The Burry Man’s Day

Chapter Eighteen

There was close to a party atmosphere in Mrs Murdoch’s kitchen once Brown had departed with a sergeant and two constables; except that Buttercup had only got as far as uncorking the cherry brandy when Flaming Donald Lamont arrived in search of his son. She finessed the bottle and corkscrew into a convenient breadbin with a sleight of hand born of many speakeasy raids and Mrs Murdoch put the kettle on instead. I noticed, nevertheless, that a good slop of something went into our cups which did not go into Donald’s (Mrs Murdoch’s broad back hiding the operation from all except me) and when I took a tentative sip I felt as though a hole had opened in the top of my head and let out a jet of steam.

‘Ginger bun, madam?’ said Mrs Murdoch, proffering a plate. ‘They’re ma own recipe too.’ And she winked. I took a cake but set my cup down. Nothing would ever change this little burgh, clearly, but I was off moonshine for a while.

‘What I still don’t understand,’ said the inspector, ‘is his motive.’

Alec studied the floor. I glanced at Donald, unsure of how much he knew, but all his attention was taken up listening to Randall retelling the tale for the dozenth time. Cad and Buttercup stared at me, their meaning quite plain: I was on my own.

‘Must you know his motive?’ I said. ‘There’s more evidence than you will ever need. We have the flask he left in Dudgeon’s pocket, and we have the bottle he took to the house in case the flask wasn’t drunk, not to mention the still. So why worry about motive?’

‘I’d be happier,’ said the inspector. ‘I know they were far from being pals, Willie and Rab, but it takes more than that.’

Inspiration struck me.

‘It went further than not being pals,’ I told him. ‘Willie Brown blamed Bobby Dudgeon for his son joining up. Young Bobby was a heavy influence on his friend by all accounts and the feeling is, very much, that if Bobby hadn’t volunteered, Billy wouldn’t have either. And then added to that, Joey – Miss Brown, you know – had got engaged to Bobby Dudgeon against her father’s wishes. And perhaps she’s determined to honour his memory, not to marry at all now. So it’s quite easy to see how, with enough brooding and enough grief clouding his mind, Brown could blame the Dudgeons for everything. Perhaps the Burry Man’s day was just the last straw – everyone cheering Robert Dudgeon on as though he were some kind of hero.’

The inspector nodded, reluctantly.

‘Be lucky to get murder on that, though,’ said the remaining sergeant, lugubriously. ‘It sounds… fevered like. The defence’ll go for manslaughter, unbalanced mind, diminished responsibility.’

‘You could be right,’ said the inspector. ‘And who’s to say it’s not true?’

The sergeant sighed.

‘Mind you,’ he added, ‘it would be a lot worse if young Bobby Dudgeon had come home.’

I tried not to look too astonished at this and I could see Alec trying to do the same.

‘How d’you mean, Sergeant?’ Alec said. It was the inspector who answered.

‘Well, if one son was lost and the other one was safe,’ he said, ‘a jury could easily understand the jealous grief of the one father making him hate the other. But seeing as Bobby Dudgeon fell too, you’d think Shinie could have found some compassion.’

‘Aye, sir, let’s look on the bright side,’ said the sergeant. ‘With both boys gone the same way, we might get murder and a hanging after all.’

The inspector looked suitably pained and Flaming Donald, catching these words as Randall paused for breath, seemed to decide that he had better get his boy out of earshot and home to his mother. The party, clearly, was breaking up.

I took no part in the general leave-taking, however, for the sergeant’s words had hit me like a brick. I was dimly aware of the inspector talking to Cad and Buttercup about their formal statement; I knew that Mrs Murdoch was pressing a basket of treats on Donald to take back to Chrissie Dudgeon; I could hear the vague rumbling of the sergeant scratching his head over how to divide the departing bodies amongst the remaining police motor cars, but essentially I was alone, lost in the middle of a shifting cloud of impossible but irresistible new ideas.

