The Wild Island Page 11

  CHAPTER 12

  Midnight and after

  Colonel Henry relaxed with a whisky in his hand. It was his third since their arrival at Eilean Fas.

  Jemima stretched out one leg towards the fire. The green jersey of her skirt fell away, revealing her dark sheer stockings and green slippers-neither of them particularly suitable for Scotland. With the tip of her slipper she had just drawn a heart in the dust now thickly forming in the grate. A dirty mark resulted on the toe of her slipper: in London her precise soul would have felt sullied by the imperfection; here she felt strangely uncaring.

  Several plans had been made, all delightful, for Highland diversions, from fishing (Jemima was not too keen, with her memories of Charles Beauregard and his waders), to grouse-shooting. But what about the poor grouse—

  'Oh, there aren't any worth mentioning to feel sorry for up here,' said the Colonel airily. 'We only talk about them in the first place in order to let the shooting for a decent rent. To be frank,' he added, 'it's the tenants you should feel sorry for. At our rates.'

  Finally, on discovering that it was her birthday at the end of the week, the Colonel settled on some form of expedition then. 'August 30th. Virgo,' said Jemima lightly. She did not imagine the Colonel paid much attention to the stars. Nor

  indeed did she, except to enjoy from time to time the double image of her own sign, the cool white maiden on the one hand, the harvest goddess reigning over the most fertile time of the year on the other. Sometimes she was aware of these two images, the desire for self-preservation and for self-abandon, combining, even fighting in herself.

  She was wrong about the Colonel.

  'I'm a Scorpio,' he informed her. 'Very sexy.' It was said as a statement of fact. He added: 'August 30th. I think old Edith's birthday is somewhere around there. Might even be August 30th. Anyway, we'll do something.*

  'And if it is Edith's birthday?*

  'Edith and the boys. Oh, they might have their own picnic,* he replied vaguely. 'With Father Flanagan. That's what Edith and the boys would like.

  'You know, Jemima,' he said, in his curious individual clipped diction, 'I loved my brother Carlo more than anyone on this earth. And since he died, nothing has ever been quite the same again. I believe I loved him even more than this glen - because to me he was the Glen.'

  On hearing this surprising-because it was so deeply affectionate-remark about his brother, Jemima withdrew her leg, lazily.

  ‘I thought you hated each other,' she said. The whisky the Colonel had persuaded her to share was taking effect.

  'Ah.' The Colonel paused and looked reflectively into the fire. His own even longer legs were also stretched out in the direction of the smouldering logs. They were both seated, at a suitable distance, on the same sofa. 'Ah,' he repeated, 'I detect the hand of Clementina.' Then: 'She's unbalanced, of course, my niece. Deranged. Mad. Whatever you like to call it. Like her mother before her. Like her lunatic drug-taking brother.'

  He poured another whisky. 'All that rot about hating Carlo and hating Charles, and finally murdering him. What absolute nonsense! Don't tell me she actually took you in, woman of the world.

  'My God, I've given my whole life to looking after this place for Charles, haven't I ? Could have got a good job in the City, chap I knew in the war offered me one, more money, better for poor Edith in every way. But no, I thought it was my duty to stay up here and look after the Estate. What Carlo would have wanted...

  'I tell you, it was the happiest day of my life when Leonie told me she was pregnant. Made the terrible blow of Carlo's death bearable, d'you know, to think there would be something of his to carry on. I was always sure it would be a boy, quite convinced of it. All that time, nearly eight months we waited, I was sure I was holding the Estate in trust for little Charles, my brother's son. No idea Leonie was having twins, of course. My family have never had twins.' There was even a shade of indignation in the last remark.

  'Wasn't Clementina actually born first?'

  'She was. Oh God, I said, when the doctor told us. And Edith fell on her knees and prayed.' He paused again, sipping his drink, lost in the contemplation of that strange scene thirty years ago.

  'Getting back to my unfortunate niece and her ravings, I really don't know what to do about it. Getting to my wits' end with her, especially now she's got the Red Rose behind her, letting them use Castle Beauregard as their headquarters. Lachlan's not a bad lad at heart, he was corrupted by my nephew, father, a very decent type, served with me in the war, but some of the people with Lachlan I don't like the look of.

