me will take all that’s left when I die, anyway. I might leave you the Old House, though: it shouldn’t take you long to acquire a taste for that style of living.”
Hugh was turning over the other photographs. “One of the clachans: one of the two villages in Carnglass. These are what they call black houses, because the peat smoke just goes out of a hole in the roof, after circulating round the room – but I suppose you know all this, Hugh. Snug, anyway. And I don’t suppose any one of these is lived in now, except possibly by a gamekeeper or two. Now have a look at this other picture. What do you make of it?”
In the foreground, Hugh saw a desolate graveyard, a low drystone wall enclosing it; some tall white monuments showed above the wall, and in the center stood, at a perilous angle, an immense Celtic cross. Beyond the monuments was what seemed to be an ancient chapel with a modern roof. And away in the background there hulked, dimly, a tall circular building, rather like a vast beehive.
“It all looks like something from before the Flood,” Logan murmured.
“Well, much of it is nearly as old as anything in Iona,” MacAskival observed. “That’s the chapel of St. Merin. She was stoned to death, I think, in the days of St. Columba. Sir Alastair restored the chapel as the family burial-vault. And that’s the famous Cross of Carnglass, tenth century; or it would be famous, if Lady MacAskival ever let archeologists ashore. I don’t know what the thing beyond can be. Do you feel more like becoming Laird of Carnglass?”
“It’s a strange island,” Logan said, unsmiling.
“Yet it can’t be so strange as the rumors make it.” Mac-Askival was pleased, clearly, at having shaken Logan out of his commonsensical ways. “Except for a few friends from London, the old lady’s let nobody poke about since her own little clearance of 1914. They say that boats trying to put into the harbor have been shot at. And they say there are more bogles stalking through the heather than there are live folk. And servants who’ve left the Old House have told people in Oban and Glasgow that some of the London visitors are worse than the bogles.”
“Scotland has no law of trespass – only acts of interdict after damage has been done to property.”
“You can tell that to our old lady, Hugh. If we do get Carnglass, I’ll let the archeologists and the naturalists browse. I’m told there are rare plants and birds, and a few fallow deer still. Nearly the whole island has become deer forest. One of the farms – the one closer to the old house – seems to be kept in fair order; they have Highland cattle. I learned that from Lagg, the factor, a Galloway man.”
“You’ve corresponded with him, Duncan?”
“In a unilateral way. First, three years ago, I wrote to Lady MacAskival herself: no answer. Then I found out the names of her London solicitors. I sent them an offer, and they wrote that they’d refer it to Lady MacAskival. Then silence. I wrote again. The solicitors answered that Lady MacAskival would give me a reply after reflection. More silence. I wrote to the solicitors a third time, a year ago yesterday, and got a letter back promptly: Lady MacAskival no longer did business with them, they said, and I should write to her factor in Carnglass, Thomas Lagg. I did. Ten months ago, Lagg replied that Lady MacAskival was indisposed, but would communicate with me after some interval. She never has said no – mind that, Hugh. Then still more silence. I wrote to Lagg three times; no reply. But yesterday this letter came.” From under his blotter MacAskival drew a sheet of cheap notepaper, which curled up as he tried to lay it before Logan.
“I told you she was odd,” MacAskival said, as Logan smoothed the sheet. “The envelope was curled, too, and only partly straightened by having been in a mail-bag.” Also the paper seemed water-stained, and the writing in one corner had run badly. Though it was in a clear feminine hand, it appeared to have been written very hastily:
“3rd March
“Duncan MacAskival, Esq.
“Sir:
Lady MacAskival desires to discuss with you at once the proposal which you have set forth. She requests that you come in person to Carnglass without delay, or send confidential agents. Immediate action is imperative.”
There was no signature. “Lady MacAskival’s own hand?” Logan inquired.
“Presumably,” MacAskival said. “The doctor tells me that I’m not quite fit for ocean cruises just now. So Hugh Logan, Esquire, is my confidential agent. Do you think you can act properly conspiratorial? I saw you as Cassius in the Players’ Club performance of Julius Caesar last month, you remember, Hugh; and you were the best man in the cast. You’d have done as well as a professional actor as you have with the law. Well, I’ve cabled both the old lady and Lagg. I’ve told them that you’ll arrive this week.”
“This week, Duncan? Next month, at the soonest.”
MacAskival’s thick eyebrows lowered. “Hugh Logan, I’ve given you a boost for your firm, now and then. I’m not a man who enjoys being crossed – you know that. Now this business is something that matters to me. Who knows how much longer the old lady will live? I don’t intend to miss this chance, after three years of trying. If you think anything of me, you’ll fly to Prestwick tomorrow; and it will do you good, Hugh: an easy bit of work in a charming quiet place. We can’t delay. Notice the date of that letter. It’s been stuck somewhere en route; and it came by ordinary surface mail, which took a week or more. I don’t want the old lady to change her mind. In my cables, I asked to have Lady MacAskival’s yacht – I suppose she must own something of the sort – put into Glasgow or Greenock for you. You’ve a room reserved at Todd’s Hotel, Glasgow, and Lady MacAskival’s people should get in touch with you there. Will you go, or do I have to send some fool? I want to use your innocence-mask, Hugh.”
“Needs must when the devil drives,” Logan said in his easy way. “Give me those plane tickets. I usually humor madmen. Besides, I mean to find out what that beehive building is.”
“Then it’s my Carnglass.” Duncan MacAskival slapped his hand against the desk. “Here” – he fetched out a manila envelope – “here’s my correspondence with the old lady’s people. And here’s some estimate of what the island ought to cost, kit and kaboodle, that I got from solicitors in London and Glasgow. And this, too – this will interest you, Hugh.”
It was a slim old pamphlet, the covers nearly ripped away. “It’s rare, Hugh. Thin’s of Edinburgh found a copy for me. Take it along to read on your plane.” MacAskival opened to the title page: “A Summary History of the Islands of Carnglass and Daldour, in the Western Isles of Scotland; with some Account of the Traditionary Tales of those Parts. By the Reverend Samuel Balmullo, sometime minister of the Parish of Carnglass and Daldour. 1818.” MacAskival was something of a bookcollector. “I know you’re wanting dinner, Hugh,” MacAskival said, “and I’ll take you to the club in a minute or two, but let me read you a bit of this:
“‘Among the surviving peasantry of Dalcruach village, on the eastern strand of Carnglass, superstition exerts an influence as powerful as it is debasing. In this clachan are said to reside four or five Sgeulaiche, or narrators of traditionary tales of an extravagant character, many of which antedate the arrival of Christian evangels from Ireland in the sixth century. These relations often reflect, and endeavor to excuse, the lingering of heathen and impious practices among this ignorant folk. They speak, for example, of a “Third Eye,” said to appear afresh, from generation to generation, among the inhabitants of Carnglass, whether native-born or newcomers; and such a spot upon the forehead is said to confer amatory powers, and is regarded by these children of the twilight with a respect not far removed from veneration. To labor among parishioners possessed by such delusions is weary work; it has been said that to preach the Gospels among the Pequots or Narragansetts is a facile undertaking by the side of any endeavor to redeem from heathen error these denizens of the furthermost Hebrides.’”
MacAskival turned the page. “The Reverend Samuel Balmullo – he was from the Lowlands, Hugh – tends to be longwinded, but rewarding. Balmullo seems to have been a sour old fellow. He was interested in the MacAskivals, though – give me a moment more.” Duncan MacAskival