Marshall Joanne Sea Song

 

 

 

 

SEA SONG

Joanne Marshall

 

 

Lorn's mother was forced to turn the family home into a guesthouse. Lorn awaited the first arrivals with trepidation, for so much depended upon the success of the venture. But everyone seemed very pleasant really, although Lorn had her doubts about the brooding Kit Brown.

 

  CHAPTER I

I turned up my coat collar. A mist was rolling in over a cold grey sea that echoed with birds' cries. I could make out little but the railings of the front. Out in the bay I seemed to see the vague outlines of ships, a thin tracery of spars and ropes. But it was all imagination—the echo my father's through my mind. I couldn't see of anything but thewords faintlyresounding luminous pall, the shadowy streets and horizontals of the barrier between me and the water that lisped over the invisible shingle. There was a song behind the gulls' cries—a sea-song. I had never felt so sad in my life. I began to walk back towards the town centre. My footsteps reverberated hollowly. It had been a mistake to go there. There was something incredibly mournful about gulls and mist—and memories. One must always look forward. Never back. The glow from hotel windows was just discernible at the other side sid e of the promenade. I glanced at the luminous hands of my watch and started to hurry. Aunt Jura expected me and I knew I would be late for the family conclave. Jura. My aunt was called after an island, just as my mother and their third sister had been. Mother was Scarba and the aunt I rarely saw Iona. The picturesque nomenclature hadn't ended there. My sister was christened Kerrera, my brother Seil, and I was Lorn. The dictionary definition of my name was forsaken —alone. I'd never felt this until recently. The sound of it was as sad as the sea-song that followed me part of the way up the hill, then died out to leave nothing but my quick footsteps and my own uneven breathing. Aunt Ju's house of a nebulous shrubbery and a inside frieze of vague, etchedloomed trees. out I opened the door and stepped quietly. Kerry's high-pitched, excited voice carried clearly into the

 

 

hall. 'Lorn's never going to forgive herself, you know. If only she'd snap out of it! It must upset Mum even more to see her going around like a wraith. No one could help what happened, even if it was dreadful—' 'We must work out a plan of campaign,' Aunt Ju said decisively. 'We musta decide to help mother most and then preserve united what's front ingoing the face of heryour almost certain opposition. The crux of the matter is that she has a huge house she can no longer afford to keep up without a fresh source of income. There are the three of us— four when Lorn gets here—and we've to pool our ideas.' I made myself knock at the drawing-room door. Seil opened it. We stared at one another briefly, then my brother's eyes slid away. Seil was brown and quiet, smooth as his name. One never quite got to the bottom of his nature or resources. Kerry was sitting on the hearthrug, her hands clasped around her knees. She was brown in a different way—long, tumbled hair and hazel eyes, an impression of movement. There was none of Seil's quality of stillness. I was the one with the Corquodale colouring and disposition—rust-red hair and black eyes and a tendency to climb to impossible heights of enthusiasm or plunge to abysmal depths, while ignoring the level ground in between. b etween. Aunt Ju stood up welcomingly. Her dark hair held a trace of blue that was echoed in her eyes. 1 could never understand why she wasn't married. Elegant, good-looking—it didn't make sense. I looked at her again and had the odd impression that she had been crying, though I knew I must be wrong. SheThere neverhad gave waybeen to grief or to She any emotion resembling despair. never any need. had no husband or children to worry about. Her few friends were

 

 

constant and uncomplicated. Her affairs remained satisfactorily remunerative—or appeared to do so. The question gnawed at the back of my mind. Why was she upset? 'I'm sorry I'm late. I didn't notice the time.' 'That's all right. Have a cup of tea.' 'Thanks.' I sat down in a pale-green chair and looked at the fire. Sooner or later someone would say something. I was reluctant to set the ball rolling. If it hadn't been for me, we wouldn't be assembled here, trying to determine my mother's future. Beyond the crackle of the flames I seemed to hear that other music. The song of the sea—a cruel, destructive dirge. 'I've taken the first step,' Aunt Ju said suddenly. 'I've had a good offer for the shop. I've decided to accept it.' There was a silence. 'But why?' Kerry demanded after a minute. She was always the inquisitive one, the first to question things. Seil and I waited and listened, l istened, rarely acted impulsively. 'I'm tired of selling things. I want to be more involved. With people.' 'But you are already,' Kerry pointed out, frowning. It didn't detract from her prettiness noticeably. 'It's so transient. Strangers passing through. Like—shadow people. I felt like this before—before the present situation arose. This— made up my mind for me. Now,' Aunt Ju said briskly, ' there's the house. It's always been too large, but your mother loves it. There isn't enough money at present to allow her to keep it. Your father

 

 

didn't plan for the future—he wasn't that sort of man. So we've got to get our heads together.' My father had been gay and gregarious. He loved company. It hadn't mattered that it cost a great deal  to  entertain so lavishly. And we always had expensive schooling and holidays, bicycles, pony-trekking, riding, sailing. Hetohad his ownatlaunch, the dinghy, the mini-bus he adored to fill capacity weekends, picnic baskets with lobster, salmon and wines. Father thought he would live for ever —only he hadn't. And his uncle's legacy had been dissipated over the years. Gone— ' What do you think, Lorn?' My eyes focussed. 'Think?—' ' Why can't you listen?' Kerry sounded irritable. 'Aunt Ju suggests we run a kind of super guesthouse. Try to attract rich Continentals. Cordon bleu food. Your languages. Seil's knowledge of boats and sailing. And you could drive the minibus—you drive awfully well. You always said you'd like to be a courier, here's your chance.' I sat unmoving. It made a mad sort of sense. Mother cooked like a dream and Kerry was as good, if not better. The Firth of Lorn was a sailing paradise—Staffa. Mull, Iona, Coll and Tiree. Then there was Crinan, Ben Awe and Ben Nevis, the castles. I knew the local history. We might attract a few exiled Scots, geologists or archaeologists. 'Mum's still got Mrs Gunn. And Aunt Ju's going to help,' Kerry went on, watching for my reaction. 'We could do it. I don't want to go on to Uni,' she admitted. 'Too much like hard work. I'd prefer to muck about with food. If we give good value, we'll gain a reputation. And the house is well furnished. Dad always got the best. Seil knows machinery backwards and likes mechanics and he's got the right kind of shoulders for hoisting suitcases. Your part would be getting everyone out from under our feet between breakfast and dinner at night. Drives and sails—'

 

 

Sailing! I hated the sea. I never wanted to have anything to do with it again. But I owed it to Mother. That would be my punishment— forcing myself to walk up a gang-plank and loathing every second of it. Listening to the sea s ea slap against the hull. Aunt Ju had a special talent with flowers and tables and dinner napkins. She could and objects that a room always looked at its arrange best. Shepictures knew about interior so decorating and colour combinations. But did she really want to part p art with the shop? The quartz and amethyst, the silver and brasses, the beautiful Oban glass, the plaids and mohair, the glittering paper-weights, the supple leather and suede, the topaz and mother-of-pearl? Wasn't it asking too much of her? Then I thought of Mother sitting in her lonely house, her black dress a symbol of, my guilt. My parents had cared about one another. I owed it to her to see that she kept her home. I must push aside my own dreams and inclinations. Aunt Ju looked excited and rejuvenated. It was obvious she didn't mourn for her lovely shop. 'It sounds—all right,' I said quietly. q uietly. 'I could deal with the paper-work with your help. I've always had to do it,' Aunt Ju told us. That funny, blurred look had left her eyes and they were bright and blue. I no longer doubted her desire to become a private hotelier. She'd talk Mother into it, she and Seil and Kerry. I'd follow suit because I owed that to my conscience. I was too absent-minded to be much use indoors, but there was a great deal I could give to the outdoor pursuits. There was that feeling for beauty and for history that I could evoke for others. I was reliable with the mini-bus and almost as good as Seil with the launch and dinghy. We'd and copeaccounts, between Mother us. Auntand Ju Kerry and Mrs Gunn would manage the house to cater. We had connections with stables and market gardens. We could

 

 

pass on those interested in riding. Major Robertson would be grateful for extra business. It didn't didn 't seem improbable at all. 'Who's going to put it to Mum?' Kerry asked. The fire was still making flame-music and the sea-song had retreated. I strained my ears, but Aunt Ju's plans had h ad obliterated its soft, insidious sound. 'I will,' my aunt replied. 'Tomorrow.' I was glad about the reprieve. There was still tonight without talk and conjecture. I stood up and fastened my coat. 'I'll just go on. You don't mind, do you?' 'Of course not.' Three pairs of eyes watched me carefully. I kissed Aunt Ju and smelt her perfume, musky and muted. I wondered what we'd have done without her. The house would have been sold and Mother installed in a flat or a little semi-detached. Kerry would have gone on to university, Seil to a garage. He preferred the insides of cars to anything else. The boats and the mini-bus would have been disposed of. My aunt came to the door with me. It was dusky now. There was a purple pall behind the the mist. The groped withhalldark, indeterminate fingers for sullen sky.trees The light in the fell upon both of our faces. 'You mustn't torture yourself so, Lorn,' Aunt Ju said softly. 'Life's too short to wear a hair shirt permanently.' 'But I loved him. I miss him so.' My voice was rough, a stranger's voice. 'I know—'

 

 

I looked at Aunt Ju sharply. There was something in her eyes I'd never seen before, something I'd missed all the years I'd known her. The look was gone quickly, overlaid with familiarity, but I'd recognised it. She'd loved him too. It was as sad as the smoky purple dusk and the gulls' cries, the far-off lament of the sea. Iand heard doorroad. closeThe behind mewas as Ifreshening. turned out of front garden on the to the wind It the could blow the mist away. I couldn't go straight home. I'd go where I'd always gone to lick my wounds. The Folly rose behind the street where our house was situated. I climbed the steep hill, guiding myself by the rail that bisected the lane. Lights glimmered from the ramparts of buildings. The Folly loomed out of the thinning mist like some Roman nightmare. The machicolated gateway seemed to have no connection with the huge circle of dark stone that was surely based on the Colosseum. The double row of tall, painted windows glowed with sulky violet, like flames round a birthday cake. My footsteps echoed as I crossed the unroofed inner portion and stepped up on to the nearest aperture, my hands resting on the rough stone. The mist was only a faint web, almost tangible against my face. I stared down across the jutting rooftops, the towers and spires, the globules and rectangles of gold from lampposts and windows. The long shape of Kerrera stretched dark as prunes. The bulks of Mull and Morven and Lorn were vague blooms and shivers of night shapes, expanding and contracting just on the verge of sight. Tree-tops shifted just below me. The bay was now visible, filled with small, rocking boats and needles of masts. Steamers showed guide lights, yachts and fishing-boats clustering close to the harbour wall. There were yellow pools reflected on the sea's ruffled surface. Somewhere a motor throbbed into life. The hills were quiet—as quiet as McCaig's Folly.

 

 

Or was it? Something moved with infinite caution. The sound of muffled footsteps, slow and purposeful, came closer, I saw the outline of a man, huge and broad, horridly anonymous. anon ymous. I stayed where I was, hardly breathing, my body pressed against the side of the aperture. It was ridiculous. This was a public place. He had as much right did. It was only gloom and the solitude that made himthere seemassoI sinister. That wasthe all— He stopped just beside me. My heart rocked like one of the boats in the bay. There was nowhere for me to go. I couldn't jump from the other side of the tall window-space because the ground fell away abruptly through dwarfed trees and bushes and billows of rowan. He blocked the inner descent from the wide stone ledge. He knew I was there, but preferred to stand unmoving, like a gigantic cat with a mouse. The mist seemed suddenly thicker, accentuating the broad form, making him look bigger than ever and more dangerous. The sound of the motor –boat had limped to a halt and quiet pressed around us. Something about him reminded me, with a stab of pain, of my father. He had looked like this. I bit my lip as I remembered him. The man struck a match and the unexpected flare of light edged his h is head with a line of yellow. His skin shone faintly, showing me little but the bosses of his cheeks, the line of his brows and mouth. I must have made some small noise, for he swung around and lifted the match. The glow lit the aperture briefly, then went out. The wind mourned through the rowans and shrubs that circled the mound outside the Folly. The islands and headlands smoked dimly beyond the hazed lights of the harbour. The taut moments stretched out, inexplicably momentous.

 

 

'Do you always keep vigil there?' he asked eventually. 'What are you doing, anyway?' I fancied there was anger in his voice, an irritation that covered curiosity. It seemed I had startled him as much as he'd disturbed me. 'I've a right to be here.' It wasn't very gracious, but I couldn't help myself. 'And I haven't?' There was no answer to that. Anyone who was prepared to climb the hill was entitled to be b e here. I remained silent. 'You don't look safe,' he went on, and now his tone was subtly different. 'Here, let me help you down.' He stretched out a hand. I waited for a minute before I took it. It was hard and powerful, reinforcing my first impression of controlled violence. I jumped, and, just for a moment, my body swung against his. There was a curious disturbance in that contact, something obscurely pleasurable. 'Your name wouldn't be Isobel Goudie, would it?' he asked softly, but in spite of that softness there was an undercurrent of some strong emotion. 'Why should it be?' My disquiet was submerged under reluctant interest. I found myself wishing he didn't keep reminding me of my father. There was a distinct resemblance of height, breadth and stance that drew me in spite of myself. But he was fair. Father had been rusty red—like me. 'She was a witch.' 'Oh, thanks! It's well, seeing it's dark,' I said drily. 'I didn't think I was that bad.'

 

 

'She was young, attractive and red-haired. She made images of clay and wax, moonpaste and fairy-arrows. And I don't care to think of the manner of her dying,' the stranger went on. His level tones were curiously impressive. 'How—did she die?' 'Oh, I shan't tell you. You might have nightmares. Even her strange dark eyes couldn't save her.' He had seen a great deal in a short time, I reflected. Then I shivered. I was glad I wasn't Isobel Goudie. But the silence that had fallen between the stranger and myself seemed even more unnerving than speech had been. The shape of him was too reminiscent of Father's. I wondered, suddenly, what his face was like. Not that it could matter. In another minute the Folly would be deserted, the shadowy amethyst of the apertures left to grow dark as night fell. But the trees would go on shivering and rustling in spite of the cloak of blackness. I remembered that rowan was an antidote against witchcraft. The Folly was ringed with it. And yet there was nothing of safety here— 'I must go.' 'Must you?' His body remained a barrier, unmoving. 'Yes.' 'Look—' he began, his voice soft and considering. I moved past him, not wanting him to put his thoughts into words. I had to go home. I'd had the respite I needed. Mother would worry if I didn't turn up soon. He was no one who could possibly matter. But I knew instinctively that I wouldn't forget him, that I'd dream

 

 

of the Folly with him in it, of wax images, of a red-haired witch in a window-space, outlined in lavender and mist. 'Goodnight,' I called over my shoulder. He hadn't moved. He was part of the stone, of the darkness. I went under the arch and turned towards the steps. I could just see the rim of the Folly curved against the sky. Then it was gone and the last traces of him with it. The wall of our garden rose ahead, the arched top of the low doorway showing paler than the rest. I stood with my hand on the latch, my ears straining until I heard what I'd been listening for— footsteps that moved with studied caution, purposeful as a stalking cat. I opened the door then and entered the garden, closing the door hurriedly, shooting the bolt home in the socket. The footsteps had stopped. I knew with all of my heightened senses that someone was there. My mouth was suddenly dry. Fear had entered my life for the second time. 'Is that you, Lorn?' I made out my mother's slender height by the darkened porch. 'Yes, it's me.' 'I was worried. You didn't come in.' Her voice reproached me. 'I'm coming now.' The footsteps had started again, quiet, terribly alive, then diminishing, becoming part of the leaves, of the wind on the hill. The house opened to receive me. Mother waited with her black dress, her dark-rimmed eyes, that silent accusation. I followed her

 

 

upright figure because I had to, but part of me stayed outside, keeping in sight a tall, slow-moving shape that went towards the sea.

 

  CHAPTER II

Mother didn't react as we'd expected to Aunt Ju's suggestions about how to turn Dalrigh into a paying proposition. Perhaps she thought that moving to a small bungalow or semi smacked too much of the King's consort retiring to the traditional convent upon the death of her she welcomed thereason, inevitable effort attached to aspouse. venturePerhaps of this kind. Whatever the she listened, asked reasonable questions, and agreed that it was worth trying. There would be little outlay, far less than in any other business venture. Some printed brochures, some extra linen and china, items of cutlery, more tables and chairs for the dining-room, and the house would become an adequately appointed hotel. Mrs Gunn's niece Patsy was due to leave school just before the opening date and was a hardworking, capable girl according to our housekeeper. She was used to the type of work she'd be doing, being a member of a large family, and would require little training. Seil and Kerry were" keen as mustard. I think they greeted with pleasure the need for effort and direction in their lives. Seil serviced and cleaned the mini-bus, the  Cowrie, the  Gannet  and   and the car. Kerry practised the kind of cookery expected from first-class kitchens and every meal was a work of art. I designed the cover for. the brochure and made endless telephone calls at Aunt Ju's behest. I typed letters and confirmed bookings, sent polite apologies as the weeks became filled up, put numbers on the rooms and cards marked ' Private ' on the doors of our portion of the house. Mother had relinquished the huge room she'd shared with Father, with a certain amount of relief as well as a lingering It had redecorated, given new to curtains and coverings regret. and looked sobeen different that it was difficult remember it as it once was.

 

 

Sometimes I found time to climb up to the Folly, but I never saw it as it was that night of the mist. I never saw him either, though I dreamed of him, heard the echoes of his voice and the soft catfooted walk, and woke still listening. I stood inside the apertures of the Folly, staring over the steeples and roof-tiles and beyond the green velvet of Kerrera to the cloud shadow on the long island shapes that were the colours of heliodor, agate, jade, chryso-prase and green garnet. The fishing-boats in the harbour flaunted their black and orange under the sun and white paint glistened. The birds' cries had lost that peculiar quality of sadness. The grey stone of Dalrigh matched the colour of McCaig's Circle. I could see the house from where I stood. There was no time for this daily pilgrimage the day before we expected our first guests. Aunt Ju, indefatigable as ever, checked the list with me. 'There's Professor and Mrs Trewitt, Caroline Trewitt, Mr C. Brown, Mr and Mrs Fitzherbert and their daughter Judy. Mark Harwell and Philip Landon. And finally, Captain B. Malcolm. Mrs Gunn and I will check the rooms again for ash-trays and waste-paper baskets, you'll check the arrival time for the train and remind Seil that you and he are meeting it for those guests who aren't coming by car—the Trewitts, Mr Brown, and Captain Malcolm, that is. Whatever is that awful noise?' My aunt screwed up her nose. We went to the window. A red sports car had just roared to a stop outside the next-door house. A girl stepped out of it, a fashion-magazine kind of girl with satin-black hair drawn back in a chignon to reveal a Nefertiti profile and great slanting eyes. 'I might have known it would be Vida,' Aunt Ju remarked. 'That girl does everything with a certain air of showmanship. One could never imagine her creeping up quietly in a modest little Mini.

 

 

That's new, I suppose? I don't remember seeing or hearing it before, and it's not a thing one would forget easily.' 'That' was a sleek, powerful Aston Martin, reminiscent of the girl who had just emerged from it with such feline grace. I had known Vida MacInnes all my life. In spite of friendly overtures I felt I knew at all aboutthat her.emphasised She seemedthe always to be concealed behindnothing a coating of gloss impression of beauty but locked up inner thought and feeling. 'It was her birthday present from Tom,' I told Aunt Ju. We weren't normally given to standing behind the net curtains discussing our neighbours, but Vida and Tom were the kind of people who automatically attracted attention and comment. Tom MacInnes had probably more money than anyone within a hundred-mile radius. Under his clever fingers, business grew and multiplied. He was a big, attractive tom-cat of a man. He'd never married, though he was by no means averse to feminine company. Vida had lived with him since her parents had been killed in a car crash when she was seven. Tom spoiled her outrageously and was proud of her strange, Egyptian-type looks. He was a collector. Paintings, sculpture, coins and jewellery all fascinated him. He was knowledgeable about them and was often asked for advice before his friends committed themselves over similar purchases. Father had been very friendly with Tom. Being a solicitor, he'd acted for him on different occasions. They'd gone sailing and fishing together. Tom had been very upset about Father. But then who hadn't? I moved away from the window quickly. We moved in differing spheres now, the MacInneses and the Corquodales. Father's legacy was all spent and we had to earn our living. Vida and Tom were cushioned as they'd always been. I didn't grudge them that security. I was merely facing facts.

 

 

Aunt Ju sent me out to the shops for last-minute purchases and I noticed the 'under new management' sign above the door of the art shop that had belonged to her. Already it had a far-off, unfamiliar look, an aura of something past and forgotten, pages turned over in the book that was experience. Iroom don'tsosuppose any more of us for slept well. Kerry and I her weretossing sharing a as to leave visitors, and I heard and turning for some time before the rustling stopped. Through the moonlit window I could see the Folly, clear-cut against the night, the window-spaces chequered light and dark. The stars hung over it, bright and cold as ice crystals. Morning came before I was ready, the alarm bell tearing apart the hard-won cocoon of sleep, knocking at my eyelids insistently. i nsistently. 'Blast!' Kerry muttered sleepily. 'Suppose we'll get used to it.' But her face, as she washed and dressed, was alive with a secret satisfaction. Touched, I realised she was looking forward to the hectic summer ahead. Lunch was provided on the day of arrival. She and Mother would have plenty to do. Seil finished his breakfast first and got up to go. My brother never said much. He stood for a moment, all brown skin, eyes and hair, and I knew, with a shock of discovery, that looking at him was as unprofitable as expecting to see Vida revealed in any true dimension. His eyes flicked briefly over us, resting a little longer over Mother's downbent head. There was something oddly unyoung about Seil that, today, seemed accentuated. Then he smiled faintly and the unfamiliarity vanished. He went out. I knew he would be checking the minibus for the umpteenth time. Seil was thorough. Patsy arrived, red-cheeked and breathless, and was swept into the kitchen straight away by Mrs Gunn, intent upon making sure that

 

 

the girl didn't waste a minute of her golden opportunity. I could hear the housekeeper telling her she must do something about her long, corn-coloured hair. 'You must plait it while you're here. Otherwise there'll be hairs where there shouldn't be any.' Patsy would resemble a Dutch girl with her hair braided, I reflected, finishing my coffee. The harbour looked lovely from the window. Blue water with green reflections, the orange masts quivering like antennae. The blue slates of housetops glittered. The Clansman moved across the bay, smoke pouring from its funnel. A red ensign was lowered. A cloud hung over the inky blue of the islands and the length of Kerrera was green and bare. Gulls made sharp stabs of sound. I realised, surprised, that I was happy. I went to make our beds. Our rooms were in a small wing of Dalrigh, keeping us separate from the guests' part of the house. We had our own staircase, which was convenient in the circumstances. Considering everything, we were quite lucky. By the time the correspondence was dealt with it was almost time to meet the train. 'Ready, Lorn?' Seil, in neat, dark clothes, clo thes, waited by the door. We drove along the front. The Esplanade was crowded with people. The shops bulged. Pink sunblinds and green stretched side by side. There was a great flutter of birds, a solid mass of traffic. The mini-bus looked very smart—Seil had cleaned the inside and polished the leather seats. There was a brochure attached to the windscreen in case we missed somebody at the barrier. I was very pleased with the cover design. I'd used the pointed window of the Folly with the bird's-eye view of the Firth of Lorn, the islands melting into distance and magic. It was effective.

 

 

The station was light, cool and airy. Hanging flower-baskets swung gently in the breeze. I stared at the blue clock with the gold rim. Five minutes early. I looked at the books on the magazine stall in a perfunctory fashion. Blue and white signs gave directions all around me. Pale blue tubs held salvias. There were advertisements for tours and for Oban glass. gl ass. The train was coming. I could hear it suddenly above the sounds of feet and low conversation, the banging of doors. People pressed forward towards the barrier. I thought I recognised the Professor—tall, beak-nosed with irongrey hair that hung down past his collar. A woman in tweeds was with him and an intellectual-looking girl walked close behind. They were almost sure to be the Trewitts. The Fitzherberts? The only picture I evoked was of the Prince Regent with a plump, becurled lady hanging on his arm. No one met these requirements. I remembered belatedly that the Fitzherberts were coming by car. The people I had taken for the Professor and his family swept past me and out into the forecourt that faced the Caledonian Hotel. They crossed quickly past the little rose-garden and were hailed by some strangers on the opposite pavement. The tree-filled skyline mocked me. There weren't many people p eople left. A very large man was walking towards me. He looked like a Norwegian or a Swede, I reflected— probably looking for the Youth Hostel. His eyes were extremely blue. I wondered, annoyed with myself, why I was watching him when I should have been on the look-out for the Trewitts. I turned and saw a small group by th thee Menzies bookshop. The woman was holding one of our brochures. I walked towards them with relief. They weren't quite what I'd expected. The Professor was short and broad with Germanic spectacles. His wife was tall and long-faced. Caroline Trewitt was

 

 

a raving beauty. Everything about her satisfied the eye— perfect figure, Julie Christie features and tawny hair, no make-up as far as I could see. She was like a changeling with two friendly ogres. I introduced myself. A hand touched my shoulder. I stared into the eyes of a bearded man. 'Miss Corquodale?' His voice was harsh and deep. 'Yes?' 'Boyd Malcolm. You were to pick me up here.' 'That's right. Allow me to introduce you to Professor Trewitt, his wife and daughter. Now there's only Mr Brown.' I looked around the station. The crowd had thinned. The blond man was standing in the doorway, looking out at the pier and bay. Something about the broad back and the way he stood jerked me into suspicious tension. Mist and the Folly, windows tinged with amethyst, the rowans rustling in a charmed circle. A match rasping and flaring. The outline of a fair head, a cat-footed walk that stopped at the garden door. A sensation of fear— As he eyes felt the my thoughts andifhis metweight mine. of I fancied there and was memories, recognitionheinturned them briefly, then they became blank, a stranger's eyes. It was only a passing resemblance. C. Brown. An anonymous kind of name, only a step removed from John Smith. I shook myself mentally. I had a job to do. 'Mr Brown?' I called, and he nodded. I was conscious of a shock. I hadn't expected him to. He was there at my side, huge and constraining. 'If you'll all wait a minute,' I said impersonally, ' I'll fetch my brother. He'll help with your luggage.'

 

 

All the way to the mini-bus I was conscious of their concerted stares on my back. They were talking as I returned with Seil. I took Mrs Trewitt and Caroline to be seated while the cases were stowed away. The Professor joined his womenfolk. Boyd Malcolm climbed inside, all long legs and wide shoulders, his eyes as black as mine. Only he was left, C. Brown— We stood for a moment oblivious of everything around us. 'I know you,' my eyes told his. 'Just as you know me.' But they repudiated my silent assertion, insisting that we'd just met for the first time. I wanted to remind him of Isobel Goudie, the wax figures and witchcraft, but I knew I couldn't. He waited politely for me to enter the conveyance, then got in to sit at the back. All the way home I was aware of him, huge and unmoving, a little line of light around his head.

I helped with lunch. It was supposed to be one of my off-periods, but I thought Mother and Kerry could do with bolstering up on their first day. Anyway, I was restless. Disturbed too by the presence of C. Brown, who seemed to take up half the diningroom. I'd never encountered anyone who stood out with such effect. His hair was so blond as to be almost white. Yet there was nothing insipid about him. I found myself making up my mind that he was the man at the Folly, then telling myself he couldn't be. Mist and darkness change things, create illusions. Why should he come back here so soon to Dalrigh? Coincidence, a likeness of size and colouring, nothing more. But his voice struck chords of memory I couldn't push aside. Boyd Malcolm was a big man, but being dark helped to diminish him. That and his dark clothes. He was quiet too, with an air of

 

 

self-effacement that was lacking in our Swedish-looking mystery man. It was Mrs Trewitt who brought up the subject of the MacDougalls. Coffee had just been served and the dining-room swam in an atmosphere of relaxation and faint tobacco haze. 'This is MacDougall country, isn't it, Miss Corquodale?' Her voice had an odd expressionless quality that didn't match her tallness and definite features. She seemed to hide behind it like a sniper behind a barricade. Her eyes said so much more, I thought. 'That's right. The male line died out, of course, but the female strain goes on in the Stewarts of Lorn.' I became conscious of the intent stare of C. Brown. What was the C for? And what did it matter? If he'd been nameless, he'd have been just as arresting, as definite a personality. 'They stemmed originally,' I went on in my best guidebook manner, ' from Dugall, the eldest son of Somerled of the Isles, a somewhat prolific gentleman, since half the Scottish clans are supposed to originate from the sons of Somerled.' The Professor chuckled appreciatively. Caroline Trewitt had missed this gem of wit, being occupied in watching Seil through the corner window. I felt a sudden prick of apprehension on my brother's behalf. She was so effortlessly beautiful. She probably had boys like Seil for breakfast every day as a matter of course. I became aware that our guests were awaiting my next pronouncement. 'His son—Dugall's— was Duncan of Ergadia—or Argyll—and he inherited Lorn from his father, somewhere around 1244.'

 

 

'Is this where Haco comes into the tale?' C. Brown enquired. I had the feeling he knew as much about the MacDougall story as I did. 'Yes,' I said stiffly. 'Duncan's son, Ewin, refused to join the Norwegian King. That was 1263. Then there was Alexander, then John. He and Robert the Bruce were obstinate enemies and John was imprisoned Dumbarton. a twist to the story because John's son Ewenat married JoanneThere's McIssak—' 'A fine Irish name,' the Professor remarked gently. Everyone laughed except Caroline, who yawned gently and went on looking at Seil whose head was gleaming like a chestnut in the sunlit road outside. I'd never noticed how much red there was in his hair. He was cleaning the windscreen of the brake. 'She was Bruce's granddaughter, so I expect that's why he had his property restored in—I just forget the year, not that it matters.' '1344,' C. Brown said quietly. 'He had only daughters,' I continued, flustered by this superior knowledge, ' so Lorn passed to the Stewarts of Durrisdeer and Invermeath. The representation of the Clan MacDougall came to the cousin, Ian MacDougall of Dunollie. I can show you what remains of Dunollie. It's a magnificent vantage point, p oint, as good in its way as Pulpit Hill— or McCaig's Folly,' I ended with purpose. C. Brown lowered his blue eyes and said nothing. Perhaps there was nothing to say. Perhaps he had never been here before. But the recollection of mist and gulls' cries, the impression of purple land masses, came tantalisingly close. I almost heard the rasp of a match and felt the sea air strike against my throat. The floor seemed to rumble under the onslaught of some exterior noise.

