‘Yes. I see that.’
‘Then it gets complicated. How should you return it? And should you give any reason why you’ve returned it?’ He helped himself to a slice of brown bread and buttered it thickly. ‘The easier option is to destroy the journal, as instructed.’
‘I d
on’t think I can do that. Not unless Alec, or someone other than me, knows what it contains.’
‘Yes, I thought
that’s what you’d say. I’d feel the same. So I think your way is becoming clearer… You’re obliged to return this journal and you have to decide to whom you’ll give it and when, and what explanation you’ll give for not destroying it.’
‘I don’t know if I can
give my reason. It sounds so ridiculous! And it’s not as if I’m even family.’
‘Try me
,’ Rupert said, setting down his cutlery.
‘
Well… I think this journal could be used to free the family. I think if they understood the full extent of the evil that surrounds them, they’d fight back. And I think if we all fight back
together
– it’s just a hunch, maybe just wishful thinking – but I think if the family unite and face up to Meredith – that’s the ghost – and if we’ve got God on our side and holy water and
you
, Rupert, I feel sure something can be done. I mean, there must have been a reason why I found that appalling journal, surely?’
‘
Providence, you mean? I wonder… What made you look for it? The journal, I mean.’
‘
I thought Alec might be wrong about his mother’s death. Something just didn’t add up. I suspected he wasn’t to blame and I thought maybe I could prove it.’
‘Which you did. But you haven’t yet proved it to
him
.’
‘No.’
Rupert was watching me closely. ‘But you think you should.’
I hesitated for a long moment before saying,
‘Yes.’
‘To sum up then… You think Alec
should know he’s innocent, so it simply remains for you to decide whether you tell him or his father and whether you inform either man in person or via some other form of communication. You say you have no reason to return to Scotland?’
‘Not really. When I finish
a draft of the biography, I
could
deliver it in person. That was my plan before I was sent packing. But now I think my client would expect me to post a print-out of the draft. After that it’s up to him whether he wants to pursue publication or not. I’m hoping my draft will convince him that he should.’
Rup
ert was silent, deep in thought, then he said, ‘Much as I’d like to help, Jen, I don’t think I can be of further assistance. The decisions are all yours and you need to give them careful consideration. Go back to London and finish the book, then see if it’s any clearer what you should do. You never know, something might happen in the interim. One of the family might get in touch, provide you with an excuse to return. Or at least open up a channel for communication. Undoubtedly, Alec thinks he’s done the right thing sending you away out of the danger zone, but he might have a hard time living with the consequences.’
I shook my head. ‘I think Alec is very used to having a hard time living.’
‘And that’s why you want to tell him about the journal. Why you want to get rid of his stepmother’s earthbound spirit.’
‘
She’s like a
disease
,
Rupert! I don’t know about holy water, she makes me want to go round sprinkling disinfectant!’
He smiled. ‘You know
, there’s a lot in what you say. The popular conception of evil is a dark, majestic god, or a beautiful fallen angel. Milton has a lot to answer for, I’m afraid. But I prefer to think of unquiet spirits, poltergeists, demons and so forth as spiritual
bacilli
. They attack the soul and the personality. They cause sickness. But, I assure you, the sickness can be cured.’
‘You think so?’
‘I
know
so. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to be at a meeting in an hour and I must clear up, or the kitchen will reek of kippers for the rest of the week.’
Wh
ile Rupert cleared away, I got my things together and loaded up the car with my houseplants, conscious that a weight had been lifted from my shoulders. It wasn’t gone completely, but sharing the burden had made a huge difference. I no longer felt I was completely in the dark, groping my way towards a decision. I knew what I had to do, I just didn’t know how to do it.
When I
said goodbye to Rupert, I hugged him and we stood for a moment with our arms round each other in a completely platonic embrace. There was no longer any desire on my part, but there was still, I was relieved to note, a great deal of love. I missed Rupert and suspected I always would. He claimed there was a God-shaped hole in everybody’s life and people found different ways to fill it. He said mine was writing.
