Chapter 14

 

   The panoramic evening views from the windows of the lounge bar of the Balbeg hotel were quite breathtaking. Custom was brisk and the bar was crowded as news of the previous night's tumultuous events had stirred the island and folks were clamouring for gossip. The buzz of conversation was already drowning out the country music playing from the speakers mounted strategically around the walls. Cameron the proprietor seemed pleased as yet another car pulled up outside the hotel.
   Donald O'Hare was seated at the far end of the bar, his glass brimming in his hand, a captive audience gathered around him. O'Hare spotted the tall frame of Bob Holmes ducking as he strolled in and leaned towards his audience, his voice lowered conspiratorially.
   'Remember a couple of years ago, my friends,' he began. 'Thon story of Roddy Morrison and the monster salmon in the Waterfall Pool?'
   Holmes frowned as he walked up to the bar. He could tell by the smiling looks he was getting that it was more than likely he was to be the butt of some humour.
   'Telling fairy tales again, Donald?' he asked, nodding to the barman for his usual half pint of lager. 'And I suppose you would be wanting a drink for your efforts.'
   'Ah,' said O'Hare, gratefully accepting the offer with a polite nod. 'It is good to see the long legs of the law again, as well as the rest of him. And have you found Roddy yet?'
   Holmes frowned as the eyes of everyone at the bar focused on him.
   'Now now, Donald,' he said politely. 'This is a police investigation, so you know I can't discuss it.' Holmes then noticed Rory perched on a bar stool near the windows. 'I see they finally let you out of the hospital Rory,' he greeted, 'would you be wanting a drink?'
   'Oh well now,' said Rory, his eyes lighting up. 'That would be very welcome. Mind you, I'm giving up the drink, you know.'
   'Are you now?' said Holmes, handing him a fresh glass. 'Glad to hear it my friend.'
   'Oh yes,' said Rory, wrinkling his veined nose as he sniffed his glass. 'Tomorrow is a new day.'
   'Would anyone else like a drink?' asked Holmes, but was greeted by polite shakes of the head.
   'Well, Bob,' said O'Hare, 'as you are obviously hot on the case, you've come to the right place, for I was about to tell these good folks a little story concerning our friend Roddy.'
   'Were you now?' sighed Holmes, reaching across the counter for his drink. 'Thank you Jamie, and will you have one yourself?'
   Cameron abstained and then took advantage of a lull in orders to wash and dry a few glasses.
   'What about this monster salmon then?' asked one of the young men in the bar.
   'Yes,' said O'Hare, waving his arm with a flourish, 'but what Roddy didn't know that fateful night was that our good friend here – Sergeant Holmes to those of you who need an introduction – was further upstream near the waterfall, perched precariously in a rhododendron bush overhanging the banks of the river. You see, he'd been trying to catch Roddy poaching salmon for quite some time.'
   Holmes rolled his eyes to the ceiling.
   'And the circumstances were odd,' continued O'Hare mysteriously, 'to say the least.'
   'Were they now?' muttered Holmes, sipping his lager.
   'Just how big was this salmon anyway?' asked someone at the bar.
   At that moment, Jock Thompson wandered in without his brother, which raised a few curious eyebrows. He politely pushed his way to the counter and cast a furtive glance at Holmes before nodding a brief greeting.
   'Hello Jimmy,' said O'Hare. 'And where is Jock?'
   'Jimmy is at home,' said Jock promptly, and let the subject drop.
   'Your good health,' said Rory, holding up his glass.
   'Nice to see you back in the land of the living Rory,' nodded Jock, trying to be sociable. 'And what is the topic of conversation?'
   'Salmon!' chorused a number of voices gathered round.
   'One of Donald's fine tales, no doubt.'
   'Of course,' smiled O'Hare. 'And I believe it was a plop fly Roddy was dangling on his line that particular day.'
   'A plop fly?' asked someone in surprise.
   'Why yes, aren't you familiar with it? It's so called because of the distinctive sound it makes when it lands in the water. The fly is very heavy, you see, and it has no feathers. In fact, the only tying required to make this particular fly is to wrap a strip of lead around the shank of a large treble hook.'
