A sound from somewhere in the vicinity of her left foot brought Susan out of her fit. It was a horrible, choking sound like a death rattle, and it sobered her instantly. She was afraid to look down to see from which throat the hideous noise had come. If she had hit Ewen harder than she intended…
Drunk or sober, maddened or calm, she was not chiefly concerned with Ewen. Slowly she turned.
James had risen to his knees. His eyes were as round as coins and his eyebrows had disappeared under the fringe of damp hair on his forehead. His right hand was clamped tightly around his left elbow; above his fingers a reddening flap of sleeve hung loose.
Again he tried to speak. He cleared his throat and finally managed to croak, “What was that you said?”
“Never mind. We’ve got to get away.”
“You said—”
“James, the others will be here any second. We’ve got to—”
“Where did you learn Gaelic?” James got to his feet, very slowly. “Your accent is terrible,” he added, swaying.
Susan stamped her foot. “This is no time for philological criticism. Can you run?”
“I can try. Is Ewen…?”
“I forgot about him.” Susan knelt.
“You—forgot—” James said stupidly.
“He’s okay.” Susan stood up. “He’s lucky to have such thick hair.” A querulous mutter from Ewen confirmed her diagnosis. “He’ll be awake in a minute,” Susan went on. “And I think I hear inquiring voices somewhere in the distance, but rapidly approaching. Honestly, Jamie, I don’t think you’re cut out to be a policeman. You have no sense of self-preservation. I suppose now you want me to give Ellie first aid. She just fainted, that’s all.”
“I don’t blame her,” James said. “If you had seen your face—”
“Come on! Let’s go!” Susan put her arm around him. Staggering and intertwined like participants in a three-legged race, they ran. And ran. And ran. Not until the voices had faded and half a mountainside lay between them and the dig did Susan stop. They stood beside a small burn whose water sang and tumbled over peaty brown stones. James sat down suddenly and put his head on his knees.
“I need a drink,” he said.
“There’s water in the burn.”
“Not the sort of drink I had in mind.” James lifted his head. His face was ashen, but he managed a faint smile when he saw Susan’s expression.
“Don’t look so sick. What’s the trouble—reaction setting in?”
Susan sat down next to him. “I guess so. I feel funny. Jamie, I don’t know what came over me. I never did anything like that before.”
“Where did you get the Gaelic?”
It was Susan’s turn to put her head on her knees.
“I memorized it, ages ago, just for fun,” she mumbled. “I’d forgotten it, until…. I think I’m going to throw up.”
“No, you aren’t.” James’s fingers stroked the back of her neck. “Take a deep breath, you’ll be okay. You saved my life, you know. I think I owe the romantics of this world an apology. If you hadn’t gotten carried away, Ewen would have smashed my face in. I have certain objections to my face, but I’d hate to go around without it.”
“He asked for it, didn’t he?” Susan felt better. “But I’m glad I didn’t hurt him badly. What do you suppose made him act like that?”
“I presume Ellie and Jackson convinced him that we really are murderers. He found us threatening Ellie, and his basic instincts took over.”
“He acted like a savage,” Susan said, shivering. “Like one of those damned Picts Campbell is so crazy about…. I’m okay now, Jamie. Let’s see that arm.”
The injury wasn’t as bad as she had feared, but it was bad enough. James’s sleeve was covered with blood from a deep cut, and the muscles around it were swelling. Susan washed it in the stream and bound it up, using strips torn from her apron. The rest of the fabric made a serviceable sling.
“You need a doctor,” she said uneasily. “That cut ought to be disinfected.”
“I’ve got a few first-aid supplies in the knapsack.” James got stiffly to his feet. “Lucky it’s my left arm. And lucky the blade hit a glancing blow.”
“I don’t see anything lucky about it. The whole thing was a disaster.”
“We learned one thing. There is a treasure.”
“The famous ‘it’ Ellie kept muttering about. Yes, I guess that bears out your theory. But it doesn’t help us much. You weren’t thinking of doing a little illicit digging of your own, were you?”
“The idea tempts me. But it would be idiotic. The site is large and they don’t seem to know where ‘it’ is themselves.”
