Iain went back into the sitting-room and poured out another drink—a stiff one—he felt better after he had had it. He thought: Medworth’s dead. Good Lord, how extraordinary! I suppose he is dead. He must be—what other explanation is there? I ought to feel absolutely wild with delight, but I don’t. Why don’t I? There’s something funny about it—something damned funny. The man left here alive and well and full of self-confidence—he never reached Glasgow—what happened? What could have happened? He must be dead, and if he’s dead it’s all right—marvellously all right—but it seems too good to be true—things just don’t happen like that. I wonder what Linda will think about it. Richard is safe, anyway, and that’s all that really matters to her.—He felt a sudden rush of relief at the thought that Richard was safe.—I am wild with delight, he thought—it’s just that I hadn’t realised all it means. It means that Richard is all right, and, if Richard is all right, so is Linda. It means that I shall get Linda after all—with no court case or anything. Good Lord, of course I’m wild with delight! I may have to wait a bit until she recovers from the strain and the shock, but I can wait. I’ve waited five years for Linda. I can wait a bit longer if I know it’s going to be all right in the end. I can be patient if I know. And then he thought: But perhaps Medworth isn’t dead. He may not be. He may have disappeared—voluntarily. Something out of his past may have cropped up and made it necessary for him to disappear—money troubles, or a woman. If he just stays away until Linda gets her decree absolute I suppose it will be all right. It’s only a month now. After that he couldn’t do anything—at least I don’t suppose he could. Why don’t I know more about it all? Somehow I feel the man is dead. He was so determined to go to London, nothing but death could have prevented him.
Iain walked about the room to ease the tumult in his mind. He thought: I wonder if Howles will go and see Linda. He would have to see Linda if he wants to find an enemy in Medworth’s past. I didn’t believe Howles when he said perhaps he wouldn’t have to see Linda—he won’t leave here without seeing her. I ought to see her first—I must see her first, but I don’t want Howles to think I’m rushing off to see Linda and warn her. That would look bad. It would look as if we had something to hide. Howles is convinced, now, that the secret of Medworth’s disappearance is not to be found in Ardfalloch—and that’s all to the good. We don’t want him to ferret about here too much. He might come across the fact that Medworth was threatening Linda and me with an action—I don’t see how he could find that out, but he might, and then the fat would be in the fire. It would be distinctly unpleasant, to say the least of it. He would have found somebody who wanted Medworth out of the way—there’s danger there. What do I think about it personally? he asked himself, stopping and gazing into the fire. Do I think that Medworth’s disappearance has anything to do with us? How could it have anything to do with us? Isn’t it just coincidence that makes me think it might have? I wanted the man out of the way and the man has vanished. It can’t be anything but a coincidence. It’s a mighty lucky one for us—too lucky to be comfortable, somehow. . . .
He sat down at the table and drew a piece of paper towards him. “Darling,” he wrote, “Janet will bring you this. Burn it at once—” and then he stopped. He thought: No, it’s too dangerous to put on to paper—besides, how can I explain? I simply must see her. I must see her before he sees her, but how? Where will she be? Perhaps Howles is on his way to see her now . . .
At that thought he was seized with panic. He snatched up his field-glasses and rushed out of the house. Howles was not in sight. Iain ran quickly along the path leading to Ardfalloch village. What a fool I was! he told himself. I should have watched to see which way the man went. How much start has he got while I’ve been thinking things over and wasting precious time?
Iain had not gone very far, however, before he saw Howles in front of him, picking his way rather carefully down the path. It had rained a lot in the night and the path was slippery and boggy in patches. Howles was more used to pavements than to Highland tracks full of tree roots and stones to trip unwary feet. Iain heaved a sigh of relief. The Inspector was going back to the inn for his Sunday dinner. He would be safe there for at least an hour—probably more. MacTaggart did himself and his clients well; Sunday dinner was a substantial meal at the inn. After he had partaken of MacTaggart’s Sunday dinner, Howles would want a rest and a pipe before he felt inclined for the long hot walk to Ardfalloch House.