T
here’s a Rupert-shaped hole in my life and so far I’ve found nothing to fill it. Which is why, when I bade farewell, I kissed him on the cheek and said, ‘Goodbye, Rupert. You’re one in a million. And when I count my blessings, you’re near the top of the list.’
‘It’s a
privilege to be able to serve,’ he said, smiling broadly. ‘If you need me for anything, Imogen – anything at all – just get in touch. I’ll be standing by. With the spiritual disinfectant.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
In the days after I returned home from Cauldstane, I felt empty, drained by grief and longing.
The thing about pain – any kind of pain, physical or emotional – is that you can’t ignore it. You can
pretend
to ignore it. You can continue to function as if the pain doesn’t exist and possibly no one will guess at the adaptations you make to live with that pain. But that’s my point. You have to
adapt
. Things aren’t the same, even if you manage to create an impression that they are. All that happens when you adapt to pain is that other people are able to ignore, even forget about it.
That was my mother’s experience of widowhood. Putting on a brave show after my father’s sudden death, she refused to fall apart on the outside, even though she appeared quite hollowed out by grief. The woman who eked out a life for another three years was brittle, fragile like a blown egg, but like an egg, there was no indication on the outside of the emptiness within. She just drifted, oddly weightless, without direction, through what remained of her life, as if waiting for something. I never knew what. I hoped it wasn’t death.
Like her, I waited.
~
I wasn’t prepared for how much I would miss the MacNabs. I thought as I put first miles, then days between us, the pain of separation would lessen, memories would become less vivid. I couldn’t have been more wrong. In idle moments I found myself dwelling on happier times at Cauldstane. I remembered the funny things people had said, the tender things Alec had done. Trying to remember Alec became, if not an obsession, then a preoccupation. I’d taken no photos of him and could have kicked myself for that oversight, but I’d borrowed some photos from the family albums, intending to make a selection for Sholto’s biography. He’d said he had no idea what would interest readers, so I’d made my own choice, mixing the adventurous with the domestic. That included a few photos of the MacNab brothers as boys and young men, but nothing recent.
Thank heavens for Google. I found a few photos of Alec online, pictured competing as a historical swordsman. There was also a photo of him in the armoury on his website, dressed in his leather apron. That was all I had in the way of mementos – those few photos and the miniature claymore.
Most of the time I was relieved we’d never got as far as sleeping together. I told myself, very sensibly, how much harder it would have been to forget him if we’d ever made love. But sometimes – usually when lying awake in the middle of the night – I chided myself for my reserve, for not seizing the moment. But which moment? When? By the time it was apparent Alec and I were headed towards bed, Meredith had decided to drown me, the one being a natural consequence of the other.
We
’d missed our opportunity, but maybe it was just as well. As my feelings weren’t reciprocated, our failure to graduate to a sexual relationship was probably a blessing. I told myself I wouldn’t have wanted to feel used. Then I’d look at Alec’s photo and think, “Yes, I would. I wouldn’t have minded. Perhaps I wouldn’t have
felt
used. Maybe it would have been a glorious, casual but mutually fulfilling one-night stand. And where’s the harm in that?”
Since the mere possibility of sexual activity had been enough to send Meredith into full “vengeance is mine” mode, my question was perhaps naïve. I knew I’d been in danger, I just didn’t care. Was that love? S
tubbornness? Stupidity?
It was certainly foolish to speculate that Alec might have sent me away despite his feelings for me. That was even harder to live with, even more frustrating than believing I’d been toyed with, then cast aside. If I could convince myself Alec had exploited my emotional vulnerability, I’d at least enjoy the luxury of disapproval. But I couldn’t.
That old crap detector again. I would have bet a large amount of money that Alec MacNab didn’t have a dishonourable bone in that rangy, elegant body. Which led me to conclude either he’d never felt more than a passing lust, or alternatively, whatever he felt when he’d kissed me, goading Meredith to reveal herself, he
still
felt, but refused to acknowledge.
