Beyond the Wild River Page 11

  He scowled again at Ballantyre. ‘And then you loosed the hounds.’

  Ballantyre shook his head. ‘McAllister did.’

  ‘On your orders.’

  ‘No.’

  It hardly mattered. ‘So who was Jacko’s killer?’

  Ballantyre regarded him evenly for a moment. Then: ‘It was generally assumed to have been the same man who killed McAllister.’ He reeled in the last few feet of line, calmly picking the trailing weeds off his hook, and inspected the bait. Then he lifted his gaze again and looked steadily at James.

  ‘McAllister …?’

  ‘He was found dead in the shrubbery later that night.’

  ‘Jesus!’ Then Ballantyre’s odd phrasing struck him, like steel in the gut. The same man— ‘And so that was pinned on me too?’ Horror rose to match his fury, and he took a step forward.

  But Ballantyre simply turned aside and cast again. ‘Throttling me will hardly improve your position, James.’ The line went farther this time. ‘You had every reason to hate McAllister.’ James’s mind was paralysed by this new accusation, and his eyes became fixed on the wake of ripples which followed Ballantyre’s line as he reeled in again, his rod now bending. ‘Perhaps you encountered him as you left through my study window—?’ He glanced back at James. ‘Although attacking a man from behind didn’t seem to be quite your style.’ James’s legs felt suddenly weak and he put a hand against a silver birch for support, staring down at the shadow it cast on the water. ‘In a fight, maybe, but not in cold blood.’

  Ballantyre carefully unhooked an undersized fish, still watching James, and tossed it back into the water, where it hung a moment, before darting away into the darkness. ‘But after McAllister’s body was found, things went from bad to dangerous very quickly. You were much safer away.’

  Silver minnows flickered in and out of the reeds at the edge of the rocks where sunlight penetrated the depth of clear water, and James knew that he was right. Shooting Jacko, a worthless vagrant, a known felon, caught with the incriminating net in his hands, was one thing; killing Ballantyre’s head keeper, within the grounds of Ballantyre House, was quite another.

  He had known nothing of this, thank God, as he pounded along the byways astride a stolen horse with Ballantyre’s sovereigns in his saddlebag, while news of the double murder travelled like wildfire through the countryside.

  He looked up to see that Ballantyre’s expression had lightened. ‘Do you believe in fate, James? In destiny—? I never did. Until now.’ A smile twisted his mouth. ‘You always were an enterprising lad, and it took guts to do what you did that night, real nerve. And it gave me great satisfaction to think of you in my study, coolly emptying my cash box, while the keepers were beating the hedgerows – then riding off on Melrose. I began to believe that you’d get away, and survive.’

  James stared at him. ‘And yet you thought I’d killed McAllister.’

  ‘It seemed unlikely.’

  A heron rose from the shore a few yards away and flew off, carrying the low evening light on its back as it flapped calmly across the lake, legs a-dangling. James watched it for a while then turned back to Ballantyre. ‘You haven’t told me who killed Jacko.’

  Ballantyre’s eyes too were following the heron’s flight. ‘McAllister appeared on the riverbank just as you bolted. He’d seen who killed Jacko and who fired at you, so if it wasn’t you who killed McAllister then it was that same man. McAllister must have been trying a little blackmail. He was fool enough.’

  ‘Just a name, Ballantyre.’

  But Ballantyre shook his head and his expression hardened. ‘Not yet. It’s better that you don’t know. Retribution will come, I promise you. It was only my word against theirs then, and nothing has changed.’

  Anger hit him then, red hot behind the eyes. ‘The biggest landowner in the county, a magistrate, a well-respected figure. Your word would have carried—’

  ‘— no weight at all against that of the other.’ Ballantyre had not raised his voice, but James was silenced. ‘Believe me.’

  James looked away, and the silence stretched out between them. Then he said what he had long suspected. ‘So it was some titled wastrel.’

  ‘Precisely.’

