Cauldstane (12 page)

‘A red kite. With wings extended.’

‘Oh, how wonderful… Gosh, I’m sounding trite, aren’t I? But this is all so exciting, I don’t know what to say. I feel very privileged to be allowed to hold a piece of history.’

‘Try holding it as
if you were going to use it. Take the hilt in both hands and raise the blade… If you hold it upright that will be the least strain on your arms.’ With some difficulty, I followed Alec’s instructions until the sword pointed straight up in the air.

He watched me a moment, then said, ‘How d’you feel?’

I frowned at him. ‘How do I
feel
?’

‘Aye.’ He shrugged. ‘You look different. I wondered if you felt different.’

I stood, taking stock. ‘Well, I feel… bigger.’

He nodded. ‘That’s because you’re standing straighter. You have to, to hold the sword. And your arms have just been extended by more than a metre. So you would feel bigger.’

‘I feel stronger too. And…
braver
. This is really weird, Alec!’

‘Don’t worry – swords often have that effect on
folk when they handle them. It’s often very marked with women. They’re not used to feeling at a physical advantage. It’s a new and heady sensation.’ He smiled. ‘Isn’t it?’

‘I don’t think I’ve ever felt like this before. It’s making me feel quite emotional… The beauty of the thing. And all the history… To think how many men it must have killed… How many, do you think?’

‘Impossible to say. A great number, probably. Those it didn’t kill outright would most likely have died of their wounds.’

‘And this was the actual sword that was used to execute the faithless MacNab wife?’

‘Reputedly.’

‘And it can be used only once more to save the Cauldstane MacNabs?’

‘So the story goes. Will I take it now? You’re probably finding it a bit heavy.’

Alec relieved me of the claymore as if it weighed no more than an umbrella and I realised his earlier careful handling had simply been reverence.

‘If you’re interested, I’ll tell you a wee bit about its construction.’

‘You bet I’m interested. This is going to be a very long footnote in Sholto’s book. He doesn’t get to vote. It’s going in.’

Alec grinned and I experienced a childish sensation of pride that I’d said the right thing. Not that I was seeking his approval. My enthusiasm for the claymore was genuine. It had inspired a strange mix of emotions in me and one of them was awe.

‘The claymore was a Highland weapon and it appeared at the beginning of the sixteenth century. It’s called a claymore from the Gaelic,
claidheamh-mór
, meaning “great sword” or broadsword and it was one of the few weapons that could fell a man in armour. The hilt’s made of iron and would originally have been covered in leather. These drooping arms of the cross guard are called quillons and these strips of metal protruding on to the blade, they’re called langets.’ Alec pointed to the decorations at the end of the cross guard. ‘You see these things that look like four-leafed clovers? They’re called quatrefoil terminals and they’re the defining characteristic of the Highland two-handed sword.’

‘How much does it weigh?’

‘Two and a half kilos.’

‘And how long is it?’

‘1.4 metres. That would be about the height of your shoulder.’

‘It must be very valuable.’

‘There are lots of references to Highland two-handed swords, but very few have actually survived. Perhaps about thirty in their original condition.’

‘And this is one of them?’

‘Aye.’

‘My God, Alec – what is it
worth
?’

‘Och, I’ve no idea! And I don’t want to know. Sholto handed it over to me when I turned eighteen. It’s mine now.’ He took the hilt in both hands and swung the sword upwards, so he held it before him, like an inverted cross. ‘If anyone wants to take it and sell it, they’ll have to kill me first. Preferably with the claymore.’

~

Despite my words of encouragement, Alec declined to give me a demonstration of the clay
more in action and hung it, respectfully, back on the wall. We went our separate ways: he down to his room to shower before dinner, I back to the music room.

As I entered
, the room seemed very chilly and I saw the fire was almost out. A burning log shifted and collapsed with a grating sound, sending showers of sparks flying up the chimney, like a firework. I returned to my desk and opened the laptop. I remembered I’d been in the middle of a re-write of my account of Coral’s death. With my hand on the cursor, ready to highlight defective passages, I scanned the screen. As I did so, I had the strangest of feelings, like a premonition, as if something bad was about to happen.

It was.

When I got to the end of my account –
Her untimely death was just a random and inexplicable accident
–
I saw there was now a space, then a new sentence.

It wasn’t an accident.

CHAPTER TWELVE

I hadn’t typed those words.
Alec hadn’t typed those words. He’d been with me. Was this my mysterious intruder again? Or
had
I
typed those words? If I was capable of deleting my own notes while day-dreaming, I was presumably capable of writing a short sentence without knowing I’d done it. I was a very fast typist and my fingers moved almost as quickly as I could think. Is that what had happened? I believed Coral’s death was no accident and I’d typed that?

But I
did
think it was an accident. I’d had no firm opinion until Alec had filled me in on the background, but once he’d told me about her pregnancy, nothing would have persuaded me Coral had taken her own life, not after she’d shared her news with her husband.