   'Ahhhhh,' said a few knowing voices.
   Holmes winked when someone in the audience caught his eye.
   'There are far too many strange happenings around this island these days for my liking,' murmured Rory, lost in his own world.
   'Indeed, I agree,' said O'Hare, using the interruption to his advantage. 'For instance, how do we solve the mystery of where Sergeant Holmes's red knickers came from?'
   Holmes spluttered into his lager as a roar went up from the bar.
   'Jock Thompson!' he muttered, taking a hanky from his pocket. 'Did you haff to tell the whole island?'
   When the laughter had subsided, O'Hare brought the conversation back to the story.
   'So anyway, there was Roddy dangling his plop fly on the end of his rod, surveying the current, wondering where he should cast. Some of you will know the Waterfall Pool, yes I can see that you do.'
   'What red knickers?' asked someone with wide eyes.
   O'Hare and a few others laughed.
   'What were you saying about that salmon in the Waterfall Pool?' asked Holmes, moving the conversation on.
   'Yes, indeed,' smiled O'Hare. 'That night the pool was just a milky froth, the river being in heavy spate, and the falls were leaping and cascading as never seen before, or since I may add.'
   The group of avid listeners waited patiently as O'Hare took a leisurely sip from his glass. But before he could continue, the door to the bar opened again and a gorgeous young lady with long dark hair walked in.
   'Jock!' she waved excitedly.
   Everyone turned to look.
   'Mary!' exclaimed Jock, unable to hide his pleasure.
   She smiled and quickly made her way to the bar.
   'I'm glad you could come,' said Jock, enjoying the incredulous looks he was getting. 'And what would you be wanting to drink?'
   'Oh, a half of lager shandy please,' she said, flashing a lovely smile at everyone.
   'This is Mary,' said Jock, introducing her. 'She's only recently come to the island, so make her feel at home.'
   O'Hare and Holmes glanced at each other in astonishment.
   'Come on then Donald!' complained a young man impatiently. 'Get on with the story!'
   'Now now, my good friends,' said O'Hare. 'Let's not be hasty. A tale worth the telling is like a good whisky – it mustn't be hurried. Besides, there is another good story here I'm thinking,' he added, casting a sly look at Jock.
   'I'm glad you phoned,' said Mary, sidling up beside Jock while smiling at Sergeant Holmes. 'I was hoping you would.'
   'As I was saying,' said O'Hare, getting his audience's attention back. 'There was Roddy dangling his plop fly, completely unaware of the shifty eyes watching him from the bush further up the pool.' The mention of shifty eyes brought a few smiles Holmes's way. 'Roddy picked his spot carefully and his plop fly arched out over the river.'
   'Plop fly?' asked Mary innocently. 'What kind of bait is that?'
   Jock whispered something quietly in her ear.
   'Ahhh,' she said, her eyes sparkling as she stole another quick look at Holmes.
   'Well,' said O'Hare, 'there was Roddy, his heart beating a little faster, when all of a sudden there was a commotion upstream. He turned in time to see our police sergeant here fall out of his bush and straight into the river.'
   'Never!' exclaimed a few voices.
   'That isn't how it happened at all!' complained Holmes, getting quite animated.
   'He'd fallen headlong into the river,' said O'Hare, bulldozing on. 'And the current swept him downstream, right past Roddy's feet.'
   A gasp went up from the audience.
   'Quick as a flash, Roddy cast his fly after the drowning man, which embedded itself in his tunic. Digging his heels into the bank, Roddy took the strain.'
   Holmes cleared his throat to complain about what he considered to be a gross manipulation of the facts, but before he could say anything O'Hare was off again.
   'So there was Roddy!' he exclaimed, waving his arm theatrically, 'straining with the weight of the sergeant, trying desperately to prevent his being swept into the swirling white rapids at the tail of pool. Then, all of a sudden, a monster salmon decided to show itself. It ascended from the depths and flicked its tail in the current.'
   'Goodness gracious!' whispered someone.
