“No!” Felicity repeated, this time quick and adamant. “I don’t want to go there. What about going to Pip Craven’s?”
“Yes!” Bonnie said. “Maybe he’s doing something strange again!”
Without waiting for Annabelle’s approval, the two girls darted off to the left toward the sea, pulling at her arms as if she were merely a delivery they had to make.
CHAPTER SEVEN
AS THEY RAN, marched, and occasionally rested under the cloud dappled sky, the girls threw numerous questions at Annabelle about the lives of the boys and girls on the south coast of England. Up and down the hills they went interrogating Annabelle before finally, and much to her relief, they reached the crumbling ruins of an old castle not far from which sat a large two-story house.
“Over there!” Felicity said.
Annabelle’s gaze sauntered across the retired rocker’s home that stood at the bottom of a dip. The front of the dark grey building was punctuated by four small windows and a peeling black painted door. On either end, two round turrets jutted out and rose above the main body of the house. Annabelle could see at least one more turret at the back. Black guttering ran underneath the uneven slate roof that, like the rest of the house, was in dire need of maintenance. A broken down pipe ended three feet from the ground. Next to the house were the remains of an outbuilding, broken down and left in ruins. A thick, dangerous jungle of tall thistles had taken over the garden. The property was small compared to the lavish homes of retired entertainers that Annabelle had seen in glossy magazine spreads, but the unkempt surroundings notwithstanding, she thought it possessed a certain gothic charm. It had potential, as a realtor might say.
“Shhhh!” Bonnie said quickly, ducking behind the waist-high remains of a wall. “Something’s moving!”
Felicity and Annabelle followed Bonnie’s lead and threw themselves behind the cover of the wall, giggling. For a brief second, Annabelle felt guilty for behaving like a seven year old, but she soon got over it.
The three of them slowly poked their heads above the top of the wall to peer in the direction Bonnie pointed. Annabelle recognized him immediately. About ten yards from the house, Pip Craven was engaged in some heavy digging. Annabelle studied the man intently. He still had the long, jet-black hair she remembered from the music magazines she had read as a youth, and she thought she could see a long silver earring dangling from one ear. The dark cloaks and skull necklaces, though, had been replaced by an entirely mundane set of denim jeans and a farmer’s coat. It was also immediately apparent that the once-wiry frame of the singer had filled-out in the years since she had last seen him perform on a late night TV music show.
“What’s he doing?” Felicity asked in a whisper.
“He’s digging for treasure!” Bonnie hissed back, excitedly.
“Oh hush!” Annabelle admonished. “He’s probably just gardening.”
“Maybe he’s done something terrible and he’s hiding the evidence,” Felicity said.
“Come on now, girls. Don’t be—“
“Maybe he’s going to bury somebody alive!” Bonnie could hardly keep still, wriggling and opening her eyes wide.
“Oh, now really!” Annabelle said. The girls clutched at her. “I’m sure that—“
“He’s going to put us in there if he sees us!”
“No, he’s not,” Annabelle began, “He’s—”
Suddenly, overwhelmed by the frightfulness of the thoughts shooting around their imaginations, the two girls looked over at each other and opened their mouths wide as they screamed like banshees at the tops of their voices. They bolted up the hill away from the house. Pip Craven looked up mildly and watched the girls run. Her cover broken, Annabelle, startled and confused, stood up nervously. She watched the two sprinting girls ascend the hill, then turned to look at Pip Craven who was eyeing her curiously.
Finding herself stuck awkwardly between the shrieking young girls and a confused, former rock star, Annabelle could think of nothing else to do but pat her clothes down, smile weakly, and offer a feeble wave before turning to run at full tilt after her screeching companions.
At the top of the hill, the girls rounded a tree and were already giggling and clutching each other, thrilled by the danger and excitement of their narrow escape. Annabelle, on the other hand, having run up the steep slope as fast as she could, bent over double, hands-on-knees, as soon as she reached them.