But supposing Alec
was lying? What if Coral hadn’t been pregnant?... I only had to think of his pained, white face to know he was telling the truth. Or he totally believed his own lies.

I’d believed Coral
was pregnant, so she wouldn’t have committed suicide. Why then had I written
It wasn’t an accident?
What else could it have been? But if I hadn’t typed that sentence, someone else had. Who other than Alec had an axe to grind about Coral’s death? It made no sense, so by a process of elimination, I had to conclude I’d typed something I didn’t actually believe.

Well, that wouldn’t be a first for me as a ghost writer. Many’s the time I’d had to dress up someone’s fairy story and present it as fact. I once made a good living writing fi
ction. Nowadays it was faction.

But I could hear myself whistling in the dark… I was worried and a part of me wanted to give Rupert a ring, just for some
one normal to talk to. (Could a theoretical physicist who felt he’d been called by God ever be considered
normal
?) I thought I might find it soothing to hear Rupert enthusing about Harvest Festival or grumbling about parish politics. For if I was being honest – and as Alec had said, why be anything else? – I was feeling slightly scared. Scared I was losing it again, that my grip on reality had become shaky, despite the usual precautions I’d taken. I was writing things and hearing things – possibly imagining things too if I thought Alec MacNab was taking an interest in me.

I decided I w
ouldn’t ring Rupert, but would have a very early night. So, after a family dinner at which I was less than sparkling company, I retired to bed with my hot water bottle and an unexciting book and was soon asleep.

~

I was woken by the sound of that damn harpsichord. As I surfaced, I felt angry for several seconds before fear kicked in. Then I remembered what Zelda had said about poor Coral.
When she heard it, poor wee thing, it frightened her half to death.

Was
it the harpsichord? The jangling noise now seemed to be right inside my head, drilling into my brain. Was it some kind of tinnitus? My father had complained about the stress of tinnitus towards the end of his life – strange irritating sounds that never let up. Was this what was happening to me?

The
music stopped, suddenly and completely. The silence was suffocating. I lay in bed shaking with nerves, wondering if I was losing my mind again or whether I’d just taken a long time to surface from a nightmare. When my breathing was back to normal, I decided I would calm myself with my usual panacea: work. I turned on the bedside lamp – immediately I felt better – then got out of bed and switched on my laptop. Waiting for it to load up, I reached for my notebook, then noticed something sitting on top. Something long, thin, shiny and sharp.

A hat pin.

I stared at the pin and tried to work out how it could have travelled from Zelda’s sitting room to my bedroom. Had it been attached to one of the photo albums? But they were still in the music room. It must have got caught up on my clothing somehow. But if so, how did it end up on top of my notebook? Had Zelda put it there? Was it a gift she’d left for me? With no explanatory note?...

My fingers were
moving over the keyboard while I thought and I’d opened my draft of Sholto’s biography before I remembered the last enigmatic line of text I couldn’t account for. I scrolled down to check if the random words were still there.

They were. But tha
t was no longer the last line. After a space there was now a new line of text.

You can do a lot of damage with a hat pin.

Zelda’s exact words. But I hadn’t written them down, not even in my notes, let alone on the laptop. I might be losing my mind, but I knew I hadn’t typed those words. Which meant someone else had. Not
Zelda, surely
?

Whoever it was, I was
now past caring. Fuming, I fired off a rude and deeply therapeutic response without even thinking how or when my reply would be read.

Is this some kind of threat? Who are you and why are you leaving me messages? Please stop creeping into my room and playing with my laptop. If you have a problem with my being here, sit down and talk to me about it! I’m here to do a job and I only want the best for this family.

I sat there, glaring at the screen. Then, to my absolute horror, words began to appear, one by one.

And I only want the worst.

Bat out of hell doesn’t begin to describe it. I was out of my chair, across the room and into the hall before I stopped to think of any rational explanation. Slamming the door behind me, I leaned against it, my heart thumping, hoping none of the family had heard the racket I’d made. Standing there in my nightdress, shaking, I decided wild horses wouldn’t drag me back into that bedroom now. A line had been crossed. Either I was going mad again or… Or
what
?

The words
had appeared on the screen while I was watching. I
must
be seeing things – things that weren’t really there. What alternative explanation could there possibly be?... My legs gave way beneath me and I sank to the floor, weeping. Gathering up some folds of my nightie, I pressed them to my mouth, trying to muffle my whimpering.

Across the hall
there was a rattling sound as a door opened. I commanded my legs to move but they refused. It was dark in the corridor, so I hoped I wouldn’t be visible, cowering on the floor, but as Alec’s door opened slowly, a shaft of light fell on me. He stood silhouetted in the doorway. I saw his head drop as he spotted me on the floor. No doubt his jaw dropped too.

‘Jenny! What’s the matter?’

Blinking against the light, I couldn’t think of anything sensible to say. How do you tell someone you think you’re going mad – and for the second time? I wiped my nose discreetly on my nightie and, in as casual a voice as I could muster, said, ‘Do you know anything about laptops?’

