Noonday and Night

CHAPTER 9

Saighdearan, Place of Soldiers

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White’s middle name was MacGregor. Laura learned this when she called at the bungalow. A woman answered the door.

‘Mr MacGregor White?’ she asked, when Laura enquired for him.

‘Well, yes, if it isn’t Mr Lamont White,’ said Laura, who had taken an instant dislike to the woman, who, from her accent, was English. ‘The Whites are almost bound to be one or the other, aren’t they?’

‘I wouldn’t know. I happen to be English.’

‘I wonder whether you can help me? I am trying to find out what has happened to the driver of a County Tours coach which pulled up at the hotel here a few days ago.’

‘Are you from the police? I have already answered their questions.’

‘I am connected with the Home Office and we have been authorised to make our own enquiries.

‘The Home Office?’

Laura produced one of Dame Beatrice’s official cards.

‘This is my employer,’ she said. The woman read the card and opened the door wider.

‘You’d better come in,’ she said, ‘although there is absolutely nothing I can tell you. I saw the coach you mean. It came in at about six in the evening and went off again next morning – to Skye, my maid tells me. Then it returned. That is all I know.’

‘You could see the coach from your windows?’

‘Come and look for yourself. Not that I have time to spare looking out of windows, I assure you.’

There was a coach belonging to another tours company standing in the yard of the hotel. Laura had had a steep climb up a lane to reach the bungalow from the hotel, so the coach looked to be a long way below her and her main view was of its roof. It would be quite possible to see people getting in and out of it, she thought, but not so easy, perhaps, to give a clear description of them.

‘You have heard about the death of another driver who worked for the County Tours people, I expect,’ said Laura.

‘Not until the police came here. I do not bother with the papers and my husband never discusses the news with me.’

‘And nobody but the police came to your house to make enquiries?’

‘Well, not the kind of enquiries you mean. Besides, it was my husband’s business, not mine.’

‘About the hire of a boat?’

‘What else? Boat-hire is my husband’s livelihood.’

‘When was this?’

‘It can have nothing to do with this missing man.’

‘You mean he wasn’t the person who made the enquiry?’

‘Of course not. The only boat a coach-driver would be interested in is the ferry from Mallaig or Kyle of Lochalsh over to Skye. My husband lets out motor-boats and small yachts, or takes parties down the loch or across to Mull.’

‘So, if it wasn’t the driver, who was it? I assume that people usually hire from Fort William, not from this house.’

‘I have no idea who it was, but you are wrong in supposing that people do not hire from this house. We have an understanding with Mr MacDonald at the hotel. He takes a small percentage when he recommends any of the hotel guests to my husband.’

‘Oh, yes, of course. Do you know whether this particular man came from the hotel?’

‘No, he didn’t. He was staying at the motel down the road, or so he said.’

‘Can you describe him to me?’

‘No, that I can’t. I didn’t see him. My husband mentioned him, that’s all.’

‘For any special reason?’

‘No, except that he said we did not often get enquiries for boats from the motel.’

‘Their clients being birds of passage, I suppose. Did your husband happen to mention whether the enquirer was an Englishman?’

‘He said he thought he was a foreigner.’

‘Your husband isn’t at home, of course?’

‘He is in his office down at the boatyard, as usual. This is near the end of our busy time of year.’

‘Do you know whether this man did actually hire a boat?’

‘I suppose he did. My husband didn’t say. I took it for granted that he did.’

‘Well, thank you very much, Mrs White.’

‘I’ll see you to the door. My maid is out shopping for me in Fort William this morning.’

Laura felt that Mrs White deserved some compensation for help which, however grudgingly, had at least been given and might be valuable, so she said:

‘Perhaps you won’t spread it about just yet – tell your husband, if you like, of course – but there has been a second murder. Another coach-driver belonging to the same company was found dead three or four days ago. That is why we are so concerned about this third driver and why my employer and I have been called in to make some enquiries. My employer is the psychiatric consultant to the Home Office and will be called to testify when we catch the murderer.’

