Cauldstane (4 page)

‘Yes, thank you.’

He waited until I was seated, then sank back on to his wooden throne. ‘Wilma gave you lunch, I trust?’

‘Yes. I’ve been well looked after, thank
s. Mr MacNab, can I start by saying I’m very sorry the Society of Authors didn’t inform you I was a woman. They wouldn’t have known, you see. People just make assumptions.’ He looked embarrassed and started to shuffle some papers. Undeterred, I continued. ‘They didn’t actually mention that you were looking for a male writer, so there was plenty of scope for misunderstanding. That’s the downside of email. The anonymity. I don’t want to waste your time – or mine for that matter – so if you’re convinced a woman wouldn’t be able to do the job—’

‘Not at all! My
preference
was for a man, but your credentials certainly qualify you.’ He glanced at his notes. ‘You seem to have considerable experience in the fields of travel, sport and family history. These are subjects I hope will be of interest to my potential readers. Do
you
think they’ll be interested, Miss Ryan?’

‘Please call me Jenny. Yes, I do. I think they’ll be
very interested. That is, if I can persuade you to avoid the traditional understatement employed by intrepid explorers.’

‘Understatement?’ Sholto looked intrigued.

‘Quiet British heroism doesn’t sell. Not any more. You need to bear in mind that, in an age when television brings natural disasters and real life heroics into our sitting rooms, readers look for something more when they open a book such as the one you propose to write.’

‘Really?’ Sholto w
as watching me carefully. ‘What are they looking for, Miss Ryan?’

‘They’re looking for
you
.’

‘Me?’

‘Sholto MacNab. And if you choose to employ me to write your story, that’s what I would give them. The man.’

‘I see.’ He looked doubtful. ‘Not
… the deeds?’

‘Of course, the deeds, but those are
already documented. Your remarkable achievements are well known. What readers don’t know – and what I think they’ll want to know – is
why
?’

Sholto looked
puzzled. ‘Why what?’

‘Why did you do it? Why did you put your life on the line so many times? What drove you on? What made you go back
to places like Antarctica where you’d almost died? Why did you know no fear?’

‘Oh, is that what you think?’ he said, narrowing his eyes. ‘That I
’m fearless?’

‘No, it’s not what
I
think. I know a mountaineer who says he learned to climb as a way of conquering a crippling fear of heights. But I’m sure the average book buyer thinks you’re fearless. Writing about your fear – terror, even – would be much more gripping than any Captain Scott stiff-upper-lip heroics.’

‘Is that so?
Do I understand you to be suggesting some sort of “warts and all” portrait then?’

‘
I’m suggesting you tell the whole story. Present yourself as an ordinary man with both strengths and weaknesses. That can only serve to highlight your outstanding courage and leadership, not to mention your astonishing powers of endurance. If you’ll forgive my saying so, Mr MacNab, you should be dead. I’d like to help you write a book that explains exactly why you’re not.’

Sholto
regarded me with some suspicion, then said, ‘And what about my personal life? Are you proposing a confessional approach there too?’

‘I am, th
ough of course I realise this might make uncomfortable demands on you and other members of your family.’

‘They’re dead.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘My wives. They’re both d
ead. They can’t suffer any more,’ he added, avoiding my eyes.

I thought it best not to comment and there followed a pause in which Sholto was obviously consi
dering something. He regarded me and said, ‘Do we really have to dredge up all the old stories? The gossip about my second wife?... And my poor daughter-in-law. You know people thought it was suicide?’ I nodded and Sholto passed a hand across his face, dragging the flesh across the fine bones. ‘I’m really not concerned about myself. I’m thinking of Alec. He’s never been – now how shall I put this? Between you and me, Jenny, Alec has never been mentally
robust
. His mother’s death… Then Coral’s… The lad took some hard knocks.’

‘
Mr MacNab, if I may speak freely—’

He spread his hands.
‘Go ahead. That’s what this meeting’s for. Putting all our cards on the table.’

‘
I am in no way advising you what to do. That’s not within my remit. My job would be to help you tell your story in whatever way you wish to tell it. Any moral or artistic decisions must ultimately be yours.’

‘Of course. It will be my na
me on the dust jacket.’

‘
Indeed. But Fergus has already mentioned you’d like your book to sell a lot of copies.’

‘Oh
, yes, that’s the whole point! Only reason I’m doing it, in fact. You think I want to spend weeks cooped up indoors poring over old scrapbooks, talking about the adventures I used to have? The man I used to be?’ His laugh was a humourless bark. ‘I do not! Delightful though I’m sure your company would be, Jenny,’ he added graciously.