‘
Laptops?
’

‘Yes.
Mine’s started talking to me. In fact, I think it’s possessed.’

Alec’
s reaction frightened me almost as much as the automatic writing. He was across the corridor in two strides, then he bent down, pulled me to my feet and dragged me into his bedroom, kicking the door shut behind him. He laid his hands on my shoulders and said, ‘You’ll be OK now. Nothing can harm you in here.’

When my eyes had adjusted to the light I saw that Alec was half-naked, clad in striped pyjama bottoms – a sight I was far too miserable to enjoy. In any case, my
astonished eyes were torn between Alec’s slim and muscular torso and the presence in his room of a mini armoury. A sword hung on the wall over the bed. There was another lying on the floor where sane people would have had a bedside rug. There was another sword on the floor at the end of the bed and propped up in the uncurtained window alcove stood yet another. My writer’s eye noted an umbrella stand in the corner of the room which held no umbrellas or even walking sticks. It was full of scabbards. Well, of course. How else would Mrs Guthrie manage to get round with the Hoover?...

I started to giggle
. I couldn’t help myself. Then my giggle suddenly gave way to more weeping
.
‘It’s happening, Alec,’ I moaned. ‘It’s happening again! I’m seeing things. I can see
swords
all round this room! And I’m
hearing
things too! It’s
me
– I’m making bad things happen!’

‘
It isn’t you, Jenny.’ He took hold of both my hands and said, ‘It’s nothing to do with you. You’ve just been caught in the crossfire. You’re not seeing things. My room
is
full of swords.’

‘
Why?
’

‘It’s a long story.
First of all, tell me why you were crying.’

I sniffed
and wiped my eyes. ‘You’re not going to believe this.’

‘Try me.’

‘My laptop’s bullying me.’

To his
credit, he didn’t laugh. He didn’t even look surprised. ‘Come and sit down.’ He led me over to the bed, then threw his dressing gown round my shoulders. ‘Tell me what happened.’

‘I
’ve been getting strange messages.’

‘How?
’

‘They’re left on my laptop. I thought it was you to begin with. I thought you wanted me to leave.’

‘
Me
? Why would I want you to leave? You know I’m very glad you came. Tell me about the messages.’

‘There have been three
– no, four now.’

‘What did
they say?’

‘The first one said, “Leave Cauldstane to its ghosts.” But that
was what
I’d
written.’

Alec frowned.
‘I thought you said it was a message left for you?’

‘It was. But t
hose words were part of a sentence I’d already written. I’d made notes about the family. For the book, I mean. But all the rest of my notes disappeared, apart from those few words. I thought it must be you. I thought you’d come into my room while I was asleep and deleted my notes.’

‘What were the other messages?’

‘The next one was when I’d been writing up Sholto’s account of Coral’s death.’

Alec’s eye
lids flickered, but he continued to stare at me. ‘What did the message say?’

‘It said, “It wasn’t an accident”.’

He flinched and looked away. After a moment, he faced me again. ‘You’re sure about that? She said it
wasn’t
an accident?’

‘
She?
Who are you talking about? You think this is Zelda?’

He ignored me and said,
‘What was the next message?’

‘It
was just something Zelda had said to me. Something she’d said in jest really.’

‘What?’

‘It said, “You can do a lot of damage with a hat pin”. ’

‘
Hat pin?
’

‘Zelda and I had been discussing them. She showed me her collection and told me they
could be used as weapons. Women used to defend themselves with them apparently.’

‘That’s three.
What was the fourth?’

I shivered and
Alec tucked the dressing gown round me more firmly but his eyes never left my face. ‘It came up on the screen while I was just sitting there. So I knew it wasn’t me doing it. The other messages – well, I thought maybe I’d written them without knowing what I was doing. But this one… I watched it appear, letter by letter!’

‘What did it say?’

My mind went blank. The horror of that moment seemed to have wiped my memory, but then the words came back to me and I found I couldn’t utter them.

‘What did the fourth message say, Jenny?’

‘I just can’t believe – I mean, I
must
have imagined it! Or else I’m going mad. Alec, will you please come and look? I want to go back and see if those hateful words are still there.’

He seemed
reluctant, but said nothing. He reached across to a chair and grabbed a T-shirt which he pulled on, then to my utter astonishment, he bent down and picked up one of the swords. I looked at it, then at his solemn face. ‘I don’t think we’ll need the hardware, Alec. It’s a talking laptop.’

‘
I promise I’ll explain, but not now. Please keep close and stay behind me. Just in case.’

I
struggled into his dressing gown and tied the belt. It swamped me but smelled pleasantly of Alec. ‘In case of
what
?’

‘Just
… keep close.’

He opened the
door and we crossed the passage. As he opened my bedroom door, I stood right behind him. He switched on the light and approached the desk. ‘Show me the page you were on. Let me see the last message.’