 

 

'My word,' Professor Trewitt said softly, the light shining on his Germanic lenses so that expression was blotted out. 'What have we here?' The red Aston Martin stopped with merciful suddenness. Vida MacInnes, dressed in ivory white, her profile etched against dark foliage, stood for a moment, her Egyptian eyes fixed on Seil. 'Hello,' she called out. 'You look busy.' Her glance took in the name-board above our door. Although she'd said nothing out of place, I sensed her disapproval. I didn't think anyone else in the road shared her feelings about our new way of life. Seil was more discerning than I'd imagined. 'I am busy,' he replied, and went on with his unnecessary task. Vida made a mock-rueful face and began to turn towards her own gateway. It was then that she saw C. Brown sitting near our large window. Actually, it would have been strange if she hadn't seen him. He wasn't a man one missed easily. She stood for a long, considering moment, her lovely throat outlined, the high sweep of her hair accentuating that heart-stopping likeness to the most beautiful queen of the Ancient World. It was difficult to decide whether or not she smiled, but the impression she left was of a tentative warmth he couldn't have failed to recognise—a warmth only for him. I bent over my tray and began to stack the coffee cups. Boyd Malcolm stood up and gave a slight cough. I looked at him with surprise. His face was faintly flushed. 'Er—there is fishing, isn't there? I understood from the brochure—' 'Oh, yes. Seil takes out those who're interested, at night. When the—excursions are finished. It's quite good round Kerrera.' I found myself wondering why he'd asked. The brochure made it quite plain that there was fishing after dinner, weather permitting.

 

 

And he was so shy that it hadn't been easy broaching the subject. His tanned skin was still reddened. I found him infinitely more likeable than the Nordic Mr Brown who'd been so uncharacteristically well informed about the MacDougalls. 'I'm sure he'll go tonight since it's so fine,' I told him. 'Our other guests will have arrived by then and there may be others to join the boat party.' 'Do—do you ever go?' I lifted my eyes to meet his. He couldn't know what he'd done, what tender places he'd probed. My memory was suddenly filled, with a shock of water, of salt scalding my throat and lungs, of screams cut off, of panic, of someone who should be there—not there at all. 'Sometimes—' I managed to say. 'That's—nice.' Captain Malcolm smiled. It was a nice, gentle smile that successfully counterbalanced the almost grim concentration with which C. Brown lit up a cigarette. Professor Trewitt favoured a rather blackened pipe. His womenfolk didn't smoke at all. I took the used crockery to the kitchen, wondering when the two men from London would arrive, and the Fitzherberts with their Regency associations. 'You'd better go without them,' Aunt Ju advised. 'And for heaven's sake relax for a few minutes. You'll be busy now until after dinner and you haven't let up once. Did anyone say anything about the meal?' 'The Professor and Captain Malcolm enjoyed it and said so. I have the feeling Mrs Trewitt eats because she must and that her mind's

 

 

on other things—the history of the Scottish peoples, for instance. Caroline Trewitt's calorie-counting, but that's normal enough.' enough .' 'She's a ravishing child.' 'Yes. Yes, she is,' I admitted. I hoped she wasn't going to hurt Seil. It was terrifying power she an attractive girlbehind. can wield without realisingjust thehow trailmuch of misery may leave Of course, it wasn't only girls—but I had the distinct feeling that Caroline could have a disruptive effect on the following fortnight. 'You don't sound too sure,' Aunt Ju said, giving me a blue, allseeing look. 'She's lovely.' 'What about the others? Do you think they'll mix well?' 'I hope so. The Captain's shy, but I imagine he'll put himself out to be pleasant. The Professor's quite fun. Mrs T. will want to delve into things and see just about everything—the thorough type.' 'And—Mr Brown?' I turned away quickly. 'I—I don't think I care for him particularly. But that's part of the job, isn't it, pretending to like strangers? I think I will put my feet up for five minutes. Mother and Kerry did marvellously with that meal. And at least no one's had any complaints.' I went, just in case my aunt had any further disconcerting questions. Everyone seemed more friendly when I came downstairs. Captain Malcolm and C. Brown were talking ships, so I presumed Malcolm was a sea captain. I'd wondered about this. It appeared to

 

 

be oil tankers from the little I could hear. Oban must be quite a change from the Middle East. Caroline was outside talking to Seil. I fancied Mrs Trewitt frowned as she looked up from the handbook she was reading. Perhaps I needn't worry about the girl any more. Unless I was mistaken, the Professor's wife would be having a little talk to her offspring about the seemliness of taking too great an interest in the hired chauffeur. Of course, the more genial Professor might talk her out of it. He probably doted on his daughter and might be lenient where she was concerned. 'Shall we go?' I suggested. C. Brown raised his dark-blue eyes. Something white moved in the MacInnes garden and his gaze shifted sideways. Vida was picking roses, those dark red ones with the sultry scent of velvet, chandeliers and Strauss waltzes, of more romantic times than these. 'I hope we'll see some of the places you mentioned,' Mrs Trewitt was saying. 'Dunollie, for instance.' 'Yes. We'll be going there first, then we could circle round to Dunstaffnage and the falls of Lora.' Her eyes brightened with anticipation. She was obviously the type of holidaymaker who extracted every drop of enjoyment from improving her mind. I wondered what the Professor's interests were. Doubtless, I would soon find out. 'Of course,' I went on, seeing C. Brown's absorption in the sight of Vida gathering her dusky night-roses, ' there's no compulsion if anyone would rather do something else. That's understood.'

 

 

The blue eyes met mine. For the first time, he really smiled. It quite transformed his face. 'I can't think of anything I'd rather do.' That could be ambiguous. Seil climbed up into his driving-seat and the rest of us got in the back of the mini-bus. I could see Vida peeping over the tall hedge, a satirical gleam in her almond-shaped eyes. But I noticed that Mr Brown kept his gaze strictly ahead as though he'd forgotten she was there. He couldn't have, of course, but it was nice of him to pretend. We were passing along the front where I'd stood that night in the mist and conjured up the shapes of sailing-ships from another age. The hurt wasn't quite so deep, but it was still there on the edge of feeling like a headache assuaged by the use of aspirin. The sun glinted on the water, turning it to streaked green silk. The islands lay in shades and shadows of plum and prune and purple. We parked in a lay-by and crossed the road to the gate. A small steep path lay ahead. I was surprised to see C. Brown offer his arm to Mrs Trewitt. So there were some gentlemanly instincts concealed under that somewhat hard exterior! Watching him move above me reminded me even more of the Folly by night. He trod so softly for a large man, each movement calculated and necessary, nothing extraneous. The Professor's wife laughed and I wondered what he was saying to her. Then the castle remains loomed up, square and uncompromising, shutting out the sky. An ivy tree, immensely thick-stemmed, grew to cover one wall. Something about its strength and implacability made me aware of C. Brown. They seemed to have qualities in common. Looking down, my heart quickened as it always did at the sight of the chain of blue islands, the green and gold nearer the shore, the warm, dreamlike stillness, the smell of meadowsweet and the

 

 

cornlike grasses swaying. There were thistles, gulls' cries, and trees still and secret, blue clouds over the low tip of Kerrera. This was summer in Lorn, soft and languorous. I became conscious that the Professor and his wife were debating the style of architecture of the castle and that Boyd Malcolm had vanished silently. C. Brown leaned against the ivy tree, his arms folded. They were like twins, he and the tree, both still and massive, vaguely intimidating. I averted my eyes quickly. Seil and Caroline were just appearing at the top of o f the path. I hadn't realised r ealised how tall my brother had become. Or was it just the contrast with Caroline's blonde smallness? She was the kind of girl who aroused the chivalrous instincts in any normal man. There aren't so many of them about as there used to be. Dickens obviously had someone like her in mind when he created David Copperfield's child-wife. Mrs Trewitt stopped talking about castles and looked annoyed. Seil and his attractive companion seemed quite oblivious to the slightly charged atmosphere. 'Miss Trewitt,' I called, ' have you seen Mull and Morven?' Caroline came over and stood beside me. I pointed out the purple triangles of Mull and the great mass of the mainland that faced it. 'We'll be going to Mull, of course. There's a great deal that's interesting. You've probably seen the film, " When Eight Bells Toll ". Some of it was filmed at Tobermory and some on Ulva. Thomas Telfer built the church on Ulva—you'll want to see that, Mrs Trewitt. And " Lord Ullin's Daughter " was about the Lord of Ulva and his bride. Then there's the waterfall at Laggan. You may also be interested in Alan of the Straws, our local pirate. He's connected with the Duart MacLeans—bar sinister, of course—' 'Of course,' C. Brown murmured, lifting his blond brows.

 

 

'There are Standing Stones near the Dervaig-Tobermory road and also on the way to the Crinan Canal—' I went on, ignoring him. 'Ah! That's my cup of o f tea,' the Professor said with satisfaction. 'You'll see plenty to interest you,' I told him, and noticed that the Captain hadseemed come back and was watching rest of the group closely. He to have dropped his air ofthe shyness temporarily. 'Have they found the treasure yet?' he asked. 'It was—the  Florida—wasn't it?' 'That's right.' I began to enlarge on the story of the Spanish ship, blown up in the bay at Tobermory. 'But lots of people think the treasure was removed before the ship was scuttled. And it would cost such a sum to inspect the wreck that it's too much of a gamble—' 'But it might be there, under the water.' Caroline's eyes began to shine either with pleasure or cupidity. I hoped it was pleasure, for Seil's sake. 'Was your Alan of the Straws fact or fiction?' Mrs Trewitt asked, her eyes fixed on the bay. 'Oh, fact. He's buried on Iona.' The magic word Iona distracted everyone, as I'd suspected it would, apart from Mr Brown. Our guests all moved away again to see more of the ruin, except him. 'We are going to Langaly?' he enquired, giving the name of the island its proper pronunciation, something not many people did first time, most being inclined to treat it like the Welsh ' Llan '. 'Tomorrow,' I informed him, aware of an undercurrent of seriousness in his question. 'There's a little verse about the island. Something to do with a jewel. Most of the clans have a " luck "

 

 

stone. They're usually semi-precious, amethyst or topaz or something similar. And the owners do believe in that " luck ". It's dreadful ill-fortune if it's lost or stolen, usually meaning the end of that particular line.' 'What is the verse?' C. Brown asked softly. 'I'd like to hear it.' I hesitated, not wanting to speak the words in the face of his probable amusement, but something in the intentness of his gaze made me comply with his request. '" Where the sea-song is And the place of Kings, Where the witch has lived And birds lack wings to fly, There lies the Luck, The Luck of Langaly." ' 'How did you come to learn that?' C. Brown enquired, his voice still soft but filled with noticeable suspicion. 'From—my father.' I hated his air of condemnation. 'I wonder how he knew? It sounds like a family thing.' 'He knew the family. He dealt with their business and only recently recentl y wound up the estate when the old man died,' I said stiffly. 'Not that I think I should be telling you all this, do you? Solicitors' affairs are meant to remain private—like confessionals. But you so obviously thought that he'd no right to his knowledge about the " Luck of Langaly ". There's no mystery about it. It went to a relative, the amethyst, just in case you're under a misapprehension. A very distant one, since there th ere were none close.' 'And it's none of my business.' C. Brown smiled warily.

 

 

'None.' I clipped off the word sharply. He took out a silver case and extracted a cigarette, then handed it to me as an afterthought. I shook my head and he closed the case with a decisive snap. I felt my eyes sharpen with distrust. Engraved on the chased metal were the initials C.D.

 

  CHAPTER III

All the way to Dunstaffnage I thought about the silver cigarette case. Why wasn't it engraved C.B.? Did it really belong to our mysterious guest? I was veering again in my opinion that C. Brown was the man at the th e Folly. He knew his local history. He had h ad heard of Langaly before he came and it was a little known island compared with most of the others. But he could have bought the case second-hand and then decided not to have the engraving altered. It was just one more odd thing about an already strange person. And I still resented his imputation about Father's knowledge of the Langaly Luck. If anyone had been injudicious, it was me for having mentioned it in the first place. The Trewitts were delighted with Dunstaffnage, which looms cheek by jowl with the Marine Biological Station on a charming promontory. Seil and Caroline strolled on the green lawns with the perimeter of shady trees that overlooked a shining bay where small boats lay at anchor. Captain Malcolm crunched about on the pebbly beach beyond the vast, square bulk of patched stone that was the castle. I kept out of C. Brown's way. We ended up at Connel Ferry and a fine view of the Falls of Lora, turbulent rapids that swirl under the arches of the bridge at high tide. The drive boasted two unfamiliar cars when we got back to Oban. One was a dark-blue Rover, discreet and affluent, the other a turquoise blue Mini which probably belonged to the London guests, Mark Harwell and Philip Landon. The Fitzherberts were curiously like my Regency impression. Mr Fitzherbert was portly and double-chinned. His wife, like an overblown flower, hung on his arm, in a peculiar floating dress of organdie and ribbons and hair to match. Their daughter, Judy, was the antithesis of her parents, just as Caroline Trewitt had been. She

 

 

was very slight, with dark, cropped hair and sharp, angled features that made her look like a delicate boy. Her jeans and severe blouse were businesslike against her mother's impractical dress. Her eyes and eyebrows were unexpectedly beautiful. Mark Harwell was young, long-haired and dark, Philip young, longhaired and fair. Nothing else about them made a definite imprint. Tomorrow, when the mini-bus set off, I'd begin to feel like a courier. There wouldn't be time to feel C. Brown's—if that was his name—constraining aura. The house was beginning to smell deliciously of food, but I wasn't hungry. I looked in the kitchen to see if they needed help, but it was full of Mother, Aunt Ju, Kerry and Mrs Gunn, not to mention Seil sitting at a little table and eating his supper preparatory to going out on the fishing expedition. 'You're indefatigable,' I said. Seil grinned. 'But you aren't,' he pointed out discerningly. 'He's right,' Aunt Ju said. 'We don't really need you, love. Why not have your meal? No? Go for some fresh air. Oh, you've been getting it all day, haven't you?' 'I think I will. There's got to be some time in the day when you're alone. Nothing personal, of course. Present company always excepted. I'll eat later.' I let myself out by the back garden. The door in the wall creaked a little as I opened it. The sun still shone, washing the steep lane with yellow. I climbed upwards in the direction of the Folly, drawn by some compulsion I couldn't many people were there. A few groups sat on the understand. seats and a Not scatter of children ran and climbed and vanished first down one hole and then another. I found my favourite aperture and climbed on to the wide, strong

 

 

sill. All the stonework was mellowed and burnished in the warm light. Smoke hazed the rooftops lightly and the dark blanket of Kerrera stretched between the bay and the outer islands. The stone of the cathedral was faintly tinged with pink. I don't know how long I stood there, only half conscious of the distant voices and sounds of traffic below. There was an odd kind of peace in just detaching oneself from surrounding activity, suspending involvement. I knew that this withdrawal was the safety valve that would help me to carry out the duties I'd find waiting when I got up the following morning. It wasn't running away, it was recharging my batteries. Everyone should s hould try it. Someone was standing on the path below me. His shadow lay over the dark stonework, hunched and predatory as a silhouette of Richard III. I felt a warning thrust against the heart. C. Brown raised his eyes and looked at me carefully. 'Two minds,' he said, ' and but a single thought.' It had all happened before. Hadn't it? But no one could overlook the Folly. It was a magnet that drew all newcomers. Only I found it difficult to believe that it had been someone else that night of the mist now that I saw him here, in the same spot. 'You look— haunted,' he went on gently. 'Have you been very unhappy?' 'I don't know what you mean.' I could feel my features go rigid. 'Sorry. Didn't mean to put my foot in it.' 'Is dinner over?' 'Yes.' He looked surprised by my sudden switch of conversation.

 

 

'I'll go and have mine, then. I—decided to wait.' I came to the edge of the embrasure. 'Don't let me drive you away.' 'Don't worry, Mr—Brown. I won't let you do that.' I could see that my deliberate over pronouncing his name had disconcerted him hesitation as well as the sharpness of my tone. 'Let me help you down.' 'I can manage.' He held out his arms as though I hadn't spoken. Short of staying where I was until he chose to move, I had no choice but to accept. For a moment we were suspended in an uneasy proximity, then I stepped back and said, ' Isn't it time you stopped pretending?' His brows slanted upwards in what I could swear was feigned surprise. 'Pretending?' 'Yes. Pretending we're strangers. That your name's Brown. It's only a degree less convincing than th an Smith.' His eyes gleamed suddenly. His lips almost smiled—almost but not quite. 'Bold words, Miss Corquodale,' he said softly. 'And I think you mean them.' I remembered tardily that we were now servants of the public and that I was in the process of antagonising one of our paying customers. My face flushed. 'I'm very sorry, Mr Brown. I—-don't know what made me behave so stupidly. I think—your cigarette case had something to do with it.'

 

 

'My cigarette case?' 'The initials don't match yours,' I muttered uncomfortably. 'I see. But of course, they wouldn't. It was left to me,' he replied smoothly. 'And we've never met up here before?' 'Not that I'm aware of.' His eyelids were lowered. 'Then I've been a fool. Goodnight, Mr Brown.' 'We could walk back together,' he suggested. 'There's no need to cut short your visit,' I told him. 'I've seen enough,' he said, falling into step beside me. 'I want to go back and write some letters.' 'You seem to know a great deal about local history,' I remarked with a resurgence of curiosity about him. 'I always read up a place before I visit it. Don't you?' I could see his profile on the edge of vision, the skin darker than the thick, pale, springy hair. 'I don't think I'd go as far as learning the dates.' 'If a thing's worth doing, it's worth doing well, as my old auntie used to say.' Isolaughed unexpectedly. 'I just can't imagine you having something ordinary.'

 

 

Our eyes met and his were filled with a most delightful mockery. For a moment it seemed not to matter that he might be here under an assumed name. Perhaps he'd been telling the truth about having been left the cigarette case. It couldn't matter either way. He'd only be here for two weeks. The summer seemed to stretch ahead, filled with an endless succession of strange faces, changing voices, nothing stable. Some of this panic must have shown in my eyes because he said, in a very different voice, ' You mustn't try so hard to cover up whatever it is that's happened to you. Oh, something has, and it wasn't pleasant, was it? If you ever want to get it out of your system, you could talk to me. Will you remember that? I'd treat it in strictest confidence, so you need never worry about it going any further. Sometimes it's a mistake to cover things up to bury the past. And please don't look at me as if I'm some kind of prying busybody. I'm not given to offering my services as a father confessor. In fact I've never done it before.' 'Then why are you doing it now?' We'd reached the steep lane that led to the back garden and the blotched shadows of trees moved across the stone wall. He stopped by the door and I realised he knew that this was ours. It wasn't numbered or named and he'd only arrived this morning. There had been no occasion for him to leave or enter this way. Yet he knew—-I was conscious of a curious, sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. He'd lied to me. And if he could lie about us never having met before, he could have lied about the initialled case. He didn't d idn't answer my question. 'You—knew this was the garden door,' I said in a stifled voice. 'Yes.' He looked surprised. 'I asked your mother which was the quickest route to the Folly and she brought me out this way. It is all right to use it, isn't it? I wouldn't want to presume.'

 

 

'Of course it's all right,' I said sharply, my thoughts a mixture of relief and continuing uncertainty. 'If Mother says so.' I became aware that I was tired and unexpectedly hungry. There was a full day ahead and I must be ready to face it. I showed C. Brown the way to the stairs and watched his tall form climb them, catlike. They hardly creaked for all his weight. My supper was on the kitchen table, under a silver cover. There was a flask of coffee. I didn't need to do anything except eat. The food was delicious, consommé and a lovely salmon and cucumber dish, fruit mousse and fresh fruit. Mother and Kerry certainly knew their job. But did I know mine? I hadn't even the selfrestraint to stop myself insulting the guests who were our livelihood. I really must try harder. After all, my troubles were nothing to do with innocent bystanders. Not that innocent was the best word to describe Mr Brown. I wondered, for the twentieth time, what the C stood for. Charles? Colin? Christopher? I had the odd conviction it was none of these. I fell asleep before the fishing party came back, but woke briefly as the brake drew up to hear Captain Malcolm's shy, deep voice. He was a nice man, I thought, a nice, kind man, then slept again to dream of the ivy tree at Dunollie all covered with flowers that formed the shape of initials, C.D., and swirled and shivered and became C.B., then tumbled down the hillside h illside into the sea. Kerry and I got up automatically next morning. Neither of us was as reluctant to rise as on the previous day. 'We're indoctrinated,' Kerry said cheerfully, brushing her fall of brown hair at the communal mirror, and smoothing her eyebrows with a wet finger. 'You shouldn't have hared off to bed so early. We had fun with those left behind. I do think Mr Brown's a dish, don't you? Mark and Philip play guitars, so Seil's going to lend them his tonight—'

 

 

'Mark and Philip?' 'Oh, they think it's stuffy to insist on surnames. So do Judy and Caro.' 'Caro?' 'For Pete's sake! Are you a woman or a parrot? Caroline prefers Caro.' 'I see. And what about Isadora?' 'Isadora?' 'Now who's a woman or a parrot?' 'It's catching, isn't it?' Kerry giggled. 'But which is Isadora?' 'Mrs Fitzherbert.' 'Oh, yes. All that trailing chiffon or whatever! She looks as if she's been a vaguely disreputable chorus-girl or something. Not at all like Judy.' 'What's she like?' 'A little sharp and forthright. But well-meaning.' The description, I decided ruefully, could just as easily have applied to me. I was suddenly dissatisfied with myself, with my whole image. Even Mrs Fitzherbert had a quality of faded romance. Vida MacInnes oozed with smooth sex-appeal. I was in danger of forgetting I was feminine. I went to look out my rust-coloured slacks and the green and rust sweater that matched them. Then I prepared the hamper for the picnic. There was nowhere on Langaly to have a meal of any sort.

 

 

Mrs Fitzherbert dropped out of the day excursion. She liked a bit of civilisation, she said, and she intended to have a laze and save her energies for tomorrow. She'd take a light meal in her room. I couldn't visualise her skirting cow-pats and walking for miles along pebbly paths with only the sheep and gulls for company. I met Boyd Malcolm at the door. He took the hamper from me and carried it to the mini-bus. 'You are well organised,' he told me, his eyes crinkling up against the sunlight. 'I've never stayed anywhere where so much was laid on before.' 'Why did you come to Oban?' I asked. 'After the Persian Gulf and so on.' 'I—I used to live in the district. A very long time ago.' I'd liked to have asked where, but something in his dark face precluded questioning further. 'Reviving old memories, eh?' 'Something like that.' 'Enjoy your fishing?' His was brilliant. 'Very much. You—you didn't come.' The smilesmile faded. 'I was tired. I'll come next time.' 'I'd like that. Promise?' 'I promise.' His pleasure was heart-warming. The dark eyes conveyed in the subtlest way, their appreciation of my changed appearance. For a shy man, he could say a great deal without ever opening his mouth.

 

 

All the way to the ferry, I wondered where and when he had lived near the town. We could have passed one another in the street as children. I could almost persuade myself I remembered having seen him before. The island faced us, green and undulating. Seil jumped down from the brake and turned the indicator board. Our passengers alighted, chattering like magpies. Mark and Philip commandeered Caro and Judy and I saw Seil stand some distance away, his face shuttered, a kind of loneliness enveloping him, a loneliness I could understand. I felt a sharp pang of dislike for Caro, but made myself push it aside. Seil had to learn about life at first hand. One couldn't be cushioned at every stage of the journey. Pain was supposed to build the character. But I still wanted to go to him and  jolly him out of depression, see his his reluctant smile. A little yellow boat was approaching the landing stage and a gigantic hand squeezed my inside into knots of apprehension. I hadn't been on the water for so long. Not since— My mind refused to think about that awful night. But the dancing waves took on a new meaning. They were something I had to pit myself against, curling, sighing, glassy enemies. A sunburnt man in rubber boots helped everyone aboard. I got on last and my legs would hardly stay upright as the little vessel swayed and rolled and fought its way towards the island. Spray blew across my face and a sickness spread inside me. I hated the water quite violently, the cold, changing sharpness of it, the way it sank and rose and sucked against the side of the boat, the shifting colours and slashes of sunlight reflected from its peaks and ridges, the hideous drops between the th e waves.

 

 

I closed my eyes. A hand steadied my arm. 'All right, are you?' C. Brown whispered, his mouth close to my ear. I was dimly aware that Caro and Judy were screaming with excitement as curtains of spray were flung over them. 'I'm—all right.' His hand on my elbow was a comfort I couldn't describe. I didn't try to draw away, only stayed where I was, the hardness of his body a bulwark, a rampart between me and my antagonist, my memories. He helped me off at the other side in the most unobtrusive way. Seil and Boyd Malcolm lifted the hamper and the rucksack with the extras in it. The Professor assisted his wife to alight and the four young people scrambled ashore, giggling and snorting with amusement. I could see they weren't going to be a problem. Judy's severity had disappeared under the balm of appreciative male company. Her father collapsed on to a rock, his pale blue eyes staring ahead. 'How far is the castle?' Mrs Trewitt enquired, her gaze kinder now that her daughter was no longer visibly interested in Seil but enjoying herself with another visitor. I had a struggle within myself to warm to her. Why should Seil be considered a secondclass citizen because he used his hands instead of his head, because he was better at cleaning and repairing engines than sitting at a desk? 'Three to four miles,' I said, forcing a smile. 'But it's a lovely walk.' 'Which way?' Caro called with never a look at my brother. 'The turn to by thealeft, skirting shore. later. We There's an intersection ruined housethe and thereWe youclimb turn right. can all go our different ways and meet up at the castle for lunch. Does that suit?'

 

 

'Fine.' Mark, Philip and the two girls set off happily. Mr Fitzherbert engaged Mrs Trewitt in conversation and the Professor, who had more understanding than his wife, began to talk to Seil about geology and prehistoric stones. Boyd Malcolm picked up the hamper and C. Brown the rucksack, in spite of our protests. 'We can change over later,' the Captain said. 'By the way, those youngsters seem to have the right idea. I'm Boyd. Surely you'd rather be called your Christian name?' 'Corquodale is rather a mouthful,' I admitted. 'My name's Lorn and you're at liberty to use that in preference. It's short and easy to remember.' 'It's charming,' Boyd told me. 'And what about you, Mr Brown?' I asked. 'What would you say if I said it was Claud?' I laughed. 'I wouldn't believe you.' 'You may call me Kit.' 'Very well.' I was absurdly grateful to him for his perception on the boat. The sense of strain was beginning to leave me. I thought I owed C. Brown —Kit—a great deal more than I deserved. Being on first-name terms certainly broke the ice. The three of us followed Seil and Professor Trewitt quite amicably along the dried mud of the path. It was a mere cart-track, but it fitted the barren wildness of the island as no road could have. Sheep grazed quietly. We skirted a small bay where a barge and some neglected boats lay derelict, and old, dark posts stood like figures frozen on the beach. There were broken-down sheds, a row of small cottages, a magnificent fuchsia hedge, a door creaking in freshening wind,

 

 

and gulls mewing. Golden weed was piled on mud and shingle. Across the mainland, green woods billowed. There was a rocky ridge and purple distance half covered with cloud. Here it was all green and gold and incredibly peaceful. It was difficult to remember what we talked about as we progressed along the track. But there was a moment none of us would ever forget. The path struck the highest point of Langaly and the whole of the firth lay spread in a shimmering splendour beyond the bracken and bell-heather and the yellowing grass. Mull sprawled there, its blue shadowy peaks filling the skyline. Other islands lay beyond, pale and dreamlike, hazed with heat. There were rounded, rocky outcrops, patches of tawny weed, the enamelled yellow of trefoil. And up on a huge mass of conglomerate was setbeach the castle of Langaly, casting a black shadow over the small far below. The sound of the sea had risen and I remembered the verse Father had told me about. 'Where the sea-song is And the place of Kings, Where the witch has lived And birds lack wings to fly, There lies the Luck, The Luck of Langaly.' It fitted very well. The sea battered this side of the island constantly, and in 1249, Alexander II had died here of fever. He'd been carried ashore at the King's Field, or Dalrigh, after which our house had been named. King Haakon of Norway had sheltered his fleet here before going on to Largs where he was defeated and Norway's hold on Scotland's west coast was at last destroyed. Langaly had been owned by the MacDougalls everyone was so

 

 

interested in, particularly Mrs Trewitt. Could she be a descendant of the ancient MacDougalls? It wasn't impossible. i mpossible. 'They kept the Brooch of Lorn in here until the castle was burnt,' Kit Brown said musingly. 'Didn't they?' 'That's right. It was stormed and set fire to Henry by Cromwell's troops. They had a penchant for destruction, like VIII. Only the Brooch wasn't destroyed. No one knows just what happened, but it reappeared at a London auction, along with the Luck of Langaly, and the jewellery was returned to its rightful owners.' 'The Brooch to the MacDougall of MacDougall,' Kit volunteered. 'And the Luck to old Campbell MacDougall. There'd been a bit of intermarrying in the interval. That was in 1823. Wasn't it?' My eyes questioned Kit's and he smiled, a little derisively, in assent. 'The Luck was, of course, found on the island. The Brooch was discovered at Portencross, off the Ayrshire coast, and is madly historic and priceless.' 'And the Luck?' Boyd enquired, staring at the tall, narrow building that resembled, much more, a Border keep than a castle. Something underlay the lightness of his tone and conventional interest. 'There isn't a great intrinsic worth, but like all such jewels, its rarity value could make it extremely valuable. There are millions of large amethysts but only one Luck. A collector might be willing to pay a great deal for it.' 'Wonder what it looked like?' Boyd mused, his black gaze still fixed on the long shape of the castle. A gull drifted over it and

 

 

settled on a tuft of thick stringy grass that grew out of the roof space. 'It was rather beautiful,' I replied. 'Quite large and brilliant. A sort of softened triangle if you can picture it, framed in silver, claw-set, a long, heavy chain.' 'You've seen it?' The dark eyes focused and became very bright. I became aware, suddenly, of Kit's blank stare, an inattention patently false. I hadn't meant to talk about the stone, apart from what one could learn from guide-books. This was the second time I'd been drawn towards incaution. I began to wish Father had never mentioned either the jewel or the verse. When one knew, it was difficult to pretend otherwise without lying. 'Yes,' I began slowly. 'My father helped to wind up the estate. He had to hand the stone over to the executor of the MacDougall will. I happened to be there when he was replacing the Luck in its box. Perhaps I shouldn't be talking about it, though it can't make any difference to its ultimate destination. It must be months ago that it was sent to its new owner, and it certainly arrived safely.' 'New owner?' 'And don't ask me who that was!' I said quickly. 'I know nothing more than what I've already told you! I saw it by accident. Father is—was—the most scrupulous man where his work was concerned. I made him tell me what he was doing.' A chill shadow came over the day as I recalled Father sitting at his desk, the lamp shining on his broad shoulders and the hair that was still the colour of old beech leaves. wasme. still young. Much too young—all my self-hatred rose up toHe mock

 

 

'There's Mrs Trewitt and Mr Fitzherbert,' Kit said, shading his eyes. 'They've just reached the path leading to the castle door.' I looked up. I could see the two small figures against the skyline, but it was impossible to see any path from this angle. It lay in a dip behind the grassy ramparts that edged the conglomerate forming the height upon which the fortress stood to such dramatic effect. How had he known it was there? It could have been sheer guesswork, but it hadn't sounded like that. I studied his face covertly, but it showed nothing but a pleasant interest. 'What's that house over there?' Boyd asked, peeling off his navyblue sweater and tying it around his waist. I was surprised he'd noticed it in its barrier of thick trees. There were few trees on the island, but MacDougall of Langaly had succeeded where most others had failed and provided himself with an admirable windbreak out of which rose little but chimneys and a small triangle of roof, a faint plume of smoke. 'It belonged to the owner of the Stone.' 'But there's still someone living there,' Boyd pointed out, frowning. 'Why didn't they get the Luck?' 'It had to go to a MacDougall. Old Campbell— the name stayed in the family, hadn't any children or close kin. So the Luck went to a distant connection. But the other property—there was the house and its contents—was left to the couple who took care of the old gentleman in the years of his ill-health. He was bedridden for a long time. The MacLeans got that.' 'I see. Ready for the grind, are you?' The little track shot up steeply between patched boulders. Boyd bent down and picked up the hamper. I said I had to earn my keep

 

 

now and shouldered the rucksack, which wasn't heavy. I thought Kit might have demurred, but he said nothing. I halted at the bend where the track wound round the back of the castle, but he wasn't in sight. He'd probably stopped to look at the view. No one could have blamed him. There was the rough shore and green ' flats ' where sheep grazed, immense twisted rocks that dominated a white beach some distance away. The sea was loud and insistent, drowning the tentative cries of gulls. The island across the bay beckoned. I could understand a man like James Barrie writing a play like ' Mary Rose'. Beyond the thunder of the waves was a deep, compelling crooning that said ' Come to us. Come—come—' A sea-song. The song the verse v erse had mentioned. Sea-song— The castle looked impregnable from the rear. We climbed slowly because of the angle of incline. The building with every step,steep the brownish stone patterned withbecame yellow clearer lichen, the oval window apertures, the stone birds that protruded above the archway where a door had once been—stone birds. 'And birds lack wings to fly.' That line from the verse fitted too. 'Where the witch has lived.' There was probably some eccentric old woman here once who was feared for her strangeness. I remembered Kit Brown's words —if they had been his—about the ill-fated Isobel Goudie who had been young and beautiful and made images of clay and wax, and fairy-arrows. My spine crept suddenly. She'd died horribly. I hoped the witch of Langaly had met a kinder fate. History had been so very cruel. But wasn't it still? There was Vietnam, there had been Bangla Desh and innumerable other uprisings. There was Northern Ireland— The world was still cruel for some. It must have been terrible here once when the King's troops had set fire to this fortress and those who were in it. The air was suddenly charged with disaster. The gulls mourned. The sea sang a dirge I recognised too well.

