The Wild Island Read online

  Standing round the church were a group of men. Some wore dark clothes, but the majority wore kilts with dark jackets. She noticed that no one wore a t-shirt splashed with blood on the rose. These were presumably the mourners for Charles Beauregard. There were no women outside the church that Jemima could see. Above the church there was a small white arch with a bell inside it. And above that was a flag. In the gathering breeze, the flag stirred and fluttered. On a white background, a vast rose could be clearly seen. There seemed to be some royal arms of sorts there as well. Below that the red emblem - UR2. Of course. Up the Red Rose. Jemima had always been rather good at guessing riddles.

  Now she saw that the mourners outside the church all had red roses in their buttonholes.

  Where were the rest of the congregation-the Beauregard family ? Jemima suddenly felt rather ill-equipped to attend this strange funeral and regretted the half-frivolous impulse which had brought her to the church.

  With his debonair courtesy, Captain Lachlan ushered Jemima up the gravel path through the small lych-gate. Church of St Margaret and All the Angels, Glen Bronnack. Mass 8 am daily; 8 and 11.30 Sundays. For the first time Jemima realized that this plain little valley structure was in fact a Catholic church. Its plainness had deceived her. How very different from the ornate chapel of the Convent of the Blessed Eleanor where she, as a Protestant living nearby, had been educated during the war.

  Jemima suddenly wished passionately that she had Mother Agnes by her side. Mother Agnes, the young but increasingly formidable Reverend Mother of that convent, was, she often thought, the only truly serene person that she knew. Her serenity added to her strength. Mother Agnes would know how to deal with Lachlan, of that she was quite convinced. Lacking the nun at her side, Jemima tried to imagine at least how Mother Agnes would behave in these circumstances. Calm, but forceful calm, seemed to be the watchword. As it was, she would have to content herself relating it all to Mother Agnes afterwards in a long, long letter once she had reached Eilean Fas. And peace.

  There were graves on either side of the path. Most of them looked old, forgotten, mossy. But one newly dug, surrounded by red roses, caught her attention. Beyond, surrounded by a little low hedge of green bush, was a separate enclave. Here were situated a number of graves. All very freshly tended. No moss here. And there, quite clearly to her surprise, was another freshly dug grave. By its side, also, was grouped a flower-shop of wreaths, white chrysanthemums, touches of yellow, predominantly white flowers. Conventional funeral floristry. And not a sign of a red rose to be seen.

  Still gallant. Captain Lachlan ushered Jemima to the front door of the church. As Jemima entered the church itself, heads, a multitude of them, or so it seemed, turned round, as though according to a single command. A blur of white faces, all quite unknown to her, all looking as reproachful as a herd of sheep in a field disturbed from grazing by a strange dog.

  The small church was packed. The walls, like its exterior, were white-washed, and punctuated here and there by brass plates and other memorial stones. The Stations of the Cross were there to remind one of its Catholicism, otherwise it resembled a simple Scottish church of some lower denomination much more than any Catholic church Jemima had ever visited. But there was an extraordinary glass window above the altar. Greens and blues swam in front of her eyes like a lighted aquarium. Figures, knights on horses-perhaps crusaders-swirled among the vivid colours in what was some kind of battle scene. Gazing at it a moment, Jemima lost all sense of her surroundings.

  The next moment a rich harsh voice rang out in a very strong and - for once - ugly Scottish accent:

  'Lachlan Stuart, you have no right to bring your wicked flummery into the House of God. You are making a mockery of Christian burial.'

  The sheep-like faces of the congregation, continued to stare in their direction. Striding down the aisle towards them was a truly enormous man, his long black cassock flapping behind him. Over it, the white surplice hardly seemed to come half way down. Thick black eyebrows, in contrast to the shock of white hair above, dominated the face above the surplice. The man must be at least six and a half feet tall, thought Jemima. And he was gazing at Captain Lachlan with blazing fury. Jemima herself got a scathing look. Of all the absurd things, she was suddenly embarrassed to find herself wearing trousers in church.

  'And, wummun, whomsoever you may be, will you not cover your head decently in the House of God ? And in the presence of the dead.'

