Десмонд Бэгли - Landslide

She said from close behind me, ‘Looks a bit like you, don’t you think?’

I turned. ‘I’m not that big. He’d make six of me.’

She had changed her shirt and was wearing a well-cut pair of slacks that certainly hadn’t been bought off any shelf. She said, ‘I’ve just been in to see Jimmy. I think he’ll be all right.’

‘I didn’t hit him harder than necessary,’ I said. ‘Just enough to teach him manners.’ I waved my arm about the room. ‘Some shack!’

‘Boyd, you make me sick,’ she said coldly. ‘And you can get the hell out of here. You have a dirty mind if you think I’m shacked up with Jimmy Waystrand.’

‘Hey!’ I said. ‘You jump to an awful fast conclusion, Trinavant. All I meant was that this is a hell of a place you have here. I didn’t expect to find this in the woods, that’s all.’

Slowly the pink spots in her cheeks died away, and she said, ‘I’m sorry if I took you the wrong way. Maybe I’m a little jumpy right now, and if I am, you’re responsible, Boyd.’

‘No apology necessary, Trinavant.’

She began to giggle and it developed into a full-throated laugh. I joined in and we had an hysterical thirty seconds. At last she controlled herself. ‘No,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘That won’t do. You can’t call me Trinavant — you’d better make it Clare.’

‘I’m Bob,’ I said. ‘Hello, Clare.’

‘Hello, Bob.’

‘You know, I didn’t really mean to imply that Jimmy was anything to you,’ I said. ‘He isn’t man enough for you.’

She stopped smiling and, folding her arms, she regarded me for a long time. ‘Bob Boyd, I’ve never known another man who makes my hackles rise the way you do. If you think I judge a man by the way he behaves in a fight you’re dead wrong. The trouble with you is that you’ve got logopaedia — every time you open your mouth you put your foot in it. Now, for God’s sake, keep your mouth shut and get me a drink.’

I moved towards what looked like the drinks cabinet. ‘You shouldn’t steal your wisecracks from the Duke of Edinburgh,’ I said. ‘That’s verging on lèse majesté. What will you have?’

‘Scotch and water — fifty-fifty. You’ll find a good Scotch in there.’

Indeed it was a good Scotch! I lifted out the bottle of Islay Mist reverently and wondered how long ago it was since Hamish McDougall had seen Clare Trinavant. But I said nothing about that. Instead, I kept my big mouth shut as she had advised and poured the drinks.

As I handed her the glass she said, ‘How long have you been in the woods this trip?’

‘Nearly two weeks.’

‘How would you like a hot bath?’

‘Clare, for that you can have my soul,’ I said fervently. Lake water is damned cold and a man doesn’t bathe as often as he should when in the field.

She pointed. ‘Through that door — second door on the left. I’ve put towels out for you.’

I picked up my glass. ‘Mind if I take my drink?’

‘Not at all.’

The bathroom was a wonder to behold. Tiled in white and dark blue, you could have held a convention in there — if that was the kind of convention you had in mind. The bath was sunk into the floor and seemed as big as a swimming-pool, and the water poured steaming out of the faucet. And there was a plenitude of bath towels, each about an acre in extent.

As I lay soaking I thought about a number of things. I thought of the possible reason why Clare Trinavant should bring up the name of Howard Matterson when I brought up the subject of her marriage. I thought of the design of the labels of Scotch, especially on those from the island of Islay. I thought of the curve of Clare Trinavant’s neck as it rose from the collar of her shirt. I thought of a man I had never seen — Bull Matterson — and wondered what he was like in appearance. I thought of the tendril of hair behind Clare Trinavant’s ear.

None of these thoughts got me anywhere in particular, so I got out of the bath and finished the Scotch while I dried myself. As I dressed I became aware of music drifting through the cabin — some cabin! — which drowned out the distant throbbing of a diesel generator, and when I got back to Clare I found her sitting on the floor listening to the last movement of Sibelius’s First Symphony.

She waved me to the drinks cabinet and held up an empty glass, so I gave us both a refill and we sat quietly until the music came to an end. She shivered slightly and pointed to the moonlit view down the valley. ‘I always think the music is describing this.’

‘Finland has pretty much the same scenery as Canada,’ I said. ‘Woods and lakes.’

One eyebrow lifted. ‘Not only a backwoods cavalier, but an educated one.’

I grinned at her. ‘I’ve had a college education, too.’

She coloured a little and said quietly, ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. It was bitchy, wasn’t it?’

‘That’s all right.’ I waved my hand. ‘What made you build here?’

‘As your mysterious informant has probably told you, I was brought up around here. Uncle John left me this land. I love it, so I built here.’ She paused. ‘And, since you’re so well informed, you probably know that he wasn’t really my uncle.’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I have only one criticism. Your rifles and shotguns need cleaning more often.’

‘I don’t use them now,’ she said. ‘I’ve lost the taste for killing animals just for fun. I do my shooting with a camera now.’

I indicated the close-up of the snapping jaws of the brown bear. ‘Such as that?’ She nodded, and I said, ‘I hope you had your rifle handy when you took that shot.’

‘I was in no danger,’ she said. We fell into a companionable silence, looking into the fire. After a few minutes, she said, ‘How long will you be working for Matterson, Bob?’

‘Not long. I’ve just about got the job cleaned up now — with the exception of the Trinavant land.’ I smiled. ‘I think I’ll give that a miss — the owner is a shade tetchy.’

‘And then?’ Clare questioned.

‘And then back to the North-West Territories.’

‘Who do you work for up there?’

‘Myself.’ I told her a little of what I was doing. ‘I hadn’t been going for more than eighteen months when I made a strike. It brought me in enough to keep me going for the next five years and in that time I didn’t find a thing that was worth anything. That’s why I’m here working for Matterson — getting a stake together again.’

She was thoughtful. ‘Looking for the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow?’

‘Something like that,’ I admitted. ‘And you? What do you do?’

‘I’m an archaeologist,’ she said unexpectedly.

‘Oh!’ I said, rather inadequately.

She roused herself and turned to look at me. ‘I’m not a dilettante, Bob. I’m not a rich bitch playing around with a hobby until I can find a husband. I really work at it — you should read the papers I’ve written.’

‘Don’t be so damned defensive,’ I said. ‘I believe you. Where do you do your prospecting?’

She laughed at that. ‘Mostly in the Middle East, although I’ve done one dig in Crete.’ She pointed to a small statuette of a woman bare to the waist and in a flounced skirt. ‘That came from Crete — the Greek government let me bring it out.’

I picked it up. ‘I wonder if this is Ariadne?’

‘I’ve had that thought.’ She looked across at the window. ‘Every year I try to come back here. The Mediterranean lands are so bare and treeless — I have to come back to my own place.’

‘I know what you mean.’

We talked for a long time while the fire died. I don’t remember now exactly what we talked about — it was just about the trivialities that went to make up our respective lives. At last, she said, ‘My God, but I’m suddenly sleepy. What time is it?’