September (1990) (73 page)

The party was over. There was no sign of Isobel nor the rest of his house guests, the band had gone home, and the marquee was deserted. Only from the disco did the music still emanate and, glancing in, he observed two or three couples drooping around in the darkness, and looking as though they had fallen asleep on their feet. Nor was there any evidence of his hosts. From the kitchen could be heard voices, and he debated as to whether he should go and search for Verena, and then decided against it. It was time to head for home, and he would write his heartfelt thanks in a bread-and-butter letter the following morning.

He went out of the house, down the steps, set off in the direction of the car-park. The night had lightened, and the sky faded to grey. Dawn was not far off. It occurred to him then that perhaps he would find no form of transport waiting. The others, maybe returning to Croy in dribs and drabs, might well have forgotten all about Archie, and left nothing for him to drive. But then he saw Isobel's minibus standing in the middle o
f t
he field in lonely state, and knew that she had not forgotten him, and was filled with loving gratitude for her thoughtfulness.

He drove away from Corriehill. The Roman candles had burned themselves out, and the fairy lights had been extinguished. He knew that he was mildly tipsy, but, for some reason, felt totally clear-headed. He drove slowly, with concentrated care, only too aware that in the unlikely event of being stopped by the police, he hadn't a hope in hell of cheating the breathalyser. On the other hand, if he did meet a policeman, it would probably be young Bob McCrae from Strathcroy, and the last thing Bob would want to do would be to wheel the Laird in on a drunk-and-driving charge.

Dreadfully wrong; but one of the perks and privileges, he reflected wryly, of local gentry.

It had been a good party. He had enjoyed every moment of it. Seen a lot of old friends, made a lot of new ones. Drunk some excellent whisky, and eaten a splendid breakfast of bacon and eggs and sausages and black pudding and mushrooms and tomatoes and toast. Black coffee, too. Which was probably why he was feeling so wakeful and sparky.

All he had had to miss out on was the dancing. But he had taken great pleasure in watching some of the reels and listening to the toe-tapping music. The only time he had felt a little wistful was during the Duke of Perth. The Duke of Perth was the dance when, by tradition, your wife was your partner, and it had been a little galling to see Isobel being whirled off her feet by another man. No matter, she and Archie had shunted their way a couple of times around the floor of the disco, and very romantic and satisfactory it had been too, cheek to cheek, just like the old days.

The sun was edging its way over the eastern horizon as he turned into the front drive of Croy and mounted the hill. The sweep in front of the house was empty o
f c
ars. No Land Rover. Jeff, good fellow that he was, must have put it away in the garage.

He climbed out of the minibus and went indoors. Physically, he was very tired, and his stump hurt like hell, as it always did when he had spent too much time standing about on it. Haltingly, holding the bannister, he climbed the stairs. In their bedroom, he found Isobel, fast asleep. Evidence of her evening's finery lay across the floor in a little trail. Shoes, tights; the beautiful dark blue dress abandoned on the sofa which stood at the foot of the bed. Her jewels on the dressing-table, her evening bag on a chair. He sat on the edge of the bed and watched her sleep. There was still mascara on her eyelashes, and her hair was tousled. After a bit, he stooped and kissed her, and she did not stir.

He left her sleeping, went into his dressing-room, and slowly took off his clothes. In the bathroom, he turned on the taps, and the boiling water filled the air with steam. He sat on the lavatory seat and unbuckled his harness and his tin leg, and laid the awkward contraption out on the bathmat. Then, with a cunning expertise perfected over the years, he lowered himself into the scalding bath-water.

He soaked for a long time, turning on the hot tap whenever the water threatened to turn chill. He soaped himself, shaved, washed his hair. He thought about going to bed, and then decided against it. The new day had begun, and he might just as well see it through.

