Cauldstane Read online

  CHAPTER TWO

  Fergus led the way to the castle’s back door. I registered a twinge of disappointment that I was entering Cauldstane via the tradesmen’s entrance, but that was after all what I was: a jobbing writer, plying my trade. And practising to deceive. If this was the door the MacNabs themselves used, it was good enough for the likes of me.

  There was a stone slab by the door, propped up against the wall. Next to it stood a rusted horse shoe. According to Fergus there hadn’t been horses at Cauldstane for years, so I assumed this one had been placed at the entrance to invite good luck. I took a moment to examine the stone. The edges were uneven and damaged, as if it had been removed or fallen from a wall. It portrayed a naked, muscular arm gripping a short sword. The hand was well carved and looked quite realistic, apart from the over-long thumb, of which the first joint seemed unnaturally extended. Beneath the disembodied arm was a scroll engraved with a Latin motto, Timor omnis abesto.

  ‘Fergus, what does that mean?’

  ‘The motto?’

  ‘Yes. I don’t know much Latin. Is it something to do with fear? Timor?’

  ‘Aye. Timor omnis abesto means, “Let fear be far from all”.’

  ‘Is that the family motto?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘It’s a nice one. Not too aggressive. Some of them sound as if they’re just spoiling for a fight, don’t they? The stone looks ancient. Where was it originally?’

  He pointed over my shoulder at the archway through which we’d driven into the courtyard. ‘It used to be set into the wall above the arch over there, but it fell down. No one’s got round to putting it back up again.’

  ‘When did it come down?’

  ‘Och, it must have been…’ Fergus frowned as he calculated. ‘About two hundred and fifty years ago.’ I laughed and he looked a little shamefaced. ‘Aye, we really should get it fixed, I suppose. But we’ve grown fond of it here.’ He gave the stone an affectionate kick. ‘It keeps fear from the door,’ he said with a smile. Then less certainly, ‘We like to think so anyway. But as you see, we hedge our bets with the horse shoe.’ He pushed the back door open, held it for me and with a little bow of his dark head said, ‘Welcome to Cauldstane, Jenny.’

  ~

  It took me a moment to adjust to the low level of light in the hallway and the drop in temperature. It was actually colder inside the castle than outdoors where sunshine had warmed the courtyard air. I hoped better provision had been made for the guest rooms, but I’d taken the precaution of bringing my hot water bottle. I never travelled without it.

  Sometimes I wondered whether my attachment to its cashmere cosiness was related to the absence of a regular man in my bed. It was some years now since Rupert had vacated the position and embraced instead the Anglican Church. This was no temporary fling. Rupert had decided to train for the ministry. I’d wished him well and we’d parted ways. I had no desire to live in a vicarage and to do that I would have had to marry him – a step I wasn’t sure I wanted to take. Rupert and I had been through a lot together over the years and we’d both been changed by it. Events could have bound us closer together. Instead they drove us apart.

  He had sought comfort in the arms of the Church. My refuge had been work, interesting and relatively undemanding work, if not well paid. I had no difficulty inhabiting the minds of my subjects, seeing their point of view. An overactive imagination had always been my besetting sin, as was my ability to empathise to, at times, a disabling degree.

  I’d done my internet homework and as I walked behind Fergus along the dingy corridor, I wondered idly why he was unmarried. Instinct told me he was probably straight and he could hardly have been short of female admirers. Was he a philanderer like his father? (Sholto’s messy personal life had made entertaining reading until I thought about his poor wives.) Fergus had said Sholto was hard up. Was the family as a whole strapped for cash? Did Fergus have a place of his own? Did Alec? Or did they all live at Cauldstane? Google had been vague about what Fergus did for a living. Estate management seemed to be his main occupation, though whether that meant he managed the Cauldstane estate, I had no idea. I knew that Alec, the heir apparent, was forty and had married. By digging around, I’d discovered his wife had apparently committed suicide some years ago, before she’d produced an heir.

  Nothing about the MacNab set-up suggested they were rolling in cash. My writer’s imagination – both blessing and curse – suggested to me that the younger MacNabs could do with marrying money. Was that why Fergus was still single? Was he holding out for an heiress? As for Alec, he must surely be under a certain amount of pressure to produce an heir. Was that why his wife had committed suicide? Had she been infertile and despaired? Who would inherit Cauldstane if the MacNab brothers died without issue?...