Whichever way I looked at it, whatever emotional knots I tied myself in, I ended up in the same miserable place. London. Alone. Trying not to check my phone too often. Trying to ration the number of times I looked at Alec’s photo.
I was just waiting. For some kind of sign.
~
I worked long hours on Sholto’s book and struggled with the short but necessary section concerning Meredith. Taking a break, I googled “psychopath” and, wearing my researcher’s hat, attempted to come to terms with what I’d seen and what I knew. But the labels didn’t help. Psychopaths, it seemed, were a law unto themselves when alive, so I didn’t rate anyone’s chances of negotiating with a psychopathic ghost. Perhaps Alec was right to concede defeat.
Some days I could push the fear so far to the back of my mind, I began to wonder if I’d imagined how bad things were. Then I’d remember the little girl standing in the middle of the river, crying her crocodile tears and I’d start to shiver at the memory of how cold and terrified I’d been. Then I’d get angry. Angry that Meredith, who felt compassion for no one, should use other people’s compassion as a deadly weapon against them. Coral had died because she wanted to help a child in distress. If I’d drowned, it would have been for the same reason. Evil was a word that hadn’t really featured in my vocabulary pre-Cauldstane, but I could think of no other way to describe Meredith’s actions, both when she was alive and after she was dead.
In the middle of one sleepless night, I thought of trying to write Meredith out of the story. Years ago, before I cracked up, I’d been convinced that if I put something into a novel, it would actually happen. Now, insomniac and irrational, I considered writing “Cauldstane: the novel”, in which Meredith lived long enough to see the error of her ways and dandle grandchildren on her knee, but died peacefully and prematurely after a short and painless illness. Then I remembered she was only a member of the MacNab clan by virtue of having arranged Liz MacNab’s death. I ended up, predictably, wishing Meredith had never been born. And that was a re-write quite beyond me.
~
The sign came. At least, that’s what I told myself. I was sitting on a tube and the man opposite me was reading the
Telegraph
with the property page facing out. When I glanced up from my Kindle to see what station we were in, I came face-to-face with an article about Cauldstane, a piece designed to publicise an expensive property for sale. I couldn’t see the price tag, but I recognised the distinctive outline of Cauldstane and the lanky, stooped figure with a walking stick standing in front of it.
It was a substantial article with one of those inane
, punning headlines:
Laird of all he surveys
. There were interior and exterior shots of Cauldstane concentrating on its best features – the Great Hall, the library and the riverside location. A veil had sensibly been drawn over the sanitary arrangements and the Dickensian kitchen. I knew just what the agent’s brochure would say.
A historic family home, full of character and charm, now in need of substantial refurbishment.
When the passenger opposite me alighted, he discarded his paper. I pounced, then leafed through the crumpled pages until I found the article.
Cauldstane was on the books of Galbraith’s in Inverness and they were soliciting offers over £3,000,000. The price was ridiculous and must have been aimed at gullible foreigners with more money than sense who might buy on the internet without viewing first. No one who
’d seen Cauldstane, let alone had it surveyed, would have paid three million. But perhaps there was an alternative interpretation of that unrealistic price. Sholto wasn’t stupid. Had he priced it
not
to sell? If he’d finally yielded to pressure from Alec, he might have agreed to the castle going on the market, at the same time hedging his bets with the asking price. Cauldstane’s ludicrous price tag could be Sholto’s way of buying time.
I was hardly reassured. There might be someone mad enough and rich enough
to pay three million to live their Highland dream. Cauldstane was up for sale and the Scottish legal system made buying property faster and more straightforward than in England. If I wanted to prevent the sale and foil Meredith’s plan, I had to act soon. I’d already deferred what seemed like an impossible decision for two weeks while I’d worked hard at finishing the draft of Sholto’s book. It was almost done and I knew if I pushed myself, I could complete it in a matter of days, after which I appeared to have little choice other than to return to Cauldstane with the draft manuscript and Meredith’s journal. While I was there I had to hope I’d find an opportunity to talk to Alec and break the dreadful news about his mother.
