With the lights on and an electric fire to boost the warmth of the radiator, the room felt safe and friendly. She had closed the door on the sitting room and refused to let herself think about what had happened there. It was growing dark and she was missing Harriet’s extrovert presence. She reached for her phone and dialled her number. The phone was switched off; she tried Finlay again, not even expecting it to ring. No answer there either.
The cheerful little screen on her laptop seemed almost friendly as she switched it on and stared at the last notes she had made in her timeline. TE stationed at Berwick on T. Visited the castle. Saw ghost. She was puzzled. She looked at the scattering of books on the table. She knew her notes mentioned the start of his career in the army. He seemed to have enjoyed his time in the Royal Scots and his first posting had indeed been to Berwick, but seeing a ghost? Her gaze shifted to the letters. One of them must have mentioned it.
She pushed the laptop away and sat, deep in thought. The Countess of Buchan in a cage? Was that true? If only she could ask Thomas. If only she still had her mother’s treasured portraits of him, it would perhaps be easier to conjure him up. Not through a séance, never again would anyone try that in her presence, but surely it must be possible to imagine him. She glanced sideways along the length of the dining table, trying to picture him sitting there on the far side, benign, perhaps smoking a long-stemmed pipe, a true grandfather figure, telling her more of his story. Would what he told her be true? Of course not, but it might be interesting.
Duncan Erskine, who had been his father’s kinsman and sennachie, had taken up permanent residence at Kirkhill House at the invitation of the young new earl. Thomas had vivid memories of studying here as a boy, in the gloomy room above the stables which their father had designated as a schoolroom but now he found the old man ensconced in the library, as quick-witted as ever, and Thomas saw his face light up with interest when he mentioned his visit to the ruined castle of Berwick. Duncan sat back slowly in his chair, pulling a plaid around his shoulders. Behind them a fire roared in the hearth; there were mugs of mulled ale on the table as the wind whistled and moaned in the crumbling tower.
‘Isobel of Buchan was a courageous woman, a daughter of the house of Macduff, and it was in that respect that she took upon herself the hereditary duty to place the crown upon the head of Robert the Bruce,’ he said. ‘But she was of no kin to our house, my boy; she died without children and the Comyn earldom fell into abeyance. The earldom of Buchan has been a great and ancient force in the land, always in the gift of the kings of Scotland and given as a prize to their descendants; that is how our family came to inherit it.’
‘Papa told me we were descendants of kings,’ Thomas said thoughtfully.
The old man smiled. He reached for the enormous ledger which was lying on the far side of the table and then drew towards him a pile of ancient scrolls. ‘See here. I have your ancestry drawn up. Your brother, the earl, asked me the same question, though he does not have the gift of sight.’ He opened the book. ‘Your line comes through the lords of Cardross and from the earls of Mar. You have ancestors who died at Flodden Field, men who were always close beside the king and to Mary Queen of Scots, and you, my boy, are descended, not from Isobel Macduff, but from King Robert the Bruce himself, not once but twice over, and before him from the blessed St Margaret.’ He sat back and reached for his tankard of ale. He studied Thomas’s face as the young man turned the pages of the ledger digesting the information, and he nodded with satisfaction. ‘You will do your family credit, and you have inherited from somewhere amongst these men and women of old the ability to see true, to see beyond the immediate. That is how you came to see that poor lady.’
‘Can you see my future?’ Thomas looked up again.
The sennachie shook his head. ‘Your brother is heir to the titles and the lands, such as they are,’ he looked round at the cavernous room thoughtfully, ‘and your brother Harry stands as his heir until the earl should have sons of his own. To my mind, this leaves you to carve your own destiny with no weight of expectation. You are free to fulfil your dreams.’
‘When I was in the West Indies I met an obeah woman amongst the slaves there,’ Thomas confided. ‘She said much the same. She was very wise, with the knowledge of her ancestors from Africa.’