“That was… not very… nice…” she said, gasping to catch her breath. “I’m sure… he’s a… very nice man…”
The girls paid absolutely no attention to what she was saying and immediately Annabelle found her hands grabbed once again. Her head flung back as her body was pulled forward and down the other side of the hill, the girls squealing their excitement as Annabelle tried to keep up.
Eventually, they fell into an easy stroll, and the girls steered Annabelle, who was feeling quite exhausted by all the drama, into the only village on the island. It was tiny. It sat at the intersection of two roads bisecting the island. It contained all the shops, many of the eating and drinking establishments, and most of the businesses that Blodraigh had to offer. About ten outfits in all. As they walked along, Annabelle was greeted warmly on all sides by villagers who recognized her from her earlier visits to the island.
“I think we should start heading back, ladies,” said Annabelle, as they neared the pub at the very edge of the village. “We’ll miss our supper if we don’t.”
The girls agreed. Both of them, tired and not a little bedraggled after their adventures, were hungry. Just as they were about to the turn the corner at the pub and begin the walk back home, however, they heard the creak of the pub’s heavy door, and saw a tall man with sandy-blonde hair that stuck up at all angles barrel through it into the street. With the swaying, uncoordinated movements of a man who’d spent far too long in the darkness of a bar, he pulled an old, black bicycle from where it leaned against the wall. He mounted it clumsily. Wobbling, he began pedaling furiously back up the cobbled street, bouncing uncomfortably in his seat.
The three of them stared as he passed, but before the girls could exchange big-eyed looks, and exaggerated shoulder shrugs, the door to the pub was pushed open noisily once again. This time Annabelle recognized the two figures who emerged: Mitch and Patti Gilbert, the Americans from the ferry. They stepped out into the road so quickly that they didn’t see the Vicar. They scanned their surroundings, frowning, throwing their arms out to the side in exasperation.
“Hello!” Annabelle called to the American couple.
“Oh, hey there!” Mitch said, flustered and out of breath. They walked over.
“Good to see you again, Annabelle!” Patti said warmly.
“Did you see a guy about this tall,” Mitch said quickly, holding his hand up to his shoulder, “blonde hair, stubble?”
“Yes!” Bonnie said, eager to help. “He went that way.” She pointed up the road that led away from the village center.
“Thanks,” Mitch said, looking over their heads in the direction of her outstretched arm.
“I don’t think you’ll catch him, however,” Annabelle said quickly. “He was on a bike. He looked rather precarious, but there’s nothing much around here to get in his way as long as he can stay upright. He’ll be well away by now.”
“Damnit!” Mitch said.
“Mitch!” Patti said in a harsh whisper. “Language!”
“Oh, sorry ma’am,” he apologized to Annabelle.
Annabelle smiled. “It’s alright. So who is he? The man on the bike.”
“Robert Kilbairn,” Mitch said, defeated, “the man we’re here to see. The Laird of Clannan Castle. We think.”
“Ah,” Annabelle said, before frowning. “You’re not sure, though? Why don’t you ask in the pub?”
“We did,” Patti said, “but nobody seems to want to say too much. We were asking around when, all of a sudden, that guy jumped up and ran out. It was very strange.”
“I’m sure
that’s him,” Mitch said, more to his wife than to Annabelle. “He fits the description perfectly. And the guy at the post office told us we’d find him in the pub.”
“It’s all so not what I expected!” Patti sighed.
“Why not just go to the castle?” Annabelle asked.
“We were there all goddamned – sorry – we were there all day yesterday. The gate was locked, and the number we had for the castle isn’t in service anymore.”
Annabelle offered the couple a sympathetic look, and felt sorry that she couldn’t give them any of the information they were so dearly craving.
“I’m sure it’s just a mix-up. Are you staying on the island?”
“Oh yeah,” Mitch said, with conviction, “I’m not leaving until I set foot on Clannan soil! My soil!”
“Well, I’m sure you will,” Annabelle said. “And I hope I get to see you again once you do.
Annabelle watched them for a little while as the couple, deep in conversation, walked off in the direction the man on the bike had taken. She turned back to the girls.
“Shall we go to the pub?” Bonnie asked, eagerly.