‘I tell you what, Sergeant,’ I said suddenly, grabbing my chance, ‘if it’s all right with his father, I’ll volunteer to take young Randall home. We couldn’t have done it without you, you know, Randall, and you deserve a treat. How do you fancy driving my motor car across the park?’

Randall’s eyes, naturally, lit up at the prospect and his father made no demur. Alec, I was aware, was watching me closely as I prepared to leave.

‘Straight home?’ he asked, with an unreadable look on his face.

‘We might take a scenic route,’ I said, and then I turned to Flaming Donald. ‘If that’s all right with you?’

‘The laddie’s as high as a kite anyway,’ he said. ‘It’ll make no odds.’

‘Splendid,’ I said. ‘I’ll just fetch Bunty.’

‘Is that your spotty dog?’ said Randall, for whom the journey was getting steadily more enticing. ‘It’s a braw big dog, eh no? I’ve seen it.’

Bunty was indeed ‘a braw big dog’ and I trusted that in the dark where no one could see her polka-dots and her lolling grin she might pass for a guard-dog. But first we had to get there. I held my breath and gripped the edge of my seat as my precious little Cowley lurched and banged over the turf in Randall’s eager but incompetent hands and I was heartily relieved when we arrived at the edge of the woods; it would have taken a much bigger idiot than me to let him steer it between the tree trunks, no matter the pleading.

‘Randall,’ I said, back in the driving seat, ‘do you want to come on an adventure?’ He nodded faintly, expecting a trick to cure him of his sulks, I think. ‘And can you keep a secret?’ He nodded with a little more enthusiasm. ‘I mean it. You have to keep it secret from all the grown-ups and especially from your brothers and sisters. Can you promise?’

He was enchanted by the prospect, so I finalized the deal.

‘Cross your heart and hope to die?’ I said.

‘An’ devil find me where I lie.’

We spat and shook.

‘Right then,’ I said. ‘Whereabouts are these holes?’

I drove under Randall’s direction for a minute or so, through the woods and towards the riverbank, until he told me to stop.

‘Ye cannae get any nearer in the car, missus, but I ken the way. Follow me.’

‘You’re not frightened, are you?’ I asked him as we began walking. It was almost completely dark now, and my conscience was thrumming about mixing him up in this.

‘Naw,’ he said scornfully, and he certainly did not look perturbed, striding out with his head up, holding Bunty’s lead proprietorially. ‘I’m no’ feart of the ghostie.’

‘Splendid,’ I said, wishing I could say as much for myself. I took a deep breath and put my shoulders back.

‘Here,’ said Randall, suddenly stopping. Either he had eyes like a cat from all the time he spent in these woods, or he knew the place by scent and sound like a Red Indian tracker, for it seemed pitch black around us now and yet he moved decisively and spoke with absolute conviction. There was a creak of wood and a cold draught which bore upon it the tarry smell of a coal hole.

‘Doon here,’ said Randall. ‘There’s a ladder, but it’s fallin’ to bits so yell need tae be right careful.’ Although I could not see him I could hear that his voice was lowering towards my feet. I crouched and groped, finding the shoulder of his jersey before he disappeared completely.

‘Stop,’ I said. ‘Get out. I’m going down on my own.’

‘But there’s miles of it,’ he said. ‘You’ll nivver find him.’

‘Miles of it?’ I echoed. ‘Miles of what?’

‘Tunnels mostly,’ he said simply, as though I should have known this. ‘And some caves.’

Finally it fell into place: the ‘shell’ holes, the smell of coal, the little cart and the tiny pony, and Cad’s description of the failed business ventures on his uncle’s estate.

‘Do you mean mines, Randall? Is that where we are? An old shale mine?’

‘Aye,’ said Randall, patiently. ‘I telt you. It’s supposed to be all blocked up but there’s holes everywhere where it’s collapsin’.’

I took a huge breath and let it out in a tune of little puffs.

‘And there’s miles of it?’

