Michael Innes - Lament for a Maker

Jervie walked to the window and gazed out. Without turning round he said in a low voice: ‘No.’

A futile debate. I tried to stop it. ‘There is no utility in discussing keeping quiet. Quite apart from ethical issues, it just wouldn’t help. Ranald would keep an eye on what was happening. When he found his plot against Lindsay had failed and that the young people were off to Canada it is overwhelmingly likely he would see to it they learnt the truth.’

Sybil said: ‘Find Ranald. Make a bargain. Silence for silence.’

I shook my head. ‘He is an old man and he could break his bargain at his death. That the truth should come upon them after years of marriage – one couldn’t take the responsibility of that. If only because it is impossible to know how they themselves would look back on our silence. There is no soft way out.’

From the window Jervie said in a new voice. ‘There’s somebody coming.’

I crossed the room and we both stepped out once more on the little terrace. A car was approaching the castle; its headlamps, faint in the moonlight, were sweeping the narrow arm of the loch that ran nearly to the moat. The lights caught us for a moment and circled right to follow the drive round the stretch of frozen water. Then they stopped. ‘The dip by the last turn of the drive,’ Jervie said. ‘It was most a slushy bog when we came; I suppose the car can’t get through.’ A minute later two figures appeared on the further verge, scrambled down the bank and began rapidly to cross the ice. Half-way they came into the full moonlight and we recognized Neil Lindsay and Christine Mathers.

They were hand in hand. I think their spirits were high: in leaving the blocked drive to take a short cut over the ice they were doing a foolhardy thing. The ice was already cracking everywhere; they must have felt it cracking beneath them; they quickened their pace and I believe they were laughing as they ran. They were young, resilient, and they had escaped that day from the shadow of great danger. Suddenly we heard Christine’s voice, clear and eager, calling out something about the night. I felt Jervie brace himself as the sound floated up to us. ‘It must be tonight,’ he said. ‘I will go and let them in.’

From below, distinguishable now, came Christine’s voice. ‘Impossible shoes! Lift me, Neil.’

5

They came running down the corridor and into the schoolroom, Jervie – who had meant, I fancy, to take them to another room – out-distanced behind. I looked from one to the other. They were indeed resilient. They were happy.

‘Don’t anyone try to cross the ice! The next man will go in.’ Christine tossed off her hat and looked about her – first at her own room and then at the people in it. She ran over to Sybil Guthrie. ‘Miss Guthrie of Erchany! Bring peace and sanity to the castle – and fun and good plumbing too.’ She glanced round us again. ‘But where’s Ewan Bell?’

Jervie said gently: ‘You expected him to be here?’

‘Of course. He said he was going to meet us and the lawyers here for explanations – explanations that were to be kept private. I don’t know–’

She had been unaware in her excitement of the atmosphere in the room; she caught it now and suddenly fell silent. And Lindsay, who had been standing quietly by the door watching us all, spoke.

‘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. ‘ Uncle Ranald! ’ And Lindsay echoed ‘ Guthrie! ’

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.’