CHAPTER FIVE
I left Cauldstane before breakfast the next morning. Mrs Guthrie was
struggling visibly with the affront of someone embarking on a long train journey on an empty stomach, but I told her I wasn’t hungry. As she said goodbye, she handed me a small package wrapped in tin foil. When I opened it on the train a few hours later, I discovered it was two pieces of sticky gingerbread. Interleaved with the foil was a paper napkin on which she’d written
Haste ye back
. As I sped south towards the border, I wolfed down both pieces with a cup of coffee.
No one else had been up when I left
and the silence had been eerie. The night before, Fergus had offered to take me back to the station, but as it was Saturday I thought he might appreciate a lie-in. I said I was happy to travel back to Inverness by taxi and he’d looked relieved. So it was just Mrs Guthrie who waved me off from the castle’s back door.
I’d heard about autumn in the Highlands.
That morning the sky was a cloudless Mediterranean blue and the bright northern light seemed to shift everything into sharp focus. A big bird of prey hovered above the castle, apparently defying all physical laws by maintaining complete stillness in the air. Then with a casual flick of its forked tail, it would change its position, but hover still, watching and waiting. I watched too, hypnotized by the bird’s apparent immobility.
It was only September
, but there was a freshness to the air, almost a chill. When I looked up at the trees beyond the courtyard walls, I could see some leaves had already turned. Their warm, vivid colours stood out against the fresh green, like blemishes. The short Highland summer was over.
~
As I sat on the train I had leisure to examine the subject that had preoccupied my thoughts since yesterday afternoon, all through a rather stilted dinner and for some of a restless night. (
Scotch Deerhounds and their Masters
had failed to do the trick.)
Who had wiped my notes? And why?
My bedroom door had not been locked. Fergus, Alec and Mrs Guthrie all knew which room I was in. Probably Sholto and Zelda did too. I didn’t think I’d shut my laptop down completely. An inquisitive person could have lifted the lid and the laptop would have woken up. They’d have been able to see what I’d written.
And what
exactly had I written? Was there anything that would upset or offend a family member, to the extent that they’d delete my notes? I simply couldn’t remember. I recalled typing a lot of questions and topics to think about later. The only contentious thing I remembered writing was a question about Alec succeeding Sholto, but I’d expressed no opinion myself. There had also been a question about Coral MacNab’s suicide. Perhaps someone thought I shouldn’t be prying into private grief? Alec was the most likely candidate. It was after all the anniversary of his wife’s death and hadn’t Sholto hinted at his son’s instability?
Then I realised something that made me sit up with a start and spill my coffee.
I hadn’t left my room.
Whoever had tampered with my laptop had done it while I was asleep on the bed. They’d read my notes while I dozed, deleted them, then left as silently as they’d come. But who? Would I have heard Mrs Guthrie in her trainers? Perhaps not. Alec, with his cat-like poise, could probably get in and out of a room without making a sound.
But the most likely explanation was
surely that I’d somehow wiped my own work in some semi-conscious state. Was it possible I’d woken briefly, gone over to the laptop, made a few more notes, accidentally wiped the whole document, then gone back to sleep again? This scenario seemed even less likely than an intruder entering and deleting a load of harmless questions. It would only have taken a few keystrokes:
Select all
and
Delete
.
Except that wasn’t what he’d done. (I was shocked to realise I’d already
fixed on Alec as the culprit.) He hadn’t deleted everything. There was half a line remaining – the final line, if my memory served me. As we drew into Perth, I switched on my laptop, half hoping my notes might have re-appeared. They hadn’t.
leave Cauldstane to its ghosts
Each time I read that phrase I fought back an irrational fear, a heartfelt wish that these words would also disappear, because the thought that someone had left them deliberately, that they weren’t just a remnant of text, but a message, a warning
even, made me feel sick and shivery – exactly how I’d felt on the landing when I was talking to Alec. Was this my damn virus getting a hold again? Or was it those words?
If
they
were
a message for me, then I had to accept the possibility that someone – Alec, I supposed – didn’t want me at Cauldstane.
~
When I got home, I watered my houseplants, checked my post, then sat down to ring Rupert. I chose my favourite spot – the sunny, plant-filled bay window of the Victorian semi I used to share with him. It had always been mine but Rupert had paid me rent and shared the running costs. It was one of the things that had prevented us calling ours a permanent arrangement. He liked to refer to me jokingly as his “landlady”.
I’d met Rupert at a publishing party. He
was a theoretical physicist who’d just published a popular science book. We found we got on well and one thing led to another. He eventually moved in to reduce the trekking about from his flat in Putney to my house in Crouch End. The break-up had been equally relaxed. There was no third party involved – unless you wanted to cite God – and I had many happy memories of our years together. I still kept a few photos of us on display and was gazing at one while I waited for Rupert to pick up the phone.
We we
re pictured on board ship, smiling at a fellow passenger who’d taken the photo for us. It was a Norwegian cruise ship, headed for the Arctic Circle and we were togged up in coats like duvets. Rupert, always self-conscious about his lack of height, looked almost as broad as he was tall, like Henry VIII, but he’d just seen a sea eagle at close quarters and was grinning like a schoolboy. I looked more Nordic than the Norwegians, dressed in white, with pale skin and long ash blonde hair, but I was slouching as I always did in photos, so I wouldn’t look taller than Rupert. (I don’t know if I ever really loved him, but I was always tender of his feelings.)
