The Wild Island

  Nevertheless the large bed with its mahogany headboard was in itself extremely comfortable, because the mattress sank so deeply in the centre as to positively enclose Jemima within its warmth. There were also three stone hot-water bottles, still-warm relics of Bridie's ministrations.

  Jemima listened to the noise of the water running outside. There was no moon, and the few other sounds of the night did not disturb her.

  She felt secure, happy.

  Jemima picked up her detective story, entitled, she noticed, A Scottish Tragedy, a sort of modern-dress version of Macbeth, which she had chosen at Euston for its cover of tartan and a dagger dripping with blood. At the time it seemed appropriate enough. Jemima felt cosier than ever as she skimmed, sleepily but still pleasantly, through the first chapter.

  . She was just turning the page to chapter two when the sound of someone coming stealthily up the stairs told Jemima that she was not after all alone in the house.

  CHAPTER 9

  From the South

  The staircase creaked. She could not be mistaken. This was no ghost, no projection of the haunted imagination. Someone was coming up the stairs, someone who would shortly reach the head of the stairs, turn towards her bedroom, softly deliberately

  Jemima Shore felt quite literally paralysed with fright. She could not even stretch out one hand. At the same time she heard rather than felt, or so it seemed at the time, her heart thumping in time to the muffled steps. It would have been prudent to have leapt out of the huge blanketed bed, maybe even to lock the door - if there was a lock. Perhaps she should turn out the little bedside light in order to gain a certain advantage over her assailant. These thoughts went through her head while she continued to sit bolt upright in bed, frozen, the thin paper pages of A Scottish Tragedy still clenched between her rigid fingers.

  No, she definitely could not move. All she could think was that she was alone in an empty house, with no help at all at hand, alone on a wild island, and just as she thought, This is ridiculous, I'll get the police, I'll dial 999, she remembered that there was no telephone.

  It was at that moment that the intruder reached the top of the stairs. There was a hesitation, a silence, then the creaking

  moved in her direction. In gathering desperation Jemima listened to some new softly muted sounds outside her door: then a horrible thought struck her-there were two of them. A kind of greedy whispering consultation was going on just outside her door, she could not hear precisely what, but they were dividing her up, they were deciding what to do with her, she knew it, and soon they would burst open the door —

  There was the sound of scuffling, low down. Quite suddenly Jemima realized that there was nothing human outside: in fact, the whispers were snufflings, there was some kind of animal outside her door. Unless it was a human being who whined and scrabbled, with sharp nails, and sniffed avidly beneath the ill-fitting door. The snuffling changed to a kind of whining. In her shaken state,- that was such a ghastly thought, a human monster, a Beast come to find its Beauty, sitting up in bed in her pale satin nightdress, that she had to reject it, put it away. Yet equally the idea of a straightforward animal there outside the door, nervous as she felt, was scarcely reassuring. Jemima had a particular dread of bears who sometimes featured in her bad dreams. The image of a bear-like monster, a kind of vicious Caliban crawling out of the undergrowth of the island in search of its prey, was both persistent and repulsive.

  In the meantime the snuffling and sharp, horribly determined scrabbling continued. It was just as Jemima had recovered her courage, and decided that she who would valiant be must at least confront her enemy, that two short deep barks settled the question of the monster's identity. She was thus half way out of bed already, genuinely cold now in the inadequate satin, when the feeble catch of the door finally gave before the animal's assaults.

  At which point a labrador, large, beige and friendly, burst into the room. She recognized him. It wasjacobite. His strong tail wagged with continuous energy, his nose continued to snuffle, now at Jemima's bare feet. Then the labrador paused, raced to the tattered chintz curtains, sniffed, paused again, and came back to Jemima's feet. Finally with more energetic wags of his tail, the vast dog leapt onto the bed, lowered his head, transformed himself from a labrador into a circular pile of golden fur, and went to sleep.