‘Yell have to take me,’ he said. ‘Or yell get lost.’ I think I must have relaxed my grip on him while I tussled with this because suddenly he ducked away from me and I heard his feet pattering lightly down the rungs of a ladder.

‘Stop at the bottom and wait,’ I ordered, fear making me harsh. I felt around for the edge of the hole and, finding it, began to search for the top of the ladder with a foot. It felt rather soft.

‘Bunty, I can’t carry you, darling,’ I said. ‘So you must decide for yourself whether you feel like jumping.’

The ladder was on its last legs and I slipped a couple of times at the start of my descent as the rungs gave way under my feet. Bunty was whining at the sound of me moving away from her and, as I looked up to speak some reassurance, I suddenly shot all the way down, scraping my chin against the rocky side of the shaft as the ladder disintegrated. There was a thump as I landed and I swore viciously, making Randall giggle.

Once I had righted myself he took my hand, squeezing it as though he were exhorting me to be brave, and we set off feeling the dank walls on either side of us as close as breath and the weight of the earth above us lowering down. When we had gone no more than a yard, there was a slithering and yelping behind us, then the click of Bunty’s toenails on the stone floor.

‘Oh, good girl,’ I said. ‘She’ll take care of both of us. Walk on, Bunty.’

‘I dinnae need tooken care of,’ said Randall, but his voice had a little lift as he grabbed Bunty’s lead again and I thought I could hear a slightly more determined note as his feet struck along behind her.

It seemed hours that we tramped along like that, our feet ringing on stone or crunching in slivers of shale, our heads being dripped on from above and always with the fetid, filthy-smelling damp all around us. Once or twice a heap of earth and shale in our path cut us off and we had to retrace our steps and strike out in a different direction.

‘It’s like a maze,’ I whispered.

‘Aye,’ Randall whispered back. ‘They had tae make wee tunnels and leave bits in between so it didnae all jist collapse.’

I wished I had not spoken. Every so often, a faint breath of fresher air would tell us we were passing a ventilation shaft. At least that is what I told myself, preferring not to think that these were unofficial holes caused by subsidence. Randall was still fairly jaunty however, on his home ground, and Bunty seemed to view this new kind of walk with perfect equanimity. I could tell from the sound of her snuffling that she was pacing forward with her nose down. I wished Hugh could see her now.

After a while, although there was nothing new to be heard around us, and certainly nothing to be seen, Randall paused and hissed to me to be quiet. I reached forward and caught Bunty’s muzzle in my hand, guiding her head and holding her face against my leg to keep her quiet too. Then I heard it. Breathing, and the slap of bare feet on the dank stone as someone not far from where we stood moved away. If this was a ghostie, it was a much more fleshly ghostie than any I had ever imagined.

‘Stay here!’ I said to Randall, holding him hard by both arms and shaking him in time with each word. ‘No more nonsense. Do you promise?’ Randall, ten years old again, the intrepid sherpa quite driven off by the sound of fear in my voice, trembled and nodded.

‘I’ll stand guard and keep an eye on Bunty,’ he said, which was much better psychology, of course.

‘Excellent,’ I told him. ‘Now point me in the right direction.’ Randall stretched out his arm and I felt along it then, with some difficulty, I let go of him and walked away. It was a narrow passageway and I bumped against the walls a couple of times as it twisted around corners. It was lower too than the main corridor where I had left the boy and soon I was walking slightly hunched and wondering also if I was only imagining the downward slope under my feet. I could hear Randall murmuring words of encouragement to Bunty and could just about hear, if I strained, the sweep of her tail forward and back across the floor. It was while I was straining to hear that comforting sound that I became aware of the breathing again. I stopped, fumbled in my pocket and struck a match.

When it flared I caught sight of a face, deathly pale, or rather half a face above a beard, before a bare arm rose to shield its eyes from the light.

‘Put it out,’ said a cracked and muffled voice. I shook the match and pinched it carefully with wetted fingers before dropping it. ‘Who are you?’ said the voice. ‘What do you want?’