‘She was indeed wise, then,’ the old man agreed. ‘But you must learn to control your gifts, Thomas. And you must learn to hide them, too. This is an age when such things are questioned and mocked and held to be the domain of silly women. You must use them for good. I sense, and it is no more than a sensing, that you are destined to walk with kings as your ancestors did, but I sense too that you already have enemies.’
Thomas stared at him, shocked. ‘Enemies?’
The old man took a gulp from his tankard. ‘I fear there will always be those who let jealousy and anger and bitterness sway their emotions,’ he said sadly.
‘But who? I have no enemies!’ Thomas was indignant.
‘I’m afraid you do, my boy.’ There was a long silence as he stared into his tankard as though seeking further inspiration in the depths of the thick brown ale.
Thomas stood up and walked across to the fire, holding out his hands to the flames. The only enemy that he could think of had been Andrew Farquhar, who was, as far as he knew, long gone from his life. ‘I’ve been naive. All my life I thought people liked me,’ he said sadly.
‘And by and large, I’m sure they do. You’re lucky to have a supportive family and powerful friends and you are blessed with charm and talent.’ The old man chuckled. ‘But those very things can incite others who are less lucky to look on you with resentment.’ He pushed back his chair and stood up, groping for his walking stick. ‘It’s time for you to go. Think on what I’ve told you and come and see me again when you’re next in Scotland.’
Thomas turned his back on the fire. ‘Do you know where I’m to be posted next?’
‘Across water,’ there was another small chuckle. ‘Where I fear you may discover that you’ve lost your sea legs.’ The old man gathered an armful of scrolls from the table and carried them across to the shelves on the far side of the room. ‘What skills for reading the future I have, I learned from my predecessor in this role, young Thomas, but I see darkly and without inspiration.’
‘Do you see the lights around people?’ Thomas blurted out suddenly. ‘After I was struck by lightning I found I could see moving lights, colours, almost like music, as people thought and laughed and shouted.’
‘And can you see them now?’
Thomas sighed. ‘Only sometimes.’
‘That is one of the gifts God has given you, Thomas. As I’ve told you, your talent is altogether more natural and more fiery and more frightening and more powerful than mine. Learn its control well. Learn to read those lights.’
‘But who from? Can’t you teach me?’
‘That is not in my remit, I fear.’ The old man’s eyes were full of regret. ‘No doubt the teacher will come in good time. Read. Read the books by those who have trodden this path before you. Some write with wisdom, some with foolishness, but you will find, there, kindred spirits and feel less alone. And in the meantime, beware.’
Ruth rubbed her eyes. Had she dozed off? Outside it was dark and she could hear the wind in the chimney. It had grown more wild, like the wind at Kirkhill. There was no fire in the fireplace now, no dark chamber lit by candles smelling of tallow and beeswax with an undertone in the air of old parchment and books and hot ale.
She had imagined that Thomas had been talking to her, sitting at the far end of the dining room table, one leg swinging as he balanced on its corner, looking into the past. He was relaxed, smiling at first, then his face had clouded as he described the warnings of the sennachie.
‘I rode back to the barracks, deep in thought, to discover that the regiment was indeed to be posted south and over the water, as the sennachie had predicted, to the island of Jersey where we were to form part of the garrison on constant
watch against any possible depredations by the French.’
It was as though he had been talking to her, telling his story, as if he were in the room with her. She surveyed the table. She remembered now; she had quite deliberately pictured him sitting there. He had been extraordinarily real. She had found herself listening, seeing through his eyes, not from information she’d read or looked up on the net, but detail she could not possibly have known.
She stared down at her notebook, open on the dining table. There was nothing there that had not been there yesterday. She looked her laptop. It showed the desktop screen. She clicked back to her browsing history. Nothing since yesterday.
So write it down. The words echoed in her brain. Now, before you forget the details. Don’t question it. Don’t try and rationalise it. Don’t even believe it, just write it down.