  Still too amazed for much thought, Jemima followed him back to the bed. She got among the warm blankets again. Her will sapped by a strong mixture of relief and surprise, she saw no reason not to follow the dog's example. Putting out the light, putting aside A Scottish Tragedy (she would not pick up that particular book again in a hurry), Jemima laid her head on the pillow. Jacobite had considerately chosen to make his nest at the bottom of the bed. The dog's heavy breathing, or light snoring, depending on your point of view, soothed rather than disturbed her. She had certainly never slept with a dog in her room before; the fastidious cat Colette maintained the privacy of her nights absolutely. In the background the noise of the river began to float away. An instant later, Jemima joined Jacobite in sleep.

  When she awoke it was broad daylight. Bridie Stuart was standing over her with a heavy tray. Sleepy as she was, she could still discern a hunter's breakfast, porridge, oatcakes, eggs and bacon, and a few other items at whose nature, except that they were farinaceous, she could only guess. Jemima never ate breakfast.

  She was about to murmur politely, 'Is there any orange juice ?’ (Cherry could never have forgotten to order that prime need), when she was interrupted by a vicious sound from the bottom of the bed. Startled, because she had completely forgotten the dog, Jemima saw that Jacobite was growling angrily and determinedly in the general direction of Bridie. The golden fur on his neck stood up in a ruff.

  Bridie herself looked genuinely startled and even-for one instant-frightened. Then she looked very angry indeed.

  ‘Ach, the wicked dog. The devil. How did she get in here, Miss Shore?'

  'I really don't know. Late last night, I heard a noise—' 'Ach, the devil,' Bridie repeated. 'She's still looking for him. She won't give up. She'll never give up.' 'He was so friendly last night—'

  ‘He?'

  'He, she, Jacobite, the dog.' As if in confirmation, Jacobite snuffled again towards Jemima and even licked her hand. Then he looked towards Bridie and gave another menacing growl. The fur on his neck, which had temporarily subsided, rose again.

  That's no Jacobite,' repeated Bridie. Anger or fright or a combination of both made her sound quite scornful. 'Jacobite would'na come here in the middle of the night finding a loose window at the back like a thief. Jacobite stays at Kilbronnack House where he belongs, with his owner. He's a good dog, Jacobite is.'

  'Then this is—'

  'His own sister. From the same litter. But as different a one from the other as -' a pause '-Mr Charles and Mr Ben. 'Jemima patted the dog's head. At the same time her fingers felt a collar and a tag. She twisted it round and discerned in highly ornamental letters: ‘I belong to Charles Edward Beauregard of Beauregard Castle.' On the other side, it read: 'My name is Flora.' To Jemima the two dogs were absolutely identical.

  Bridie had recovered from her fright and anger. She put down the loaded tray. The dog - Flora, as Jemima must learn to call her-gave another distinct growl.

  'Why does she growl at you?' Jemima felt she had to ask. Dogs were becoming more of a mystery to her than ever. 'She must know you so well.'

  'Aye, she does that,' said Bridie briefly. The smiling welcoming Bridie was not in evidence at all this morning; the dog's appearance had evidently shaken her more than she cared to admit. Of the two women, yesterday's warm enthusiastic help and today's figure of indignation and scarcely controlled outrage - or was it fear - Jemima wondered which was the real Bridie.

  'She was so friendly to me, a total stranger —' began Jemima Shore, Investigator.

  'Miss Shore,' said Bridie, 'it's no concern of yours, mebbe, since you're only here from the South, and a tenant, to enjoy our lovely glen. Bu
t I may as well tell you the truth. I was never able to abide Mr Charles Beauregard. Nor his sister. Nor what went on up at the Castle. I did'na hold with his ways. I told them so, when they asked me to work there. Young people, yet they weren't as young people should be. Not like Mr Ben and Mr Rory and my boys —'

  'And the dog knew this—'Jemima's voice was incredulous. She could easily believe in Bridie's disapproval of anything even remotely un-Scottish which might go on in beloved Glen Bronnack. Particularly so, since her loyalties were so clearly involved with the other branch of the family, Colonel Henry, Lady Edith, and Bridie's vast brood of former nurselings. But Flora, to ha ve joined in the feud was clearly a dog of extra perception.

  'She knew all right. And as I gazed on him in the water, and then thought how I should help him, poor drownded creature, past all human aid, she rushed at me, bit my skirts, tore at my hand. Look, it's not healed yet, the doctor gave me an injection—' Grimly Bridie held out one large, red hand on which there was a patchwork of sticking plaster.