‘You don’t mean he is this foreigner?’

‘Nobody knows – yet.’

‘Well!’ said Mrs White. ‘Well! To think we may have had a murderer in this very house!’

‘Oh, we mustn’t jump to conclusions, you know,’ said Laura. ‘All the same, I would very much like to speak to your husband and get a description of this foreigner. Can you tell me how to find his boatyard?’

‘No need,’ said Mrs White, now expansive, excited and genial. ‘He’ll be here for his lunch at half-past one. I’ll tell him to expect you at half-past two. That will give you time to have your own lunch, won’t it?’

Laura, feeling she had misjudged the woman, returned cock-a-hoop to the hotel and then, as she reached the entrance, she remembered that she had not interviewed Carstairs. She decided to remedy this omission forthwith, but discovered that she might have saved herself a second climb up the hill. There was a notice, kept in place by a large stone, lying on the outside sill. No more until further notice, it read.

‘Bread or milk, no doubt,’ said Laura to herself. ‘Oh, well, lucky to get it delivered in a place this distance from the town. Wonder whether Carstairs went away before or after Knight and his coach got to the hotel?’

She joined Dame Beatrice for lunch and at half-past two they climbed up to the Whites’ bungalow. Mrs White, all graciousness this time, admitted them and introduced her husband. MacGregor White was a plump, broad-featured man who looked as though he ought to be genial but who turned out to be taciturn and morose. No, he did not keep a register of those who hired his boats. He entered dates and payments, but not names. No, he did not remember a foreigner calling at the house on any particular day, but, if his wife said so, they could take her word for it. Yes, the police had questioned him about a missing coach-driver and little joy they had gained from it! During the summer months numbers of people hired boats and on the day in question he must have had several enquiries. He did not even answer all of them himself. His assistant might have taken some of the bookings. No, they could not speak to his assistant. It was so near the end of the season that he had laid him off, as usual, until the following summer.

‘It’s seasonal work, you’ll understand,’ he said, suddenly apologetic as he caught Dame Beatrice’s sardonic eye.

‘Well, where does he hang out when he’s not with you?’ asked Laura. Grudgingly White supplied this information. It turned out that the man, whose name was McFee, had a small shop in Portree on Skye.

‘Anyone will tell you,’ said Mrs White, shepherding Dame Beatrice and Laura to the door, ‘where it is. I’ve never been there myself.’

‘Portree?’ said Laura, as they walked down the slope towards the hotel. ‘That’s where the coach-party went before Knight disappeared, isn’t it? We might pick up something there, don’t you think? We know the hotel where they lunched. This might turn out to be our lucky strike. Besides, it’s a wonderful drive from here to Kyle of Lochalsh. Do we go first thing tomorrow morning? Too late for a jaunt like that today.’

There was a glimpse of Ben Nevis after the car had left Fort William on the following morning, but nothing like the magnificent view of it which they could obtain on their return journey, as Laura knew. They met holiday traffic on their way to Spean Bridge, but after that they were fortunate. The glorious road to Kyle of Lochalsh was almost free of traffic and there was only a short wait at the ferry before Laura drove on to the boat for the very short crossing to Kyleakin.

Once clear of the village, the road up to Portree was comparatively dull after the amazingly lovely scenery of the mainland. However, Skye itself exercised its own magic and Laura, taking the coast road, found herself singing as they passed through Sligachan and headed north for their destination.

The post office at Portree seemed the obvious place in which to make enquiries and here the information Laura asked for was readily obtained. The town was small and compact, and, following the directions, she and Dame Beatrice experienced no difficulty in finding McFee’s shop.

It turned out to be, primarily, an ironmonger’s, but there were also picture postcards and small souvenirs of a kind likely to attract tourists, besides a collection of ornamental kilt-pins and a sgiàn dhu in a glass case which immediately attracted Laura’s attention.

The shopkeeper – McFee’s wife, the callers assumed – saw her looking at it and told her that, according to legend, it had belonged to one of Prince Charles Edward’s followers who had left it to a McFee when he crossed with the prince to Raasay. She and Laura got into conversation and it was a short step from this to a mention of the Fort William boatyard and MacGregor White.

