Above, the rain continued to pelt the roof. She cried until she was light-headed, until her gasping sobs began to lose momentum. Her sleepless night caught up with her, and she began to fade into slumber.
Somewhere in the twilight of half-sleep, she slipped into another level of consciousness. Vaguely, she detected the invisible weight of someone laying down behind her. Warm, strong arms wrapped around her in a comforting embrace.
It was the Highlander. Just as his rage had affected her those weeks ago, her sorrow was affecting him now. He knew it, could feel it. And was offering what little comfort he could in that hazy space between the living and the dead.
Emmie took solace in the comfort he was offering. Willingly, gratefully, she let it lull her into a sense of peace.
Save me, were the whispered words that carried her into a dreamless sleep.
Tuesday, October 14 7:35 pm
From: Emmie Tunstall
Subject: Would Like to Request a Meeting
To: [email protected]
Dear Mr. Rotenfeld,
My name is Emmie Tunstall, and I am curator at Tullybrae House, which is just south-east of the town of Aviemore. I was given your contact information by Dr. Iain Northcott. He is hosting an episode of Digging Scotland in which Tullybrae is being featured.
I hope you don’t mind, but Dr. Northcott suggested that you might be able to help me better understand the clans that historically inhabited the lands in and around the Grampian mountain range. If you had some time for me, I’d love to come down to Glasgow and speak with you at a date and time that suits your schedule.
If, however, you are unable or uninterested, then please accept my apologies, and I thank you for your time.
Sincerely,
Emmie Tunstall
Curator, Tullybrae House
Thursday, October 16 9:24 am
From: Rotenfeld, Paul
Subject: RE: Would Like to Request a Meeting
To: Emmie Tunstall
Hello Emmie,
Thank you so much for your email. Yes, Iain and I go way back. It is no trouble at all, I’m glad he pointed you my way.
I’d be more than happy to entertain you with all the stories I have on the clans of the Grampians if the trek to Glasgow from Aviemore isn’t too much for you. How does next Thursday suit? Say, 1 pm? I have a committee meeting in the morning, but am free the rest of the day. Looking forward to meeting you.
Best,
Paul Rotenfeld
History, University of Glasgow
THURSDAY MORNING BEGAN with a gentle, almost tentative sunshine. A low-lying fog had settled over the Highlands in the night, bringing with it an unusual warm front. The effect on the land was enchanting, like a veil of gossamer had been laid down by the faeries.
Emmie woke early, roused by the drone of her alarm clock. Despite how she had been feeling of late, she wanted to look her best for the trip to Glasgow. Her now frequent outfits of sweatshirts and yoga pants would not be making an appearance today.
Today, she was feeling much more “on.” A sharp sense of purpose put an extra bounce in her step. She got herself showered, paying particular attention to the finer points of her personal hygiene routine that had slipped over the last little while. Her sunny curls were straightened with a flat iron so that they fell in long, silky tresses. To celebrate the burst of fall warmth, she dressed in black leggings and a light-weight sweater dress in baby pink. Simple ballerina flats completed the ensemble.
With a delicate gold charm bracelet on her wrist and fresh-faced makeup lightly applied, she hurried down to the kitchen, where Lamb was enjoying an early cup of tea.
He straightened on his stool, surprised to see her. “I wasn’t expecting you this early, my dear.”
“And why should you?” She rounded the table and hugged him affectionately from behind. “You stay there, I’ll cook breakfast this morning.”
“But it’s no’ your turn,” he objected.
“That’s okay, I want to. Besides, I might not be back in time for supper tonight.”
“Yes, well, you take care on those roads down to Glasgow. And mind you call if you’re going to be later than nine. Give an old man some peace of mind that you’re no’ in any kind of trouble.”
“I’ll be fine, you worry wart,” she chastised.
“Promise me, though.”
“I promise, so long as you promise not to wait up for me.”
“All right, I promise.”
He was lying, of course. They both knew it.
After a breakfast of bacon and scrambled eggs, Emmie headed out to her car. The Highlander followed her. He’d been with her since she opened her eyes, and he was just as excited as she was.
