Maddon's Rock (22 page)

“They may not believe me at first,” I said. “But they will when they know that the
Trikkala
did not sink.”

“For Gawd’s sake—let’s get a’t of ’ere.” Bert was plucking at my sleeve.

But I shook him off. I was thinking of those men in the boats. And this cold-blooded devil stood there laughing in his beard. “You can’t get away with murder when the evidence of your guilt still exists. The
Trikkala
is my witness. You may get away with murder and piracy in the China Seas, but not in this country you won’t.”

At the mention of the China Seas his eyes glittered wildly. His hands clenched. I suddenly realised that he was wrought up to a pitch of madness. One more thrust and his brain might topple into the past. “How many men did you cold-bloodedly send to their death when you were master of the
Penang
?” I asked him.

I thought he would rush at me. If he’d had a gun in his hand he’d have shot me then. A cold madness glazed his eyes. “What do you know of that?” he asked. And then with sudden lucidity: “You know nothing. You tried to bring it up at the trial. But you knew nothing.”

“I knew nothing—then,” I said.

His eyes glittered. “God?” he cried, with an extravagant, theatrical gesture. “Does death not stop their mouths, but they must come to me in the guise of convicts? Is nothing secret? Can they rise up through fathoms of salt water to accuse me of what was their inevitable and pre-destined end?” I do not know whether he was quoting from some old play or whether he had made up those words. But the next passage I recognised—Macbeth in the great banquet hall of Duncan’s palace.
“The times have been
” he cried, “
that, when the brains were out, the man would die, and there an end; but now they rise again, with twenty mortal murders on their crowns
.” He stopped then, panting. I realised suddenly that reality had no substance for him. He transmitted life into words and so felt neither pity, sorrow, nor affection.

“For God’s sake stop your play-acting,” I said. “Does murder mean no more to you than an opportunity to rant Shakespeare?”

“Play-acting?” he snarled. His eyes had widened and his breathing seemed to have stopped.

I remembered then what the
Trikkala’s
cook had said. “Why do you hide yourself behind a beard?” I cried. “Are you an actor that’s afraid to show his face to the world?”

I thought he was coming at me with his bare hands. Each individual hair of his wiry beard seemed to stand out against the sudden pallor of his skin.

“For Gawd’s sake,” Bert whispered impatiently. “’E gives me the creeps. Let’s get cracking.”

“Okay,” I said.

Halsey didn’t try to stop us. He seemed dazed. I don’t believe he saw us go. His eyes were dull as though they saw things beyond the tiny cabin.

The cold night air was like a breath of sanity. We crossed the gang-plank and hurried along the wharf.

“That bird oughter be in a loony-bin,” Bert muttered as we threaded through dark alleyways towards the lights of Newcastle. “Wot’s the next move, guvner? Reckon the police would swallow a tale like that? I s’ppose Rankin was tellin’ the truth?”

“Yes,” I said. “He’d never have made up a story like that. But Halsey’s sane enough in his reasoning. The police won’t believe a word of it. And Rankin would deny the whole story. We’ve got to get proof,” I added.

“Proof!” Bert laughed derisively. “The only proof we got is beached on a rock near Spitzbergen.”

“If only Halsey hadn’t turned up when he did,” I said. “I was planning to get a written confession out of Rankin. As it is, he’d say we’d beaten him up for revenge. We’d be in a hell of a spot.”

“They might send a plane to investigate, like you said,” Bert suggested hopefully.

“What, with Halsey making an open bid to salvage the bullion,” I said. “They’d laugh at us. That’s what’s so devilishly clever about the whole thing. This isn’t a hole-in-the-corner business. Halsey has organised it in a blaze of publicity. Even if we’d got a signed statement out of Rankin, I doubt whether the police would have paid much attention to it. Rankin would say we’d forced him to write the nonsense in order to try and clear ourselves. No, the only way we’ll be able to convince the authorities is by going out to Maddon’s Rock and bringing back a bar or two of the bullion.”

“An’ ’ow the ’ell d’yer fink we’re going ter do that, chum? Spitzbergen, ’e said. An’ even I know where that is—way up in the ruddy Harctic, that’s where. We’d ’ave ter ’ave a boat.” He suddenly seized my arm. “A boat! Blimey—I wonder if Miss Jennifer——”

“Just what I was wondering, Bert,” I said. It was just a chance. A 25-ton ketch with an auxiliary engine—it might make it. “We’ll go to Oban,” I said.