 

 

Figures appeared at the archway, two blonde and two dark. A face showed at one complete window near the top, a rectangle edged with gold where the sun struck it. Seil. I waved vigorously. Mrs Trewitt stared briefly from beside him, then vanished. Just beside the window, jutting out from the brown masonry, a small stone head protruded. It was of much darker stone, half white with lichen— a woman's face framed in long, straggling hair. Could it have been a representation of the witch of the verse? I hadn't noticed it on a previous visit, but the angle of the sunlight caught it today, throwing its black shadow on to the wall, a curiously unpleasant profile, the nose crumbled almost to nothing, reminding me of skulls. There was still no sign of Kit. I stared down past the ivy-grown mound probably dungeons, along the tongues of rock thatthat stretched far contained into the water as far as the pale, blue-grey shadow of Mull. Could the feeling that overwhelmed me be disappointment? I repudiated the suggestion vigorously. He was no one permanent. He was here today and gone tomorrow. Before autumn came, a hundred other faces would have obliterated his, I would have forgotten what he looked like. It was annoying to find I hadn't convinced myself. The young people were clustering round the hamper like hungry schoolchildren. Caro seemed to have forgotten her calorie absorption. The portly Mr Fitzherbert came round a spur of rock like an overweight magician, his pale blue eyes riveted on the food-basket. I'd intended to wait for Kit, but I knew I'd be unpopular if I suggested it. 'We'll have lunch then, shall we?' I said. I managed, with difficulty, to conceal some food in a clean napkin for our still missing member. I hadn't wanted much myself. Everyone scattered afterwards, the Trewitts to look at some stones

 

 

in the hollow, the young folk down to the pebbled shore where the boulders shone silver. The castle drew me with its silence, the blowing grass that grew in crevices of rock. It was dim inside the arch. There was sheep-dung on the floor and the beaten earth was muddy. At the end of a dark, narrow tunnel lay an arched room, very small, with green lichened walls and claustrophobic ceiling. A curved stair, surprisingly wide, ascended to a hollow enclosure with small windows facing seaward and larger ones overlooking the green courtyard where we'd eaten our picnic. It seemed alarmingly high to the windward side. The wind buffeted the thick t hick stone and the sea still crooned. I moved to the side window and stared back the way we'd come. A blue trail o£sun smoke rose thinly from chimneys Langaly House. The struck sparks from thethe glass of upperofwindows. Thick, cumulus green hid the lower part of the building. I saw sheep cropping right up to the surrounding dyke. Someone moved near the gate. A tall, light-haired figure emerged, and my heart gave a great leap of recognition. It was C. Brown all right, but what had he been doing there? He was a free agent, of course. If he chose to call at the abode of complete strangers that was his business. But were they strangers? I remembered the path he couldn't have seen, the episode at the Folly, his denials, the total sum of all my doubts and obscure fears. 'Terribly high, isn't it?' A voice spoke close to my ear. I froze. C. Brown wasn't the only person who could move soundlessly. I turned slowly. Boyd Malcolm was looking over my shoulder and his eyes, as mine had been, were fixed on Kit's moving figure.

 

 

'Very.' There seemed nothing else to say. We stayed there for a moment in silence, then I said, ' I'd better go down. Mr Brown will be wanting his lunch.' 'Not just at this moment, please?' p lease?' 'I'd still better go.' 'You aren't—running away from me?' His voice was very soft. 'No. But I'm here for the benefit of the whole party,' I reminded him. 'No special favours, eh?' 'Well, it wouldn't be—diplomatic, would it? This is a job, like being an air hostess or a courier with a coach-load of passengers. One doesn't find it—profitable to go beyond the bounds of friendliness and courtesy. Have I put that very badly?' 'No. Extremely well. I felt the set-up was so much warmer than most. Something special. I wasn't trying to gain any extra advantages. Or perhaps that isn't strictly true.' He laughed and I liked the sound. 'You different, wouldn't it?' must have time off, though. That would be 'It might,' I agreed, smiling. 'May I take you out on your free afternoon?' I found my gaze drawn irresistibly to the approaching form of Kit Brown. He was halfway up the path now and looking more like a Swedish adventurer with every step. But I didn't trust him and I preferred the truth. Boyd Malcolm hadn't been other than honest in spite of his reticences and everyone was entitled to those. His

 

 

black eyes met mine with just the right mixture of humour and pleading. And yet I still hesitated— 'It does rather depend—' I began. 'On what?' 'Mother might have something she wants me to do. She does rely on us a great deal. She's a widow.' 'But if she doesn't need you?' 'I'll keep you in mind.' 'Promise?' 'I promise.' I seemed to be making a great many promises to a man I scarcely knew. But there was that quality of niceness and integrity that made a strong appeal, something reliable and unchanging. A woman could feel safe with Boyd Malcolm. We began to descend the dark stone steps and I wondered what I'd have said if Kit had invited me to go out with him. I knew, with a shock of certainty, that that I'd have accepted. have been all that evasion, business aboutThere beingwouldn't essential to Mother. I couldn't understand myself. Perhaps I didn't want to feel safe. Maybe there was some streak in my nature that welcomed conflict and uncertainty. I emerged into a flood of brilliance that half-obliterated the shape of Kit as he passed between the gate stones and stopped in the grassy quadrangle. His gaze lifted to the stone birds and the lichened face above my head, then descended to mine. The air between us was suddenly charged with meaning, I couldn't look away. What I saw was apparently what I'd always wanted to see—

 

 

white hair, golden skin, eyes so deep a blue that they verged on darkness. The shadow of the ruin lay across his mouth and throat, but I knew how they would appear. Everything else receded and was lost in this enamelled brightness, the hot, sweet smell of gorse, go rse, the deep song of the sea below. 'I kept you something to eat,' I said inadequately. 'Thank you.' He sat down on a boulder. I could see his mouth now. He was smiling. 'It wasn't easy.' Kit laughed. It was the pleasantest sound I'd ever heard. I pushed away the memory of him emerging from the gate of Langaly House. Perhaps he hadn't gone any further. Perhaps he was naturally curious. I no longer cared. 'Our guests seem to have appetites like birds,' I told him. 'Vultures.' He laughed again and opened the square of white linen. I poured out coffee and offered it to him. Boyd Malcolm had moved away, but I had the feeling he hadn't gone far. 'Where did you go?' I asked casually. The blue eyes slid away. 'There's a tunnel underneath. I couldn't resist exploring it.' He hadn't had time, of course, after leaving the house or the grounds. He couldn't know that I'd seen him climb the path. There was no way he could have gone into the tunnel and arrived here so quickly. The brightness of the day became tawdry, false as a tinfoil crown. Something inside me turned hard and constricting, filling

 

 

me with a kind of despair. I wanted to believe in him more than anything I could think of, but he never gave me the chance. 'This is good,' Kit said, not meeting my eyes. He shook the crumbs out of the napkin. 'Yes. Mother and Kerry don't do things by halves. If a thing's worth doing—' 'It's worth doing well, eh?' 'Yes.' * Are you free now? Surely you can't be expected to be on tap twenty-four hours in the day?' 'Until we leave here.' That wasn't what I'd said to Boyd. I should be pushing Kit away, not letting myself be drawn towards him. But there was that curious weakness where he was concerned, an uncharacteristic softening towards him that I couldn't explain, not even to myself. He took out the cigarette case and opened it. I found myself staring at the initials engraved on the lid. There really wasn't any reason why they shouldn't be an uncle's or a cousin's, some great friend's who had died. Yet in some odd way they were in keeping with him. They were his initials. Some deep-rooted instinct kept insisting this without rhyme or reason. 'Shall we go down to the beach? I can take some of this stuff with me. It would save coming back b ack later.' He took the hamper and I the rucksack. The walking was easy as the path was grass-grown with disuse. Not many people took the trouble to walk to the ruin. The island was too quiet for most holidaymakers. For me that was its charm. The isolation, the peace, both were balm to the soul.

 

 

We left the luggage by a big stone and began to cross the rocky beach. Cattle grazed on the fingers of grass that stretched, encroaching upon sand and pebbles. Enormous twists of patched rock cast slanting shadows. There was a silver shimmer on the sea. The sound of waves and gulls was indescribably peaceful. Once I had thought they would never seem so again. I knew now that I'd been wrong. There were islands across the bay, the merest suggestion of reality. 'Come to me. Come—' the sea whispered and entreated. People once believed in mermaids, and I could understand why. But the sea wasn't always like this. I remembered it in quite another mood, roaring and lashing like a dragon's tail. Even after all these months I could see that huge, rapacious mouth that was the ocean, opening and shutting, swallowing— I leaned against the nearest rock and closed my eyes. It would pass. It must pass. I made myself listen to the voice of the sea, seductive, filled with siren sound. I'd almost forgotten Kit was there. Then I heard him move, felt the blackness of his shadow laid over my eyelids. It seemed inevitable that he should put his arms around me, that his mouth should press down on mine as though it had the right to be there. My body quickened into feeling. He was right to lay a claim. The rest of my life receded into limbo. Only this was real, what I'd waited for, what I received gladly. Even the sea had lost its cruelty. I had the utter certainty that he could cure me of my fear and guilt. So I stayed where I was, returning kiss for kiss, exulting in the pressure of his body against mine, my hands linked behind his head. Then a cloud passed over the sun, shutting out warmth, reminding me of the Folly and the mist, of amethyst gaps torn in the dusk, of uncertainty. And uneasiness crept into the warmth and pleasure,

 

 

spoiling it a fraction, making me move out of his embrace before either of us was ready. 'Lorn?' he said. 'I think we'd better go.' I stepped out on to the warm pebbles and a knife edge of sunlight blinded me momentarily. 'But we haven't said things that t hat should be said—' he objected. ob jected. 'Must we say anything?' I was suddenly afraid he would lie to me again about something I couldn't bear to have destroyed. 'Please, don't— not yet anyway.' Disappointment clouded his face. Perhaps he thought I'd been leading him on, that the last few minutes had meant nothing. 'I wasn't pretending,' I said quietly. q uietly. 'Just don't move too fast?' 'That's it. I'm a cautious creature at heart. I have to be—' I hesitated. 'Stalked with infinite patience?' he suggested softly. 'Something like that.' 'So long as we know where we are.' Did he know? I wondered. I didn't. As long as he was touching me, I thought I could feel a sense of direction, of purpose, but now we were separated, the present was as full of pitfalls as ever. The house in the windbreak of pines and birch obtruded on my line of vision, voicing its own silent doubt. I watched the dim plume of

 

 

smoke rise above the copse to disintegrate against the sky. Then the others were calling and I was moving towards the castle. Kit followed, and even on the shifting stones he made scarcely any sound.

 

  CHAPTER IV

The first thing I saw when we reached home was the red Aston Martin glittering in the opposite drive. Vida was stretched out on one of those rather smart hammocks with a shade over it. She got up lazily as the mini-bus drove up and came to a stop. I watched her rub her eyes and stretch herself, but she didn't look as though she'd just been wakened from sleep. She waved as I got out. 'Hello, Lorn! Haven't seen you for ages.' She sounded friendly. 'We've been—busy.' She had one of the dusk-red roses tucked into the second buttonhole of her silk shirt. The loose top and well-fitting slacks accentuated the Eastern profile, the black, piled-up hair. I knew when Kit climbed out because the huge, slanting eyes widened with devastating effect and her wary smile became full-blooded. She raised her brows interrogatively and short of rudeness I had no other choice but to introduce him. 'This is Mr Brown.' 'Mr Brown? How stuffy!' She pouted charmingly. 'Kit,' he supplied. I fancied he h e was amused. 'That's better. Enjoying your holiday?' 'Very much.' 'We were going to ask you to look in for drinks some time,' Vida said to me, leaning on the gate so that her superb superstructure was shown off to full advantage. 'Why don't you bring Kit with you? And,' her eyes strayed to the tall darkness of Boyd Malcolm who was just going up the steps of Dalrigh, ' anyone else who'd like to come?'

 

 

'It's very sweet of you,' I answered, ' but—' I got no further because Kit broke in with more than a trace of enthusiasm, ' Why not? What a splendid idea. Do you want all ten of us? Or is that asking too much?' 'Perhaps!' She laughed. 'I think Lorn knows whom to bring.' I knew all right. But I was surprised that Kit was so ready to play ball. I could swear that while we were on the beach at Langaly he was unaware of anyone but me. Yet here he was, distracted and flattered. But who wouldn't be? Vida was lovely and I was only too ready to give her that due. Why shouldn't he visit the MacInneses for drinks? And she had asked both of us. It could be interesting. Unexpectedly, I wanted to go. 'When?' I asked. 'Tonight?' she suggested. Kit shook his head. 'I couldn't. Not tonight.' 'Tomorrow?' 'Fine.' I wondered why he'd turned down the invitation for tonight. Still more, I wondered where he was going with his quiet, cat-footed walk. Would he go back to the Folly, enclosing himself within that barrier of cold stone, his eyes fixed on the dusky bay, the chain of islands that would be in smoky splendour, paling and darkening under moon and cloud. 'We'll look forward to that, then,' Vida said, her mouth showing satisfaction. 'Uncle Tom enjoys company. He likes meeting new people. And he's fond of Lorn because she's Bill's daughter.'

 

 

Bill. William Corquodale. Father. My eyes met Kit's and I knew he could read all my inadequacy. But he didn't seem to condemn me for it. I drew a deep breath and turned towards the house. 'Goodbye for now,' Vida called a little sharply. She'd obviously intercepted the look and had been displeased by its significance. I waved casually, noticing that Kit didn't look back. Vida wouldn't like that. I was suddenly warmed by the recollection of the interlude on the shore, all the honey-sweet seductive strangeness of that coming together. Vida, I felt, was outside that charmed circle of belonging and was likely to remain so. The hall of Dalrigh was cool and dim after the brilliance of heat and colour. 'The itinerary mentioned Fort William,' Kit said, and I was aware of more than a passing interest in his voice. 'When do we go?' 'The day after tomorrow,' I told him, trying to gauge his expression, but, as always, when his eyes were downcast, it was impossible to decipher. 'That is, if it stays fine. There's not much point if it rains because Ben Nevis just vanishes in mist, not to mention all kinds of other interesting landmarks tourists like to see. And knowing the west of Scotland, there's never two weeks completely dry.' I waited for him to say that he was already aware of this, but he said nothing. 'Was there any special reason for asking?' I went on, hanging the rucksack on a peg in the lobby. 'There was, really. I wanted to look up a friend.' 'Someone you used to know?' I ventured.

 

 

'Someone my parents knew. How long would we be in the vicinity of the town?' He schooled his voice to flatness. It didn't ring true. 'People will want to look at the shops. I planned an hour for general wandering about, shopping, getting cups of tea, that sort of thing, then a drive up the glen to the falls. Would that suit you?' 'Admirably.' He was blocking my way from the lobby as he had from the window-space of the Folly. If it had been him. I wanted him to take me in his arms again, but his eyes were narrowed with speculation. He wasn't thinking of me, or of where he was. He was concerned with another place and other people and I was shut off from that remembered contact most decisively. 'The day after that's a free day. No one wants to be completely organised,' I said, to remind him of my presence and my inability to move from where I stood without his co-operation. His eyes became alive and tuned in to the present. His mouth relaxed into humour. 'Thank you,' he said softly. 'Whatever for?' 'A perfect day. For showing me Langaly.' 'Hadn't you seen it before?' It was stupid to keep on probing, but I couldn't help myself. I knew k new it was a mistake as soon as I'd said it. His eyes stared into mine as though he could see far beyond iris and pupil, beyond physical appearance, and into some region of shadow and mystery where he could recognise some of my need and perplexity. 'Don't think too much,' he warned, or it seemed to be a warning. 'Take me on trust. If you can.'

 

 

'I want to.' The words rushed out and part of me wanted to recall them. 'Good.' The smile transformed his face, reaching out to the part of myself that yearned towards him. He bent his head, brushed my mouth with his, and was gone. The doorway stayed blank and empty. His feet made no sound on stair or landing. It was as though he had dematerialised like some character in science fiction to take shape against a cold, lunar landscape that could never dwarf his size and blondness. blondn ess. Aunt Ju came to tell me my supper was ready. Seil was already there. He was very quiet and I knew this was Caro's fault. But he had to learn. We must all learn. It still didn't stop our feelings being hurt. had reacted to Vida's accomplished flirtingthat I'd have felt justIfasKit cheated, as disappointed. It was lucky, really, Philip and Mark had come so soon. There hadn't been time for the cut to go too deep. Some time there would be a girl who didn't promise anything she couldn't see through to the end. 'Fishing tonight?' I asked, making myself overcome the urge to put an arm around his shoulders. He'd have hated any fuss, I well knew. 'Not tonight. Kerry promised I'd get my guitar down so we could have a session in the drawing-room. It's sufficiently far removed from the T.V. and letter-writing lounge not to bother anyone. Are you joining us?' 'I'll think about it.' I didn't want to commit myself in case I was the reason Kit didn't want to go to the MacInneses tonight. But if so, why hadn't he asked me when we were alone in the hall? He had some other motive, and the sooner I became reconciled to the idea, the better. All that evasion, the sense of subterfuge, returned

 

 

tenfold. If one became close to a person one expected confidences, one expected to be allowed below the skin. I had been there briefly, of course—this afternoon, on the bare, pebbled shore, with the peach-honey smell of gorse in my nostrils. If I never saw Kit again, I would always evoke his presence when those yellow flowers bloomed. The sea would bring him when the scent of gorse didn't. 'What did Vida want?' Seil asked. I fancied some of the sense of rejection had left him and felt absurdly glad. 'What she always wants. Specifically, Kit Brown with Boyd Malcolm as a reserve.' 'I think it's you he likes.' 'Who?' I pretended surprise. 'Captain Malcolm.' 'What makes you think that?' I drank some coffee hurriedly. 'He looked so—bereft—when you weren't on that fishing trip. And I saw him watching you today.' 'Should I go out with him when I have my time off?' I asked lightly. 'You don't think it would be a mistake to mix pleasure with business? They are our bread and butter, after all. It might be safer to keep that in mind.' It wasn't the subtlest way to remind Seil that we were all in the same position, but it could make him see he wasn't alone in such a quandary. It could happen with the next batch of guests or the one after that.

 

 

'It's different for you.' 'How is it different?' I passed him the cheese and biscuits. bi scuits. Seil shrugged. 'It just is.' 'That wasn't much help,' I reproved. 'The difference is that he wants to be with you. No one's shown that interest in me.' 'Yet.' His eyes changed as he reflected on that last, telling word. But he didn't smile. The shades of sadness paled a little, that was all. But it was a beginning, I told myself, watching him go out. I put my head back and closed my eyes. I'd walked a long way today. I'd been on my best behaviour. I had to be myself even if it couldn't last long. Being Lorn Corquodale occasionally seemed important. 'You've got a lot more colour,' Kerry said from out of nowhere. 'It was hot all day. I hope you manage to get out, Kerry. You are a bit tied to the house now, aren't you?' 'Oh, Mother sees that I get out. We all take it in turn.' 'I think you're really enjoying yourself,' I told her, studying her animated face, the shining brown of her eyes and hair. She had changed out of her kitchen gear and was wearing an amethystcoloured micro-dress. That particular shade would always make me think of Kit Brown, just as the gorse smell and the sea sound would be peculiarly his. Was I becoming too involved with someone who could disappear without trace in a few days' time if

 

 

he felt so inclined? But he didn't mean to vanish. Did he? Wasn't he there to stay? 'Isadora had her hair done today,' Kerry said, amusement creeping into her young voice. 'Oh? How did it turn out?' 'I couldn't see a ha'porth of difference. It was just as—Tennysonish as ever. Like Ophelia just before the water. She's nice, though, in spite of that odd appearance. She said she hoped I wasn't being overworked looking after everyone. That was when I took her lunch in her room. And she insisted upon me accepting the biggest, most beautiful peach you ever saw. I don't think the Trewitt would unbend like that.' 'She's very different,' I admitted. I could never bring myself to like her because of her attitude towards Seil, but neither could I descend to vilifying her. She'd probably been moulded by parents  just like herself, so the the blame, or part of it, lay elsewhere. elsewhere. 'It's Mrs Gunn's turn for washing up, so Mark and Phil—' 'And Caro and Judy—' 'And Seil and Kerry—' 'Are going to have a folk session. Why not look in?' she invited. 'I'll think about it,' I evaded. A year or two could remove one so decisively from the pop scene. Anyway, the numbers were right as they stood at present. I couldn't see me enticing Kit into the drawing-room. Not that he'd be free. Anyone who could turn down an invitation to the MacInneses had to be doing something else. Something important.

 

 

'I'm going to have a bath and change,' I decided, not wanting to brood about what Kit might be doing, uneasily certain   it   was something, if not actually wrong, that might be below the level of honesty. The telephone bell rang as I reached the stair-foot. I answered it automatically. A husky, disembodied voice said, ' May I speak to Professor Duvall? He is staying there, isn't he?' h e?' 'Duvall?' I repeated, puzzled. 'Don't you mean Trewitt?' 'No, no!' The woman's voice became sharper. Duvall. Christian Duvall.' 'No, he isn't staying with us at Dalrigh. What made you think he was?' 'He left some brochures lying around and yours was marked. But he must have changed his mind. There aren't many. I'll try the others.' 'If—' I broke in before she rang off. 'If he does turn up, can I give any message? He may have intended to try us once he reached Oban. Maybe he's been held up en route.' 'No—no.' The voice became subtly secretive. 'No—message.' 'You could leave your number. Or name,' I suggested, my curiosity aroused. 'It's not necessary.' The receiver clattered into its cradle. The sound was very final. Could the Trewitts have anything to do with the mysterious Professor Duvall? It was extremely unlikely. There was Judy, who wasn't the kind of girl who'd be coerced into

 

 

masquerading under a different name. No, the other Professor had chosen another hotel and was almost certainly enjoying a postdinner snooze at this very moment. I continued on my way to the bathroom, relaxing under the ministrations of warm water and pine salts, changing into a navy and white pleated dress that was both flattering and comfortable. From the foot of the stairs I could hear the soft strains of Seil's guitar. He was playing ' Bridge Over Troubled Water-', and playing it beautifully. I glanced in through the glass panel of the door and saw the six young people utterly absorbed, Caro had her eyes fixed on my brother's face and her look contained more than passing interest. I was conscious of an upsurge of unease. An hour ago Seil had seemed reconciled to the fact that Caro was far removed. He'd seemed to accept this. Now, with his fingers plucking at the guitar strings, his strange, smooth face a part of the magic of sound and instrument, even I could see that added dimension that could call out to the stranger and draw her to himself. As Kit could do with me, without prejudgement or effort. Alchemy, I told myself, my heartbeats quickening. Sheer alchemy— 'Lorn.' Boyd Malcolm's deep, harsh voice broke into my disturbed reflections. 'I seem to have caught you at an opportune moment.' I spun round, the pleated skirt flaring. Everything about him was so dark—brown skin, hair and eyes unfathomable, the navy sweater stretched over broad shoulders. The well-cut beard concealed yet defined good features. There was nothing left of his early shyness, and in an odd way I regretted it. Assurance brought him closer and I wasn't sure that I wanted him any nearer. He was like a completely different man. 'Seil's very good, isn't he?' I said, discomposed.

 

 

'Very. You weren't joining them, were you?' 'No.' I wondered immediately why I hadn't said yes. It would have been the perfect let-out before his next question. 'I was going out to stretch my legs, seeing there's no fishing. It's never the same on your own. Would you come with me?' His gaze was direct and I had no hope of evasion. Directness, honesty — why could I never associate such qualities with Kit? Were they so foreign to his nature? Where was he? I knew suddenly that to remain alone would be painful. I'd think constantly of Kit, of his unreliability in comparison with this man's openness. Kit was a spinner of dreams, but one always woke up to reality in the morning. 'I'd like to.' He smiled, his face filled with pleasure. Unexpectedly, I liked him. I'd had no strong feelings up to now, but the sense of communion that grew between us was subtly enjoyable. There was nothing more than liking, but it was enough for the present. 'The Folly,' he said. 'It's quite near and a good viewpoint. Would that suit you?' 'It's where I should have gone if we hadn't met just now.' 'So I'd have seen you anyway.' He sounded pleased. I nodded. He opened the outer door and stood aside to let me pass. The evening air was still warm and filled with disturbing leaf and flower scents. The way to the hilltop stretched steep and shadowdappled. A cat watched us from a high wall where ivy covered much of the stone. The sound of his footsteps was loud and firm

and totally unlike C. Brown s cat-footed stride. They were the  

 

antithesis of one another in everything, colouring, nature, mannerisms. The Folly came into sight, stirring my blood in spite of myself. There was so much of Kit woven into the place. And not only him. There was the image of Isobel Goudie, the rustle of the rowans that were planted as a barrier against witchcraft. I thought of that other witch, the witch of Langaly whose face jutted below the windowspaces and the stone birds. What had been her name? What was her story? Had she been a harmless old woman who picked herbs and simples, or had she been hunted and persecuted as others had been, merely because they were different? di fferent? 'Where's your home?' I asked Boyd when we reached the bottom step of thethe long flight that led up to the circular building that dominated skyline. 'Whichever ship I happen to be on.' 'You've—no family left?' A muscle in his face jerked for a moment. None.' 'Oh. That's a pity.' I thought of Mother, Aunt Ju, Seil and Kerry, and I was grateful. We were all close even if we didn't entirely understand one another. 'That's—that's why you chose this sort of holiday? Pretty well arranged?' 'That's right.' His voice was oddly expressionless. ex pressionless.

 

 

'And of course, you used to live close by as a boy. Could I ask where?' His eyes came upon mine and they were hard and unfamiliar. 'No, I don't remember. It was a long time ago. Places change.' 'Oban hasn't altered very much. Far less than most towns.' 'I only remember—a large house. Lots of polished linoleum. The harbour area rings a much louder bell. I spent a lot of time there, looking at the ships and the boats.' 'That's why you became a sailor?' 'Yes.' His profile gave away nothing. nothing . 'You've done well for so young a man, to have attained your rank. You must have been extremely single-minded.' 'I was.' That black gaze came back to meet mine. 'You must love the sea. Always living here—' My footsteps faltered. We had reached the summit and the ocean lay underaffair the low, bright sun.years. I hadAnd loved theI regarded sea. It had beensmiling a mad love for twenty-two now it with fear and suspicion because it had played me false. 'I see I was wrong,' Boyd Malcolm said quietly. 'And that's a pity.' 'Why is it a pity? I wasn't quite sure what he was getting at. Then I wasn't listening any more. I was aware of his deep voice going on and on, but the words didn't register. Through the great arched gateway of the Folly I saw two people in close conversation—a dark girl with an exquisite Egyptian profile and a big fair man I

 

 

couldn't help but recognise because no one else could look like him. Kit Brown. I turned my back instinctively. My whole body was rigid with shock and a deep disillusion. Vida had been more than interested in Kit from the first moment she'd seen him at the window. He'd been equally aware of her. But he'd refused her invitation because of a pressing engagement. Or had that been for my benefit? I'd been asked to the MacInneses too. Perhaps he'd wanted to see her alone. She'd stayed in the garden for some time. He could have crossed the street while I was in the kitchen and suggested that he was, after all, free. It would have h ave been so easy— 'You're shivering,' Boyd Malcolm said. 'Not cold, are you?' I grasped at the straw eagerly. 'I am a bit. You'd think I'd have the sense, after living in Scotland all these years, to come prepared, wouldn't you.' 'It's quite warm really,' he observed, his eyes curious. 'Yes. You're quite right. A goose walking over my grave. That's all.' 'Shall we go inside? One doesn't see much from here.' I'd already seen more than I wanted. But, quite suddenly, I knew I wasn't going to run away. I'd been running away for months from my memories. One had to face up to reality. Only today I'd been making Seil look life in the eye. I already knew Kit had his secrets. That must be accepted, and now was as good a time as any.