Now that Howles was off his mind—temporarily at any rate—Iain turned his attention to the problem of finding Linda and getting her alone. How was this to be accomplished? He wondered if she had gone to church at Balnafin with the Hetherington Smiths. It was possible—it was even probable. If so, they would now be on their way back from Balnafin in the motor-launch. Would it be better to go out onto the Black Rock from whence he could see the loch, and watch for the boat, or to run back to Ardfalloch jetty and try to waylay her on her way up to the house? Of course, she might not have gone to church at all—there was that to be considered—but this looked like his best chance. It would be too risky to go up to the house and see her. Howles might easily find out that he had gone straight up to the house—it wouldn’t look well.
After thinking the matter over Iain decided to run back to Ardfalloch jetty. It really was his only chance. Even if he saw Linda in the launch from the rocks it would do him no good. He turned and ran back along the path, running easily and not too fast, for he had a long way to go—all round the bay—and he must conserve his energy. He was very fit and in good training, his open-air life had made him hardy, and he considered it a man’s duty to keep his body in good trim. He passed his own little cottage without stopping—Janet would wonder where he was, but that could not be helped.
The path mounted steeply between his cottage and Donald’s. When Iain reached the top of the hill he stopped for a moment and looked out over the loch. A launch was coming from the direction of Balnafin—it was his own launch and there were several people in it, but he could not make out who they were—even with his glasses. He could get to the jetty before the launch if he hurried, but there was no time to waste. As he passed Donald’s cottage a sudden thought struck him. Donald would not be there, of course—Donald would be in the launch—but there was Morag . . .
Iain jumped over the small fence, which protected Donald’s small garden plot from the depredations of the rabbits, and ran up to the door calling her name.
“Morag—am beil thu ann? Morag!”
Morag was cooking the Sunday dinner; she dropped a saucepan lid with a clatter and clutched the table for support. Her face was as white as a sheet.
“Ciod e a tha ort?” she cried. “Is it bad news, MacAslan?”
He was too excited to notice her agitation. He stood by the door, panting. “Morag,” he said, “listen—I want you to do something for me. There’s no time to explain—it’s important. I must see Mrs. Medworth alone—it’s—it’s absolutely essential. I think she’s in the launch. Will you run down to the jetty and tell her that I must see her—don’t let the others hear.”
Morag was quick-brained—she was already rearranging her pots and pans on the stove, so that Donald’s dinner should come to no harm in her absence. She caught up a shawl and flung it round her shoulders, and followed MacAslan out of the house.
He took her hand to help her up the hill, and they ran together. “You understand, don’t you,” he said. “I must see her either now, or directly after lunch—nobody must know.”
“I understand,” Morag told him, and then she added a little breathlessly, “Is it trouble, MacAslan?”
“No, it’s not trouble, Morag,” he replied. He looked at her face for the first time and marked its pallor. “I’m going too fast for you,” he added, slackening his pace.
Morag pulled him on. “It is not the pace,” she said, panting a little. “It is chust the fright. I was thinking, maybe, it wass trouble—trouble for Donald.”
Iain laughed. “Oh, that Donald of yours!” he exclaimed. “Are there any other thoughts in your head but Donald? He’s a lucky man, is Donald, to have such a loving wife.”
“It is not trouble for Donald, then?”
“No, it has nothing to do with Donald. Nothing at all.”
They had reached the edge of the trees by this time. Iain hid himself behind a convenient bush. The launch was coming into the little harbour, feeling her way carefully, for the tide was only about an hour past the ebb and there was scarcely enough water for her to cross the bar of sand. Donald was leaning over the side of the boat gazing down into the water.
From where he was hidden, Iain could see all that was happening; he saw Morag strolling down to the jetty; her red shawl made a brilliant patch of colour against the soft blues and greys of loch and sky; he saw, too, that Linda was in the launch, as he had hoped and expected. She was wearing a grey hat to-day, and, beneath its brim, her face was pale and strained. The field-glasses brought her very near, he could even see the small lines about her dear eyes—lines which had not been there at all a month ago.
Iain wondered how Linda would take his news. She could not help being pleased—and yet it was an uncomfortable thing to feel pleased at the news of a man’s death. How queer we are! Iain thought. I would have killed the man myself without a qualm—yes, I would have killed him—and yet, now that I hear he is dead, I find it an uncomfortable thing to be pleased.
