‘No, it was big. And very still. The only movement was a little flick of its tail.’
‘Forked?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Was its tail forked?’
‘Yes, I think it was.’
‘Then y
ou saw a red kite, you lucky thing. Not so rare in the Highlands now, but uncommon elsewhere. I’ll lend you a book and my second best pair of binoculars on the condition you let me know about any interesting sightings.’
‘It’s a deal.’
‘See you Monday then. You’re
sure
you won’t stay over? The spare bed’s always made up for any passing waifs and strays. Or bishops.’
‘Thanks, bu
t I’ll be anxious to get on. I want to get as far as Edinburgh, then I’ll do the rest the next morning. I’m rather looking forward to that bit of the drive.’
‘
You sound excited about this job.’
‘I am.
It feels like something big for me.’
‘Yes, that’s what
worries me.’
It was my turn to sigh.
‘Rupert, I’m not your problem any more. Worry about your flock. I can take care of myself.’
‘Yes, I’m sure you can,’ he replied, doing that maddening contradictory thing with his voice
again.
We said our goodbyes and
I hung up feeling grateful, but slightly irritated. I knew Rupert was disappointed I wasn’t staying over, but the truth was, I wanted to keep a circumspect distance between me and my former lover. I enjoyed being a free agent now, but I still felt I needed to prove to him I could cope on my own. That’s what I’d done, for years now. There was nothing left to prove really, least of all to Rupert. Perhaps I was still trying to convince myself. If there
was
a small voice inside my head saying, “Walk away from the MacNabs, or you’ll be sorry,” I had no intention of listening to it.
CHAPTER SIX
Ghostwriting is a job for an author with no ego and unlimited discretion.
I grew up wanting to be a writer. Actually I think I always
was
a writer. A storyteller, certainly. As an only child, I was often bored and lonely. If I was short of a playmate, I would devise make-believe games that entailed me acting out all the parts. If there was no one to talk to, I was prepared to talk to myself.
I was an avid and precocious reader, but if I didn’t like the ending of a book, I would re-write it
in my head – and sometimes on paper – with the conclusion I thought the characters deserved. Sometimes it wasn’t just the ending I re-wrote. I would create parallel lives for characters I loved. So
my
Sydney Carton was saved at the eleventh hour from the guillotine. When my Katy Carr fell from the swing in the barn, she only broke her ankle and was laid up for four months, not four years. My Beth March recovered fully from her scarlet fever and – like Tiny Tim – she did
not
die.
You might
suppose I grew up impervious to the greatness of the classics, that my quest for a happy ending guaranteed I would become a sentimental and clichéd writer, but the effort of unpicking Dickens, Coolidge and Alcott taught me a great deal about the structure of stories. As I grew older, my fascination with story overcame my aversion to unhappy outcomes. Predictably, I read English at university, acquiring a first class degree, which qualified me for absolutely nothing.
On t
he death of my widowed mother, I inherited a large house in north London, my parents’ home for thirty years. There was some money too, so I was under no pressure to sell up. I could afford to freelance as a journalist or work as a publicist, developing a list of contacts that would come in useful years later.
But
I always wrote. Writing was always there as the ballast that kept me stable and happy. The stories felt like my real world. Work was just something I did, something that got me out of a house now crammed with books – mine and my parents’. I couldn’t bring myself to get rid of objects that had meant so much to the people I loved. To have sold their books or given them away would have seemed sacrilegious and unkind – not just to my dead parents, but unkind to their books. You probably won’t be surprised to hear that I’ve never dog-eared a page in my life. Even as a child I found the lamentable state of some library books upsetting. I used to try to repair them with sellotape, but in the end I stopped using the library and took to re-reading my own books, then made an early start on reading adult fiction, guided by my bibliophile parents.
T
here was never any ego involved in my writing. I had no desire to be famous or win prizes, only a desire to satisfy my immense curiosity about people with lives more interesting than mine – which was most of them. Ghostwriting provided me with a crash course in someone else’s life. I, who knew nothing about horses, could learn in a matter of weeks what it took to become an Olympic show jumper. I’d never bought a lottery ticket, but I could absorb the riches-to-rags story of a compulsive gambler who’d lost everything and found God.
