Stormy Petrel (14 page)

The mackerel disappeared from the breakfast table, and the mystery came back with a rush. It was certainly Ewen Mackay. I could see him now, outlined fairly clearly against the light background of the beach, as the torchbeam cleared the path and he came fast along the shore towards the boathouse.

I sat down on the sand, in the darkness cast by a large boulder. He would never see me unless I moved. He was at the boathouse. A flash of the torch again, as if to check that no boat was there, then he turned to face the causeway, took something from a pocket and raised what were apparently night-glasses to his eyes. I froze in the shelter of my rock, but the glasses were aimed higher, at the tent. I had a momentary qualm; what would he read into the carefully closed flaps? That Neil was not sleeping there after all, or merely that he shut the flaps at night against the midges or the weather? I supposed, since to him Neil was only ‘John Parsons', it did not matter either way, and if Ewen saw the little pile of debris – tins and used paper plates and my thermos – that I had left outside the tent, it would surely go to persuade him that Neil was safely ensconced on the island.

But, unfortunately, Neil was not even safely ensconced in the house, as he should have been, so Ewen Mackay was free to resume whatever his business had been there on Wednesday night. And with no witness but me.

I sat very still. He turned away, apparently satisfied, then pushed the glasses back into his pocket, flashed the torch briefly down at the rough stones of the pier, and went away with long strides in the direction of the house.

The next wave broke with a crash and a swirl and a dangerous-looking suck of water back into the channel. Not this time. Nor next. Nor the time after, I thought, even if the causeway came clear. There was no way I was going across to follow Ewen Mackay to spy on his activities at the house. If he really had left his boat in the cove round the point, he would have to come this way again, and I would certainly be able to see if he brought anything with him. I hugged my jacket close round me, and waited.

It seemed a very long time before he came back. The tide had cleared the causeway, and it was perceptibly lighter, when he came out through the stone arch of the garden gate. He carried what looked like a bag, bulging with something, over one shoulder. He made his way rapidly to the boathouse – there was no need, now, for the torch – and disappeared behind it. Almost at once he reappeared, without the bag, and set off again, walking fast, for the house.

I stood up, the better to see the state of the causeway, and made some rapid calculations. Though it was now possible to cross, the central stones were still wet, and in that poor light would be treacherous. It was an easy decision to make. Sensibly, I decided to wait and see.

Which was just as well, as this time he came back after a very few minutes. He was carrying a flat, square object which looked heavy. When he had left that, too, behind the boathouse, he emerged stretching his arms as if in relief, as he stood once more scanning the bay and the shadowy slopes of the broch island.

And that seemed to be it for the night. He vanished again behind the boathouse, and when I saw him again he was aiming fast for the cliff path, with the bag once again slung over his shoulder. I watched him round the end of the point, and out of sight, then ran for the causeway.

I got across without mishap, and was at the back of the boathouse within seconds. The square object was there, leaning against the wall. It looked, in that half-light, like a big framed picture, propped up with its face to the wall.

It
was
a picture. I tilted it to see. A portrait, unglazed, in oils, with a heavy, ornate frame. The portrait of a man, not young, in country tweeds, with a gun over his shoulder and a spaniel at heel. I did not know enough about painting to recognise it, or even guess at its value, but in the present-day crazy art market even a relatively modern painting might well be very valuable, and this one was apparently worth the trouble and risk that Ewen Mackay had taken. I toyed with the idea of taking it myself, and hiding it somewhere, but it was almost too heavy for me to carry, and there was nowhere much nearer than the house itself where it could be hidden. The boathouse was too obvious, and anywhere in the woods or garden was still wet with the night's dew. Besides, the move would hardly help, only alert him and start him searching, not just for the picture, but for whoever had moved it.

In any case, no need. I took a quick breath of relief as I heard it; the engine of another boat, throttling down to a murmur as she crept into the bay.

This time I waited to make sure before I ventured out on the jetty, but it was Neil's boat, and Neil himself standing ready to step out of it as it nosed in alongside the landing-place.

