Authors: Davie Henderson
She shook her head. “I simply told people when and where to turn up. It’s Miss Weir in the kitchen and Finlay on the bagpipes; it’s the flowers from the glen, the chandelier on the ceiling, the portraits on the wall; it’s the wild romance of the dances, and the fact that they’re being danced in a banquet hall that has half a thousand years of history.”
Finlay filled his bag and fingered the drones again, signalling the start of another dance. Watching the floor fill up, Kate said, “There isn’t a girl from my part of the world who wouldn’t want to get married in this little part of the world, Cameron.” There was a sparkle in her eyes and real belief in her voice when she said, “This wedding thing really could work; maybe not well enough to make me rich in terms of money, but well enough to save the glen and safeguard the way of life of the people who want to live in it—and that would make me richer than any amount of money.
“The more I think about it, the more possibilities I see,” she told him. “The crofters could make souvenirs—every guest’s going to want them—and clothes for hiring: kilts and Braveheart shirts for the men, arisaids for the women—”
“I’ve got more than a few photos of you in yours,” Cameron
said. “You look every inch the Highland lady, Kate Brodie. You’d sell the outfit so well that people won’t just hire it, they’ll want to buy it.”
Kate smiled with a different kind of happiness on hearing his words and seeing the look in his eyes when he spoke them. Suddenly she didn’t just want to be organising the whole affair, looking on from the sidelines; she wanted to be one of the people doing the wild abandoned dance. She made her way down the hall—which almost involved a jig in itself to avoid the spinning, advancing, and retreating dancers—until she reached Finlay in the far corner. His ruddy cheeks puffed in and out, and his foot tapped to keep time as he played a happy Highland tune. Kate let him finish before whispering something in his ear.
The old Highlander smiled and nodded. He waited until the floor had cleared and Kate Brodie had returned to Cameron’s side, then gathered his breath and filled first his lungs and then the bag.
As Kate led a surprised Cameron on to the dance floor, Finlay played the opening notes of her request. One of the loudest cheers of the day went up from the people of The Cranoch, not just because it was such a fine tune, but because of who was dancing to it. They all saw that Kate had taken the trouble to learn the steps, and they clapped and cheered her on. Finlay McRae, wearing a dark green beret with the Commando dagger badge on it, and a short kilt jacket bearing the ribbon of the medal he’d won with his bagpipes on a very different occasion, played like a
young man again; Mabel Weir looked on, as full of pride as Finlay, because she was the one who’d taught the willowy American the steps of the dance that was making her life come alive; and the banquet hall of Greystane echoed to clapping hands and stamping feet, to breathless “heuchs!” and a tune called
The Waterfall Glen.
When the music stopped there was applause for Kate and Cameron as well as Finlay, but the two dancers barely heard it because Kate had her head pressed tight against Cameron’s chest and all she could hear was the beating of his heart; and Cameron was caught up in trying to think of how to ask her the question he suddenly wanted answered because he felt like he was holding all he’d ever wanted from life right there in his arms, and it was more than he’d ever thought he could have.
Before he could say anything, there was a loud shout of “FIRE!”
Instinctively Cameron looked over Kate’s shoulder in the direction of the shout.
Kate turned and saw what he was seeing: one of the guests pointing out of the nearest window at a pall of black smoke rising into the cloudless late afternoon sky.
Already people were heading for the doors, not stampeding in panic because the smoke wasn’t coming from Greystane, but hurrying in alarm because it came from down in the glen.
By the time Kate and Cameron reached the arched doorway in Greystane’s outer wall the first guests had
reached the bottom of the steps and were running to the edge of the crag. “It’s Double Ecky’s croft!” one of them shouted. “It’s going up in smoke!”
Sandy Alexander hurried down the steps, Ross and Pamela standing dumbstruck for a moment before rushing after him, still holding hands.
When Sandy reached his croft it was already past saving, and the fight was all about stopping the fire from spreading to the cottages on either side.
By the time Kate and Cameron got there a chain had formed from the lochan to the cluster of white crofts at the foot of Castle Crag. Water was being scooped up in pails and iron cooking pots at one end of the line and thrown onto the flames at the other. Even the youngest children were helping out, running with the empty vessels from the cottages back to the lochan so they could be refilled and passed from hand to hand back up the line again.