  'I wanted to ask your advice about it all, as a matter of fact. Do you think she should see a doctor of sorts? An analyst perhaps? That kind of thing. Did think of a doctor for Charles, but that was different. But maybe a trick cyclist would straighten out Clementina and remove this obsession about her father, and me, and her brother's death and the whole damn shooting match. There was a fellow I knew in the war, wonderful when the troops cracked up under fire. I don't know if he's still around.'

  It was well after midnight. Otherwise this complete reinterpretation of family events in Glen Bronnack might have come as even more of a shock to Jemima Shore.

  As it was, she allowed herself to be poured yet another whisky. She suspccted it was going - had already gone - to her head. Whose version was to be believed ? It all reminded her of Rashomon, a film she was apt to recall in any case from time to time when carrying out one of her television investigations.

  On the one hand Colonel Henry painted a most plausible if painful picture of a young heir growing to manhood under his uncle's loving tutelage. On the other hand he delineated a character, from the start gravely flawed, and furthermore spoiled to death by his unbalanced American mother.

  'She must have had bad blood in her, poor Lconie, and passed it on to the twins. God knows she was unstable enough,' exclaimed the Colonel bitterly. 'As for Charles, no Beauregard was ever like that before. I tried to understand, tried to be tolerant. Even Edith thought I was too soft with him. I certainly treated him much softer than my own kids. Fatherless boy and all that, my own brother's son. Always difficult to be the son of a hero into the bargain. But the rot started early. He was vicious, my nephew Charles, no other word for it. Either he couldn't stick the school or the school couldn't keep him. In the end I prevailed on poor Father Flanagan to give him a few lessons up here, up at the Castle; at least he could put the fear of God into him from his enormous height. Charles was not much taller than Clementina, whereas the men of my family have always been over six foot tall.

  'Later of course it was hopeless. Drugs, that sort of thing. Don't really want to go into it now, de mortuis, don't you know. In spite of that, in spite of the Castle becoming a kind of cesspool, a refuge for every addict and long-haired pansy with nowhere else to go, in spite of the Red Rose-why, he even uprooted the famous Beauregard white rose garden, the white circle, and planted some fearful crimson number, some appalling floribunda of the most dreadful vulgar colour! Edith nearly had a fit. Wonderful gardener, old Edith. Loves flowers. Leonie never had a clue about what you could and couldn't do in that respect. Have you noticed how American gardens are never quite right ? Where was I ?'

  The Colonel was visibly bristling. In a calmer voice he went on, 4Yes, in spite of the Red Rose (and all his foul red roses) I still didn't want him dead. He was my own brother's son,' Colonel Henry concluded for the third time.

  That was the Colonel's version of events. On the other hand there was Clementina's directly opposing story of a wicked uncle waiting his chance to scoop his nephew's inheritance. How on earth was she to decide?

  "The film, Brother Raiders’ exclaimed Jemima.

  'Oh, did you see it?' A pleased smile crossed the Colonel's handsome face. He arched his neck and shot the frill of his shirt still further out of his sleeve. *I was pretty good, wasn't I ?'

  'Kirk Douglas—' began Jemima hesitantly.

  'Gregory Peck!' replied the Colonel indignantly. 'Kirk
Douglas looks nothing like me.'

  'Sorry,' she said with haste. 'Yes, you were very good indeed. What I wondered was-you must have made some money out of it all, at least I hope you did, it was a colossally successful film, what happened to it ?'

  'Of course I made money out of it. Not a complete fool. That was the money that paid for the Beauregard Memorial Hall at Kilbronnack. Somewhere for the people round here to meet on Saturday night; show films, dance. What Carlo would have wanted. So much better than Charlie's idiotic notion of a museum on an island, incidentally: who needs that ? Leonie was going to build it originally, but after we - er -fell out—'

  He paused, evidently at a slight loss how to phrase his next remarks. 'Such a pretty woman,' he went on. 'When she was young, a little fairy. Clementina looks just like her. And talks just like her. But mad. So intense about everything she did. No lightness. She seriously thought I would leave Edith for her; well, how could I ? Four boys already, another on the way, my sister-in-law, the Catholic Church, and all that. It was never on.