 

 

There were more people than usual in the Folly. The benches were filled with middle-aged couples sitting contentedly in the pleasant shelter of sunlit walls. Dogs and children scampered over balding grass. I preferred the Folly later when it was darker, the apertures filled with jewelled mist, the islands like lumps of uncut sapphire— Boyd looked around with an odd lack of curiosity. I remembered belatedly that he must have seen all this before. Where had he lived, and why couldn't he remember where the big house was, the one with the linoleum-covered floors that sounded horribly like an institution? Perhaps he'd been very young indeed and his only real recollections of the family kitchen. That seemed more likely. Turning head carefully thethat place where Kit andThere Vida had beenmy standing, I saw, totowards my relief, they'd vanished. was another gate at the opposite side of the Folly and it seemed obvious that they'd gone down on to the precarious path beyond, a winding track that followed the rise on which the stone circle stood and screened by the birch and rowan that grew in spindly profusion. Boyd climbed into one of the window-spaces and stared down at the harbour. He was an extremely attractive person, I reflected, not for the first time. I'd be more usefully occupied getting to know him better instead of whistling after the moon. He'd shown he was drawn towards me right from the beginning. If it hadn't been for Kit, I might have returned that interest. But Kit was here, with all his maddening evasion and deception, and his brand of chicanery seemed more irresistible than Boyd's decency. I was conscious of a sense of shame for my own stupidity. Only a few more days and all my problems would be resolved. They'd both be gone and there would be no more heart-searching, no more conflict. Nothing—

 

 

I shivered again and Boyd saw that involuntary reaction. 'You'd better go back,' he said, concerned. 'I expect you're tired. That could make you feel cold.' 'Yes,' I agreed thankfully, ' that's probably it.' I'd have offered to take Kit by the back road and through the garden, but something prevented me from doing likewise with Boyd. It seemed mean, like denying him a privilege he was . entitled to, but women were said to be unfair to those of whom they were fond and I did like him very much. The only thing was that liking seemed to have no connection with the feeling that had been engendered between Kit Brown and myself this afternoon, something composed of intangible elements like sunlight, smells of flowerscuriously and the sea, contact, embraces that seemed natural and desirable, right. They couldn't have been, I told myself flatly. Magic was selfdeception. One thought one saw something that didn't exist, was no part of living. It was sleight of hand, illusion, a veil over what was real. I wasn't a child to be taken in by a conjuror. It would be advisable to accept Kit at his face value only and not to look underneath for what simply wasn't there. t here. I wondered, as we retraced our steps towards the house, if Boyd had seen Kit and Vida. Was that why he'd gone on talking interminably without, appearing to need an answer? Because he was kind, because he'd seen more than I'd intended and hadn't wanted me to be hurt? I looked at him and found he was studying me in return. We both smiled the same kind of smile, a mixture of embarrassment and comradeship that had nothing to do with this afternoon and the sea-murmuring shore.

 

 

Boyd didn't come in to Dalrigh. He said he was going for a last walk round the harbour. When I looked back from the open doorway, he was already striding down the hill with an unmistakable sense of purpose. Boyd was in the occupation most suited to him. On his own admission he'd spent much of his childhood freedom down with the ships and boats of the waterfront. A man so dedicated would want his wife to feel the same way about the sea. I couldn't even go to Langaly without fear clutching at me in octopus tentacles. A storm filled me with a sliding depression that grew with each hour that passed, taking me down to a pit of darkness. Kit had helped me overcome this today. Somehow, he had sensed my trouble and had stayed with me until necessity was past. Part of me was still grateful, but the other almost hated him for his h is duplicity. Muted folk-music haunted the region of the drawing-room. I stood outside the door, looking through the glass panel. Mark was playing now and the girls were setting out coffee mugs and biscuits on a table under the standard lamp. Everything away from that one pool of light was shrouded and muted in deep shadow. It didn't hide the closeness of Seil and Caro Trewitt, who were together on the sofa. Philip sat on a cushion on the floor, his head against padded 'arm of a chair, his' and eyesthe closed. Marknotes was engagedthe in playing Scarborough Fair fey, eerie stole around my heart, quickening it to an almost pleasurable pain. I leaned my head against the hardness of the jamb and watched Kerry hand out coffee, her brown hair swinging around her freckled face, her whole aspect peaceful and relaxed. Boyd wasn't the only person who was doing what he wanted most. My sister exuded a kind of fulfilment I almost envied. The drawing-room with its glow, its velvet-shadowed recesses and its evocative music was a little paradise I didn't feel qualified to enter. Regret, fear and disenchantment had no place in that th at warm, closed circle.

 

 

It was dark in the hall, so I was able to stand where I was without being noticed for some time. I heard nothing, and yet the whole atmosphere of the night and darkness changed. Turning my head quickly, I saw someone standing against the dim shaft that came through the fanlight. My throat tightened foolishly. No one else moved so quietly. Kit had come like a prowler, like some criminal who must remain unnoticed. Only my sharply-attuned senses had told me he was there. I moved away from the door and the softlylit room. The guitar music stopped and I heard the low murmur of voices and laughter, the chink of china and spoons. 'Always on the outside looking in,' in ,' Kit accused gently. 'Don't be—presumptuous!' For a moment I was angry. 'I thought we knew each other well enough to be honest.' 'Do we? I don't think we know one another at all.' My voice quivered for all my attempt att empt at stability. 'Oh?' In the dimness I saw his blond brows rise interrogatively. The dining-room door stood open upon blackness. I hesitated at the foot of the stairs that led to our private quarters and Kit went on, ' Can't we go in there and talk for a little?' 'Is there any point?' 'There's always a point. Anyway, I want your company. Isn't that a good enough reason?' He switched on the light and I went into the dining-room slowly. I was being a fool. He could sound very seductive when he wanted to. Kit closed the door behind him. 'Sit down, for goodness' sake, and stop looking so defensive. If I'd had any untoward thoughts I'd

 

 

have taken you a long way from here before trying to have my wicked way with you.' I laughed in spite of myself. 'Have you any idea how old-fashioned that sounds?' 'I can assure you, however,' Kit said, ' that you aren't yet out of the wood.' He took out the silver cigarette case and offered it to me. 'I hardly ever smoke,' I said, ' but I think I will this time.' 'Nerves need steadying?' He flicked open a lighter and our eyes met over the flame. My heart beat jerkily. 'Yes.' 'Any specific reason?' He sat down on the window-seat and gazed at me appraisingly. 'Did you see who you wanted to? That engagement—' 'Of course.' He blew out a cloud of blue smoke. If there'd beenI anyone bhadn't esideshad Vida they have qu ite near Dalrigh, thought.else He besides time to must go very far.lived quite 'You seem to have—acquaintances everywhere— here, Fort William, Langaly—' I couldn't help the last word. He sat up suddenly. 'Langaly?' His eyes sharpened. 'I saw you from the castle, coming out of the MacLeans' gate.' 'Oh, that. It was the only onl y cover for miles.' He grinned disarmingly.

'And I was up at the Folly earlier on.'  

 

His expression didn't change noticeably. 'So?' 'Oh, come, I'm not as green as I'm cabbage-looking,' I protested. 'I'd have said that was the last thing you resembled,' he said smoothly. 'Did Captain Malcolm enjoy the view?' vi ew?' I flushed. He'd succeeded in making me the guilty one. It hadn't occurred to me before that my being there with another man was probably as reprehensible to him as my view of him with Vida MacInnes. 'It wasn't planned,' I said defensively. 'We met at the front door. We were both going the same way—' 'And Miss MacInnes and I met on the steps,' he said mildly. 'It seemed churlish to tell her I couldn't go inside the Folly with her without written permission.' 'I'm sorry,' I said in a low voice. 'It was quite inexcusable of me, wasn't it? We're free agents, aren't we? It was wrong of me to be so—possessive is the only possible word, isn't it?' 'Only after this afternoon, things between us altered and you thought we had some special— rights over one another?' he suggested very softly. He put the cigarette case down on the seat beside him and the light caught the chased initials. C. D. A vague memory stirred in my mind, but was lost before I could formulate it. Kit picked up the case, conscious of my regard, and slipped it into his pocket without seeming interested. i nterested. 'People perhaps.' shouldn't have rights,' I said unsteadily. 'Privileges,

But nothing more?  

 

I shook my head. I'd learnt my lesson. 'And Vida still expects us tomorrow night?' 'Of course.' 'I must remember to tell Boyd. Before he puts his name down for a fishing trip.' 'How did you know it was Captain Malcolm she meant?' 'I know Vida.' 'She's a very unusual type.' He was watching me through the faint film of blue haze and something inside me was melting under the mingled amusement and sensuality of that look, stirring me in spite of my unspoken resolve to remain at a safe distance from his disturbing personality. I'd been wrong about jumping to conclusions over Vida and I didn't want to fall into any more traps. I didn't trust him fully. How did I know that their meeting had been so innocent? He'd said so, but that need mean nothing more than expediency. 'She's always been good-looking. She never seemed to go through that ugly duckling stage most girls experience.' 'I prefer red hair,' Kit said. 'Like Isobel Goudie's?' I suggested. 'Like yours.' He stubbed out his cigarette and took mine away from me. Then he pulled me on to my feet. I remembered hazily hoping that no one would come in unexpectedly. The strains of guitar music penetrated the wall faintly, hauntingly persistent. He put his arms around me, his hands pressing against my thinly-covered

back. His mouth was on mine with nothing of gentleness. I no  

 

longer wondered why women took up with dubious characters. I knew. I should be asking him outright if he had been the man at the Folly, the man who spoke of witches and of a red-haired one in particular. I should probe into his account of his prolonged absence on the island, of the tunnel he hadn't had time to investigate. He'd known about the path to the castle though he couldn't see it, and about our garden gate, though he'd had an explanation I hadn't yet queried. But none of it mattered. This was what was important, this instinctive, highly pleasurable give and take between us. Not all my doubts could dim this sense of passion only a stone's throw away, and beyond the passion, something I wanted and could have whenever I said the word. Illusion, I told myself before it was too late, enchantment, durable—

wizardry,

sleight-of-hand—magic.

Not

'Well?' he said at last. 'Is that supposed to be a question?' 'I think it must.' He laughed and there was a trace of excitement in the sound. 'I think the doe's caught the scent of the hunter and is running for cover,' I told him recklessly. reck lessly. 'Probably the most sensible course of action under the circumstances,' he agreed, smiling. 'I really must find some expert to advise me on this stalking business. But I'm going to catch you off guard one of these days. You know that, don't you?' He'd stopped smiling and his eyes were strange and dark and rather frightening.

'Yes.'  

 

'Well, don't say you haven't been warned.' 'No, I won't say that.' th at.' He went to the door, opened it and looked out. 'The coast's clear.' I followed him and switched off the light. 'Goodnight, Kit.' 'Goodnight.' I saw his shadow move, but I didn't hear him go. It wasn't until I was in my own room that I knew I was committed to some folly that could change my whole life, and probably not for the better.

 

  CHAPTER V

I woke up early, remembering. A vague, pearly light crept through the window. Against this pallor the Folly looked more than ever a dark Colosseum. The sky through the double row of windowspaces turned to a bluish-pink, then to peach. I could see why people long ago worshipped the sun. There was such an effortless grandeur in its rising, like a huge, bright god, gold-plated. In Egypt they called him Amun, in Greece it was Apollo. If he existed I knew he would look like Kit. I found myself smiling. Kerry and I got up earlier than usual. It was the day for the trip to Tobermory, Staffa and Iona and we were to take food for the day. Kerry was to come with us, as her day off, and Mother, Aunt Ju, Mrs Gunn and Patsy were making a late evening meal for our return. 'We're meeting in the drawing-room again,' Kerry told me, busy with sandwiches. 'Joining us?' 'Er—no. Vida's invited Kit, Boyd and me for drinks.' 'Fancy that! I had the impression she looked down on us nowadays. So did Seil. Lowering the tone of the neighbourhood or summat.' 'Well, it seems you're wrong,' I said crisply, and went on wrapping pasties in greaseproof paper. 'Put something round the strawberry tarts to stop them knocking against the sides of the tins. It would be a pity to spoil them.' 'Bet she'swhich got her on one of them,' Kerry went on unabashed. 'Wonder oneeye it is?

 

 

Going by the old law of the attraction of opposites that should make it Kit Brown.' The blood came up into my face. Fortunately Kerry didn't look up from her task. I didn't want her to start noticing anything prematurely. There was always the old adage, ' There's many a slip 'twixt the cup and the lip '. And Kit didn't inspire me with a sense of stability. He was quicksilver, mercury, two-faced like Janus. Yet, in an odd way, our feeling for one another seemed inevitable. I turned away to take salad requisites out of the crisper and to pack the cider and lager. We arrived at the harbour two hours later in a state of pleasurable expectancy. everyone My stomach muscles were knottedOrwith tensionelse in did spiteexcept of theme. promise of a good day. Soon I'd have to step into the  Cowrie, then climb the rope-ladder of the Gannet. There'd be the throb of the engine, the dip and sway of the water below, that hollow of insecurity I knew would threaten me. Mrs Fitzherbert was wearing a soft chiffon scarf to protect her hair-do. It was the same colour as her husband's eyes, a pale duckegg blue. Judy looked more than ever a changeling. It was the only thing she and Caro had in common, the seeming impossibility of being the offspring of their respective parents. Seil, Kerry and I had always been reasonable facsimiles of ours, me like Father, the others like our mother. I knew what I was doing. I was thinking, almost frantically in an effort to dull the moment of departure. I was hanging back so that I'd be the last aboard, staring at the bright fishing-boats, the big, dark bulk of the Claymore as it prepared to cast off for its own impending voyage. Steamer passengers stared down at us as our party climbed into the Cowrie. 

 

 

Kit waited with me for the second trip. I fixed my eyes on the   Claymore's  blue-green wake, the gulls scrabbling for crusts, the red ensign descending, the clouds over inky-blue islands, the darkshadowed water. There seemed nothing to say this morning. His eyes were thoughtful and I knew he was almost unaware of my presence. Last night's closeness seemed never to have existed. Perhaps it hadn't for him. My face seemed to freeze in lines of misery. The wind caught at the rusty fronds of my hair, stirring it like seaweed in water. Then the Cowrie was below us and his hand was under my arm, tough and protective, his eyes no longer abstracted but alive with something that made my heart leap. I could almost forget the plunge and see-sawing of the little boat, almost obliterate the white wall of the  Gannet  rising  rising above me, the slender, knotted ladder that gave with the pressure of my feet. Almost, but not quite— Oban receded. Dunollie showed high on its green crag. The back of Kererra showed bright and bare and the far-off islands were mist-capped. The hiss of the wake became curiously soporific. Mrs Fitzherbert's scarf streamed back in blue pennants. Everyone was talking. Young gulls sailed by, the light on their brown plumage and the sun, breaking through, cast a silver wash over the sea. The end of Mull grew clearer, showing isolatedDuart houses, but the mountains were still deep in atrees thickand blanket. Castle towered on the tip of the headland still small and dark but unmistakably steepled and battlemented. Morven was black and sinister, crowned with a heavy pall of mist. A pale-grey rock with a lighthouse on it stood out supernaturally pale and shining, light as air. The  Gannet   was drawing level with the  Claymore and for the second time we were watched by the people by the crowded rail. We were close enough for me to see three of the crew in navy

sweaters and caps winding ropes into neat circles under the  

 

flagpole. One of the men looked up just before we drew away and I saw his dark-bearded face break into a smile. His voice rang out over the water, a charming Highland voice. 'Hey, Male! Long time no see. Male? Hey, boy!' Boyd's face reddened and paled. He stayed where he was, his profile turned away from the  Claymore, studiedly unaware. I felt embarrassed, not so much for him as for the sailor who frowned now, his expression unsure. Male—it must be Boyd he'd meant. Boyd had lived in the district. He'd haunted the waterfront, on his own admission. The Oban steamers must be familiar to him, both ships and crews. Then why hadn't he acknowledged that cheerful salutation? There was one thing I'd been wrong about. Boyd hadn't left here as a small child. He'd been old enough for the sailor to recognise him without difficulty. He must know where the house was, the big house with the polished linoleum. He'd lied to me—  just as Kit had. I was vaguely unhappy. I looked back the way we'd come. Dunollie was faint and far away. That was where Kit had asked me about the Luck of Langaly. The wind whispered the words of the verse. 'Where the Sea-Song is, And the place of Kings, Where the witch has lived And the birds lack wings to fly, There lies the Luck, The Luck of Langaly.' The gulls wheeled and curveted. Boyd had shown great interest in the Luck when I'd described it. I was conscious of a stirring of unease. But he'd been interested in the Spanish treasure ship too. I remembered something else. Boyd had asked about Langaly House

and why the present owners didn t have the Luck. And then I d

 

 

seen Kit coming out of the gateway thinking himself unobserved. He'd asked some searching questions too, particularly about where my knowledge had originated. But I had seen the Luck parcelled up and sealed with wax. I'd been there when Father said he'd had an acknowledgement of its safe arrival. Arrival where? I'd offered to take the parcel to the post office, but he'd insisted on taking it himself. I neither knew where it had been sent nor the name of its recipient. Only Mr Wilson, Father's partner, had known, and I certainly couldn't go to him asking a lot of questions about something I was supposed to know nothing about, without rousing his suspicions. The throb of the engine and the sound of the sea produced a deep, soft crooning I recognised. Sea-song. It seemed, for the first time in months, to have more pleasant associations, making me think beyond the night my father died, to a green-jewelled time, the sea laced with silver and crystals of foam, when the hollows of the waves were mermaid cradles. A lullaby— Boyd Malcolm's profile impinged on my consciousness, dispelling the shadowy recollection. Why had he lied to me and ignored the man who'd been his friend? I'd connected him with integrity, with honesty. I was more than I cared to admit, evenhis to myself. He stayed by disappointed the rail, his shoulders slightly hunched, whole attitude defensive. The sailor's greeting rang in my ears, ' Hey, Male! Long time no see!' He'd been convinced. I looked round to see Kit studying Boyd with a similar interest. Everyone else appeared to have forgotten the incident, if they'd ever noticed it. But not Kit. His blue eyes were very wide-awake, very intent, totally absorbed. Like a hunter. And there was his quietness. What if he wasn't a criminal but a policeman? A detective had to elucidate information while giving nothing away.

A cold prickle of sweat touched my palms.

 

 

I took myself to task mentally. I was conjuring up mysteries out of no substance. The sailor had made a mistake. Kit was—but what was he? And whom? Duart Castle had swollen into a bulge of brown stone, every crevice clear cut. The Claymore was putting into a long pier piled with wooden boxes. A few houses stood out against a background of tree-covered hill. A stream tumbled down from the mountains. The Morven coast became gentler and more wooded and the Mull side barer. The  Gannet left the steamer behind and followed the rocky edge of the island. Tobermory grew out of distance, a long front of beautifully painted houses, pink, yellow, scarlet, black, cream, kingfisher, grey and orange. Other houses followed the line of a high road where I saw hedges, trees and wild roses. Yachts dotted an ultramarine bay fringed with amber weed. The low road ended in thick, dark woods against which gulls were splatters of snowy whiteness. There were smells of oil, salt and seaweed. The hills, quiet and shadowed, stared down blindly. 'An hour to stretch your legs,' I said, knowing everyone would inevitably be away longer. The Tobermory tea-shop with its white and yellow paint would draw the Fitzherberts and the Trewitts like a magnet. Boyd Malcolm would go into the pub on the waterfront as all sailors did. Kerry and the younger members of the party would feed the gulls and look in the shop that sold pottery and woollen goods, silver hip flasks and staghorn-handled knives. Boyd, still rather pale, was first on the shore and soon striding along the road back to the little town. 'Well?' Kit said close to my ear. 'You've been very thoughtful all

morning.

 

 

'Have I?' 'Do you like my sweater?' he asked. I looked at it. It was a handsome garment, blue with a set-in pattern of white stags and fir-trees. Norwegian, I'd decided earlier. 'It's—positively overpowering.' 'So you do like it! It has significance, don't you think? After what you said last night?' 'What did I say? There were so many things.' My eyes refused to meet his. 'You mentioned does and hunters,' he reminded me. 'Oh. Symbolism.' 'That's right. Symbolism.' He grinned disarmingly. I could see the hurrying figures of the rest of the party some way ahead. Boyd was out of sight. My spirits fell with the thought of him. was silly, really, with the the shelter gulls swooping andThe mewing and whiteIthorses leaping beyond of the bay. sea had a heavy metallic appearance closer to shore, seeming almost solid. Tree trunks shone tall and ghostly in the sunlight. There were pale green stretches above the billowing woods and the th e soft 'swoosh ' of the waves lulled me to content. It was acutely pleasant to walk with Kit, neither of us speaking but still held together in unmistakable companionship. Other women besides myself found him attractive. All the time we were together, eyes moved from him to me, then back to Kit.

 

 

The  Claymore  had docked by the time we reached the painted houses around the shore road. Passengers streamed down the gangplanks. I saw the black-bearded man inspecting tickets, warning those who were returning of the time for departure. The last passenger left and the man hesitated a moment, then stared across the bay to the white shape of the Gannet. He frowned and hesitated, then plunged down the gangway. He passed quite close to Kit and me and I saw that he was older than Boyd, older and tougher, and, at this moment, definitely angry. It could have been something that had just happened on board, but I had the conviction that it was Boyd's ignoring of him that had upset this man. He must have been very sure he knew him. Perhaps I'd mistaken friendliness for derision. It could have been that way. Kit had noticed him too. Nothing had escaped his sharp gaze, I reflected. With apparent casualness, he took my arm and began to walk back the way we'd come, but for all the studied disinterest, keeping the tall figure of the sailor in sight. The man went inside the open darkness of a public house door. 'Thirsty?' Kit asked. 'Yes.' It made things easier agreeing with him. 'Good. You don't mind the public bar, do you? It's quite respectable.' I wanted to ask him how he knew. Of course we could see inside from where we now were and it did look all right. Big and cool and dim with a flagged floor, a polished bar and lifebelts on the walls. The sailor had his elbows on the gleaming wood and was

leaning over to talk to the bartender in a low voice.  

 

'What would you like?' Kit enquired, his gaze fixed on the dark man. 'A shandy, please.' He moved away, soft-footed as always. The dark man was given a whisky and chaser, then the bartender moved along to take Kit's order. 'Nice day,' Kit said to the company in general. The sailor nodded, then moved to a table facing the back of the bar. 'That didn't get you far,' I told Kit when he returned. He assumed a look of innocence that sat oddly on his face. 'What didn't?' 'Following him.' I sipped at my shandy. It was cold and delicious. 'You're adding up beans—' 'And making four,' I retorted. 'Why do you have to be so—?' 'Intelligent?' I suggested he hesitated. He smiled 'That wasn't what I had inasmind. I was trying to thinkunwillingly. of another word for maddening.' 'It was probably just a mistake. That man and —Boyd.' 'Probably,' he agreed, his voice expressionless. 'Only you've made up your mind it wasn't. It's not really—' 'My business? Perhaps not. I just can't resist —mysteries.'

'What are you? Some sort of detective?'  

 

His eyes opened wide and dark. Surprised too, unless I was mistaken. Then he laughed and I found myself laughing with him. Warmth grew inside me, insidious as the smell of gorse-bloom and the sea. Someone stopped in the open doorway. I knew it was Boyd in spite of the black bulk of his figure, faceless against the strong sunlight. He hadn't seen us yet. We'd chosen the darkest corner of the room. But he was very aware of the sailor from the  Claymore.  He stared across at the wool-covered back, then, as though coming to some decision, took a step into the cool shade of the room. I don't know why I moved. The chair-leg scraped across the floor and Boyd turned his head to see us both watching him. I started to smile, but he swung round abruptly, his strong shadow slanted for a moment across the grey flagstones, then he was gone. 'Curiouser and curiouser,' Kit murmured softly. soft ly. 'He isn't the only one!' I snapped for some reason I couldn't define. 'The world's full of people who're definitely odd. Quite peculiar, in fact!' 'Including me?' We stared at one another for a moment, my eyes angry, his mocking. And then I couldn't care any longer that he perplexed and worried me, that I knew nothing about him. There was that pull of the senses between us, like the moon and the tide, something that ebbed and flowed and occasionally grew so strong that I was almost afraid. A few days ago I'd scarcely known him. And now—it was as if he'd always been there. 'So you do think I'm as odd as the Captain,' he said, but he didn't

look too worried about my conviction.

 

 

'We've all got our—peculiarities, I suppose.' 'I like yours. All except that thing you've got about the water. How did that happen?' 'I don't want to talk about it. Not at the moment,' I told him carefully. 'You'll have to sooner or later.' 'Will I?' 'You know you have. That's not the sort of thing one withholds.' 'No.' I finished the rest of the shandy and stood up. 'Time to walk back. I must set a good example.' 'Don't try too hard.' We laughed again then and some of the constraint between us vanished. It's difficult to remain apart when one's sharing a joke with someone who means something. I wasn't sure if I meant anything to Kit, but I was certain—almost certain— he meant something to me. It was startling bright after the dimness of the public house. We went up a steep lane above the front. Barren moorland stretched as far as the sky, the dark ridges as quiet as the hills. The distance was a disturbing plum-blue and the sun glittered in bright swords across the moving sea. There were half-circles of shifting iridescence, land-masses that subtly threatened, blotches and scales of brilliance heaving with the water's motion. Even the clouds, grey and soft, were vague tocsins, sounding an alarm of which I became increasingly conscious. The road loopedagainst round to far end of the bay to where the  Gannet    gleamed thethe bluepurple of water and sky.

 

 

The girls, Mark, Philip and Seil were already on the brown, stony shore throwing pieces of biscuit to the gulls and chasing each other round the beached rowing-boats. But my sixth sense reached out beyond this appearance of normalcy, recognising the unmistakable presence of an unseen malignity. Was that too strong a word? I didn't think so. I tried to shake off the presentiment of trouble but it stayed with me like some pillar of smoke, spreading and seeping into the glory of the day.

 

  CHAPTER VI

The magic returned with the afternoon. It became colder after leaving Tobermory, but the colours of the sea, land and sky were unbelievably beautiful. The older members of the party went into the warmth of the cabin, but the rest of us put on sweaters and coats and stayed on deck. Ardnamurchan came and went, all bleached sand, purple rock and glimpses of ultramarine, cobalt and indigo islands, stark and barren as moonscapes. But the opposite shores were warm and sunlit and one solitary island glittered bright gold against all the greyness of sky and cloud. The water deepened to jade and close to land the long, weed-strewn waves purred like sea-cats. Patches of green appeared in my memory like the promise of Tir-nan-og, the place of legend, the Gaelic heaven. The light changed and there were spectrums of rainbow-colour, effects of mother-of-pearl, opal, marble, clouded glass, syeniteblue, great outcroppings of fissured bronze and darkest sapphire, and always the sea running and tumbling, the foam-edged waves glittering with crystal. My fear had grown remote, like a terror of the night barely remembered in the safety of morning. But it was still there like one cold finger placed on my spine to remind me  

 

that it come. lay in wait for a moment of  stress or weakness that must surely There was distant land now, pearl-shadowed beyond black fingers of rock, then the open sea and the smudges that were Coll and Tiree, small birds flying low over the water, the mountains  of Mull half lost in mist. Such an abundance  of   treasures brought an avalanche of comment and questions. The Fitzherberts ventured out again to admire the rocky coast and caves, the Trewitts to inspect the Treshnish Islands and the indigo peaks of Rhum. The far-off teeth of the Coolins bit into a covering of cloud. Caro and

Judy exclaimed over Calgary Bay with its yellow sand, the low

 

 

islands off-shore, slate-coloured, a castle in trees. Ulva showed a tawny tip, a mountain-range came out of distance with vapour over the highest peak. The table-land fell and there were bare, terraced stretches. The sea turned grey and choppy and there were pillars of spray as the sea struck the little lowlands south of Ulva. The highlight of the journey between Tobermory and Iona was undoubtedly Staffa. Seil took the Gannet   close in for the best possible view of the caves and I noticed, for the first time, that Caro was now with him. Their heads were very close together as he pointed out the tall columns of lichened stone out of which stared the black eyes of caves. 'Lava!' Professor Trewitt was shouting excitedly. 'Pure lava! And see the octagonal formation of the pillars, Freda? Can I have the camera?' Mrs Trewitt didn't answer. She had her eyes fixed on Caro and I didn't care for the look in them. Her suspicions had been lulled when Seil had apparently been dropped in favour of Mark and Philip. But no one could overlook the girl's present affinity with my brother. Now that the engines had stopped all the separate conversations could be clearly heard. There was an intense quiet out here in the vast expanse of ocean and islands, the great bare rise of Staffa sheltering the Gannet  from  from the wind. 'I told you it was something special, Caro, didn't 1?' Seil was saying. I felt uncomfortable seeing the cold look in her mother's eyes and the compressed lips. I couldn't see what harm they were doing. One would have thought the t he sheer, dramatic enormity of the scene would have driven out all narrow-mindedness from even the

least impressionable person. It was odd how peace and beauty

 

 

seemed to pass right over some people. Why couldn't she let her daughter enjoy her holiday in her own way? Then I saw Caro fullface as she turned to lean against the rail. Hers was a dangerous attraction. Perhaps the Professor's wife was wise to keep an eye on her child. Not everyone would be as scrupulous as Seil. But my brother showed little of what went on in his mind. How was Mrs Trewitt supposed to gauge his character? 'Freda!' the Professor called. His wife went to him readily enough, but I could sense her indecision, saw her gaze return to Seil time and time again. I began to understand some of the difficulties in being responsible for good-looking teenagers, particularly girls. But why was Seil frowned on in particular? Mark or Philip could turn out to be profligate if they were encouraged. Why didn't she mind them? Because she was a snob, I told myself, having explored all the possibilities, and I could never abide snobbery. Vida was given to this trait. She'd brushed aside asid e my lack of present suitability because she could hardly have invited my guests without also asking me, but once Kit and Boyd had gone, I doubted if I'd see the inside of the MacInnes residence in a hurry. Boyd. Was that the reason for his pretending not to have heard the sailor the  Claymore? Surely not!just He because seemed he toowas decent man tofrom be ashamed of a former friend ship'sa crew. I turned to look at him covertly. He was leaning over the rail, staring at the cinnamon-shaded bulk of the island, encompassed by the kind of loneliness that always touched me. I'd felt that tenderness for Seil quite recently. I was aware of it now on Boyd's behalf. If my chair leg hadn't scraped across the flagstones of the pub at Tobermory he'd have spoken to the sailor, so there was apparently some overwhelming reason why Kit and I should have remained in ignorance of the fact that they knew one another. People who had things to hide were usually unhappy, fugitive

types, full of repressions and subterfuge. subter fuge. Incomplete people.  

