The One That Got Away

by Helen McCloy

Genres: Mystery; Traditional Mysteries

Synopsis

A castle, a deserted village, and murder in the Scottish Highlands

When child psychologist and US Naval Intelligence officer Lieutenant Peter Dunbar takes on a secret mission in the Scottish Highlands at the end of World War II, he finds himself drawn into the lives of a troubled boy and his beautiful young cousin.

But why does Johnny Stockton refuse to explain why he keeps running away from his comfortable home? And how might the answer be entangled with the mystery of an escaped German prisoner and a dying man's message?

Release date: October 14, 2014

Publisher: Orion Publishing Group

Print pages: 256

Sample

SILENCE WOKE ME. The plane was down again. It was one of those bombers converted to carry cargo and a few passengers after the German surrender. I was
the only passenger now. I had got on at Aspern. This might be Le Bourget or even Croydon, depending on the hour. I was too sleepy to look at my watch. From my window, the airstrip was an endless
tunnel, walled and roofed with darkness, floored with a pallid glare of landing lights. I closed my eyes.

Footfalls rang on asphalt. A door creaked and a voice spoke. “Somebody else in here. Navy uniform—American. He’s asleep.”

Something heavy thudded on the floor. I opened my eyes. A suitcase. The man who followed was hardly more substantial than a shadow in darkness faintly diluted by one blue bulb. The door slammed.
The new passenger leaned out a window and spoke to someone outside.

“I might. If it had only happened once. But this is the third time in four weeks.”

There was bafflement in the voice, and more—as if the problem were distressing as well as puzzling.

The response from outside was drowned by a shout. Footfalls dwindled. The plane hummed and shivered as its engines roared to life again. Landing lights blurred into a single beam and dropped
below. We were in the air.

The other man had settled in a seat across the aisle. Already he appeared to be dozing. There was no sheen of eyeballs under the shadow of his cap—only a dim, white triangle of face. What
would he do if I asked suddenly, “Are you Ness, or Inver?” Before the plane left Aspern I had noticed a tag on that pair of seats and read the hasty scrawl: Reserved for Ness and
Inver. Fancy had played with the two names. Ness might be English; Inver sounded Scottish. Ness would be short, plump, and sleek; Inver, tall, lean, and shaggy. I was rather disappointed when
the plane left Aspern without any other passenger appearing. It hadn’t occurred to me that one or both might get on at another stop. This must be Ness, I decided, for his enunciation was
certainly English. What had happened to Inver?

The lion’s purr of the engine was narcotic as a lullaby. Again I closed my eyes.

I woke to broad daylight. The plane still hummed with the vibration of its own engines, but when I looked out the window we seemed to be standing still in a mass of cloud, soft and gray as dirty
cotton.

“Good morning!”

I turned my head the other way. The man across the aisle was so slender he looked brittle. His narrow face was lengthened by a gray beard, pointed yet untrimmed. General Grant? No, Don Quixote.
Dreams brooded in the brown eyes set deep under thoughtful brows. The short nose was blunt rather than tilted. The smile was friendly, yet tentative. In America his cloth cap and caped overcoat of
shepherd’s plaid would have seemed eccentric. The coat, half open, showed a suit of rough tweed, gray with a slight cast of plum. Here and there, the fuzzy nap was worn down to the basic
weave. Cloth would be scarce in Europe for months to come. Leather, too. His brown brogues were scuffed, but they had been carefully polished. Eccentric yet thoughtful, shabby yet neat—that
suggested some peacetime job as underpaid and intellectual as my own. I put him down as an industrial chemist or a university professor; perhaps an author who couldn’t or wouldn’t write
best sellers.

“I hope I didn’t wake you,” went on the pleasant, rather deprecating voice.

“No, but you’ve shattered an illusion. In America we all believe that an Englishman never speaks to a stranger, even if he’s shipwrecked with one on a desert island.”

“I’m not an Englishman; I’m a Scotsman.”

Though we talked for half an hour, that was all he told me about himself until the plane reached Croydon. There he lowered a window to hail a passing porter.

“Will you please go to the office and see if there’s a telegram for me? I—”

The porter interrupted. “No telegram for you, sir. I was at the office a moment ago and the only telegram there is for Lord Ness.”

“Will you get it, please?” The tone was more deprecating than ever, almost shy. “You see I—er—I am Lord Ness. Perhaps I’d better show you my
passport.”