They were disembarking now. Linda, Richard, Mrs. Hetherington Smith, and Sir Julius were the four members of the house-party who had attended church this morning. Iain could not help smiling to himself at the constitution of the church party. The two women had gone because they liked it; Richard had gone for the pleasure of going to Balnafin in the launch, and Sir Julius, obviously, because of Linda. Iain did not think the London doctor was the sort of man to attend church for the conventional reasons. Iain watched Morag anxiously, she was leaning over the edge of the jetty speaking to Donald—that was a good move, Iain thought, applauding her cleverness. The others would think—as they were meant to think—that Morag had come down to the jetty to speak to Donald about something. Richard had taken Morag’s hand and was smiling up into her face; Linda jumped lightly from the boat; Sir Julius was helping Mrs. Hetherington Smith; Donald had one hand on the jetty to steady the launch. He saw Morag turn and speak to Linda—she had done it. Nobody could have heard—except perhaps Richard, and Richard didn’t matter. They were all standing on the jetty, now. After a moment or two they began to walk up to the house, the three adults together with Richard running in front. Iain stayed where he was, waiting for Morag. He wondered what she had arranged.
“Well,” he said eagerly, as she came towards him.
“I told Mistress Medworth,” Morag said. “She will come out and meet MacAslan after lunch—it would be difficult to get away before. They would have been wondering where she was going.”
“You’ve done splendidly, Morag,” he told her.
Her eyes brightened at MacAslan’s praise; she was pleased that she had been able to do what he wanted, but she was rather curious to know the reason for the secrecy. It was pardonable curiosity; MacAslan meant so much to everybody in Ardfalloch; his affairs were of vital importance to them—and of vital interest. It seemed strange to Morag that MacAslan could not go up to the house and meet Mistress Medworth openly. He was going to marry her—everybody knew that—and Morag was glad. Mistress Medworth was a kind lady and pleasant. She had not so much money as Miss Finlay, and that was a pity, but you could not have everything. But surely, thought Morag, surely if they were going to be married there was nothing to prevent them from meeting openly—why all this secrecy? It was very strange, so it was. Perhaps Morag would not have troubled her head about the matter if she had not had another trouble on her mind, another secret thing that haunted her night and day.
She looked up sideways at MacAslan and smiled coaxingly. “Mistress Medworth is a very nice lady,” she said. “Kind and pretty, so she is.”
Iain smiled, too. He knew that Morag was dying to know all about it, but she would never put her questions into words. There was familiarity between Iain and his people, familiarity such as southerners can never know nor understand, but there was also a strong barrier of etiquette beyond which his people would not pass.
“I want to see Mrs. Medworth about something important,” Iain said. “A business matter. I should never be able to get her alone if I were to go up to the house.”
Morag nodded, half satisfied. What he said was true, but she felt that there was more in it than that.
“Mistress Medworth will be staying at Ardfalloch?” Morag said—it was half a question, half an assertion. She made it significant by the smile—the enigmatic smile—which accompanied it.
Iain sighed. “I hope so, Morag—I think so,” he told her.
“I am glad,” said Morag simply. “We will all be glad. She is a very nice lady.”
Iain went through the woods to meet Linda; he sat down near the gate which shut off the garden from the woods, and settled his back comfortably against a tree. He would miss his dinner, but that did not worry Iain; he was used to missing his meals when he was out shooting or fishing. He sat there for a long time, thinking about everything that had happened. It was very quiet in the wood, quiet and peaceful. The sunshine fell in golden slants between the branches of the trees. Presently a rabbit came out of its hole and looked at him with cocked ears. The rabbit reminded him of Richard and the picnic on the island—he smiled as he thought of Richard. It was nice to know that Richard was safe. It would be interesting to see Richard grow up and develop; there was good stuff in Richard. Iain thought: I shall be able to help Linda with him, and the thought pleased him.
He did not feel impatient, waiting for Linda, there was so much to think of, and he began to feel happy. Medworth’s death was now established in his mind, and he could turn his thoughts to the happiness that awaited him. He could see the future stretching out before him like a broad placid stream, with himself and Linda floating down the stream in a boat together.
There was so much to think of that the time passed quickly; he was almost surprised when he saw the side door open and Linda hurry across the garden towards him. Almost surprised, and altogether perplexed. He had not thought, until he saw her coming, of how he was going to tell Linda his news.