  My mind teemed with questions and as my imagination attempted to answer them, I realised I was drafting the novel of the MacNabs’ lives. I chided myself for getting carried away with the romance of an old Highland family, shackled to its ancestral home. I needed to stick to facts. That was my business now. Not fiction.

  ~

  Fergus and I emerged from a dark corridor into a spacious hall – or it would have been spacious had it not been over-full of furniture and bric-a-brac which seemed to cover every historical period and style. I’d seen better organised junk shops.

  The hall was dominated by a stag’s head on the wall. The animal looked disgruntled, as well it might. Its antlers were apparently used as a hat rack, except that the head was surely out of reach for even the tallest man. I suspected it was used for recreational purposes, as a sort of hoopla. Some of the hats, which included a straw boater and a pith helmet, looked as if they’d been there for some time. The stag was positioned above an ancient, lumpy sofa that had literally had the stuffing knocked out of it. It was adorned with a motley selection of cushions, unrelated in theme or colour, a testament to someone’s passion for needlepoint. Unlike the sofa, the cushions looked exceedingly well stuffed, but just as uncomfortable.

  A bookcase was topped by an outsize stuffed seabird in a glass case. An albatross, I assumed. There were several sickly houseplants, all inclining towards the only window. Here and there, wallpaper was peeling. Some might have described it as ochre, but it made me think of tobacco stains. It certainly did nothing for the balding moss green carpet on which lay a series of equally threadbare rugs.

  Every surface was cluttered with knick-knacks and framed photos, mostly of children, but there were a few expedition shots of Sholto and one of him in evening dress, pictured with a striking brunette. I knew this wasn’t his first wife, Liz and assumed it must be her successor. Everything was old, much of it worn, but nothing was dusty, not even the frames surrounding paintings so dark with varnish, it was difficult to discern their subject. Despite the general shabbiness, the objects in the hall looked well cared-for. Apart from the poor stag.

  I followed Fergus, minding my feet as we climbed the stairs. When we reached the half-landing, I looked up and found myself face to face with an almost life-size portrait of a standing woman. It wasn’t the kind of painting you could just walk past, so I stood and stared.

  It was unashamedly theatrical. The woman appeared to be wearing some sort of classical fancy dress. Dazzling white Grecian drapery clung to her body and her elegantly posed feet were clad in leather sandals. Her abundant black curls were piled high on her head, but artfully arranged so they cascaded over her shoulders. Her body was turned away slightly from the viewer, but her wide, dark eyes faced front. As I shuffled across the half-landing, her eyes held mine in a most unsettling way.

  The sitter had been painted in front of classical columns which framed an idealized landscape, more Suffolk than ancient Greece. Perhaps the landscape was meant to look artificial? The quantity of make-up around the woman’s eyes suggested the portrait had been painted since the sixties, but the artist had chosen to present her in an anachronistic, non-naturalistic setting. I suddenly recalled a romantic portrait
by Alma-Tadema of the actress Ellen Terry playing Shakespeare’s Imogen...

  That would explain it. I was looking at a portrait of someone playing a part. She was in costume and she was on stage. So was this Sholto’s second wife, Meredith, the opera singer?

  With some reluctance I turned my back on the portrait to find Fergus waiting on the landing above me, holding open a door.

  ‘This is your room, Jenny. It has a good view and there’s a bathroom next door. I hope you’ll be comfortable.’

  I hurried up the remaining stairs, eager to see more of Cauldstane.

  ~

  It was a pretty room, evidently situated in a corner of the castle. There were double aspect windows set into the thick walls and one was furnished with a cushioned window seat. I headed straight over to look at the views. One window looked out over the grounds in the direction of a walled garden. The other, at the rear of the castle, looked out over the River Spey, which had carved a gorge out of the rock. The gradient was steep and the brown, peaty water flowed furiously over projecting rocks, then under an arched stone bridge further downstream. The bridge led to a path that followed the river bank for a while, then disappeared into woodland on the other side of the river.

