Snare (10 page)

The smell was still hanging about when Beatrice arrived at seven o'clock. Miss Pink apologised and, with the sherry, served potato crisps hurriedly purchased at the Post Office. They discussed Alec, Beatrice having heard about the morning's incident from Greg Sinclair, the widower from the old schoolhouse who kept bees and had brought her some honey. ‘That was the excuse,' she said. ‘The real reason was to find out what I knew about the confrontation between Alec and Hamish. My not knowing it had taken place was a bonus for the old fellow. How is Hamish?'

‘He was a bit shaken up.' Miss Pink threw a calculating glance towards the kitchen and relaxed enough to take a few sips of sherry. ‘I find it hard to believe that he had a hand in that trick with his father's car. He appears a normal youth: innocent, naive ... Why should he want to embarrass his father?'

‘Jealousy?'

‘Of Anne Wallace?'

‘No. Of his father's
machismo.
During the season young girls, particularly foreigners, flock round him. And then there's the flouting of authority; in this case rebellious youth gets his father and the police in one fell swoop.'

‘You've given this some thought. Have you worked out who is writing the anonymous letters?'

‘Gracious! Who's receiving them?'

Miss Pink related Esme Dunlop's experience and Beatrice looked grave. ‘I don't like it; it's disturbing. It's not the same thing, is it? Like the unpleasant telephone calls, an anonymous letter's in a different category from a practical joke with a car.'

‘An escalation of mischief?' Miss Pink stood up and Beatrice followed her to the kitchen. She surveyed the clutter and said absently, ‘Campbell's not himself either.'

‘I'm not sure what his natural self is, but how is he deviating?'

‘He's tense – as if he were on drugs, but I don't think he takes them. He's been at the house this afternoon, getting the last of the logs under cover and helping me clean the guns.'

‘I heard the firing. Let's hope the heavy breather did too. People know now that you're not as vulnerable as you appear to be.'

There seemed to be a tacit agreement to keep the conversation light while they were eating. So with the baked scallops Beatrice expounded on the magic of fishing for sea trout, and with the veal olives Miss Pink reciprocated with the joys of desert travel. They demolished an extravagant
torta di noti,
followed by a reasonable piece of Stilton and then, having cleared the table, they sat by the fire, coffee and brandy between them.

At nine o'clock there was a sound of skidding tyres in the street and someone thudded on the front door. It was no knock but a hammering with the clenched fist. They stared at each other in astonishment. Miss Pink got to her feet. ‘Who is it?' she called.

‘Campbell. Can I speak to you, miss?'

Beatrice came and stood beside her. ‘I'm here too, Campbell: Miss Swan. Are you drunk?'

‘No, Miss Swan. I'm glad you're there; I want to see you too.'

Beatrice pushed past Miss Pink and opened the door. Campbell entered wide-eyed, removing his cap. ‘They set my place afire,' he said.

They turned away from him. ‘Sit down, Campbell,' Miss Pink said comfortably. ‘You'll take a whisky?' She bit her lip to keep from smiling. To have offered him brandy would have seemed like a slavish imitation of last night.

‘I can't stop,' he said, ‘but I'll take a dram.' Beatrice was watching him. ‘Is the fire bad?'

He nodded. ‘They've finished the place this time. Thank God no one was inside.'

‘It's Lady MacKay's property.' It was a gentle rebuke.

‘She says it's insured. Miss Swan, let me have one of the guns.'

‘Whatever for?'

‘I need protection. I can smell petrol at that place. They would have thought I was inside. When they know I didn't die in the fire, they'll come after me.'

‘No, Campbell; I'm not lending you a gun.'

‘Miss, I got to have protection!' His voice was rising.

‘Campbell!' Miss Pink spoke loudly. ‘Why did they set fire to your house two nights running? You were here only last night.'

‘That's right, I was.' He seemed surprised. ‘This is different. I know why this happened. I'll tell you. I should have told you first, but I was shocked. It's not nice to come home and see your place blazing.'

‘You've called the fire brigade?'