‘My man will be back,’ said Mrs McFee, ‘to his dinner. Hae ye supped?’

‘Booked lunch at the hotel,’ said Laura. ‘Did your husband ever mention a foreigner who booked a boat from Mr White’s yard about a week ago?’

‘What way would he be mentioning that?’ Mrs McFee enquired.

‘Because the police are after the man and we’re hoping that Mr McFee may be able to tell us where he went. I suppose he returned the boat?’

‘That’s no business of mine.’ The woman, who had been friendliness itself up to this point, looked suspiciously at Laura. ‘You’ll be a police-woman?’ she asked.

‘No, but a man has been murdered and we are acting on behalf of the tour company which employed him.’

‘You’re no’ the police?’

‘No, but we are working in close collaboration with them. Is your husband likely to be long?’

‘Och, no. It’s gone noon. He’ll be here soon enough. I’ll get you a chair.’

‘We’d rather look round the shop,’ said Laura. Dame Beatrice, who had left them during the exchanges, came to the proprietress with a Highland brooch which, when she had paid for it, she pinned to the lapel of her tweed jacket. Laura also decided to make one or two small purchases and, as she was being given her change, a stocky man came into the shop and handed Mrs McFee a parcel.

‘I got it from McLeod,’ he said. ‘It’s a fush.’

‘The ladies wish to speak with you, Jock.’

‘Och, aye.’ He did not seem in the least surprised. Laura took it that this was his accustomed reaction to any news, good or bad. She herself, however, was surprised by Dame Beatrice’s question to him.

‘Would you have any idea,’ she said, ‘how long Mr Carstairs has been away?’

‘Carstairs?’

‘And whether he is married?’

‘Now how would I ken that?’

‘Because you are a sociable, gregarious man who likes to get to know the neighbours. I think you lived in your employer’s bungalow in Saighdearan while you were working down at Mr White’s boatyard in Fort William. Mr White seems to be a taciturn, unfriendly man and his wife has, I would think, the English suburban determination to keep herself to herself, but you are from…’

‘Kirkintilloch. Aye, White will be what I call a Black Highlander. You’re right enough there. But you were speaking of Carstairs. He isna married – that is, I never saw a wife. He took on yon wee house in Saighdearan maybe two years ago and he runs a big green car, a Wolseley. I dinna ken what might be his business, but it was seldom he stayed in Saighdearan, so at my guess he travelled in some kind of goods, but he was not a man you could question.’

‘We were told he was an artist.’

‘Och, weel noo, he micht be juist that same.’

‘Did he ever hire a boat?’

‘No’ to my knowledge.’

‘Was he an Englishman?’

‘Aye.’

‘How long is it since you gave up your summer employment with Mr White?’

‘Last Saturday.’

‘Was Mr Carstairs at Saighdearan when you left?’

‘He wisna, but he had been there, on and off, for the past year.’

‘On and off?’

‘Aye. Times he would be there, but most times not. But what way are you speiring at me wi’ all this?’

‘Because I represent the Home Office and am working with the police. We think Mr Carstairs may be able to help our enquiries into a case of murder – double murder.’

‘Losh! Ye dinna say!’

‘Is there anything else you can tell me about him?’

‘I dinna ken. He was a pleasant enough wee man.’

‘You mean he was a small man?’

‘Five foot seven at the most, but awfu’ strong in the arms and shoulders. He telt me once that his hobby was lifting weights, barbells, ye ken, and the like. Aye, and his press-ups! Ye’d think the man would drop dead of heart-failure.’

‘Did you ever see him in conversation with a dark-skinned man, a foreigner?’

‘No’ to my recollection. It’s little I saw of him at all.’

‘Did you, by any chance, hire out a boat to a foreigner, possibly an Italian, recently?’

‘A wee, wee man awfu’ like a monkey? He spoke to White, no‘ to me. But it wisna for a boat. He had his own cruiser. It was about a fault in the engine, but White couldna help him.’