“They—some of them—may know, though,” Susan said. She knew James was talking to keep his mind off the pain. Since he had disdained the help of her arm, the only thing she could do for him was to keep the conversation going.
“What do you mean?” James asked.
“The expedition seems to be legitimate. Campbell is a big name in the field, and the students act like normal archaeology students. Campbell selected the site, looking for his rotten old Picts. Somebody else got wind of the treasure—found a clue Campbell missed—and is using the expedition as a cover, planning to steal the treasure if and when it is finally located. This somebody contacted Jackson, who is a professional crook. The amateur could be one of Campbell’s own students—”
“Or an outsider who had forged false credentials to win a place on the expedition staff.”
“I don’t like that theory. I’m the only outsider.”
“Oh, I don’t blame them for being suspicious of us,” James agreed. His voice and face were under perfect control, but he was supporting the injured arm with his right hand. Susan looked at him anxiously.
“Are you all right?”
“Perfectly.”
“All right, then,” Susan said. “We return to the burning question of what this mysterious ‘it’ could be. An honest-to-God Pictish treasure would be worth a lot of money on the illegal antiquities market—enough money to attract the interest of a man like Jackson. I suppose crooks specialize these days, like everybody else. Maybe Jackson is a well-known antiquities burglar. If so, he’d know enough about the subject to recognize a clue for himself. Only where is the clue?”
“You have that book of Campbell’s still, don’t you? We might have another look at that.”
“In our copious free time,” Susan agreed wryly. “It won’t work, James. Campbell is an expert. It’s ridiculous to think an amateur like Jackson, or even a student, would spot a clue that Campbell had missed. The vital lead must have come from another source. Maybe that’s how old Tammas got involved. He knew a lot about Scottish legends and traditions, you say. Ellie must be a member of Tammas’s group. If she told her buddies of the White Rose about the dig, and one of them remembered something about the site—some old story or fragment of legend…”
“It’s possible,” James agreed. “But it’s pure theory, Susan. We’re damnably short on facts.”
“I know. I keep thinking we’re overlooking something. Something important.”
“Do you? I have the same feeling. God knows we’ve not had time for calm meditation…. The bikes should be just ahead.”
Susan didn’t ask how he proposed to ride. She didn’t have time. James grabbed her and dragged her down onto a large plant of the thistle variety. Bristling with prickles, Susan clamped her teeth shut and swallowed her groans.
“What is it?” she whispered.
“Someone’s there.”
They had been traveling parallel to the road, on a slope about ten feet above its surface. Susan’s eyes were dazzled by diffused sunlight sifting through the branches of the stunted trees. A breeze stirred the lighter branches and shook the needles of a spruce.
Then she saw a movement that could not have been caused by the wind—a slight agitation of a bushy plant that was only partially visible through the trees. She could not identify the plant; it was a violent, virulent green, with broad leaves.
James’s hand, still on her arm, tightened till the fingers dug into her flesh. Between the bright-green leaves another color showed—a smoother, flatter black than the shadows under the bush. The crimson rays of the setting sun touched the patch of color and it shone like a blackbird’s wing.
“Jackson,” she breathed. “How did he—”
“Sssh.” James shaped the sound with his lips. Feeling carefully on the ground at his feet, he picked up a rock and threw it.
Jackson was a victim of overconfidence. No doubt he assumed his concealment was so good they would stumble into his arms. He took off after the crash of the stone, which sounded promisingly like the stumble of a clumsy foot. As soon as the sleek black head turned away from them, James began to run. Susan followed.
It was almost an hour later before James conceded that, for the moment at least, they had eluded pursuit. They were traversing a patch of boggy ground crisscrossed by streams, and both were soaked to the knees.
“What did you say about luck?” Susan inquired. She pulled her foot out of a patch of mud which closed with a horrible sucking sound.
“I retract the statement. We’ve lost all our gear—food, clothes, bikes, Farragut’s gun, even your guitar. Thank God I had the money in my sporran.”
“We’ve got to get out of this,” Susan gasped, as another boggy patch dragged her foot down. “Ugh! I keep thinking about quicksand, and the Hound of the Baskervilles. There ought to be a village or something around here.”