He gave a snort of derision. ‘Fire brigade's in
Morvern
But if it was here, in Sgoradale, it wouldn't be no good. The place is destroyed, and all my belongings. Hell, who cares? I'm worried about my
life
now. What happened? I come back from Miss Swan's this afternoon and I find them in my house, one of them anyway; maybe the other got out when they heard the sound of the van. Last one couldn't get out because I've nailed up the back door, so the only way out is the front door, see? And they'd forced that. The crowbar they'd used was there on the step – taken from my own barn. So I knew the place had been broke into – again, but I never thought anyone was still there. He must have been hiding in the lounge. I went in the kitchen and he hit me from behind. Knocked me down, but didn't make me unconscious. When I picked myself up he was away. I run outside and he's streaking for the trees like a deer. I couldn't have caught him; he was much too fast.'

‘Who was he?' Beatrice asked.

‘He was wearing a hood. And jeans and a dark anorak.'

‘But the place wasn't on fire then,' Miss Pink said.

‘No, not then. I hung around waiting for him to come back but he didn't, so I went down the bar. The men there told me to fingerprint the place. I'd do that anyway; he hadn't been wearing gloves. I stayed in the bar too long. When I went home again the place was afire. He'd come back to destroy his prints.'

Beatrice sighed and Miss Pink said, ‘Are you saying he slipped out of the bar, set the place on fire and came back?'

‘I hadn't thought of that. It's possible, but I shouldn't think it's likely. I'd have noticed he'd gone away. No, what happened was when I was chasing him earlier, when he ran out of the cottage and I saw him making for the trees, I shouted after him, “I've got you now: you left your prints.” He had to have come back when I was down the bar. Now, Miss Swan, will you let me have a gun? Doesn't have to be a rifle. Shotgun will do.'

‘No, Campbell. Now you go home –'

‘You weren't listening! I got no home! It's been burned –'

‘Campbell!' Again Miss Pink tried to stem the flood. ‘What was he doing in your place the first time, before he set it on fire?'

He shrugged angrily. ‘I don't know. Looking for something. The place had been burglarised: all the drawers pulled out, books on the floor. Doesn't matter about that; they're after me now. I'm not sleeping in this village tonight. I'm a marked man. I'm getting out now.' And he went, closing the door quietly. They sat looking at each other.

‘He hasn't taken his van,' Miss Pink said. Beatrice pointed to the window. ‘Listening,' she mouthed.

‘It's a very strange story,' Miss Pink said loudly.

‘I'm going to telephone Knox.' Beatrice went to the telephone and held a one-sided conversation with a non-existent police station.

She replaced the receiver. ‘He's on his way,' she said.

After a few moments they opened the front door. Campbell's van stood there, lit by the street lamp.

‘He's not in it,' Beatrice said.

Miss Pink found a torch and shone it inside the van. ‘Just another move in the game,' she said in exasperation.

‘Oh, God!' Beatrice breathed. ‘Look!' Her fingers dug into Miss Pink's arm.

There was a glow above the Lamentation Road and the rocks of the escarpment leapt and faded in a pink light against which the trees were clearly silhouetted. Smoke billowed and rolled upwards. Golden sparks flew like fireflies.

Then they did ring Knox.

People converged on the burning cottage. Gordon Knox was followed by Miss Pink and Beatrice. They left the Renault in the car park; the fire brigade would need a clear run to the cottage – although by the time it arrived there would be little left to do but damp down the embers. When they walked up the short track, they saw that already the roof had fallen in and only a few rafters were left flaming against the smoke. The fire still raged inside the walls: a glimpse of hell through the angular voids which had been windows and a front door.

‘I'm relieved that no one was inside,' Miss Pink observed, ‘but it's still sad to think of the lives that were lived out here: people who loved the place and were happy in it. As if the ghosts had lost their home.'

‘
He
wasn't happy,' Beatrice said. ‘That's why he burned it.'

‘He must have been happy here in the early days, and with a young family. All the more reason for destroying it – to emphasise his present misery. He swings to extremes.'

Beatrice turned away, ‘It's unbearable, like suicide. Where do you think he is now?'

‘I've no idea. Here's Knox. Where have you been, Mr Knox?'