  It was then that Jemima became aware of the coffin, draped in black velvet, behind the priest. An enormous wreath of red roses was centred on top of the black velvet. There was a surround of some kind of tartan, and tartan flags were hanging from poles at each corner of the coffin. Her eyes travelled to the altar. Once again red roses - that most unlikely accompaniment to a funeral—were here placed, defiantly as it were, in vast vases.

  Jemima felt in her handbag. It was no time to be arguing about the relaxation of the Church's rules concerning head-covering. Which as far as she knew had occurred many years back in the rest of the world, but news of which had evidently not penetrated Glen Bronnack. A chiffon scarf, Hanae Mori, printed with a design of hearts, emerged and fluttered nervously in her fingers as she tried to tie it rapidly over her hair. Its pale pretty colours must make her, she thought, look even more unsuitable among the sea of black hats and veils which stretched before her.

  Captain Lachlan himself was in no way discomposed by the priest's anger.

  'Father Flanagan, you may now-proceed with the funeral of his late Majesty,' was all he said, with a calm Jemima envied.

  'I will not be burying Mr Charles Beauregard under such flags and roses and the like,' replied Father Flanagan fiercely. 'I said it to his face when he was alive and I'll not be holding my tongue when he's dead. I denounce the Red Rose and all its works. An insult to the dead, and to Almighty God and to his sorrowing family.'

  'Are you referring to me, Father?' said a clear female voice from somewhere above their heads. Jemima realized for the first time that there was a gallery in the plain church. She looked back. The gallery, which ran the width of the church, over its doorway, was totally empty except for one girl, sitting in the centre on what looked remarkably like a kind of wooden throne.

  'Since I am the only member of this family sorrowing over the death of Charles Beauregard; it is my request that the Red Rose is present,' continued the high clear voice. ‘I instruct you, Father, to proceed with my brother's funeral.' She paused, and looked furiously, disdainfully, at the rest of the congregation below her. 'I regard the rest of you, as you well know, as murderers.'

  'Her Majesty Queen Clementina,'- murmured Captain Lachlan with something like reverence. He even managed a kind of bow.

  'Murderers,' repeated Miss Clementina Beauregard.

  CHAPTER 5

  Dead but not buried

  There was a kind of commotion in the little church, a subdued but audible buzz ofhorror. Jemima dropped her eyes from the improbable figure of vengeance in the gallery, and tried to form some impression of the members of the congregation as individuals.

  The general image of the congregation was now dissolving into a series of portraits. Miss Clementina Beauregard was already a portrait in her own right. Or rather, sitting there, with her long fair hair under a black velvet beret and her black clothes with white frills at the neck, she had the air of a mermaid in mourning. What was that Hans Andersen story about a little mermaid who walked on knives to gain the man she loved ... Clementina Beauregard would have done well as a mourning mermaid. Cold, even in her sorrow.

  The rest of the congregation did not look as though they had come out of any sort of fairy story. They were neither fey nor frail in appearance. Or to put it another way, they were positively beefy-looking. What you might expect in a Scottish church of any denomination on a Sunday. Except that this wasn't Sunday, and Jemima was reluctantly coming to the conclusion that nothing in Scotland was going to be quite as she had expected.

  The fron
t left-hand pew had an obvious gap at its end. That, she guessed, was for the absent Colonel Henry to slip into. And it was likely now to remain empty. The woman who actually headed the row was wearing a conventional black hat. She continued to stare persistently in the direction of Clementina and her gallery.

  The Colonel's lady? Presumably. It was an unexpectedly sweet face, with those kind of features-small nose, round chin-which time blurs, removing the prettiness of youth, leaving behind something slightly pathetic, distressed, in its place. 'Remember me, I was young and pretty once.' A tall young man standing next to her put his arm round her shoulders, stooping to do so. She turned her head, in its small black hat, to look at him. What a preponderance of males there was in this church on a closer inspection. There was no female in the family pew, with the exception of this middle-aged woman; then of course there was the galleried Clementina. At that moment a boy leant forward in the front pew and touched the woman on her arm. He had a fresh rather cheeky face, pink cheeks and black hair; he looked quite cheerful. Not much funereal pretence here. And then Jemima distinctly saw him give his mother, if that was who she was, a thumbs-up sign. Heeven smiled broadly. No, no funereal pretence here, whatsoever.