  'She thought it was I who did it. But it was not I,' Bridie's voice gathered passion. 'Not I who did it. I know who did it mebbe, though I'm not saying so, mind you, or mebbe I have my own ideas, but it was not I who did it.' Then Bridie began to shiver, as though at the vivid appalling memory.

  'Bridie, who did kill Charles Beauregard?' The question sprang to her lips. Afterwards Jemima was never quite clear whether she had actually pronounced the words or not. For at that moment, the loud sharp hooting of a car's horn caused both women - Bridie in her white apron over a thick woollen cardigan and tweed skirt, Jemima still only in her shell-coloured satin - to turn their heads.

  The hooting had an imperious quality.

  'Ye never hear the cars arrive up at the island,' muttered Bridie. 'The river drowns the noise.' She turned and left the room. Jemima heard her heavy footsteps descending the stairs.

  A door banged. Now there were swift light footsteps coming up the stairs and a high female voice calling:' Flora, Flora, good girl, Flora... Where are you?*

  The labrador leapt off the bed barking, the wag of her tail swiping the milk jug sideways. There were joyful sounds of reunion and greetings in which 'Bad girl, good girl' seemed to alternate.

  Finally, framed in the doorway, appeared the slight figure of Clementina Beauregard. In a Mexican blouse, thin, almost transparent, with a coloured shawl round her shoulders, a long patchwork skirt, various necklaces of beads, zodiacal signs and silver fishes hanging on chains, and with her long curling hair flowing everywhere, she presented a charming if slightly inappropriate sight for a Highland morning.

  Clementina Beauregard advanced on Jemima with a smile which was so fixed as to give an impression of strain rather than genuine welcome. She was also carrying a half-smoked cigarette in one hand.

  'Miss Shore,’ she cried, 'I'm so terribly pleased to see you. You will help me, won't you? No, don't say you won't. I've got something most important I want you to do for me. I mean, you are Jemima Shore, Investigator, aren't you? I say, oatcakes.' Without a pause, this fairy-like creature, so thin and pale that she resembled Titania rather than something more substantial and human, began to demolish most of Jemima's hitherto untouched breakfast.

  As Clementina rattled on, the timbre of her high clear bell-like voice recalled to Jemima's mind her denunciation in the church: 'Murderers...' Her chatter darted to and fro in its random phrases, cries, appeals, expostulations, irrelevances, catch-phrases, like a bird, and in vain Jemima tried to interrupt her. In despair she glanced at her leather travelling clock-a practical present from Tom Amyas.

  Nine thirty. At least she had slept like the dead. The phrase struck her suddenly as a sinister one. She wasnot dead. No wild animal had molested her, only a harmless dog looking rather touchingly for its dead master.

  'Perhaps, after my breakfast,' said Jemima at last, pleadingly, to try and stem the flow. At which her fairy tormentor jumped up and cried in despair:

  'But I've eaten all your breakfast! Horrors! And Bridie wouldn't dream of cooking anything for me. Such a disapproving old thing. How Ben and the boys stuck her as a Nanny, I can't think, except I suppose if you have Aunt Edith as a mother, anything is preferable. Calling Charles and me depraved! I'm sure she's far more depraved with all her jealousy and wanting everything for Ben all the time and hating us.' Clementina broke into slightly hysterical laughter.

  Jemima smiled with more politeness than she felt. She had a terrible feeling that she knew exactly what Clementina Beauregard intended to ask of Jemima Shore, Investigator. Why was it that everyone expected television to present its performers with a kind of magic wand, which would enable them to solve problems insoluble by mere mortals? As far as Jemima was concerned, she was beginning to think that television created more problems than it solved, certainly at this hour of the morning.

  She was thus not totally surprised to find herself being urgently enlisted by Clementina Beauregard to solve the murder of her brother Charles.

  ‘I’ll pay you, of course,' said the girl, tossing her fair hair confidently. She seemed to have less hysteria when discussing money than any other subject. 'I've never had any money before. Everything went to Charles of course, and even when Mummy died, despite her being American, she went and left all the money to Charles too, because that's what Daddy would have wanted. But now with Charles dead, I've got it all, the money, I mean, and I want revenge, that's what I want to spend the money on.' Her voice trembled on the word revenge.

