The House Between Tides (42 page)

And it appeared that Emma had unmasked a great white.

She picked up a pen and spun it compulsively on the table, rerunning the telephone conversation in her mind. “He and a man called Andrew Haggerty, who styled himself principal development officer, had a scheme to restore Muirlan House three years ago, before you came on the scene.” Hetty said she knew. James had told her. “But now he's up to something else.” Emma insisted; she had a mole in the planning office. “But he's not working with Haggerty this time but with a woman, Agnes McNeil, and six months ago they were enquiring about restoring the farmhouse and outbuildings for public and commercial use. It's only an initial enquiry, but it must be for a hotel, what else? And so
that
explains why he was so keen to condemn Muirlan House. Sabotaging the competition! Don't you see? And apparently he's got some very big backers behind him. American money.” Emma had paused to draw breath. “There was
something
about James Cameron.”

Hetty had begun to think so too.

But this news stunned her, beggaring belief, and she sat there as her daydreams crumbled to dust around her.
Could
it be true? She could still feel the imprint of the keys he had pressed into her palm and see the warm approval in his eyes, and just now that two-word vote of confidence in response to her email. Had she so
completely
misread him? And what about Ruairidh? He, surely, was genuine, the embodiment of integrity, but if the farmhouse was his grandfather's and James was planning to develop it, then he must be involved too. She felt quite gutted by the thought.

Giles strolled over, carrying two glasses. “I know, don't tell me. Andrew rang me at work this morning.” Of course he had. “But what a facer, eh? Cameron's a cool operator, I'll give him that.” He handed her a glass and sat down opposite, leaning back in the chair, watching her. “Although he seems to have rather overplayed his hand—”

“I don't believe it.”

“No? Well, rumour has it that he's shipped out. Uncontactable. Ask Emma. She's been trying all afternoon. And your policeman friend's gone on holiday with his family somewhere.”

“James emailed me this morning.”

Giles sat forward. “He
did
? What did he want?”

“Just the roof fall. And other stuff.”

“Pressuring you to decide?”

Yes, pressuring her to decide. “But he
encouraged
me to get a second opinion.”

“Like I said, he's a sharp operator. But look, sweetheart, it doesn't matter.” He leant forward, cupping his glass between two hands, demanding eye contact. “His ship has sunk before it sailed, holed below the water line. Andrew's had confirmation that the factor's house, and associated land,
does
still belong to the estate. To
you.
” She looked dully back at him. “The Forbes family have been tenants for generations and, as such, will have rights, even though no rents have been collected for decades. But in the eyes of the law,
the house, the farm, and all the contested land belong to the estate. That's what I came to tell you.” He raised his glass in a toast. “So Cameron's high and dry, my dear. Game, set, and match.”

She stared back at him. “But he said there
was
documentation.”

“He also
said
that land to the west was croft land still worked by some old geezer, but as the last record of a tenant there was 1956, with an address in Toronto, he can only be a squatter. Some local derelict, I expect.”

The wine suddenly tasted sour. She put down her glass and went over to the window. Darkness was falling, and she watched the daily trudge back from work pick up momentum. Grey figures shuffling along the grey pavements back to grey homes. That neatly kept croft belonged to no derelict.

And who, in all this, was Agnes McNeil?

She tried to phone James and left a message, and two days later she had still failed to get any response. Emma Dawson was right, he'd vanished. She had phoned repeatedly and always got the answerphone, and emails went unanswered. Ruairidh was not replying either, presumably still away. She made one last attempt to reach James from her mobile before leaving a client's office at the end of the working day, then snapped it off, declining the invitation to leave yet another message.

You know where to find me
, he had said.

And then, as she stood in the office lobby, she remembered. What a fool! There was no signal at his cottage, and his last email had been sent from his phone, so he could be away too. She rang the mobile number from which it had been sent, but this too went to answerphone, so she typed a rapid text demanding that he ring her. He'd switch it back on sooner or later, and then he'd have to respond; for God's sake, he couldn't hide forever.

She stepped out into the street, dodging the traffic and ignoring an irate taxi driver's horn, and crossed to the bar where she was meeting Giles. He'd become supercharged since this new development, an almost unstoppable force, and so far she'd felt too shaken to rein him in. “Look, forget it,” he said repeatedly. “It doesn't matter. They haven't got a leg to stand on and Emma and Andrew are coming up with a range of very promising opportunities. There's a company interested in a franchise for the shoot, and the trout fishing, as well as some eccentric banker who's keen to develop the golf course. He's offered to buy you out completely . . .” He had paused, letting the last suggestion sink in, then continued hastily at her expression. “There might be European funding to be had for a wind turbine, you know, out of sight of the house, of course, but the demand for power would be high. Now that it seems we can restore
both
houses, the opportunities are endless. Those old stables would make a wonderful spa.”

