The House Between Tides (5 page)

And arriving that way, at the end of a long journey, had seemed the
right
way to come, giving her a true sense of the remoteness of the place. Of its separateness.

Giles had tried to persuade her to come directly after her grandmother's funeral. “Just to look. Get a measure of the place?” There was an airfield on a neighbouring island, he told her; they could fly up. “And there's bound to be some old banger to hire once we get there.”

But that would have made the transition too sudden, and difficult as it was to make him understand, she had needed to come alone.

Giles had been enthusiastic about her plans for the house from the start, too enthusiastic. This was to be
her
scheme,
her
new beginning. And if he'd come with her he'd have taken control, taken the initiative away, as was his wont. She'd tried to explain to him how she felt, how she wanted to take things slowly, to consider, but he thought she should push things along, get started, and he'd offered to find investors, maybe put money into it himself. Typical Giles behaviour.

She stared into the fireplace, where the flame was faltering, and tried to see Giles up here, in this remote and windswept place. Giles, in every essential, was an urban animal— And she thought again of the incident which had provoked her sudden flight. They
had gone to a party held by an associate of Giles's at a chic apartment overlooking the Thames, and the proud new owner had led her, a bottle tucked under one arm, the other uninvited around her waist, to look through a vast sheet of glass at the sun setting upriver towards London. “Turner-esque, don't you think? Or should I say Blake-esque. Giles tells me Theo Blake was your great-grandfather.”

“No. My great-grandmother, Emily, was his sister. Half-sister, in fact.”

“Oh, I'd stick to the direct line if I were you. Great cachet, my dear. Flaunt it!” His protruding eyes shone at her. “Theo Blake, the mysterious recluse. Such extraordinary early talent and then the merely commonplace. Was he crossed in love, or did he drink?” His tone had nettled her and she had felt suddenly protective of the artist. Blake was a vague character in her family's annals, but a painting of his, a wonderful and cherished seascape, had always hung in the bedrooms of her childhood.

Her host's expensive aftershave had wafted over her as he inspected her glass, and she had pulled away. “As I said, the relationship's fairly distant.”

“But you've got his house, I understand,” he said, leaning close again to refill it. “Lucky girl!” How like Giles to have told everyone. She wished he hadn't. “And the classy hotel idea is marvellous. We must get you onto the gallery circuit, making the right contacts. I'll speak to Giles about it. With your looks and pedigree, darling, the punters will flock to you.” Pedigree? Good God! “And I'll be your very first guest.” His palm slipped from her waist to her hip, and she had looked around for Giles. The big brush-off would no doubt offend the man, but did she
have
to put up with him? Giles was watching from across the room, clearly entertained, and showed no sign of rescuing her. He just blew her a kiss and turned back to give his attention to a dark-haired girl beside him. Hetty felt a hand slip
to her thigh, and as she turned sharply back, her host planted an amorous kiss on her lips, chortling as she pulled away, stiff-necked with affront. “Be nice, now,” he had said, and returned to the party.

Giles had come over then and flicked her cheek. “Lighten up, darling. It's just his way.”

“Really.”

“And he's a useful man to have on board. A big noise in art circles, you know, got all the right contacts.” She had turned aside, biting back a tart response, and watched as the party gathered pace and tempo: men in sharp suits moving in on women sleek in tight-fitting couture, working hard at image and impact, at being part of the tribe. But this was not where she wanted to be, and she had said so.

Giles, exasperated, had refused to take her home and had re-entered the throng. She had stood there a moment, watching him, then slipped from the room and found her coat, leaving the buzz fading behind her. As she descended in the external lift, she had looked along the Thames to the lurid sunset and thought again of Theo Blake's painting, of white sands and the low sun dazzling across the water, and the idea of just leaving and coming up here, without Giles, had presented itself. Independence was one of the pluses of working freelance, and the only plus of having little work coming in. Copy editing, she was learning, would never make her rich.

And the idea of flight had grown as the taxi sped through the London streets to her flat. She could simply cut and run.

The flame in the hearth flickered, and then guttered, leaving a thin trail of smoke. But the grand gesture seemed to have stalled, foundering on bleached bones beneath the floor of a wrecked house. Would there be no fresh start? Would she have to return to London and find herself a real job, one that paid? The money her parents had left her, significant though it was, wouldn't last forever.
Quitting her job on the magazine after the accident had been necessary at the time but, in retrospect, reckless, and getting back into that sort of work was not proving to be easy.

She put aside her empty mug, restless suddenly and needing to be outdoors. Ruairidh Forbes had pointed out a co-op a mile or so down the road where she could get basic supplies, and a walk would clear her mind. And up here, under these big skies, she could think— By now Giles would have heard the brief message she'd left on his answerphone before catching the northbound train, and she wondered fleetingly what he would have made of it. She hadn't told him where she was going, simply that she would be away, out of town, for a while. He might choose to think, or at least to report, that it was work related. She yanked the door open. And here, where there was no Internet or mobile phone signal, he could neither find her nor contact her, and she had gained the space she needed.