‘Did you see the County Tours coach come in last week?’

‘I did not. I was down at the boatyard with Mr White until eight o’ the clock.’

‘You know that, after the trip over here and after the coach-party had lunched at the hotel and looked at the shops, the coach-driver disappeared?’

‘Aye, so I heard.’

‘Did you set eyes on him at all before he went?’

‘I did not. They would have been back from Skye before I left the boatyard and come the morn he was awa’, or so it was telt me.’

Laura drove Dame Beatrice back to Saighdearan. The late afternoon turned misty and a penetrating rain began to fall, so that the windscreen wipers were busy all the way from Kyle of Lochalsh to Saighdearan and the views, including that of Ben Nevis, were lost in impenetrable haze.

Laura spoke little during the journey. For one thing, she needed all her concentration to look out for the headlights of oncoming cars and to keep her own vehicle safely on the road; for another, although she was burning with curiosity, she thought it better to ask no questions, although she felt sure that she knew in what direction Dame Beatrice’s thoughts had travelled during the interview with McFee. Just as they left Fort William, however, Dame Beatrice spoke.

‘So we have to find out whether Carstairs and Knight are one and the same man,’ she said.

‘Do you think that’s likely?’

‘I think it is most unlikely. Knight would hardly bring a coach to a place where he was already known as Carstairs.’

‘It depends upon whether the manager of the hotel knows him as Carstairs, doesn’t it? If Carstairs never patronised the hotel under that name, the manager wouldn’t recognise him as Knight. I looked out of Mrs White’s window, at her suggestion, when I visited her and I wouldn’t guarantee to recognise anybody who got down from the coach, so she need not have made the connection.’

‘We had better find out whether Carstairs ever visited the hotel. If he did, he certainly cannot be Knight.’

‘We’re suspicious of Knight, it seems. Why should we be?’

‘A precautionary attitude only. He may be as innocent (and as dead) as Noone and Daigh. On the other hand, he may be their murderer. His “illness” is a suspicious circumstance in itself. If he is a guilty man he might find it convenient to “disappear” in order to lead us to assume that he, too, had been murdered.’

‘Why would he want us to assume that?’

‘If he is the murderer or an accomplice it might be to his advantage that the police should waste valuable time in looking for him in the wrong place. Noone was murdered near Hulliwell Hall and his body found there. This finding of the body was not part of the murderers’ plan and must have given them food for thought. Then it must be known by now that Daigh’s body also has been found, again in the place where he was last known to be alive. The criminals had to make a hasty revision of their plans, I think, for they had counted upon a long period of search and doubt, with perhaps no police activity at all if it were taken for granted that the drivers had disappeared voluntarily.’

‘So the situation, as they saw it once the bodies were found, demanded a third disappearance which might indicate a third murder, you think, and while the police who, because of the discovery of the bodies, are now hot-foot on the trail, go chasing around Saighdearan and Fort William, the murderers are sitting pretty in some quite other place. Where, do you suppose?’

‘I think we must leave that to the police to find out. There is little we can do about the matter now, except to suggest that they get on the track of Carstairs, of whom, no doubt, McFee and the Whites, between them, can furnish a reasonably accurate description. If this description of Carstairs appears to tally with Basil Honfleur’s and the women clerks’ description of Knight, our part in this matter would appear to be over, but I am sure they are not the same man.’

‘You do think Vittorio was young Wullie’s black man, don’t you?’

‘I will not commit myself as to that, but it is possible, as perhaps I have already indicated.’

Back at the hotel Dame Beatrice asked for an interview with the manager.

‘Did Mr Carstairs, from one of those bungalows on the hillside above the hotel, ever come in here for a meal or to drink at the bar?’ she asked.

‘Carstairs? I wouldn’t know him,’ the manager replied.

‘Did Driver Knight always bring the County Motors coach here?’

‘Only once before, I believe. Two men called Ford and Dibbens alternated with the tour.’

‘Will you describe Knight as closely as ever you can? It may be vitally important.’