From the boat they could just see the grey ruins of the ancient priory through the trees, the clouds dappling shadows over the soaring sunlit arches and broken pillars. In the distance they could see someone from the village fishing from the stern of his boat, but he was far away and paid no attention to the boys. As they drew nearer an osprey plunged into the loch alongside the boat and dragged a fish out of the water, flying away towards the west. The island itself was deserted.
Running the boat ashore, the two elder boys scrambled out eagerly. Cousin John’s housekeeper had placed some bottles of ale into the boat for them, and pausing only to put them into the water at the edge of the loch to keep cool, the two elder boys raced ahead. David turned. ‘Come on, Tom!’ he cried impatiently. Tom was still staring through his little telescope, back the way they had come. He stowed it in his bag and climbed out onto the grassy bank. His brothers didn’t wait for him; they were used to him dawdling behind, his attention taken by every new bird and plant and dragonfly. He had a small notebook which went everywhere with him; in it he would make laborious drawings and sketches of everything he saw, drawings which even David had to admit were not bad.
Slinging his bag over his shoulder, he made his way after David and Harry along the track towards the ruins of the old priory. The stone arches stood out above the trees, beckoning him on as he followed sturdily in his bothers’ wake, pausing to watch the red squirrels chattering angrily in the sweet chestnut trees and a heron standing motionless near the water’s edge. He dropped further and further behind the others as they raced ahead to explore the ruins, climbing over fallen trees, watching the dragon-flies that hovered over the crystal-clear water of the loch.
He was slowly catching up with them at last when he realised they were not alone. A man in a long black woollen robe was walking under the arch where the west door of the great church had been. Tom stopped, half shy, half scared. They had every right to be there, he knew that, but there was something about the man and his intense self-absorption which excluded the outer world absolutely. He was praying, Tom realised, and completely unaware of their presence.
He watched as the figure walked slowly away from them into the shadows and disappeared. Only when he could no longer see him did he call quietly, ‘Was that a monk?’
David had scrambled up onto the wall of the ancient building, sitting in a window embrasure, his back against the warm stone, his eyes closed against the sunlight. It was Harry who stopped in his tracks. ‘Where?’ He swung round.
‘There. He walked up that way.’ Tom was suddenly flustered. ‘We shouldn’t go after him. I think he was praying.’
David sat up and stared round. ‘Where? I can’t see anyone.’
‘Are you sure you saw someone, Tom?’ Harry studied his little brother’s face. All three boys had caught the sun as they rowed across the loch, their hair tousled in the wind, and Harry’s eyes were bright with laughter. ‘It wasn’t one of your ghosts, was it?’ he probed gently.
Tom flushed a deep red. ‘No. He was there.’ He dropped his bag on the ground and ran to the arch where he had seen the man walking away from them along the nave that was no longer there. The place was deserted; long grasses grew amongst the stones. A bird flew up as he approached, calling in alarm.
‘Oh, Tom, for goodness’ sake!’ David, ever scornful, allowed a cruel edge into his voice. ‘You and your ghosts! They’re all in your head, you know. You’ll be sent to an asylum if you go on like this.’ Nevertheless, he looked round with a shiver and it wasn’t very long before he suggested they go and find their food. As he and Harry made their way back towards the beach where they had left the boat, Tom hesitated, hanging behind, and as his brothers’ voices grew fainter, he realised he could hear the monks chanting, the sound rising and falling in the distance above the rustle of the trees and the lapping of the water on the shore. He felt the hair standing up on the nape of his neck and, terrified, he turned and ran after them.
They retrieved the bags of bread and ham and cheese and pulled the bottles of ale out of the water. Tom, still chastened and embarrassed by David’s scorn and unsettled by what he had heard, sat a little apart. He was determined not to cry. He knew his elder brother could be nasty; it was Harry who was kind and patted him almost paternally on the shoulder as he came over and, cutting off a chunk of cheese with his dirk, gave it to him with an apple.