 

'There's Ireland,' Kit said, making me start at the unexpectedness of his voice so close to me. 'That low blueness on the horizon there.' It was Ireland, a line of watery harebell violet that someone who didn't know it was there would miss completely. Depression touched me. The cold finger pressing my spine became a hand, a foreboding. Mrs Trewitt, Boyd, Kit. They were all problems, like the nag of toothache, and I found them all painful and disturbing. Adam in the Garden of Eden must have looked at Eve, the apple and the serpent with just my own sensation of walls and ramparts of difficulties ahead, just out of sight but recognisable in the mind. 'Yes, that's Ireland,' I agreed, forcing my tone to sound normal. He'd said nothing about all this being familiar. He'd said he always read up new places before he visited them, making it perfectly plain that this applied to Oban and its environs. Only it wasn't true— 'We could go over in two stages,' Seil told Mr Fitzherbert and the Professor, who'd joined him in the last few minutes. Professor Trewitt was taking photographs with prodigal lack of care for the cost of films. 'But we mustn't be too long or there will be less time for Iona, and most of you wanted lots of time for the graves and the Abbey. Who's coming first?' 'I'll wait,' I said. 'We've seen it all before, Kerry and me.' I waited for Kit to say he'd seen it before, but he remained silent. The Trewitts, Caro, Judy and Philip went with Seil for the preliminary view. I began to feel worried about Boyd. He'd been so quiet since we left Tobermory. For the first time I wondered if he'd been upset because he'd seen me with Kit. But I'd made it plain that I couldn't go beyond—how had I put it?—the bounds of friendliness and

courtesy. I'd also said I'd keep him in mind when I had some time

 

 

off. That could present problems when the time came. He could be very hurt if I made some excuse about Mother needing me, then he saw me doing something entirely different. I didn't like hurting people. I crossed over to where Boyd was standing alone. 'Enjoying yourself?' His dark-bearded face turned. His black eyes focused and I wondered what he'd been thinking about that detached him so decisively from his surroundings. He had to make an obvious effort to relinquish the hold the past seemed to have upon him. I noticed something else. His newfound assurance had gone and something vulnerable had taken its place. He seemed younger, unsure, and I felt deeply sorry for him for the second time this afternoon. I smiled, pretending not to notice that air of insecurity. 'It's—very impressive,' he agreed. 'Your first time?' 'No. I came once on the steamer.' 'The Claymore?' He looked away abruptly. 'No.' He could be telling the truth, of course, but some sharp tingle of perception in me was aware of evasion. 'You've probably forgotten how it looked if you haven't seen it since you were a child.' 'Oh, no, I haven't forgotten. I still remember the feeling of—sheer awe, I suppose you'd call it —about that first sight.' His reaction was quite spontaneous. Whatever else he'd been untruthful about,

this was different.  

 

'And you've saved up that second look as a special treat. I did too.' 'Did you?' He was smiling now and I realised I wasn't in the least indifferent about Captain Malcolm. He was essentially good, just as I suspected Kit was the opposite. I nodded. The Cowrie  was inside Fingal's Cave and it was as though it and our guest had never existed. 'The Professor was very excited, wasn't he?' Boyd went on. He had more colour since I'd joined him and I thought he looked happier. I found myself wondering how he could have forgotten the location of the house he'd lived in, yet retained such a perfect memory of a cave he'd visited once. Perhaps there were people whose minds worked like that. Children could be odd creatures. But he'd also said he had no living relatives. It could be that he didn't want to revive other memories, recollections that hurt. Like my own concerning Father, a shadow fell over the island, turning it to bronze, the caves inimically black and sinister. 'Mrs Trewitt seems interested in the MacDougalls,' I ventured, wanting to change the direction of my thoughts. 'She gathers information like some of us collect stamps.' 'Do you? Collect stamps?' 'Yes. It's a good hobby for a sailor.' 'Seil does. Only he doesn't get so many nowadays.' 'I'd be happy to send him some.' 'That's nice of you.' I was aware of a flutter of disturbance at the knowledge that our acquaintanceship was likely to endure after the

 

 

holiday was over. The feeling wasn't either pleasure or disinclination, but I couldn't put a name to it. Not yet— 'It's not nice of me at all. You don't know my real motive.' 'Oh? Is there another?' I saw, with relief, that the  Cowrie  was emerging from the cave-mouth. Professor Trewitt was still being snap-happy. He lowered his camera and looked towards the  Gannet. The sunlight lay on his thick-lensed glasses, giving him a curious unfamiliarity. Mrs Trewitt was sitting purposefully near Caro. The whole atmosphere of the day was suddenly charged with a curious danger. Under my eyes, the Professor had become a stranger, his wife a kind of gaoler. By the self, timebut everyone had climbed aboard his genial it was hard for me to shakehe offhad thereturned sensationtothat the Trewitts weren't what they seemed. I descended the ladder between Boyd and Kit, trying not to look down into the olive shadows that heaved around the larger vessel. The little outboard motor roared into action and we approached rapidly the stone columns that guarded the caves. The engine slowed to a purr as the  Cowrie slid into the opening. The dimness was filled with sound, deep, slurred chords that made up a symphony as old as time, a sea-song. Sea-song—I could sense Boyd listening, his head a little to one side. Above us the groined roof soared into shadows. Kit took a torch from his pocket. It didn't seem at all incongruous that he should have one. He pressed the switch and the thin golden light fell on the water, making it look more than ever like an ornate, mosaic floor, polished and gilded as in some Moorish palace. A chameleon display of greengold, sienna and ochre flickered across the multitude of pillars so that they seemed to shift, ever so slightly. The colours of the

 

 

stalactites that dripped, frozen in time, were indescribable, a damascened ceiling of pulsing iridescence. No one spoke. Someone took hold of my hand. It wasn't a gentle contact, but it matched the mood of the moment. I yearned towards Kit, wishing we'd been alone, the cave inexplicably dwarfed by some emotion that was stronger than this fantasy of nature, an emotion accentuated by the sea-chords that pounded against the senses as well as the eardrums. 'Was it as good as you remembered?' I asked Boyd when we were outside again, away from the pull of grandeur and magic. 'Better.' 'That's good, isn't it?' 'Very good.' His expression was different and I wondered what had happened to him during that time in the cave. Some dissatisfaction had been wiped from his eyes. I found myself wishing I knew more about him. I served out the lunches once we were all back on board. Everyone enjoyed the food. The grey-gold of Staffa receded gradually into distance. Mull changed to opal. Iona, long and green, grew and beckoned, putting out the rocky arms of its foreshore to entice us. In spite of the people we could see walking between landing stage and abbey, there was a queer, contained peace that was emphasised by the silver-grey stone of the buildings, the gentle bareness. It was the antithesis of Staffa. Fionnphort lay just opposite the island and green ferryboats plied to and from the island, disgorging passengers and uplifting others. Seil anchored the Gannet  and   and prepared to take the Cowrie inshore. The Professor put another film in the camera. He seemed to have

an inexhaustible supply.

 

 

'Lorn,' Boyd started to say, then Kit said, ' Shall we go in the first or second boat?' I looked from one to the other. They seemed as far apart as Staffa and Iona. I was reluctant to take a decision between them, especially under the shrewd gaze of Mrs Trewitt who was standing close by, her eyes faintly disapproving. 'Don't wait,' I said weakly, ' I've something to do first. Kerry, can I have a few words with you?' 'Well?' Kerry said curiously, when I'd taken her to the other side of the cabin. 'What is it?' 'You're going to hit me, I know. It's nothing. 'It couldn't be nothing,' Kerry objected. 'We're going to have to do something about Seil and Caro Trewitt.' 'That's a change of tune! I'd love to know what you were going to say originally.' She tossed her brown hair back from her face and inspected me closely. 'Mrs Trewitt's getting restless. She doesn't seem to care for Caro's interest in our brother. Thinks, probably, he isn't good enough—' 'Good enough for what? Heavens, they'll be gone in a few more days. She surely doesn't imagine there's anything lasting about young people meeting on holiday! To flog a cliché completely to death, it's a case of ships that pass in the night. Officious old trout—!' 'Kerry! For Pete's sake, keep your voice down.'

My sister grinned unrepentantly.

 

 

'It's all right for you,' I said. 'But they are our living. And Mother's.' Kerry became serious. 'I'd forgotten about Mother. We want people to keep on spreading our name abroad. For her sake.' 'Yes. One of us is going to have to have another chat with Seil.' 'Seems a shame. What harm are they th ey doing?' Kerry frowned. 'She is a bit of a femme fatale, though. I think she could lead people on, if she wanted to.' 'Who? Mrs Trewitt?' Kerry raised surprised brows. 'Nitwit! Caroline.' 'A good job Mrs Brown and Mrs Malcolm aren't around,' Kerry said cryptically. 'I presume they do both have mothers.' 'What's that supposed to mean?' I knew my face was flushed. 'You must imagine I go around with my eyes shut. You'd better look out tonight.' 'Tonight?' 'Vida. Remember? You may think Caro's lethal, but she's as innocent as the babe unborn where our Miss MacInnes is concerned.' 'How do you know so much about Vida?' I countered. 'I grew up. I didn't bury my head in the sand and decide no one

noticed me any more.'

 

 

'Like me?' My voice was cold. 'You said it.' Kerry looked at me searchingly. 'But don't let her get away with it. If it matters enough.' I drew a deep breath. 'I'll keep it in mind, Methuselah.' Kerry giggled. 'I thought you were going to go all frosty on me. You can look terribly disapproving when you want to.' 'You aren't out of the woods yet. Which of us is going to tackle Seil?' 'You'll have to. You're older than he is. He wouldn't take it from me.' 'Perhaps not.' 'Here's your chance. He's coming back,' she pointed out. 'What about you? Are you—involved?' She shook her head decisively. 'I'm waiting for someone interested in the hotel business. I want to stay with cooking. No offices or teaching for me. I want a dishy manager or a head chef in an expensive restaurant with everyone bowing and fawning over him for the best table and the delicacy of the house. Someone Egon Ronay would give five stars.' 'Funny girl!' 'Aren't we all?' Kerry rushed off to the rail. I followed more slowly. I disliked the descent to the  Cowrie more than ever without Kit's presence. The trip to the breakwater was mercifully short. I

 

 

hated the wallowing dip and rise of the sea. My lunch stirred uneasily. 'Are you all right?' Mrs Trewitt asked with unusual solicitude. 'I'm fine.' 'You don't look it. Is it the motion? The boat's less stable than the   Gannet, isn't it? Would you like a Kwell?' I shook my head and thanked her. She'd been perfectly sincere in her offer of help. No one was ever just black or white. Just grey— like me. A party of Guides sat on the jetty waiting for one of the green ferries. of They looked brown distance, cluster trees and the blueand andhappy. orangeInofthe tents. There there were was tilleda fields and haycocks. The abbey, large and grey, dominated the skyline. I lagged behind the rest of the party, still vaguely squeamish. If the worst came to the worst I could take Mrs Trewitt up on her offer of a travel-sickness tablet. Not that it would cure the sickness I suffered from. But I could always delude myself that it did. The ruined convent always drew me like a magnet. I never liked to admit that I preferred it to the abbey, but there was something about the remains of pink and grey walls and the sunken gardens they contained, the little coloured flower plots and harlequin corners, that filled me with secret satisfaction. The abbey was big and cold and vaguely implacable. The convent was immeasurably old and filled with an atmosphere of ancient content, distilled harmony. The sun lingered on its soft grass and enamelled flower faces. It was—gentle, I suppose, and women responded to

gentleness. They responded to other things too, of course. I remembered how Kit had grasped my hand as we floated in the  

 

cave with the brown columns and the glittering fangs of stalactites. I could still feel that hard clasp that almost crushed the bone underneath with its intensity of—passion, possession? I hadn't been able to see his face to gauge that emotion. But the feelings he had aroused had been dangerous. Dangerous but desirable. What if he didn't mean it? Perhaps Kerry was right with her ' ships that pass in the night'? How could I tell when I didn't trust him in other matters, when I was convinced he'd lied? I began to hurry towards the abbey, wanting to be reassured. The landscape was empty without his big, blond figure in it. I passed the line of houses, the hotels and craft shops, the post office and the strolling crowds. The gate creaked as I entered the grounds. Volunteers were cutting the long grass between the gravestones. I was in the Reilig Oran, the burial place. The sunken stones and the kings' tombs lay still and silent, uncaring of footsteps and hushed voices. I stared at the three carved effigies, the semblance of a long sword. Norwegian kings had been interred in this place. Did Kit know? I stood for a long time as though hypnotised. When I looked up I saw no one I recognised. They would all be in the abbey. Cloud was descending over the higher parts of Mull and the sea was a pale grey-green. There were hippies in the abbey. They sat in a circle in one of the cloisters staring at me as I passed and I thought they looked like disciples. Something in their expressions and their long dark hair made me think of biblical pictures. Through an open door I saw doves on a lawn. There were black wrought iron candelabra and white candles, concealed lighting, old statuary, religious wall carvings on the capitals of piers.

 

 

One drew my eyes. It was a carving of the Fall, a sprawling tree and an angel with a flaming sword. Lucifer was under a bowed branch thick with leaves. Something about him was familiar. I stared at it fascinated. The stance, the broad shoulders and light hair—it was undoubtedly Kit. A hand touched me gently and I gave a small, tight scream. 'Didn't you expect me to find you?' Kit whispered. I had, of course. I'd stood there and deliberately evoked him. And now that he was there, so large and soundless, I was afraid of him.

 

  CHAPTER VII

That inexplicable fear stayed with me for the rest of the day. Common sense told me it was a baseless uncertainty founded on the atmosphere of the abbey and the linking of the Lucifer carving with Kit, combined with the dark splendour of Staffa and the many hours spent on the sea that I'd seen for so long as an enemy. In spite of the fact that Kit managed to dispel much of the cold horror of its treachery, I still recoiled from its disconcerting plunges and upheavals, that constant movement, the sensation of being at the mercy of a predator. I was reminded of Captain Hook in Barrie's ' Peter Pan ' and the crocodile that had tasted blood and couldn't rest until it tasted more. Even the ticking of my watch seemed to grow louder with the fancy. Mrs Trewitt had managed to separate Caro and Seil, apparently by enrolling the help of the Professor. It was Judy who stood with my brother now, her long black hair flying witchlike, her pointed face animated. Had she looked like Judy, the mysterious witch of Langaly, or had she been like the ill-fated Isobel Goudie who'd had my colouring? Someone must know about her. Tom MacInnes could have heard her story. He, like my father, had been interested in local history. I must try to remember to introduce the subject tonight. Rain came with the return journey and there were only views of misty distance mingled with little close-up cameos of pink rock and black cormorants, snatches of pale sand, white foam lashing grey outcrops, the sea changing to black glass and great headlands looming out of a pall of shadow. But by the time we rounded the end of Kerrera, the hills were blue again and the island green and gold, my fear receding to a pale, insubstantial thing like a shadow on a television screen.

 

 

Seil stayed behind to see to the Gannet  and  and Cowrie and I drove our guests back to the house. Everyone seemed in good spirits and the Trewitts were full of praise for the entire excursion. Mrs Fitzherbert's hair had suffered and Mr Fitzherbert was ravenously hungry, but neither situations had dimmed their pleasure completely. An atmosphere of companionship hung about the group, something that had so far been missing. Beyond my tiredness lay the satisfaction of a job well done. I had a bath while everyone was at dinner. It seemed important that I wear something outstanding. I fingered the dresses that hung in the wardrobe. The long green, white and black stripe with the high waistline and low neckline was probably the best. I put it on, then fastened a narrow band of black velvet around my throat. It matched my eyes perfectly. A green bracelet was sufficient ornamentation. Picking up my perfume spray, I squeezed Worth scent behind my ears. It seemed a long time ago since I'd made such a conscious effort. Assailed by doubts, I remembered that Vida would undoubtedly have been similarly engaged, probably for most of the afternoon and to greater effect. There was a light tap at the door. Mother came in, looking at me with certain amount of washing-up curiosity. 'Oh,' said, ' it's no use askinga you to help with the now,she is it?' 'I never thought,' I answered, feeling guilty. 'I should have, shouldn't I?' 'I was only joking, darling. Patsy's getting overtime for tonight and she'll soon dispose of everything. You must have your own supper now, but before I forget, Bob Wilson was on the phone earlier, wanting a word with you. I don't think there's much point in trying now as he and Mary were going out to dinner and they'll almost

certainly have left the house. In any case, if they haven't, they'll be

 

 

involved in the last-minute rush. Perhaps you could fit it in in the morning before you go off to Fort William?' I frowned. Bob Wilson was Father's former partner. I wondered what he had to say to me that couldn't be said to Mother. Had he found some discrepancy that required explanation, some fault he couldn't talk to my mother about? Apprehension settled over me like a dust-cloud. 'I'll ring after breakfast. He—he gave no hint, did he?' 'Of what he wanted to say? None. It's probably nothing, though, now that I think back, he did give an impression of—' 'Well?' 'Urgency seems too strong. It's possibly nothing more than to invite you along to meet some personable man. You know Mary's matchmaking propensities.' I made an involuntary face. 'I detest people trying to arrange things. She's awfully kind in many ways, but that always seems to me to be— interference. It's so embarrassing too when it becomes perfectly obvious that the man's become aware of the general air of subterfuge. Or he's probably quite qu ite happily settled already.' 'You seem to have strong feelings on the subject,' Mother observed. 'I have.' My face was warm. war m. 'I'd better take note. I wouldn't want to make the same mistake myself.'

'You wouldn't,' I said with conviction. 'That's one of—'

 

 

'My better points?' she supplied, smiling. I nodded. 'You look extremely attractive. Don't tell me this is just for the MacInneses' benefit.' 'They usually have such smart guests.' gu ests.' 'They do, don't they? It all seems so long ago, our special evenings. You—you don't still—' she hesitated, paling. p aling. 'Blame myself? Sometimes. Not quite so much.' 'You mustn't. I really mean that. It was no one's fault. I can say it now and without reservations—truly.' 'It was I who suggested going out that night.' My voice was unsteady. 'It was I most of the other times. It was chance it had to be that particular one. Now why on earth did I say all that at this moment? I suppose you looked—closer. You've been very far away, Lorn. Don't go there again, will you? I need you too, just as much as the others. And I'm all right. It was Ju who made all the difference. You'll all go, one by one, and that's how it should be. But somehow knowing Ju won't makes things infinitely better. We always had a special bond.' It was ironic that Mother would never know just how much they had shared. Or did she know? Had she known all along? It was a question never ask. Eventhem. the people one thought one knew bestone hadcould their secrets and kept

 

 

'Not finding things too much for you?' I asked, giving my hair a final brush. 'No, if you must know. I feel I've had a new lease of life. I see now I always had a very easy time of it. It never seemed so satisfactory as having to make the effort.' She'd said nothing of how she must, even now, miss Father. Perhaps losing him while he was still young and handsome would keep him that way in her memory. For her he'd never grow old. Were memories enough? Instinct told me reality was better. 'You're sure?' 'Of course I'm sure. andYou'd have only something to eat. It's You just drinks at Tom's place,Come isn't it? get titbits there. know, you've changed, Lorn. I can't quite put my finger on the difference, but it's there.' 'Getting older and wiser,' I countered, switching off the light. 'Now, what's for supper?' I ate in the kitchen under Patsy's admiring eyes. Seil arrived back from the harbour just as I was going in search of Kit and Boyd Malcolm. He looked quite impressed for a brother. 'All this for Tom and Vida?' 'You sound just like everyone else. Have a good time yourself,' I hesitated, remembering that I was supposed to talk to Seil about Caro Trewitt. But two searching conversations in one evening were too much. It was cowardice, I suppose, to put it off until tomorrow, but Mother's unexpected revelations were enough to give me plenty of food for thought. Part of the load on my spirits

was miraculously lifted by the knowledge of her new-found

 

 

content. She wasn't out of the woods yet, but she might-be halfway there. Kit was waiting in the hall. He wore a fine dark barathea suit and one of those white shirts with frills down the front that did nothing to detract from his masculinity. His eyes were dark in the subdued lighting and his hair very pale. His lips were curved in a smile I could only describe as wicked. I didn't like to think what my pulse rate might be. He made a small sound I took to denote satisfaction. 'Have you seen Boyd?' I asked. His eyes said they'd be happy to see Captain Malcolm consigned to some far outpost of the Commonwealth. I couldn't help smiling. We just stood there, not speaking, but chords of pleasure sounding between us like the music of the sea in Fingal's Cave. My mind's eye saw the brown pillars, the glittering floor of the cave with its shifting patterns of light and dark, the brilliance of the stalactites. Again, I felt Kit's fingers round my wrist, conveying surges of feeling he couldn't repress. Even Boyd had reacted to Staffa, finding peace after the disturbance of the afternoon. 'He's coming now,' Kit said, almost as though he'd followed my train of thought. I could hear Boyd's footsteps grow closer. He appeared round the bend of the stairs and I saw that he too was dressed in dark clothes. He always wore colours like navy and black. I wondered if there was any significance in this. Disturbed children painted in sombre shades. Somewhere in Boyd's background I sensed an unhappy childhood. I was conscious of the half-irritated tenderness he always roused in me. Only half of Kit's assurance and vitality would make him a very different man. Daylight struck us sharply once the door was open. Immediately I

felt noticeable in my long dress. People coming up and down the

 

 

road stared at us as we crossed to the MacInneses' gate. The smell of the dark, velvet roses surrounded me with voluptuous images. The house would be filled with them. I was conscious of a sharp stab of anticipation. The evening stretched ahead to infinity. Mother seemed happy and I was with two people I liked a great deal, and who I was sure—well, almost sure—liked me. A neat maid let us into the house. Tom came out of the drawingroom to greet us, his sleepy eyes expressing his satisfaction at my presence, his sensual mouth wreathed in smiles. He looked as he always had, tall and well covered, floridly handsome. One day the slight thickening of his neck would become more pronounced, his stomach grow paunchy, but tonight he held these things at bay. He turned his Nero profile to my companions in turn. I fancied his gaze lingered over Boyd. He frowned slightly as though trying to place him. My heartbeats quickened. Perhaps the mystery of Captain Malcolm could still be resolved. There were several people in the room. I didn't recognise any of them, nor did I remember their names once we were introduced. All of my attention was centred on Vida, who was wearing a stunning silver trouser suit with amethyst jewellery and one of the night-roses pinned in the centre of the black knot of her hair. Boyd stood stock still and stared at her, but her look was for Kit, that and her slow smile. Tom pushed us forward to make ourselves known and I found myself being spokeswoman. 'This is Kit — Christopher Brown. And on my left, Boyd Malcolm.' 'Boyd Malcolm?' Again Tom frowned. 'Don't I know you? It rings a bell.' To my surprise, Boyd flushed. 'You couldn't possibly.'

 

 

'But didn't you—' I began, then was struck to silence by the almost savage imploring in his eyes. Why was it so important that no one knew he'd lived here? It was odd too that Boyd hadn't recognised Tom on arrival. He'd seemed quite self-possessed until a moment ago. Tom's eyes narrowed, though his smile remained. He reminded me of a lion who had just sighted the keeper coming with his dinner. Boyd had been seized by a small blonde and Vida had negotiated Kit into the nearest corner. 'Well,' Tom said, ' and how's life treating you?' 'Better.' His eyes dwelt on me appraisingly. ap praisingly. 'You look —different.' 'That's what Mother says.' 'How is she these days?' I wanted to remind him that she was still there at the other side of the road, that all he had to do was to walk over or lift the phone. Perhaps he read my thoughts in my face because he went on defensively,' I should have called, but there's always so much to occupy my time. Anyway, I don't think I could have faced it before, the house without Bill in it. You understand, don't you?' My throat tightened. I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. I thought Tom was sincere in his explanation. 'Do you—do you really think you've met Boyd before?' Tom switched his sleepy gaze in Boyd's direction. 'It must be a long time ago. He's probably grown that beard since then. But I

received a distinct impression of familiarity.'

 

 

'He's a ship's captain.' 'Is he, then! Good-looking chap.' 'That girl obviously thinks so.' Tom laughed. I'd forgotten how his laugh matched the rest of him, lazy and sensual, warmly insinuating. 'I don't think she's any competition against you, Lorn.' 'Flatterer! I can't say you've changed. Any interesting trophies you've acquired since I last came? It seems a long time, doesn't it?' Tom looked around the room. 'There's nothing in here. Nothing new. There may be something in the study you haven't seen.' His eyes weren't sleepy any more. They'd taken on an acquisitive look I recognised all too well. The only thing that jolted Tom out of his natural indolence was the pursuit and capture of the unusual, whether it be an object of value or another woman. 'I'll give you a drink first, though. Should have done that before. How about Brown and Malcolm? Are they supplied?' I looked first for Boyd. He had a glass in his hand. Kit had his back to me and I saw how he leaned almost conspiratorially over Vida, her hand laid on his sleeve, their heads close together. I was sharply aware of the wave of intimacy that washed them into a unit of closeness. Kit seemed to be very good at this special rapport business. I was suddenly miserable. Perhaps I'd only been his passport to the MacInnes household. I tried to empty my mind of all hurt and resentment. He'd accepted an invitation and it would seem very odd if he didn't put himself out to be pleasant to his hostess. Vida laughed and all my feelings of uncertainty were accentuated. There was in her amusement some of the same

dedication to purpose that existed in Tom, and from past

 

 

experience I knew she invariably got what she wanted for as long as it amused her. 'There you are.' Tom's voice broke into my painful mood of introspection. 'That's what you always used to drink. O.K.?' 'Fine. Well, how about showing me the study?' I forced my voice to lightness. The glass felt cold and brittle between my fingers. Tom's study was really more of a library and small museum. Every wall was shelved from ceiling to floor and rare books were interspersed with art books on many subjects, encyclopaedias, coins lying on beds of velvet, talismans and scarabs. A large desk and chair completed the furnishings. 'That's my latest acquisition,' Tom told me, pointing to a carpet in madder and dark blue that lay across the least used corner. 'Chinese?' I ventured, though the colourings seemed wrong. 'The design seems to suggest it.' 'It's a Chotan carpet,' Tom allowed satisfaction to seep through his tones, ' known also as Samarkand. They used to be bought and sold in the bazaar there.' Samarkand brought back a picture of gold and magic. 'That makes me think of Flecker. " Pale Kings of the Sunset, beware! Not on silk nor in samet we lie, not in curtained solemnity die Among women who chatter and cry, and children who mumble a prayer

But we sleep by the ropes of the camp and we rise with a shout and we tramp  

 

With the sun or the moon for a lamp and the spray of the wind in our hair."' '" Tales, marvellous tales ",' Tom quoted, ' "of ships and stars and isles where good men rest, where never more the rose of sunset pales, and winds and shadows fall toward the West: And there the world's first huge, white bearded King In dim glades sleeping, murmur in their sleep, And closer round their breast the ivy clings "—' Tom went on, but I saw Kit in the lines the carpet had evoked. Pale Kings—the ivy that reminded me of the day at Dunstaffnage under the shadow of the castle—the spray of the wind in our hair—that was today along with the ships and stars and islands. 'Of course,' Kit said out of nowhere, ' I prefer " The Gates of Damascus " myself. " The dragon-queen, the luminous, the dark, the serpent-haunted sea." ' Memory rushed back and with it pain. He had resurrected the ghosts of guilt and regret, and, what was worse, he'd known he was doing it. The sea seemed to spill and roar into this room, covering the books, the glass-protected treasures, the Chotan carpet with its Chinese designs, just as it had covered and swallowed up my father. 'Of course,' Tom was saying, now thoroughly launched upon a favourite subject, ' he still had his thoughts of England. He wasn't always beating at alien gates or riding the Golden Road.' 'A typically Celtic quality,' Kit said softly.

'Huh?' Tom queried.

 

 

'To get as far away from one's own place as one can, then to thoroughly enjoy mourning one's exile. The Scots adore it. I always thought they were masochists of a very high order.' His eyes were on mine as he spoke and I knew that he reproached me for my self-imposed suffering. Was he right? Did I torture myself with useless regrets about Father in order to enjoy the resulting pain? I found myself staring down at Tom's priceless carpet rather than meet Kit's gaze. The madder red dragon on it seemed to emerge from an ink-blue sea, luminous and serpent-haunted as Flecker's imaginings. I'd never forget those words. 'Interested in my bits and pieces?' Tom asked Kit, pleased. He began to show him the objects in the cases while I drank some dry sherry and wondered how Kit had escaped from Vida so easily. I watched his tall, dark-suited figure move from place to place, his thick hair almost white against the black material. His skin contrasted conversely with the white, ruffled shirt. He appeared more Swedish than ever, but no Swede ever had a surname like Brown. The showcases, swimming in diffused golden light, were like ships at anchor, each with a separate life. Kit stopped to peer more closely at one of the confined objects and I heard him say, ' What's that? The silver lamp thing?' 'Lorn. Come over here, will you? You wanted to see recent additions. This is one with a fascinating history. It came from Langaly House, actually. I was very friendly with old Campbell MacDougall, as your father was. This incense burner was part of the household effects left to the McLeans who now own the place. Campbell knew I was after it, but he wouldn't sell it himself. He thought it a " luck " piece because of the story connected with it.'

'Which story?' I asked.

 

 

'One of the far-back MacDougall women was due to give birth to her first child,' Tom said, his eyes fixed on the silver object. 'Things started to go wrong and the local wise-woman was brought in at the last moment—a white witch, I suppose she'd be called— grew herbs and simples and so on— none of your overlooking cows and the like, not then—and she, apparently, did the trick, saved the MacDougall heir. The relieved father promised her whatever she wanted and she chose this incense burner. God knows what she wanted it for, but whatever magic she performed seemed to work, because when wife number one eventually died she became the MacDougall's lady. Some say she tried her best to supplant the child in favour of her own, but the husband wouldn't stand for it. The locals thought she'd switched from white to black magic by this time and she aroused a great deal of hostility. No one. knows for sure how she died, but it's hinted that it was unpleasantly. Anyone out of the ordinary was always suspect. Still are, human nature being what it is. Anyway, to cut a long story short, the McLeans didn't care for the old associations and needed the money, so I came in for the first refusal.' It was only imagination, of course, but just for a moment, I fancied a faint film of smoke hazed the sides of the showcase, like the trace of shallow breathing. My spine crept, shivering. 'Is that her head carved over the doorway of the castle?' I asked, unable to help myself. 'Supposed to be,' Tom agreed. 'Did you ever see the Luck? The real Luck?' Kit asked idly. Tom looked at him sharply. 'Why, yes. I told you old Cam and I were good friends. He showed it to me and frankly, I was

disappointed. It didn t have half of the ambience, I suppose you d call it -—of the burner. I was interested, naturally, but it was the

 

 

family heirloom and could only go to the nearest MacDougall relative. Fair enough, of course. Blood's thicker than water. I believe she found it —the witch. Probably burying wax figures or human hair and turned up the amethyst. They marked the spot with a stone. It's in the garden of the house—must be why they built it there. Less chance of it disappearing or becoming overgrown.' 'Oh, there you are,' Vida said from the doorway. 'What a funny smell there is in here!' She wrinkled her nose fastidiously. 'Like— sulphur or something. Have you been burning anything, Tom?' It was probably their party piece, I told myself to quell the rise of unease. One showed off the witch's possession and the other provided the offstage effects. And yet surely such stagemanagership required imagination, and I'd never associated this quality with Vida. With Tom, certainly, but not with his niece. And there'd been just that touch of surprise in her voice that lent truth to her remark. 'Come on,' Vida went on a little ungraciously, ' people are beginning to ask where you are.' 'All right.' Tom was good-humoured. Vida had always been his Achilles heel. Kit lingered for a moment, his eyes taking in the room, stopping at the big desk with the brass-edged keyholes. It was a curiously assessing look. My heart did one of its disconcerting plunges. Why, in this interesting room, should the focal point be Tom's desk? I remembered his quietness, his oddness, the total impression of secrecy, and was disturbed. The smell of the rose

Vida had worn lingered after her. Perhaps it was the rose-scent she'd noticed, though I could never connect it with sulphur. Then  

 

Kit raised his eyes and smiled and I thought perhaps I could. With him in the room it didn't seem at all impossible.