With a sigh Ruth closed down her laptop and pushed back her chair. Going over to the window she drew back the curtain to stare out into the garden. There were no stars; bitter cold struck off the glass which was spattered with raindrops. She could hear the roar of the wind in the fir trees. Lachy had been right about the weather. It had turned into a stormy night. She left the light on in the hall, pausing to stare at the old clock as the hands slowly ticked round towards midnight and with an exhausted sigh she turned towards the stairs.
She paused on the landing and listened. The house was very quiet. Then, from somewhere downstairs, she thought she heard a door close. She stood still, frozen with terror for a fraction of a second before diving into her own bedroom, slamming the door and turning the key. The room looked serene, peaceful in the light of the bedside lamp. The only sound came from the radiator as it ticked gently under the window.
She slid under her duvet fully clothed and it was then that the daughter of her atheist father, who had long ago scornfully discarded the Lord’s Prayer and everything to do with her grandfather’s church, found herself murmuring a child’s rhyme she summoned from some deep well of memory. She must have been taught it by her mother or her grandmother when she was very, very small. It had comforted her then in the terror-filled dark, and it comforted her now.
‘Matthew Mark Luke and John
Bless the bed that I lie on.
Four corners to my bed,
Four angels round my head,
One to watch and one to pray,
And two to bear my soul away …’
She couldn’t remember any more.
27
Cautiously Timothy made his way down the side of the Old Mill House, keeping his head bent against the wind. There was a small Mazda sports car outside. Was that Ruth’s? As far as he knew, she didn’t have a car, but if she was living here now perhaps she had bought one. There was no sign of the Daimler. He felt a small shiver of excitement at the thought of Ruth close by. April had suggested he needed to collect some of the silver to give them some more cash. He hadn’t needed telling twice.
The grass was wet, soaking his trousers as he pushed through it towards the shed. He had brought a screwdriver with him in case the warped door had swollen even more after all the rain and under his arm he carried a couple of large canvas bags to put the stuff in.
Even from several feet away he could see that something had changed. The door had been pushed flush with the lintel and the hasp wedged with a thick piece of twig. He didn’t remember doing that. He felt a prickle of suspicion as he glanced round to make sure he wasn’t watched then drew closer, running his hand over the hasp. It had been wedged tight. ‘Shit!’ Someone had been here. He could see it now. The grass had been trampled and the brambles cut away to make it easier to open the door. He had been careful to pull them across when he left.
He twisted the twig free and inserted his screwdriver to force the hasp, dragged the door open and, fumbling for his torch, he shone it into the shed. The stuff had gone. All of it. The pieces of old carpet and tarpaulin he had covered it with had been pulled away and folded against the wall and he could still see the imprint of the heaviest suitcase in the earth floor.
‘No! No, no!’ He flung his torch down on the ground and stamped his foot furiously. Someone had found it. Ruth! Bitch! Why would anyone want to go poking around in a falling-down lean-to at the arse end of a garden in the middle of nowhere? He had been so sure it was the perfect place. He’d told April it was the perfect place. He froze. April was going to be beyond furious. She would kill him. This was their insurance, their income for months to come. He turned slowly round as though by looking again he could conjure up the boxes. He had to get them back.
Slowly his brain began to work again. Surely, whoever had found the stuff would have taken it into the house. All he had to do was wait until the place was empty and break in. He needn’t tell April the things had been discovered. He would tell her he hadn’t been able to bring anything away as there were people around. That would be explanation enough.
He carefully wedged the door shut behind him, even looking on the ground for the twig he had thrown away to hold the hasp shut, then he tiptoed back to the edge of the lawn and studied the back of the house. It must be possible to get in. He ran across the short distance of mown grass and, edging towards the corner of the building, peered round and began to creep towards the dining room windows.
Ruth was sitting at the table, tapping into her laptop, her back to the window. There were books all over the table and as he watched she sat back in her chair and he caught his breath in terror as he realised there was also a man in there. He was sitting on the edge of the table, his arms folded, and as Timothy saw him he looked up and for a fraction of a second he seemed to hold Timothy’s gaze.
