The House on the Shore (20 page)

The clock on the mantelpiece struck the half hour.
He peered out of the window and waited until he saw Mrs
.
McTavish, tie a headscarf under her chin, climb on her ancient bicycle and cycle away down the drive.
Picking up the inventory off his desk, h
e went in search of his booty.

There was only one part of his plan which needed more
thought
,
and that was how to
dispose of
the items.
He thought about this as he climbed the stairs and walked along the gallery to the Rose bedroom.

Named after his great-great grandmother, the room overlooked the formal gardens
on
the
south
side of the house.
He pushed open the bedroom door and
wrinkled his nose.
The room smelled
of mothballs and damp.
The wallpaper of roses and intertwined ivy leaves, long faded by the sun, had peeled here and there.
He noticed a huge damp patch on the ceiling, no doubt caused by a leak in the roof.
He shook his head
,
just another problem to add to the already impossibly long list.
The furniture was old fashioned
and in need of a polish.
There was a chestnut armoire,
a
matching chest of draw
ers
,
and a huge four-poster bed.

H
e
found
the chambersticks
next to
bed
.
He gathered them up and carried them back down to the library, placing them on the table
with
the
snuffbox
.
H
e
just needed
the candlesticks from the dining room and his prob
lem was halfway to being solved.

While there were a number of antique dealer
s in Inverness, he woul
d get a much better price if he sold everything in Glasgow, but doing the rounds of the antique shops on Sauchiehall Street filled him with dread.
What if he bumped into someone he knew?
He woul
d be humiliated.
There was always that Internet site
-
the one where people auctioned unwanted items
.
W
hat was it
called?
E
–
something.
E something.
EBay!
That was it.

He strode down the corridor
to the estate office
and
turned on the computer.
The old modem wheezed its familiar song as it connected him
,
albeit slowly
,
to the Internet.
He typed in the web address and waited.
The page slowly loaded as he drummed his fingers on the desk.
When it was complete, he clicked on the link that t
old him
what
he needed
to
do to start the process
.

All the fine print baffled him.
There was jargon about sellers’ accounts, a long table detailing the commissions he could expect to pay, and the list of reasons why he sho
uld upload photographs of
the items he planned to sell.
Photographs?
He had to take photographs too?
It was far too complicated
and to make matters worse he was required to provide his name, address
,
and details of his bank account.
That was the last thing he wanted to do!
There had to be some other way.

Just then, the outer door to the office jerked open and MacKinnon stepped inside.
Alistair stared at him.

M
acKinnon had connections, b
ut could he be trusted
?

“What do you want, MacKinnon?
You know I don’t like you coming to the house uninvited.”

MacKinnon scowled.
He took a drag on his cigarette and blew out smoke.
“One of the lads said he’d seen a fox hanging round the pheasant pens.
I came to get some more shells for my shotgun.
I thought I’d go down to the wood and take a look around.”

Alistair’s eyes narrowed.
“
In that case, you’d better have the keys to the gun cupboard.”
He opened the desk drawe
r and tossed them to MacKinnon.

“Thanks.
By the way, I hear the MacDonald woman’s
vehicle
broke down on her way home from the meeting
last night
.
While s
he was walking back to the village,
someone jumped her and knocked her out.
By all accounts, s
he e
nded up in a ditch
.”

Alistair visibly stiffened.
His blue eyes
became flat and unreadable as stone
.
“How dreadful.
I hope she wasn’t badly
hurt.
”

“
According to Ewan at the hotel,
she
has
a few bruises
and
got
a nasty fright
.
It might make her think twice about staying, especially after an accident like that.
Anyway, i
t’s not often you come in here, your Lairdship.
What are you up to?”

“I’m just checking the bookings for the start of the grouse season
,
” Alistair
blustered.
“The numbers are down on last year.
I think it’s time I put another advertisement in the
Horse and Hound
.”

“Why bother?
You’ll have millions in the bank by then.”

“Because Killilan Estate
is renowned for its grouse moor
.”
Alistair shot him a withering glanc
e.
“Haven’t you finished yet?”

“I’m going.
Keep your wig on,
”
h
e said, tossing the keys on the desk and striding out.