 

  CHAPTER VIII

We were on our way to Fort William when I remembered I hadn't phoned Bob Wilson. If I had time, I reflected, I'd ring up from the town. We'd be there for an hour, so there'd be plenty of time. What could he want? Intuition warned me to expect trouble. Any ordinary message could have been left quite safely with Mother. I was the eldest of her children and closest to Father. That must be why he'd chosen me. I became aware that Kit was watching me. I stared out of the minibus window. Mist hung over the woods like smoke and spires of firs protruded from this vapour. I tried to convince myself it was a heat haze. Loch Etive was grey as a shroud. There were glimpses of vague islands and saffron-coloured weed. A smoke-ring encircled a hill and there was heather, the soft young trees of the Forestry Commission, a masted ship lying perfectly p erfectly still on its own pewter reflection. Mist floated across the high slopes like nervous ghosts. It began to rain and the drops ruffled the loch's surface. So much for my heat haze! Yet the morning had a beauty of its own, the silver the shadowy the solitary gullpale on horse the shore, white, water, low cottages drapedislands, with pink roses, the that loomed suddenly against a fence, sending my heartbeats quickening. There were no awkward silences in the mini-bus today. The Trewitts had commandeered the seats beside Seil. They'd gone out directly after breakfast and I knew they'd had purpose in mind. No one would suspect they'd arranged this. Someone had to be first. Poor Seil had looked disappointed, of course, and I thought Caro

was too, though she hadn t been left alone long to mope. Mark, Philip and Judy had surrounded her as they usually did.

 

 

The mountains across the loch were now vague humps like some immense monster wrapped in sleep. A steady splatter of rain made cat's-paw prints on the windscreen. I wondered, not for the first time, who it was that Kit intended to visit in Fort William. I didn't think for a moment he would take me with him. I was on the outside of his strange secret life, set apart from everything not of the uttermost immediacy. There was nothing of his past that I could hug to myself, that would keep k eep me warm in the cold hours hou rs of the sleepless morning. As far as I was concerned. Kit was rootless, parentless, friendless. But wasn't Boyd the same? No, not entirely. He had told me he had no relatives, but I could summon up a picture of a big house with acres of shiny linoleum, of a boy who'd haunted the waterfront at Oban and had worked his way up to become captain of his own ship. He'd been proud of his rank. He'd signed himself Captain B. Malcolm. He'd told me quite a lot about himself. Kit had said nothing at all. Nothing— A grey house embellished with the now familiar pale-pink roses— they must all give one another cuttings—materialised out of an insubstantial world of pearl and agate. There was a big ivory mansion, a small church with blunt windows, misty trees and the black water of Loch Linnhe. 'Where are we, Miss Corquodale?' Mrs Trewitt demanded. d emanded. 'Getting near Ballachulish Ferry. Those piles of shale are the famous slate quarries. And that gap there is the notorious Glencoe.' Mist drifted in white trails, concealing the site of massacre. One only saw the pleasanter things, the dark-plumed promontory, old cottages, the antique and craft shops, the dark green slopes and the loch's surface became grey and sinister as the legends of Macdonald and Campbell. The black struts of an abandoned pier

stood out inimically against the paler p aler shimmer of water.

 

 

All the way over in the ferry, the Professor asked questions about the happenings of February 13th, 1692, and I answered to the best of my ability. It was fortunate I'd always been interested in history, otherwise I'd have been useless as a guide. 'Knowledgeable little thing, aren't you?' Kit said afterwards. 'Not  just a pretty face. Layers of pure brainwork underneath it all, waiting to be discovered, dug out, exposed to the light of day—' 'What are you? A mining engineer?' I countered. He'd put on his hunting sweater today, the one with the stags and fir-trees, the one with the built-in symbolism. He shook his head. 'What sort of work do you do?' I asked emboldened. 'I—teach.' There was the faintest edge of reserve around his voice. 'Oh.' I hadn't expected that. He must be a wow with his girl pupils. I wouldn't have wanted to flip rubbers at my enemies and play about with ink-pellets and chalk if he was around. 'Where?' 'London.' 'Oh, yes, I remember. Your letter had a London postmark and address.' 'Good memory.' His eyes held mine. 'Yes, I have.' His face, against the shadowy glass, had a curious, disembodied look. He was illusion. He always had been. Beyond him I saw the blurred outlines of forestry areas, the gleam of silver birch, a drop the blackasloch, now some distance below, as mysterious andto nebulous himself. I could summon up no

convincing picture of him standing in front of a class and trying to discipline young children. I couldn't see him anywhere, except  

 

perhaps against the lavender-coloured apertures of the Folly. There he became disturbingly real. 'Do you remember—everything?' he asked. 'Always.' 'What an uncomfortable person you could be! Did you enjoy your evening out?' I hesitated. There had been the odd business of the incense burner and the film on the glass case. A chemical reaction set up by the enclosure of the metal object. Tom had said that almost anything could have been used in it. The witch would have mixed all kinds of things. I hadn'taround read Macbeth for nothing. Orso perhaps the people standing the showcase had been near itone thatoftheir breath had clouded the glass briefly. Only I couldn't remember anyone having been that close. And Kit had spent a great deal of his time with Vida, not that that need have been entirely his own fault. 'I enjoyed most of it,' I replied. 'What about you?' 'I found it fascinating.' 'Will you go again?' 'Certainly. I did receive a most pressing invitation,' he answered. His lips smiled, but his eyes didn't. I was conscious of a sharp stab of curiosity, of an iron-hard purpose in him that seemed out of proportion to the subject matter of our conversation. 'So I noticed.' He laughed then and the impression of ruthlessness vanished. I

could draw close to him in this mood. He took out the cigarette case and I had time to look at the carved initials before he opened  

 

the lid. C. D. I received an impression of familiarity. Only recently I had seen those initials somewhere else. Or had I only thought so because of the dream after Dunstaffnage? The faint, warning bell in my mind continued to ring. Kit offered Boyd a cigarette and he accepted one. 'You'll recognise all this,' I said to Boyd, gesturing out of the window at the pale boulders and sprightly trees, the sugar-loaf peak that showed through the mist that parted periodically to give incredible views of lowering summits and glistening rock-faces, the stretches of soaked moorland. Almost immediately I was sorry, remembering he didn't want his connection with the locality made known. 'Whatever made me say that?' I went on, crestfallen. 'You're all strangers, of course. I keep forgetting you can't know Scotland—or this part— as Seil and I do.' 'Thought you always remembered everything?' Kit murmured. 'Unfair,' I protested, only half laughing, but I amended my former statement to ' nearly everything.' 'I always think of that seal we once saw,' Mrs Trewitt was saying to her husband, ' off the east coast. It looked at me three times.' 'A glutton for punishment,' Kit said softly. 'Another masochist.' 'That was naughty,' I told him, but I couldn't help grinning like a fool. I saw that Boyd was smiling too. He looked much younger when he was amused and startlingly good-looking. Judy Fitzherbert seemed to think so too. I saw her look at him when she thought herself unobserved. Perhaps he needed someone younger than himself, a girl who'd make him feel protective and

responsible. I should stop deciding I knew best what other people needed or I could become another, dear, managing Mary Wilson  

 

who had a compulsion to pair people off. Mary Wilson. I must remember to ring Bob when we stopped for the shopping break. A tangly shore slid by, one of those little grey-gold beaches with a smell of salt, and sheep wandering on it. Blue-green woods stretched as far as the eye could see. The rain was still spiteful, but everything was fresh, the tarmac gleaming. Hydrangeas grew by a chunky wall. Endless birchwoods whirled into distance, then there were bright splashes of marigolds and the beginnings of houses and gardens. A few minutes later we pulled up in the car-park at Fort William. Kit vanished while I was directing everyone else. He must have moved incredibly fast. Perhaps he'd been afraid I'd want to tag along. The thought made me depressed. Boyd waited and some of my feeling of rejection was alleviated. 'You don't mind me hanging around?' he asked. 'Of course not.' 'Would you like some coffee?' I brightened visibly. A good strong coffee was probably what I needed most. We went into a tartan-lined restaurant and sat down. A dark girl came in and stopped at the sight of us. 'I seem to have lost everyone,' she said. 'Is it—is it all right if I sit down here with you?' 'Of course, Judy.' I didn't believe for one moment that she'd become separated from the others. In fact I'd be willing to bet that she'd positioned herself discreetly just to watch where Boyd went. For a moment, looking at them, they resembled one another; it was

the air of vulnerability that bound them together, that and a rather touching shyness. Judy was self-possessed with young people, but Boyd put her off her stride. He belonged to some mysterious  

 

region midway between the young and the old, a region she hadn't so far touched upon. Did she consign me to the same place? I wondered. It wasn't unlikely. 'How do you like your coffee?' Boyd asked. I looked up to see a waitress standing there. 'Anything with it? Buns, cakes, biscuits?' 'Not for me. We'll be lunching up at the falls.' 'I couldn't,' Judy said. It was obvious she was nervous. I found myself hoping that the Fitzherberts were kind to her. I thought her mother probably was, in her own absent-minded fashion— she'd been charming to Kerry the day we went to Langaly. How long ago it seemed! A treacherous flood of pleasure overwhelmed me as I went over the events of that day. Boyd was staring at me with a look I construed as a cry for help. However Judy felt about him, I could see that the feeling wasn't reciprocated. He seemed awkward and ill at ease, and not for the first time I wondered how he'd attained his position. But perhaps it was only in this district where he'd spent his childhood and had once been unhappy that Captain Malcolm was under a disadvantage he couldn't overcome.misery. There were lots he'd of people reacted strongly to remembered Maybe hopedwho to exorcise that emotion by coming here, only to find it hadn't worked. He had very good features, I reflected, and magnificent eyes. Eyes that showed too much— 'I hope the Professor's brought his camera,' I remarked, switching to a safe topic of conversation for Boyd's sake. 'The falls should be splendid. There was quite a lot of rain just before you all came.'

Where are you going on your next voyage? Judy asked as if I hadn't spoken.

 

 

Boyd shifted uncomfortably. I smiled at him and his expression changed. I found my heart thumping violently. Could he be mistaking sympathy and liking for something else? I lowered my eyes and studied the checked tablecloth. 'Sorry?' Boyd said, and his voice was thick and strained. 'I'm afraid I missed what you said, Miss Fitzherbert. Oh, my next trip.' He went on talking and gradually his tone became more normal. I sat quite still, trying to remain unnoticed. It was too late, of course. He had seen me and he liked what he'd seen, made no bones about it. He was too shy to put it into words, but his eyes hid nothing. I turned my head and looked out of the window. Across the road there were shops with flats above them, grey stone buildings with long sash windows and lace curtains and pots of flowers. A cat sat at one of the windows and it was so motionless that I couldn't decide whether or not it was real. A man emerged from one of the openings between the shop fronts—tall, blond, a Norwegian type sweater with fir-trees and stags. Kit. The blood surged through my veins. He stood for a moment looking from right to left, the beginnings of watery sunlight lying on his hair. I was conscious of a mingling of apprehension and joy. His gaze rested briefly on the window of the restaurant and it was as though he could see through the film of nylon curtain, through the stone and mortar, through my bone and flesh and right into my heart. He didn't know I was there, I told myself. It was the sort of look he gave everyone, everything. And then I made myself forget he was Kit. The opening led to the staircase of one of those flats and I simply had to know whom he'd visited. It was unscrupulous, it was prying, but my curiosity wouldn't be denied. Kit hesitated, then began to walk slowly in the direction of the

parked mini-bus. Judy and Boyd were talking more freely now that the first awkwardness had worn off. She had her elbows on the

 

 

table and her small, pointed chin rested on her curved palms. She looked like a waif in a Cinderella film. I wished I didn't always feel so sorry for other people. Girls of Judy's age were always so vulnerable. Girls of any age were vulnerable. Kit had become absorbed in the crowds of shoppers. I got to my feet suddenly. 'I've just remembered, there's something I promised to get Mother. Just over the road would do. Excuse me, won't you? 'If you want to start back just go ahead and I'll follow when I've done my shopping.' I avoided Boyd's eyes. Judy looked pleased enough for both of them. The traffic was heavy and I had to wait before I could cross the street safely. Even the pavements were crowded. I remembered that Boyd could see me from our table and took advantage of a press of passers-by to duck into the opening and retreat into the dimness of the flagged passage. The newly-cleaned steps stretched upwards, slightly hollowed at the edges from the tread of countless feet. The landing faced me, cool and dark, round a bend of the stairs. I went up cautiously. What could I say if someone opened the door? I wasn't a good dissembler. No one opened the door. I approached quietly and peered the brightly name-I plate. Hectorit McLean—it meant at nothing to me polished at first, then remembered Langaly House and Kit emerging from the gate just as he had from the opening downstairs. McLean of Langaly and now Hector McLean of Fort William. He was an investigator of some kind, either that or a crook. Investigator was more likely. I distinctly heard someone move beyond the door and crooks didn't often make daylight calls, particularly when there was someone in. I turned and began to run down the steps, not wanting to be

challenged. I was round the bend before the door was opened and a

 

 

man's voice called, ' Who's that? Who's there?' He sounded decidedly irritable. I ran out on to the pavement, resisting the desire to stare up at the window, and collided with a stout lady with a shopping bag. 'I'm terribly sorry,' I apologised. 'I didn't hurt you, did I?' She went on looking at me dubiously, then raised one foot and put it on the step that led to the opening I'd just come out of. My face flushed. 'I went up the wrong stairs,' I told her feebly. 'A mistake.' Our eyes held for a long, wary moment. She grunted, then climbed on to the step while I effaced myself, mingling with a tightly packed knot of holidaymakers. The man would tell the stout woman he'd heard someone acting suspiciously and she'd be able to add to the story and give a description of me. I began to feel as guilty as if I'd committed a robbery. There was a phone box on the way back to the mini-bus. Remembering Bob Wilson, I went inside and tried his telephone number. He answered almost immediately. 'Bob? It's Lorn. You wanted to talk to me.' 'Where are you?' His voice voi ce seemed curiously impersonal. I told him where I was and where I was bound for. 'Oh, I see. I just wondered if I could ring you back.' 'You're busy with a client?' I looked at my watch. I'd overstayed my time. 'That's right. It'll have to wait for a more propitious moment.'

'Is it—is it something to do with Father?' I asked slowly.

 

 

'It is, as a matter of fact.' I'd known he would say that, and yet I was still filled with disturbance and an odd relief that nothing was yet resolved. 'I'll call you tonight. You won't be out?' 'No, I'll be at home all evening. Goodbye, Lorn.' The phone crashed back into its cradle. I emerged into the open air thoughtfully. I was last into the brake, sinking into my seat, conscious of the curious stares of my other passengers. Seil started up the engine and slid out into the traffic stream. 'You didn't get it, I see,' Boyd remarked, hunching his navy-clad shoulders. 'Didn't get what?' I was bemused. 'Whatever it was your mother wanted.' 'Oh, that! No. They didn't have it.' My cheeks were pink and I couldn't bring myself to meet Kit's eyes. I could feel his gaze on my face like a father's on a small, badly-behaved daughter. Or was that just guilty conscience? And why had he visited Hector McLean? After seeing the stout woman who obviously lived there I couldn't bring myself to believe that the McLeans were friends of Kit's parents. No. It had been a business call, business connected with Langaly. Shady dealings. The mini-bus drove slowly up Glen Nevis. Peaty water flowed over pink granite and smells of resin and rain and wild flowers came in the open windows. There were sheep and campers, deer

fences around afforestation, cloud over the great bulk of the Ben. The river, clean and tawny, obtruded everywhere, rushing over its  

 

granite pebbles, gurgling, splashing, singing its siren song. Like the sea— Everyone scrambled out at the falls. Great jets of water, shadowed with pale olive and yellowish green, cascaded over red rock. Spray was flung over the damp wooden bridge that shuddered every time a car crossed it. The three huge gushes forked, plunging into blackest depths. A rowan leaned out above a sheer sandstone face where little tufts of grass grew and there were overhangs of heather, a grasshopper on the protective fence. Where the river broadened, the water went into orange spate over shallow terraces of stone. The scene dwarfed every emotion, putting it into its proper perspective, or I thought it did until I found Kit beside me. I had always been afraid of him and today was no different. I was afraid of the violence I sensed in him, of the warmth and dark excitement in his eyes, of the way he made me feel. I wanted him to kiss me, to be swept away on a tide of feeling as strong and heedless as this thundering river that diminished to a rocky fell with mist rising between the stones. He leaned over the fence and I watched his absorbed profile. The black crags, the sound of the falls, the foxgloves on the bank, the smaller falls tumbling out of the misty woods, they added up to the same kind of magic as the cave on Staffa, the carving of Lucifer in the abbey at Iona. The strange and spicy smells of spruce and wet earth sealed the moment for ever. Deceit and duplicity couldn't touch it. The river quickened as my pulse did and my foolish, undisciplined senses. 'Splendid, Miss Corquodale,' the Professor told me approvingly. 'Utterly splendid!' He was taking pictures of the waterfall from every conceivable angle, an expression of utter bliss on his

rounded face. It was only when splinters of light lay over the thick lenses that Professor Trewitt looked sinister. He flicked at the

 

 

grasshopper and it disappeared into the shuddering abyss. I wanted to shout out, to ask him why he had been so cruel, then I saw him rest his abominable camera on the strand of wire where the insect had been. I discovered that I hated this man and his calculating wife, not to mention their vacillating daughter. Kit was no longer beside me and the magic was gone as though it had never been. I had spied and probed. Somewhere at the end of telephone wire Bob Wilson waited and I didn't want to know what he must say. I moved away unhappily. Worst of all, I hated myself.

Kit sat beside me on the return journey. I could feel the warmth of his body through the clothes we both wore. He felt vital, alive, terribly seductive. I wanted to tell him I'd seen him leave the McLean's flat, that I'd been unable to resist the temptation to pry into his affairs, but the words never came. There were too many people around us. My tongue felt constricted. I pressed my nose to the glass listening to the insistent bird song, watching the lilac grasses bending, the yellow splashes of buttercups, dandelions golden Therethreads were witches boiling cauldrons in theand forests andtrefoil. thin white of falls tumbling down wooded hillsides. Flocks grazed peacefully, but there was no peace in myself. My spirits were colourless as the sky, water and mountains that lay about us in varying shades of grey. We plunged into green canyons of firs, the long, pale trunks ascending to dimness. Kit took my fingers in his own and refused to release them. Somehow my self-despising turned to another stronger emotion. Perhaps he'd laugh when he knew what I'd done. I couldn't think of anything I'd rather hear than Kit's amusement.

 

 

'That's better,' he said softly. 'You can look sadder than anyone I know.' 'I wasn't really sad.' 'You could have fooled me. By the way, what are you doing tomorrow? It's your day off, isn't it? It's everyone's day off.' 'You sound like a schoolboy on Friday afternoon !' 'And why shouldn't I? Some of it has to rub off, hasn't it?' He'd been very quick off the mark to support his story about being a teacher. I didn't believe it, of course, any more than I could ignore warmth that hills spread through body each at theone touch his fingers.the The smoking turned to my illusion, a of shade paler than the next, the loch silver beyond its lavender-tinted shore. 'I haven't any hard and fast plans.' 'Come somewhere with me?' I nodded, then became aware of Boyd's reproachful gaze. I'd promised to consider his invitation days ago and he was probably a more worthy cause than Kit would ever be, but those possessive fingers around my wrist had driven away all other thoughts but of Christopher Brown, esquire. Mrs Trewitt turned round and added her disapproval to Boyd's. I smiled at her knowing it to be a more infuriating reaction than anger would have been. 'Enjoyed your day?' I enquired. 'It was much more impressive than in blinding sunshine. I've been in all

weathers and I've never seen the falls more majestic.' I didn't add that I wished the Professor's film would be spoiled because of his  

 

treatment of my poor little grasshopper which was surely dead before it hit the torrent below. Then I relented. She'd been quite thoughtful when I'd suffered on board the Gannet. That's what's so difficult about human relationships, the way one's feelings can veer and change at the drop of a hat. One little kindness and all the annoying patches simply melt away. 'We must take you to Crinan,' I went on. 'There are some splendid standing stones en route. You can't miss those. Your husband had better buy some more film tomorrow.' A look of eagerness replaced the one of censure. Mrs Trewitt turned excitedly towards the Professor. His face, in profile, didn't look sinister at all—not now. Kerry was standing by the phone as I went into the hall. 'Is Kit coming?' she called out. 'There's a call for him.' 'Who is it?' I asked slowly, ' Did they say?' 'Vida.' 'Oh.' 'Shall I cut her off by the boot-tops?' she suggested mischievously. 'Don't be silly,' I said crisply. 'He'll be here in a minute.' Kit appeared suddenly, almost filling the doorway. 'Call for you,' Kerry told him, laying down the receiver. 'Thanks.' I went upstairs without haste. His voice, low and an d amused, followed

me mockingly. 'Tonight? I don't see why not, but tomorrow's out. I've arranged something already. Oh, I'll have to leave the location

 

 

to you, I'm afraid, and the transport. This holiday was intended as a rest from my car and its demands. You don't mean that scarlet affair, do you? Well, do me a favour and don't take it along the Gallanach road, will you?' I stopped in mid-step. Only a local would know about the Gallanach road. It wound, narrow and tortuous, encased in constricting walls, by Kerrera ferry and beyond. We'd gone nowhere near  it yet  since it was a dead end and used only by the visitors to the camp sites or for the little island ferry. 'How long? Better let me have a breathing-space. I'm just in and haven't yet washed off the stains of travel. I'm enjoying myself very much.' His voice became studiedly cautious as if he knew I waited on the staircase listening for every nuance and shade of expression. 'Till later, then.' The receiver was replaced very softly. He didn't move straight away and I had the oddest fancy he could see me. I took off my shoes, ridiculously, and tiptoed into my room, shutting the door on the dangerous world outside it. What sort of game was Kit playing? Why let me think I was different from any other girl, then go out with another? I was all in favour of a ' safety in numbers ' outlook so long as you played to the rules and treated everyone the same. But perhaps Kit did. His could be the technique of making everyone someone special, and how well it worked! Everything about him was sham. The serpentine curves of the Gallanach road unfolded before my eyes from its beginning to its end and Vida's Aston Martin shot along it dangerously, narrowly avoiding accidents. It took me half an hour, soaking in my bath, to convince myself that I was a fool. Vida had rung him up, not the other way round. She'd put him in an impossible position, and at least he hadn't tried

to cancel our outing for tomorrow. Nothing had been spoken between us by my request. I was the one who'd drawn back from

 

 

committal. And yet the thought of tomorrow had been subtly spoiled. I got dressed, forcing myself to think about something else. I had to ring Bob Wilson at his home after supper. It was a lovely meal, though I didn't taste much of it. The hall was obligingly empty when I went to use the phone. 'Hello, Bob,' I said when he h e answered. 'What's it all about?' 'Just a minute.' He put down the receiver and I heard footsteps and a door closing. What on earth could he have to say that required such secrecy? 'Lorn?' 'Yes?' My supper shifted about uncertainly. I braced myself for what was coming. 'I've had a communication from a Professor Duvall. Have you had anything?' 'Duvall? I'm sure I've heard the name. Oh, yes, a woman rang up one evening this week asking if he was staying here. He wasn't, so I told her this and asked if she wanted to leave a message. She refused. Apparently he'd marked a list of Oban accommodation— several addresses—and ours was one of them.' 'I see. Do you know anything at all about the Langaly Luck?' 'Only accidentally.' I explained about going into Father's office and seeing the jewel awaiting postage along with the paper with the poem on it.

'Would you be able to recognise it again?'

 

 

'I'm sure I could. It made quite an impression on me.' 'You may be required to do this.' I took a deep breath. 'Why, Bob? What's wrong? If it concerns Father you'll have to tell me.' 'Apparently the new owner has found out that the stone he has wasn't the original. Somewhere between Campbell MacDougall's death and the parcel arriving, arriving , there was a—' 'Substitution?' 'As you say—' Bob coughed, ' a substitution.' 'Why didn't he contact you before?' My heartbeats quickened perceptibly. 'He didn't know until afterwards. But he stayed with old Campbell as a youth, and, knowing the Luck was to come to him eventually, he put a mark on the silver setting. Nothing obvious, naturally, but something secret and personal as a boy might.' 'Bob, what sort of place is i s Langaly House? Inside?' 'A bit cheerless—or it used to be. The McLeans have done a lot to it recently.' 'Was it all polished linoleum and that sort of thing?' 'Yes. But what's that got to do with it?' His voice sharpened perceptibly.

I pushed away the thought of Boyd Malcolm and the probability of his being that boy. It could explain his reluctance to talk about

 

 

himself and the past. He'd shown a great deal of interest in the poem and the stone. But it could simply be that he was romantic like myself and enjoyed legends. I wouldn't let myself think about Kit at all. 'Nothing. At least I don't think so.' 'It's a pity I hadn't been here at the time the estate was wound up, but as you know I was in hospital. My ulcer—-' 'Yes, I remember.' My heart was thudding again. Surely no one thought Father—my scrupulous father—had anything to do with it? The silence went on too long and I could follow Bob's uneasy train of thought. 'What about those people, the McLeans? They looked after him, didn't they?' 'Lorn, no one has been blamed—' Bob was beginning to sound worried. 'Not yet.' 'Well, not yet. You really mustn't jump to conclusions, though.' 'Couldn't he have made a mistake? The owner?' 'I'm afraid not, Lorn. He's had it properly examined and it's certainly not an old stone. The silver's been cunningly treated to give an impression of age. Intrinsically, it's probably just as valuable as the other, but if the original's been sold to a collector, he's had a very uneasy bargain. My client means to have it back.'

'Has—has he contacted the police?' I asked carefully.

 

 

'Not up to now. He may have employed a private investigator, of course.' I had a dreadful picture of Kit emerging from gateways and passages, of seeing him on a misty night up at the Folly. It had been him just after Father's death. He'd come up to see the man who'd posted the Luck to the MacDougall descendant. He was an investigator, all right. Only he and Boyd didn't seem to know one another all that well. But wouldn't that be part of the plot, to pretend they were strangers? They could have found out that we'd had to turn Dalrigh into a guest-house. They'd come off the same train. It was more than possible they'd travelled up together. 'You must keep all this to yourself, Lorn. Say nothing, not to anybody. You understand?' 'Yes, Bob. But you knew Father, didn't you? It couldn't have had anything to do with him.' I had treacherous memories of my father's open-handedness. After his death we'd discovered his uncle's legacy had disappeared and his finances were rocky. Had he realised he'd have to change his way of life and decided to switch the stone, thinking no one would ever know? No! No! My mind rejected the shameful theory as quickly as it had thought it up. And if he had, where was the money he could have expected? Had he been drowned before he had disposed of the genuine stone? The questions banged against the inside of my head, making it ache. 'I'll be in touch again, Lorn. And don't worry, there's a possibility I have to go into. I'll keep you informed.' 'Yes, do that.' My voice was lifeless. I was no longer sure of being

able to recognise the stone if it was put in front of me for

 

 

identification as the one Father had wrapped up. And if I did identify it, would I be doing Father irreparable harm? 'Goodnight, Lorn.' 'Goodnight.' I wished belatedly that I'd asked more questions. Wasn't there usually an executor of a will, or had that been Father? It often was the family solicitor, I knew. I went along to the dining-room. dining- room. The door was closed, but the buzz bu zz of conversation told me that most of our guests were still there. I repressed the desire to open the door and look inside. Mrs Trewitt's laughter rang out. I'd half-suspected her of being a MacDougall, but the heir was a man. That wasn't to say it couldn't have been the Professor. They weren't old, forty to fifty. Campbell MacDougall could have been quite ancient. But Boyd was so much more likely. He definitely had something to hide. h ide. All I wanted was to catch him in close conversation with Kit and then I'd know. I opened the door carefully. They were sitting together at the window-table. Kit, in his dark suit and frilly shirt, was smoking and Boyd's face was creased in a grin that transformed his features completely. I hardly recognised him. Judy was the only person who saw me. She stared incuriously as though oblivious to everything around her. I became aware that I was cold with shock. Closing the door gently, I went through the house to the garden. The back garden door squeaked as I opened it and went up the lane towards the Folly.

 

  CHAPTER IX

I woke up next morning with a feeling of doom. I'd slept badly and this showed in my face. Mother had told me to stay in bed for a while, but I couldn't rest. 'I've got used to an early start,' I said in answer to her surprised query when I came into the kitchen. 'And I'll feel a lot better if you'll let me help with breakfast before you turn me out.' 'What have you decided to do?' Aunt Ju asked, putting me in charge of the eggs. 'Keep an eye on those. Three minutes for six of them, four for the remainder. The three-minute ones in this yellow bowl and use the blue for the others. That way we won't have any mistakes. We want a reputation for impeccable service.' 'I—I haven't decided yet.' I lowered the eggs into the simmering water and stared out of the window at the sky. It was blue and tranquil, the horizon heavy with white cumulus clouds that were piled up like whipped cream. 'You can take the first eggs in if you like,' Aunt Ju remarked. 'I'll time the rest while you do it. There are two each for Captain Malcolm, Mr Brown and Professor Trewitt. Come back for the others, dear.' I went into the dining-room with the yellow bowl. Kit and Boyd were sitting by the window, engaged in conversation. Kit looked up as I approached and I saw him look at the faint bruises under my eyes. I had the strange conviction that he knew how they'd got there. I put out the eggs and he smiled tentatively. 'You'll be free after breakfast? There's something I want to sort out with you. Shall I wait in here?'

I hesitated, aware of Boyd's silence. It would be better in one way to spend my day off alone. My predominant feeling for Kit this  

 

morning was an active dislike that he should be trying to besmirch my father's character on one hand while buttering me up on the other to further his own ends. But I needed to find out more, and only by being in his company was I likely to achieve this. 'That'll be fine. I'll come back when you've all finished,' I agreed. I supposed should be equally'Was antagonistic towards Boyd Malcolm,I but oddly Ienough, I wasn't. he really Boyd MacDougall?' wondered. He'd have to be if he were old Campbell's heir. The whole point of the Luck was that it belonged to that branch of the clan. Or had his dead mother been the last of those particular MacDougalls? I moved away to give the Professor his eggs. The Trewitts were at the large centre table with the Fitzherberts. Judy's mother was dressed in one of her peculiar shapeless dresses and floating scarf of white and lavender. Mrs Trewitt, sharp-eyed as ever, was neat in blouse and tweed skirt. 'Why don't you want to come with us?' Mrs Fitzherbert was asking plaintively. 'Mother, I'm grown up now. I don't have to go everywhere with you and Daddy. If you want to know, Mark and Phil asked Caro and me to join them for the day.' But Judy's eyes slid to Boyd's profile and I wondered if this was just an excuse. The two young men hadn't come in yet, so there could be no repercussions from that quarter. Caro had her eyes discreetly lowered. 'Young people gravitate towards other young people,' Mr Fitzherbert pontificated, his hungry gaze on the Professor's eggs. 'Don't see why Judy shouldn't shouldn 't please herself.'

