The House Between Tides (49 page)

But even as she turned away, she sensed a movement beside her. A hand grasped her elbow, and a firm grip drew her back away from the arc of firelight into the darkness.

2010, Hetty

A man stepped out from the shadows and she froze. “Here. Give me something. Relax, I shan't mug you. Your groceries or something.”

Hetty had staggered up the short path to her flat, juggling briefcase, groceries, and a take-away, cursing the persistent bass from the flat above. Not
another
party. And as she struggled to get at her keys, the plastic bag had split, and a tin rolled down the path.

As the man bent to retrieve it, the accent clicked into place. “You!” She gaped in astonishment. “What—why are you here?”

“You wanted to talk to me.”

“I did. I
do.
”

“Then open the door and ask me in.” He took the shopping bag from her, and she fumbled with her keys again. She managed to unlock the door and they jostled a moment in the tiny hallway as she took back the shopping.

She gestured him to the sitting room, avoiding his eyes. “Go through,” she said, but he paused at the door and looked across the room at Blake's paintings on her wall. “I'll be there in a minute.”

The kitchen offered refuge, a moment to recover and steady her pulse. She began unpacking the groceries. He was
here
, in person! But why now, so suddenly, after the long silence? Should she phone Giles and ask him to come over? No!— She was struggling to remember exactly what she'd said in her last text when he appeared, filling the kitchen doorway, saying nothing but leaning on the door-frame, arms folded in a now familiar pose.

“Have you been in London long?” she asked, busying herself getting mugs out. Should she offer him tea?

“I just arrived.”

What
had
she said in that text? She dived down to the fridge to hide her flaming cheeks; she'd forgotten how tall he was. “Would you like a drink or something?”

“I don't want a drink. I want to talk to you.”

She risked another glance. He looked tired and drawn, and he also looked very angry. “I've been trying to talk to
you
for almost two weeks,” she said, closing the fridge door firmly. “But you ignored all my phone messages and emails. I'd got tickets to fly up on Friday, you know, to come and find you.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Did you imagine I was hiding?”

“What was I supposed to think?”

“I only read your emails and texts yesterday. At the hotel. In Mombasa.”

“
Mombasa?
” She put a hand to her head.

“I flew back this afternoon. Thought I'd break my journey to come and salvage my reputation.” He gestured at her take-away. “Do you intend to eat that muck, or can we go somewhere for a decent meal—and talk. Where's nearest?”

She noticed for the first time that he was tanned. Not the wind tanning gained on northern shores but a deep, dark tan from hot sun. Africa? It made his eyes seem even darker, and his crumpled linen jacket and lightweight trousers were hardly English weather clothes, not given this year's June. A restaurant offered the safety of a public place. “There's an Italian round the corner.”

“That'll do.”

They left the curry congealing in the kitchen and went back down the path. He glanced up at the open window of the flat above, where the volume of noise had increased. “How do you bear it?” His foot caught an empty beer can and it clattered across the road.

The restaurant was reassuringly clichéd with red gingham tablecloths, a candle in a Chianti bottle, and faded prints of Roman landmarks. He led her to a quiet corner at the back and ordered a bottle of wine. The waiter left them studying menus. James said nothing more until they had ordered their meal and the bottle had arrived; he waved aside an offer to taste it and filled their glasses. Then he raised his own and took a drink, looking at her in that direct way she remembered.

His eyes were still hard and angry. “I haven't got the full list of my offences as spelt out in your emails and texts, but the bottom line, as they say, is that I'm a charlatan, a cheat, and basically a shit.”

She reddened and put her napkin back on the table, preparing to leave. “If you're going to be offensive—”

He sat forward and gripped her wrist. “I've had twenty-four hours to feel angry about this, and besides, you're the one who's been offensive.” He released her, sitting back, and gestured to her glass. “So have a drink and make a start.”

Slowly she replaced the napkin. Where
should
she start? There'd been no time to prepare. “You've got some scheme of your own, at the farmhouse, and you want to sabotage my project. The agents found out.” The last words were ill-judged.

He leant forward again, his elbows on the table, his eyes like jet. “
Found out
, did they? How very clever.” She took up her glass and wondered again if she should text Giles.

“They heard about your application to restore Muirlan House—”

“I told you myself.”

“But now they said you're planning to make the old farmhouse into a hotel.”

“They're wrong.”

“It's no good, you know,” she said, her voice sharpening with remembered anger. “They know about the other man, the property
developer, Haggerty, was it?” He looked up, astonishment written on his face. “And now you're working with some woman, with Canadian money behind you.” He sat back and stared at her, his jaw set hard and his lips a thin line of anger. He needed a shave and the overall impression was unnerving. She maintained eye contact for as long as she could, then reached again for her glass. Thank God they were in a public place.

“Who's feeding you this crap?”

“You've been applying for grants, talking to the planning office—”

“It's the divine Emma, isn't it?”

“You've done everything you can to discourage me. Throwing up obstacles. The condition of the house, local opposition, the bird reserve, contested land—”

“I stand by every word.”