‘Well, if you want us to produce a bestseller, I
suggest you’re absolutely frank with me and allow me to give the reader the inside story.’

‘Because scandal sells,’ he said wearily.

‘It certainly does. But I think there’s a way to tell your story without resorting to vulgar sensationalism.’

‘You do?’

‘Oh, yes. We need to present the
man
. The whole man, in all his endearing fallibility. I’m not suggesting we expose feet of clay, simply that we explain exactly why you did what you did. After all, to understand is to forgive.’

Sholto smile
d. ‘That’s what Liz used to say. My first wife. You know, she’s been dead for more than thirty years and I still miss her.’ He shook his head. ‘I was a bastard to her. A complete bastard.’

I said nothing but my silence
must have been eloquent. He shot me a defensive look, then went on quickly. ‘I was going to finish with Meredith. It was only ever meant to be a fling. Nothing serious. Liz understood that, I think. But then she went and died. And I never had the chance to explain.’

‘You do now, Mr MacNab. You can explain
everything and readers will lap it up.’

‘You
think so?’

‘I do.
’

‘Well
, you’ve given me a lot to think about, Jenny… Your vision of my book isn’t quite what I had in mind, but I have to admit, I can see the sense in what you say. I mean, one has to compete with a lot of other memoirs these days. I’d been wondering what my angle – is that what you call it?’ I nodded. ‘I wondered what angle we could exploit.’

‘Sholto MacNab: soldier, sport
sman, husband, father, laird and lover. The complete man.’

‘Warts a
nd all.’

‘If you can
bear it. And if you think your family can bear it.’

‘You know,
there will be rather a
lot
of warts.’

‘The more the merrier. Everyone loves a bad boy.’

He beamed. ‘I think you’ve just talked yourself into the job I was convinced I wouldn’t offer you. That is, if you still want it?’

‘I do.
Very much.’

‘On
the terms we agreed?’

‘Yes.’

‘When can you start?’

‘As soon as you like.
I’ll have to go back to London to fetch my stuff, but I can come back in a few days’ time, or whenever you think you might be ready to start.’

‘C
ome back as soon as you can. I shall be raring to go. I thought preparing this book would be rather a chore. A necessary evil. But now I think… Well, I think it could be rather fun, don’t you?’ His blue eyes were bright and full of mischief.

‘I certainly do.
And I’m hugely excited at the prospect of working with you.’

‘The feeli
ng’s mutual, I do assure you.’

I stood and
Sholto hauled himself to his feet, limping round the desk to stand beside me. As he vacated his chair, I noted with a thrill that the carved oak bore the date 1663.

‘Welcome to Cauldstane, Jenny. I hope you’ll feel at home with us.’

‘It’s been a pleasure to meet you, Mr MacNab.’

‘Call me
Sholto. Ridiculous name, isn’t it? My father was called Ninian. I suspect he named his children as an act of revenge.’

‘Your brother
was Torquil, wasn’t he?’

‘
You’ve done your homework, I see. You can imagine what they made of Torquil and Sholto MacNab at Eton. Actually, you probably can’t, a nice well-brought up girl like you.’

‘Torquil
inherited first, didn’t he? He was your older brother?’

‘Yes. Cauldstane should have been his. And so should all the probl
ems that came with it. He was trained up for it, you see. I wasn’t. I was the madcap younger son who was going to have to make his own way in the world. And I was the one everyone thought likely to die young. The Cauldstane mantle was never meant to fall on my narrow shoulders. But Torquil was what they used to call a “confirmed bachelor”. He was also a chain smoker and a heavy drinker.’

‘Was it cancer
?’

‘
Lung, then liver. It was a slow business… I miss him too, you know. He was a splendid fellow. Bizarre sense of humour though. You saw the albatross in the hall?’

For a moment I was thrown by his question, then I remembered. ‘Oh – the stuffed bird?’

Sholto chuckled. ‘Torquil sent me that when he realised he was dying and I’d have to take on Cauldstane. Oh, we had a lot of laughs… And some of his boyfriends were quite charming. Not that I ever indulged, of course. Always been one for the ladies myself – as you’ll know if you’re familiar with my press cuttings.’

‘It’s
certainly going to be a colourful story, Mr MacNab. And it has all the ingredients of a bestseller.’

‘
You think so? That’s what Cauldstane needs, Jenny. Needs badly.’ He smiled and took my hand again and this time I allowed myself to look down. And there it was. The MacNab thumb.

I
decided it was a good omen.

