‘We don’t know what he meant. But it’s plain there are explanations to come. There’s a secret on every face in this room. What is it?’
I saw that for a moment Dr Jervie was at a loss. What he had to say required privacy and preparation: and meantime here was young Lindsay demanding truth. As a stop-gap I plunged in. ‘The first news is this. Ranald Guthrie is not dead. His plot against you, Mr Lindsay, stands; only he killed not himself but his elder brother, a doctor recently returned from Australia.’
Barely put it must have been next to unintelligible, and I don’t think Christine grasped a word. But Lindsay caught the central fact and held it. His eyes darkened. ‘Guthrie alive!’
Gylby from the window called out – the relief of even a moment’s diversion in his voice: ‘Another visitor in sight. And taking the same route.’
Christine spun round. ‘It must be Ewan Bell. He mustn’t take the ice!’ and she ran to the window.
We all followed. For a moment we could see only an indistinct figure scrambling down the further bank. Christine turned to Lindsay. ‘Neil,’ she said, ‘call to him – warn him.’ At the same moment the figure emerged into the full moonlight. She swayed beside me. ‘
Gylby leapt back into the schoolroom and plunged it in darkness. Sybil Guthrie whispered: ‘He must think the castle deserted. We’ve got him; oh, we’ve got him!’
But Lindsay took a great breath and shouted: ‘Back, man, back!’ And in the same instant the ice broke.
For a fraction of a second we were all immobile, staring at the circle of dark water that spread, it seemed with the slowness of oil, in the middle of the faintly glimmering ice. Then I felt myself thrust aside by a taut arm. It was Lindsay’s. And he leapt from the little terrace direct to the moat.
It looked fifteen feet but was probably less. And the drop was to snow. Gylby and I could only follow. As I jumped I heard Christine say: ‘I’ll get rope.’
Lindsay was only seconds ahead, but he had luck or an access of strength that took him up the farther side of the moat more quickly than we could manage. When we reached the edge of the lake he was already some way out on the ice, crawling forward flat on his stomach. Without pausing he called back to us ‘Not another man on the ice…get a rope across as quick as you can.’ And then he called out ahead: ‘Guthrie, can you hold on, man? I’m coming.’
I knew he was right. If Guthrie, as seemed likely, had been stunned as he went through, our best chance of getting him out was to put as little strain as possible on the surrounding ice: an extensive break-up might make rescue impossible even on this last narrow neck of loch. For the moment we could only stand and watch, prepared to do what we could should Lindsay too come to grief. And once and again the ice cracked ominously. I kicked off my shoes and began to strip. We were likely to be diving before it was over.
Christine came running up with a coil of rope. ‘All there is,’ she said quietly. ‘And not good.’
I glanced at the rope and then back to Lindsay: he was about half-way to his goal. ‘Better test it,’ I said, ‘and know what we’ve got.’ Rapidly Gylby and I paid it out yard by yard put what strain on it we could. It seemed sound but I had little trust in it: it was common wash-line stuff. And much too short to span the whole arm of ice. With luck it would reach just to where Guthrie had gone through.
We heard Lindsay’s voice – confident, absorbed. ‘Hold on, man, and you’ll be as right as rain. Do you think it’s this that Loch Cailie’s for on a brave winter night?’
Christine beside me gave a little gasp, stared rigidly out across the ice. ‘He’s seen him,’ I said. ‘And there’s nothing for it: I must take out the rope.’
Gylby said: ‘I’ll be lighter on the ice.’ But I was already crawling in the wake of Lindsay. Guthrie was apparently conscious and clinging to some sufficiently strong rim of ice; Lindsay had almost reached him; I thought it likely I could get the rope to them. Only once did I feel the ice crack, and but for a strange intermittent tremor in it I should have had comparatively little fear. Lindsay’s voice came back to me. ‘I’ve got him. Let me have the rope from as far away as you can manage.’ I got cautiously to my hands and knees and threw the rope. The ice cracked beneath the movement but when I got down again on my stomach it was steady under me. And again Lindsay’s voice came back ‘Got it. Get back and all pull gently when I say.’
I got back as quickly as I could, feeling the tremor in the ice grow as I crawled. Lindsay’s hail came before I had reached the shore. For a moment we pulled against a dead weight – and certainly a weight for which the rope had never been designed. Then it moved. Lindsay’s voice came in triumph. ‘He’s out! Long and steady.’
I was aware that the tremor in the ice was now a faint vibration in the air, the ghost of a low moan. And just as we had got the almost inert body to safety it rose in pitch. Wind from up the loch. Lindsay’s voice came, rapid and controlled: ‘Rope again – if you can.’ A second later, sharp against the murmur of that swift and treacherous wind, came the splintering repercussion of a widely breaking surface.
‘Lindsay!’
There was no reply. I took one look at Christine Mathers and ran out over the now working ice.
6
The chill of that water is still in my bones. And more, I should think, in Noel Gylby’s. He was seconds behind me; he worked for an hour after he had hauled me out. But what haunts my memory with a dragging irony is the small scale of it all. Daylight showed how narrow is that last arm of the loch. It is not even very deep. And we were struggling with floating fragments of ice that a boy could pick up and pitch against a stone. Yet I do not think we failed to make every effort we could. In that sudden flaw of mountain wind the numbing water and the driving ice made a little Arctic hell. And from up the loch a powerful undercurrent was pulling, threatening again and again to draw us under an unbreakable barrier. It was days before the body of Neil Lindsay was recovered.
My head was injured; and because of that joined to exhaustion I must have lain unconscious for some time. When I recovered I found Wedderburn with a brandy flask and Ewan Bell the cobbler bending over me. I struggled up and asked a question.
Wedderburn shook his head. ‘I am afraid there is no hope. He is drowned.’
‘Miss Mathers?’
‘Miss Guthrie and Jervie have taken her back to the house.’ I turned round and saw lying near me the body of the rescued man. It stirred as I glanced. My mind through its unconsciousness had still, I think, been working in terms of mere accident and danger. It was now flooded by the knowledge of tragedy. And my face must have shown this. For Wedderburn said: ‘At least, now she need not be told until some proper time.’
I staggered to my feet impatiently. ‘Ranald Guthrie,’ I said; ‘you reckon without him still.’
Bell strode over to the prostrate figure and held up a lantern. He moved an arm, a hand into the light – a hand from which a couple of fingers had been amputated long ago. ‘Ian Guthrie,’ he said. ‘Ranald is dead.’
‘Dead! You are sure?’ My head still swimming, I stared at him stupidly.
The old man straightened up. ‘Certain. I killed him.’
PART SEVEN
A CONCLUSION BY EWAN BELL
1
Yesterday I had a letter from Christine. The postmark –
Fient the change, though, could you find in the Kinkeig folk. Mistress Johnstone herself brought the letter over from the post-office and stood about for near ten minutes, fell interested in other folk’s old shoon. ‘Read your letter, Mr Bell,’ she said, ‘and never mind me.’ And half an hour later in came the schoolmistress, her nose maybe a ghost of a bittock longer than the wintry day she went up the glen to the meikle house. Would I take a ticket, she was