“’Ere, ’old on a minute, guvner,” Bert said. “Yer just kiddin’ yerself, that’s all. We’d never make it. I
ain’t a sailor. We’d need two more for crew. And—well, I reck’n we’d be a lot safer in Dartmoor.”

“Safer,” I agreed. “But not so happy. There’s just a chance we might make it. And it’s the only chance that I can see. Let’s go up, anyway. I’d like to see Jenny again.”

“Okay,” he said gloomily. “The ruddy Harctic, it is. But don’t say I didn’t warn yer. Gawd! Why wasn’t I in a reservated occipation?”

At that moment we came out into a busy thoroughfare full of lights. We took a bus to the outskirts of the town and at a roadside café we found a lorry going north to Edinburgh.

WE REACHED OBAN
shortly after midday on Sunday, 17th March. The sun shone and the water between the town and the island of Kerrera looked almost blue. Beyond Kerrera, the mountains of Mull stood out clear and brown in the rain-washed atmosphere. We hitched a ride to Connel Ferry and there we were directed to the Sorrels’ house. It stood back from the road on a sloping hillside surrounded by pines. From the drive we could see past the iron girders of the railway bridge that spanned the narrow, racing waters of Loch Etive out to the Morvern hills. And eastward, through a gap in the first we got a glimpse of the lofty mass of Ben Cruachan. The tip of it gleamed white in the sunlight with the remains of the winter’s snow.

An old woman opened the door to us. I told her my name and she disappeared. “Reck’n you oughter’ve telephoned,” Bert said. “S’ppose she don’t want ter see us. I mean it ain’t as if we was respec’able. Don’t ferget we’re a couple o’ escaped convic’s.”

Until he spoke of it, I don’t think it had occurred to me that our presence might be an embarrassment. I had no claims on Jenny and yet I had turned to her naturally, taking it for granted that she would assist us as though she were my own kin. I had been so excited at the thought of seeing her again that I had not considered it from her point of view. But standing there on the doorstep of what was obviously a respectable Scottish home, I felt like a trespasser. For all I knew her father might be a local Justice of the Peace.

The old woman returned and led us down a long carpeted passage. She opened a door and we found ourselves in a big book-lined study with french windows leading out on to lawns sloping away towards the loch. A fire blazed cheerfully in a big open hearth. It was Jenny’s
father who came forward to meet us. “We have been expecting you,” he said, shaking me by the hand.

“Expecting us?” I echoed in astonishment.

“Yes,” he said, smiling and leading us to the fire. “You see I’ve little else to do these days but read the papers. As soon as I showed her the paragraph about your escape, she was sure that if you succeeded you’d come here. She’ll be sorry she’s not here to welcome you. She’s away to Mull about some fowl the MacLeods have promised her.” And he went on talking quietly in his soft Highland voice until I felt as though I’d arrived home after a long journey.

I don’t know what we said or how much we told him then. Looking back on it, all I can remember is that he gave us the nicest welcome any man could give to two tired wanderers. The warmth of his personality, like the warmth of the fire, gave us a delightful sense of ease and relaxation. Peace stole over my taut nerves and I became drowsy with the luxury of feeling that I was amongst friends, no longer on the run with every man’s hand turned against me.

He gave us tea—a real Scots tea with all sorts of homemade scones and girdle cakes, home-made jam and farm butter. And when we had finished he said, “Jim, if you’re not feeling too weary and would care for a walk, you’d just about be in time to meet Jenny coming up from the village. She said she’d be back by four. Bert and I will have a wee chat whilst you’re gone.” And his blue eyes twinkled at me from beneath the shaggy white brows.

He came with me to the door. “We anchor the
Eilean Mor
down under Dunstaffnage Castle,” he said. “You can’t miss it. Go through Connel and you’ll see it amongst some trees on a promontory across a little inlet of water. She’ll be coming ashore in the dinghy at Dunbeg.” He paused in the open doorway and put his hand on my shoulder. “She’ll be glad to know you’re safe,” he said. “And don’t be worryin’ yourself about staying here. We’ll be glad to have you. And you’ll be safe here. We’ll consider what’s be to done about you later.”

I didn’t know what to say. I tried to thank him. But he pushed me gently out into the drive and closed the door.