Later, dressed in old corduroys and a polo-necked sweater of great age and thickness, he went back downstairs and into the kitchen. The dogs were waiting for him, ready for their morning outing. He put on the kettle. When he came indoors again he would make a cup of tea. He led the dogs across the hall and out through the front door. They raced ahead of him, over the gravel and off onto the grass, scenting the rabbits who had played there during the night hours. He stood at the top of the steps and watched them go. Seven o'clock and the sun was on its way up the sky. A pearly morning with only a little light cloud drifting about in the west. Birds were singing, and so still was it that he could hear the sound of a car, far below in the glen, starting up, and driving away through the village.

Another sound. Footsteps on the gravel, approaching from the direction of the cattle-grid. He looked and saw, in some surprise, the unmistakable figure of Willy Snoddy, his lurcher at his heels, walking towards him. Willy, as disreputable as ever in his tinker's cap and muffler and his old jacket with its bulging poacher's pockets.

"Willy," Archie went down the steps to meet him: "What are you up to?" A ridiculous question, because he knew perfectly well that Willy Snoddy, at this hour of the day, was up to only one thing, and that was no good.

"I . . ." The old man opened his mouth and then shut it again. His eyes met Archie's and veered away. "I ... I was up at the loch ... me and the dog . . . I . . ."

He stopped.

Archie waited. Willy put his hands in his pockets and took them out again. And then the dog, sensing something, began to whine. Willy swore at it and slapped its head, but a frisson ran down Archie's spine and he tensed, consumed by a dreadful apprehension.

"Well, what is it?" he demanded sharply.

"I was up at the loch. . . ."

"You told me. . . ."

"Just a wee troot or twa, ken. . . ." But that wasn't what Willy had come to say. "Your Land Rover. It's there. And the lady's furry coat . . ."

And then Willy did a strange thing. He took off his cap, an instinctive and touching gesture of respect. He held it, twisted in his hands. Archie had never seen him bareheaded before. Willy's cap was part of his image, and rumour had it that he even slept in it. But now he saw that Willy's head was balding, and his sparse white hair lay thin over the defenceless scalp. Without the rakish slant of his bonnet it was as though the graceless poacher had been disarmed; no longer the well-kent villain, slouching about the place with his pockets full of ferrets, but simply an old countryman, uneducated and at a total loss, struggling to find the words to tell the untellable.

"Lucilla."

The voice came from a long way off. Lucilla decided to ignore it.

"Lucilla."

A hand on her shoulder, gently shaking.

"Lucilla, darling."

Her mother. Lucilla groaned, buried her head in the pillow and slowly awoke. She lay for a moment and then rolled onto her back and opened her eyes. Isobel was sitting on the edge of her bed, her hand on Lucilla's T-shirted shoulder.

"Darling. Wake up."

"I am awake," Lucilla mumbled. She yawned and stretched. Blinked once or twice. "Why did you wake me up?" she asked resentfully.

"I'm sorry."

"What time is it?"

"Ten o'clock."

"Ten o'clock. Oh, Mum, I wanted to sleep until lunch."

"I know. I'm sorry."

Lucilla slowly came to. The curtains had been drawn back, and morning sunlight slanted into the far corner of her room. She looked at her mother with sleepy eyes. Isobel was dressed, wearing a pullover and a husky, but her hair was untidy, as if she had not found time to do more than run a comb through it, and her expression seemed strained. But then, she would be tired. Lacking sleep. They had none of them got to bed before four o'clock.

But she was not smiling.

Lucilla frowned. "Is something wrong?"

"Darling, I had to wake you. And yes, something is wrong. Something's happened. It's very sad. I have to tell you. You've got to try to be brave." Lucilla's eyes widened in apprehension. "It's Pandora. . . ." Her voice faltered. "Oh, Lucilla, Pandora is dead. . . ;"

Dead. Pandora dead? "No." The instinctive reaction was one of denial. "She can't be."

"Sweetheart, she is."

Lucilla was now awake, all trace of drowsiness shattered by shock. "But when?" Noel Keeling had driven Pandora home from the dance. "How?" She imagined Pandora, like a wraith, not breathing, still, on her bed. A heart attack, perhaps.

But not dead. Not Pandora.