“We can’t risk being spotted so close to the dig,” James said. “You’ll have to settle for another cave tonight.”
Susan stopped, with one foot in a stream, and looked at him squarely.
“Jamie, don’t be childish. I’m worried sick about your arm. The chances are a hundred to one that it will be infected. We don’t even have iodine. And we’re getting nowhere fast. Jackson is hot on our trail with God knows how many allies. We need help, and there’s only one logical place to look for it.”
“I’m not such a fool as you think,” James said quietly. “I thought of going to the police some time ago—when Ewen came at me with that spade, to be precise. But there’s a difficulty.”
“What difficulty? They won’t believe our story. But at least we’ll be safe.”
“That’s not the difficulty. If we could get to Edinburgh, or even to a good-sized town, and turn ourselves in at a police station, I’d agree. But it’s awfully easy to hire a uniform. Many of the local constables don’t even wear them. How are we to know whom we’re surrendering to?”
“They can’t be everywhere,” Susan said, but her objection was weak. She had not thought of this problem.
“We have no idea of the size of the organization we’re fighting. Jackson is an American, Farragut is English or Scottish; that suggests an international group. And don’t forget the casual bystanders like Ewen. Whether they are part of Jackson’s group or not, they are clearly prejudiced against us. I don’t want to encounter any more maddened Highlanders with deadly weapons. I can’t always count on you to rescue me.”
“Then what can we do?”
“I don’t know,” said James candidly. “If our wild theories are correct, there will be a meeting at King’s Quair in a few days. We may learn something there—if we can get there.”
“We’ve got to find someplace to hole up in the meantime,” Susan said. “Or some way of getting to the police. There’s only one safe place I can think of.”
James nodded wearily.
“We may as well head for the family homestead. At worst, we might ring the Chief Constable from there and demand a personal escort. But I wouldn’t gamble a great deal on our chances of getting there. That’s one place they will certainly have staked out.”
Susan’s submerged foot was getting numb. The water was icy. As the sun sank lower, a chill breeze arose. James was shivering, despite his efforts to conceal it.
“Let’s go, then,” Susan said, trying to sound cheerful. “It’s a long way.”
To her relief they soon left the boggy area and began to climb. Her relief was short-lived; James’s strength was rapidly running out. He was climbing one-handed, which is not a safe procedure under any circumstances, and he was increasingly unsteady in his movements. Unobtrusively Susan kept to one side and slightly below him, although she knew she didn’t stand a chance of holding him if he should fall. Standing on a narrow ledge on a steep slope, she watched his good hand fumble before it slid over the projecting rock that was its next hold. There was a streak of blood across the back of his fingers, and his nails were torn and bloody. She knew then what she had to do.
They reached the top of the ridge and saw a valley below. Houses clustered around a circular loch. Lights were beginning to come on in the windows. Susan glanced at James, who stood beside her. His eyes were closed, and he was rocking slowly back and forth.
“We may as well stop here,” she said gently. “There’s nothing any better for miles. Maybe in the morning I can go down and get some food.”
James didn’t object to either suggestion. He let her guide him into a hollow at the base of a tree, where the massive roots had dug a space, and subsided without opening his eyes. He was asleep almost at once. In the fading light Susan bent over him. She was afraid to touch the bandage, but his face was warm under her light fingers.
She waited for half an hour, while the dark crept in around them. James was breathing heavily, and his temperature had risen. Susan rose carefully to her feet and looked for the path she had seen earlier.
It was a path she would never have attempted in darkness if she had had any choice, but she went down it without giving its dangers a thought, except for an irritated “damn!” when her foot slipped. She had to cross a pasture to get to the road. Unmistakable evidence indicated that it was normally occupied by sheep.
The road soon turned into a village street. Susan walked down it, followed by furious barking, but no one came out to see who was intruding. She was looking for a particular kind of house, and praying that a village of this size would have what she needed. She was in luck. The house was some distance from the main huddle of the village; the brass plate on the neat white gate had been freshly polished. It glittered in the starlight.
The gate was securely fastened. Susan didn’t waste time trying to unlatch it. She climbed the fence. As her foot touched the ground, a small dark shape darted at her. A ghastly shriek climbed the scale and a bundle of spikes sank into her ankle.