Tom took a deep breath. ‘Why did Papa sell Cardross?’ he asked Harry. He had found himself a nook in the stones of an old wall from where he could watch the jackdaws squabbling on top of the broken arches behind them.
‘He needed the money.’ Harry had already started to share out the rest of the food.
‘Mama is always talking about money,’ Tom followed his train of thought doggedly. ‘Are we very poor?’
‘Have you only just noticed?’ David snapped.
‘Why?’
Harry took pity on his small brother. ‘The earls of Buchan were rich and powerful once, long ago. But they kept making mistakes. They chose the wrong side in politics.’
‘Politics?’ Tom was screwing up his eyes against the sun. He had spotted the osprey again, flying low over the water.
‘Like Uncle James, Mama’s brother. He fought for Prince Charlie. That’s why he has to live abroad. All his estates were confiscated.’
‘He doesn’t know what confiscated means!’ David’s voice was muffled by the hunk of bread he was chewing as he lay back on the grass.
‘I do!’ Tom retorted. ‘It means taken away by the government.’
‘Well, then. You know why we’re poor. They gave some of the land back, but Papa has to live off a measly allowance from trustees who have no idea how an earl should live. That’s why we have to live in a flat in Edinburgh instead of a castle.’
‘Papa and Mama still like Prince Charlie?’ Tom framed it as a question.
‘Yes, but you must never, ever, say so. King George is our king now. Remember that.’ David sat up. ‘If you forget every word I’ve ever said to you, Tom, remember that one. King George is our king and we are loyal to him. Whatever we may think in private, we keep it private. Understand?’
Tom nodded. He was already watching another bird, but somewhere deep inside his head he tucked his brother’s advice away. He would remember it all his life.
It was the most wonderful holiday. They visited the loch and its islands again and again. Tom learnt to row; Harry taught him to swim. They went fishing. David took them outside at night and they lay on their backs in the long grass, staring up at the sky while he told them the names of the stars. They explored the castle and its policies; they made friends with the builders who were constructing a new extension to the castle and with the men working to drain areas of the great moss behind the castle so that it could be turned into rich farmland. Many of the labourers were Highlanders, dispossessed after the Jacobite rebellion fifteen years before; they were full of stories of battles and of grief, legends of ghosts and fairies, and Tom in particular listened wide-eyed to every tale, spending hours sitting listening as they wielded their long-handled spades or sat around their campfires at night. The moss fascinated him. In daylight the colours made him itch to reach for his pens and brushes, trying to capture the emerald of the moss itself, the russets and yellows and the glories of the purple heather. On hot days they saw adders and lizards basking and they heard the calls of distant snipe and the chink of stonechats and the yelp of buzzards. But at night it was lonely and eerie, swathed in mist and moon-shot shadows and the only sound was the haunting call of an owl.
All three boys were devastated when David received a letter from their mother informing them that the time had come for them to return home and that their cousin of Carnock would be sending his coach at the end of the week. The days were not as warm now as when they had first arrived; mist hung in the trees in the mornings and there was a scent of autumn in the air, but even so, they could have stayed there for ever.
Tom wrote everyth
ing down in his notebook, careful with the details, including sketches and even little tinted paintings. One of his mother’s friends had shown the boy how to use a brush to shade his inks and to grind up pigments to make the watercolour washes that would make his sketches realistic and he practised in the evenings by the light of a lamp as his brothers read or left him alone to walk through the moonlight to take a dram with their neighbours. He didn’t realise he was keeping a diary, but the keeping of meticulous records was another skill he would practise all his life.
6
Finlay greeted Ruth with a crushing bear hug when he arrived next morning just after nine. He brought croissants and coffee in a Thermos. ‘I wasn’t sure whether your father would have proper coffee-making equipment,’ he said as he sat down at the kitchen table, the paper bags in front of him. He was a huge man, a larger-than-life character in every way, the same age as Rick, but as they had often joked, he appeared older and was far more worldly wise.