15

I ran to him, stumbling and nearly falling on the rough stones of the jetty. He jumped out of his boat and caught my arm to steady me.

‘
Rose?
Rose! What on earth are you doing here?'

‘Sh! Keep your voice down! He's been here again. I saw him go up to the house—'

‘Hang on. Take it easy. You're shaking . . . Why, you're cold—'

‘I'm not cold. I'm all right. Neil, it's Ewen Mackay. I saw him – never mind how, I'll tell you later, but the point is, he's been up to the house and taken things. Brought them down here and then gone off along the cliff path with them. He'll be coming back, because he left something here—'

‘Along the cliff path? Did you hear a boat?'

‘Yes. I thought he must have left it in that place round the point, Halfway House. Did you see anything as you came in?'

‘No, but you can't see into that cove from the way I came. But what are you doing here? No, that can wait. You say you saw him go up to the house and take something? You mean you actually saw him breaking in?'

‘No. I was over on the island. I saw him take a look at the boathouse first, then, when I suppose he saw you weren't home, he went up towards the house, and after a bit he came back with a bag, you know, like Santa Claus, slung over his shoulder. It looked like that duffel bag of yours, and it was heavy. He dumped it down behind the boathouse and went back towards the house, then after a bit he came down again with a picture, and dumped that, then he took the bag and made off up the path with it.'

‘Hold on a minute. A
picture
?'

‘Yes. A big one. It's behind the boathouse, there. I took a look at it.'

‘There's no picture in the house worth stealing.' He moved quickly to knot the boat's rope through a ring sunk in the jetty. ‘Let's have a look. Maybe there was one I didn't know about . . . Good God!'

‘Do you know it?'

‘I should. It's Great-Uncle Fergus.'

‘Valuable?'

‘Good heavens, no. Not even good, apparently, though it's very like him, and dear old Sam – the dog – and Aunt Emily loved it. She used to say it was the best thing in the house. It was in her bedroom.' He was looking around him as he spoke. ‘This was all? This and the duffel bag?'

‘All I saw. I heard the boat, and then I saw him. He only made the two trips to the house.'

‘The duffel bag. Could he have been carrying guns – shotguns – in it?'

‘I don't think so. Guns? You don't mean—?'

‘Yes.' His voice was grim. ‘I told you I was going to check the house. Uncle Fergus's guns have gone missing. I've been to the mainland to report it. So if he did take them, it must have been when he was here before.'

‘And they could be in his boat, couldn't they? Neil,' I said, urgently, ‘he did take this picture tonight, and whatever he took it for, it's got to mean he'll be coming back for it, and soon. Look, if you put your boat into the boathouse now, he wouldn't see it till he got right down here again, and then perhaps –'

I stopped. Clear in the silence we heard an engine start.

Neil grabbed my arm again. ‘Quick. Get in. He's not coming back, he's running for it. He must have heard me. Come on!'

Somehow I was in the boat, and Neil had cast off and was edging her out from the jetty. She backed in a gentle arc to face the open sea, and as Neil gunned the engine she jumped forward and then settled to a smooth, fast pace.

‘There he is. No, there! You're too far out!' I had to shout it above the noise of the engine. I pointed to where, just visible against the dark background of the cliffs, the grey boat raced, the foam white under her bows and in her long wake.

Neil shook his head and made some gesture which I could not interpret, but as it was obvious that he, too, had seen
Stormy Petrel
and knew what he was about, I let it be. There were a hundred questions still to be asked and answered, but at this speed and in this noise speech was impossible. I hung on, keeping one eye on Neil in case I could help him, and the other on
Stormy Petrel
.

