Lamb Island…. Inconsequentially it made her think of legends, not of Irish chiefs long dead or tribal feuds, but of sacrifices to ancient gods before the dawn of history. Stone altars in a glade. A lamb with its throat cut lying amidst the ashes of a fire. She wondered how far it was from the shore. Distances were hard to judge by night. A stream on her left ran down into the lake, fringed by reeds. She advanced towards it, picking her way carefully amongst the pebbles and the mud, and then she saw the boat, tied to a stump, and the figure of a man standing beside it.
He was staring in her direction. Foolish panic seized her, and she backed away. It was no good, though. He walked swiftly up the mud and stood beside her.
'Were you looking for someone?' he said.
He was a young man, strongly built, wearing a fisherman's jersey and dungarees. He spoke with the local accent.
'No,' Shelagh answered, 'no, I'm a visitor to the district. It was a lovely evening and I thought I'd take a walk.'
'A lonely spot for a walk. Have you come far?'
'Only from Ballyfane,' she told him. 'I'm staying at the Kilmore Arms.'
'I see,' he said. 'You're here for the fishing, maybe. The fishing is better the other side of Ballyfane.'
'Thank you. I'll remember that.'
There was a pause. Shelagh wondered if she should say any more or whether she should turn and go, bidding him a cheerful goodnight. He was looking beyond her shoulder towards the footpath, and she heard the sound of somebody else's footsteps squelching through the mud. Another figure loomed out of the shadow and advanced towards them. Shelagh saw that it was the postmaster from Ballyfane. She was not sure whether to be sorry or relieved.
'Good evening again,' she said, her voice a shade too hearty. 'You see I didn't wait until morning after all, I found my way successfully, thanks to your advice.'
'So,' replied the postmaster. 'I noticed your car up there on the road parked by the turning, and thought it best to follow in case you came to harm.'
'That was kind of you,' said Shelagh. 'You shouldn't have bothered.'
'No bother at all. Better be sure than sorry.' He turned to the young man in the fisherman's jersey. 'It's a fine night, Michael.'
'It is, Mr O'Reilly. This young lady tells me she's here for the fishing. I've explained she'll have better sport the other side of Ballyfane.'
'That's true, if it's fishing she's after,' said the postmaster, and he smiled for the first time, but unpleasantly, too knowing. 'The young lady was in the post office this evening asking for Commander Barry. She was surprised he was not on the telephone.'
'Fancy that, now,' said the young man, and disconcertingly he produced a torch from his pocket and flashed it in her face. 'Excuse the liberty, miss, but I haven't had the pleasure of meeting you before. If you'd care to tell me your business with the Commander I will pass on the message.'
'Michael here lives on Lamb Island,' said the postmaster. 'He's by way of being a watch-dog to the Commander, and keeps unwelcome visitors at bay, you might say.'
He said this with the same knowing smile which she found so unpleasant, and she wished she could be away and out of it, back in the neat little bedroom at the Kilmore Arms, not here beside the sinister lake with these two strange men.
I'm afraid I can't give a message,' she said. 'It's a private matter. Perhaps it would be better if I wrote to Commander Barry from the hotel. He isn't expecting me, you see. It's all rather difficult.'
Her loss of composure was evident to the two men. She saw them exchange glances. Then the young man jerked his head at the postmaster and drew him aside, and they spoke together out of earshot. Her uneasiness increased.
The young man turned back to her. 'I tell you what I'll do,' and he was smiling now, but a shade too broadly. 'I'll run you over to the island in the boat, and the Commander shall decide for himself whether he wants to see you or not.'
'Oh no…' said Shelagh, backing away, 'not tonight. It's much too late. I'll come back in the morning, and you can run me across then.'
'It would be better to get it over with tonight,' said Michael.
Get it over with? What did he mean? A few months ago she had boasted to some friends after a first-night party that she had never been frightened of anything in her life, except drying-up. She was frightened now.
'They'll be waiting up for me at the hotel,' she said quickly. 'If I don't return soon Mr Doherty will get in touch with the police.'
'Don't fret yourself,' said the postmaster. 'I have a friend standing by up the road. He'll drive your car back to the Kilmore Arms and we'll make it all right between us with Tim Doherty.'
Before she could protest further they had seized her arms and were marching her between them down to the boat. It can't be true, she thought, it can't be happening, and a strangled sob escaped her, like that of a terrified child.
'Ah, sshh now,' said Michael, 'no one's going to touch a hair of your head. You said yourself it's a fine night. It's finer still on the water. You may see the fish jumping.'
He helped her into the boat and pushed her firmly on the stern seat. The postmaster remained on shore. That's better, she thought, at least there's only one of them.
'So long, Mr O'Reilly,' Michael called softly, starting the engine, then loosening the painter from the mooring- post.
'So long, Michael my boy,' called the postmaster.
The boat glided away from the reeds on to the open lough, the chug-chug of the little engine quiet, subdued. The postmaster waved his hand, then turned back and started walking up the shore towards the footpath.
The journey from mainland to island took barely five minutes, but seen from the lake the mainland appeared dark, remote, the hills in the distance an ominous smudge. The comforting lights of Ballyfane were out of sight. She had never felt so vulnerable, so alone. Michael said nothing until the boat drew in alongside a small landing-stage built out from the narrow shore. The trees clustered thickly to the water's edge. He tied up the boat, then held out his hand to her.
'Now then,' he said when he had helped her on to the landing-stage, 'the truth is that the Commander is away at a meeting the other side of the lough, but he should be back by midnight or thereabouts. I'll take you up to the house and the steward will look after you.'
The steward… The Ballyfane castle and the Georgian mansion had returned to the land of fantasy whence they had sprung, but steward had a mediaeval ring to it, Malvolio with a tapering staff, stone steps leading to an audience chamber. Wolf-hounds guarding doors. A faint measure of confidence returned to her.
Michael was not going to strangle her under the trees.
Surprisingly, the house was revealed after little more than a hundred yards, set in a clearing amidst the trees. A long, low, one-storied building, built surely of timber put up in sections, like pictures of relief hospitals erected by missionaries in jungles for sick natives. A verandah ran the whole length of it, and as Michael led her up the steps and paused before a door marked Galley Entrance a dog barked from within, not the deep-throated baying of a wolf-hound but shriller, sharper, and Michael laughed, turned to her and said, 'They don't need me as watchdog when Skip's around. She'd smell strangers twenty miles away.'
The door opened. A short, stocky, middle-aged man stood before them, dressed in the uniform of a naval steward.
'A small problem for you, Bob,' said Michael. 'The young lady here was wandering down by the lough just now in the darkness and all, and it appears she was enquiring off Mr O'Reilly for the Commander.'
The steward's face remained impassive, but his eyes travelled down from Shelagh's face to her clothes, and her jacket pockets in particular.
'There's nothing on her,' said Michael, 'and she must have left her handbag in the car beside the road. The young lady is staying up at the Arms, but we thought it best to bring her straight here. You never can tell.'
'Please come inside, miss,' said the steward to Shelagh, his voice courteous but firm. 'You're from England, I take it.'