  Contempt almost choked him. ‘And if I took the drop then a nasty scandal could be avoided. And you, with your courtrooms and your justice and your fine reputation – you went along with it all!’ He knew it to be so, ever since he had overheard McAllister say: And Ballantyre’s agreed to that? and the other man had nodded.

  Ballantyre’s expression darkened. ‘Trust me, there was more—’

  Trust me. James got to his feet and went to the edge of the rocks, sick with disgust. For five years he had tried to put behind him the sight of Jacko’s bloody corpse, but coming to terms with Ballantyre’s baseness would take a lifetime. He leant against a lone spruce which had found soil enough for its roots to cling to, arms folded, and looked down into the lake seeing the low sun filtered through the still water to shimmer on the sand beneath. Trust me. And he was back in Ballantyre’s study that first morning, wood crackling in the hearth, the firelight flickering over gilded lettering on the leather-bound books. A thin child, shivering with fear, telling himself it was only the cold that made him tremble. And he had raised his eyes to the godlike figure before him and seen a warmth in his expression, and a hand held out. Trust me— In taking the hand, he had stepped into a world of order and plenty, where he had learned a sense of purpose and the distinction between right and wrong. And always, after that day, he had known he was under the watchful eye of a benevolent master.

  The same man was watching him now. ‘The matter will be resolved, James. I promise you.’

  And despite everything, despite the shock of murder and the corroding bitterness which had followed, the child at the core of him wanted to believe—

  But he didn’t. ‘After five years?’

  ‘It’s taken that long.’

  ‘Horseshit.’

  ‘When all is resolved I will explain matters to you, and hope that you will understand.’ Then Ballantyre’s line tautened and his rod bent and he turned his attention back to the water. ‘But for now there is one thing you must know,’ he said, keeping tension on the line, his tone suddenly authoritative as of old. ‘My daughter is travelling with the rest of the party, and when she arrives, she’ll recognise you.’ Miss Evie? Ballantyre paused and glanced over his shoulder, taking in James’s astonishment. ‘I’ll contrive to have time alone with her before she sees you, and explain the situation, but neither of you must in any way indicate that you know each other. You are strangers. Understand? The others pose no problem, but Melton is a magistrate, and I don’t want him to discover who you are. It would complicate matters.’

  James stood watching as Ballantyre calmly reeled in his line, but in his mind’s eye he was seeing Miss Evie as he had last seen her, eyes wide as dinner plates, clutching her dressing gown to her thin frame, shaking with cold, or shock, with her hand pressed across her mouth. Had she told her father she had seen him that night?

  A large dorsal fin broke the surface of the water as Ballantyre drew in his catch. He gestured to the landing net and James stepped forward, scooping it under the fish’s arching body as he had so often done before, when Ballantyre had taken him with him to the river – when James had gone with glee, flattered by the master’s attention.

  Once he had worshipped the man.

  ‘Walleye?’ asked Ballantyre, examining his catch.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good eating?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Ballantyre disentangled the fish from the net, studied it a moment, then deftly removed the hook from its mouth and went to crouch at the edge of the lake, holding it between his hands. ‘But I came for brook trout. So! A reprieve, my friend,’ he murmured and opened his hands. The fish stayed motionless a moment, as if in disbelief, and then, with a powerful twist of its body, it was gone.

  James could get no more fro
m Ballantyre, who had carried on fishing with a cool disregard for James’s fury until, eventually, he had reeled in and they had set off back to the lodge. Louis was waiting for them on the steps of the lodge as they emerged out of the woods, and he rose when he saw them, batting away a cloud of mosquitoes as he came towards them. He held out a telegram. ‘This was just sent over from the station,’ he said and gestured to where a canoe was pulling away from the jetty. ‘Only bugs biting tonight?’ he enquired, glancing at James.

  ‘Walleye, I am told, but we were merciful and let them go,’ Ballantyre replied. ‘I came for brook trout,’ he repeated as he tore open the telegram, mounting the steps to the porch. ‘But it will be a different matter upriver.’

