"'Tis a shame there isn't a copy of the Inverness Courier lying about. The assistant editor attended university with me. Jolly chap by name of Lewis Clark. Never met a stranger he didn't know."
Henry smiles and picks up the paper, scanning it to see if anything pops out as strange or out of the pale.
Mrs. MacDonnell: There might be a copy of the Courier in the stuff I put out for collection yesterday, if you want to take a look?
LCDR Readington-Smythe The Thistle is pretty much what you would expect from a small town weekly, a number of cartoons of Hitler that you have already seen in the larger metropolitan papers, recipes, and some home and gardening tips.
You do see one thing interesting, a small item about "Sean MacAllan" "again" being "bodily removed" from the premises of what must be a public house, "The Bull and Anvil", after becoming truculent. Could this be a scion of the infamous MacAllan clan?
.
Henry frowns at the rag, then taps the item and shows it to Mr. Carter.
"The Bull and Anvil, eh?", Edward says, taking the newpaper and squinting at the small typeface with his reader spectacles. "What must one do to get evicted from a public house in these parts? Hmm. Might be worth checking into. Do you feel up to a pint, Lieutenant Commander? How about any of the rest of you?"
"A drink after a long journey? Always, Mister Carter, always!"
Mrs. MacDonnell: Now you two be careful, there'll be no lights on after sundown, due to the black-out, so you'll finding your way back here by your fingertips!"
Henry smiles broadly. "I assure you, we may be groping, ma'am, but we'll definitely find our way home!" He and Mister Carter head off to the local pub!
So the pair of you make your way through the largely deserted streets; like most small, rural towns at this time a majority of its adult population is either serving in uniform, or have moved to larger cities to work in vital industries, leaving the places like Gregor half depopulated.
Stepping outside you pull your collars up against the evening damp and cold, there'll be frost on the heather come morning for certain. A few souls are visible in the town's narrow streets, hurrying home in the day's waning light.
The Lt Cmdr nods to the locals as they pass, heading for the pub.
You find the place easily enough, a simple building of white, plastered walls.
Entering through the narrow door you find yourself in a dim cave of a room.
A couple of ancients, mugs in front of them, pipes clenched in their mouths, stare warily at you.
Barkeep: You'll only have time enough for one round gentleman, before I close.
Edward places a Pound note on the bar and thanks the barkeep for allowing him to purchase a pint for him and the LtCmdr. If the LtCmdr tries to pay for his own ale Edward says that he insisted, that we must all do our part to keep up morale among those in uniform.
Almost said 'King and Country', Edward thinks, But anti-crown sentiment may run high up here despite the war. Best to keep it simple.
Henry orders a pint and smiles as Mister Carter offers to pay, raising his glass to his patriotism. He'll use Reassurance to speak with the ancients and see if they'll tell him anything interesting about the local history.
Barkeep: The MacAllans, that's a bad lot I'll tell you. Thieves and cheats, the all of them, if not worse. Just a few nights I had to throw Sean out of here. He says a bad back is keeping him out of uniform, but he was was giving me just about all I could handle as I gave him the bum's rush!
The Old Timers: So, what brings you to the Loch?
I'll assume that you'll use the suggested cover story; that you're scouting possible sites for a POW camp.
Old Timers (synopsis): The MacLaireag lands were awarded to the MacAllans after the MacLaireags backed the wrong side in the Jacobite Insurrection. The MacAllan's have not prospered on the MacLaireag lands. Thomas MacAllan, the first laird, disappeared shortly after, and his line seems to be almost cursed; sadism and brutality seem to be quite common among the MacAllan scions. The MacLaireag castle itself was largely destroyed only some 50 years later, allegedly by a cache of illegal gun-powder. The Loch's legendary monster, the Waterhorse, was, according to legend, a kind of familiar to the Maclaireags, and it guarded a half-flooded cavern filled with stolen treasure.
LCDR Readington-Smythe: There's a 1 pt. optional clue that you can spend for here as well.
Henry nods and keeps sipping his beer, making noises only to encourage the old timers to speak more.
Edward leans forward.
Curious, Edward says, This is the second time I've heard someone mention the Jacobite Rebellion in relation to this area. Interesting for genealogy's sake, no doubt, but is there something specific we need to know? That rebellion was put down two hundred years ago. Ghost stories and lake monsters are all well and good for summer campouts and the like, but is there about that could be a danger to our surveying teams? We are practical men, after all.
Edward sips his ale very slowly, and offers cigarettes to any who want a smoke.
Apologies, my good man, Edward says to the barkeep. Edward coughs and blushes. Got lost in my own thoughts and mumbled out of turn. Do you think this Sean MacAllen will be any trouble to us as we scout the area for a good location for the camp? And by 'good' I mean cold and windy. We have no plans to treat the Hun to tea and biscuits, mind you.
I certainly wish Dr. Harrison were here to keep me in line, Edward thinks. These highlanders will have me locked up if I'm not careful.
Barkeep: The MacAllans could be very well be a danger to your survey. I remember some three years back old Liam sent a census-taker to his heels with a load of buck-shot!
Henry smiles and thanks the old men for their time and help. He finishes his pint and nods to Mister Carter, inclining his head toward the door.
So, here is the MacAllan genealogy synopsis:
So the following members of the MacAllan family have farmsteads in the area around the Loch
Liam and wife Maddy
--his sons Victor and Sean
--his daughter Margaret
Brian and wife Gladdis
Christopher and wife Maeve
David.
John MacDougall and wife Delores (daughter of Donald MacAllan, deceased)
Deborah (Donald MacAllan's widow).