* * *
April was waiting for him on the corner of the street. As he drew up she pulled open the car door and climbed in. He noticed her casting an eye over the back seat and he got in first. ‘Too many people around to risk trying to move it. I’ll go back another time.’ He pulled out into the main road. ‘So, did you get anything for supper?’
Thomas
I was quite the man about town on leave before the next posting and Anne and Lady Huntingdon were kind and generous in their further attempts to integrate me into London society. I met the great and the good and the fashionable and enjoyed myself enormously. I neglected my studies, but then what were they for, but my own interest? When I repacked my boxes for our posting to Jersey I would include my books and sketching implements. Time enough then to catch up with my learning. And the obeah woman’s fetish? I still had it, tucked away in my belongings. My talk with the sennachie had reminded me of its power to repel those who might be my enemies and, just in case, I put it in an empty tobacco pouch and kept it with my pens.
It was walking down the street one day that I once again experienced that strange feeling that I was being watched. London was hot and unpleasant. Soon people would be leaving town for the summer pleasures of Brighton and Bath but in the meantime the streets were crowded with acquaintances and I tipped my hat to several ladies as I walked towards the park. It was a prickling at the back of my neck, much as I imagined a rabbit would feel as the fox crept closer. I stopped and turned round swiftly, almost bumping into two men who were walking close behind me. I apologised and stepped round them to stare into the crowd but there was no sign of anyone who appeared to pay me more attention than usual.
The next day it happened again and this time it was outside Lady Huntingdon’s house, almost as soon as I had descended the front steps. I was certain someone was following me.
I returned to the house, informing the footman when he opened the door for me that I had forgotten something. Then I left again, to the intense surprise of the servants, by the back door. I went on my way without any further worry, but again the words of the sennachie came back to me. I had enemies.
28
Andrew hadn’t intended following Thomas to London. Paid off like everyone else when the Tartar docked, with a pocket full of cash he had wandered along the quay wondering what to do. He ha
d opened his letter when it found him on the ship back in the Islands much as the other men did, excited to have news from home. It was from the local rector, in England, informing him that his father had died. He had sat, stunned, reading and rereading the cramped words on the page. Andrew and his father had never been close. He had no mother, no siblings or indeed any relatives that he knew of, and the rector made it clear, with careful tact, that there was no money left after the expenses of burial. Andrew knew why. His father, gentleman though he might have been once, had drunk away his patrimony and what he hadn’t been able to drink he had gambled in the gaming houses of his hometown of Gloucester.
Andrew kept the news to himself. He had made few friends on the Tartar but life on the ship was all he had known for the last six years. Now as he was paid off with the others it dawned on him that he had no home, no relations, nowhere to go and no prospects until he signed on again.
The nearest tavern beckoned but then he had seen Thomas heading for the London stage; Thomas, who was responsible for destroying his career; Thomas who had watched as he was flogged and humiliated, Thomas who dined at the captain’s table and exchanged letters with an adoring family, Thomas with whom he had vowed to get even. Eyes narrowed with resentment and hatred, he joined the queue and bought himself a ticket on the same coach and as the final boxes and bags were thrown into the luggage net he climbed onto the roof and settled into the last seat. Thomas had pulled up the collar of his greatcoat and, with his hat down over his eyes, already appeared to be asleep. One by one the passengers dragged the waterproof covers over their knees and settled down for the first stage of the cold and uncomfortable journey. At no point did Thomas appear to see him and at the staging posts amongst the crowds and noise and the shouts of the ostlers changing horses they did not exchange so much as a glance of recognition. Andrew saw Thomas buy himself mulled ale and a pasty and go to stand by the fire in inn after inn as they made their painfully slow way towards London. Perhaps if he had offered to buy him a drink, to share a pie, things would have been different, but Thomas preferred to cut him dead.