  The woman turned her face once more to the gallery. Something about her expression arrested Jemima's attention. There was real feeling here. Alone of the staring faces, she seemed to display not so much anger, embarrassment or real outrage as some other emotion. Compassion, perhaps.

  The tall young man whispered in her ear. His expression was quite stern. Jemima would remember that face. How tall they all were - and not every one of those beefy young men could be Beauregards.

  The tallest man in the church was, however, Father Flanagan. The priest had not deigned to reply to Clementina Beauregard. He stood for a moment, a huge and rather frightening figure. Then he too turned and strode back up the aisle. Captain Lachlan handed Jemima into a back pew with his usual grace. The sheeplike faces were now all turned towards the altar.

  To her continued amazement Jemima Shore, at eleven o'clock on an August morning, found herself attending a Roman Catholic Requiem Mass in a remote Highland church, for a man she had never met. By this time, in her romantic anticipation of her holiday, she had expected to be sitting tranquilly on her lonely island gazing at peaty waters, admiring the heather. Alone. As it was, she was beginning to think wryly that Megalithic House, that busy hive of television, was a better bet for solitude than the Highlands of Scotland.

  The Mass proceeded.

  Yes, she would certainly have something to write to Reverend Mother Agnes about.

  In fact the Mass now proceeded quietly, almost quickly. There was no sermon or address of any sort, either from Father Hanagan or Captain Lachlan, which perhaps under the circumstances was just as well. There was no drama about it at all, except what Mother Agnes would call the central drama of the Mass itself.

  Holy Communion. Members of the Beauregard family filed up to the altar. Jemima realized that in spite of those far-off years as Protestant day-girl at a Catholic convent, and in spite of recent traumatic experiences at the same convent, she had never actually attended a Catholic requiem before. She was faintly surprised to see that communion played some part in it. The front phalanx of mourners left the front pew for the communion rails looking more like bullocks, and less like sheep.

  But from the gallery Clementina Beauregard did not descend. Nor for that matter did Captain Lachlan leave his pew for the communion rails. It was only at the end of the requiem that Captain Lachlan made any move at all.

  Then he looked up in the direction of Clementina Beauregard. She nodded. Lachlan made a gesture, once again courteous- a positively chivalrous man. Four men in dark jackets, wearing the kilt, red roses in their buttonholes, stepped forward to the corners of the coffin.

  There was a faint gasp from someone-it sounded like 'Oh no' —as the four men shouldered the box. Somewhere someone wept. A woman. That vulnerable compassionate woman perhaps.

  Under the implacable gaze of Miss Clementina Beauregard, the coffin, in its black velvet coverlet, still crowned with its red roses, was marched slowly out of the church.

  Lachlan, motioning Jemima to follow him, fell in behind it.

  'Ye'll now see the royal burial, a verra wonderful sight which the Red Rose has brought you here to witness,' he whispered. Jemima pulled off her headscarf. As she did so, she noticed a man entering the church by the side door; if he was a member of the Red Rose, he wore neither t-shirt nor flower behind his ear. The most violent splash of colour about him was his shock of bright red hair. He spoke urgently in Lachlan's ear, as though remonstrating with him. Lachlan shook his head. The red-haired man looked angry or-at least discomposed; then he vanished again through the side door. Jemima and Lachlan left the church together.

  No doubt the royal burial would have been a very wonderful sight. Who could tell ?- since the sight that met their eyes as they left the church was totally unexpected.

  Dark-suited as before, but somehow grown in stature or at least in authority since that, encounter at Inverness Station, Colonel Henry Beauregard confronted them. He was flanked by a number of men-six or more-whose clothes seemed to indicate that in contrast to the forces of the Red Rose, they had not planned on attending a funeral that day. Two of the men were wearing boots, thick green boots; one wore a dark waterproof jacket; there were tweed jackets, dark brownish tweed the colour of peat, jerseys. One man even wore a tweed hat. There was no sign of Mr Ossian Lucas MP.