‘Billy?’ I said. ‘How long have you been down here?’

‘You tell me,’ said Billy Brown, in a lost voice. ‘What date is it? You tell me.’ He was shaking, but whether from fear or cold I could not say. I walked towards his voice with a hand outstretched but when I touched his flesh he flinched away.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I’ve only just worked it out, or I would have come sooner.’

I crouched down before him. ‘Your father’s been hiding you? Keeping you safe here?’

Billy gave a short sound that could have been a laugh.

‘Safe?’ he said. ‘He’s been keepin’ me prisoner. But then, I’m a deserter, you know, so I deserve nothin’ else.’

‘But if he wanted to punish you -’ I began.

‘Why didn’t he turn me in?’ said Billy. ‘Easy Because if he’d turned me in everyone would ken and he’d nivver hold his head up again. This way I get what I deserve and none of it washes off on him.’ I could tell that this was a litany he had rehearsed to himself many times down here in the dark.

‘But why didn’t you just run away?’ I said.

Again he croaked a laugh and then I heard a dull knocking sound.

‘What was that?’ I asked.

‘For a start, I’m naked,’ said Billy. ‘He took my clothes away. And then there’s this.’ Again there came the same dull sound.

‘What is it?’ I said, but I could guess. Only it was such a horrid, such a ludicrous, idea I could hardly believe it.

‘It’s a ball and chain,’ said Billy. ‘A good one too. A while back I tried tae smash it open and ended up smashin’ my ankle instead. So now, even if I got the thing off me…’ He had the offhand way of talking that one puts down to bravery, the just-a-broken-arm-old-chap air that I was used to hearing from officers in the rest home where I volunteered but which I never expected to find in a deserter, and this tone as much anything else was making the scene as unreal as a pantomime.

‘Where on earth did your father get a ball and chain?’

Billy laughed. ‘Ye’d be amazed what ye can find lying around,’ he said. ‘It was likely out of the old castle.’

‘The old castle?’ I said. I knew he must mean Cassilis and if Shinie Brown had raided the dungeons before Cad and Buttercup had arrived on the scene…

‘Billy,’ I said again. ‘How long have you been here? It’s August now. 1923. How long has it been?’

‘August ’23?’ said Billy. ‘Really? I was tryin’ to keep track but it’s hard, you know, in the dark. It was winter when he put me down.’ I waited. I could not begin to imagine the journey he must have made, from France five years ago to here and I could not demand that he tell me, so I waited.

‘The worst bit of all,’ he said, ‘is bein’ on ma own. I wis nivver supposed to be all on ma own. Ma pal and me had a plan. I should say, ma pal and me had a new plan, after the old plan didnae work. An’ that was after the first plan didnae work. At first, we were goin’ south. Bobby said that would keep us safe. Everybody was on the watch for deserters headed north, so we went the other way. We were goin’ to Spain, to Morocco, to live in the sunshine.’ This time the laughter went on so long, ragged croak after ragged croak, that I feared he would never stop. ‘Live in the sunshine,’ he said at last. ‘An’ look where I ended up.’

‘So what went wrong?’ I prompted.

‘I dinnae ken where tae start tae tell ye,’ he said. ‘I suppose, underneath it all we jist got so tired. We jist got so damn tired, strugglin’ all the time for the next meal, the next couple o’ days’ work, a safe place to sleep. In the end, Bobby had had enough o’ it and he said, “Come on, Billy. Do or die, pal, eh? Go for broke. Do or die.”

‘We would come back here and get Bobby’s mammy and daddy tae set us up wi’ papers and gie us enough money so’s we could get right away oot o’ it for good. America, Australia, New Zealand even and wi’ papers, so that we would never look over wur shoulders again. So we struck oot. We kent we’d nivver keep together a’ the way and the plan was that if Bobby got back first he’d go straight to his mammy, if I got back first I’d keep masel’ goin’ somehow, hide away in the woods and wait for him. We kent his mammy and daddy might no’ feel the same way if it was jist me as if it was me and him together.’