   'What a situation to be sure!' said O'Hare. 'But Roddy, the master that he is, was more than equal to it. In the blink of an eye he cut the line, tied on another treble hook, cast it over the brute and struck. The salmon thrashed wildly and an epic struggle took place that day, but the result was a foregone conclusion. Roddy skulked home proudly with the fish wrapped in his jacket. Twenty pounds it was, and a few ounces.'
   Shocked, the audience fell very quiet.
   'Uh huh,' sighed Holmes. 'And what happened to me?'
   'Ah my friend, I heard that you were washed downstream and almost drowned, but that you prised Roddy's fly from your tunic, cast it to the bank and use it to pull yourself ashore.'
   'Ah yes,' nodded Holmes, not enjoying the laughs generated at his expense. 'Of course I did, but the circumstances were just a little different, as I recall.'
   'No doubt Roddy Morrison will be in later to confirm the details,' said Jock with a little grin.
   'Och Jock,' said O'Hare in surprise, 'have you not heard the news?'
   Jock wasn't about to explain that he'd been avoiding the news all day for fear of hearing about coffins being dug up, and scratched his chin as the conversation continued.
   'It's all very strange if you ask me,' muttered Rory, swallowing some beer to chase down a whisky. 'The last four Guiness drinkers I've met all had piles. Very strange coincidence, if you ask me.'
   Just then, Mary caught Holmes's eye and flashed him a beautiful smile. Somewhat embarrassed, Holmes smiled back and raised his glass to her.
   'Would you like to drink up and go somewhere a bit quieter?' asked Jock, turning to Mary with a wink.
   A small frown creased her brow.
   'I . . . well, what did you have in mind? I am enjoying myself here and had been hoping to meet a few of your friends.'
   'Oh, I know a few nice spots. Why don't we drink up and go?'
   She looked a little crestfallen but just as she was about to nod her acceptance O'Hare struck up a conversation.
   'Forgive my curiosity,' he smiled brightly, 'and no offence intended, but your features seem to indicate a Mediterranean origin. Am I wrong?'
   'You have a keen eye, sir,' she replied graciously, taking the compliment for what it was. 'My father was Italian and my mother Scottish. Oh, and I believe I have a little Irish blood flowing around in me somewhere too.'
   'Is that so!' chipped in Jock, grinning broadly. 'Donald here is descended from Irish stock. I believe he escaped just ahead of a lynch mob. For our sins he landed here in Balbeg where he has been subverting our children in the local school ever since.'
   'Ah Mary,' sighed O'Hare with a wink. 'I can see you're going to have difficulty putting up with Jock and his brother, as I'm sure you will have as much difficulty telling them apart as we do.'
   'What brother?' asked Mary, with a puzzled expression.
   Jock abruptly changed the subject.
   'Come on Donald, entertain us with another of your compositions.'
   'Yes Donald, another poem!' cried someone who had overheard the request.
   'What brother?' insisted Mary, locking her eyes on O'Hare.
   'Ask him later,' smiled O'Hare, with a wink.
   'Come on Donald, another poem!' cried someone again.
   Expectant faces turned in O'Hare's direction.
   'Ah my friend,' said O'Hare, not unhappily, 'now that you mention it, I do have something here. It's a little story concerning a man of the cloth and his neighbour, who was a thief and a poacher. Whether good prevailed over evil, you can determine for yourselves.'
   Slipping another sheet of paper from the inside pocket of his tweed jacket, he beckoned for quiet and when he was satisfied he had everyone's attention, he cleared his throat and began:

   On a fair Western Isle, in a village called Brae,
   Lived an old Catholic priest, the good Father Macrae;
   That he cared for his flock was beyond any doubt,
   And was known to be diligent, kind and devout.
   Yet his life was not carefree, there hung a black cloud
   Overhead, representing that bleggart Macleod,
   Whose croft, on the shores of a broad, sandy bay,
   Lay alongside the land that belonged to Macrae.
   Tam Macleod was a crafty old codger, 'twas said,
   Who had learnt to survive just by using his head.
