The House on the Shore (19 page)

As
Anna
left the bar, she felt the
ice-coloured eyes watching her.

She dashed to the car park, praying all
the while
that the stranger at the bar
wasn’t following her.

She allowed herself one last look.
There was no one around.

At least not now.

T
he early evening mist turned into
damp,
patchy fog.
W
hite sea-cloud floated through the village like a ghostly spectre.
Anna shivered.
In places, visibility
was
measured in metres rather than miles.
It wasn’t far from the hotel to where she had left the Land Rover, but she tread warily for fear of walking into something.
The yellow glow from the overhead
streetlights
, barely discernable in the fog, did little to help her progress.

The
walk that should only have taken minutes took her ten, and when she finally climbed
behind the wheel
she felt her stomach churn with anxiety.
Common sense told her
to
knock on Morag’s door and ask her for a bed for the night rather than atte
mpt the drive back to the croft
.
Gripping the steering wheel tightly, she peered through the windscreen and drove slowly down street toward the garage, where she stopped and filled
up with diesel.

The fog closed in as Anna left the village.
She contemplated turning around, b
ut the narrow
, unlit
road, combined with the need to get home to Ensay and Rhona, forced her to carry on.
Once or twice she thought she
caught a glimpse of
headlights
in her mirror
s
, but
visibility was so poor,
she couldn’t be sure
.

The knotted and gnarled branches of trees, illuminated by the headlights, loomed toward her out of the fog like outstretched arms.
Anna bit her lip and stared at the road ahead.
Keeping her speed down and her eyes on the grass verge, she slowly
negotiated
the twisting road
along
the shore of Loch Hourn.
Suddenly the engine began to cough
and splutter.
Then it stopped.

“Please, not now.
Don’t let me down,” she said out loud, as she turned the ignition over. Much to her relief the engine
caught
.
Releasing the handbrake she set off again, but had barely
covered
half a mile when
it
died again.
This time no amount of coaxing would make it start.

Anna flicked on the haza
rd warning lights and
pulled
a torch from the glove box
then
stepp
ed
out from behind the wheel.
She opened the hood
and shone her torch into the engine compartment.
She had no idea what she was looking for,
and
when she examined
the
cables none of them seemed loose
.

She looked around, trying to see a landmark.
No bend in the road or crofter’s cottage, not even the smell of
wood smoke
indicate
d
where she was
, j
ust the
gentle sound of
lapping water nearby.
She had two options.
Either she could stay with the vehicle and hope that someone would come along
,
or she could walk.
She slammed
the
hood
shut, t
urned up the collar of her coat and
put
the keys in her pocket
,
then
started walking
toward
the vi
llage.

The thrust in the middle of her back was so powerful that she hardly had time to scream, before she was hurtling sideways into thick white space.
Frantically, her outstretched arms sought something to hold onto, but there was nothing.
She felt a blinding pain as her shoulder hit something,
the
n she was lying on the ground.

T
he world spun
.

She opened her eyes again and
felt winded and disorientated.
Her limbs were tense
and shaking
with fear.
She lay in the heather
and
listened for the slightest footfall or sound of a scrape of rock.
When she didn’t hear anything, she tried moving one leg, then the other.
S
atisfied that she
hadn’t
broken
any
bones, she eased herself up
, and
realized
she had
landed in the ditch that ran along the side of the road.
Overhead, through the patch
y
fog, she could just make out the eerie shape of a birch tree.
She
grabbed hold of a
clump of
heather, slithered,
and clawed her way out of the ditch.
When she reached the
grass
verge at the top, she sank to her knees and cried with relief.

With no torch to guide her, she had little choice but to return to the Land Rover.
Keeping close to the verge, she limped along the road wondering
what had
thumped
her
in the back
.
Maybe she’d got in the way of a roe deer or one of many the feral goats that roamed the hills
.
They frequently came down off the hill at night
to drink in the loch
.
Instinct
told her that it hadn’t been an animal that had slammed i
nto her, but the hand of a man.

S
pasmodic
tremors
coursed through her
body.
Her eyes darted left and right as she searched for the slightest sign of movement.
Then, appearing out of the fog, she saw the flashing hazar
d lights of the old Land Rover.