“Bonnie!” Annabelle answered, shocked at such a precocious suggestion. “You’re not allowed in pubs, are you? What on earth would you go there for?”
“To see Harry!” Bonnie responded quickly, as if the answer were obvious.
Annabelle frowned a little in confusion.
“The landlord, silly!” Bonnie said, smiling once again. “Remember Daddy said Harry was looking forward to seeing you.”
“Oh yes. I’ve already met him, actually.”
“Everybody knows Harry,” Bonnie said. “He’s so funny! And when we come to the pub, he always has some sweets for us – but only if we promise him we’ve had our dinner. Sometimes he gets his bagpipes out and plays for a bit, but we don’t ask him to because he makes an awful racket.” The girls looked at each other and giggled again.
“Hmm,” Annabelle mused. “Well, I’m sure he’s a fun person, but I don’t think we have the time to see him now. We’re already going to be late for dinner, and you girls don’t want to disappoint Mrs. Cavendish, do you?”
The girls responded by grabbing Annabelle’s hands once again and pulling her along. They skipped merrily in the direction of home, the prospect of a hearty dinner spurring them on. Annabelle had to trot to keep up.
CHAPTER EIGHT
BY THE TIME Annabelle, Bonnie, and Felicity got back to the house, the smell of beef stew was enough to make them scramble to get their coats and boots off and rush to seat themselves at the table.
“Welcome back, girls. Good afternoon?” Roger greeted them.
“Brilliant,” said Bonnie.
“Exciting,” said Felicity.
“Exhausting,” said Annabelle, patting down her hair and flopping onto a chair at the table.
“Excellent. And you’re just in time for dinner. Mrs. C. is joining us,” Roger added.
“Hello, Mrs. C.,” Annabelle said as Roger’s nanny-cum-cook-cum-housekeeper walked into the kitchen. Annabelle was fond of Mrs. Cavendish, who had been a lifesaver for Roger after his wife died. She was a hot dab in the baking department too.
“Och, there you are,” Mrs. Cavendish said. “It’s lovely to see you again, Annabelle. Hasn’t the wee one grown?”
“She certainly has, Mrs. C,” Annabelle replied. “I would have hardly recognized Bonnie here. Three inches. Three! That must be some kind of record.”
“Well, you all sit down now. You must be famished. I’ve made your favorite for afters, dearie.” She looked at Annabelle and said, “Whisky marmalade pudding.”
Annabelle swooned. “Mrs. C, you are simply too kind.”
Mrs. Cavendish served the meal from a large ceramic two-toned brown casserole dish, ladling the stew into matching bowls and handing them to Bonnie who passed them around the table. Annabelle and the two girls devoured their meal hungrily and in silence, while Roger and Mrs. Cavendish ate slower, exchanging amused glances. It was only after a vigorous and intense bout of eating, the clatter of forks and spoons ringing out like church bells, that everyone relaxed, and replete with food, began to chatter as they ate. Bonnie recounted where they had been. Felicity told of their flight from Pip Craven’s. And Annabelle informed Roger of the peculiar exchange she had had with the American tourists.
“I’m not surprised the people in the pub couldn’t help them,” Roger said, sitting back and patting his belly contentedly, “they probably know as little about Robert Kilbairn as those tourists. He keeps himself to himself.”
“Do you think he might have swindled them regarding the lairdship?”
“I honestly don’t know. But I will say that it’s not uncommon to see him staggering out of the pub half-drunk or completely drunk in a hurry to get somewhere else.”
“Is everyone finished?” Mrs. Cavendish said, standing up and beginning to stack the plates.
“Oh, let me help you,” Annabelle said, starting out of her chair.
“Wheesht, sit down, lassie!” Mrs. Cavendish said. “You’ve only got one job to do now, and that’s to try my pudding.”
Annabelle settled back in her chair, unable to even pretend she wanted to do anything but oblige. Mrs. Cavendish cut everyone a slice, poured a generous dollop of custard over each one, and the next round of eating resumed. Once again, they were silent except for the murmurs of approval that were pronounced as the spongy, sticky dessert hit the spot. Annabelle could barely stop eating long enough to give Mrs. Cavendish her compliments. It was hardly necessary, however. Mrs. Cavendish watched as they consumed her dish with relish, their concentration and empty plates compliment enough.