‘And your own father?’

‘Aye,’ said Billy. ‘I telt myself over and over again that I kent my ain father too well to chance it. Bobby made me promise I’d nivver go near him. Bobby kent it would be the end o’ it for both o’ us if my father found oot. But when I got here and I’d been up there in the woods, in the winter, livin’ on God knows what, scrapin’ oot folks’ bins at night, I just couldnae believe that he widnae… his ain son. I couldnae believe he widnae… So, at four o’clock one mornin’ I walked doon the railway line a’ the way doon intae the Ferry and chapped on his door. And – to cut a long story short for ye – here I am.

‘God knows whit happened tae Bobby. If he made it, he’d ken I’d been here – I left the signal for him. So he’d search for me, I’m sure, and he’d wait, but he widnae wait for ever. If he even made it.’

‘He did,’ I said. ‘He made it, but – I’m sorry – you’ve missed him, he’s gone.’

There was a long silence after I had spoken and I could almost smell, almost taste the defeat in him. Then he caught his breath.

‘Whit d’you mean, I’ve missed him?’ he said. ‘I’m stuck doon here. He might well have been and gone but what do you mean to say I’ve missed him?’ The hope in his voice was heartbreaking to hear and it occurred to me that what his voice had had before, what it had shared with all those shell-shocked officers in the nursing home, was not bravery after all, but resignation and defeat. Now that he thought he could sniff a chance, his voice strained with hope.

‘It’s over,’ I told him. ‘Your father has been arrested. He found out about Bobby and he killed Robert Dudgeon. Murdered him.’

‘Aye,’ said Billy. ‘That sounds like my father. But what about you? Who are you? How did you find me?’

‘I followed your father,’ I said. ‘When he knew the game was up he came straight to you.’

‘I’m sure he did,’ Billy said. ‘To finish me off so’s nobody ever found out.’

‘No,’ I said, suddenly remembering Shinie Brown struggling out of his shirt as he raced along. ‘He was coming to set you free. He was going to give you clothes. He must have been going to unlock you. And when he realized that he was being followed he drew us away from you even though it meant giving himself up.’

‘And what about you?’ said Billy again. ‘What are you goin’ to do?’ Without giving me time to answer he went on. ‘I’ll tell you one thing, missus, whoever you are. If you turn me in and they put me against the wall and shoot me I’ll still be glad I ran away. At least it’ll be quick and I’ll ken for sure this time it’s over. Just like when Billy and me turned north and headed fur home; we didnae care by then. You jist get so damn tired.’ He did not speak defiantly, nor belligerently, but only as though he wanted to explain something I should never otherwise know. In this, of course, he was right. I never should. The closest I could ever get, if anything of the like happened again, was where Chrissie Dudgeon was, where Willie Brown was. I took a moment to examine my conscience, but it took no more than a moment and there was no doubt.

‘Stay here tonight,’ I said. ‘I’ll come back tomorrow to the hole with the broken ladder, with clothes and money, and an axe for your chain, but then you are on your own. I can’t help you any more after that.’

‘What will I do?’ he said.

‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘It’s not my affair. I won’t help you any more than that.’

‘But I’m all on my own,’ he said. ‘I wis nivver supposed to be all on my own.’

I could feel the tears begin to gather in a spiky lump in the back of my throat. It was as plain as could be that Bobby Dudgeon was the leader and I did not give much for the chances of this boy all alone with no one to make the plans.

‘I’ll tell Joey,’ I said at last.

Billy snorted. ‘She’d turn me in quicker than you can blink,’ he said. ‘She’s married to a soldier, a hero.’

‘Did your father tell you that?’ I said. ‘It’s not true. Of course, you must decide for yourself whether to believe the man who kept you prisoner or the woman who’s setting you free, but I say go to Joey. Get as far away as you can. And take her with you.’

