Biggles Takes it Rough Read online

  CONTENTS

  MAP

  CHAPTER 1: A VISITOR SEEKS ADVICE

  CHAPTER 2: AN UNEXPECTED SET-BACK

  CHAPTER 3: FIRST PRECAUTIONS

  CHAPTER 4: CURIOUS DEVELOPMENTS

  CHAPTER 5: VISITORS, WELCOME AND UNWELCOME

  CHAPTER 6: AN OLD HIGHLAND TRICK

  CHAPTER 7: THE CASTLE

  CHAPTER 8: TRAPPED

  CHAPTER 9: TROUBLES FOR GINGER

  CHAPTER 10: A MYSTERY SOLVED

  CHAPTER 11: HARD GOING

  CHAPTER 12: BIGGLES MAKES A PLAN

  CHAPTER 13: BEHIND THE LOCKED DOOR

  CHAPTER 14: BREATHING SPACE

  CHAPTER 15: BUTTONED UP

  MAP

  CHAPTER 1

  A VISITOR SEEKS ADVICE

  THE only sound in Air Police Headquarters at Scotland Yard was the dry rustle of paper as everyone busied himself with one of the several routine office jobs necessary to keep the records up to date; international press cuttings to be filed, amendments to Air Traffic Regulations, modifications to existing types of aircraft, details of new prototypes under test, and the like.

  Into this the sharp buzz of the intercom telephone cut sharply.

  Biggles picked up the instrument on his desk. ‘Bigglesworth here.’ He listened for a moment, then added: ‘Right away, sir.’ He replaced the receiver and rose to his feet.

  ‘The Chief?’ queried Bertie, without pausing in what he was doing.

  ‘Right in one.’

  ‘What’s cooking?’

  ‘He didn’t waste time telling me on the phone, but judging from his tone of voice it won’t be bacon and eggs. He said he wasn’t to be disturbed, so he won’t be pleased if someone has barged in on him. See you presently.’

  Biggles walked down the corridor to the private office of Air Commodore Raymond, Assistant Commissioner, knocked and entered. A glance confirmed his conjecture.

  There was another person present, seated near the Air Commodore’s desk. He was a good-looking young man, lean, with a shrewd eye; age, somewhere in the early twenties. Judging from a well-cut tweed suit and immaculate linen, he was obviously a man of substance.

  The Air Commodore introduced him briefly. ‘Oh, Bigglesworth, this is Mr Roderic Macaster, from Canada. Mr Macaster, meet Air Detective-Inspector Bigglesworth, my senior operational pilot. Get yourself a chair, Bigglesworth.’

  ‘Glad to know you, Inspector,’ said Macaster, as they shook hands. He spoke with a soft transatlantic accent.

  Biggles pulled up a chair and sat down.

  The Air Commodore pushed forward his cigarette box and looking at Biggles continued. ‘I gather from what little he has so far told me that Mr Macaster is having a spot of trouble over here and has been advised to tell us about it. It seems that aircraft, or an aircraft, may come into the picture, so I thought it would be a good thing if you heard the story first hand instead of me having to repeat it. You may want to ask some questions.’

  Biggles turned to the stranger. ‘Go ahead, Mr Macaster. I’m listening.’

  ‘I guess it’s a longish story, but I’ll keep it as short as possible.’

  ‘Just stick to the facts.’

  ‘Thanks. As the Chief just told you, my name is Roderic Macaster. I carry a Canadian passport, but I’ve spent a lot of my time in the States. Around fifty years ago my grandfather, John Macaster, went west from Ross-shire, where he had lived for some time, although the Macasters were originally of Tola, one of the lesser Western Isles.

  ‘Well, he made a fortune, but coming from what we might call ordinary simple working stock, he had no real use for the money. Or maybe he’d left his heart in the Highlands. He still had the Scottish newspapers sent over, and one day an item in the Northern Scot gave him an idea. If you like, an inspiration. It was to the effect that things had got so bad on Tola that the Government had decided to evacuate to the mainland what was left of the dwindling population. Perhaps they weren’t as tough as they used to be years gone by, but without a doctor, dentist, or any sort of medical facilities, not even a school for the kids, it was no sort of a life.’