Now I thought I could see what Neil was trying to do. The two boats were running along the coastline on almost parallel courses, Ewen close in, perforce following the jagged line of the shore, and our boat (I found later that she was called
Sea Otter
) on a straight course some way out. When on two occasions Ewen turned to make for the open sea, Neil, increasing our speed slightly, held on to what looked like a collision course. Even though it must have been obvious that he would not hold to it at the last, the threat was enough to make
Stormy Petrel
veer again to her original course, and though she was trying to increase speed, and was perhaps a little more powerful than
Sea Otter
, we, on our straight line, could hold her comfortably.

We were almost round to Otters' Bay now. The headland looming ahead of us out of the growing daylight would be the one immediately to the west of the cottage.
Stormy Petrel
wheeled again towards us, and this time Neil gave her sea-room. In a moment I could see why. From the tip of the headland and for some way out to sea the waves were breaking white against half-submerged fangs and stacks of rock that had in time past broken away from the main cliffs. They were no real danger to anyone who knew the coast, and all the time the light was growing stronger. Ewen obviously knew his way, but although Neil gave him room he made no further attempt to break free, or even to reach open water. He slowed down to pick his way among the patches of white water quite close inshore, at one point even vanishing between a towering sea-stack and the main cliff, then, once past the headland, he throttled right back and motored tamely into Otters' Bay, making for the jetty there.

I turned in surprise to Neil, to see him pointing away from the bay towards where, in a cloud of spray, a powerful-looking launch was heading fast towards us. I had never seen a police launch, but this one had an unmistakably official look about it, and in size and speed would be more than a match for either
Stormy Petrel
or
Sea Otter
.

Ewen Mackay was still tying up when we nosed gently in to rub shoulders with
Stormy Petrel
, and Neil jumped ashore and turned to hand me out.

‘Why, Miss Fenemore! You were out with Mr Parsons, then?' Ewen straightened with a look of surprise and pleasure. With dark hair rumpled by the wind, flushed face and those brilliantly blue eyes, he looked very handsome. His expression was one of uncomplicated welcome, which altered as he turned to Neil. ‘Or is it Mr Hamilton? Oh, yes, it took me a bit of time to recognise you, but I got there in the end. Did you have a good night's fishing? I've been out myself, and I didn't get a thing. Not a thing.' Another glance at me, apparently quite free of guile. ‘Well, I'm glad he got you home safely . . . It seems you've forgotten how to handle a boat, Neil, all those years in Dismal Swamp with canoes and muggers and billabongs, whatever they may be. Just what the hell were you doing? A game's a game, but you could have piled me up back there, and then you'd have had a few questions to answer!'

‘I have one to ask.' Neil made no attempt at a normal tone. His was grim and totally unfriendly. ‘Where are the guns?'

‘Guns?' asked Ewen blankly. ‘What guns?'

It was some time later, and the scene had shifted to the cottage sitting-room which, with myself and the two men, and two large detectives, was rather crowded.

Ewen had shown surprise, which of course looked genuine, when the launch, on coming alongside the jetty, turned out to belong, not to the police, but to Customs and Excise, who announced their intention of searching the
Stormy Petrel
, while the detectives had ‘a few questions to ask.' He did make the inevitable protest of the recently released prisoner: was he to be hounded wherever he went, just because of the recent trip ‘abroad', and surely that debt was paid in full and he could be allowed to start again in, of all places, his old home, which he was only visiting in the hope of finding where his parents had moved to; to lose touch with his dear mother was not to be borne; he needed to talk with his parents, to explain things to them, and ask for their forgiveness. And why the Customs men anyway, and what on earth did they hope to find . . . ? And so on, still in that pleasant, reasonable voice, with eyes that were just guileless enough, appealing for sense and clemency from his audience.

The official section of that audience was attentive but impartial. Far from hounding him gratuitously, they said, they were acting on information received. They would like to search his boat. No, they had no warrant, but they could take him and the boat back to Oban, where a warrant could be obtained. No objection? Then, sir, they were much obliged, and we'll leave it to you chaps while you, Jimmy, come with me to the cottage and talk with Mr Mackay there.

Then, to me: ‘If we may? I understand that you have rented the cottage, miss. Miss Fenemore, isn't it?'