As a ghost,
I was allowed to ask impertinent questions. I could quiz my subjects about their infidelities and criminal activities. I could ask if there was any substance to the rumours that had destroyed a marriage or a career. I couldn’t always use the information entrusted to me, but my knowledge and understanding of my subject was enriched.
I
suppose if ghosting hadn’t worked out and I’d been desperate for money, I could have pursued an alternative career as a blackmailer. Except that nothing would have made me break the seal of the confessional. The relationship I had with my subjects was based on trust and respect. The intimacy we shared might have been one-way (I knew almost everything about them and they knew almost nothing about me), but intimacy there was. It was something I cherished, even when my subject was a far from admirable human being. My immersion in the classics had furnished me with a staunchly-held belief in the possibility of redemption. I assumed that, like Sydney Carton, all miscreants were capable of doing a far, far better thing than they had ever done.
My job sanctioned curiosity and compassion
and these enabled me to sublimate my own personality and take on temporarily the personality and voice of someone else, someone quite unlike me. Curiosity and compassion took me to Cauldstane and kept me there long after any sane person would have left.
~
When I returned, Sholto established a work routine that suited us both. We would talk in the morning, then he liked to lunch alone. In the afternoon he took a nap and then attended to estate business. At six o’clock I was invited for a drink and more talk in the library, then we dined at seven with any members of the family who were at home. So my afternoons and evenings were largely free for me to read, write, research and walk around the estate.
One day
Sholto and I were sitting on a bench in the walled garden, sheltered from a cool autumnal breeze. He preferred to be outdoors whenever possible and liked to walk while talking, but he often needed to resort to one of the many strategically-placed benches in the grounds. The tools of my trade were just a small dictaphone and a notebook in which I would record questions that occurred to me while Sholto talked, so we could work anywhere. Today he’d chosen a favourite spot on a south-facing wall and as we rested, I could feel the warmth radiating from the stones behind me. I was enjoying the play of sunlight on the last of the roses and the fluttering dance of Painted Ladies on a white buddleia when Sholto said, ‘Our family’s cursed, of course.’ He saw my look of astonishment and treated me to one of his roguish smiles. ‘All good Scots families are.’
‘Cursed?’
‘Oh, yes. There’s a MacNab curse. Hundreds of years old. As old as the castle. Older possibly.’
‘Do people believe in it?’
‘It’s quite hard not to.’
‘Why?’
‘Our women keep dying.’
I felt a chill crawl down my back
and looked at the little tape recorder I’d placed beside him. I wondered if I should stop it, but Sholto seemed unperturbed as he stared into the distance, his fingers clasping the handle of the carved rowan walking stick Alec had made for him from a dead tree on the estate. There was no indication from Sholto’s demeanour that we’d strayed into dangerous personal territory. As I studied his handsome, craggy profile, I saw no clue as to how I should proceed, so I decided to leave the tape running and said gently, ‘Do
you
believe in the MacNab curse?’
‘No, I don’t.
I don’t believe in any kind of hocus-pocus. Ghosts, spirits, witchcraft, what have you.’ He turned to me and smiled again. ‘That’s quite unusual for a Scot my age. Did you know the last witch was burned in Scotland? And not that long ago. 1727. We’ve clung to our old superstitions. Some still won’t let them go.’
‘So
the family actually believe in this curse?’
‘W
e’ve never really discussed it. But I’ve come to my own conclusions. Wilma believes, of course.’
‘Mrs Guthrie?’
‘Yes. But she’s the fourth generation to be in service here. The MacNab curse would have been dinned into her along with the Lord’s Prayer and the nine times table. But generally the women don’t believe in the curse. I’m sure Zelda doesn’t. But it would never affect her, you see. She can afford to be sceptical.’
‘But I thought you said it was the women who…
who were affected?’
‘That’s correct. They di
e or they’re infertile. Or both. Like poor Coral.’ Sholto shook his head. ‘She let the curse get to her, but she was… a depressive. Well, that’s perhaps unfair. She seemed cheerful enough when Alec first introduced her to us. Meredith never took to her, but I liked her. She was a quiet girl. A bit deep, but so’s Alec. We thought she’d be good for him. But the marriage got off to a bad start. It began with a death and ended five years later with another death.’
‘So
you’re saying some people think Meredith’s death – and Coral’s – are to do with the curse?’