I was more surprised than the porter. Not because a diffident stranger had proved to be a peer of the realm—I had been in Britain often enough to learn that modern peers come in all shapes
and sizes. But this outraged my sense of history, for I knew that the Scottish Earls of Ness were not ennobled profiteers of the last-war-but-one, nor even siblings of a Stuart bastard. They were
the genuine article—chiefs of the Clan Torquhill, claiming legendary descent from one of the seven mormaors of Celtic Scotland. They had come out of the mists of prehistory to
murder, rape, and rob their way to an earldom—self-made men of the thirteenth century. Daydreaming over Andrew Lang, I had visualized them as great, gaunt, glaring men in gaudy tartans, at
least seven feet high and broad-shouldered enough to twirl the two-handed claymore around their heads shouting some Gaelic war cry like the pibroch of the Camerons—“Wolf and Eagle, come
to me and I will give you flesh!” Had that rich, hot blood boiled through the centuries only to end thinly and tepidly in the veins of this man who looked like a defeated intellectual?
Perhaps—for all of us must have prehistoric ascendants just as barbaric whether we happen to know their names or not.

“I always have trouble establishing my identity,” Lord Ness was saying wistfully. “I’m afraid I don’t look the part.”

“One thing puzzles me,” I returned. “What has become of Mr. Inver? Or is he Lord Inver?”

The brown eyes twinkled. “That’s another complication. I happen to be Earl of both Ness and Inver. I often receive letters from American corporations addressed to Ness, Inver and
Company. Fortunately when I lived in America I was plain Alan Torquhill and never expected to become anything else.”

When we were in the air again, I asked, “Where did you live in America?”

“Chicago. I taught history at the university there when I was a young man. And I went to Hollywood as technical adviser for a Scottish film. I told them that Bothwell wouldn’t wear
kilts because he was a Lowlander, but they wouldn’t pay any attention to me—they insisted that the kilts ‘looked good.’ Do you know Hollywood?”

“No. I’m from New York. My name is Dunbar.”

“A good Scottish name.” His glance strayed to the gilt braid on my cuff. “Lieutenant?”

“Only a reserve lieutenant.”

He asked the question the civilian always asks the depersonalized man in uniform. “What did you do before the war?”

Usually I made my answer as fancy as possible. Oh, I was a white slaver—or a Gestapo agent—or whatever came into my head at the moment. But this time the question carried no
overtones of an impertinent wish to “place” me, so I answered frankly, “I was a psychiatrist.”

“Bound for the naval base at Dalriada?”

Was I being pumped? If so, it was done gently, almost imperceptibly. I had no reason to doubt Lord Ness, but orders are orders. My C.O. had said, “The fewer people who know why
you’re there, the better.” So I lied glibly enough. “I’ve got a week’s leave and I’m spending it in the Highlands.”

Ness seemed to be turning something over in his mind. “Are you—could you be the Peter Dunbar who has written several books on the psychology of juvenile delinquents?”

“I could be and I am.” I smiled at his surprise. “I’m afraid I don’t look the part either!”

This was only too true. I have been told that I look more like a football player or a longshoreman than a psychiatrist. People just won’t associate six feet two with a sedentary
occupation, especially when that height goes with broad shoulders, reddish hair, and freckles.

“Acting the part is more important than looking it,” responded Ness. “I was surprised only because I chanced to be reading one of your books just the other day.”

“Is that really the only reason you were surprised, Lord Ness?”

His eyes lost their dreaminess. I had a glimpse of the real man under the wistful manner. He might be both shrewd and hard if ever he cared to take the trouble.

“You are a close observer, Mr. Dunbar,” he said dryly. “The real source of my surprise was the fact that chance or providence has thrown me in the way of an authority on
juvenile delinquency at a moment when I happen to be particularly interested in the subject. I’d like to ask you a question—hypothetical, of course. But—”

“But what?”

“It would be rather like meeting a doctor of medicine on holiday and asking him what to do for a sore throat.”

I laughed. “A purely psychological question that had nothing to do with war would be a sort of holiday for me now.”

“That’s good of you. I’ll try to put it simply.” He hesitated as if he were choosing his words carefully. “Can you think of any reason why a normal child, living in
a happy home, should persist in running away? Not just once, or even twice, but—three times in four weeks?”

Hypothetical? Again I seemed to see a shadow in darkness faintly diluted by a blue bulb; again I heard a voice, baffled and distressed—“the third time in four weeks.” But of
course he didn’t know that I had overheard that. Or did he?