He surveyed her sternly. ‘My God, you look knackered, sweetheart.’
She reached in the cupboard for cups and plates. ‘I was up late doing family research. It’s a good distraction from what’s been going on here.’
He studied her for a moment. ‘I was so sorry to hear about your father. What a bum summer you’ve had. And now this ne’er-do-well turns up!’ He began to unpack their breakfast. ‘It broke my heart when I heard you and Rick had split up.’
When he finally allowed her to speak she told him the whole story as he sat devouring his croissant, his eyes fixed unwaveringly on her face.
‘Forgive me asking, but why did your mother stay with your father?’ he asked when she finished her story.
Ruth smiled sadly. ‘I keep asking myself that. I used to come up to Edinburgh and meet her sometimes secretly; he never knew. After she died I had no contact. He never tried to persuade me to come home.’
‘Till he needed you.’
‘Even then, it wasn’t him who called, it was Sally, next door. To be honest, he barely recognised me.’
They sat in silence for a few moments, then he leaned forward, seemingly re-energised. ‘Right, so, you want me to store some of your precious family stuff for you.’
She nodded slowly. ‘I don’t think it’s all that valuable in money terms; I suspect Timothy has already been through it and if there was anything worth having he’s probably taken it, but I feel a bit threatened, as if he would take things out of spite if he thought I valued them.’
He leaned forward, elbow on the table, chin in hand, and studied her again with disconcerting concentration. ‘I can take as much as you like. You have me to take care of you now.’ He grinned boyishly. ‘The problem will be to make sure he isn’t spying on you. If he thinks you are moving anything out, he might go to the courts. I don’t know the law on this. We should check with your Mr Reid. Is there any large furniture you want removed?’
‘No, most of the stuff I want to keep is really small. This writing box is the largest.’ It was lying on the kitchen table. ‘The rest is in suitcases and boxes. I’m still looking for the family portraits. I don’t know if they even exist still. Dad really hated them. Mum only brought them here because there was no one else for my grandparents to leave them to. I don’t care about the rest of the furniture, to be honest.’
‘Right.’ He stood up. ‘Why don’t we go out to my place now with a load. That writing box for a start. I could mend that for you. My car is just up the road. We’ll check he isn’t lurking. What sort of car does he have?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t even know if he has one.’
Finlay was back at once. ‘He’s parked right outside, or someone is, watching this house. Take a shifty out of the front window.’
It was Timothy. Cautiously she peered from behind the heavy curtain. He had made no attempt at being subtle; his hands were clamped on the steering wheel with every appearance of impatience. From time to time he glanced at his watch. ‘He looks as though he’s waiting for someone. No, he’s getting out of the car.’ She stepped back from the window. ‘He’s coming in.’
They heard the sound of a key in the lock. Timothy wrestled with it for a moment, before uttering an exclamation of impatience. Ruth opened her mouth to protest, but Finlay put his finger to his lips and gestured to her to remain out of sight.
He crept towards the door surprisingly quietly for such a large man and opened it. Timothy was standing there, a key in his hand. ‘Can I help you?’ Finlay stood four-square in the doorway.
‘She’s changed the lock!’ Timothy’s anger was barely contained. He didn’t ask who Finlay was and Finlay didn’t volunteer the information.
‘If by “she” you mean Ruth, you’re right. She has. On the advice of her solicitor. She suspected, rightly, obviously, that you had kept a key to her house when she asked you to leave.’
‘My house.’ Timothy was tight-lipped.
‘I doubt if any court in the land would substantiate that claim.’ Finlay folded his arms. ‘I understand you’ve removed articles belonging to Ruth’s mother which are her property and no part of her father’s inheritance; that is theft.’
Timothy stared at him, seemingly inarticulate with fury, then he turned and walked back to the car. Finlay closed the door. He put his hand in his pocket and brought out his phone. ‘Let me make a note of the licence number for future reference.’