He went forward and took her hands. “I had to see you,” he said gravely.
“Yes,” she replied. “Morag told me—I came as soon as I could.”
“We’ll go up the burn,” Iain said.
They went along the little path by the side of the burn. It was coming down fast to-day, tumbling from pool to pool, hurrying along between the rocks as if it were in haste to reach the calm bosom of the loch. On the banks grew hazel trees, there were nuts forming on them now, but they would not be ripe for another month. The path crossed the burn by stepping-stones, slimy with weed. Iain took Linda’s hand, and he kept it in his as they went on. He did not want to tell her here; not until they had put a safe distance between themselves and a chance wanderer from the house. Iain knew the place where he wanted to tell Linda; it was quiet and secluded, they would not be disturbed.
In a little while they came to the place. The burn leapt over a rock in a miniature waterfall. Ferns grew in the crevices of the surrounding rocks, their pale fronds sparkled with drops of spray. An oak tree, stunted by the cold winds and unsuitable soil, hung over the cascade; it, too, had drops of water like diamonds upon its dark-green leaves.
Iain and Linda sat down on a sun-warmed stone, and looked at each other gravely.
“What is it, Iain?” she said.
He had been dreading this moment, wondering how he would answer the inevitable question, wondering how she would take the news he had to give her. After all, the man had been her husband, she must have pleasant memories of him as well as painful ones. Iain was suddenly jealous of those memories—jealous that another should share memories with her that he could not share. All those years that he had not known her rose up between them—she was mysterious to him. He felt—I don’t know Linda—can you ever really know another person, even if you want to with all your strength, even if you both want it?
She said again, “What is it? I can bear anything—anything but uncertainty.”
He still hesitated, wondering how he could tell her without shocking the fragile structure of her mind. At last he said, “A queer thing has happened, Linda.”
“A queer thing?”
“Medworth has—has disappeared.”
“Disappeared?” she asked, looking at him in bewilderment.
Iain nodded. “He has vanished. Nobody knows where he is. He never went to London at all.”
“But he must be somewhere—where is he?”
“They don’t know,” Iain said. He waited a little. It was better for her to get used to the idea gradually; better to let her mind work in its own way. She would begin to ask questions when she was ready.
She sat forward on the rock. He could see the curve of her white cheek and the knot of dusky hair on the nape of her white neck. Her hands were clasped together rather tightly upon her lap.
In a little she turned and looked at Iain. “Is he dead?” she asked in a low voice.
“Nobody knows,” Iain replied. “He has just—just vanished.”
“You know nothing about it?”
“Nothing, except what I’ve been told. I have not seen him nor heard of him since that afternoon at the cottage. You know that, Linda. I should have told you if I had heard anything.”
She was satisfied with his reply. For a moment she had been afraid—but she knew that Iain would not lie to her.
“Tell me all about it,” she said. “How did you hear?”
He told her about the Inspector’s visit and all that he had said. He softened down the high lights of the interview, and he did not allow it to appear that Howles had tried to trap him. He wanted to warn her that they must be careful, without frightening her—it was difficult because her brain was so quick to catch impressions. She was too intelligent to be deceived.
“You think this man is dangerous,” she said quietly.
“He would be if we were not entirely innocent,” replied Iain quickly.
“Jack threatened us.”
“But he doesn’t know that—and there is no way he could find out—if we’re careful.”
“Yes,” she said thoughtfully. “Go on, Iain.”
Iain went on. He glossed over the probability of Medworth’s death and dwelt more on the known fact of his disappearance. She listened to it all quietly, sitting very still with her face turned away from him, so that he could not see how she was taking it.
At last she said, “He must be dead, Iain—they would not have called in Scotland Yard unless they thought that.”
“People lose their memories—”
“Not Jack,” she said. “He must be—dead.” There was a little silence and then she added, “You think so, too.”
Iain did not answer. It was difficult to know what to say. She was upset, of course—it would not have been Linda if she could have heard of Medworth’s death unmoved. Iain hated Medworth at that moment—hated him more deeply than ever before.