  James watched him. Telegrams meant contact.

  Ballantyre glanced at the paper then turned and handed it down to James with a quizzical look. ‘Read it to me, will you?’ he said. ‘I begin to think I need spectacles.’

  James passed it back. ‘Their train arrives at two tomorrow.’

  ‘Thank you. So that, at least, is clear.’

  Louis looked from one to another. ‘We eat together tonight, and the food is ready.’ Louis held open the door, still watching James as he entered. He had little appetite but no reason to refuse, so he propped the rod up against the wall of the lodge and followed Ballantyre in.

  Skinner’s lodge had started life as a bunkhouse for railway workers many years ago, the old man informed Ballantyre as he poured him a generous shot of whisky. Before then he had worked in the Hudson Bay Company stores at Red Rock House, married a half-breed girl, and raised a family. ‘But she died, and our boys were grown and gone, so I built this place to get me some company.’ A native girl brought a steaming pot to the table and began ladling a meaty stew onto their plates while Skinner poured two much shorter measures for Louis and James, waving them towards two stools. ‘Got more company than I’d bargained for. When the footings for the railroad bridge went in, I’d men packed in here like sardines. Close on forty to fifty of ’em some nights …’ As the old stories came out again James sat back and contemplated Ballantyre. How was it possible that he sat opposite the man, breaking bread with him and not choking the life out of him—? His old master had changed, though his face was more finely chiselled, but it was more than a physical change. Something deeper— The warmth in his eye which had drawn James to him had gone, replaced by something sharper, a glint, cold as steel. Then James became conscious of Louis’s scrutiny and gave his attention to his plate instead. ‘… places filled up as soon as they emptied. Folk think it was the terrain that held up construction north of Superior, but no, sir, the gang bosses complained the men strung the work out in order to stay on at Skinner’s place,’ and he cackled at his well-worn joke.

  Ballantyre laughed obligingly, then added: ‘As someone who has shares in the company, Mr Skinner, I’m not sure I want to hear this.’

  Skinner’s face fell ludicrously. ‘Well, I mean to say …’ So Ballantyre had business interests here, did he? James watched him as he ate. Railways had always been his passion. Many times he had been sent in the trap to collect the master from the little Borders branch-line station when he had been in Edinburgh, and on the way back Ballantyre would regale him with the wonders of new railways crisscrossing vast continents.

  ‘Tell me, Mr Skinner,’ Ballantyre continued, pulling a flask from his pocket. ‘Are there many prospectors around these days?’ He poured generous measures from it into all four glasses.

  ‘More’n ever, now the railroad’s opened things up. And there’re rumours of big gold strikes up north.’ Louis and James exchanged covert glances. ‘Diamonds too, I’m told.’

  James raised his glass, and his lips met with the sweet taste of home. Ballantyre, it appeared, had brought his own supplies. The taste transported him back to Christmas or to occasions when Ballantyre’s horse had won at Kelso races and bottles appeared in the stables. He watched Louis take a drink, pause, his eyes widening, and then take another sip, almost reverently, raising his eyebrows at James. Distracted by the taste, Ballantyre’s next question took them by surprise.

  ‘Did either of you hear tell of an Indian by the name of Achak in these parts?’

  James had taken a mouthful of food and continued to chew, making this an excuse for not replying. Louis paused, his glass halfway to his lips, but he recovered fast. ‘Everyone knows of Achak. He had lands here.’

  ‘And do you know where he is to be found?’

  Louis shrugged. ‘He could be anywhere. Hunting—’

  ‘Like I told you, mister,’ said Skinner, taking a drink and smacking his lips in appreciation. ‘My oh my … You won’t get stuff like this round here. No, sir. It’s all cheap rotgut, even in the bars. And back then they didn’t allow any sort of drink for those railroad gangs, but I used to turn a blind eye to the stills they set up in the forest. Provided they behaved themselves—’

  ‘Do they know of Achak in Scotland, Mr Ballantyre?’ asked Louis, wide-eyed and incredulous, then slanted a narrow look at James.

