by Sally Graham
There had been an announcement after the service that refreshments would be available in the local hotel, but Carrie knew that she wouldn’t stay. There was no one she recognised in the congregation, and she couldn’t be too late returning to London. She would need to answer emails on the train and she wanted to look into the office quickly and devote time to the notes on the presentation she had missed.
She turned around and picked her way through the cemetery across the damp grass until she reached the gravel path that led to the gate.
Carrie glanced at her watch. She hadn’t been sure what time the service would end, and she fumbled in her bag for the card the cab driver had given her so she could get back to the station.
“Excuse me? Miss Wyatt?”
Carrie turned at the unfamiliar voice. She had noticed the kindly looking man facing her during the committal standing close to the grave. He had gazed solemnly at her when Hazel’s coffin was lowered into the grave. She felt he had been looking at her intently, or was it her imagination?
“Yes? I’m sorry?”
“My apologies, Miss Wyatt. I’m David Trelawney, your godmother’s lawyer.” He looked over her shoulder as if taking one last look at the churchyard before turning to her again. “I wonder if I could have a brief word?” He stepped forward and shook her hand.
“I don’t quite understand?”
“No, no, nothing serious,” he said in a quiet, trustworthy voice, and coughed slightly. “It’s just that I gather you have travelled some way, and it would be good to talk privately. My car is just across the road, and I can give you a lift to your train?” His voice was kind, solicitous, and Carrie had the odd sensation that though they had only just met, the lawyer knew her very well.
A few moments later Carrie was sitting beside the bespectacled lawyer in his car. He took a manilla envelope out of his briefcase.
“Your godmother was very fond of you, Miss Wyatt.”
“Just call me Carrie, please, everyone does.”
He looked at her kindly, and nodded. “Of course. As I said, Mrs Buchanan felt very protective towards you after your mother died - they were close friends, you know?”
“Yes - they met when their husbands were serving in India, before the second world war.”
“Exactly, and I believe they were bridesmaids at each other’s wedding.” He opened the envelope and drew out some typewritten sheets. “This is your godmother’s will. It’s all in order and it is quite simple.” He turned to her. “In brief, Carrie, you are the sole beneficiary. She left everything to you.”
Carrie looked at him in amazement. “That can’t be right, surely? I - I don’t understand. I thought there were relatives?”
The lawyer sighed. “There were other relatives, you’re right.” He cleared his throat again, “But, you are the sole surviving beneficiary.” He coughed several times. “Please - I don’t have a cold. Just asthma. I - I don’t think she thought very highly of some of them. But to return to the terms of her bequest. Much of the liquid assets were, I’m afraid, absorbed by her nursing care in the last period of her life. But there is a small sum - around ninety thousand pounds, and shares in utility firms and other blue chip companies. Your godmother was a shrewd investor, I should add, even in these turbulent market conditions.”
“I had no idea that she was well off - she lived quite frugally.”
“Indeed - but there is one further matter. Mrs Buchanan also bequeathed to you a property. Quite a large house, actually. I’m referring to - ”
“Dundrannan?” Carrie gasped.
“Exactly. Dundrannan House, and the entire estate. It’s in Scotland. In Galloway - that’s the south-west, I believe. Not far from Carlisle.”
“Yes - yes, I haven’t been there since I was a child. But this is all so unexpected, Mr.Trelawney. I mean, what do I do? I’m living in London. That’s where I work. I don’t think I’ll have much time to deal with a derelict house and grounds that are past their sell-by date.”
The lawyer looked at her and slid the papers back into the envelope. “I can only advise, Carrie. We will need to meet in my office to tidy up the paperwork. Understandably, you will probably want to try and sell the house. It’s not the best time, of course, to offer a smallish estate given the present market. And the farmland there is mainly sheep, I believe.” He paused. “I could help locate some agents you could use, should you wish to sell?”
Carrie paused. “I just can’t take all of this in. Perhaps I can call you in a few day’s time?”
“Of course, of course. Foolish of me to have imagined otherwise. Here is my card and contact details. I shall need some information from you, of course, so that monies can be transferred and details sorted once the will is proved.” He glanced at his watch. “Shall I drive you to the station?”
Carrie nodded. “That would be very kind, thank you.”
The lawyer drove cautiously though the market town traffic and a quarter of an hour later Carrie managed to catch a London train. As the Wiltshire fields rolled by she tried to recall her memories of Dundrannan House.
Grey stone. Lowland Balmoral, she thought, remembering the mania Scots landowners had for mimicking Queen Victoria’s architecture with battlements and turrets. White wooden gates and a long driveway past rhododendrons. And it had a funny smell. She smiled to herself. Children notice dusty, mothy smells, she thought.