"She drowned herself, Lucilla. We think she drowned herself. . . ."

"Drowned herself?" The implications were too horrifying to take in.

"In the loch. She took Dad's Land Rover. She must have driven herself up the road. Right past Gordon Gillock's house, but the Gillocks never heard a thing. The gates of the deer-fence were bolted shut. She must have shut them behind her."

Pandora drowned. Lucilla thought of Pandora somewhere in France, skinny-dipping in a deep and fast
-
flowing river, swimming against the current, calling to Jeff and Lucilla that it was lovely, the water was lovely, why didn't they come in?

Pandora drowned. Bolting the heavy gates behind her. Surely that in itself was proof that she had not taken her own life? Surely no one, under such circumstances, would painstakingly trouble to close the deer gates.

No.

"It must have been an accident. She would never, never have killed herself. Oh, Mum, not Pandora . .

"It wasn't an accident. We hoped it was. That she'd come home from the dance, and taken it into her head to go for a swim. It was just the sort of dotty decision that she was quite capable of taking. An impulsive whim. But by the loch they found her mink coat and her sandals; and an empty sleeping-pill jar, and the last of a bottle of champagne."

And the last of a bottle of champagne. The last of the wine. Like a final, terrible celebration.

". . . and when we went to her room, there was a letter for Dad."

Lucilla knew then that it was true. She was dead. Pandora had drowned herself. She shivered. An old cardigan lay on a chair beside her bed. She sat up, reached for it, wrapped it around her shoulders. She said, "Tell me what happened."

Isobel took Lucilla's hands in her own. "Willy Snoddy was up at the loch early, all set to lift a few trout out with the first rise. He'd walked up from the village with his dog. He saw the Land Rover parked by the boat-house. And then her coat, lying on the bank. He thought, like us, that perhaps someone had just gone for a midnight swim. And then he saw her body, washed up against the sluice-gates."

"I can't bear it for him. Poor old man."

"Yes. Poor Willy. But for once in his life he did the right thing, and came straight to Croy to find Archie. By then it was seven o'clock, and Dad was out with the dogs. He never went to bed after the dance. Just took a bath and dressed again. And he was out with the dogs, and he saw Willy coming, and Willy told him what he'd found."

Only too clearly, Lucilla could imagine the scene. She thought about her father, and then could not think about him, because Pandora was his sister, and he had loved her, and longed for her to come home to Croy. And she had come, and now she was gone for ever.

She said, "What did Dad do?"

"I was still sleeping. He woke me. We went along to Pandora's room, and she'd broken her bottle of scent in the bathroom basin. She must have knocked it over. The basin was filled with broken glass, and the smell filled the room, overpowering, like a sort of drug. So we drew back the curtains and threw open all the windows, and then we thought we must look for some sort of clue. We didn't have to look very far because she'd left an envelope on the desk, and there was a letter for Dad inside."

"What did it say?"

"Not very much. Just that she was sorry. And . . . something about money. Her house in Majorca. She said she was tired and she couldn't go on fighting any longer. But she didn't give any reason. She must have been so unhappy, and none of us knew. None of us had the slightest suspicion, the least idea of what was going on in her mind. If only I'd known. I should have been more perceptive, more sympathetic. I might have been able to talk to her ... to help. . . ."

"How could you? You mustn't for a moment blame yourself. Of course you didn't know what Pandora was thinking. Nobody could ever know what she was thinking."

"I thought we were close. I thought that I was close to her. ..."

"And you were. Just as close as any woman could be to Pandora. She loved you, I know. But I don't think she ever wanted to get too near to people. I think that was her defence."

"I don't know." Isobel, clearly, was distraught and bewildered. "I suppose so." Her grip on Lucilla's hands tightened. "I have to tell you the rest." She took a deep and steadying breath. "After we found the letter, Dad rang the police in Relkirk. He explained what had happened, and the difficulties of the location, the road to the loch. They sent, not an ambulance, but a police Land Rover, with a four-wheel drive. And the police doctor came with it. Then they drove on up to the loch. . . ."