‘You’re
forgetting poor Liz. In my lifetime alone there have been
three
deaths attributed to the MacNab curse – two accidents and one suicide. All women, all incomers. The curse doesn’t affect the MacNabs, you see, just the unfortunate women we marry. So if you were to ask me why hasn’t Alec married again or why a damned good-looking boy like Fergus has never even been engaged, I’d have to say, I’ve no idea. Their private lives are no concern of mine. But if you asked me, do my sons believe in the curse, my answer would be, I fear they
might
. And who can blame them? They lost a mother and a stepmother. Alec also lost a wife.’
Birds
began to chatter noisily above our heads and I looked up to see blue tits racketing around in the branches of a huge fan-trained apple tree, like tiny feathered dodgems. The sight should have lifted my spirits, but it didn’t. I took a deep breath and, keeping my voice level, said, ‘So the curse says any woman marrying into the MacNabs of Cauldstane will be infertile or die.’
‘
Or both.’
‘How dreadful! Even if you don’t believe in it, it’s a
n awful thing to have to live with.’
‘Indeed
. My father and grandfather took the precaution of marrying first cousins, thereby avoiding the curse.’
‘Because t
heir wives had MacNab blood in their veins?’
‘Precisely.
Earlier generations had married “out” and their wives had come to grief – though dying of TB or in childbirth was not uncommon. Infertility was less common and in previous centuries a few childless MacNab wives died suddenly in their late thirties. The bereft MacNab then married some girl half his age not long after, leading one to suspect the unfortunate MacNab wives might have met their maker prematurely because they’d failed to produce an heir. Either way, the curse was fulfilled. But it could have been used as a smokescreen for murder.’
‘This is
all horribly fascinating, Sholto, but are you all right discussing it? You don’t find it upsetting?’
‘No
, because I don’t believe in it! I’d find it easier to believe in Santa Claus than the Cauldstane Curse.’
Unconvinced, I regarded his face for a moment but saw nothing more than his usual affable expression.
‘Well, if you’re sure… Tell me then, what was the origin of the curse? Who did the cursing and when?’
He
leaned back on the bench and crossed his legs. ‘It’s quite a tale. There’s no documentary evidence, I’m afraid, just generations of hearsay and a peculiar stone.’
‘
What sort of stone?’
‘A boulder.
Round. Flattish. The result of glacial deposition, probably.’
‘
Where is it?’
Sholto gestured over his shoulder with his thumb.
‘In the river. Near the bridge.’
‘Oh
no
…’ The words were out before I knew I’d spoken. Sholto watched me for a moment. It was his turn to decide whether to continue.
‘Y
ou’ve heard about Coral, then?’
‘
Mrs Guthrie told me. And I saw Alec on the bridge, the day I came up for my interview. I didn’t speak to him there, I just saw him from my window, throwing a rose into the river. I wondered what it meant. It was the anniversary, I gather.’
‘Yes. You wo
uldn’t have seen Alec at his best that day.’ Sholto swivelled round on the bench to face me and said, ‘Are you
sure
you want to hear all this twaddle? You’re looking a bit peaky. We could always leave it for another day. It’s a gruesome tale and my forebears don’t emerge with any credit.’
‘
No, I want to hear all about it. It will probably give me nightmares, but I can’t resist a good yarn.’
‘That’s my girl,
’ Sholto said, chuckling. He paused, then said, ‘An ancient MacNab married an outsider and she turned out to be a faithless hussy. In some versions of the story she slept with his brother. In a racier version she slept with his son. It was said she’d bewitched her lover with a magic herbal draught, but this claim could have been made afterwards to protect MacNab reputations. I doubt any herbal draught was required. To the best of my knowledge, no Cauldstane MacNab ever became a monk, or even a minister. Despite the curse, celibacy is not a path any of the males has chosen. Some of us – my brother Torquil and I, for example – have erred in
quite
the other direction. But I digress… When the cuckolded laird found out what his wife had been up to, he had her put to death. The usual version of the story is that she was struck down with the Cauldstane claymore.’
‘Claymore?’
‘It’s a huge sword. Ask Alec to show it to you.’
‘It
still
exists
?’
‘
Oh, yes. It lives on the wall in the Great Hall. If you catch Alec in a good mood, he’ll give you a demonstration.’