   At the poaching of salmon his skill was unique,
   A skill he pursued every day of the week.
   While the fish were in season, and such was his knack
   That he often skulked home with a full, bulging sack.
   When not after fish he was scaling the crags
   In pursuit of the laird's herd of hinds and fine stags.
   Like a shadow he'd stalk through the first light of day,
   Down a deer, cut the gralloch and be on his way.
   As a marksman he was without any compeer,
   Thus was able to live off the salmon and deer.
   So his diet was rich and he'd plenty of cash
   To sustain his great thirst when he went on the bash.
   Tam Macleod kept a cow, and a small flock of sheep,
   But he never expended a doit for their keep.
   For when winter set in, and they had to be fed,
   Tam would slink through the night when folks were in bed,
   Make a beeline for Father Macrae's big hay stack,
   And liberate a pile which he'd rope to his back
   And then stagger across to his croft, and retire
   When his cow was contentedly fed in his byre.
   All his sheep were sustained the very same way
   By the fodder he filched from the shed of Macrae.
   Now, Macrae was no slouch and he knew well the score,
   For on several nights had kept watch from his door;
   Caught a glimpse of the thief and instinctively knew
   It was Tam, but the problem was just what to do,
   Because everyone knew that this thieving, old drouth
   Was a liar, well versed, and estranged to the truth.
   He could swear black was white, while appearing sincere,
   And convince one and all that his conscience was clear.
   In the meantime Macrae kept a vigil each night,
   In the hope that again he would manage to sight
   Tam Macleod on the prowl for a fresh batch of feed
   And, if spotted, he'd figured out how to proceed.
   In due course, one black night, his ears caught the sound,
   The noise of a rustling, so he dropped to the ground;
   Saw the shape of the thief against the dark sky,
   And devoutly gave thanks to his Lord, up on high,
   And then keeping an eye on the faint, slinking shape,
   Set a course which he reckoned would block his escape.
   When he'd closed with Black Tam he then froze in his track,
   Flicked his lighter and lit the sheaves on his back.
   Tam Macleod, drawing breath, was at first unaware,
   But the flames quickly spread till they frazzled his hair;
   With a scream he released the now bright-blazing feed
   Like a bat out of Hell, he took off at great speed,
   Leaving Father Macrae overjoyed by his plight,
   And avenged by the yells of Black Tam in full flight.
   When the thieving, old drouth reached his own but-and-ben
   He well knew 'twas the priest who had torched him and then,
   Being a Catholic, realised just what a hole
   He'd be in, when he went to unburden his soul.
   But Black Tam, an inveterate, backsliding fox,
   Only rarely would use the confessional box,
   So he'd plenty of time to concoct what to say,
   When he next went to see the good Father Macrae.
   On that day Tam appeared looking very contrite,
   And the priest clearly saw he was somewhat uptight;
   Then Black Tam gave a list of his every misdeed
   But no mention was made of his stealing the feed.
   The good father suggested to Tam to think well
   And admit other sins or he'd wind up in Hell.
   With a stammer or two Tam then said there was one
   Evil deed, much regretted that he shouldn't have done,
   And confessed he'd been filching the good father's hay,
   Also corn, and had done so for many a day.
   'But you know,' he continued, 'one night, in the dark,
   I well paid for my sins when I went to your park,
   Took some feed for my beast, from your mighty corn stack,
   Which old Satan, himself, set alight on my back.

   After much hearty laughter and applause, O'Hare was gratified to notice a few drinks being put on the tap for his efforts and he nodded his appreciation for the gestures.
   'Would you like another drink Jock?' asked Mary with a smile, turning to him when everyone at the bar had resumed their chat about recent events.
   'No, let me,' said Jock, half rising from his chair.
   'I wouldn't dream of it,' insisted Mary, handing money across the bar before he could object further.
   Holmes with a wide smile made room for her, for which she was grateful, and he struck up a conversation with her while she waited for the drinks. Jock ran his eyes over the girl and smiled. However, the smile quickly faded as his mind turned once more to the forbidding task of recovering the coffin from John Brown's grave before it was found.

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