  'Of course I was an idiot too, come to think of it,' added the Colonel reflectively. 'I should never have got involved. Father Flanagan really pitched into me about it all. He was a young priest then, but with a tongue like a whip-lash which he didn't hesitate to use. The trouble is I've never been able to resist—' he coughed.‘Well, anyway, after that she hated me. Used to shout things at me if I met her in Kilbronnack. Then it calmed down. And then-well, she died.'

  That too sounded very plausible. Jemima Shore was beginning to suspect that wilfully or otherwise Clementina Beauregard had conned her into believing a totally false version of events. No doubt Clementina herself had been conned in the first place by her own mother, and later by her brother. It still did not add up to a very pretty story. Even the girl's dog was half mad if not vicious. If Flora really had sprung at Bridie on the bridge, could Clementina even have encouraged her to do so?

  The fire, which they had relit on their return, was beginning to die down. Colonel Henry bent down and threw on another log. Sparks flew up, and his silver buttons flashed in the sudden bright light. He sat back and looked directly at Jemima. For an instant it was an extremely level look, half sardonic, half tender. Then he smiled:

  'Finish family,' he said. 'Now tell me about you.' Leaning forward, he took Jemima's glass from her fingers.

  'You've had enough, I think.' So saying, he poured himself another large dram of whisky.

  A detail struck Jemima.

  'The note!' she cried. 'Your note to Ben, telling him that Charles would be at Marjorie's Pool the afternoon he died; you said he was beginning to suspect something.'

  The Colonel looked startled, but not particularly perturbed. 'Oh, that. How did you hear about it ?’ he said. 'Well, that little plot was overtaken by events all right. Ben was going to tackle Charles about seeing a doctor to help him get off drugs. And Ossian Lucas had arranged to bring this doctor, this friend of his, up to the Highlands, as though on holiday. The point was, we didn't want Charles to think there was a conspiracy to help him, particularly not with me involved. The choice had to come from him, the doctor said.'

  Once again, the Colonel sounded plausible enough.

  'Now I really insist on talking about you,' he said. 'You're a very beautiful woman. Hair like sunshine. And eyes like a cat: what an extraordinary colour they are. But you've been told that before many times, I've no doubt.'

  He touched her cheek, and then her hair lightly. Jemima noticed once again that he had the most surprisingly long fingers and elegant hands for such a masculine-looking man. For a moment she thought he would touch her further. She felt herself tremble.

  'Never before in the Highlands of Scotland,' she replied in the lightest tone she could muster. Jemima was still trying to decide what she would do if the Colonel tried to kiss her-scream ? struggle ? remain coolly passive ? - when he moved suddenly and pressed his lips down very hard on hers, thus making further decisions on the subject unnecessary. In the event, she neither screamed nor struggled, nor, she discovered, did she remain coolly passive.

  'I've been longing to do that for the last half hour,' said the Colonel, when they were finally apart, and gazing at each other, each panting slightly. 'I've been drinking all this whisky, and talking about the past, and all the time I've been trying to muster up courage to make a pass at you. I must have drunk at least five whiskies.'

  'Mightn't too much whisky be a slight mistake? Under the circumstances,' queried Jemima, her boldness surprising herself.

  'Certainly not. Whisky is mother's milk for us Scots,' replied the Colonel. Then he placed his hand on her left breast, the nipple prominent under the thin wool, and bent his lips towards it. With his other hand he began to caress her thigh, from the point of the suspender upwards.

  Much later Jemima said, 'You were right about the whisky. It didn't make any difference at all.'

  'How can you tell ?' answered Henry Beauregard sleepily. 'You don't know what I'm like without it.'

  'When shall I know that?' enquired Jemima in an equally lazy voice. The fire had died down. The lights were out. The room she knew must be strewn with such diverse objects as buckled shoes (his), green slippers (hers), dark stockings (hers), tartan socks (his), a variety of white underwear, some satin and lacy, some plain and poplin. To say nothing of larger objects like a black kilt jacket and a green jersey dress. The kilt itself had been thrown lightly over both of them by its owner, when he felt for a cigarette, 'Nothing like a kilt for warmth.' It was warm. Altogether Jemima felt very warm indeed and secure.