  ‘— those boys needed a little comfort after a day’s work, no harm in it—’

  ‘No. But I’m interested to meet him.’ Ballantyre stretched an arm across the table and topped up their glasses, his eyes flicking between them.

  ‘— no women, though. Women are more trouble than drink, and if the men wanted that sort of comfort they’d—’

  ‘He could be anywhere, his lands stretch for miles.’ The light from the guttering lantern highlighted the sharpness in Louis’s eyes, leaving the rest of his face in shadow.

  ‘But someone must know where to look,’ Ballantyre persisted.

  Skinner had long since ceased to expect an attentive audience and his story was continuing along its well-worn tracks: ‘— but if anyone tried to sneak a whore over the threshold they got kicked down the steps to sprawl in the mud—’

  ‘The old chief has died recently, his people are grieving in the traditional way.’

  ‘So I’m told.’

  ‘— I was more respectful to the women, of course, whores or no, but they still had to leave. They knew the rules, and having women here was agin’ them.’

  ‘Then we’re fortunate you’re willing to make an exception for my daughter and Lady Melton.’ Ballantyre’s gravity was belied by a gleam in his eye which James caught but Skinner missed. The old man dissembled rapidly, covering his confusion by describing the comforts he had in mind for the ladies, before veering off to the safer topic of the number of anglers who now came to the Nipigon, drawn by the river’s reputation. ‘Near on a hundred permits issued last year, but most stay below the viaduct where you can haul out fish for as long as you wanna stay there and haul. But those like you who want more—’ He broke off as figures passed the window, and his tone hardened. ‘So Marcel’s back, is he.’ Louis looked up, glancing quickly towards James. ‘And he’s brought Tala and Machk, has he? Couple more too, I hope,’ he muttered, ‘with all the gear we got.’ Louis rapidly finished his food and excused himself, saying that he would go and find out. And James saw that he avoided his eye as he left, letting the lodge door slam closed behind him.

  Chapter 11

  Port Arthur to Nipigon Station

  Mr Larsen ushered his party onto the train in Port Arthur, out of breath from having seen the luggage safely stowed. ‘I’ve just sent your papa another telegram telling him that we are bringing Dalston with us,’ he told Evelyn as she settled onto the worn plush seat in what passed for the first-class carriage. ‘He’ll have the one I sent him yesterday about our arrival, so Papa’ll be there, my dear, waiting at Nipigon station. Never fear.’

  Papa could hardly do otherwise, she thought, and smiled at Mr Larsen in acknowledgement. Even Papa—

  As the train began to move, she watched the brick stores and station buildings slipping away, and had a final glimpse of the Northern Hotel and of the lake frontage with its wharves and warehouses, and of Valkyrie, which would remain there
awaiting their return. The speed quickened and the sprawl of low wooden buildings petered out into a ribbon of shacks and tents pitched along the line of the track. Evelyn sat forward, seeing Indian wigwams amongst them, but soon they too vanished and the train was engulfed by the forest. Just a single track taking them into the vast wilderness—

  ‘Rupert’s awfully pleased to be coming along, you know.’ Clementina leant close and squeezed her arm. ‘And not because of the fish.’ Evelyn smiled, as was expected of her, and turned back to the window.

  Rupert Dalston had certainly been making every effort to be agreeable, and putting aside a residual annoyance with her father, she had very much enjoyed the two days they had spent exploring Port Arthur. It had a raw energy, which she found exciting, and Rupert had been a lively companion. They had stood together watching a group of Chinamen squatting on a street corner throwing dice, and she had studied their wide hats and odd garb until he had tugged at her sleeve and drawn her attention to an Indian woman driving a pig down the street, pursued by dogs and laughing children. The streets themselves were no more than beaten earth tracks, muddy after last night’s rain, with deep grooves left by the wagons that drove up and down. Wooden boardwalks served as pavements.