Alistair counted to twenty before
getting up and
locking the door.
He didn’t want that nasty little man wandering around the house in his absence, poking his nose in where it wasn’t needed.
Besides,
Mac
K
innon
might decide to do
some pilfering of his own.

On his way back to the library
,
Alistair stopped by the flower room and picked up his old cricket bag.
He dropped the silver inside. It
clanked as it settled to the bottom.
He
started;
worried that he might have dented something,
so quickly
checked.
It looked all right.
He carried it out to his
car
.
With any luck he could be in Glasgow in
four
hours, complete his business, have a good dinner, and be back at Killilan House by midday tomorrow.

On the long journey south, through the lonely mountain passes and brooding glens, he contemplated how best to go about disposing of the silver without drawing attention to himself, and decided that a small auction house might be best.
However,
he needed the cash now, no
t in three or four weeks’ time.

As the miles passed he became more and more uneasy.
Hadn’t he read somewhere that the police regularly checked antique shops for stolen
goods?
If so, he would
have to be very careful.
In which case, he should
sell the items separa
tely rather than to one dealer.
T
hen he remembered his old school chum,
Findlay
Armstrong.
Fin had
inherited the family estate on his father’s death
, b
ut
was
forced to sell it in order
to settle the death duties payable to
the Inland Revenue.

Last time he’d spoken to him,
Fin
still owed several thousand pounds
, yet still managed to live
in a stylish apartment overlooking the river Clyde.
Surely, he would be prepared to help an old school friend in his time of need.
In return, Alistair was mor
e
than willing to line
his pockets with a
little cash
.

Fin
’s
telephone
number
was
in his diary.
He pulled into a lay-by
and
took
out his mobile phone.
Three minutes later a disgruntled voice answered.

“
Fin
?
Fin
is that you?
It’s Alistair Grant.
Can you hear me?”

The voice that answered was full of false joviality.
“Alistair.
It’s good to hear from you.
Are you in Scotland, or still living it up in the South of France?
Ah, I remember the marvellous shooting parties we used to—”

“—Actually, I’m on my way to Glasgow.
I was wondering if we could meet.
How about that new hotel on Jamaica Street
?
We can have dinner
,
my shout.”

“Sure, why not.”

“About
seven-thirty
, would that suit you?”

“Let me check my social calendar.
Unbelievably, I am free tonight.
I’ll see you then.”

It was the middle of rush hour b
y the time Alistair
reached
the
city.
The traffic around
the railway station
had ground to a halt.
Frustrated, he left
his car
in a multi-storey car park and
walked the short distance to the
h
otel
.

Once in his room, h
e hid the
cricket bag
on the top shelf of the wardrobe behind the spare pillows and blankets while he
took
a quick shower.
W
hen he entered the bar
,
Fin
was sitting at a corner table with a large glass of malt whisky in front of him.
He stood when
Alistair approached the table.

Alistair
motioned for the barman to bring
him
a drink
and another for Fin
, who accepted, and raised his glass to
his
.

“Alistair, you haven’t changed one bit,”
Fin
said.

“Neither have you, my friend,
”
Alistair replied
,
gazing at his friend’s
well-
tailored
suit.
“You’re doing well for yourself, I see.
But didn’t you have a run in with the Inland Revenue?”

“They were on my back, but that’s resolved now.
You know old
Fin—R
ubber
B
all
Fin.
W
asn’t that what you used to call me, eh?
Throw things my way and I dodge them every time
.
R
emember?”

“Ah, yes.”
Alistair smiled.
“You were always the one to get yourself out of trouble.
I wish I could say the same.”

“So what’s the story?
Girl trouble?
I can see it in your face.
One’s got a broken heart and she means to get you to the altar no matter who gets hurt in the process.
Am I right?”

“Girl trouble, yes, although marriage doesn’t quite figure into the scheme of things.”

Fin
grinned.
The skin around his eyes folded into heavy wrinkles.
Odd, thought Alistair.
He never thought his charming, handso
me friend would age so rapidly.

“
Fin
, I need your help.”

“Really,”
Fin
said, ignoring the no smoking signs
,
and lighting a gold filtered cigarette.
“I was about to ask you for a favour, old boy.
You see, I’m not as well off as I seem.
You see this
button?
I sewed it on myself.”