunt had just told me – how Macrae had conspired with the McLarens, contributing some refinements of his own to their diversionary plan. The upshot was that he had gone out that first night with Erchie McLaren’s rifle and a flask of rabbit’s blood which he had smeared artistically on a rock on Ben Vornach; he had faked signs that a stag had been carried off through the heather, fired a shot, and so home to bed. (And I’d thought he was out wenching.)
‘You mean there wasn’t any dead stag? But then . . . why did they take the truck tonight, if there was no carcase to shift?’
‘I guessed that before Rab got the length of telling me,’ said Aunt Alison complacently. ‘They needed it to shift the Dipper’s still. That was the whole point – to make Jacky think the truck was being used to carry off a carcase that didn’t exist, when in fact they were getting the still away from Lochnabee.’
‘But they didn’t get it away! The Dipper had to jettison it! I saw him!’
Aunt Alison shrugged. ‘Aye, well, the best-laid schemes . . . Jacky took their bait – but he went to Lochnabee as well, and no doubt got there ahead of them, and spoiled their plan. But that’s by the way. All I knew, and cared about, when Rab had told his tale, was that your truck was about to be used for bootlegging or moonshining or whatever you call it. With one of your men, Macrae, red-hand in the mischief – and yon other poor bedraggled idiot as well, probably. What’s his name? McAuslan? He hasnae the look of a gangster.’
‘He’s not. I shouldn’t think he knew what the hell was happening. I don’t think I do.’
‘Well, thank your stars I did. It was plain that with Jacky bound for Lochnabee they were in great danger of getting caught, and I had to prevent that, for your sake – I don’t ken what the Army does to officers whose men are lifted for moving illicit stills (or for trying to) but I’m sure it’s something embarrassing. So,’ she continued serenely, ‘I phoned Robin Elphinstone and told him to take his car and scour the road about Lochnabee, and find those clowns of yours before the police did, and get them safe away. And to give him time to do that, I kept Jacky and his minions busy here with grouse pate and Glenlivet. I thought it went down rather well,’ said this amazing woman complacently, ‘and I wasn’t bad myself.’
It’s remarkable, about family. You think you know them, but you don’t. Here was this good, respected widow lady of advancing years, who had guided my infant steps, heard my prayers at night, and read to me from the Billy and Bunny Book, sitting there looking like the matriarch of some soap-opera family of Texas tycoons, and apparently concealing the combined talents of the Scarlet Pimpernel and a Mafia godmother. I didn’t know where to begin.
‘You could try saying thank you, and bring me a glass of sherry,’ she reproved me. ‘Well, Robin didn’t like it, much, but he’s biddable. He took his car and waited in a quarry near the Lochnabee turn-off until your truck came by, going like fury. He saw the police car head them off, and your two boys and the McLarens taking to the heather, and being a good man on the hill himself he waited until the police had given up, and then went after your lads, leaving the McLarens to take care of themselves.’ She took a wistful sip of sherry. ‘It’s a fact, men have all the fun. Well, he found them: the poor McAuslan cratur was up to his neck in a myrtle bog, bawling like a bull, but he got them to his car and brought them here – which wasn’t so clever, but Robin has his limitations. He sneaked them in by the back, and they had barely been in here long enough to foul the carpet when we heard Jacky waking the echoes at the front door. I whipped them straight into the box-room and told Robin to make himself scarce.’
‘No wonder he looked panic-stricken! Aunt Alison, he could have got the jail! So could you, I dare say . . . don’t ask me for what – obstructing justice or something ―’
‘Ach, stop blethering, boy. What did I do but telephone a friend asking him to give two soldiers a lift?’
Legally, she may have been right: I doubt if there are laws against obtaining information from an employee with threats of dismissal, dragooning a neighbour into rescuing stray soldiers from bogs, playing Lady Bountiful to keep Excisemen from their duty, or beguiling choleric naval men with fair words and malt whisky while their mud-spattered quarry lies hidden in the next room. But they do call for an unusual ability to think on your feet, to say nothing of imperturbability, man management, and sheer cold nerve. And as I watched her now, taking a vanity mirror from her bag, turning her head critically, and adjusting a silver curl, I said as much. She was amused.