Afterward, satisfied, warm, and comfortable, they could do nothing more with themselves but smile. Noticing the glazed look that had crept into Felicity’s formerly sparkling eyes, Roger pushed his chair out and stood up slowly, stretching.
“I think it’s time I drove you home, Felicity. Why don’t you go and get ready?”
“Can I come?” Bonnie said.
“Of course. Go put your coat on too,” Roger replied.
When the three of them had left, Mrs. Cavendish cleared the table. Annabelle stood lazily and helped her.
“Shall I put the kettle on?” Mrs. Cavendish asked.
She was a short woman with plump cheeks and glinting green eyes. Her round glasses and bushy, grey hair that was pinned in a tight bun lent her a friendly presence and a sense of practicality and shrewdness, much like a well-loved school librarian. With her long skirts, buttoned-up thickly knitted cardigan, and her functional, yet rather fetching boots, she was the very image of cuddliness and comfort, although when pressed into action, her stout arms and legs possessed the physical strength and toughness typical of women on the islands.
“No, thank you,” Annabelle replied, “I’m one deep breath away from exploding!”
Mrs. Cavendish chuckled. “You learn to eat well when it gets as cold as it does up here,” she said. “It’s certainly good to have you here. Bonnie has been looking forward to your visit for weeks.”
“As have I,” Annabelle said, as she wet a cloth to wipe the now-bare table. “It’s good to see she has such a sweet friend. Felicity seems like a lovely young girl.”
“Felicity? Yes, she’s almost like part of the family now,” Mrs. Cavendish said, turning on the faucet and pushing up her sleeves. “Such a shame.”
“A shame?” Annabelle said, as she took a tea cloth and stood ready to dry the dishes.
“Aye. Her parents,” the short woman replied, beginning to scrub the casserole dish vigorously.
“What about them?”
“They died in a helicopter crash a couple of years ago.”
“Oh dear. I think Roger did mention something about it.”
“Bad weather,” Mrs. Cavendish said, handing a wet plate to Annabelle, “it happens too often. We get dreadful storms up here. They can keep the flights grounded and the boats moored for wee
ks at a time. But the worst thing is that they come in quickly and without warning. If you’re caught up in one of them while you’re in the air, the only thing you can really do is look for a landing spot and pray you get down safely.”
“That’s dreadful.”
“It is,” sighed Mrs. Cavendish. “Felicity’s life will be very different now.” She pursed her lips. “Her mother was incredibly beautiful – Oh, you should have seen her. She could have been one of those models you see in the magazines.”
“Felicity is rather pretty herself.”
“She’s the spitting image of her mother. Her father was wealthy. They owned one of the biggest properties on the island, as well as one in Edinburgh, and one in London. Then all of a sudden, poof, – gone! And nobody but her mother’s sister to take care of her in that tiny little house among the crofter’s cottages.”
The way that Mrs. Cavendish said “crofter’s cottages” told Annabelle that the row of houses near the church was not considered the most desirable part of the island. The neglected appearance of Felicity’s home made sense now.
“But what happened to all that wealth? The houses? Surely Felicity should have inherited it?”
“Och,” Mrs. Cavendish grunted, “I don’t know, dearie. There are rumors and gossip that’ll tell you anything you want to know, but I don’t believe any of it unless I see it for myself.”
“Hmm,” Annabelle murmured, as she focused on drying the dishes. She picked up one of the brown bowls and wiped the inside. She remembered Felicity’s strange request to speak to her after the service tomorrow, and wondered what on earth it could be about. It was an odd request from a girl so young and delivered so preternaturally. She turned the bowl over and polished the bottom, seeking out a dry corner of her tea towel to do so. Her thoughts turned to the American couple, and their befuddled quest to find their promised land. And then Pip Craven, digging a nondescript piece of ground beside his house for no discernible purpose whatsoever.
Horror in the Highlands Page 4