  'In the morning of course. No whisky around at that time of day. Come along. I'm going to take you and myself upstairs to that enormous and, as I remember it, very comfortable bed. You'll find out what I'm like in the morning.'

  But Jemima Shore never did find out. In the morning, when she awoke, she was alone in the enormous bed. It was Ben Beauregard, not the Colonel, who was bending over her, touching her shoulder.

  'Miss Shore,' he was saying. 'I'm terribly sorry to disturb you like this. But where's Dad ? He's completely disappeared.'

  CHAPTER 13

  'I'll be back'

  Because it was-for her-early in the morning and because Jemima was not immediately awake, her first thought was a purely feminine pang of regret. Sleepily, confused, she thought: he has gone, but he promised to stay. Morning had come and her night lover had fled as Cupid had fled from Psyche to avoid the dangerous contact of the dawn, and yet he had promised...

  Then Ben Beauregard was saying something of more immediate import: 'We think the Red Rose has got him. We found a bunch of red roses on the doorstep of Kilbronnack House this morning. Plus their ridiculous sign: UR2. Ugh, reminds me of some kind of nuclear weapon. And their slogans: Long Live Queen Clementina the First! Down with the Usurper Henry Beauregard! Eilean Fas the Royal Island.'

  Her mind began to clear. The Red Rose had struck indeed: not after all at a Princess guarded at Inverness by her police and detectives and minions, but at the hated local laird, the man they regarded as the purloiner of his niece's rights, the murderer of his royal nephew... It all made a kind of hideous sense.

  Then her mind cleared still further. He had gone. A new aspect of it all struck her. Where he had gone was one question due to be investigated, but, to be blunt, when he had gone was

  now her paramount concern. She gazed at Ben, at his handsome face with its thick crest of dark hair. She did not, for the moment, have the courage to look at the bed beside her.

  'He brought me home last night —' she began rather uncertainly.

  'Oh, we know that’ Ben appeared to dismiss that episode with carelessness. 'Mum told us that. But you see, it's so unlike Dad not to be home for breakfast. Even if it's a very late breakfast.' He spoke rapidly, almost impatiently, as if this simple fact must be well known to everybody. The picture conjured up by this generalization was more than Jemima felt able to contemplate for the time being.

  Then the
re came the call—' he went on. 'Anonymous. Didn't recognize the voice. But the message was clear enough - "If you want to get back the usurper Henry Beauregard, you had better come over to Castle Beauregard straight away."'

  Jemima decided that there were two, no three, things that she needed immediately to fortify her before she faced further shocks to her system. What was it indeed about the north of Scotland that she was constantly being aroused by dramatic events brought literally into her very bedroom? Poor Bridie, Lachlan, Clementina, now Ben, there was scarcely a minute's peace in her Paradise. The first two things were orange juice and coffee. The third was a dressing-gown. Jemima was suddenly aware that beneath the thick hairy blankets of the old-fashioned bed she was wearing nothing at all. At least Clementina had found her in a satin nightdress. She'decided to shoo Ben Beauregard downstairs.

  'Look, I'll meet you in the drawing room and tell you all I know. But do you think - possibly - some coffee? And there's some juice in the larder...' Smoothing her remarkably tousled hair back, Jemima smiled beguilingly at Ben. But where Guthrie Carlyle would have leapt to her command-no, to be frank, Guthrie would have already brought the juice, he never ever called her without a glass of chilled orange juice in his hand - Ben Beauregard simply stood there gazing at her.

  'Coffee ?' he said blankly. She might have been asking him to grow the stuff. It occurred to Jemima that this fashion-plate of Highland masculine beauty had probably never in his life been asked to perform such a mundane task. She spared a cross thought for the cosseting Lady Edith, whose gift to the modern world was apparently six totally undomesticated sons. As well as being herself a highly understanding wife..-. Although it was a pity that Carrie Amyas, wife of Tom, had never had the accommodating nature of Lady Edith Beauregard. Jemima-the memory of those inevitable if late breakfasts still rankling - wondered for the first time whether it was not possible for wives to be too understanding. Ignoring that line of thought as unprofitable before coffee, she decided it was not part of her business to teach Ben Beauregard what his mother had signally failed to do. Particularly at such a critical juncture.