Cauldstane (2 page)

As the Land Rover bounced up the
tree-lined, pot-holed drive, I noted that the lower half of the castle looked as bleak and four-square as a prison, but as the eye travelled upwards, ornamentation became apparent. Richly carved gargoyles and canon water spouts carried rain-water well away from the walls. Heraldic beasts emerged from the creamy-pink harling that clothed the granite walls. A deep belt of decorative brickwork, known as corbelling, ran all the way around the castle, supporting turrets and spacious upper storeys.

A
rriving at the foot of the castle, I discovered it was much larger and more forbidding than I’d expected, but by then, I’d seen enough. I found myself regretting the decision to go through with the interview. This was no failure of nerve. I just knew if I didn’t get this job, I’d be gutted.

As
I craned my neck for a better view, I told myself the secret of a happy life was low expectations. I would simply regard my trip as an interesting excursion. A chance to meet a celebrity and spend a night in a Highland castle before catching the train back to London.

~

Fergus drove round the castle, past the main entrance and through a stone arch at the rear. As he swung into the courtyard, I saw from the corner of my eye a figure move rapidly across the cobbles, waving something in the air. As Fergus manoeuvred into a parking place, I turned my head to see a man spring across the courtyard, wielding some sort of sword, cutting the air and thrusting at an invisible opponent. He was dressed in a blue boiler suit, wore plastic safety glasses on top of his head and appeared completely oblivious of our arrival.

I was so surprise
d by this incongruous sight, I nearly burst out laughing. Then I realised I’d stopped breathing. Mesmerized by the swordsman’s grace and the ballet of this duel with an imaginary foe, I stared through the windscreen, following every move. As Fergus switched off the ignition, the man delivered what appeared to be a
coup de grâce
at full stretch. Then he straightened up, turned and saluted us, holding his sword in front of his face, aligned with his nose. Fergus tooted the horn in response, but the man was already striding towards one of the outbuildings, slicing the air with his sword, cutting to left and right. Somehow he managed to make the action look casual. He disappeared through a wooden door and it slammed shut.

I swivel
led round in my seat and faced Fergus. ‘What was
that
?’

‘He was trying out a new weapon. He finished it this m
orning. It was a commission for an American who wanted a replica of the rapier they used in
The Princess Bride
.’ I blinked in astonishment. Fergus misunderstood and added, ‘It’s a kids’ movie.’

‘You make
weapons
at Cauldstane?’

‘Aye.’ He pointed. ‘In that workshop.
It used to be the stables, but we haven’t had horses for years, so the building’s been re-cycled. We call it the armoury now.’

‘And who was he? The swordsman. He really looked as if he knew what he was doing.’

‘Aye, he does. That was my brother. The heir to Cauldstane. Alexander John Balliol MacNab. We call him Alec.’

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 cas
hmere 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 s
urface 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.

I
t 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 ha
d 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?’

Sh
e 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.