The door of the house opened. Light spilled out across the graveled path. A voice called, “Come in, whoever you are.”
“I can’t,” Susan groaned. “I’m caught by this infernal—”
It was a Siamese cat, the largest and darkest Susan had ever seen. It had released its tooth-and-claw grip when the voice spoke, and now sat crouched at Susan’s feet. Its tail lashed like a black whip, and enormous eyes, reddened by the reflection, glared at Susan.
“Beelzebub,” said the voice.
The cat moved back six inches. It continued to lash its tail. Susan thought of kicking it, but reconsidered, for a number of excellent reasons. She started up the path, limping. The cat fell in behind her like a sentry. As she approached the open door, she saw that a hand-carved sign hung over it. She was familiar with the quaint British custom of giving pretentious names to retirement cottages, but the name of this one sent a shiver down her back. It read “Endor.”
As soon as she had entered, the door closed quietly behind her. Susan would not have been at all surprised to learn that the cat had done the job; it appeared to be capable of more complex acts, and the only human inhabitants of the room were seated in a semicircle around the fire.
There were three of them, all women, all elderly. All were knitting. One was tall and thin, one was short and fat, and the third was a frail, hunched bundle of bones that looked as if they would fall apart if the shawls enclosing them were unwrapped.
Endor is right.
Susan wasn’t conscious of having spoken aloud, but one of the women—the fat one—looked up and spoke.
“Yes, we thought it appropriate. Beelzebub has a diabolical personality, and we three…. But I will spare you the obvious. What is it you want, young woman, and what are you doing here?”
“No better than she should be,” grumbled the thin woman, without taking her eyes from her wad of blue knitting. “Send her away, Frances.”
“I was looking for the doctor,” Susan began. “Is he—”
“We are the doctor,” said the woman called Frances. “Or, to be more specific, we are all three doctors. Do you require a heart specialist, a dermatologist, or a surgeon? I trust it is not the last; Amelia”—she nodded at the bundle of shawls—“is the surgeon, and I would personally hesitate to trust my organs to her operations at present.”
Before Susan could express her complete agreement the bundle stirred.
“Who asked for your opinion?” inquired a thin, malevolent voice. “You always were jealous, Frances. Just because I was prettier than you.”
The uncanny effect was heightened by the fact that no face was visible among the clothes, but gradually a rounded shape heaved up out of the bundle. Covered with a bright-red knitted cap, it appeared to be a head. It jerked and heaved until a face came into view. Susan stepped back. Wrinkled and spotted like that of a mummy, the horrid countenance held two bright black eyes, lashless and deep-set, that fastened unwinkingly on Susan’s face. She felt like a bird hypnotized by a snake.
“Ahem,” said Amelia, after at time. “Yes. Give the girl a nip of whiskey, Annabelle. Can’t you see she’s faintish? Don’t blame her. I’d faint too, confronted with three such hideous old women.”
She emitted a sound like a dry stick cracking.
However they might insult her, the oldest sister was obviously the boss. The thin woman rose obediently and poured whiskey into a glass. Susan dropped limply into a chair.
“You’re very kind,” she said.
“Kind!” The elderly mummy’s eyes snapped. “It’s acid that runs through our veins, child, not the milk of human kindness. I’m curious, that’s all. You’re an exotic bird to come in out of the Highland night. Drink your whiskey like a lady, and then you can tell us what you want.”
The needles clicked as the three went back to their work. Susan wondered how the eldest sister could see; her head had retreated down into the shawls like that of turtle. She took a cautious sip of the amber liquid and felt its smoothness slide down her throat, spreading warmth through her limbs. Her wits began to come back to her. Covertly she studied the room.
It was a small room, jam-packed with bric-a-brac. Apparently the three sisters had highly individualized tastes, and none of them was prepared to sacrifice her share of the space. A large table, covered with a handwoven spread in soft colors of beige, brown, and green, was littered with garden tools, balls of yarn and—Susan’s eyes widened—a motorcyclist’s helmet. Two very modern canvas-sling chairs were occupied respectively by Beelzebub and a huge stuffed pink bear, of the sort that is given as a prize at carnivals. Leaning against the wall were a rake, a cricket bat, and a long, peculiar string instrument. Books and magazines were strewn around. They were a motley collection, including Principles of Anatomy, The Prisoner of Zenda, and a recent issue of Woman’s Own, with a photograph of the Queen on the cover. The first faint ghost of an idea stirred wispily in Susan’s brain. Ignoring the other pictures that covered the walls like the displays of the Pitti Palace, her eyes went straight to the one that held the place of honor over the mantel. It was a huge colored portrait of the royal family.
