Murder At Deviation Junction

he whipped on the frozen nag. He was alongside us in a moment, making mock of the three-mile stride we'd just completed.

    'First ye're a traitor to hum,' he said, addressing Bowman and pointing the gun towards me, 'and then ye're after selling us doon the river. Well, it's awfy cauld, so here's somethin' to warm yer Sassenach guts -'

    The gun had swung back to Bowman, and the bullet was loosed at that moment, but in the same instant I fancied that I saw a flash of Marriott in the old-fashioned boxer pose, and he and his son fell on Small David as he fired. Marriott and Small David fell to scrapping in the cart; I was right by the horse's head, and that beast looked at me while the vehicle rocked behind him, as if to say, 'Look what I have to put up with.'

    Marriott was now standing in the cart, steadying himself like a man riding a raft over rapids, even though the cart did not move. His face was a wall of blood held up proudly to the floating snow (for the stuff was coming down again). He held the revolver in his hand, and Small David rolled in the well of the cart at his feet.

    Marriott did not use words. He was beyond that; he spoke with the gun. He waved it to mean that Bowman and I should climb up; then once again to get Small David back in the driving seat. Even though he'd lost hold of the revolver, the Scotsman was in a better way than the lawyer. In fact, he looked just as he had done before the set-to, with his indestructible country suit, and his great calves smoothly enclosed in the yellow stockings.

    He muttered a little to himself as he started us away, but did not seem too downhearted. He'd lost that particular round of the match, that was all. And we did not gallop; instead, the horse trotted along the track, as Marriott swabbed his wounds with a handkerchief, and Richie sat with head in hands, watching the bags belonging to the three rolling against his boots. There was more of blue in the Highland greyness now, and the tops of the hills were becoming clearer, just as though they had lately taken up their habitual place around us.

    It was an alteration that passed for dawn on that day.

    Bowman sat over opposite Small David; I in the same relation to Richie. We were going back the way we'd come the day before. Every turn of the wheels brought us nearer the railway station, and I was glad of that until I remembered that it would most likely not be working on such a day, and that it was not manned in any case. When we'd been riding for ten minutes, the lawyer spoke directly to his son for the first time in my hearing.

    'Richard,' he said, 'you have the key, I take it?'

    Richie removed his gloves and began hunting through the pockets of his topcoat, but he was shaking his head even as he did so.

    'I don't believe so,' he said.

    'But I told you to bring it.'

    Richie shook his head very sadly.

    'Nothing was said about it, father.'

    Marriot was hunting through his pockets as he drove the cart.

    'It's all right,' he said presently. 'I have it here.'

    As I wondered what the key was for, Small David turned about, and I saw that he was grinning, even though the gun was on him.

Chapter Twenty-eight

    We drove on through that white world, until the stone house with the antlers on the walls floated into view, and then I understood the talk of a key. The snow had drifted against the house's walls, and I could not make out the door. It looked the part of a prison, and that is what it would become.

    Marriott ordered Small David down from the carriage, and he passed him the key.

    Small David approached the house with the gun on him. On the way, he kicked a heather bush, shaking off the snow and disclosing a small yellow flower, which set him cursing anew.

    He found the door, and opened it while looking in my direction.

    'Polis!' he called. 'Dree yer ain weird.'

    That's what it sounded like at any rate.

    The gun in the lawyer's hand wavered my way, and I climbed down.

    Small David called again, 'Ye'll bide here too, bottle man,' and Bowman followed me through the door, which Small David clapped shut behind us without further speech. I could not hear the cart rattle away, for the stone of the walls was too thick.

    'Had a moment of alarm back there,' said Bowman. I could hear him but not see him in that freezing tank, for there was no light at all.

    'Came within half an ace of being shot.'

    'It's one bloody turn-about after another,' I said, not over- kindly. 'Where are you?'

    'I don't know,' he said.

    There was a strong, sweet smell of old hay - the place was something between a barn and a house. I crouched down. The floor was made of stone flags, horribly cold to the touch. As the darkness began to resolve, I made out a low line of whiteness to my right.

    'Well, I've found the door again,' I said, making towards it.

    'Always a useful preliminary to making an exit,' said Bowman, and I could somehow tell from his voice that he was sitting down. He spoke in a level voice - he was even amused by the fix we were in. Before, he'd been as nervous as a cat. Now he was a new man.

    'Are we 'o'er the burran'?' I asked him.

    'No, no, that was Small David's scheme. This is Marriott's doing.'

    'What is 'o'er the burran'?'

    'A stream in Scots is a burn. There's one near the cottage. Beyond it is a black bog. He meant to put you in there.'

    'I wouldn't have liked that,' I said.

    'I hardly think that would have influenced him one way or another - and there'd have been a bullet in your head in any case.'

    'But Marriott stopped him, not having the stomach for a murder.'

    'He doesn't have the stomach for another murder. It's a point of pride with him that he can achieve his ends without further killing.'

    'And now they're off.'

    'The object is to go to France. Dieppe. Do you know it? And then on. They have a passage booked for tomorrow night.'

    'But first they have to get to Inverness.'

    'You have found the flaw in the scheme.'

    'Why doesn't Marriott see it?'

    'He's living on hope. He thinks there might yet be a train that way today.'

    'I'm going to have a run at this door,' I said.

    'I doubt you'll succeed.'

    I charged, shoulder first. The door barely gave an inch.

    I did it again; and again.

    I sat down on the stone flags, nursing a sore shoulder.

    'They build a good ruin, these Scots,' said Bowman.

    We sat in silence for a space, listening out for any passing cart or pedestrian.

    'How do the Club come to have the key to this place?' I said, after a few minutes of frozen silence.

    Bowman sighed.

    'I'm going to tell you everything I know,' he said, and as we listened out for any passing cart, he disclosed most of the remaining mysteries, the tale beginning December last in Saltburn, the model seaside town that lies between Whitby and Middlesbrough. As Bowman began, I pictured the place in winter: the sea wind blowing