As I walked down to the cold waters of the loch I could not believe there was such a place as Dartmoor.

I reached the road and followed it through Connel till I was clear of the houses and had a view across a little inlet of water. The wavelets sparkled in the westering sun. The pebble beach shone yellow. And there was Dunstaffnage Castle, its mellow stone merging into the trees that half hid it from view. And out beyond the tip of the little promontory a small ship stood in towards the shore under a press of white canvas, heeling gracefully to the wind that blew down the loch.

It luffed easily and came round on to the starb’d tack, making for the inlet. Then the sails dropped gently from her mast, the anchor clattered and she swung round, pointing her bows to the ebbing tide that raced under Connel Bridge. I could see Jenny, dressed in jersey and slacks, helping an elderly man to stow the sails. Then the dinghy was pulled up alongside and he began to row her ashore. I didn’t wave. I was excited and wretched all in the same moment. If only things had been different.

She saw me when she was halfway to the shore. She was shading her eyes from the dazzle of the water with her hand. Behind her the
Eilean Mor
rode gracefully at anchor, her reflection dancing in the water. Suddenly Jenny waved. I waved back.

I went down to the water’s edge and grasped the bow of the dinghy as it beached. She jumped out and took both my hands in hers. “Oh, Jim,” she said. “Is it really you?” Her face, all white with salt, was alight with excitement. “How did you get here? Was it difficult?” And then she laughed. “I’ve got so many questions to ask you.” She turned to the man who was pulling the dinghy ashore. “Mac,” she said, “I want you to meet an old friend of mine. Jim. This is MacPherson, our boatman. He’s my water shadow. He goes everywhere the
Eilean Mor
and I go.”

The old man touched his cap. He was gnarled and bent with very blue eyes in a dour, weather-beaten face.

She sent him off then and as soon as he was out of earshot, she said, “Jim—did you go to Newcastle?”

I was startled by her question. “Why do you ask that?” I said.

“Daddy said you would,” she replied. “He’s convinced that you escaped because of that?” She looked up at me quickly, her grey eyes enquiring. “You did know that Halsey was fitting out a salvage tug at Newcastle to lift the
Trikkala’s
bullion, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Was that why you escaped?”

I nodded.

“So Daddy was right.” Her eyes danced with excitement. “Did you go to Newcastle? Did you find anything out? Oh, do tell me—what did you discover?”

“That the
Trikkala
never sank,” I told her.

Her mouth fell open with astonishment. “Never sank.” Then she laughed. “Oh, Jim, you’re fooling.” Then she gazed at me seriously. “You meant what you said, didn’t you?” She was puzzled, groping for the truth. ‘’The
Trikkala
never sank,” she repeated slowly, unbelievingly to herself. “Who told you that?”

“Rankin,” I said. “We beat him up and got the truth out of him.”

Nothing would content her then but I must sit down with her on that pebble beach and tell her the whole story.

When I had finished, she sat silent for a moment. It was then I discovered that all the time I had been talking I had been holding her hand in mine. “It’s unbelievable,” she whispered. “To send those men to their death like that. I can’t believe it, Jim. It’s as though you’d told me he made them walk the plank. And yet it explains all those little things we couldn’t understand. Even so, I can’t believe a man would really do a thing like that.”

“It’s true enough,” I said. “No good my going to the police with the story, is it?”

She shook her head. “No,” she said. “I believe you
because I know you and know the circumstances. But the police wouldn’t believe you. It’s too fantastic.”

“The truth is often fantastic,” I said.

“Yes,” she said. “But not that fantastic. The authorities would say you’d made it up. Rankin would swear he said the first thing that came into his head to save himself from being killed. You’ll see—to-morrow the papers will have a full story of how he was beaten up by two escaped prisoners in revenge for bringing the charges. All the evidence would be against you. The
Trikkala
crowd would hang together just as they did at the Court-Martial.” She looked at me suddenly, her grey eyes level and serious. “Jim,” she said, “we’ve got to get proof.”

I could have kissed her for saying “we” as though the problem were hers as much as mine. And as though she guessed what was in my mind she gently withdrew her hand.

“There’s only one way I can get proof,” I said.

“Yes,” she said. “Only one way. Where is Maddon’s Rock?” she asked.

“Near Bear Island, Rankin said,” I replied. “That’s just south of Spitzbergen.”