Or perhaps he was feeding off her excitement… or perhaps his excitement was intensifying hers…
Either way, it didn’t matter. They were both in a good mood.
Once again, though, as she left the grounds of Tullybrae, his presence pulled away from her. She tried to ignore it, to lose herself in the scenery. But the absence of the Highlander made her feel disconcertingly alone. Exposed. Abandoned.
Abandoned?
She didn’t remember feeling abandoned since she was a little girl, since coming to live with the Tunstalls. They’d given her every material thing she ever wanted, and as much love as they had to give. And it had never been enough because all she wanted was her mother. But her mother hadn’t wanted her. Not enough to stay alive, anyway.
More feelings rising which she thought were well and truly buried. She’d convinced herself that the problem had been her mother’s, not hers. And while the child Emmie had been longed for her mother, and blamed her, and cast a whole host of other emotions upon her, Emmie the grown woman had been sure that abandonment long ago ceased to be one of them.
Now, here it was once more, rearing its ugly, cold head and throwing her back there all over again. And it was the Highlander who brought it about.
As much as she wanted to, though, she couldn’t be angry with him for it. She did try, too. As she drove, she clutched the steering wheel and worked at seething over what he was doing to her. But the seething simply didn’t take; she soon gave up. It was odd, but she had the sense that he knew how she felt. Even though he wasn’t with her just then, she could still identify that they shared the knowledge of what it was to be abandoned.
Her face must have betrayed her thoughts, because when she stopped for coffee and a nibble at a small restaurant outside of Crieff, the heavyset, elderly waitress gave her a motherly pat on the arm.
“You look like you have the weight of the world on your shoulders, poppet,” she said as she approached Emmie’s table.
It surprised Emmie to hear. Was she that transparent?
“Oh, yeah. Well, nothing a coffee and a muffin won’t fix,” she answered lightly.
“We do have a nice selection of muffins,” the woman offered. “Some double chocolate and some blueberry. But if I’m guessing right, you look like you might enjoy one of our burnt butterscotch.”
“Mmmm, burnt butterscotch. I’ll try one of those.”
Pleased by her own intuition, the woman bustled to the counter. She was soon back with the muffin, coffee, and an extra plate.
“Raspberry butter drop scones. On the house, poppet. Sweeties and cakes never make anything better, but they sure do help.”
A half hour later, Emmie was on the road again. Half her muffin was wrapped to go, and the woman had given her a fresh takeaway cup of coffee. She arrived in Glasgow shortly before one in the afternoon, and located the university with little trouble.
Thanks to the helpful young man at the information desk, she found Dr. Paul Rotenfeld’s office in building D15 off a street called University Gardens. A tall, lanky man with salt-and-pepper hair slicked stylishly to the side, he looked like he’d just returned from his committee meeting. He stood at his desk, sorting through a stack of papers. A
vibrant, sky blue dress shirt was open at the neck and tucked into dark, slim-cut jeans. Trendy, narrow-toed oxfords of burnt orange leather made a prominent accent to his ensemble. The man was the polar opposite of Iain Northcott.
“Dr. Rotenfeld?” she inquired politely, tapping on the door frame.
He looked up. His distracted expression broke to a pleasant, attractive smile. “Paul, please. You must be Emmie.” He abandoned his stack of papers and stepped towards her, hand outstretched. His grip was firm when she extended her own hand, and he spoke with an American, slightly New Jerseyish accent. “Please, won’t you come in and have a seat?”
She followed him into the office and took the grey padded armchair he offered.
“I must admit, when I saw that you were curator, I wasn’t expecting someone so young.”
“It’s an incentive title,” she dismissed.
“That’s the best kind. Means you know something about ambition. You look like you know what you want, and aren’t afraid of a little hard work to get it.”
“Thank you.” Emmie blushed at his praise.
“So, Emmie. What exactly are you looking for? You wrote in your email that you’d like to know a little bit more about the clans in the Highlands—stuff that you can’t find on Wikipedia.” He winked knowingly.