  I turned away from the windows and surveyed the contents of my room: an old brass bedstead, but when I prodded it, the double mattress felt comfortable; a chest of drawers displaying a pair of chipped Staffordshire spaniels and other figurines; no dressing table, but a large gilt mirror hung on the wall between the windows, giving an indirect view of the river. I felt like the Lady of Shalott. Later, when I checked my appearance and discovered the mirror was badly cracked, I felt even more like that unfortunate Lady.

  A bookcase housed volumes selected for the entertainment of Cauldstane’s guests. My eye was taken immediately by the anonymity of Days on the Hill by “An Old Stalker”, shelved between Scotch Deerhounds and their Masters and Biggles Defies the Swastika. I’d always been a martyr to insomnia, but could see plenty of reading matter here that would amuse me and some that might induce sleep in a matter of minutes.

  A writing table with shallow, brass-handled drawers was positioned in front of one of the windows. It had been thoughtfully cleared for action, apart from a jug of red and white roses. The fireplace was concealed by a chaotically cheerful découpage screen on which smiling Victorian maidens cavorted with tigers, birds, kittens, cherubs and smartly dressed rabbits delivering Easter eggs.

  I was setting up my laptop on the writing desk when there was a gentle tap at the door. I called, ‘Come in’ and turned to see a short, plump woman of indeterminate age standing in the doorway. She carried a tray bearing coffee and a plate of cakes and biscuits.

  ‘Good morning, Miss Ryan. I’m Wilma Guthrie, the housekeeper. Mr Fergus thought you’d like some coffee. But if you’d prefer tea, you’ve only to say.’

  ‘No, coffee will be fine, thanks. It smells delicious. So does the home baking. Are all of those for me, or are you off to feed the five thousand elsewhere?’

  She chuckled. ‘Och, you’ve come a long way! We won’t see you starve while you’re here.’

  Wilma Guthrie wouldn’t see forty again, possibly not fifty, but it was difficult to guess her age. Her plumpness ironed out any giveaway wrinkles and her fine greying hair was cut in an unflattering pudding basin style that she might have worn since childhood. Most of her clothes were hidden under a tabard apron, but I registered thick ankles below her pleated woollen skirt and was surprised to see her feet shod in trainers.

  ‘Now if there’s anything else you want, just let me know. You’ll most likely find me in the kitchen. Go down the stair and follow the sound of the radio. It’s always on. We serve lunch in the dining room at one o’clock. Just a buffet, quite informal. Now, d’you have everything you need?’

  ‘Yes, thank you. I’m sure I shall be very comfortable.’

  ‘Then I’ll pop back later to collect the tray.’ She cast her eyes round the room as if checking it a final time, then she bustled out, splay-footed, but swift and silent in her running shoes.

  ~

  Shortly before one, I emerged from my room just as a man came jogging up the stairs. It was Alexander MacNab. I recognised him not from his face, which I’d hardly registered in the courtyard, but from his very upright bearing. That was the thing about Alec MacNab. You wouldn’t look at him twice. Not until he moved.

  Boiler suit and safety glasses were now gone. He was wearing a faded T-shirt and old jeans. His hair was an unexceptional brown, rather long and untidy, swept back from his forehead and curling round his ears and temples. His features, though regular, could hardly be described as handsome. Comparing him with his younger brother, you wouldn’t hesitate to say Fergus was the good-looking one. Alec, though much taller, would blend into the background, ceding the field to Fergus who, as I was to learn, wielded charm and a pair of bright blue eyes with as much panache as his brother handled a sword.

  When Alec saw me, he paused, unsmiling, at the top of the stairs. There was a moment’s awkwardness and I stepped forward.

  ‘Hello. I’m Jenny Ryan. I’m here to talk to your father. We might produce a book together.’

  ‘Ah, the ghost,’ Alec said, with a faint smile.

  ‘Yes, that’s me.’

  He extended his hand. ‘How d’you do, Miss Ryan.’

  ‘Oh, please call me Jenny.’ I took his hand and felt rather than saw that two of his fingers wore plasters at the end. I supposed accidents must be one of the hazards of producing sharp blades. I glanced down at his hand and registered the same extraordinary long thumb joint that I’d seen on the stone carving above the MacNab motto. For reasons I couldn’t fathom, I felt absurdly thrilled, as if I’d shaken hands with history.