CHAPTER FOUR

I emerged from the library
cock-a-hoop. It wasn’t just that I’d managed to secure the commission against the odds. I was already smitten with Cauldstane and the MacNabs – all of them, even the dead ones. I estimated this job would take me two or three months, depending on Sholto’s degree of co-operation. He’d offered me bed and board at the castle and I knew he couldn’t afford to pay hotel expenses, so I was perfectly happy to stay as a guest and save myself a lot of driving. If I got to know the family it couldn’t fail to add depth to what promised to be a fascinating and, at times, emotional story.

I went back to my room, hurl
ed myself on to the bed and wallowed in my sense of triumph. For all of three minutes. Then the professional writer dragged me off the bed and propelled me over to my laptop. I needed to make notes. Sholto had already been quite frank – about his love life, Torquil’s and Liz, the long-suffering first wife. And what about Alec? It sounded as if more than ordinary grief lay behind the fragility Sholto had referred to.

I switched on my laptop and gazed
contentedly out the window at the view. This was to be mine for weeks. My room. My view. My family, almost. I could have hugged myself.

The sun was lower now. The castle threw an immense shadow over the river
so the water looked much darker. I looked up at the stone bridge and saw a figure standing in the middle, staring down into the river as it foamed over the rocks. His head was bowed and at this distance, I couldn’t be sure who it was.

He had something in his hand, something red. He held it up to his face, then raised his arm and tossed it into the river, throwing it a long way upstream. He placed his hands on the bridge
and watched as the object returned to him. As it tumbled over the rocks towards him, he leaned over and watched it disappear under the bridge. Long after it must have vanished from sight, he still stood staring down into the water. Eventually he turned and began to walk away from the river, slowly, head down, his shoulders slightly hunched.

I’d
known as soon as he’d raised an arm to throw that it was Alec, but it wasn’t until I turned away from the window and saw the jug of roses on my writing desk that I realised what he’d thrown into the river.

Puz
zled by the gesture, I sat down at my laptop, my attention scattered. I opened a new document, called it
The MacNabs
and tapped out some notes, recording my thoughts randomly.

History of MacNab clan – legends/ghosts etc?

“Let fear be far from all.” O
rigin?

Who shot the stag in the hall?

Who painted the portrait of Meredith? When?

Sholto’s affairs –
Liz knew. Did M?

M’s singing career?
Rôles? Photos? Old programmes?

Paintings in attic?

How long has Mrs G been here?

Eton & Gordonstoun. Was Sholto happy at school? Were Alec & Fergus?
Bullying?

What does F
ergus do?

Alec – mental health history.

Why did Coral MacN kill herself?

Visit Alec’s a
rmoury.

Condition
of Cauldstane – building & estate.

How does Alec feel about inheriting?

How do the others feel about Alec as the next laird?

Debts. How bad? Financial plans for future of Cauldstane?

Is Sholto under pressure to sell up and leave Cauldstane to its ghosts?

There was a knock at the door and Mrs Guthrie appeared with a tea tray. ‘You’ll be wanting your tea, Miss Ryan. After your ordeal,’ she added, rolling her eyes.

I swivel
led round in my chair. ‘Please call me Jenny. You’re going to be seeing a lot more of me over the next few weeks.’

Her eyes widened
as she set down the tray. ‘Mr MacNab’s given you the job, then?’

‘
Yes. He seemed quite happy about it too. Excited, in fact.’

‘Well, that’s grand! I’m glad it’s all settled. We’ll make sure you feel
right at home here.’

‘I do already. Everyone’s been very kind.’ Eyeing the plate of shortbread, I added, ‘But I can see I’m going to put on pounds. How’s a girl supposed to resist?’

‘Och, you’ll work it off walking round the estate and running up and down our stairs. Living in a castle keeps you fit. That’s what Mr MacNa
b always says. A childhood spent at Cauldstane was the best all-round, all-weather physical training he could have had, he says, and Eton was the best preparation for Arctic conditions and short rations. Though I think he’s a wee bit inclined to exaggerate, for the sake of a good story. You’ll perhaps need to bear that in mind.’

‘
I will. I’m greatly looking forward to hearing all his traveller’s tales.’

‘Oh aye, there are some good ones.
And most of them are true! Now, can I get you anything else?’

‘No, I’m fine. I’
m just making some notes about our meeting,’ I said, indicating the laptop.

‘
Well, when you’ve had your tea, I’ll show you the Music Room.

‘Oh, t
hat’s OK, you don’t need to give me the tour. I’m sure I’ll find my way around.’