Billy lit a match to show me the start of my way and, knowing he was naked, I could not turn to bid him farewell and so I left without another look or word and began to feel my way back to where I had left Randall, in the dark. He had sunk down on to the stone floor of the passage and had fallen asleep; he woke with a gasp as Bunty barked at my footsteps.

‘I telt ye he widnae hurt ye,’ he said as I reached him.

‘Come on,’ I said. ‘Time you were home.’

The hole we had come down was hopeless obviously, but Randall knew another escape route: a huge pile of earth, up which we crawled on our tummies, feeling it slide away beneath us, until it brought us within feet of a ragged hole amongst tree roots, a nice size for Randall and Bunty to pop through like rabbits and just big enough for me to squeeze through with much grunting and effort and leaving behind me of buttons and trim.

‘God, no wonder you’re all so filthy all the time,’ I said, spitting out crumbs of dirt and trying to shake the worst off my hair and what was left of my dress. ‘Now let’s get you back to your mother.’

Inspector Cruickshank’s motor car was still parked at the Dudgeons’ gate when we drew up there minutes later. Randall jumped down and raced up his own path, turning back to face me halfway and drawing a cross over his heart. Then he opened the door and slipped inside to face, I expect, a scolding from his mother for being just slightly dirtier than usual. I, just slightly dirtier than him, was already dreading the scolding to come from Grant. I sat for a minute, wondering what was going on between Mrs Dudgeon and the inspector, hoping that the widow could get her story straight, or that the inspector might regale her with my version of Brown’s motive and that she might only have to keep quiet and nod.

I was just about to restart the engine and leave, when the passenger door opened. Bunty, asleep on the back seat, did not even stir.

‘Alec?’ I asked, as he climbed in. ‘Have you been waiting here or did you… follow me?’

‘I came here to meet up with you,’ he said. ‘I didn’t work it out in time to follow you, unfortunately.’

I said nothing.

‘Did you find him?’ he asked at last.

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Naked, in chains, half-starved. I found him.’

Again we sat in silence, but this time it was me who broke it, just as Mrs Dudgeon’s door opened.

‘Here comes the inspector,’ I said. ‘So if you have anything you want to say to him, now’s your chance.’ Mrs Dudgeon, seeing me, waved sadly before she shut the door.

‘No,’ said Alec. ‘But there is something I want to say to you. I have a few old clothes with me that I don’t really need any more. If I were to look them out…’ I could not speak; if I stopped biting down on my teeth I should sob.

‘I’ll get them in the morning,’ I said at last. The inspector was walking towards us and I hoped the darkness would cover the worst of my dishevelment. ‘I need to pop into the village to the bank,’ I said, ‘and then I thought I’d ask Mrs Murdoch for a picnic basket and come for a picnic in the woods.’ Inspector Cruickshank drew up beside us.

‘You’re not too scared to be in these woods now?’ he said, hearing me.

‘Not at all,’ I replied. ‘In fact, I think I’d like to be alone tomorrow, Alec, if that’s all right with you.’

‘I think so too,’ Alec said.

‘What can I do for you?’ said the inspector. ‘You were waiting for me, I see.’

I was momentarily stumped, but Alec came to the rescue.

‘Thinking things over, Inspector,’ he said, ‘it occurred to us that you can close another case you’ve got open on your books. A double murder, four or so years back?’

The inspector scratched his head for a moment and then whistled, impressed.

‘By George, I think you’re right,’ he said. ‘It was exactly the same. I’ll get right on it, sir. First thing tomorrow.’ He reached across me to shake Alec’s hand and then took mine too. ‘See and enjoy your picnic, madam. Or is it more than a picnic?’ he went on, twinkling. Solving three murders in one night had put him in a tremendous good humour, it seemed. ‘Are you bringing an offering to all these spirits and demons and beasties we hear so much about? Don’t let the Turnbulls catch you at it.’

‘No, not an offering,’ I said. ‘Just a picnic lunch. After all, it’s the living we need to take care of, isn’t it Alec, not the dead.’