“Yes, I Wikied already,” she grinned sheepishly. “Never enough detail, no matter how far down those hyperlinks you drill.”
“Iain was right to refer you to me. You’d be hard-pressed to find anyone that knows more about the Highland clans than I do—just don’t tell my colleagues that.”
“My lips are sealed.”
“Good, good. Swollen egos around here. Is there anything in particular you’d like to know more about, or is it just a general inquiry?”
She tipped her head back and forth. “Yes, and no. I’m not sure how to put this… would it make sense if I said I have a vague idea about something specific?”
“Don’t we all? I’d say that’s the bane of our existence.”
“I have a starting point, at least. So, apparently, there was a murder, or murders, on the estate where Tullybrae is, in the Cairngorms.”
“Another clan murder?” he groaned in jest.
“I know. Big surprise, right? Anyway, a kilt pin was unearthed by the excavators that are working there. A rather elaborate one, actually, and the insignia on it was identified as MacDonald. So of course I went online to see what I could find. There’s lots about the legendary hatred between the MacDonalds and the Campbells, but unfortunately there’s nothing specific enough to link it to murders on Tullybrae land.”
“Was Tullybrae around at the time of these alleged murders?”
“I don’t know for sure, but the story goes that the murders predate the house.”
Paul templed his fingers under his chin and crossed an ankle over one knee. “It’s not a lot to go on, but bigger discoveries have been made on less.”
Emmie shrugged. “Let’s just say I won’t be holding my breath. I simply want to start rooting and see what I come up with.”
He tilted his head to the side, smiling thoughtfully. “You remind me of Iain. He gets curious about things and can’t let them go. Even though he knows it will in all likelihood lead to dead ends and a lot of frustration.”
“It’s funny you mention that. We had a conversation about dead ends when I attended a party of his recently. That’s where I met him.”
“And hopefully was the start of a long and fruitful acquaintanceship. He’s a good guy. A great friend.” Paul slapped his palms on his thighs. “Well, Emmie, I do think I can help you. But I’d much rather do it somewhere else than this stuffy old office. How about we go out for a bit to eat and we can talk more? You hungry?”
She wasn’t. Not in the least. But the prospect of sitting in a pub or a restaurant instead of a college office was far more appealing.
“I could eat,” she evaded.
“Excellent! Let me just send an email off to the wife that she’ll have to pick up the rug rat, and we’ll be off.”
“Aw, you have a wee one?”
“A daughter,” he beamed, and passed her a framed photograph which he took from the shelf above his desk. “This is them.”
Emmie took the pewter frame and looked at the faces as Paul typed. A beautiful, statuesque woman with rich, chocolate skin smiled out at her. In her arms was an adorable little girl who looked to be about two years old. She smiled shyly at the camera in the way children do. Her skin was lighter than her mother’s, the colour of milky coffee, and she had clear, hazel eyes like her father.
A pang of jealously stirred at the sight of this child. She was clearly loved. Unconditionally. By both her parents. She didn’t know how lucky she was.
Emmie set the photograph on the edge of the desk. “They’re gorgeous.”
“I think so. But of course, I’m biased.”
With an exaggerated click of his index finger on the mouse, he announced, “And that’s that.”
He stood, and ushered Emmie out of the office. With a quick pause for an introduction to the head of the department as they passed on their way out, Emmie and Paul were off at a brisk walk down University Gardens.
“Warm today, isn’t it?” he noted when they reached a small, unassuming pub a block away.
Being so close to the university, Emmie expected a dingy college bar. So she was pleased when Paul pulled open the heavy door to find a neat, if slightly smoky, traditional pub. Complete with brass tops and oak. It was also, thankfully, empty. Devoid of rowdy college students.
“Why don’t we take that seat up there?” he suggested. He pointed to the back of the pub, where a row of tall tables were lined on a narrow, raised strip.
Not long after they’d seated themselves, the bartender came out from behind the bar to take their order.
“Good to see you again, Paul lad,” the man said.