“Giles said—”

“Oh yes. I want to hear what Giles said.”

He was looking dangerous again. Perhaps best not to tell him what Giles had called him, but she couldn't resist playing her trump card. “Amongst other things, he said there's no record of any gift of the factor's house from Emily Blake to the Forbes family. Legally that house and all the land belong to the estate. To me.”

To her astonishment, she saw his eyes cloud over and he sat back. “I know.”

“You know?”

Two steaming plates of pasta arrived. James shook his head in answer to the waiter's solicitous enquiries, and the man withdrew. “Eat your dinner,” he said as he refilled her glass, “while I see if I can unravel this mess.”

He began tearing a roll apart, his eyes fixed on the tablecloth. “Three years ago I bought a cottage across the strand, opposite Muirlan House. I'd been abroad for years, but the island has always
been home, even if only during school holidays.” He paused. “The big house fascinated me. It always has. Despite what it once stood for, it was part of my life, it was in my blood.” He lifted his glass, watching her over the rim. “And I
told
you I'd looked into saving it.” He paused again, demanding confirmation, and she nodded. “I was hatching a plan with Andy Haggerty who, at the time, was principal development officer at the bird reserve, a man of great integrity and vision.” His mouth twisted. “
Not
a property developer.”

He told her how they had put together a proposal to restore the house, make it a centre for the reserve and the ecology of the island. Experimental farming. Rare breeds. “And we would encourage artists and writers to come. The restoration itself would be done slowly and carefully, training young people as apprentices, developing their building and conservation skills while getting the job done, and island people would run the centre. We approached the Blake Trust and got a favourable response. They were looking to wind up the trust anyway, and this seemed the perfect solution. Put the remainder of Blake's legacy into Blake's old house to support his various interests.” He glanced up at her. “It ticked every box they could think of, and we would make as little impact as possible and so preserve the special quality of the place.” He stopped and chewed for a moment. “My one offence, if you like, was that of trespass. I went in and out of the house, trying to establish what needed to be done, and got more and more disillusioned.”

He sat back, aggression fading, and began running his finger around the rim of his glass as he had done with the museum's teacup, staring down at the chequered tablecloth. She felt the tension go out of him as she listened. “But it never seemed like trespass. Ruairidh had keys. His dad had had keys. And his granddad too, I expect. They'd been looking after the place for generations. Faithful retainers for some phantom master—” He looked up at her again. “But we didn't know who was master anymore. It was only
when the fireplaces were all stolen that Ruairidh tracked down your grandmother's solicitors. It was quite a job.” Now that he had begun to shed his anger, he looked simply tired. “And then everything went pear-shaped. It became clear that the project was beyond our reach, Andy was diagnosed with cancer, and the ownership issue, well, it became fogged too.” He looked away.

“Meaning?”

He hesitated, giving her an odd, faintly anxious look. “It was three years ago. I'd asked the solicitors who I might approach to buy the house”—he paused—“and chose a bad time to ask.” She dropped her eyes. Three years ago, when her world had fallen apart. His eyes, when she looked back, were deeply sympathetic. “I'm sorry. I read about the crash. A bird strike, wasn't it?”

She nodded. “Shortly after take-off.”

“An awful irony, somehow.” He poured her some more wine and gave her time to recover. “So we didn't pursue it, and as Andy sickened, we had to drop the whole idea.” They ate in silence for a while and the waiter came over, solicitous again, but James waved him away and sat forward. “By then the idea had taken root in my head, it wouldn't go away, and the obvious solution struck me. The factor's house. Of course—I talked to Ruairidh, and the family, and everyone was in favour. Aonghas won't live forever, Ruairidh's dad doesn't want it, nor do Ruairidh and Ùna. So we went back to the Blake Trust, got some heavyweights interested, and things were progressing well.” He sat back, his face hardening again. “And then the rumours started flying. The old lady had died and the new owner of Muirlan House had big plans.” She felt her colour rise under his steady scrutiny. “Plans which would transform the island forever.” He picked up his fork and began eating, his eyes on his plate.

“My plans aren't so very dreadful,” she said after a moment. Naïve, perhaps, but only half-formed.

He ate doggedly on, not looking up. “They're expanding, I hear. Shooting parties, yes, and the golf course I knew about, but a helipad? A wind turbine to power a spa?” He spoke between mouthfuls. “I even hear talk of a causeway.”

“Not from me!” She was outraged. Was this Emma again?

“And now some
bloody
banker wants to buy you out!” She stared at him in amazement. How had he got wind of
that
in Mombasa? More emails? But someone had an ear close to the ground. Agnes McNeil, perhaps, although
she
had not been mentioned again. “So things have cranked up a notch or two since I left.” Hetty made no reply, and he continued to glare at her. “Will you sell?”

“No.”

He considered her for a moment longer, then went back to eating. “But you're pressing on?”

“Giles says—” He raised his head, and she frowned at him. “Giles says the scheme will bring prosperity to the area. Sustainable development.”