I went out for the remainder of the eggs, thereby missing the rest of the discussion. Phil and Mark were there when I went back and

 

 

Judy was wearing a triumphant expression as she finished her cereal. Her father pounced on his breakfast with a satisfied grunt while her mother looked wistful and aggrieved. I left them thoughtfully. 'Do you want the car today?' Mother asked, handing the washingup over to Mrs Gunn and Patsy. 'Have it, if you like. Kerry and Seil are commandeering the brake. They're making up a party with the Trewitt and Fitzherbert youngsters and the London boys, so Seil tells me. They thought they'd go up to Campbeltown. It's very pretty by Ardrishaig and Tarbert. None of these young people have ever been further north than Edinburgh and they're all smitten with Scotland.' Not only with Scotland, I thought to myself, then began to worry about Boyd. He'd be odd man out today and it was all because of me. However, when we'd arranged our syllabus we'd thought a free day each week would be a good idea, and he'd known this before he came. He could easily have plans of his own, especially if he was who I thought. There was no one in the dining-room but Kit when I returned eventually. 'Is there anything wrong?' he asked. 'You seem so— quiet and far away.' I tried to mask the hurt and resentment in my eyes. 'There's nothing wrong.' 'What would you like to do?' He took out the cigarette case, looked at it, then put it back. 'Trying to stop,' he explained. The sun shone on his back, making his face shadowy and mysterious. I tried to push back the feeling he always engendered in me, but without the

success I'd anticipated. I was filled with shame. He meant my father harm, but I couldn't hate him wholeheartedly. There was

 

 

that elusive quality that reached out to me, always making itself felt, however I struggled against it. 'I—haven't thought about it. Are you sure you haven't anyone else to see today?' 'What a cold, censorious little voice,' he said gently. I flushed. 'That's ridiculous. We can take the car, Mother says.' 'Is it that nice, sensible navy-blue one standing in the drive?' 'That's right.' I tried not to look at him. pleasant thatisabominable red affair I'Good. was inIt'll lastmake night.a That's notchange what'sfrom wrong, it?' 'Why should I mind?' My eyes met his and I knew they were angry. 'You're here on holiday. You'll be gone next week. I look at things realistically.' 'Live for today? Is that your motto?' 'Yes.' I wished passionately Bob Wilson hadn't extracted that promise from me about saying nothing about the Langaly Luck affair. I'd rather have been having it out with Kit than indulging in all this verbal fencing. 'Funny,' Kit said softly, ' but I had a different impression. What's happened to change you overnight?' 'I've always been like this.'

His eyes challenged my assertion and I couldn't stop the tide of warmth from encroaching on the barren shore of bitterness and

 

 

suspicion. I thought I liked Boyd a great deal more than Kit, but he couldn't engender the feelings of need and longing I experienced with this man I knew instinctively to be a liar and cheat. Curiously enough, I didn't any longer shrink from the conflict promised by the day that stretched ahead. I had, in some odd way, armed and protected myself in these last few minutes, like a participant in some unavoidable duel. 'Half an hour's time, then, and no fixed plans?' 'That's fine. What about food?' I asked, trying to be practical. 'You aren't going to bother about anything like that. Not on your free day. We'll eat where and when we feel like it.' 'All right.' We went out into the hall together. Our bodies almost touched in the doorway and I was very aware of him. Then I made myself think about Father. It made it easier not to succumb to Kit's all too potent attraction. We met in the drive by arrangement. It was one of his huntingsweater days and the garment brought out all the foreignness in him. Even his voice, for all its obvious familiarity with the British language, had the slightest trace of an alien dialect I couldn't properly place. What was a partly Swedish investigator doing mixed up in a MacDougall problem? 'You drive,' I suggested, wanting to test his local knowledge further. 'Let's go off the beaten track. Quiet back roads would just suit me.'

'Is that a subtle hint that you'd rather not talk?'

 

 

'It would make a change from everyday.' I might have known he'd make for Eriska. It was exactly what I needed today. He parked the car carefully and opened my door, helping me out onto the barred road. I looked pointedly at the closed gate ahead. 'How do you know we can go this way?' 'I looked it up on the map,' he answered imperturbably. He had an answer for everything, only some of the answers were sheer evasion. He shut the gate after us and we began to walk. We came eventually to where the wooded isle of Eriska lay ahead, cut off by a small bridge with spiked railings and a spiked, padlocked gate. There was nothing to be seen but the trees. It would have been the perfect retreat for the Sleeping Beauty. Butterflies added to the effect of deep, magical brooding, marbled white, black and orange. There were strange little birds that whirred and flittered like spirits warning us to retreat, and the snow-white stars of dog daisies. To one side of the bridge lay a stony beach. The pebbles shifted under our feet, some whorled, like fingerprints, some mottled, banded, striped or built up in layers, others, smooth, pitted, rounded, angular or just flat, but all beautifully coloured and very clean. The tide was out and the blue sky was reflected in a chain of sea-pools. There were great stretches of brown and yellow weed. The sand was dark where the water had risen, then turned back. 'That's the Black Shore,' Kit told me. 'That stretch below the tideline. In the olden days it was considered a sanctuary.' 'Sanctuary? From what?' I shivered in spite of myself. 'From evil. Evil never emanates from the sea. Supernatural beings don't cross the tideline—or running streams, s treams, for that matter.'

'How do you know all these things?'

 

 

'Part of my work. I'm interested in such things. Do you realise that along the upper part of this shore one can find all the nine sacred woods used for Druidal fires?' I looked back at the long low line of the woodland. 'The trees all look the same.' 'They aren't, though. There's willow, hazel and alder. And there, you can't mistake the birch and oak. Then ash, yew and elm.' 'That's only eight,' I observed, ob served, fascinated in spite of myself. 'There used to be a holly. It's missing.' There was a long silence. Then I said, ' It was you at the Folly that night, wasn't it?' His face seemed to close up. I went on. 'It really is too much of a coincidence. You were talking along the same lines. Witchcraft and Isobel Goudie—' 'You are like her,' he said very quietly, 'as I think she must have been.' 'She did exist, then?' 'Oh, she existed all right.' 'Just as the Langaly witch did?' Pie nodded. 'History's my subject. I got on to the other interest as a result.' We were below the line of seaweed now and on to the Black Shore. I had the queer impression that it was a barrier between us, something obscurely unpleasant. Like that incense

burner behind glass in Tom MacInnes study. I remembered how interested Kit had been in the big desk with the brass-edged keyholes. Panic stirred in me.

 

 

'Did you know,' Kit said, ' that there's a plant called Adam and Eve? It's an enticing plant. And there's an orchis with a kind of double root. If you eat the proper half it induces a strong affection, but the other produces hate. Love and hate, they call it.' That was what I felt for him, I realised, and both emotions were of equal strength. 'No, I didn't know that.' Behind him I saw nothing deadlier than sea-pinks and some tawny, barley-like grass, trails of bramble and furze bushes. I was aware suddenly of the utter quiet that surrounded us, the chain of mountains that filled the skyline, a horizon typical of many places near the Firth of Lorn. 'I know why you're here,' I said. 'I just wanted you to know. I've disregarded what Bob Wilson told me because I couldn't bear to keep up the pretence a moment longer. But you needn't worry. I won't say anything to another living soul. That is, unless you decide it's got something to do with Father. Then I'm going to say a great deal because I knew my father implicitly. There wasn't anything small or furtive about him, nor one iota of deceit. He was good and generous. So, whatever comes of your poking and prying, it had better cast no reflection on his good name. Do you understand?' There were tears in my eyes, sharp hot tears that didn't spill over, but just blurred my vision uncomfortably so that his face looked drowned, remote from the present. 'I understand.' He put his arms around me and there was nothing remote about their warmth and hardness. I let myself relax briefly, but with so much unresolved conflict between us, the usual rapport wasn't there. I missed it. 'I can't pretend,' I told him miserably. 'Please don't expect it of me.' I half expected him to be angry, but he didn't seem to be. I was

glad I didn't have to struggle against his disapproval as well as his unpredictability. For once my cards were on the table where he

 

 

could see them clearly. I'd made my stand and the rest was up to him. 'We'd better have lunch,' he said. 'Any preference?' 'You choose.' He took me to a hotel I'd never been in before. It was quiet and unpretentious, both qualities which appealed to me particularly at this time. The gay sweater and his pale hair stood out against the darkness of the small dining-room, made dimmer still by the rhododendrons that pressed against the glass of the one insufficient window. I wanted to ask him about Boyd Malcolm, but part of me wanted to leave well alone. Kit knew what would happen if he involved my father in unpleasantness. I tried to pretend that I hadn't ever had feelings of doubt about Father, but the knowledge of my own temporary defection lurked on the fringe of my mind as Kit's hypothetical evil did above the tideline and the safety of the Black Shore, making me disturbed and unhappy. We spent the afternoon on a trip to Lismore. I didn't want to go home yet and it made a change going somewhere I wasn't expected to giveme a running commentary upon. And Kitnoir, always succeeded in giving the courage to face up to my the sea. The boat  bete was filled to capacity, the crew lean-featured and greying, dressed like Boyd in the inevitable navy jerseys. Morven was opalcoloured and Ben Nevis still hidden under cloud, only the vast purple base visible. The sun was brilliant and the boat rushed between shining banks of spray, through glittering green troughs, emerald-shadowed. People ducked, laughing from the cold fountains of spume, crowding along the hard wooden benches and huddling under a tarpaulin hastily erected where the water came in

most heavily.

 

 

The tide was out when we reached the harbour wall. The isle stretched long and green, rather like Kerrera. There was a long climb to the pier. The few houses that faced us had fuchsia hedges, hydrangeas and roses, all in bloom. Other trippers made a beeline for the tea-room, but Kit went to the shore where the shapes of seals glistened the rocks some distance awaylilac and and the horizon was filled withon a splendour of slate, lavender, indigoblue. He took out his silver case and extracted a cigarette, then lit it thoughtfully. The engraved initials mocked me with their familiarity. 'Professor Duvall gave you that, didn't he?' I said. I watched his eyes register surprise. 'I suppose he's the man who examined the Luck for the person who owns it—or thought he owned it.' Kit said nothing, but I knew I'd found a target because much of the relaxation had gone out of his stance. He looked wary and vaguely ill at ease. I was inspired to go further. 'The McLeans have been doing quite a lot to Langaly House. I wonder where they got the wherewithal? Campbell MacDougall hadn't money to leave and I hardly think the sale of the incense burner to Tom MacInnes made their fortunes, do you?' 'How do you know all that?' If it wasn't so impossible I could almost believe there was a lingering amusement in Kit's eyes. 'Bob Wilson told me. In confidence,' I ended hastily. 'So that's why you're telling me about it.' I hadn't imagined the reproof.

'I don't really need to tell you. Don't pretend you don't know.' My tone was sharp.

 

 

'I do know something, of course,' he agreed. 'I'm just pointing out that there were others involved,' I said a little desperately. 'It's got to be someone else. Just because Father was the executor—' Something flickered at the back of his eyes. One of the seals, disturbed, slid from the rocks and was engulfed by the water. The sea covered everything. It was hungry, predatory and heartbreakingly beautiful, both friend and enemy. It was like the plant called love and hate—like the feelings that existed between Kit Brown and me. 'If you could put it out of your mind for a day or two—' he began. 'But that's just what I can't do. Not now that I know. Would you, if your father was involved, however innocently?' 'Perhaps not.' 'I don't know that I care for your job, Kit. In fact, the more I think about it, the less I do. Not that it can matter. I don't think I care for the fact that you seem to be using us. It seems unscrupulous to come under the guise of a paying guest while all the time—' 'While all the time?' Kit's face had whitened and his eyes were angry. 'Well, you are—spying, aren't you? That's what anyone would call it.' 'Would they?' He looked away, his jawline tightening.

'Yes.'

 

 

'It's time we went back,' he pointed out impersonally. 'It's a limited stop.' 'All right.' My voice was as cool as his. We don't want to be stranded here.' There was a gulf between us now. We were forced to sit close together on the return journey, but there was no pleasure in the proximity. I was as miserable as I'd been after Father's death, more so if I were absolutely truthful. But could Kit really expect me to feel any different? The sea was even higher going back. A fat lady standing on the seat was enjoying it tremendously. She screamed and giggled, infecting everyone with her high spirits. Everyone, that was, but Kit and myself. We sat like a couple of spectres at a feast. It was almost a relief to reach Dalrigh an hour or so later and find Vida reclining on her smart shaded hammock, obviously lying in wait for Kit. She was wearing a kind of Spanish matador outf outfit it that became her outrageously. The roses clustered against the wall behind her and it was so warm I could smell their perfume yards away. 'Lorn,' Kit began, but I brushed past him and began to run up the steps. I looked out of the window when I got upstairs, but the hammock was empty and I knew they'd be inside Tom's house. The feeling of desperation settled into a dull apprehension. Kit could see through Vida, couldn't he? She was very fickle where men were concerned and in spite of my disappointment in him I still couldn't bear the thought of him being hurt. Women were queer creatures, I reflected. I turned away from the window and

put them both out of my mind, but however hard I tried, the image

 

 

of Kit kept returning like the ghost of Hamlet's father, mocking me with his inaccessibility.

 

  CHAPTER X

I knew the Crinan expedition was going to be a strained affair as soon as Mrs Trewitt found out that Kerry and Seil had been with the holidaying quartet to Campbeltown. They'd been a bit late coming back the previous evening and her nostrils had distended angrily when the brake had drawn up outside the house, disgorging the group of cheerful young people. The Professor had restrained her from saying anything in public, but I guessed there had been strong disagreement in the privacy of their room. Caro didn't eat much breakfast the following morning and her face was sulky. Judy didn't look too happy either and I guessed she'd asked Boyd to accompany them and he'd refused. I wondered where he'd gone instead. Mother said he'd been out all day and had enquired about buses to Connel Ferry. There wasn't much there but a cluster of houses and the hotel, but he could have stopped off en route. Once in the mini-bus, I knew I must work hard to ensure better feeling in the party. Mrs Trewitt had obviously expected the staff of Dalrigh to be older, and I must try to counteract the disappointment she must inevitably feel. If we could get through the day without incident, this evening would present no problems as Seil was to be engaged on one of his fishing trips, using the   Cowrie which would have a full complement if the male members of the party all went with him. And even if they didn't, I couldn't imagine Caro with bait and a wet line. I sat beside the Trewitts, telling them about the stones at Slockavullin which were to be the highlight of their day and how they seemed to march up the fields like a regiment of squat, petrified men. Gradually Mrs Trewitt unbent, her face taking on its

customary expression of keen anticipation. Once I felt she was on the point of taking me into her confidence about some matter that was on her mind, but a sudden cessation of conversation around us

 

 

stopped her almost before she'd begun. But she would tell me when another occasion arose —I was reasonably sure of that. Bare green uplands where sheep grazed gave way to the first glimpse of water with orange weed scattered along the foreshore and a welter of dark secret woods. There was dark sand too and I remembered Kit's Black Shore, the barrier against evil. The glass of the window seemed to mist up briefly like the case that enclosed the witch's incense burner, and I imagined I smelt sulphur. It was only the smell of the burned match the Professor threw out of the window—or was it? I was no longer certain of anything. Rough, wooded hills lay in an irregular switchback which was reflected in the sea loch. Small boats dragged at their mooring ropes and the deep blue peaks of Mull were carving fantastically lovely patterns into the sky. White farms, a grove of oaks, again making me think of Kit and his tale of nine sacred woods. Sinister cattle, the colour of dead cinders grazed beside a brown river. A white horse and a chestnut mare stood in a rushy field. We stopped at Loch Melfort and climbed up steep stone steps to a coffee room surrounded by red beech and blue and purple hydrangeas and looking out over a castle by the loch and a view of more islands than I'd ever imagined, all blue and melting into shadowy distances that made my heart ache. Kit tried to engage my attention, but I evaded him and found myself sitting beside Boyd. 'Did you get to Connel Ferry yesterday?' I asked him. I could feel Kit's eyes on my profile and felt as nervous as a teenager on a first date.

'Connel Ferry?' Boyd looked puzzled. 'Mother said you'd asked about the bus.'  

 

'Oh.' Boyd flushed. 'I—I didn't go all the way.' 'Did you have a pleasant day?' I made myself smile with apparent interest. 'Quite.' 'Visiting friends, were you?' I wished I could stop myself asking questions. I wasn't much better than Kit Brown, I realised ruefully. Chaffinches were pecking at crumbs on the terrace and a smell of old-fashioned roses blew in the open window. They reminded me of the satin cushions I used to buy from the sweet shop as a child. Father had liked satin cushions, I thought, irrelevantly. The part of me that was usually sorry for Boyd wasn't working at full pressure today. The image of Father was in the way. If Boyd was the new owner of the Langaly Stone, as he well might be, he was just as disturbing to my father's memory as Kit and the mysterious Professor Duvall. 'There's the coffee,' Boyd said with obvious relief, ignoring my query about friends on the Connel road. 'How do you like yours?' 'Black,' I answered. Like Kit's Black Shore, like with my own black moods that had almost vanished recently, to return redoubled force after my phone call to Bob Wilson. 'How was your day?' Boyd asked carefully. 'Enjoy it, did you?' It was almost as though he knew it had ended in disaster. Perhaps he did. He and Kit had looked very close as they talked after dinner two nights ago. 'Marvellous.' I hoped the falseness behind my assertion didn't show

too clearly. 'Kit's—a nice man. You seem to get on well with him, considering you hadn't met before you came.'

 

 

Boyd picked up his coffee and took a long sip. 'He listens. Lots of people don't take the trouble, I find. He wanted to know about my voyages. All kinds of things about my work.' 'I bet he does,' I thought. I didn't like the idea that Boyd was lying to me as well as Mr C. Brown. 'Where do your friends live?' I asked out loud, and kept my eyes fixed on Boyd's face. The black of his gaze g aze intensified. 'Friends?' 'The ones on the Connel road,' I prompted. 'Oh, them. Just before Dunstaffnage.' I closed my eyes and took a drink of coffee. I tried to picture* the stretch of road before the village and the castle. The orphanage was set back from the main road and on the other side of the highway were two farms, one down in a hollow, the other on a slight wooded rise, the walls white in a windbreak of trees. It would be the smarter of the farms, the one with the lovely box hedges and the jersey cattle, the one sheltered in the lee of the bank. I opened my eyes again and surprised a look on Boyd's face IHe could describe as haunted. Perhaps guiltyreputation conscience. mustonly know how damaging it would beittowas Father's if there were never a definite d efinite decision about the clan amethyst. 'Boyd,' I said softly. 'Your mother's name couldn't have been MacDougall, could it?' It was stupid of me and I knew as soon as I'd uttered the words. His face turned red and then white. He couldn't have looked guiltier if he'd stolen the coffee-pot from under my nose.

'Excuse me,' he said in a stifled voice, and put down his cup. It was still half full. He got up and went out on to the terrace. The chaffinches rose in a whirl of feathers and watched him from the  

 

beech trees and the roses. After a minute Judy joined him. She stretched out her arm and pointed to the grape-hyacinth triangles of Mull, the delphinium-blue teeth of Jura. A little later she laughed, and it was an attractive sound. A girl like Judy might be better for Captain Malcolm's morale than Lorn Corquodale could ever be.vague I saw attention, Mrs Fitzherbert with her moredaughter's than her normal but shestudying seemed them to accept interest in Boyd more rationally than Mrs Trewitt did her daughter's in my brother. 'Do you know where the—er—cloakroom is, Miss Corquodale?' Mrs Trewitt whispered by my shoulder. I had the strong presentiment that I was about to be burdened with the confidence that had trembled on her lips earlier in the day. 'Yes.' I rose to my feet. feet . 'This way.' 'Don't go away,' she begged. 'There's something I must say. I don't want you to get the wrong impression about me. And there is another week of the holiday yet. Please wait.' 'Very well. I'll be at the front of the house.' I waited in perplexed discomfort, wishing I liked Mrs Trewitt wholeheartedly. It could be easier to listen sympathetically if I did. Then I heard her feet scrunching on the pebbles. Her neat, severe figure appeared round a corner. She smiled tentatively and I was curiously touched. 'What is it?' I asked. My tone must have reassured her, because she plunged into her story almost immediately. 'I don't want you to think I'm being too hard on Caro. I feel you do, and it may appear so, but Caro's very young, and she's already been in trouble—'

 

 

'Trouble?' I suppose my face expressed the proper concern, for she went on, ' Yes. She took up with a young student, all long hair and guitar—and drugs.' I was glad she'd added the last word because a large number of quite respectable young people had long hair and wore trendy clothes—even played guitars. 'We discovered Caro just about to leave the house, her case packed. We never knew where or how she intended to live—only that she was going to join this boy, this very undesirable youth. Her father had to be very firm. Very firm indeed.' 'How awful for you,' I said conventionally. 'But you needn't have worried about Seil. I know he's young and wears jeans, not to mention the guitar he plays so well, but he'd never treat a girl any other than courteously. He does have principles, Mrs Trewitt— very strong ones, I assure you.' 'You've got hold of the wrong end of the stick,' she answered, her face red. 'It wasn't your brother I was worried about. It was on his behalf, if you must know, that I had my qualms. I began to worry in case—in case Caro influenced him. I thought I should warn you to have a word with Seil —that is his name, isn't it? The other young men are more sophisticated and they go about together. Seil seemed a more serious young man—' 'Thank you, Mrs Trewitt,' I said gently. 'I appreciate what you've told me. Seil does tend to place people on pedestals. But perhaps Caroline has learnt her lesson.' 'Perhaps.' Her tone was without conviction. 'I just felt I had to tell

you. I've caught you looking at me and I knew what you were thinking. That I was perhaps being merely snobbish? If only you knew, a nice, uncomplicated normal boy would be what I'd want  

 

most for Caro. I can't think why I'm saying all this, but you've been so kind with your attentions and information. We'll certainly be happy to put other guests your way. I thought people had stopped bothering about pleasing others, particularly in business matters like this. You and your family have proved me wrong. I know the Fitzherberts are also impressed. One would never think Judy belonged to them, would one?' I couldn't help smiling in spite of the fact that Mrs Trewitt had moved me quite unexpectedly. It hadn't occurred to her that her own daughter was just as much a misfit as young Judy. I wondered too what I should do about the warning I'd just received. Strange that all this time I'd been under a misapprehension. Very odd— The road went on by Loch Craignish and past banks of swirling wild flowers and fields of dun-coloured bullocks and very pale, cream-coloured Highland cattle. A wooded gorge and red rock, a farm painted kingfisher and white and planted around with thick stripes of marigolds, high brown crags and a dramatic view of Kilmartin Castle, tall firs swimming in green light, then we were at Slockavullin with its grey marching stones. Everyone wanted to see them, so Seil drew the brake up near a row of green-grey cottages. The Trewitts went first, then the Fitzherberts. I wasn't surprised to see Judy and Boyd walking slowly across the field. There was that similarity in their appearance that one sometimes sees in certain married couples, a brother and sister look. It was merely superficial, of course, based only on colouring and mutual shyness. And then Boyd raised his head and stared across at me and his eyes were filled with a hurt that shocked me. What had I done? I was appalled to think I could have distressed him to such an extent. Was I wrong about his connection with the

MacDougalls? Why then was he creating such a mystery about his past and his friends?

 

 

Across a golden meadow there was heathland, a lodge cottage and the gates of a longer house. There was also Kit, tall and broad. Norwegian-sweatered, his hair the colour of the meadow. I wondered what he and Vida had done last night. He hadn't come in for dinner and I'd heard Vida's Aston Martin drive out while I was having a bath later in the evening. I was conscious of Iahad dry,given sick feeling of rejection. It was all my own fault, of course. him an uncomfortable day and he quite rightly preferred not to have a similar evening. Quite suddenly I didn't want to go right up to the lichened coldness of the stones. I wanted only to be quiet and alone even if it was just for a few minutes. I sat down in the mini-bus and closed my eyes. There was the sound of a foot on the steps and the floor creaked. My eyes flew open again. Boyd was there, rather pale and grim-lipped, his gaze purposeful. 'I want to talk to you, Lorn. Will you listen?' I'd already listened to Mrs Trewitt. It shouldn't be so difficult to do the same for Captain Malcolm. 'Please say what you want,' I told him. 'That place I visited yesterday—it was the orphanage. It was stupid of me not to tell you before.' 'The orphanage?' I stared at him bewildered. 'Whatever for?' 'I used to live there. I was an orphan, you see. Well, I can't really say for sure. I was left there just like any other foundling, in a basket on the doorstep. I don't know my mother's name. Nobody knows.' 'So you aren't any relation of Campbell MacDougall's?'

'None at all. The matron's name was Boyd and the superintendent's Malcolm, so that's how I got my name.'  

 

'Tom remembered you and your name. Tom MacInnes.' 'He made the orphanage his special charity. He came to hand out the prizes and on special days. I never knew his name. I didn't recognise him straight away. He'd grown much burlier since my days. It wasn't till afterwards I realised r ealised who he was.' 'But the man on the Claymore—you did know him, didn't you?' 'Yes, I used to know him quite well, from my harbour days. It was he who smuggled me aboard the day I went to Staffa. I went to look for him that day at Tobermory and if I hadn't just happened to see you in that corner I'd have told him the whole story and apologised.' 'Apologised?' 'I couldn't bear anyone to know 1 had no background, no roots. I had a yen to see this part of the world again, but I wanted to remain a stranger. I suppose I'm quite proud of working myself up to where I am. But no man likes to feel he's been dumped somewhere, like a parcel, or a stray kitten. I hadn't counted on meeting someone like kind you, at someone who'd want know things about me. They were the orphanage, don'tto imagine they weren't. But there was always an emptiness, a bareness I couldn't thole. It was a mistake coming. Away from here I'm the boss. I've worked hard and I'm with men who don't question what I am. I'm happy in my job. But here, I can feel my confidence oozing and ebbing away, bit by bit, to leave a grubby little boy who never could stand polished lino and being penned in. I was always in trouble for defecting to the harbour at every possible opportunity. I

was good at my lessons and it got me noticed, a scholarship and all the rest. Then when Johnny— Johnny Carstairs waved and shouted to me, I was so disconcerted I pretended I hadn't heard. Not very

 

 

mature, was it? He was a good friend to me. Anyway, I decided to do something about it. I went to the orphanage yesterday morning and I looked up Johnny yesterday evening. I feel I've put the record straight—as straight as I can get g et it.' 'And—you never knew Kit before you both got off that train last weekend?' 'No. But everyone else is sort of paired off, so I suppose that's why we gravitated towards one another. Do you want to know why I chose your place from all the others?' 'Yes. If you want to tell me,' I said in a low voice. 'I once saw you all in your garden with a tall, red-haired man. Your father, wasn't it? I decided what a splendid family you made. I was very much influenced by the sight of good families—nice relationships. I admired the house too—imagined myself living in it, memorised the name. Then when I made enquiries about accommodation and saw your brochure, I remembered. It was like running over an old film and suddenly seeing your favourite reel. People change, but houses don't much. It's the best one round here by a mile. Well, there you are, Lorn. Is the record straight enough?' I didn't say anything at first. I couldn't. Then I nodded. 'You've been very honest.' 'And you don't think too badly of me?' I shook my head.

What did you mean about the MacDougalls? he asked. In the last few minutes Boyd had changed. He'd regained his assurance, all of his stature.

 

 

'Oh, nothing that matters. I got on to the wrong track somewhere.' Someone was climbing up the steps and coming down the centre aisle. I became aware that Boyd's head was very close to mine, that our voices had been low and confidential. I knew also, before I looked up, that I should see Kit. 'Secrets?' he enquired drily, his dark-blue eyes cold. 'Why not? We all have them, don't we? Some more than others,' I replied. 'Excuse me,' Boyd said. 'I've left l eft my jacket somewhere. I'll get it.' 'It's on the wall beside the lodge cottage,' Kit told him. 'Thanks.' There was a silence after he went. My mind scurried about like a mouse in a cage. The only thing that was clear to me was the fact that Boyd wasn't the owner of the Luck. But if he wasn't— who was? Another minute and I'd have known, but the sound of voices swelled and heightened as our party returned in twos and threes and there was no time or place for the kind of conversation that seemed inevitable. 'Next stop is Crinan,' I said as calmly as I could with Kit's blond bulk between me and safety. 'We can spend a couple of hours there easily, maybe more. There's a hotel, post office, that sort of thing.

And of course, we ve the usual lunch with us. Someone cheered and I was surprised to discover it was Mr Fitzherbert. Everyone laughed. Anyone not understanding all the undercurrents would have said we were a jolly crowd, but they wouldn't have noticed  

 

Mrs Trewitt's anxious eyes, Boyd's silence or Kit's restrained anger. Why should he be angry with me? I had more right—hadn't I? The thought, instead of filling me with self-righteous smugness, smothered me in shame. We toon thewet canal at Crinan in a welter of with meadowsweet. There werecame cattle sand and a swing-bridge a cottage beside it, a cat under the red and orange roses. The canal ran dark and quiet above a great mudflat out of which rose Castle Sween, red and desolate, a family camped below the ruin. They were the kind of family Boyd liked, friendly and helpful one to another, laughing round their small, smoking fire, carrying driftwood, a unit instead of several isolated individuals. Seil parked at the other side of the swing-bridge. Wild flowers and grasses grew on both sides of the canal, high and bright as enamel. 'That way for the village,' he said. 'We'll all gather later for lunch. There's a pleasant green overlooking the lock. That would be the best place.' Caro, I saw, was with him. Although she smiled there was an underlying sadness in her expression. It couldn't be easy to look like Caro with all the temptations that existed in the permissive society. Beautiful girls were submitted to pressures that others escape. Perhaps Seil would be good for her, and it was only for a few days. I understood both Caro and her parents now. I took a step in the direction of the towpath, but a hand gripped my forearm. 'Let the others go on. We've got something to talk about,' Kit growled. 'Have we?'