Paul looked up at the tall, thick man with an unruly mop of grey hair. “And you, Neil. How’s Suze liking her time off?”
“She’s bored as shite. Driving me radge in the process. Can’t wait until the woman’s off bed rest.”
“I’ll bet. Sorry to hear. I’ll have the pork pastie special.”
“And for you, love?”
“Um,” Emmie scanned the leather-bound menu quickly. “May I please have the breaded shrimp bites and a pint of bitter?”
Paul raised an eyebrow approvingly. “Add a pint of bitter to my order, too, Neil.”
The barman bobbed his large head once, and left to place their order.
“His wife, Suzanne, has just had an operation,” Paul explained when he was out of earshot. “Nothing major, but she’s on bed rest for six weeks. The pair of them don’t get along at the best of times, so I can only imagine how they’re both feeling now.”
“Ah.”
“So, back to you. You said Tullybrae is in the Cairngorms?”
“It is. About a half hour south-east of Aviemore.”
“Lovely area. I’m always in awe of those hills every time I’m through there. And I’ve lived in Scotland for over ten years now.”
“It is amazing,” she agreed. “I’m in awe every time I drive through there, too—well, the few times I’ve driven around, anyway. Those rock outlines that you can sometimes see in the open spaces are fascinating. They’re just out there in the middle of nowhere.”
“The foundations of centuries’ old houses and dwellings.”
“They really are houses, huh?”
“They certainly are—cheers, mate,” he said to the bartender when their drinks were brought. “Yes, there would have been people all throughout these hills, living their lives over the centuries. They probably would have been Camerons in your area of the Cairngorms. Maybe Campbells, possibly MacDonalds. But more likely Camerons.”
“Can you tell me more about the feud between the Campbells and the MacDonalds?”
“Feud is putting it lightly.” Paul took a pull of his
bitter.
“They didn’t play nice in the sandbox?”
He barked a laugh. “They destroyed the sandbox.”
“What was the feud about? I mean, the condensed version. Not Wikipedia condensed, but the historian’s condensed.”
“Historian’s condensed.” Paul thought. “I suppose you’d have to start in the times of Comyn and Bruce. From that day and generally forevermore, the MacDonalds were always seeming to throw their lot in with the reigning king’s opposition, while the Campbells sided with whichever king was on the throne.”
“That’ll do it.”
“Indeed. See, the MacDonalds dreamed of an independent Highland kingdom, and despised having to bow to the lowland Scots. Unfortunately, with being on top of each other in terms of territory, the years and the centuries brought lots of grievous offenses, the worst of which was probably the Massacre of Glen Coe.”
He paused in his story, pleased by Emmie’s rapt attention.
“You know, I usually bore people stiff when I start rattling on about clan history. I’m not used to people looking at me like I’m a rock star when I’m talking—and that includes my undergrad classes.”
“Sorry,” Emmie laughed lightly. “I hadn’t realized I was gawking. I get caught up in history.”
“A girl after my own heart—just teasing. But there are so many good stories about the Campbell-MacDonald feud. I’d talk your ear off if I tried to tell you all of them.”
“I don’t mind,” she assured him. “Give me one. Your best one.”
“My best one, eh?” Paul leaned back in his chair. “What about the Piper of Duntrune? Have you heard that one?”
“No.”
“There are a few versions of this story, but here’s the one I like best.” He took another pull of his bitter.
“The legend goes that back in the first half of the seventeenth century, the Campbells and the MacDonalds were fighting over Duntrune Castle, which is on the north shores of Loch Crinan in Argyll. It was a defensive fortress that overlooked the loch, so in the wars of the clans it was strategically desirable. It changed hands back and forth over the centuries, but at the time we’re speaking of, it was held by the Campbells. Of course, the MacDonalds mounted a savage attack and drove them out, killing many who fought to defend it. With the castle secure, the MacDonald chief, Sir Alistar MacDonald—also known as Colkitto—sailed away to continue his campaign. He left behind a small force to hold Duntrune, including his loyal piper.”
The Ghosts of Tullybrae House Page 13