2010, Hetty

Later she fell asleep in one of the armchairs and was woken by a sharp knock on the back door. She sat up, momentarily confused, to see that the light was fading across the bay. The knock came again, and she rose, glimpsing her unruly hair in the mirror as she went through to the kitchen, calling, “It's open. Push at your side. It jams,” and she heard the thud of a shoulder against the door. It opened abruptly to reveal not the friendly policeman, as expected, but James Cameron, the collar of his donkey jacket turned up against the wind.

“Hallo again,” he said, examining the door-frame and running his fingers along the edge to find the sticking point. “Ruairidh's been called to duty. Sends his apologies.” His hair blew across his eyes. “Murder and fire-raising in the same day, eh? It's not always this exciting.” And he stepped uninvited across the threshold, followed by the cool evening air.

He seemed to fill the little kitchen, and he looked around with undisguised curiosity, taking in the chipped Formica table and rusty rubbish bin. “Dùghall doesn't go for the luxury end of the market, does he,” he remarked, raising an eyebrow. “What does he charge these days?”

There was something disconcerting in his manner, and she ignored the question. “Fire-raising?” she asked instead.

“Arson.” He continued his survey of the room, kicking experimentally at a split in the curling lino floor, grimacing at the calendar.
“A young ne'er-do-well celebrated his release by torching his family's house. Seems his woman had found solace while he was inside.”

Arson? Such behaviour seemed out of place here. “And Mr. Forbes is taking him in?”

He shook his head. “Someone else'll do that. He's just dispersing the spectators and then he'll be along, but he asked me to come and pick you up.” She murmured her thanks while he looked through the open door into the shabby little sitting room. “And I'll give you these before I forget.” He dug his hand into a pocket and put a set of keys on the table between them.

“But won't he need them?” she said. “To let the police get in, to take away—?” She faltered, staring at the keys. Going into the house alone now seemed impossible.

“He's still got his. These are mine.” She looked up in surprise. “I've had them ever since thieves got in some years back and stole the fireplaces. Rather after the event we put better locks on and replaced the boarding. It still gets ripped off, of course, and then all sorts get in.” Amusement flashed in his eyes again, and she turned to get her jacket, not sure what to make of this man. “Some nosey soul must have seen I was working up there. Local lads, I expect, short of entertainment.”

“
Working
up there?” The words came out more sharply than she intended. “Doing what?”

He regarded her a moment before answering. “Checking the foundations. As instructed.” The amusement had gone and there was an edge to his tone.

“Instructed by who?”

“Dalbeattie and Dawson, of course.” He leant back against the kitchen unit and folded his arms, giving her a straight look. “Emma Dawson, to be precise.”

She stared back at him. There was no
of course
about it. “You'll
have to explain,” she said, though she began to think she could guess. Dalbeattie and Dawson were old associates of Giles's who had set up business on Skye, and who, on his advice, she'd engaged as agents. She'd spoken to Emma Dawson a few times on the phone, and that purring voice had been pushy, employing charm as a wedge, aware of her inexperience and exploiting it, and Emma Dawson, it appeared, had jumped the gun. During their last conversation she had offered to look for someone who might begin to gather costs, and that was enough, apparently, for her to have gone ahead and instructed James Cameron to make a start.

“You didn't know?” He looked incredulous, as well he might. “So you won't know what I told her?”

“No.”

“I told her there's a bloody great crack tearing the west wall apart, and a few more storms will finish the job. And when it goes, it'll bring the main gable with it.” He paused and gave her a sharp look. “I told her the job shouldn't be contemplated, but she wouldn't have it and told me to find out why the wall was cracked. So I did, and I got rather more than I bargained for.” He leant back, regarding her steadily, and when she failed to comment, he added, “You've got big plans, Miss Deveraux. A grand hotel, fine cuisine, shooting parties, golf . . .”

Was that disapproval in his tone?

“They're options I'm considering,” she replied, maintaining eye contact as long as seemed civil, and then reached over to pick up the keys as an excuse to look away.

He was silent for a moment, frowning at the place where the keys had been, then looked up again, eyebrows raised. “And now you've seen the state of the place?” he asked, then added, “Forgive me, but have you any idea what you're contemplating?” She sensed a genuine effort to strip the words of offence, but his question hit the mark too keenly for comfort. She had no reply. “I've known that
house all my life and watched its decline. It's past saving.” She turned aside and reached for her handbag. Perhaps Giles
should
have come.

“It's very early days, Mr. Cameron,” she said, banishing the craven thought, and gave him a tight smile. “And I'm only just starting to gather the facts.”