“Unfortunately I have no data to go on,” I answered cautiously. His calling me an authority made me self-conscious. My books had been received well enough, but no one had ever called
me an authority before. “Offhand I should say that any child who persists in running away isn’t normal.”

“Suppose you were convinced that such a child were normal?” persisted Ness.

“Then his environment must be abnormal.”

“And if his environment seemed perfectly normal, too?”

“Seemed?” I smiled at that. “Adults control their feelings. Children don’t. Suppose something abnormal were going on in a family. Some emotional upheaval or worse. The
adults might conceal it from everyone outside the family circle, but a child would show the strain in some way—perhaps by running away. In that case a child’s truancy would be the only
symptom of anything wrong to reach the world outside the family. Everyone would say that such a child came from a perfectly normal environment.”

Ness sighed. “That, Mr. Dunbar, is the very conclusion I’ve been hoping to avoid—something evil under the apparently smiling surface of the child’s
environment.”

Strange how the entire meaning of a conversation can be altered by the definite article. No doubt it was a slip of the tongue, but this time he did not say “a” child—he said
“the” child.

“So this is not a purely hypothetical question?” I ventured.

“I only wish it were!” He changed the subject abruptly. “We’ve crossed the Highland Line.”

I followed his gaze to the window. We had left the clouds behind. We were in a patch of pale, citron sunshine that looked acid and chilly. Far below a gray sea creamed sluggishly against the sea
walls of a gray city.

“Dalriada,” said Ness.

Like a silver ribbon, a river twisted through a checkerboard of fields in every shade of green. City and river and coastal plain were all diminished by the great rampart of mountains
beyond—wave upon wave of plum-red fading to plum-blue where they climbed to meet a lilac sky. This was the natural fortress that had spilled rebels and raiders into the lush Lowlands for so
many generations. As I glanced from the grim, gray city to the deep blush of the mountains, I murmured half to myself, “A Covenanter city in a Cavalier landscape!”

Ness caught the words. “Actually Dalriada was a Cavalier stronghold. Pious chronicles assure us that the rebels were tortured gently and the city sacked orderly—but very few of the
old houses remained after that unique military operation.”

“Is it far to Glen Tor?”

Once again I had astonished him. This time I did not know why. “What part of the glen are you going to?” he asked.

“A sheep farm called Ardrigh. I’ve rented a cottage there through an agent in Dalriada.”

“Then we shall be neighbors. Ardrigh belongs to me.”

“I understood it belonged to Eric Stockton, the novelist.”

“Stockton has leased part of Glen Tor from me, but not Ardrigh. My car will be at the airport. Unless you’ve made other arrangements, you’d better let me drive you to Ardrigh.
It’s on my way.”

“Thank you, but I rather expected to pick up a taxi in Dalriada.”

“You won’t find a taxi to take you so far. It’s over forty miles and petrol—gas—is still scarce here.”

The plane was banking in a wide, descending spiral. The green fields raced up to meet us, spinning and exploding into a thousand particular details—roads, trees, acres of ripening oats and
hay, hangars, airstrip. A slight bump shook us and we rolled to a full stop. I rose stiffly, feeling as the dead might feel crawling out of their coffins on Judgment Day.

A stout, ruddy man, wearing the cap of the air line, came up to us, smiling.

“Ah, good afternoon, Mr. Strath! My car ready?” Here on his own ground, Ness lost all trace of shyness. He seemed to know and be known to everybody.

Beyond a wicket we came to a prewar Rolls, its long, black body carefully repainted, the brass on its square hood rubbed to shine like gold. Above the wheel I saw the narrow shape and dangling
ribbons of a Glengarry bonnet.

“Mr. Dunbar,” said Ness, “my daughter, Margaret.”

Short, black hair curled up around the brimless cap. Thick, black brows and lashes lent character to eyes of a clear hazel. I judged her hardly more than sixteen, and her round, childish face
had the slight flush that blooms in a damp climate. Her jacket was dark green with silver buttons. Her pleated skirt mixed the green of the jacket and the blue of the cap in a plaid enlivened by a
few threads of scarlet. Later, I learned to call this the hunting sett of the Torquhill tartan.

“Mr. Dunbar is staying at Ardrigh,” went on Ness. “I thought we could drop him there on our way to Invertor.”

“Hop in, Mr. Dunbar!” Margaret Torquhill’s voice was young, hard, and flippant. “Mrs. Graeme will be glad to see you tonight.”