  'Yes,' she went on, more calmly and coldly, i'm a great heiress now. My mother was an only child whose father invented something ghastly to do with machines which everyone absolutely had to have. No other relations at all. Now Charles is dead, I've inherited the lot, yet I have now no land, not even a house to my name, all that goes to the male heir,' she invested the last two words with virulent contempt. *ln fact I can think of no better use for my money than to bring my uncle Henry Beauregard to justice. After that I'll just hand over what's left to the Red Rose, which Charles would have liked, and I'll go away. Besides if I die without children, which is extremely likely as far as I can see, then any money I don't succeed in spending has to go half to the local church and half to the next owner of the Beauregard Estates. Father Flanagan, that old horror, and Uncle Henry, or Ben, still worse! Can you imagine? No, I'll give it to the Red Rose, and then I'll just go away.'

  There were tears in Clementina's eyes, of anger, perhaps, lamentation for her brother, or just passion.

  Jemima replied in as measured terms as she could: 'First, Miss Beauregard, you must realize that I'm here from the South and what you're saying is all gibberish to me. Secondly, there is of course no question of my investigating the death of your brother. I'm a television reporter, not a detective. Lastly, there is no question of my accepting money for it.' She was aware, even as she spoke, that there was a certain weakness of logic about the way she phrased her denial. Clementina pounced on the fact.

  'Forgetthe money,' she said quickly. 'I didn't mean to insult you. I'm sure you're very well paid indeed.' Yes, Jemima wryly reflected, 1 am at least very adequately paid; in that assumption at least about television, Clementina Beauregard is accurate. The girl went on: 'I've got this complex about my money. It's so terrible, you see: I've got this money now, pots and pots of it, and I can do whatever I want, have whatever I want in my lifetime, but how did I get it ? Why, by the death of my brother Charles - the only person I've ever loved. And now I've no one to love, no one to spend it on—' The tears came again, and began to flow down her pale pretty cheeks.

  Jemima felt overcome by a sudden rush of sympathy for this frail spirit, crushed by the recent death of her nearest and evidently dearest relative. And as for the laws of inheritance in these parts, Young Duncan's words in the car came back to her: it was enough to turn a girl's brain to lose her home and brother in one fell swoop, and all for the accident of birth which made her female. Jemima forgot the charm of Colonel Henry's manner, as a
comparatively rare feminist indignation began to burn in her breast. Why should an uncle dispossess his niece in this manner?

  'Tell me all about it,' she said kindly, in her best Jemima Shore manner, laying her hand on Clementina's thin fingers. The girl was genuinely shaking. 'Maybe the mere fact of my being from the South will let me bring a fresh eye to it all. You've been through a terrible experience: I can help you get it into proportion. If you tell me all about it, I expect I can reassure you that however tragic your brother's death, nothing criminal has taken place.' As Jemima spoke these soothing words, she noted that one part of her incorrigible brain was already toying with a major autumn programme on female inheritance in the modern world and/or the problems of a Highland feudal society or both... And this was supposed to be a holiday.

  'First of all read that,' said Clementina, 'and then see if you can reassure me that nothing criminal has taken place. Lachlan Stuart got hold of it somehow.' She fished a piece of paper out of a loose bag of vaguely Middle Eastern origin which hung over her shoulder and pushed it towards Jemima across the denuded breakfast tray, lighting yet another cigarette immediately afterwards.

  Jemima read:

  'Ben. Urgent. I've just heard he'll be up at Marjorie's Pool

  this afternoon. He's on to us. Do something before it's too late.'

  The signature was H.B.B.

  #

  'Henry Benedict Beauregard,' completed Clementina as Jemima handed it back. 'And that's unquestionably my uncle's handwriting.'

  CHAPTER 10

  A royal link

  'Now I'll explain to you what it's all about,' said Clementina Beauregard, twisting one of her many necklaces, so that the cabbalistic signs jangled. 'And then you'll help me. I know you will.'