The preposterous plan took shape, born of desperation and sired by fantasy. Susan put down her empty glass and spoke.
Annabelle—the tall, thin sister—came up the mountain with her. Susan could never have managed without her; James was only three-quarters conscious, and guiding him down the path in the dark would have been impossible without someone who knew every pebble on the hillside. The old woman’s arms were as strong as a man’s. Susan decided that the cricket bat and the gardening tools must belong to her. She had already learned that the cyclist’s helmet belonged to Frances, who was the only practicing physician among the three. The village had had no doctor of its own, and Frances had been more or less drafted into general practice after the sisters had retired to Scotland.
Susan had learned this, and other information, as Annabelle led her up the mountain. For all their apparent sophistication the sisters were romantics, and Susan’s story had been almost as good as The Prisoner of Zenda. The poor young couple, snatching a few weeks of happiness before the boy’s titled parents forced him into a match of convenience…. Susan wondered whether any parent, these days, succeeded in forcing any child into any sort of marriage, much less one of convenience. But it didn’t matter. The ladies had bought the story, hook, line, and sinker, including the part where James had rescued her from a lustful farmer with a shovel. She had to explain the wound somehow, and she assumed the ladies had enough medical knowledge to identify the type of weapon with fair accuracy. It was a perfectly ridiculous story. The ladies had loved it. Susan had not given them the coup de grace. It would be much more effective if they simply saw James’s face.
James was on his feet when they reached the cottage. He walked through the door and across the room, straight into the wall. His face pressed against it, he declaimed, with perfect accent and rhythm,
“The stait of man dois change and vary,
Now sound, now seik, now blith, now sary,
Now dans and mery, now like to dee….”
and sank gently to the floor.
A thrill of terror, part real, part pure superstition, ran up Susan’s spine. It was an ill-omened verse—the old classic of Dunbar’s, with its grim refrain, “Timor mortis conturbat me.” The fear of death…. Forgetting plots, plans and the silent spectators, she dropped down beside James and cradled his head against her breast. Then the quality of the silence struck her. She looked up.
Annabelle and Frances were standing. They were staring at James. His head had fallen back over Susan’s arm and his features were mercilessly exposed.
Susan held her breath. Would it work? How could it possibly work? They couldn’t be such innocents….
Creak. Crack. With a snapping symphony of stiffened joints old Amelia unfolded, in sections, like a tripod. Slowly and painfully she tottered up until she was standing as straight as a woman her age could stand. The expressions on all three faces were identical. Susan knew she had done it. She pulled James’s face against her breast and bowed her head over his. There were tears in her eyes, but she would have had a hard time deciding whether they were tears of relief or shame or pure amusement.
James had an infected throat. That was what had caused the fever. The gash on his arm was beginning to fester, but as Susan should have realized, it had not had time enough to reduce him to his state of collapse. Pumped full of antibiotics, he was considerably better the next day, and so embarrassed at his weakness that he was impossible to talk to.
Susan visited him long enough to indicate, in a few well-chosen words, the basis of the old ladies’ illusion, and then left. Annabelle was teaching her to play the sitar.
On the following morning she decided to beard James again. They couldn’t stay here forever; it was hard to keep their presence a secret from the other villagers, and she was running out of romantic-plot episodes. There was a further danger. She had sneaked out of her room the first night and short-circuited the old ladies’ radio, but sooner or later they were bound to hear of the activities of James’s alter ego, cutting ribbons or escorting a young lady of impeccable family and ancient lineage to a social function hundreds of miles away. The sisters might swallow the idea of a double, but their capacity for gulping down improbabilities must be limited. And there were other problems.