Cold, tired, and edgy, she fumbled in her pocket.
Panic gave way to relief when her fingers closed around
her keys
.
Using the steering wheel as a lever, she hoisted herself into the driver’s seat and inserted the key in the ignition.
To her astonishment the engine roared into life.
She wept aloud as she
selected first
gear and drove off.
Gulping hard, she brushed the tears from her eyes, and driving as fast as she dared
,
she
headed straight for the croft.

Only when she had locked the door and called the dogs to her side, did she
begin to
feel safe.

In the imposing library of Killilan House, Alistair Grant faced an ugly choice.
He could either ignore the letter from the Bank or pretend he hadn’t received it.
Either way the outcome was the same—disaster.
He knew he couldn’t stall
his creditors
forever.
If he could just hold them off for another few weeks until his plans came to fruition, then al
l his problems would be solved.

He thought about approaching his sister once more
.
S
he must be good for five thousand at least
,
but after their earlier acrimonious argument
,
he knew that her answer would be no.
In which case,
h
e would hav
e to sell something.

He g
lanced at the gilt bronze Louis
XV clock on the marble mantel.
The casing was very ornate
.
M
ade in the
Rococo style
,
surmounted by the figure of a draped woma
n holding an oval sun face disk
, it was
not his taste at all
.
H
is mother had loved it
,
and for that reason alone
,
he would be sorry to sell it.
However, i
ts disappe
arance would be hard to explain
.

He walked around the room picking up objects here and there.
A tall, delicate Minton vase, decorated with
a
foliate and floral pattern in greens, blues, and browns drew his attention.
The glazing was badly crazed and there was a crack in the rim.
He replaced it on the table.
Whatever he chose had to be small enough not to be missed by Mrs
.
McTavish, his eagle-eyed housekeeper, but large enough to raise sufficient cash to make the repayment on the
overdraft
, pay the staff, and cover the household bills for the next month.

He
selected a book from the shelf,
and blew the dust off the faded leather cover and spine.
The
Works
of Thomas Carlyle
.
He turned to the flyleaf hoping for a first edition.
Although published in 1800
,
it was a second edition.
He
replaced
it and
chose
another.
Bleak House by Charles Dickens
.
How ironic, he thought, and roared with laughter.
This time luck was on his side.
He set the first edition on the arm of a chair and continued searching the shelves.
Then it dawned on him.
He woul
d need to sell a large number
of books
to raise the
amount
of money he
required
.
B
esides, Mrs
.
McTavish would notice the gaps on the shelves and no doubt search the
house for the missing volumes.

Apart from the books, the only other items of interest in the library were the
portraits
of his father and grandfather.
Even if painte
d
by
some famous artist, they were far too large, and their disappearance would raise too many questions.
He didn’t want
the staff
knowing he was financially embarrassed.

Six years ago the insurance company had insisted
his
father have the household contents valued and
had
given the old boy a copy of the appraiser’s report.
Had his father given it to the Bank
,
or was it with the other estate papers
, he wondered.
Alistair rifled through the drawers of the ancient desk.
At length he found it tucked into a
folder marked ‘Killilan House.’

He sat down and read the valuation.
Halfway down on the page for the library, he found an entry for a Georgian silver
snuffbox
valued at
£3,500.
That would do nicely.

He flicked over the page.
Somewhere in the dining room there was a set of four, George III silver candlesticks.
He had no idea what a rounded base and bead decoration meant, but decided they shouldn’t be too hard to identify.
The valuation listed next to the description, s
howed them to be worth £12,000.
Just
one or two more items
would raise
sufficient money to see him through until the contract was signed
,
less any comm
ission the dealer might charge.

That just left the bedrooms in which to find something.
There appeared to be nothing suitable…then, on the last page under the ‘Rose bedroom’
he saw an entry
for a pair of George III chambersticks valued at £
5000
.
Chambersticks?
Where they the same as
candlesticks
, he wondered
?

He glanced at his watch—
twelve
noon.
He had plenty of time to find the objects, drive to Inverness, sell them, and be back in time for dinner.
I
f
anyone
no
ticed the items were missing, he woul
d simply say that
they were with an appraiser
.
He could easily replace them once the contract was signed
, i
f he chose too.
Which, he chuckled to himself, he might well not!