The car started smoothly. Its engine must have been cherished tenderly all through the war years. I had a fleeting impression of meadows—then a stony, gray street, typical of Dalriada,
treeless and bleak as a prison yard.

“Mrs. Graeme?” I repeated.

“Your landlady at Ardrigh. She didn’t like being left there alone with the younger children tonight. Her husband’s dead, you see. She and her eldest son, Rabbie, do all the
work of the farm.”

“And where’s Rabbie tonight?” asked Ness.

“Out with the other men and boys looking for Johnny Stockton.”

“Again!” The exclamation was involuntary. No sooner had Ness made it than he looked at me with a faint frown as if he wished he had not spoken.

“Yes, our precious little Johnny is off again.”

The car was climbing a steep, suburban street where houses stood back from the roadway in their own gardens.

“He’s been missing two days this time.” The hazel eyes glanced at me over one shoulder. “Has my father told you about our perennial runaway, Mr. Dunbar? He’s the
son of your nearest neighbor at Ardrigh—Eric Stockton.”

“Something evil under the apparently smiling surface of the child’s environment.”

Ness would never have said that had he known I was bound for Ardrigh where the Stocktons would be my nearest neighbors.

THE CAR SPED through a rolling land of field and pasture. From a ragged line of birches came the fresh chuckle of running water.

Ness turned to his daughter. “Just what happened?”

Her eyes were on the road. “Johnny was out with his father and Mr. Charpentier. The men were fishing their side of the Tor, below the upper bridge. Johnny got bored and wandered off to the
moor behind them. You know the place—open moor with no trees or cover of any kind, and—this is the queer part—Charpentier was actually looking at Johnny when
he—disappeared.”

“That’s impossible,” returned Ness. “There must be some mistake.”

“I’m simply quoting Mr. Charpentier. He says that he turned around to see what had become of Johnny. He saw the boy distinctly about a quarter of a mile from where he stood and
then—quite suddenly—Johnny wasn’t there. He just vanished before Charpentier’s eyes as if he had dissolved into thin air.”

“Charpentier is a Frenchman,” said Ness, as if that explained everything. “Did they search the spot immediately?”

“Oh, yes. Charpentier told Stockton what he’d seen and they went up on the moor at once with the gillie they had—old Angus MacHeth. They went directly to the place where
Charpentier said he had last seen Johnny. There was no trace of the boy at all.”

“Footprints?”

“They couldn’t find any. The heather grows thickly there. You have to walk on it rather than through it.”

“But there should have been traces,” insisted Ness. “Broken twigs, bruised leaves, fallen heather bells.”

“Old Angus found a few traces, but they ended in the middle of the moor at the spot where Johnny disappeared. Angus said it was ‘no canny.’ He didn’t like it at
all.”

“If he didn’t find any other traces, there were none there.” Ness turned to me. “Angus is the best deerstalker in the glen, and human beings don’t tread as lightly
as deer.”

“If Johnny were my child, I’d make him tell me why he runs off like this,” said that hard young voice.

“How?” Ness was amused.

“I don’t know exactly how, but I’d find some way,” she retorted. “The Stocktons spoil that child dreadfully.”

“There’s a reason for that.” Ness spoke gently.

I was left to wonder what the reason could be.

“Spoiled or not,” he went on, “what ordinary motive could Johnny have for running away? He has everything at home that a boy could want.”

“Except discipline.” Again a glance over her shoulder at me. “We’re boring Mr. Dunbar. He can’t possibly be interested in all this.”

“Oh, but I assure you I am interested, Lady Margaret!” I protested.

“Mr. Dunbar has had experience with cases like Johnny’s,” explained Ness. “Before the war he was a psychiatrist in a clinic for delinquent children in New York. He has
written several very interesting books on the subject.”

The tawny eyes under the black brows favored me with a mocking look. “What an extraordinary profession for a young man!”

Did she think it an effeminate profession? I couldn’t tell such a very hard-boiled young lady that I had decided to specialize in juvenile delinquency when I first read Oscar Wilde’s
account of the children confined near him in Reading Gaol. Children who spent twenty-three hours a day in solitary confinement, crying for their parents, racked with vomiting and dysentery brought
on by the murderous prison diet of those days. One child so small they could find no prison clothes to fit him, whose white, stricken face haunted Wilde long after he himself left the prison. I had
often wondered for what “crimes” those children were confined and what had become of them in after life. And of the warder who was dismissed for comforting them with a few sweet
biscuits. Of course, all this was over fifty years . . .