We . . .

She saw him as she entered the pub, buying drinks at the bar. “More news!” he said, as she joined him. “Got caught at the last minute, by Andrew.” He raised a hand at her expression. “Don't bite my head off, he tried to get you first. But look, I can't stay long, I've got to meet a client. Let's grab a seat.” He led her to a table in the corner, then broke his news. “Andrew's discovered who your tenant is. A John MacPhail.”

“Yes, James Cameron told us.”

“Ah, but what he didn't say was that John MacPhail is Mr. MCP Software Inc., did he? Worth millions. One of the biggest software companies in Canada. And
he
was James Cameron's backer for his previous scheme. He's been over recently, quite a regular, it seems.” And she remembered the craggy-faced, soft-spoken North American, the exchange of looks with James in the café, the narrowing of eyes, and her heart sank.

She had been played for a fool. “So all that time—”

“Look, it doesn't matter. But if
he
could interest MacPhail, so can we! Don't you see? And you've got Jasper Banks, with his millions, eating out of your hand. And one big investor attracts others, you know they hunt in packs, and Jasper Banks could be a great advocate. With him on board, we can put together something more convincing than some half-baked local scheme.”

“Wait—”

“Andrew wants to contact MacPhail and sound him out—”

“No.”

“Whyever not?”

“Because I've met him.” She heard again that great joyful laugh as the man steered the wild-child duckling back to the flock, and saw the carefully restored croft house with its neat potato patch. There could be little doubt where his sentiments would lie.

Giles stared at her. “You
did
? How? When?”

“When I was up there. And he's on James's side.” She picked up a cardboard coaster and began bending it in two, her brain whirring.

“Then get Andrew to talk to Banks instead—”

She ignored him. “I'm going back.” The coaster snapped along the crease. “It's the only way. Ùna'll have to be back for school, so Ruairidh'll be home soon, and I'll just sit on James Cameron's doorstep. He can't stay away forever.”

“You're not going on your own—”

“Yes, I am.”

“I could try and rearrange my appointments.”

“No, really, don't—”

“Then get some backup from Emma and Andrew, at least.”

“I will if I need to, but I'd rather deal with it on my own.”

He gave her an exasperated look, then reached back to pick up his jacket, ushering her out of the bar, hailing a passing taxi. “Don't
just leave like you did last time, with no warning,” he said as she got in. “Let me know—”

The taxi left him standing there and sped through the puddles, sending up an arc of spray, and for a moment she was transported back to that first evening when she had seen James's Land Rover racing the tide across the strand. That first evening, when it had all seemed so easy.

1911, Beatrice

There was a light morning mist on the foreshore on the day that Theo left, and the tide was well in. Cameron and Donald loaded his travelling trunk into the boat, and Theo paused on the sand to look back at Beatrice where she stood with her shawl clasped around her, shivering in the damp air. “Go indoors, Beatrice, the mist is chilling.”

“I will, in a moment. Safe journey, Theo.”

He nodded briefly before stepping aboard. “I'll send word when to expect me back.” She saw a look, almost of grief, cross his face and felt an instant of remorse.

And she knew then that this separation would mark a watershed, that things could never be the same again, and she moved forward, uncertain, as if to halt the moment and go back. Too late— Theo lifted his head and bid her a curt farewell as Donald took up the oars and Cameron pushed the boat out into deeper water and then stood back. Cameron walked past her as she watched it pull away, waiting to see if Theo would look back and wave, and when he did not, she walked slowly back up the track.

Cameron was leaning against the boundary wall shredding the leaves from one of the yellow iris buds, watching her as she approached. “I believe I have you to thank for my reprieve,” she said as she reached him. “You, and the Glasgow trade unionists.” He gave her a questioning look. “You dropped a hint to Dr. Johnson that I was unwell.”

“I did,” he said, his attention on the iris. “But the trade unionists?”

“It seems they threaten riot and disorder, and so it was safer if my husband went alone.”

He gave a short laugh. “God bless the working classes,” he said, then looked shrewdly at her. “But your reprieve came at a price, I think.”

The torn iris lay at her feet. “He thinks I'm half-crazed by the loss of the baby.” She looked back at the departing boat. “Perhaps I am.”

Cameron contemplated her a moment longer, then straightened, tossing the remains of the iris over the wall. “He impressed on me that I should not disturb you, madam, and left me a good long list of tasks. So, if you'll excuse me, I'll be about my work.” He too glanced at the boat now midway across the strand, gave her a curt nod, and strolled off up the track.