‘Dear me,’ she said, ‘have you forgotten, when you were wee, I told you about the woman of Achruach and the Gregora? Well,’ she gave a last glance at her mirror, smoothing an eyebrow, ‘I may use reading glasses and gasp a bit on the stairs, but the day I cannot keep my countenance, and work my will on the likes of Robin Elphinstone and Admiral Jacky – that, nephew, is a day you will never see.’
They were feigning sleep when I got back to Wade’s House, Macrae in silence, McAuslan with irregular staccato grunts which he probably imagined sounded like rhythmic breathing. I didn’t rouse them, partly because I was too tired to listen to the lies of one and the pathetic excuses of the other, but chiefly because my sadistic streak was showing and I was only too pleased to let them stew in their guilty fear until morning. Even then I ignored them, telling Brooks that we would do without breakfast and get on the road at once; I had no wish to linger in a locality whose inhabitants had proved themselves about as safe as damp gun-cotton.
When we were safely south of Balquhidder I told Brooks to pull over on a quiet stretch, and went round to order the criminal element out of the back for a man-to-man chat by the roadside. Macrae, haggard but presentable, stared stolidly to his front; McAuslan was in his normal parade order, filthy, abject, crouched to attention with animal fear in every ragged line of him, and sneezing fit to rattle the windows in Crieff. Forcing myself to look more closely, I saw that he had shed most of the muck he had been wearing last night, and that he was wringing wet; a small pool was forming around his sodden boots.
‘What the devil have you been doing?’ I demanded.
‘Please, sur,’ he croaked, and sneezed again, thunderously. ‘Oh, name o’ Goad! Please, sur,’ he repeated, through hideous snuffles, ‘Corporal Macrae threw me inna burn, sur. Las’ night, sur, when we wis comin’ hame.’
I fought down an impulse to deal lenient
ly with Macrae. ‘Why did you do that, Corporal?’
‘Tae get him clean, sir. He was manky. Ye saw him at the hotel, sir, covered wi’ glaur. I wisnae lettin’ him in your auntie’s hoose in that state.’
‘Well, that was very thoughtful of you. And by the looks of you, McAuslan, you slept in your wet uniform. Why?’
‘Becos . . . aarraashaw! Aw, jeez, beg pard’n, sur! Jist a wee tickle in ma nose. Aye, weel, ye see, Ah kept ma claes on fur tae keep me warm.’
‘Ah, of course. Well, we don’t want them to get creased, do we, so why don’t you get back in the truck – and strip the disgusting things off, you blithering clot, you! Dry your horrible self, if you know how, and wrap your useless carcase in a blanket before you get pneumonia, although why I should worry about that I’m shot if I know! Move!’
A normal enough preliminary to a meeting of minds with McAuslan. When he had vanished, sneezing and hawking, over the tailboard, I turned back to Macrae.
‘Right, Corporal. Tell me about last night.’
He licked his lips, looking past me. ‘Did your auntie . . . Mrs Gordon, I mean . . . not tell you?’
‘She told me. Now you tell me.’
It was like getting blood from a stone. After some evasion, he admitted faking the stag-shooting. Why had he done it? Och, well, the McLarens were good lads, and it was a bit o’ sport. No, he’d had no money from them. (I believed this.) Yes, he had let them take the truck in my absence, and gone with them; aye, he knew it was a grave offence, but he was deep in the business by then, and couldnae let them down; they were good lads. Forbye, he didnae think I would ever know. Yes, he knew that conspiring with illicit distillers was a criminal matter, and that he and McAuslan might have landed in jail. Didn’t he realise what a dirty trick it was to involve a meat-brain like McAuslan in the first place? At this he looked uncomfortable, and shrugged, with a sheepish little laugh – and that was when I caught the smell on his breath.