  ‘This evacuation has, I believe, happened to more than one of the Western Isles,’ put in Biggles.

  ‘Sure it has. It comes when the people can no longer make a go of it. It happened to Tola before my time, so what I’m telling you I got from my father. Well, old John Macaster got the bright idea of buying the island and retiring there for the rest of his days. There’s an old castle there, once the seat of the Master of Tola — who, incidentally, was a Macaster. He resolved to put it in good shape, build new houses for the people, bring in stock and modern farm equipment, and generally make the island a place fit to live on.’

  ‘Was this a practical proposition?’

  ‘I don’t see why not.’

  ‘But the people had gone.’

  ‘Sure they’d gone, but the old man reckoned they’d come back if it was made worth their while. Money was no object, and as the old man had made his pile farming grain and livestock, he must have known what he was taking on. For a start he intended to import a contractor with a thousand or so labourers to clean up the place, providing hutments for their temporary accommodation. Oh, yes, he thought big. Well, he set things going and took the island from the Crown on a hundred years’ lease. I reckon they were glad to let him have it. It was no use to anybody as it was. That’s where it ended. Before he could cross the Atlantic to inspect his new property he had a heart attack and died. So it all came to nothing.’

  ‘You mean nothing more was done about it?’

  ‘Not a thing. The old man had one son — my father. He’d been brought up in the lap of luxury, and moving in a different circle he wasn’t interested in anything involving physical labour. I don’t think he ever gave Tola a second thought. He could make money more easily on the stock market. He had inherited the old man’s fortune and the idea of living rough on a remote island wasn’t his idea of paradise. Twelve months ago he died and everything came to me. I knew all about this scheme for putting Tola back on the map, and it had always seemed to me a pity that the old man’s great ambition had been allowed to go by the board.’ Macaster smiled. ‘Maybe I’m a throw-back to the original hard-working Highlanders who had to fight the land or sea for a living — and fight anyone who tried to stop ‘em. I now held the lease, and as it contained an option of renewal I gave the matter some serious thought. I had nothing to do. No need to do anything. To put the island into shape seemed as good a way of doing something useful as anything else I could think of. I decided the first thing was to have a look at the place.’

  ‘Have you been there?’

  ‘I sure have.’

  ‘And what did you find?’

  ‘Nothing. That is, nothing I didn’t expect to see. That brings me to the point.’

  ‘Just a minute,’ requested Biggles. ‘Let me get the geography right. Where exactly is this lonely lump of land?’

  ‘Roughly thirty miles from the Butt of Lewis — that’s the northern tip — and forty miles from the mainland.’

  ‘How big is it?’

  ‘About four miles long and a mile wide at the widest part. It isn’t utterly isolated. From the castle hill it’s possible to see one or two smaller islands on the horizon.’

  ‘All uninhabited?’

  ‘As far as I know. Being where they are it’s unlikely they ever were inhabited.’

  ‘What’s the terrain of Tola like?’

  ‘Just as you’d expect. Pretty rough. Any ground once cultivated has gone back to heather, weeds and rushes. I can tell you more about that if you’re interested. The climate isn’t bad. Windy, of course. But being where it is it must be on the fringe of the Gulf Str
eam, so it escapes anything like hard frost. Oh, yes, there are possibilities.’

  ‘I see. Go on.’

  ‘By the time I got over here I had worked myself into a state of mild enthusiasm. This, I thought, is going to be fun. But it didn’t work out like that. In fact, I was due for some shocks. The first trouble I struck was how to get to the place. I went up and down the coast looking for someone willing to take me to Tola. There were plenty of boats, but not a soul was ready to talk once I’d mentioned my island. They behaved as if I was poison — me, a Macaster! I’ve never seen such a dour lot in my life. They wouldn’t even listen to me.’

  ‘Couldn’t you find out what was wrong?’

  ‘I might as well have talked to a brick wall.’

  Biggles smiled faintly as he stubbed his cigarette. ‘It would be easier to open an oyster with a match stick than get a Highlander to talk if he has some reason for keeping his mouth shut.’

