‘You came all this way to say my work’s crap and have the balls to tell me it’s for my own protection?’
Fergus gave the upside-down smile that meant he knew he had scored a hit.
‘I came to see Christie. Her mobility’s reduced to the point where living here’s no longer feasible. The time has come for her to make a decision about where she wants to go.’
‘And you’re here to help her decide?’
Fergus bowed his head in a slight nod.
‘Sometimes it helps to talk things over with old friends.’
‘Was Christie’s illness part of the reason you discouraged me from investigating Archie Lunan?’
‘No, I told you. I thought it a genuinely poor proposal.’
Murray sipped his coffee. It tasted harsh, but it was hot and he took a second swallow. He shut his eyes for a moment. When he opened them, the professor was still there, staring at him, his expression as alert as an inner-city fox. Murray said, ‘I met her this morning, on the ridge above the limekilns.’
Fergus’s voice was free of concern.
‘I’m surprised she can make it that far.’
‘Her car had got stuck in the mud. I helped get it out.’
‘She was lucky you came along. Weather like this, who knows how long she might sit there? Something like that could kill her.’
‘She wants me to come and see her, to talk about Lunan.’
‘When?’
‘It doesn’t matter. I’m not going.’
The same downturned smile twitched Fergus’s lips.
‘It’s the opportunity you were waiting for.’
It was typical of the man to want to rub his victory home.
Murray kept his voice steady and said, ‘I’ll be on tomorrow’s ferry.’
Fergus picked up his cap and set it on his head at a jaunty angle.
‘I think you’ve made the right decision. Confine yourself to the poems. I’ll make sure you get every support from the department.’ He slapped the table with his open palm. ‘Perhaps I should write an introduction for you? I could include a short reminiscence of Archie. It might help set his work in context of the time.’
The urge to punch him ran through Murray like an electric current.
‘I don’t know that I’ll still be a member of the department.’
Fergus had half risen, now he sat back down and gave Murray his kingly look, a wise old lion giving counsel to a talking ape.
‘There will be no awkwardness between us. Rachel and I are going to Italy at the end of next week, but she’ll telephone when we’re back and you’ll come round for dinner. This will be in the past.’ He got to his feet. ‘If you can get your luggage up to the crossroads, I’ll give you a lift to the pier tomorrow afternoon.’
He might have been a father offering to do a favour for a teenage son.
‘There’s a long way round, slightly more civilised than the route Christie takes in that souped-up jeep of hers, and I brought the Saab over. Its suspension is famous.’
Murray had never been that interested in cars. It had been Jack who’d sat in deep communion with packs of Top Trumps cards, memorising makes and models, comparing maximum speeds and fantasising about what he would drive when he grew up. But Murray should have recognised the black Saab parked outside Christie’s cottage. The car was stamped on his memory. The smooth swiftness as it overtook Rachel’s BMW by the reservoir on the way home from their country park tryst. He remembered Rachel clambering onto his knee, unbuttoning her blouse, his shock as she flicked on the car’s interior light, the brilliant shine of white lace before he clicked it off, the dark shadow of the other car.
He said, ‘Don’t you mind? Sharing her with strangers?’
The professor’s voice was compassionate.
‘With strangers, no. It’s part of what binds us together.’
Murray nodded, as if he understood.
‘Did you email me the photographs?’
Fergus’s smile was saintly, a gentle shepherd caring for one of his flock.
‘I thought they might help you get over her, and I knew I could rely on your discretion.’
Murray raised his eyes towards the sloped roof. He saw a trickle of water trailing down the stone wall, following the uneven surface of the rock, forging its path along the lines of least resistance. He said, ‘I’ll get Pete Preston to give me a lift in his tractor.’
‘As you wish. Make sure you get back to Glasgow, where you can be safe and dry. The islands can be unhealthy for us city-dwellers.’
‘Was Lismore unhealthy for Archie?’
‘He died here. I thought you knew that.’
It was a bad joke, all of it. He’d thought all his curiosity was gone, but Murray found himself asking, ‘Fergus, what was Archie like when you knew him?’
The older man paused by the door and looked at the room as if wanting to commit its details to memory. He hesitated. For a moment Murray thought he was going to refuse to answer, but then he started to speak and his voice was low and measured.
‘Archie was scruffy, with a poor sense of hygiene and a tendency to drunkenness. He was slow to anger when he was sober and fast with his fists when he was in his cups, which, as I said, was much of the time. He liked women, but even after he met Christie he was convinced they didn’t like him.’ Fergus paused as if considering what he was going to say next, then went on, ‘But there was no real edge to Archie Lunan, never any sense of suspicion. If he liked you, he liked you, no judgement attached. He’s the only person I ever met to whom I’d apply the phrase, “too good for this world”. He would have made a wonderful father, if he’d managed to turn his back on alcohol.’ Fergus levelled his gaze to Murray’s. ‘Do you know what the main problem with Archie was?’
‘No, tell me.’
‘He thought everyone was as good and as loyal as he was, and of course they weren’t.’
He gave his inverted smile again, but this time his face looked old and worn and inclined to tears.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
MRS DUNN’S PRIVATE sitting room was warm. Murray leaned back in the tasselled easy chair he suspected had once been the preserve of long-dead Mr Dunn and bit into a fruit scone spread with the home-made jam. Archie the cat was basking in front of the electric fire. He peered at Murray through glazed eyes, then lowered his head back onto the carpet and slid into sleep.
‘Not impressed?’ Murray leaned down and ruffled the creature’s furry chest. ‘I’ll add you to the list.’ He sat back, marvelling at the cat’s talent for relaxing. Was Archie neutered? Maybe that was the way to be content, sever all desires.
He had meant it when he told Fergus that he was through with the book. Even now, settled in the warmth of Mrs Dunn’s front room, waiting to hear her story, he was sure he would never write it. But he had left it too late to cancel his visit and the tea and home-baked spread conferred an obligation. Murray glanced at his mobile resting on the occasional table beside him. Mrs Dunn had allowed him to charge it and the small bars on the display pulsed as the battery filled with energy.
He’d had no idea how hungry he’d been, but the landlady’s baking had awakened an appetite in Murray as fathomless as a small boy’s at a Sunday School picnic. He realised he was eyeing a plate of pancakes, even as he chewed on what remained of his scone.
Mrs Dunn settled her broad backside into the armchair opposite and freshened their cups with tea from the large pot on the table between them.
‘Help yourself, Dr Watson. They’ll go to waste otherwise.’