“What chance does Jackson have of tracking us here?” she asked. James was sitting up in bed. He had received her with affable condescension. The awed respect with which he was treated seemed to be going to his head a little.
“Not much. But we can’t sit here forever. I think we ought to leave tonight.”
“How’s the arm?”
“A little stiff, but useful.” James flexed it, then looked at her conspiratorially and lowered his voice. “How did you bring it off? They really believe—”
“We are lovers,” said Susan. “Your titled family will not allow us to wed. I didn’t mention any names, Jamie.”
“Titled family!” James grinned. “Oh, well; might as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb.”
“They can’t pin a thing on us,” Susan assured him. “I don’t think impersonation is a crime unless you try to swindle somebody. Can we help it if three naïve elderly ladies think—”
“Well, we could have helped it, you know. They’ve been awfully good. I feel a little…”
“So do I. But it had to be done. I feel even sorrier for your double.”
“I don’t like to think about it,” James said, with feeling. “So we’ll take our departure tonight. The ladies will accept our desire to remain inconspicuous. The question is, whither do we go?”
“The meeting at King’s Quair is day after tomorrow,” Susan said.
“If there is a meeting.”
They stared at one another in silence for a moment. Then James shrugged.
“It must be the medication they’ve given me. I feel frightfully courageous and full of optimism again. Shall we risk it?”
“By all means,” said Susan. “You know, Jamie, I don’t think it’s the medicine. I think your true colors are beginning to show. All that poetry you’ve been quoting, while you were delirious and—uh—delirious…. You are your father’s son, after all.”
“You needn’t be insulting,” said James.
They took a solemn, formal leave of the three sisters just before midnight. James looked like a prince as he bowed over the ladies’ trembling hands—not simultaneously, of course, but one after the other.
“We ought to give them a good show,” he had remarked, passing his hand over his freshly shaved chin. “It’s the least we can do.”
And he did it well. Tall and straight in his freshly pressed kilt, the plaid draped across his chest, the ancient silver brooch gleaming, he made even Susan’s blood run faster. But when he straightened up after saluting Amelia’s withered hand, his eyes met hers; and for a moment he stood motionless, staring as if some silent message were passing between them.
“I’m immensely grateful,” he said.
“Time is passing,” said Frances. “If you don’t mind, your—that is, Mr. James—we should be going now.”
Frances had insisted that they take her motorbike. It was an old one, she was thinking of trading it in anyway…. It was impossible to refuse the offer and equally impossible to offer to pay for the vehicle. James was visibly moved. Susan only hoped he would be able to restrain his finer instincts and keep his mouth shut. He managed to do so until they stood in the quiet cul-de-sac where the bike was waiting. Then the old woman bent her arthritic knees in a curtsy and reached for James’s hand. Susan was thankful that Frances couldn’t see his face.
“Hurry,” she hissed, before James could weaken.
They pushed the bike along between them until they were a mile or so out of town; the villagers knew the characteristic sound of the motor and might wonder who had been taken sick in the night. James was silent for a long time. Finally he said, “I feel the most unutterable swine.”
“How do you think I feel?”
“I think you’re enjoying yourself enormously. You’re as bad as my father. No. You’re worse than my father. Running amok with rocks and inventing nauseating stories—”
“That’s gratitude,” exclaimed Susan, stung to the quick. “I wasn’t going to rub it in; but I would like to point out that we have been saved from disaster twice in a row by what you nastily refer to as my Bonnie Prince Charlie romanticism.”
“Just because we were lucky enough to encounter three other romantics—”
“Ewen wasn’t a romantic.”
“That depends on how one defines the word,” James said drily. “Oh, hell, let’s not argue. I didn’t mean to snap at you. I suppose you feel bad about deceiving the ladies too.”
“Yes, I do. Only I wonder if we really did fool Miss Amelia.”
“So do I. She’s a marvelous old witch, isn’t she? And she’s perfectly capable of helping us for the sheer deviltry of it. But the others bought the whole bit.”
“We’ll make it up to them.”
“How?”
“Tell them the real story, someday. They’ll get an enormous charge out of it.”
“There’s a thought.” James sounded more cheerful. “It won’t be as good as yours, though.”
“How do you know? We’re not at the end of it yet.”