  ‘Are you telling me! But don’t forget I’m a Scot. I’ll admit there was a moment when I nearly gave up and went home in disgust. What sort of gratitude was this? After all, my intention had been to do these people some good. I thought they’d be delighted to hear about it. Then, as I thought over it, something inside me began to boil. Who were these people to keep me off my property? Who did they think they were that they could brush me off like a wasp off a pot of jam? All right, I thought, if that’s how you want it. We’ll see what you have to say when you see me importing some of these miserable displaced persons from refugee camps in Europe. They’ll be glad enough to come when they learn I have homes waiting for them. If it costs me every dollar I’ve got I’m going to make Tola a better place to live than ever it was.’

  A slow grin spread over Biggles’s face. ‘That’s the spirit.’ He became serious. ‘But be careful you don’t start a private war. What did you do next?’

  ‘I came south, bought a small cabin cruiser and had it delivered to me at Lochinver. Nothing was going to stop me getting to Tola.’

  ‘That must have cost you a pretty penny.’

  ‘By this time I didn’t care what I spent. I’d show these churlish Scots they couldn’t push me around.’

  ‘Those seas can be nasty.’

  ‘So what? I’ve sailed a boat before. I was going to Tola and no one was going to stop me. Hang it all, I own the place.’

  ‘So you went.’

  ‘I sure did. I thought as it might be my first and last visit I’d make a job of it and stay a day or two. So I put aboard a stock of food and away I went. I didn’t tell anyone where I was going and nobody saw me leave.’

  Biggles shook his head sadly. ‘Don’t fool yourself, Mr Macaster. If I know the Highlander a good many eyes were watching you.’

  ‘It was pitch dark when I left.’

  ‘That would make no difference. I’ve sometimes thought the Highlanders must be gifted with second sight. I’d wager everyone for miles knew exactly what you were up to. But never mind that. What did you find on Tola and where do the Air Police come into this interesting operation?’

  ‘I shall come to that presently,’ was the rejoinder. ‘If I sound long-winded it’s because I’m trying to give you a clear picture of events as they happened. I had realized of course that for some reason I wasn’t wanted on Tola, and that made me all the more curious to find out why. I met only one man who would talk and he was a Macaster. He came to me in a manner I can only describe as secretive, if not furtive, and advised me to forget about the island. He seemed to be hinting at something sinister, something unnatural. Could you believe that?’

  Biggles nodded. ‘In the matter of physical courage the Highlander is second to none in the world, which is why they make the finest shock troops anywhere. There’s only one thing scares him, and that’s anything tied up with the supernatural. When telling a spooky story his favourite opening gambit is: “Mind you, I’m not superstitious,” whereas in fact he’s saturated with local legends about hauntings, kelpies and what have you. Over ages of time that has become as deep rooted in his system as is the heather on his native hills.’

  ‘When I pressed him to be more specific all he would say was, Tola was a bad place for adders, which bit grazing cattle on the nose and sometimes killed them.’

  ‘Sheer balderdash! There are adders on many moors in Scotland. I’m told they’re common on the Island of Mull, but that doesn’t prevent people from living there. They don’t even talk about adders. Once in a while someone gets bitten. So what? If people left the Highlands on account of adders the country would have been depopulated long ago. Forget it. So you went to Tola. What did you find there?’

  ‘Everything much as I expected.’

  ‘Any adders?’

  ‘I didn’t see one.’

  ‘Carry on.’

  ‘It all looked mighty depressing. The island, shaped roughly like a crescent moon, lies across the weather that rolls in from the Atlantic. The windward side is sheer precipice. It falls gently to the leeward, where in one place there’s a small open bay with a bit of a beach, mostly shingle but with a certain amount of sand. The rocks begin at each end. Fortunately, at the northern end of the beach there’s a snug little cove in the rocks, part natural and part artificial, where in the old days I suppose the people kept their boats, for fishing and getting to the mainland. You might call it a harbour. I tied up there while I explored the place from end to end. It took me three days.’

