6
‘I’m terribly sorry to butt in like this.’ The newcomer looked from Ewen Mackay to me and back again. He was, understandably, taking us for a couple whose holiday idyll he had interrupted, though why we should be sitting by the fire at that hour, with me in a not very elegant dressing gown and Ewen in stained jeans and a guernsey it would be hard to imagine. Something of the sort was getting through to him. He paused, and finished, uncertainly: ‘My tent was blown away, and some of my stuff with it. I tried to chase it, but it was no good in the dark, and I went clear into a bog, and in the end I saw your light, so I picked up what was left and came along. If I might just wait here till the storm passes, till daylight, perhaps, and then try again to track my things down?’
‘Well, of course,’ said Ewen Mackay warmly, before I could speak. I looked at him in surprise, but he ignored me. ‘Come right in and get those wet things off. A shocker, isn’t it? We were just having a hot drink. Join us?’
‘Thank you. It’s good of you. I’d like that.’ He was shedding his wet things as he spoke, and a glance at me indicated who was supposed to hurry off and get him the hot drink.
I found my voice. I gave Ewen a chilly glance. ‘If you’re the host, you make the drink. You know where the kettle is.’
The newcomer looked surprised, but Ewen took it without a blink. In fact, he smiled. ‘Of course.’ Then, to the other man: ‘My name’s Mackay, by the way, and this is Rose Fenemore. There’s coffee if you’d like it, and it doesn’t have to be totally harmless, if you prefer something a bit stronger?’
‘Whatever there is. Coffee would be great. Thank you. It’s very good of you.’ He dumped his things on a chair near the door, and came to the fire, hands spread out to the warmth. ‘My name’s Parsons. John Parsons.’ He spoke over my head to the scullery door, where Ewen was refilling the kettle. He obviously still took us for a couple holidaying together, and his embarrassment at intruding took the form of ignoring my presence.
I was busy wondering why Ewen Mackay, by playing host, had taken such pains to foster that impression. It was hard to see a reason. A stab of male vanity, perhaps? Discovered alone in a remote cottage with a young female whose brother had once described her as ‘a don, alas, but a dish when she takes the trouble,’ had he quite deliberately misled the newcomer? Or, to take it further, had he begun to have hopes for the remainder of the night, and so taken this means to get rid of the other man? My own vanity, such as it was, could not accept any of this; in that dressing gown, and with my hair all over the place, I was hardly something that a chance-met man would want to lay claim to.
‘Milk and sugar?’ Ewen, still the charming host, was pouring hot water.
Mr Parsons had turned to stand with his back to the fire, the eternal male hogging the best place in the room. ‘Great. Yes, both, thanks.’ He accepted the steaming mug from the other man, then addressing him, and still ignoring me: ‘Are you on holiday, or do you live here?’
I caught Ewen Mackay’s swift glance as he resumed his place on the other side of the fireplace. His look was faintly apologetic. As well it might be, I thought. As an exercise, even of vanity, it had been pointless. Had he really thought that I would play along? Out of sheer curiosity I held my tongue, and waited.
He stretched out a foot to the fire, stirring the peats. ‘I did live here years ago. I was brought up here. But just at present I’m like you, an orphan of the storm. Miss Fenemore gave me shelter, too.’
‘Oh. Really. I see.’ Mr Parsons looked down at me at last, and I could see a different embarrassment replacing the first as he met my ironic eye. ‘Well, Miss Er, it’s awfully good of you. Quite an invasion. I’m terribly sorry to be such a nuisance.’
‘Think nothing of it. Where are you camping, Mr Er?’
For a moment I thought I had gone too far. In the grey eyes regarding me through the steam of the coffee I saw a spark that might have been amusement. It might equally well have been annoyance – John Parsons the macho male being quietly baited by the nonentity by the fireside.
Then it was gone and he answered mildly: ‘On the machair. But with the wind this way it’s next to impossible.’ Back to Ewen. ‘You lost your tent, too?’
‘Not a tent. I’ve a boat. I tied up in a cove west of here, just beyond the headland.’
I asked: ‘Can you really see the lights of this cottage from the machair?’
A perceptible pause, as Mr Parsons turned and set his mug down on the mantelpiece. ‘I doubt it. But when I saw it tonight I had just struggled as far as the road. Why?’
‘I just wondered.’
‘Whereabouts on the machair?’ asked Ewen. ‘Pretty exposed for camping, I would have thought. Or were you near the House?’
‘Which house?’
‘The locals – we – call it the Big House. Or just the House. The one opposite the island where the broch is.’
‘Oh, yes, of course. I remember. Isn’t that the Hamilton house?’
‘That is right. Old Mrs Hamilton who lived there died recently, so the place is empty now. You know it, then? You’ve been to Moila before?’
‘Yes, a long time ago, when I was a student.’
‘I wondered . . .’ Ewen Mackay had been staring hard at the other man while they talked. Now he asked: ‘Perhaps we met then? I’ve been wondering if I knew you.’
‘Perhaps. I don’t think so.’
‘So what brings you back here now?’
‘I’m a geologist.’ Mr Parsons sipped his drink placidly. He had accepted the addition from Ewen’s flask. ‘There was something I remembered that I wanted to look at, and I thought it would be an interesting place to spend my leave. I’ve been working in Sydney. I’m planning to move across soon to the broch isle. There’s an igneous intrusion there, with fragments of garnet peridotite – that’s a rock from below the earth’s crust – and I’d like to spend a bit of time there, though the rocks at the north-west end look pretty difficult to get at. But that won’t interest you . . .’ The conversation had long ceased to interest me. I was feeling the need to get back to bed and to sleep. From where I sat I could not see the clock on the mantelpiece. I got up to look, and something else caught my eye. Tucked behind the clock was a small sheaf of papers, old letters and bills, perhaps, pushed there and forgotten, presumably by the last tenants. An address was printed, and clear:
J. R. Parsons, Esq.,
at Otters’ Bay,
Isle of Moila, Argyll.
So ‘John Parsons’ was perhaps not genuine all the way? When Ewen Mackay suggested that they had met before, I had thought that the other man had countered with a faintly wary look. And Ewen himself, for all his outgoing charm, had certainly acted in a way that gave pause for thought. All else apart, I could not forget that movement of his hand to his pocket when ‘Parsons’ knocked at the door.
I carried my empty mug out to the sink, then stood in the doorway and regarded them. Neither of them had taken the slightest notice of my movements, except that Mr Parsons was already in my empty chair, and the two of them, with Ewen Mackay’s flask of whisky now standing between them, were talking about salmon fishing. A subject which, I thought drily, afforded a good deal of scope for liars.
The next move was mine. Ewen Mackay had said he could sleep on his boat, but he had made no move to invite Parsons to share it with him. There might not be space for two, and I could hardly turn the other man out now. Safety in numbers. Let them both stay. I may be a dish, but I am also a don, and not prone to see emergencies where none exist.
I said: ‘It’s after three o’clock. I’m going to bed. The bedroom upstairs is all ready for my brother, and I’d prefer to have that floor to myself anyway. I see you’ve salvaged your sleeping-bag, Mr Parsons. I’ll throw some towels down, and a couple of blankets, and you can toss for it who sleeps on the sofa and who gets the floor.’ I added, out of pure malice, to Ewen: ‘And of course you remember where the old loo is. Not more than twenty yards from the back door. Good night. Sleep well.’