“Isn’t it sad?” she said at last in a low voice. “Isn’t it dreadful to think that his life is finished, and he has made nothing of it—attained nothing—learnt no lessons? He has gone on—somewhere—with all that cruelty still in him. He hasn’t learnt anything at all from his life here. He loved Life, you know; he was full of Life, full of confidence in himself. He thought he knew all about Life, but he knew nothing—nothing at all. He was not ready to—to go on.”
“Perhaps he never would have learnt,” Iain said, following her train of thought.
She looked round at him quickly. “You think there is a Purpose?” she asked.
“We must think that, Linda. Otherwise everything is meaningless—a huge unhappy muddle.”
“I’m glad you think that. You think that lives are really complete—when they end.”
“Don’t you?” Iain asked her.
“But—murder,” she said, in an awed voice. “God couldn’t intend—murder.”
“Why should you imagine it was murder?” Iain exclaimed. “The man has disappeared—we know nothing more than that.”
“How could it be anything else? What other explanation is there? He left here to go to London. You know how full of confidence he was, how full of purpose—and he never went to London. Do you think he could have changed his mind so suddenly? You don’t know him, Iain. He tires of things after he has got them—tires very quickly—but, until he has got them, he pursues them—avidly.”
Iain thought: He pursues them as he was pursuing Richard—but he did not say that. He said, “Richard is safe. Have you thought of that, Linda?”
“I know,” she said. “It’s so difficult. I am feeling so many things all at once that I can’t feel any of them properly.” She twisted her hands together. “Richard is safe,” she said, “and I am free, and we shall not have to go through the ordeal of the Law Court . . . all this . . . all because . . . Jack is dead. I haven’t realised it yet . . . I can’t . . . Death is always dreadful. . . .”
Iain waited in silence for a few minutes and then he began to talk of Inspector Howles. He wanted to prepare her for the Inspector’s visit. It was important that they should both tell the same story—the same in every detail. Iain had told the Inspector the truth, but not the whole truth, and Linda must do the same.
“Do you think he will really come and see me?” Linda said. “I can’t see what he would gain. What could I tell him that he doesn’t know already?”
“He may ask you if you know whether Medworth had any enemies,” Iain replied—it was better for her to be prepared.
“I see,” said Linda. She thought about it for a few moments with a frown of concentration on her brow. “He had enemies, of course. He lived the sort of life that made him enemies. Racing and—and women are things that rouse passions in people. A lot of racing men disliked Jack, partly because he was successful and popular, and partly—partly because he was not—not generous in victory.”
Iain thought: I can imagine what he was like—how they must have hated him when he won! He said aloud, “But I’m afraid that wouldn’t be much use to Howles.”
“No, I suppose not,” Linda agreed. “He will want something more definite. There was a man who came to the flat and—and threatened Jack. It was something to do with a woman. He came twice, and the second time they quarrelled—I wasn’t in the room, of course, but I could hear them shouting at each other.”
“What happened?”
“Jack threw the man out—he was very strong,” she said simply.
It was a glimpse into her life, a strange horrifying glimpse. How she must have suffered! thought Iain. What indignities, what fears, what agonies of mind she must have endured! She was so fine in herself, her spirit was so delicate—how could she have borne such things?
Linda looked at him and smiled rather sadly. “Don’t look so miserable,” she said. “I bore these things—they hurt me at the time, but they taught me something. I don’t quite know what they taught me, but it is valuable, I am sure of that. Perhaps they taught me to endure, and to be able to recognise goodness when I see it. I was very ignorant before. Try to think of it like that, Iain. I would not be as I am if I had not suffered these things—and you like me as I am—”
“Linda!” he said huskily. He laid his hand on hers as it lay on the sun-warmed rock.
“You have been very good,” she continued, pressing his hand. “I do appreciate that. If you knew what it meant to me—your goodness, your consideration, your patience. Be patient just a little longer, Iain.”
He saw tears on her cheek, heard them in her voice. He felt as if his heart would burst. It was dreadful that she should be so unhappy, and that he could do nothing—he would have given his life gladly to protect her from pain.
“Oh, Linda!” he said again. His arm went round her and he drew her very gently against his shoulder. For a moment or two she stayed there, savouring his strength and gentleness. The peaty smell of his Harris jacket was in her nostrils, its rough hairy texture against her cheek—and then she unwound his arm and stood up.
“No,” she said brokenly. “Not yet—” and turned and fled from him down the stony path.