  'Ah, Stuart,' said the Colonel easily. 'Just get your fellows to put down that coffin, would you ?'

  He might have been talking to the barman of a West End club, asking him to put down a whisky on the table. It was an authoritarian voice. But it was not loud.

  To Jemima it all seemed totally unreal. The nonchalance of the Colonel's attitude added to the unreality. Lachlan hesitated : he looked round. Jemima had the impression that he might have been looking for his red-haired companion. But there was no sign of him.

  'Her Majesty Queen Clementina —' he began bravely.

  ' I don't want a scene in front of the church,' said the Colonel. His tone was still easy.

  'Do as he says, Lachlan,' said a voice behind her.

  'Mr Rory—' Lachlan was undoubtedly losing confidence.

  *I don't need any help to deal with this,' said the Colonel. The tall young man looked abashed.

  Lachlan still hesitated: finally he gave a quick, rather ungracious signal to the four pall-bearers of the Red Rose who were motionless with the coffin on their shoulders.

  'Aye, we'll be gone now, Colonel,' he said sullenly. 'But we'll be back. And we'll have our rights too. The Wild Island for a royal memorial. You'll see.'

  Slowly, glumly, the members of the Red Rose lowered the coffin to the ground. But it was not the Colonel's motley force which now shouldered it.

  'Rory, Hamish, Gavin, Niall,' said the Colonel in a much sharper voice. This time he sounded as if he was talking not to a barman, but to four dogs. And like dogs, four of the healthiest looking young men Jemima had ever seen bounded forward with ruddy cheeks, eager eyes. Just like dogs. Even the tall Rory now looked eager rather than sulky. None of them possessed an iota of the distinction of the Colonel. Their features were somehow coarsened with too much health-or was it youth ? His were refined by age - or was it authority ? For the second time that day Jemima thought of her father. As she had seen him in her childhood's eye. Not the sad father of the postwar years, but the magnificent military man of her infancy.

  All the same, for all her thoughts of her own father, it came as a surprise to hear one of these amiable boys say:

  'Which graveyard, Dad?'

  Dad. It did not sound appropriate.

  'The family graveyard,' replied the Colonel in a clipped voice. 'Where else?'

  'Put they were digging a sort of royal grave, covered in red roses.'

  'Don't be more ridiculous than you can help, Hamish,* was all th
e Colonel said. 'Clementina said—*

  'The family graveyard,' repeated the Colonel. There was thunder, not too distant* in his voice. Hamish dropped back.

  The boys proceeded with the coffin towards the family graveyard. The former coffin-bearers, relieved of their burden and led by Lachlan, were shambling away down the road. Nobody seemed to pay much attention to menu The Glen swallowed them up.

  'Ah, Miss Shore.' It was the Colonel again, in an exceptionally affable mood. 'Awfully sorry to have got you mixed up in all this. Just a little local difficulty. As Harold Macmillan would say.'

  Jemima smiled. She did not need to be told the source of the quotation.

  'Look, we'll just get this sad business over. And then I'll drive you to Eilean Fas myself. I don't want,' said the Colonel carefully, 'you to think we-are complete barbarians.'

  'Oh, please—' said Jemima, with a regal wave of her hand. She was still aware that she was waving away a great deal. But the Colonel's courtly manners aroused that sort of response in her.

  The coffin was being lowered into the family grave. The mourners stood around. Then a woman's breathless voice said:

  'Henry, you must do something—' For one second, the Colonel frowned, a truly terrifying split-second frown. Then he continued in his usual calm way:

  'My dear,' he said, 'may I present my wife? Miss Jemima Shore, my wife, Edith.'

  'Henry,' went on the woman, and it was that vulnerable woman of the front pew, 'You must do something about Clementina. She won't come to the burial if you're there. I said: Poor Charles is dead, there's no point in arguing now. We can't bring him back to life. She said: Dead but not buried. In that fearfully cold voice of hen. Just like Leonie's in one of her icy moods. She's saying you murdered Charles.'

  The Colonel still sounded absolutely calm.

  'How utterly absurd of her, my dear. And rather absurd of you, Edith, to repeat it.' He turned away from his wife's flushed face, her hair untidy under its confining hat.