The blaze was almost out by the time a fire engine arrived in the glen. Sandy Alexander, his wife, daughter, and new son-in-law were looking as gutted as the cottage, and their clothes and faces were almost as smoke-blackened as the stone walls.
Two of the firefighters unreeled the hose, and another two came up to the still smoking croft, ushering people back. The older of the firefighters asked, “Are there any gas cylinders inside?”
“Oh, Christ, aye!” Sandy said.
The fireman turned from Sandy to the crowd and said,
“Get right back, everybody! Right back!” Looking back at Sandy, he said, “Whereabouts is it?”
The father of the bride looked at him from glazed eyes.
“Whereabouts is the cylinder, man, and what’s in it?” the fireman asked.
Responding to the urgent tone, Sandy said, “It’s calor. Come on, I’ll show you—”
The fireman stopped him with an outstretched arm and the words, “Your family could lose more than their house if you do that. Just tell me where it is.”
Sandy pointed to the right of the ruined cottage, saying, “There, round the back.”
“Inside or outside?”
“Outside.”
“That’s probably all that’s stopped it going up already. Now go to your family and keep them back—and everybody else, too.”
Sandy hesitated.
“You can help us or hinder us …” the fire chief said.
Sandy nodded and helped the other firefighter usher the crowd back. There was some reluctance until the firefighter told everyone exactly why it was better for them to get as far back as possible.
The fire crew trained the hose on the cylinder for a good ten minutes before moving it out of harm’s way and venturing into the blackened shell of the cottage itself.
When the chief firefighter came out a few minutes later Sandy was the first to approach him. Before Sandy
could say anything, the fireman said, “It was the chip pan. It’s always either the chip pan or a cigarette butt.”
Sandy looked at him, not understanding.
“Your wife must have left the cooker on and forgotten about it.”
“We weren’t making chips,” Sandy told him. “We were at a wedding, my daughter’s wedding.”
“Maybe you weren’t making chips, but the cooker must have been left on.”
Sandy’s wife, who’d been comforting Pamela, walked over and said, “The cooker was never on today—we were all too nervous to eat a bite.”
“I’ve seen enough chip-pan fires before to know I’ve just seen another one now,” the fireman told her. “With all the excitement of the wedding it would be easy to lose track of what you were doing,” he added.
The racing engine of a vehicle approaching at high speed made them all look around. They watched as a dark green Range Rover tore along the track that ran by the lochan. It drew up with a screech of brakes beside the fire engine. They expected to see a couple of policemen get out, but instead it was a man in jeans and a sweatshirt. He grabbed a camera from the front seat and, not even bothering to close the door, hurried towards the crowd.
He stopped a dozen paces from the gathering, eyes darting from side to side until he saw the young girl with the tear-stained face and dress more black than white and the tall young man with his arm around her. He grabbed a
couple of shots before the wrathful figure of Double Ecky started running towards him, followed by the taller figure of Cameron Fraser and half a dozen crofters.
The man scampered back to his Range Rover and drove off with wheels spinning and the door still open.
“What in God’s name was that all about?” Sandy said, as they watched the Range Rover disappear towards the far end of the glen.
“An ambulance-chaser from Inverness who must have seen the smoke, by the looks of things,” Cameron said.
Sandy sighed. “That’s all we need—and Lady Kate, too.”
“Right now it’s the least of our problems,” Cameron said. “Come on, we better see what we can do.” He led Sandy back to the crowd. Kate was trying to comfort Mrs. Alexander, but looked as though she needed comforting herself.
Sandy took over from Kate, who stared helplessly at Cameron. He put his arm around her and she buried her face in his shoulder. He could tell from the shuddering of her chest that she was sobbing, and rocked her gently from side to side.
“Oh, Cameron, if only I’d let them have the reception in their house like they wanted to,” she said. “Maybe there really is a curse, Cameron.”
“There’s no such thing as curses,” he told her, trying to convince himself as much as her when he said it.