They are all farmers, and none are especially prosperous. Liam seems to be the nominal head of the family.
Barkeep: Will that be all then gentlemen?
Edwards asks the barkeep: One last thing: Is it very far to the MacAllan farm? The father's place? Liam, I believe you said his name was?
As he waits for the barkeep to answer, or not, Edward thinks, With Miss Chase otherwise engaged, it is just the Lieutenant Commander and me. If this is going the direction it sounds like it's going we're going to have to have backup. What is it the Yanks say? Send in the cavalry? Maybe not quite that extreme yet, but this place gives me the chills, and it's not the Scottish air.
Edward glances at the Lieutenant Commander, his (Edward's) brows knit with concern.
Barkeep: Liam's farm? That'll be about an hours walk, around the west shore. It's just a little past the MacDougall's. Do be careful with that lot though, they can be like mad dogs!
Edward pulls out a crumpled Pound note and lays it on the bar. Any chance you could sketch us a map? We have the official ones, of course, from the government, but a local's is indispensable for getting about.
The barkeep sketches a quick map.
Barkeep: Stay to the trail, when you can, they're some treacherous bogs, especially past the MacDougall's.
Henry smiles at the old timers and looks outside at the sky. "Mister Carter, we had best head back before our hostess worries."
Agreed, Lieutenant Commander.
Once outside the tavern, and out of earshot of the barkeep, Edward stops Henry as they began to walk back to the boarding house.
It appears we are up against a ruffian or two, as well as superstitious locals. If you're worried you needn't be, but keep an eye skinned. I've seen their type before and methinks they won't appreciate a couple of Englishmen snooping about. I say this because I suspect we may have to wire London and get a little, um, reinforcement. I have a distant cousin, an American, lives in Massachusetts, not too far from a town like this one. Folks like this can be a paranoid lot.
A faint glow on the western ridges is all that remains of the day, and even that fades.
Overhead the stars shine through a few ragged clouds.
You realize that your hostesses' warnings were not without merit; every window within the village is shuttered tightly, and there is not a light to be seen anywhere.
With tentative, faltering steps, you grope your way through the darkness towards your lodgings.
Like milk being poured from a saucer, mist, cloudy white against the velvet darkness of the night, pours down from the loch, and creeps among the houses of the village.
The Lt Cmdr shudders. "This village seems like a perfect setting for one of your tales, Mister Carter! Right spooky place, this is!" Henry keeps his eyes peeled for things... things in the mist.
The pair of you stride through the mist, when your hear a faint crash seeming to come from edge of the tiny hamlet.
The Lt Cmdr freezes and drops into a crouch, raising his right hand to signal halt. He peers through the darkness and begins to move toward the noise with speed, keeping his head down.
Edward Carter was just about to reply about the spooky mist when he hears the crash. He yelps and slaps his hand over his mouth. He glances around jerkily, looking for a place to hide. If there's a tree or shrub he gets behind it.
Dammit, Edward thinks, chastising himself. You are as nervous as a cat in a room full of rocking chairs. You're going to get us killed.
A dark shape rushes towards you out of the swirling mists; a high-lands pony, eyes rolling in terror. If you don't want to be trampled 'under hoof' lets have a Athletics test, Difficulty 5.
Mr. Carter, as you stated you were moving to hide, rather than charging forward like LCDR Readington-Smythe, I let you test at Difficulty 4.
The pony rushes past, streaking into the misty night.
In its wake you see the bobbing light of a lantern approaching.
Edward stays behind shrubbery, his thick eyebrows knitted with concern.
My God in Heaven,Edward whispers.
Haven't seen an animals that frightened since the battles at Saint-Quentin back March of '18, Edward thinks. Whatever frightened this poor animal was as scary as the Hun and their mortars were to our horses.
Edward crouches and scans the area for the LtCmdr, hoping to get a glimpse of where he is in the lantern light.
The Lt Cmdr, meanwhile, stands up and brushes himself off, peering at the light approaching. "For Crown and Country, extinguish that light! We must not present a target for the Huns!"
The light is dimmed, but not extinquished.
Voice from fog: Hello there, is anyone hurt!
The Lt Cmdr looks around, not spotting Mister Carter, but surmising that is due to hiding rather than pony-related carrying off. "I'm well, just a bit dirtied. Yours is a spirited steed!"
Edward emerges, brushing himself off.
That pony of yourse gave us quite a start, Edward says.
.
A man in the well-worn tweeds of a gentleman farmer, his face in the shadow of a wide-brimmed hat, approaches.
Farmer: Sorry, 'bout that. It is just sometimes, when the mist...well, anyways I'm glad no one is hurt.
You get the impression that he was just about on the verging of saying more, when he checked himself.
The Lt Cmdr's eyes narrow. "Yes, quite a misty night, isn't it? Is that normal for these parts?"
We were just returning to our lodgings and got caught off guard by the darkness and fog. I am more accustomed to evenings in the city, least ways before the blackouts. Are you and your animal in trouble, sir?
Edward shivers and it's not because of the cold. As he moves up beside the LtCmdr goose bumps break out on his arms. He folds his arms.
The trenches,Edward thinks, his eyes zoning out momentarily. It's just like it was in the trenches, that night that the Fifth Army ....
Farmer: Well, there will be no finding that animal tonight. With any luck she won't break a leg out on the fens before the morning.
If your poor stead is a lost cause then I suppose the Lieutenant Commander and I best be on our way,, Edward says, cupping his hand around his cigarette as he lights it. Mrs. MacConnell doesn't suffer truancy at the boarding house. If we're not careful we'll wind up sleeping in an old barn.