  ‘Did you have a look at the castle?’

  ‘Of course. I found it in better condition than I expected after being empty for so long. It’s built of local stone and was put there to stay; not only stay but stand a siege if necessary. I found it a lot bigger than I expected. Anyhow, it’s still weather-proof. There are about twenty houses still standing, the usual dry stone walling and thatch. Some are huddled together making what must have been a village. The rest are crofts and small holdings scattered about haphazard. Rusty wire and broken stone walls still mark the boundaries of the land once under cultivation. Nothing much else. One could understand why the place was abandoned. It may have been all right years ago, when people didn’t expect as much from life as they do now. They wouldn’t stand for it today. Imagine it. No communication with anywhere except by boat and then always at the mercy of the weather. In winter the island might be cut off for weeks at a time.’

  ‘How about water?’

  ‘Oh there’s plenty of water. Enough to give me fresh ideas. There’s a small loch roughly in the middle fed by a number of springs and brooks. It has an outlet to the sea, a dandy little river about a mile and a half long; not very big, but large enough to carry a nice run of sea-trout and possibly a few salmon. When I was there the top end of the loch, shallow water over gravel, was stiff with spawning sea-trout. Some had even run into the brooks.’

  ‘What ideas did this give you?’

  ‘That water is never fished. Why not? Sea-trout are worth nearly as much on the market as salmon. But I wasn’t thinking of that. I saw a few deer on the high ground; with grouse, woodcock and snipe lower down, duck on the loch, and the fishing, I began to picture a nice little sporting estate with the castle as an hotel. That would mean servants, ghillies and so on, which might bring the people back. I found lobsters among the rocks, too.’

  ‘What would you do with them?’

  ‘Can them. Start a little canning industry. Anything to provide employment.’

  Biggles smiled. ‘It’s an idea. Carry on.’

  ‘That’s about all. The only other building was the lighthouse.’

  Biggles’s eyebrows went up. ‘So there’s a lighthouse!’

  ‘There was, but like the rest it isn’t used any more. Apparently some time ago it was decided to build a new one, but instead of putting it on the old site it was built on one of the smaller outer islands. From Tola in clear weather you can see the light flashing.’

  Biggles reached for another cigarette. ‘This is all very interesting, Mr Macaster, but I’m still waiting to h
ear what it has to do with us.’

  ‘Now I’ve given you a rough picture of the general set-up I can tell you,’ announced Macaster. ‘I have a feeling there’s something going on, on my little island. If you like you can put it down to the second sight you spoke about just now. To start with, when I went into the castle, the first thing that struck me was the place had recently been lived in.’

  ‘Was there any concrete evidence of that?’

  ‘No, except — how can I put it? There was a certain smell you don’t get in a place that’s been empty for a hundred years or more. A warmish sort of smell, as if there had been a fire lighted... and cooking. Outside the back premises I found a heap of peats. I’ll admit I don’t know much about peat as fuel, but these didn’t look as though they’d been lying there for any length of time. Had they been they’d have been crumbled by the weather. There was also some driftwood which, as there are no trees on the island except a few stunted birches, could have been collected for kindling.’

  Biggles looked puzzled. ‘How did you get into the castle?’

  ‘I just walked in.’

  ‘Did you have a key?’

  ‘No. If there is one I’ve never seen it.’

  ‘So you found the place unlocked?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did that surprise you?’

  ‘Not particularly.’

  ‘How did you purpose getting in without a key had you found the place locked?’

  ‘I hadn’t given it a lot of thought. Frankly, I expected to find the place a ruin, in which case I’d have got in through a broken window.’

  ‘Was there any furniture?’

  ‘Not a stick.’

  ‘Did you go all over the castle?’

  ‘Not all of it. That would have been a long job. It’s a big place, a lot bigger than I expected. I saw as much of it as I thought necessary.’

  ‘Did it occur to you that fishing-boats, from the mainland or elsewhere, might put in there occasionally? In bad weather they might have to stay a while.’

  ‘I didn’t see any sign of that. I only saw what I’ve told you about. But I heard something, and it was this that brought me here.’