Then another Range Rover was drawing up at the head of the glen, not dark green but white with a bright orange stripe along the side and flashing blue lights on the
roof. This time it
was
a couple of police officers who got out. They took statements from the firefighters about the cause of the blaze, then moved on to Sandy Alexander and his wife.
Kate looked at Cameron when she heard the police ask the couple if anyone had a grudge against them, “Should I tell them about Yeoman wanting to buy the estate?” she said to Cameron.
He nodded, and Kate approached the two policemen as they headed back to their Range Rover. “Excuse me,” she said, “it might be nothing, but…”
She told them about Tony Carling and Yeoman Holdings.
“And did this Tony Carling make any threat against you?” the older officer asked.
Kate shook her head.
“Did he imply he’d harm anyone or anything in the glen if you wouldn’t sell?”
“No, but he just acted like a bully,” Kate said, aware of how lame it sounded.
“I’m sorry,” the policeman told her, “but there’s not a lot we can do unless he made some specific threats. To be honest, the chances are that Mrs. Alexander or her husband left the hob turned on and have either forgotten they did or are too ashamed to admit it. I don’t think there’s anything more sinister to it than that.”
“Yes,” Cameron said, “there is.” He told the policeman about the other Range Rover that had entered the glen, and
the man who got out of it.
“Did you get the licence number?”
Cameron shook his head.
“It was likely just a passing opportunist with a camera who saw the smoke and sniffed a picture in it.”
“Bit of a coincidence, is it not?” Cameron said.
“Aye, but coincidences do happen. That’s why there’s a word for them.”
“This jerk in the Range Rover just pulled up and took photos of the bride in tears and the house going up in smoke, then rushed off again,” Kate told him.
“Not very tasteful,” the policeman said, “but there’s no law against it.”
“It was almost like he knew there was going to be a fire,” Kate said.
“Maybe he just knew there was going to be a wedding, and thought that would be a good story because it’s been so long since the last one in Greystane.”
Looking at the smoking cottage and the crowd of shocked crofters, the other policeman said, “He’s got more of a story than he bargained for. The bride’s house gutted on her wedding day—the poor lassie.”
“Can we stop those photos being used if he takes them to a newspaper?” Cameron asked, thinking not just about the further distress their publication would cause to the Alexanders but about the harm it would do to the business Kate was trying to get off the ground.
“If you could find out who took them and what paper
he works for or sold them to, then you could ask nicely,” the older policeman said. “But, quite frankly, I’d be surprised if you got anywhere; it’s too good a story to pass up on, I’m thinking.”
Cameron nodded, and put his arm around Kate again. They went over to see what they could do for Sandy Alexander, his wife, and the devastated newly-weds. However, neighbouring crofters were doing all that could be done, providing everything from words of comfort to more practical help such as beds for the night.
All their excitement of earlier in the day completely gone, Kate, Cameron, Finlay, and Miss Weir made their way slowly back up Castle Crag to Greystane, which seemed strangely quiet now.
Together the four of them set about clearing the banquet hall. There was no conversation, just the chink of china and crystal echoing from the old walls.
Kate and Cameron offered to help with washing the dishes, but Miss Weir shooed them away.
As Kate turned to leave, Miss Weir stopped her, saying, “Don’t let what happened today put you off, lass. I think your idea is going to work.”
Kate summoned a strained smile in thanks, but couldn’t manage any words. With Cameron at her side, she headed through to the chapel.
“Miss Weir’s right,” Cameron told Kate as they walked behind the pews, towards the staircase. “I really think this whole thing could work, and I’m not just saying that
because I know how much it means to you and the glen.”
Kate didn’t say anything.
“It’s not just wishful thinking, Kate, or an attempt to cheer you up. Everyone was having a great time, and they’re used to this sort of thing—they’re not the kind of people who’d be blown away by the novelty and charm of it all,” he said. “I’m so sure you’re on a winner that I’ll put up whatever money I have left to help you get it off the ground.”
Kate smiled her thanks, then sighed and said, “I just feel so awful about what happened.” She stopped in the aisle, which Pamela had walked down just a few hours earlier, and said, “Cameron, do you think it was an accident, or something more sinister?”