You know we have. He made no attempt to relinquish that hard pressure round my wrist. Antagonism rose up in me. I pulled against that ruthless contact, but without success. He began to

 

 

walk very slowly some distance after the others and I had no choice but to go with him. I could see Boyd striding out at the head of the straggling party, Judy beside him, her head turned towards the high crags, heavy with woodland, that lay to the landward side, his towards the pale green water. 'I don't care for caveman tactics,' I told Kit coldly. 'There seem to be a lot of things you don't care for. My job, my unscrupulousness, my spying. What about yours? I had occasion to ring up the MacLeans at Fort William and they told me a curious story of a red-haired girl who was hanging about outside the flat door in a most suspicious fashion. A very beautiful girl with black, black eyes. In other words—you.' He let go of my arm and I rubbed at the reddened skin. 'It wasn't idle curiosity. You know why I'm interested in you.' 'At that time you hadn't spoken to Bob Wilson,' he pointed out. 'Oh. I'd—forgotten.' I knew I should hit him if he reminded me that th at I'd sworn I never forgot anything, but he maintained a discreet silence. 'Somebody exchanged the real Luck for a replica,' he went on inexorably. 'But why do you have to go ferreting about, you and that Professor Duvall? Why can't the owner do his own dirty work?' 'I thought you knew. I thought you must by now.'

'Knew what? I'm all confused.' Beyond him I could see pale lumps of rock rising from the water and fronds of rusty weed. The flowers blew in the breeze, waist-high, like confetti in a wind.  

 

'That I'm Professor Duvall. That the Luck belongs to me.' I stared at him incredulously. 'I didn't.' 'Didn't Bob Wilson enlighten you? He was going to. Haven't you spoken to him again?' 'Perhaps he thought he did. Maybe I was just stupid. I got the impression that the Professor and owner were two different people—and that you were neither.' 'In spite of the cigarette case?' 'In spite of that. But you're Swedish, aren't you? I was looking for a Scot.' 'Only partly Swedish. But the Duvall, that's a form of MacDougall. Some of our lot went to Sweden in the sixteenth century. Some are Duvall and others Duwall, all reasonably like MacDougall if you analyse them. You'd be surprised how many forms of the name do exist. I've traced around thirty-five in my time and there must be others. People didn't bother much about spelling in the past—not to be wondered at when hardly anyone could write, never mind struggle with the niceties of the formidable English language. Naturally the MacDougall blood is heavily diluted after nearly four centuries abroad, but they were always inveterate letter-writers, never allowing the link with Lorn to be forgotten.' I looked away from him. There were deep reflections in the canal.

The brown shimmer of the water contrasted with the salty green of the sea below the flower-strewn embankment that separated them. Jura and Mull and all the other islands were clear blue lumps on the horizon.  

 

'Is—is the Luck as terribly important to you?' 'Terribly. You see, there's an old curse that says if the Luck goes out of the rightful owner's hands, that line of the MacDougalls dies out for ever. And I don't want that to happen. Even if my name's Duvall.' Crinan was coming into sight, a scatter of cottages at the hill's foot, enclosed in the billowing green of trees, its blue water encircled from horizon to horizon with the greens and blues of islands and mainland. My breath caught in my throat at the sheer effortless loveliness of the sight. 'Then, that first time we met, that was your first attempt at finding out what had happened?' I asked. 'Yes. I tried to see either your father or Bob Wilson, but one was quite ill in hospital and the other—' 'Was dead,' I said automatically. 'He was drowned trying to save me. I thought I'd never be able to look at the sea again. But I can— ' I should have told Kit that he was the one I had to thank for that, but he was no intended longer Kit was Professor Christian Duvall and he to Brown. see the He business of his clan stone through to the bitter end. Between us was a gulf of our own making, his and mine, and all the beauty of the day couldn't alter that. 'I'm sorry,' Kit murmured. 'I really am sorry.' 'He had nothing to do with it,' I reiterated stubbornly. 'Nothing at

all. 'Then you've nothing to worry about,' he told me. 'Forget the whole thing.'  

 

'How can I? Couldn't you just let it go? Nobody believes in curses and that sort of thing now.' But I remembered the showcase and the incense burner and shivered. 'Don't they? You'd be surprised. Anyway, that's not the real point. I don't believe plotting to defraud someone no right to theinLuck. Particularly when they—'of anything. They've 'They? Particularly when what? Why don't you finish what you've started?' 'I will. When I can.' 'You know what's going to happen, don't you?' I said in a low voice. 'You're going to go on building barriers between us and then it'll all be lost—' 'What? What will we lose?' The wind blew at his pale hair. Emotion darkened his blue eyes. He looked remote, gone from me already. There was nothing left to say. I turned away from him and began to run towards the lock, the little becalmed boats and the village.

 

  CHAPTER XI

You look tired,' Mother said.

'

'It was truth day,' I told her. 'Everyone unburdened themselves. And to me.' 'They knew you'd listen and that you wouldn't laugh at them afterwards.' 'Oh.' I was surprised. 'Do I really come over like that? It never occurred to me.' Mother took a sip of tea out of one of her best cups. 'That's how you do. There's something real and honest about you. Vida looks like one of those priceless Chinese vases one would never use in case it leaked or got broken. You're more like those terracotta pots filled with earth and growing things. Maybe that sounds a bit fanciful and farfetched—old-fashioned if you like—but most people in their right senses prefer something with its own attraction and that can be used. And what dreadful revelations were imparted today?' 'Nothing much, I suppose,' I shrugged. 'In other words, they were all in confidence and you wouldn't dream of divulging them. Just like your father.' I felt myself grow rigid. r igid. 'He was—-very scrupulous, wasn't he?' 'Bill? Very. He was the soul of honour. That's what I've just said.'

'Yes, you did. I just wanted to hear you say it again.'

 

 

'Was there some particular reason?' She watched me as she spoke and I knew I'd changed colour. 'Not really. I just think a person's good points should be remembered. Even after—' 'Yes, Lorn, they should.' Everything about her softened, her voice, her eyes, her very body seemed more pliant as though he were there with us. We seemed, Mother and I, to be on our own personal Black Shore with Father while Kit stood on the other side of the tideline with his suspicion and insistence on going on with his horrible investigation. He could never prove anything. Old Cam MacDougall could have disposed of the Luck himself in a hard-up moment thinking that young Christian Duvall could never know the difference. It could have been exchanged years ago. Had Kit thought of that? I wondered. 'Oh, Tom rang up earlier. He's having another little get-together tomorrow. He wanted me to go along, but Ju and I had planned a nice peaceful evening with television. I'm afraid I was very naughty and told a white lie to get out of it.' White lies and real ones. White witches and black. Where did one stop and the other begin? However, I said you'd go and that I was pretty certain Kit Brown and Boyd Malcolm would accept. They seemed to enjoy themselves last time. I spoke to them afterwards. Is—is Mr Brown interested in Vida, do you think?' 'He'd be blind not to be.' 'She's obvious.'

Mother! You re just prejudiced. I m only a homely little earthenware pot and she's Ming or whatever. Remember?' We both laughed and Mother looked very happy and prettier than she'd

 

 

done for a long time, more like Kerry's older sister than her parent. She'd come to terms with herself, with life. I felt happier myself now that I'd eaten and relaxed and could see things in better perspective. If Kit said any more about the amethyst I'd advance my theory about old Gam having fallen on hard times and deciding to make a profit out of the original. Then I remembered what Tom had said about the incense burner. Old Cam MacDougall had been superstitious about it and scrupulous enough to want the MacLeans to benefit by the money it would bring. He was unlikely to be superstitious about one and not the other, particularly when both were connected with the Witch of Langaly. My rising spirits suffered a severe relapse. 'You'll mention Tom's do to the t he others, then, will you? It had better be now before they decide to go out.' 'Must I?' 'I'm afraid so, darling. I'm stuck to this chair. Anyway, I'm not going. You are.' 'Only because you accepted for me,' I pointed out. 'What's so different from the other night? You were dying to go then.' I didn't want Mother to start putting two and two together. She could be very astute. 'It just seemed a bit soon, that's all. I'll

probably love it once I m there. I wouldn t, of course. It would be a long time before I'd enjoy anything again. Content would stay on one side of the tideline and I on the other. I'd be able to see it, but I'd be cut off from it as the Black Shore was from evil. Evil  

 

reminded me of the witch. I hoped no one would suggest looking at the incense burner tomorrow night. My flesh crept with premonition. I found Boyd in the drawing-room writing letters. Before I could tell him about the invitation he said, ' Thanks for listening today.' 'Thanks for being so honest. There was no need. None at all.' 'There was. You've always been so with me. You never let me think there could be anything more than friendship between us. Lots of girls wouldn't be so scrupulous. I suppose you were a kind of symbol of what I'd never had. Roots, belonging—all that sort of thing. You were just as I imagined you'd be from that day I saw you all. Maybe I shouldn't be saying all this in the past tense, but somehow I feel it all slipping away— like a rather pleasant dream, I suppose. Oh, don't get me wrong! There'll be other dreams. I just needed to get that one out of my system. What I want is someone who'll accept the sea and my job as a way of life, and you'd never be able to do that, would you, Lorn? Don't imagine I haven't noticed what happens to you when you're on board. I wondered about that a lot until Judy told me about your father—' 'Judy did?' I was astonished. 'She's seen a lot of Kerry and company.' 'Oh, I see. I'm better about it than I was.' 'But you'd never be wholehearted. You'd always imagine the same thing happening again to someone else you were fond of. You'd

never be quite sure. 'No, I wouldn't.' It was very discerning of Boyd to sum me up so well.  

 

'But,' he went on more cheerfully, ' having said all that, I'm willing to wait a bit longer before we write one another off completely. Who knows how you'll feel in a year or two?' Who indeed could know? ' I shouldn't count on anything,' I warned, hating myself. 'I've never counted on anything in my life.' 'I came in to say something. The MacInneses have given us another invitation—for tomorrow night.' 'Oh.' Boyd's dark eyes expressed only a conventional regret. 'I'm going out with the Fitzherberts. There's a rather good film on— Patton. We were going en famille.'

'Well, you can't miss that. It's It 's a funny little cinema, mind.' 'I like funny little cinemas. Judy's mother likes T.V. and the pictures. I used to love films myself, when I was a kid. Buried treasure and mayhem—' 'Like the Tobermory galleon and stolen heirlooms?' 'My favourite kind.' 'I guessed so. I'll express your regrets to Tom and Vida. Er—you haven't seen Kit around? He was included, I should tell him before he gets fixed up himself. I think Vida would be disappointed if neither of you could come.'

He was going up to the Folly. Hasn t been gone long. You ll find him there.'

 

 

'Thanks, Boyd.' I left him to his correspondence and went for my coat. It might be easier to face Kit outside if I had to, and I had a yearning for the Folly. I'd never settle in the house this evening and it wasn't fair to Tom not to let him know if none of us could accept. I shrank from the thought of going alone. Seil was in the drive when I went out. 'I'm waiting for my fishing party,' he told me, putting rods and bait-boxes into the brake. 'The tide'll be right in an hour.' 'Oh. Kit's not going with you, is he?' 'No, not this time.' Seil straightened up and pushed his hair back out of his eyes. 'Looking for him?' 'Only to deliver a message. By the way, what do you think of Caro?' 'I'm not quite sure. There's more to her than meets the eye. She's not just another dolly-bird. 1 like her in one way, but in another I'd never quite trust her. Anyway, why the inquisition? It's pleasant enough having her here, but who knows what the next batch'll bring to whistle, then worthy, went on,I don't ' If only her motherforth?' didn't Seil makebegan it so obvious I wasn't suppose I'd have sought out her daughter after the beginning. I was smitten the first day, but I got the message once Caro switched to Phil and Mark. If it hadn't been for my guitar playing that would have been it. And who wants to be worshipped because of a flair for strings? It's a bit pointless. So you needn't worry about me, Sister Lorn. Put your own house in order.'

What do you mean by that? 'Think about it. Well, I'll go and rustle up my little lot. Where are we going tomorrow?'  

 

'Kerrera, if it's fine enough for tramping about. It's like Langaly, marvellous on a good day, a washout if it's wet.' 'It'll be fine. I've just heard the weather forecast on the car radio. Oh, and Lorn—nice of you to be so solicitous. Don't think I don't appreciate it.' 'Think nothing of it.' A weight seemed to have lifted from me. Seil had a great deal more sense than I'd given him credit for and besides that, he had a dignity I admired. Caro had, as I suspected, hurt him, but he hadn't allowed it to sour him. Quite the philosopher, my brother. I went round the garden to the lane, not wanting to miss Kit if he came back that way. It was pleasant to walk up the hill with the sun on my face and the green shadows of the leaves glimmering on the walls that pressed on either side. The Folly rose above me, round and atmospheric, faintly tinged with violet. The sight of it aroused in me an acute nostalgia. I wanted all kinds of things I couldn't put a name to. Intangible things—sweet and sad and out of reach. I thought of all the day's revelations. I'd been wrong about everyone. Could I also be wrong about Kit? I wanted, desperately, to be wrong about him. Boyd admitted he'd be willing to settle for another dream, but I knew I wouldn't. One was enough for me, only mine had come to no proper conclusion. It was like moonshine and starshine—illusion—melting with daylight to leave nothing lasting, nothing I could bring out for a rainy day. I'd be stirring the pot-pourri of memory to find only dead petals without fragrance.

Kit wasaperture just where expected to be. he Through the tall, pointed whereI dwe'd alreadyhim met twice, looked down on the blue-green quilt of the harbour and beyond to the masses of Mull and Morven, the jewelled green of Kerrera. He couldn't have

 

 

heard me approach, and yet he knew I was there. He turned and stared, smiling his surprise and pleasure. 'I only came to tell you we'd had another invitation from the MacInneses. I'm surprised Vida didn't tell you herself, although perhaps wasknow, Tom'syou idea this time. It's for tomorrow night. I should letithim see.' 'I see.' The smile and the pleasure were both shut away. Kit stepped down from the ledge and leaned against the wall. The scene through the aperture glowed like a painting. Only the white swoop of a gull brought it back to reality. 'I'll be delighted to accept, on one condition,' he went on without expression. 'That you'll be there.' 'They did invite me—' 'Good. I go if you go. And there's something else. I want you to do something for me.' His eyes willed me to obey. 'It depends upon what it is,' I said slowly. 'I want you to wear this,' he answered, and took something out of his pocket, something that swung and glittered the very colour of the mauve-tinted stone and the witch peaks of Mull. 'The Luck,' I whispered stupidly. 'But why? Why?' 'You'll find out tomorrow. Do you have something you can wear it with?'

I continued to watch the sway and brilliance of the huge gem with fascinated eyes. 'I think so.' But who do you expect to be there?

 

 

This—this won't mean anything to most people. Pendants are the most popular form of modern jewellery.' 'I can assure you that at least one person will find this more than interesting.' 'I suppose Vida told you about who's to be there,' I couldn't help saying. 'You've seen quite a lot of her lately.' 'We have talked quite a fair amount,' Kit agreed imperturbably. 'Will you do it, Lorn?' 'If it'll help Father. Yes, I will.' 'I can't promise. You realise that, don't you? I can only try.' 'I hoped—' I took my eyes away from that hypnotic brilliance. 'You can still hope,' he told me. 'Here, take it. I know you'll look after it. Just wear it tomorrow, that's all I ask.' I took it from him unwillingly. 'I might lose it.' Kit took it back again and slipped the chain over my head. 'Keep it on. That's the safest way.' I lifted the stone and let it slide inside my blouse. It lay on my flesh as cold and malevolent as Cleopatra's asp. I shuddered, detesting it. 'Till tomorrow, then,' Kit said. I knew he wanted to kiss me, but

that damned stone hung between us, making its own barrier. 'Goodnight,' he went on after a long silence. I sat down on one of the benches and studied the daisies that studded the grass inside the circle, and when I raised my eyes he'd gone.

 

  CHAPTER XII

It stayed fine for Kerrera. It was another day like the Langaly outing, quiet and green and lost, all sheep tracks and little rocky bays and butterflies. I was sorry to come back to civilisation. But in spite my enjoyment of sun and solitude, myguests. thoughts returned r eturned time andoftime again to this evening and Tom's Would the MacLeans be there? Was there someone I hadn't yet met who was connected with the Luck? Everyone was excited and conversational over the evening meal, discussing the forthcoming excursions to Glencoe, Coll and Tiree, the ultimate pleasure of a sail to Jura near the end of the fortnight. I went upstairs, not having eaten a great deal, and took the amethyst out of the drawer where I'd put it for safe keeping. It winked and glittered under the light as I took it to the wardrobe and held it against the various gowns that hung there. There was only one that was right for it, a low-necked voile with a softly gathered skirt and puffed sleeves in shades of lilac l ilac and aubergine. I had some beaten silver earrings that would match the chain and setting. I bathed and dressed. My fingers shook as I fastened the chain. If it wasn't for Father, I'd never have worn it. It was cowardly of me, I know, but I put a stole round my shoulders and held the ends together over my breast. I hoped Kit knew what he was up to. I only wished I did. He was waiting for me when I went down, dark suit, Regency shirt, everything enhancing his fairness. 'Where is it?' he asked. I

lifted up the ends of the stole and let him see the Luck. A myriad points of light flashed as I did so. His eyes seemed to look beyond the stone, seeing what I had seen at the Folly last night, something

 

 

bitter-sweet, intangible, forever out of reach. Gulls cried over the housetop and the Langaly verse rang through my head insistently. 'Where the sea-song is And the place of Kings, Where the lack witch has lived And birds wings to fly, There lies the Luck, The Luck of Langaly.' It was like an epitaph. 'You look lovely,' he said. 'Can't you tell me anything? What am I supposed to do if anyone passes a remark about the pendant?' 'Just tell the truth—that you borrowed it for the evening.' 'And if they persist?' 'There's only one person likely l ikely to persist.' 'The—substitutor?' 'Got it in one,' Kit said. 'But if you're at all out of your depth, refer them to me. All right?' His hand pressed my arm gently. 'All right. But let's go now, before my courage evaporates. You'll have to give me moral support.'

You ll have all you need, he assured me. It was all very well in theory for him to promise to stay with me, but couples had a habit of being separated at these intimate evening affairs. One was expected to circulate, and once Vida got her eyes on Kit he'd be

 

 

dragged away to look at those exquisite roses or whatever she could offer in place of etchings. Tom met us at the door. 'Nice you could come. Do you want to dump that stole, Lorn? There's a downstairs bedroom we usually use asit,a Ipowder-room. Just in there, like aItgood You won't need can assure you. It'sgowarm tonight.' was girl. warm. The sky was a wild plum-blue, the atmosphere sultry. I went to the bedroom reluctantly and laid the stole on the satin spread. A buzz of conversation told me that other guests had arrived. I wondered how long I could sit here without arousing comment. Tonight was important, it could make or break everything that existed between Kit and me. Was it equally important to him? Sometimes I felt it was, and then I remembered how he'd sought out Vida, or o r she him. He couldn't be wholehearted whol ehearted if he hankered after her too. I got up at that point and braced my shoulders. Anything was better than this self-examination. Anything. I emerged into a roomful of people, the atmosphere faintly hazed and blued with cigar smoke. There was no obvious sign of Kit, though he was almost certainly part of the crowd. I peered, a little desperately, over the multi-coloured heads, feeling as conspicuous as an elephant in an ant colony. Little rivers of fire flickered through the big stone I wore, attracting a few careful glances but no obvious recognition from anyone. Vida detached herself from the press and came over to me. Her dark eyes rested on the Luck with bored interest. 'How pretty,

darling. Had a birthday or something?' I shook my head. The silver earrings swayed, making little chinking noises. 'And aren't they attractive, too?' Vida went on

 

 

thoughtfully, her gaze climbing to my hair. 'You'd never think those shades would go with red hair, but somehow they do just manage it. I suppose you're looking for Kit Brown, but Tom would like it if you circulated first, sweetie. These get-togethers can fall frightfully flat if everyone stays with the same person all evening. I'm sure you'll catch up with him sooner or later. You do know Major Robertson, don't you?' 'From the riding-school?' 'Yes, that's him. Over here, Lorn. He'll get you a drink.' Major Robertson fetched me gin and tonic, looked at me approvingly and asked how the guest-house venture was working out. 'Fine,' I assured him. 'I hope to interest some of our people in the riding-school. Perhaps you could let me know the best times to fit in temporary visitors. I know you'll have regulars.' The Major embarked on his more suitable period, but I only listened with half an ear, having just seen Kit in the darkest corner in animated discourse with a man I didn't know, and Vida. The subdued lighting showed up Vida's undeniably beautiful profile to full advantage and outlined Kit's blond head, leaving their bodies in darkness. There was an eerie magic about those isolated patches of paleness in the surrounding gloom, something of the quality of good Dutch painting. 'Well, Tom,' the Major said loudly, bringing me back to the present most decisively. 'What an enjoyable evening.' evening .'

Tom loomed over us, tall and fleshy, but handsome in spite of his well-fed appearance. His sensual smile spoke of satisfaction in his

 

 

efforts, a pride in his possessions and his ability to entertain so lavishly. 'Everyone got a drink?' he enquired. 'Plenty more where that came from, eh? Don't hesitate to replenish your glasses.' His sleepy eyes descended from my ears to my low neckline a fraction to look closely at the Luck. It must havethen beenrose a trick of the light, butmore I fancied his face paled. 'Like it?' I asked, forestalling the question I sensed was coming. 'It's something a friend loaned me to wear with this dress.' 'A very attractive gown, if I may say so,' the Major said gallantly. 'You certainly may.' Some assurance was coming back to me. I couldn't say I was comfortable, but I had the odd conviction that someone or something was on my side. 'Yes,' Tom murmured. 'This child improves every time I see her.' 'It must be the air,' the Major commented. 'What with Miss Corquodale and your niece, Oban has its fair share of pulchritude.' I began to wish he'd get back to horses and stables. I was finding the conversation faintly embarrassing. 'Come with me, Lorn, and I'll get you another drink,' Tom offered. His smile, I noticed, remained the same, but his eyes were no longer sleepy. 'I've still got one,' I pointed out. 'Oh, go on, Miss Corquodale,' the Major teased. 'Tom's not really

thinking about your drink. More the effect that devastating neckline has on him, eh? I can take a hint. Anyway, the wife's probably looking for me.' He moved away and left me with Tom.

 

 

'Some champagne?' Tom suggested. Even his voice had changed, the old purring laziness gone, leaving an edge of sharpness alien to him. I remembered his friendship with Campbell MacDougall and realised he recognised, or thought he recognised, the amethyst. He must have seen it many times in the past. No wonder he was disturbed. 'Come into the study,' he invited, seeming not to have noticed that I hadn't replied. 'I've a special bottle in there, just for very personal friends.' I looked around for Kit. He was still in the dark corner, but he was watching us now. I let my hand rest on the stone briefly, my eyes conveying all my doubt and indecision. I imagined he nodded almost imperceptibly. 'All right, Tom,' I agreed. He put his hand under my elbow. It felt warm and a little damp. The room felt airless and oppressive, the sky was a threatening purple. Thunder rolled gently but decisively somewhere to seaward. It seemed a fitting stage-prop to Kit's projected charade. There was one light on in the study. It cast a clear glow over the big desk and left bookshelves and showcases in dimness. I could see the dark contours of Tom's treasures silhouetted behind the glass, all clear outlines except for the incense burner, which remained unpleasantly obscure. I felt that we were not the only people in the room, that someone stood in darkness, watching us. Tom went to the desk and picked up the champagne bottle that

stood under the lamp. He raised it to look at the label and I noticed that his jacket was getting a little tight around the armpits. It would be a pity if he put on too much weight. But all the time I stood watching and thinking, that shadowy presence made itself felt. The  

 

replica Luck lay heavy and unfriendly on my flesh and I knew Tom was trying to decide what to say about the stone. The cork popped out of the champagne bottle, releasing a flood of white foam. 'Blast!' Tom said, irritated. 'I hate misjudging.' He looked at me carefully. 'Everything's—right, it to me. 'There. Because you're special.' 'And why am I so special tonight?' He looked at me carefully. 'Everything's—right. Some people never co-ordinate. But you do, right down to the smallest detail. Haven't I seen that piece of jewellery before?' In spite of his attempt to keep his voice casual, the underlying purpose showed through. I sipped from my glass. 'Mm, this is very good, Tom. But then you'd never put up with second-best, would you?' 'Why, when I can afford the best?' He raised his own glass in salutation and drank deeply. His face was flushed now and his brow gleamed dully. 'You never told me about that stone. Amethyst, is it?' 'Yes.' 'It looks remarkably like something old Cam had —the Langaly Luck.'

'Does it?' I prevaricated, knowing I was getting out of my depth with every word I uttered. 'It belongs to someone else, a Professor

 

 

Duvall. He's staying here incognito, if you must know. You've met him.' Tom lowered his eyes and I was reminded of a bull about to charge. His features had thickened and suffused, the fingers round the glass stem stretched white across the knuckles. 'Lorn?' Kit was peering round the open doorway, his face set in lines of polite enquiry. 'I couldn't find you, then I heard voices coming from here and I thought the party was beginning to spread around. Am I intruding?' 'No,' I told him bravely. 'I was just telling Tom about you. He was terribly interested in the pendant. I was just telling him about you wanting to remain anonymous while you were up here. If there was anyone from the local rag present, Kit might be pestered about his connection with Langaly. Isn't that right?' 'Perfectly.' He continued to stand there, looking quite innocent. I was reminded of the Scarlet Pimpernel, he looked so harmless that there must be a catch in it. 'That thing you're so interested in has been in the family for centuries, but Lorn is very careful. I knew it would be safe with her for tonight. I'm just about to have a proper valuation put on it. Not being superstitious, I might want to sell it some time. You like that sort of thing, don't you?' Tom stood very still for what seemed an eternity. 'Could I have a look at it?' he asked at last. 'I've got a good eye for—'

'A fake?' Kit suggested softly.

 

 

'Yes. Let me have it for a few minutes. I'll take it into the other room there. I have all the proper apparatus.' He indicated a door on the other side of the study. 'Do you really want to do this in the middle of your party?' 'Of course. I'm—interested. I do like this kind of thing.' Lightning crackled across the sky casting its peculiar blue light over the spines of books and across the cold glass of the th e showcases. 'All right,' Kit said unexpectedly. 'They're playing some nice, smoochy music. Will you tear yourself away, Lorn, to dance with me?' 'Of course.' Relief flooded my being. I couldn't wait to be away from this study. All those inanimate objects, that intangible presence. I undid I he clasp of the Luck and laid the pendant on the desk. I could hear the music now, low and insistent. It swelled as we went back into the larger room. People were dancing and Kit took me in his arms. 'How do you know a word like smoochy? If you're mostly Swedish,' I asked. 'I was educated here. That's when I visited old Cam. I've shuttled to and fro and I now live in London—just recently, that is. I was in Sweden when the stone was despatched. As I told you, I didn't examine it properly for some time. I was in the middle of reorganising my life—a new job ahead—' 'Are you really a teacher?'

'A lecturer. Much the same thing.' thing .' 'History?'  

 

'Yes.' I stared at him. In the dimmed lights I couldn't see him properly. He looked as he nearly always did, mysterious, remote, mostly illusion. But his arms felt real enough and there was something in his voice that told me us. the end of the fortnight wouldn't be the finish of things between 'Why did you let Tom keep the stone?' 'There's a very good reason. You see, there was something you didn't know.' 'What?' 'Tom was the executor of Cam's will. Your father's firm did all the legal side of the business, but Tom MacInnes had the handling of the property after Cam died.' 'Tom was executor? I never dreamed. It's perfectly feasible, of course, they were good friends.' Enlightenment had come, but I had a sick feeling I'd rather not have known. Tom had been unable to resistto the temptation owning the Luck. either been unable afford both the of incense burner and theHe'd stone, or, more likely, he'd realised that Kit would never contemplate parting with it. There still seemed no lack of money around Tom. When Kit had apparently accepted the heirloom without question, he'd thought himself safe. Kit broke into my painful contemplation. 'Vida let it out that Tom had a few special pieces he didn't have on display. Oh, don't look

so disturbed. It was purely voluntary on her part. That desk of his, for instance.' 'Don't let's talk about it,' I begged. 'Please—'  

 

'Very well, since you ask so nicely. What shall we talk about instead?' The thunder rolled again, nearer this time, and his arms tightened around me. 'Why didn't you say something about all this?' 'It was very delicate. You see, I couldn't come out into the open without a great deal of unpleasantness. Several people had access to the Luck. The MacLeans who got the house and contents— their brother and his wife who'd worked for Cam MacDougall until a few months before his death. They were the Fort William couple I visited. Tom and Vida—' 'And Father who was the last person to handle it. Yes, I can see your problem. Why did you come to stay with us? You weren't  just—' 'Snooping? No. I—I fell in love with you that misty night up at the Folly. I followed you home to see where you lived. You see, I didn't know who you were then. I only knew I had to see you again. Then when I saw the brochure the temptation was too great to resist—' 'Like Tom when he had the Luck in his hands?' 'Just like that.' 'He's got a lot of good points, Kit. Charity work and that sort of thing. No one needs to know, do they?' 'No one's going to know. Not if Tom does what I think he'll do.'

'And what's that?' 'Vida's watching us,' Kit said.

 

 

'It's never bothered you before,' I pointed out. 'It does now. I don't want her getting the wrong ideas. Is it all right if I kiss you?' 'Not here. I'd feel—traitorous.' 'You needn't. Not on Vida's account. There's a young lady who's eminently capable of taking care of herself. You know that.' 'No, not on hers—Tom's. You see, I can't help feeling sorry for him. I think I'd like to leave, Kit. Would you mind?' 'Not at all. We'd better let Tom know.' The study door was closed now. I knocked hesitantly, aware of the low growl of the thunder that still grumbled overhead. It was halfhearted now as though the storm was nearly over. Tom let us in. The study was brightly lit now, the shadows and atmosphere of vague menace dispelled. The amethyst lay on the desk where I'd last seen it. 'It's perfectly genuine,' Tom said without looking at either of us. 'The valuation's more difficult. There's its history to take account—that take ainto second opinion.' sort of thing. You'd be better advised to 'Thanks,' Kit said quietly. 'I will.' He picked up the Luck and fastened it around my neck. It felt different, not so cold, not so much of a burden. And then I realised what had happened. This was the real thing I was wearing, the true Luck with all its four centuries of contact with long-dead and recently dead MacDougalls. The air in the room seemed to shiver, then grow

still, as if someone had sighed and gone, leaving peace and silence. 'We're going now, Tom,' I told him. 'Come and see Mother some time?'  

 

'Yes,' he answered slowly. 'Some time—' I went to fetch my stole. The storm was over and the air was fresh and cool. Stars studded the night sky. Kit and I stood on the MacInneses' doorstep. 'I don't want to go home yet,' I said. 'We'll go up the lane to the Folly,' he suggested. 'That suit you?' It suited me very well. My voile skirt drifted and swayed in the gentle air, the stole hugged my shoulders with warmth. There was a suggestion of mist up on the hill. The great dark colosseum reared above us and the sky through the window-spaces was purple, lilac and lavender softened and subdued with vapour. The Luck rested against my skin, faintly warm and comforting, as if it belonged. I could just make out Kit's face, secret, illusive. The rowans rustled and whispered around us. Then his mouth was on mine and all the stars wheeled and plunged into limitless oceans where islands lay submerged in witchcraft and sorcery. I fancied, idiotically, that somewhere close by there was a smell of sulphur—  just for a moment —and then there was was nothing but me and Kit.