I looked different now. Older of course,
but now my hair was very short and starting to go grey. So far I hadn’t resorted to dye. I told myself it didn’t really show. Yet.
At
forty I’d done the inevitable stock-take. No man. No child. No ties. I was poorly paid, but self-employed and I had a very nice home. Things could have been worse.
Had
been worse, in fact. So I took each day as it came, which meant that sometimes I cried myself to sleep with loneliness and sometimes I woke full of joy that I was accountable to no one. If I couldn’t write exactly what I wanted to write, in the way I wanted to write it, it seemed a small price to pay for all the other advantages. I wasn’t one of those women who wanted to have it all. I was too aware how many people had very little. Having everything would have made me uncomfortable. I might have expected some kind of trade-off. I was free, but I suppose I was fearful.
So
I missed Rupert, but only as a friend. He was now a curate in Newcastle so we rarely saw each other, but kept in touch by phone and email. If I’d been able to bring myself to believe in Him, I’m sure I would have resented God for depriving me of Rupert’s company, but I accepted that his parishioners’ need was greater than mine. So, presumably, was God’s.
When
Rupert finally answered the phone, he sounded breathless. ‘Hello. Rupert Sheridan.’
‘Hi,
it’s me. How’s things?’
‘Jen? I thought you were
in Scotland?’
‘I was. I’m back
now.’
‘Did you get the commission?’
He sounded eager and I felt pleased I had good news for him.
‘Yes
, I did actually.’
‘Congratulations!
I suppose you’re not at liberty to say more?’
‘You know the rules. All I can tell you is
, I’m going to be staying somewhere in the region of Inverness for the next few weeks.’
‘So you’d like me to look after your houseplants.’
‘Would you mind? I don’t really want to give neighbours a key for weeks and I can’t think of any friend I can ask who won’t forget to water them or kill them with kindness.’
‘You flatterer! You’re tr
avelling north by car, I presume?’
‘Yes. T
he subject wants me to start as soon as possible, so I’ve just come home to collect some clothes and other bits and pieces. I thought I could drop off the plants on my way up. If that’s OK with you?’
‘Yes,
fine. The more the merrier. The house badly needs re-painting but I have neither the time nor inclination, so adorning it with houseplants is a good disguise. Parishioners will be impressed by my green fingers. So is this going to be a good job then?’
‘Well, t
he money’s crap, but the people seem very nice. Which is just as well. I’ll be staying with the family for a few weeks.’
‘
Won’t that be a bit… intense?’
‘Not really. I’ll have my own room and a study. The family home is large.
Very
large.’
‘
So a stately pile then, somewhere-in-the-Highlands.’
‘I couldn’t possibly comment.’
‘Spoilsport. But if the money’s crap, why are you taking the job?’
‘Rupert, I seem to
remember asking you the very same question about becoming a minister. I don’t take jobs for the money. I accept jobs that
interest
me. Which usually means
people
who interest me. Though in this case, I do think my subject has a fascinating story to tell and I think I could write him the sort of book that would sell. It has all the right ingredients.’
‘Let me guess… Money. Class. Sex. Scandal. And a big country house?’
‘A
very
big country house.’
‘Splendid!
Put me down for a copy. What’s the catch?’
‘Catch?’
‘I assumed there must be one. You sounded as if you were trying to convince me it was a good job. Or convince yourself.’
‘No, there’s no catch. Not
that I know of anyway. There’s been a lot of tragedy in the family and a certain amount of… well, betrayal, I suppose. The subject is a widower. A very interesting man, but he’s been through a lot. I don’t think it’s going to be an
easy
book to write. And I’m not totally convinced everyone wants me to write it.’
‘S
o there
is
a catch.’
‘No,
not really. I mean, I just picked up on a few things, that’s all. I suppose I could just sense… all the sadness.’
Rupert’s sigh was audible down the phone. ‘
Oh, sweetheart…
please
. Walk away from this one. You don’t want to go down that road again. That was the whole point of taking the ghost jobs. Easy money. No hassle. No comebacks.’
‘
Don’t worry, I won’t get involved. But I do have to be sensitive to – well, to
atmospheres
, otherwise I couldn’t do the job. It’s all about reading between the lines. Trying to find out what people want to say, but are perhaps not brave enough to say. Or strong enough.’
‘Well, I’m sure you know what you’re doing,’ Rupert said, in a tone that implied completely the opposite. I remembered then how guilty yet relieved I
’d felt when I realised we’d finally come to the end of the line.
‘
So can I come up and see you tomorrow? And offload the plants?’
‘Of course not
– it’s Sunday! I won’t have a spare moment to talk to you. Can you come Monday instead? I can put you up for the night if you want to break your journey.’
‘No, that
might scandalize your parishioners.’
‘On the contrary, it might put the brakes on their relentless match-making.
’
‘Rupert, it will be lov
ely to see you, but it has to be just a flying visit. I want to get up to Scotland as soon as I can.’
‘
Fair enough. I’ll make us some lunch – unless you’d rather go out?’
‘
It would be a late lunch. Is that OK? It will take me four or five hours to get to you.’
‘I’ll have something waiting.’
‘Thanks. Oh – I’ve just thought of something else. Do you have a bird book you could lend me?’
‘Several. Did you see something interesting in Scotland?’
‘I don’t know. A bird of prey, hovering.’
‘A kestrel?’