The prospect made me feel quite
ill, but I’d hashed it over with Rupert on the phone. I had to tell Alec what I knew. I had to ask him one last time if he’d let Rupert try to deliver the MacNabs from Meredith’s pernicious influence. And if Alec said no, I would go over his head to Sholto. I’d tell
him
about the journal and ask him to sanction the deliverance ministry.
I’d lost a night’s sleep trying to decide if I had the right to tell Sholto his wife and daughter-in-law had
effectively been murdered. The only way I could square it with my beleaguered conscience was by focusing on the fact that I knew Sholto didn’t want to sell up; that he wanted Alec to become the next Laird of Cauldstane. I didn’t know Alec well enough to predict how he’d react to the shocking information I had to impart, but I knew Sholto. I’d spent weeks closeted with the man. I’d researched his life so thoroughly, I was probably more familiar with its details than members of his family.
I knew Sholto and I loved him. I thought he would probably rather die than give Cauldstane
up to strangers. Admittedly, he’d just been holding on for Alec, who appeared to have suddenly lost interest in his inheritance, but I believed if I could show Sholto
why
Alec was no longer interested, he’d stop the sale and summon all his energies to defend Cauldstane and Alec’s birthright.
That
was my belief and I was prepared to put it to the test. It was a huge gamble and the stakes could scarcely have been higher. By no means confident of success, I nevertheless thought I stood a chance. But in the middle of one sleepless night, it occurred to me I might increase my chances of success if I turned up at Cauldstane with Rupert, primed and ready to perform the deliverance ministry. I could arrive without actually explaining his purpose. Even if offered hospitality at Cauldstane, I didn’t think I could accept it, so it would be quite in order to arrive with a travelling companion. We’d be offered lunch or tea and I would discuss Sholto’s book and return his photographs while Rupert explored the estate. I thought I could rely on Fergus to show another wildlife enthusiast around. Perhaps the red kites would put in an appearance, so Rupert’s journey wouldn’t be completely wasted if Sholto said no. It only remained for me to find some time alone with Alec to discuss the journal. After that, I’d just have to play it by ear.
At 3.00
am it looked something like a plan. All I needed to do was book Rupert for a short trip to the Highlands, then inform the MacNabs I would be making a return visit to see Sholto and deliver his completed manuscript.
What could possibly go wrong?
~
When I’d finished the draft, I rang Rupert.
‘Hope I haven’t caught you at a bad time?’ There were indeterminate grunting sounds as if he had a mouth full of food, but I pressed on. ‘I wanted to let you know, I’ve finished the draft.’
‘Congratulations,’ he said, swallowing. ‘
Are you going to deliver it in person?’
‘Yes. There are
still a few things to discuss and I have to return some photos.’
‘And have you decided what to do about… the other matter?’
‘That’s really why I was ringing. I need you to come to Scotland with me.’
‘
Ah… Well, it so happens I’ve got a few days booked off at the end of next week. I was planning to spend them in the Yorkshire Dales. Walking, perhaps some bird watching. But if your family have had a change of heart, I could cancel my break and use that time.’
There was a silence in which I struggled with my conscience. I don’t know when I’ve felt a greater temptation to lie, but Rupert would have been the first to point out that lyin
g in a good cause is just as wrong as lying in a bad cause. I was still choosing my words when he said, with a slight edge to his voice, ‘I take it the family
have
come round?’ When I still didn’t reply, he said, ‘Jen? Are you there?’
‘Yes. I’m
here.’
‘Have the family changed their mind about the deliverance ministry?’
‘No. At least – I don’t know. They might have. I haven’t asked them.’
‘Why
ever not? Or perhaps I should say, why are you booking my services when you don’t even know if they’re required?’