  Alec was still looking at me, his head on one side. ‘Have we met before?’

  ‘I don’t think so. This is only the second time I’ve been to Scotland.’

  ‘You look familiar. Are you famous?’

  ‘No, quite the opposite! No one’s supposed to know who I am.’ I was beginning to feel disconcerted by his direct gaze. ‘I mean, that’s the point of being a ghost writer. Anonymity. You should be invisible.’

  His eyebrows shot up. ‘How d’you manage that?’

  ‘Well, my name doesn’t appear in the book and I’m contractually bound not to reveal who I’ve written for. It’s a point of honour anyway that ghosts don’t reveal who their subjects are. If you did, you’d never work again.’

  ‘So someone else takes all the credit for what you write?’

  ‘Yes. That’s what we’re paid for. But I take a more positive view. I see it as a sort of facilitation job. I enable people to tell their stories – stories which wouldn’t find a reader unless someone ghosted them. Do you sign your swords?’

  He looked surprised. ‘Sign them? Like paintings, you mean? No, I don’t. But there’s a mark on them that identifies me as their maker.’

  ‘Exactly. Well, there’s a sort of mark – a literary one – in all the books I write. It identifies me as their author.’

  ‘Clever. What is it?’

  I paused for a moment before saying, ‘I could tell you… but then I’d have to kill you.’

  He laughed and suddenly I saw his father, the Sholto MacNab of the early expeditions, grinning as he was hauled out of an Antarctic crevasse. Timor omnis abesto. “Let fear be far from all.”

  I know I wasn’t feeling faint and I certainly didn’t stumble – in fact my feet felt oddly rooted to the spot – but I experienced a vertiginous sensation, as if the floor was giving way or some invisible force was trying to sweep me off my feet. The past had somehow telescoped, as if Alec, Sholto and the anonymous stone swordsman in the courtyard had become one person. Ridiculous, of course. My imagination was running away with me as it always did – though I have to say, I’m not usually that susceptible to men laughing at my jokes.

  Alec looked concerned and leaned towards me. ‘Are you all right?’


  ‘Yes, I’m fine!’

  ‘You look a wee bit pale. Did Wilma bring you coffee?’

  ‘Oh, yes, I got the works. Coffee and three varieties of home baking. Really, I’m fine. I had a horrible virus recently and I think I’m still not a hundred per cent.’ To change the subject, I pointed down the stairs to the portrait on the half-landing. ‘Who’s the woman in that portrait?’

  Alec didn’t turn to look but said, ‘Sholto’s second wife.’

  ‘Your stepmother?’

  ‘Aye. Meredith MacNab.’

  ‘I had no idea she was that beautiful.’

  ‘She wasn’t. A certain amount of artistic licence was employed by the artist.’

  ‘Did Sholto commission it?’

  ‘Och, no! My father has no interest whatever in paintings. We’ve attics full of them. Meredith sat for the portrait, then gave it to Sholto as a Christmas present. She also gave him the bill. That was her idea of generosity.’

  I looked down at the portrait and studied it in a new light, as an expensive exercise in personal vanity. ‘It’s very striking. There’s something about the eyes. They seem to follow you, don’t they?’

  ‘Aye, they do. The picture used to hang in the dining room, but after she died Sholto said it put him off his food, the way the eyes seem to watch you.’

  ‘I believe she died in an accident? A car crash, wasn’t it?’

  ‘On my wedding day. Meredith always had a wonderful sense of timing.’ I must have looked shocked at the callous remark because Alec apologised immediately. ‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t sound so bitter. But Meredith died because she chose to drive when she was dead drunk. She hit a tree on a notorious bend. It was a horrific crash and my poor father had to identify her body.’

  ‘How dreadful… Did she kill anyone else?’

  Alec stared at me for a moment, then studied the floor, as if choosing his words carefully. ‘Meredith was the only one in the car, thank God. But I’m not sure my wife ever got over the tragedy. It was a hell of a way to start a marriage. With your mother-in-law’s wake.’ The sound of a gong reverberated up the stairs. ‘That’s Wilma summoning us for lunch. I need to get cleaned up. D’you know your way down to the dining room?’