‘The Music Room is where you’re to work, Miss Jenny
, if that suits you. It’s never used now and Mr MacNab thought it would serve as a study for whoever took on the job of writing his book. I think you’ll be comfortable in there. There’s a desk and a fireplace and of course there’s the harpsichord if you’re able to play.’

‘
I’m afraid I’m not at all musical. Who’s the musician in the family?’

‘It was Mrs MacNab’s instrument. The
second
Mrs MacNab. Mr MacNab bought it for her as a wedding present.’

‘How lovely!
Does anyone play it now?’

‘No one, not since Mrs MacNab passed away. She was the only one who could get a tune out of it.
The children were never allowed to touch it. Mr Alec learned the fiddle when he was a boy, but no one’s ever played the harpsichord. Mr Fergus has often suggested it should be sold. It’s an antique and worth a great deal, I understand, but Mr MacNab won’t part with it. It’s a beautiful instrument. Mrs MacNab played it every day when she was in residence.’

‘She
was very musical, obviously.’

‘
Aye, she was a famous singer before she married. Meredith Fitzgerald, she was then. She used to sing in opera mostly. Mrs MacNab was a very
dramatic
personality.’ There was something about Mrs Guthrie’s tone that suggested admiration, even envy of her mistress’ temperament. ‘I never saw her perform on the stage, but she used to organise concerts now and again at Cauldstane. For Christmas, or as charity fund-raisers. Folk used to travel for miles to hear her and her friends sing. Those were very merry occasions.’ Mrs Guthrie’s sad smile belied her words. ‘The castle was full of guests. There were fires and lights everywhere, music and laughter. Cauldstane was full of life then. And Mr and Mrs MacNab were such a handsome couple.’

‘It must have made a lot of extra work for you
. Did you have help?’

Mrs Guthrie shrugged sturdy shoulders.
‘Just a couple of lassies from the village. And Miss Coral, of course, Mr Alec’s wife.
Fiancée
as she was then. She was always keen to help out. So we managed.’

‘Coral MacNab is dead, isn’t she? When did she pass away?’

It was obviously a question I shouldn’t have asked. Tears formed in Mrs Guthrie’s eyes and her lower lip started to tremble. ‘Seven years ago. I can’t believe it’s seven already,’ she chided herself. She stood with one hand braced on her aproned hip, the other clamped over mouth, staring at the floor.

I rose from my chair.
‘I’m so sorry, Mrs Guthrie. I didn’t mean to upset you.’

She took her
hand away from her mouth and flapped it at me in a futile, helpless gesture. ‘No, if you’re to write their story, you’ll need to know all the sadness this poor family’s known. And I’d far rather you asked me than Mr Alec. It’s just that –
today
of all days…’

I remembered Alec by the river and my heart rose up
into my mouth. ‘It isn’t… the
anniversary
of Coral’s death, is it?’

‘Aye, it is.’

‘How did she die?’

‘She drowned
.’

My voice was hard
ly more than a whisper. ‘Did she drown…
here
? At Cauldstane?’

Mrs Guthrie
nodded, unable to speak, then fled from the room as fast as her trainers could carry her.

I walked over to the window, but I couldn’t bring myself to look
down at the fast-flowing river. Instead, I stared at the jug of roses on my desk and counted them. Then I counted them again. I kept counting until I felt calm again, then I drew the heavy curtains, lay down on my bed and fell asleep.

~

I woke an hour later, feeling refreshed, but it took me a moment to realise where I was. When I remembered, I felt ridiculously happy. My mind was buzzing with more questions I wanted to ask about the MacNabs, so I got off the bed, opened the curtains and sat down at the writing table. I opened up my laptop and gazed out the window, suppressing a desire to wave at passing crows. My happiness was slightly diminished when I glanced up at the mirror above me and saw the river tearing past, in the wrong direction.

Poor Coral.

Poor Alec.

The
thing was, not to get involved. That’s where I’d gone wrong in the past. I’d got too involved with the stories I was telling. You have to maintain a distance, a certain professional objectivity, otherwise you’d go mad trying to get into someone else’s mind, trying to think like them, live their life. This was just a job. It wasn’t my life, or
anyone’s
life. It was just a book.

I clicked on
the document in which I’d made my earlier notes. When it opened, the screen was blank. Puzzled, I clicked back to check I’d opened the right one. I had. I clicked back to the empty screen. Surely I’d saved what I’d written? After all these years, I saved automatically. Perplexed by what looked like uncharacteristic inefficiency, I scrolled down, hoping to see my notes eventually.

I found
only one line. Everything else had gone. It wasn’t even a complete line. Just five words.

leave Cauldstane to its ghosts