say. Then — losh!
Laura, closely regarding the red beard and the tall figure of her host, had no difficulty in believing some of this.
‘Then you come from the east coast or, possibly, the Orkneys,’ she said. He looked pained.
‘Not necessarily. Not necessarily at all. Is it unknown to you that the Vikings sailed as far west as Ireland? However, be that as it may, this salamander grew as big as a boa-constrictor that time the house was on fire and he was used to spitting — like this!’ He leaned forward and expectorated into the heart of the glowing peat. ‘Ay, and woe betide the chiel on whom he would be voiding his rheum. Wait until I shew you.’
He rose and went over to the sideboard, a massive affair in bog-oak on which the tray and the glasses which had held the sherry were still standing. There was a key in the cupboard drawer. He turned it and pulled open the stout door. Putting in a huge and hirsute hand, he took out a couple of small ornaments, placed them on the floor and then dived in for a couple more. These objects he brought to the table, which still bore its white, beautifully- laundered cloth.
‘I say! They’re nice,’ said Laura. They were beautifully modelled, inches only in height and length, and they represented the fabulous creatures of which she and her host had been talking. They would have made wonderful chessmen, she thought. When she had sufficiently admired them the red-bearded man put them away, and then returned to his chair.
‘Did you ever meet Shakespeare?’ he enquired.
‘Only once,’ said Laura, ‘and then I wasn’t sure who it was.’ Better humour the madman, she decided.
‘Ay, meeting him on the Cam instead of on the Avon must have been very confusing. Yes, yes, your mind would have been confused,’ he observed. Laura thought it was time to depart.
‘It’s confused now, too,’ she said, ‘because I’m most terribly tired. Will you excuse me if I go? I’ve had a long day.’
‘Surely, surely, lassie. Up you go to your bed. How long are you staying?’
‘I have to get back to Freagair,’ said Laura. ‘I am staying there at the hotel. I’ve booked a room.’
‘Oh, never fash about that. You must stay a week here. I insist, now.’
‘You’re very kind,’ said Laura, ‘but…’
‘Havers! Havers! Off to your bed. Breakfast will be at nine.’
‘Good night, and thank you ever so much for your hospitality. I’ll leave your dressing-gown on the banisters, shall I?’ she asked, anxious only to be out of the house.
‘That will be fine. Good night.’
She discovered, when she gained her room, that the rain had stopped and that a watery moon was riding in a sky half-clear, half-cloudy. Laura decided that her clothes would have been laid out or hung out in the kitchen and that in a house the size of An Tigh Mor there would be a back stair leading to the servants’ quarters. Kilting the borrowed dressing-gown, which she was wearing over a petticoat belonging to the woman, and kicking off borrowed slippers, the property of the manservant Corrie, she set out to explore.
At the end of the long landing she found a door, and beyond it were the back stairs, as she had anticipated. She crept, barefoot, to the kitchen, found it deserted, as she had hoped, and groped around in the pale, thin moonlight for her clothes. They were not completely dry, but she decided that they were wearable. She carried them and her shoes up to her room. She retained the strong feeling that leave An Tigh Mor and the Island of Ghosts she must, and that forthwith. Laura, like Old Meg the gipsy, was tall as Amazon and brave as Margaret queen; nevertheless, the crazy owner, with his fixation on fabulous animals, his reputation, according to Mrs Grant, of being an implacable enemy, and his determination that Laura should extend her impromptu visit, drove her to take flight. She pulled on her damp and chilly garments, put on her soggy shoes and stuffed her stockings into a pocket. Then she hung the dressing-gown over the top of the banisters and crept downstairs again to the front door.
It was unlocked, but a light showing under the Library door proved that the man had not gone to bed, so Laura decided to try the back door. This was bolted but not locked, so, with the utmost circumspection, she set about drawing back the bolts. As though to aid her escape, the sound of bagpipes came from the front of the house. Someone was playing a lament
Laura got the door open, and, horribly uncomfortable in her damp clothing and sodden shoes, stepped out into the policies and round the side of the house. She was thankful for the moonlight. Without it she could hardly have found her way. She darted to the boathouse and there received a shock, for a man rose out of the shadows and demanded:
‘Tell me where you are going!’
‘Quick! Don’t stop me! Help me row! Doctor! No time to lose!’ said Laura. She climbed into the tub-like boat. The man hesitated. ‘Come on!’ she said fiercely. To her relief, he obeyed and they pushed out on to the loch. There was but one pair of oars and with these, using a short, stabbing sort of stroke, the man drove the clumsy boat across the water. ‘Where’s the nearest telephone?‘ asked Laura, as the boat reached the jetty and she stepped ashore while the man held on to a length of chain put there for the purpose.
‘Three miles. Maybe I should go for you,’ said the man. He pointed in the direction which Laura wanted to take; this to her relief.
‘No, no,’ she said. ‘Better get back to the house. You may be needed.’
The man gripped her arm.
‘What way would you be knowing a doctor might be needed? Tell me!’ he said, in very low but fierce and threatening tones. Laura wrenched herself away.
‘Get back to the house!’ she said. She was brave enough and self-confident enough, but the whole adventure had been bizarre in the extreme and her damp clothes were making her chilly. Suddenly the piping, which sounded clearly across the lake, increased in volume. It skirled and screamed. It rose higher and higher. It sounded as