He was in gumboots and anorak, and he carried a heavy torch. ‘I was in the barn. There's a stink of petrol but no sign of fire in there. The man's mad. I don't know what Lady Coline's going to say. This could be her now.' Two sets of headlights were approaching through the trees, diminished by the glare. When they stopped people came stumbling forward, bobbing in front of the lamps until the firelight revealed them as a group of men – some a little unsteady on their feet.

‘Customers from the bar,' Knox said drily.

The newcomers pushed forward, Duncan Millar and Sinclair, the apiarist, in front. The old men regarded the burning cottage in silence, while from behind them came a murmur ranging from incredulity to grim humour. That last would be the younger men, Miss Pink thought.

‘Has anyone seen Campbell?' Knox asked.

‘He can't be inside!' someone said.

‘No, there's no one inside. Campbell's been in the village since it started.'

‘He's been –' There was a swift movement in the gloom and the words were choked off.

‘He was in the bar,' Duncan Millar said firmly.

‘What time?' asked Knox. ‘What time did he come in?'

‘Seven, maybe.'

‘Nearer seven-thirty,' Sinclair said.

‘What time did he leave?'

The old men looked at each other. ‘Nine?' Sinclair suggested. ‘Round about then.'

‘It was nine o'clock when he called on us,' Miss Pink said. They had told Knox on the telephone that they'd seen Campbell since the fire was started, but had had no time to tell him more, except that they didn't know the man's present whereabouts. ‘He said the place was on fire then,' she reminded him.

‘You phoned me at nine-forty, ma'am!'

‘We didn't believe him,' Beatrice said, and the men muttered amongst themselves; they wouldn't have believed him either.

‘Didn't he give any hint as to where he was going?' Knox asked wearily.

‘No.' While Miss Pink was considering whether to add that Campbell had said he wouldn't sleep in the village, she saw more lights approaching. She decided to say nothing at this point and then realised from her silence that Beatrice had come to the same decision.

The new arrivals were Coline and Ranald. The men made way for them. Ranald was vociferously appalled, Coline mutely horrified. When Knox assured them that no one had been inside the cottage they were bewildered for a moment, trying to adjust to the mere destruction of property rather than loss of life.

‘Well,' Coline breathed. ‘Thank God for that!'

‘Definitely,' echoed Ranald. ‘Quite. Only bricks and mortar, what?'

Coline turned her back on the customers from the bar and addressed Miss Pink quietly.

‘Where is he?'

‘No one knows. He visited us, said the place was on fire, and we didn't believe him. Then he vanished.'

‘And he said other people were responsible for the fire, of course.'

‘He did.'

‘I wonder –' Coline began, to be interrupted by Anne Wallace who had arrived unnoticed and pushed through the crowd of men. ‘Is anyone hurt?' she asked urgently.

‘Oh, Anne!' Coline greeted her with a kind of relief. ‘He's done it again. You see! No, no, there's no one inside. We've talked on the phone,' she explained to Miss Pink. ‘It's out of our hands now, Anne,' she said meaningly. ‘This is a crime, isn't it, Knox?' She lowered her voice further, addressing the women. ‘I shall use blackmail: we won't bring a charge provided he submits himself for treatment. How would that be?'

‘I can't think of anything better at the moment,' Beatrice said. ‘But no one's at their best for making an objective assessment. I shall go home now. I'm very sorry about your little house, Coline, my dear.'

‘Thank you. I suppose we shall rebuild with the insurance money, so we'll be better off in the long run. All these old places are damp.'

* * *

As Miss Pink and Beatrice reached the street, an unearthly wail rent the night. Miss Pink switched off the engine and opened her door.

‘It's the fire engine,' she said. ‘They must be trying to move the sheep off the road. As Campbell said, a fire brigade fifteen miles away is no use in an emergency.'

They got out of the car and stood on the turf looking down the loch.

‘Where do you think he went?' Miss Pink asked.

‘A bothy back on the moors perhaps, or the woods

‘What on earth's happened?' Esme had come silently across the grass from her house. ‘I heard a siren. Is someone hurt?'

Beatrice gave her the gist of the night's happenings.