Ruth was seething with anger. ‘The nasty sneaky man! What was he planning to do when he got in?’
‘I should have asked him.’ Finlay slipped his phone back into his pocket. ‘I think you should ring your Mr Reid. Tell him what happened. We have to keep the law tight on your side and at the same time warn him that your so-called brother is not playing cricket.’
Ruth stared at him, her mouth open. ‘My brother!’ she echoed in horror. ‘No!’
‘Well, half-brother. And almost certainly, no. He will have to take a DNA test to prove it.’
‘Of course.’ She frowned. ‘I hadn’t thought of that. That will prove he isn’t Dad’s son.’
There was a moment’s silence. ‘Or that he is.’
‘Right.’ Finlay glanced towards the window. ‘Let’s see if he’s gone. If he has, I’ll load up my car with anything you want to save right now before he has a chance to come back. You should also tell Reid that he went through your mother’s belongings, and damaged them, and you suspect he may have taken valuables away. For instance,’ he paused thoughtfully, ‘what about jewellery? Or family silver? Those pictures you mentioned. You showed me the ring and the little miniature, but what else did she have?’
‘There was a jewellery box. I can’t really remember what was in it, but it lived on her dressing table. I don’t think Dad made her lock that away, but she never wore anything out of it as far as I remember. That’s not up there.’ She gave a miserable little wail. ‘Oh, Finlay! If he has taken anything I’ll never know.’
‘We’ll sort it, Ruthie, don’t you fret.’
They packed up all the most sentimentally precious things and locked them in the boot of his car, then he helped her search her father’s desk for his chequebook and bank cards, things that it had not even occurred to her to look for, and which were conspicuous by their absence. He stood by while she rang the bank and reported their theft, then he took her out to lunch.
When he finally drove away that evening he tried to persuade her to go with him, but she refused.
He didn’t argue. ‘OK. Good for you. Stick to your guns and stay safe and call me at any time of day or night if you need me.’
She watched him drive away then closed the door and bolted it before wandering back towards the kitchen.
The house was dark and very quiet now that he had gone. As she reached for the light switches by the kitchen door she stopped suddenly in her tracks. She had heard a noise from the kitchen, she was sure of it. She held her breath, listening. Had Timothy managed to find a way in round the back? The silence stretched out and then she heard
it again. It was another second before she realised with a flood of relief that it was the sound of the tap dripping slowly into the sink. She took a deep breath and brought her hand down heavily on the switches, lighting every corner of the kitchen. There was no one there.
Of course there was no one there.
For several seconds she stood still as slowly her heartbeat returned to normal then she walked over to the back door and checked the locks. No one could have come in that way. Picking up her laptop, she tucked it under her arm. The wave of loneliness and despair that swept over her was overwhelming.
In the end she turned off the lights and climbed wearily to her bedroom, wishing she had taken up Fin’s invitation and gone home with him. Below, in the darkness, the house was very empty. Clutching her teddy bear in her arms she climbed into bed and lay there in the dark, staring up at the ceiling.
7
Timothy’s sister, April, was waiting for him in the White Hart, a glass of shandy before her on the table, a bottle of lager for him. She looked up as he walked in. ‘Did you get in?’
‘Nope! She’s changed the locks.’
‘I told you she would. You should have taken everything while you had the chance.’
He sat down opposite her and reached for the bottle, twisting off the cap. Taking a large gulp, he wiped the foam from his lip with his sleeve. ‘We’ve got most of the valuable stuff anyway. Do you want to get me another one?’
‘Not particularly.’ She was very like him to look at; the same skin, the same colour of hair, but while his eyes were brown hers were hazel. She studied his face closely. ‘You look rattled.’
‘There was someone else there. A big bloke. Some kind of minder.’
She scowled. ‘Never mind. You don’t need to go there again. We got what we came for: the old man’s cash, jewellery, silver. Now you can sit back and wait for the house to fall into your lap.’ She took a sip from her glass.