It was hard to believe that she was, apparently, the new owner, and her mind whirled at the implications. There was no way that she was going to leave London. She was on track to make partnership, and there was the clear indication that she would be asked to head the office in Beijing.
She mused that she might have to carve two days out of the office to at least visit the crumbing pile before reaching a definite conclusion. But there was no question that she had time to be interested in a decaying asset in south-west Scotland.
In any event, her work was too important for her to spend any time on the distraction she had just been landed with. She doubted if the house would be worth more than a few hundred thousand anyway - minuscule compared to the bonus that was due to her.
Chapter 5
Blake heard the harsh cries of the buzzards overhead before she could see them. She squinted into the cold blue sky, raising her arm to shield her eyes from the sunlight, and then she picked out two dark silhouettes wheeling high above the glen.
Her heart sank. Their cries sounded gloating as she trudged through the rough short grass and scrubby heather growing in clumps, avoiding the slippery outcrops of grey rock covered with silver-green lichen. Then she reached the dip protected by a few stunted trees where the sheep had sheltered overnight from the wind.
But one of them - a lamb - hadn’t made it through the dark.
From a distance the still, motionless bundle of white wool could have meant that the lamb was sleeping, gaining warmth from the sun. But as Blake drew near she immediately saw the tell-tale crimson stain where the fox had torn the animal’s throat out.
Her clear, piping whistle, in short bursts, alerted Romy to hurtle to the far side of the flock. The black and white sheep dog began to pack the sheep into a small tight group so Blake could see if any other animals had been slaughtered.
The wind must have changed direction overnight, or she might have heard the anxious bleating from the terrified sheep when they sensed the predator slinking towards them. Not that the fox hunted for food. Blake had seen too many animals butchered by foxes not to know that they wreaked carnage for the simple enjoyment of killing: the scent of weakness, the unequal chase, the frantic tussle before the victim collapsed, the taste of warm blood, and then on to the next victim.
But this time it seemed the fox had been interrupted. It was seldom that only one animal was slaughtered. Perhaps the rest of the flock had made so much noise it realised that they might attract human help; perhaps he had strayed on to turf not his and attracted the attention of a larger rival.
But the deed was don
e. Blake gently turned the carcass over with her foot; the dead lamb’s fleece was wet with dew, the blood beginning to congeal.
Blake whistled to Romy again to move the other sheep down the glen to lower ground, away from the tree line which harboured the foxes. She had learned to be unsentimental about her work. Growing up on a sheep ranch in New Zealand had made her well aware of the futility of projecting human feelings onto the inevitable cycle of animal life and death.
She looked into the sky again and knew that as soon as she had gathered the flock and moved them, the buzzards would descend again to devour the carcass, if they weren’t interrupted by the eagle she had seen on Ben Ruachan that was strong enough to carry away what was left, to its chicks in its eyrie.
One less lamb; one less sheep to sell at market later in the year; one less contribution to Dundrannan House’s precarious finances.
The flock of sheep were willing to obey Romy’s tireless chivvying, and began to hurry in front of her, the laggards receiving a nip on their ankles from the sheepdog if they made the mistake of stopping to chew on the sparse hillside grass.
Blake stopped and leaned on her shepherd’s crook, the curved bone handle invaluable for hooking foolish sheep who got stuck in fences or the wayward ones who stood irresolutely, challenging her to let them go their own way.
The wind was blowing in her face - the low clouds meant that there was still some rain to come - but it was still clear enough to look right across the Firth, glittering dazzlingly silver in the dawn light.
Blake loved the smell of damp earth, the scent of larch trees, and even the musty dampness of the moss covering fallen trees delighted her. She never tired of the outdoors: life was simpler here, she thought, and after half an hour’s descent, she decided that the flock was safe enough and she and Romy could make their way back to her bothy, her small house further down the glen.
She gave three short calls to Romy, who careered across the slope to her, and paused expectantly.
“Up!”
The dog leaped into the carrier box fixed to the rear of a mud spattered quad bike, and Blake gunned the engine. Shepherd and sheepdog cut across the contours of the Dundrannan estate until they joined an unmarked track, and drew into the cobbled courtyard of the shepherd’s bothy.
The original building, a primitive, single roomed stone shack that dated back hundreds of years - some said to before the 1745 rebellion - had been extended and modernised. When Romy arrived two years previously, it hadn’t taken her long to make good a small leak in the roof, paint the small kitchen and living area, and renew the cracked glass in her bedroom.
It was home. Good for one shepherd, and her sheepdog, she told herself.
Chapter 6
Carrie woke early.
For the first time in her career she felt guilty.
Guilty that she had thrown a sickie to get three days off work. Guilty that she had enjoyed the flight from London with no business meeting to await her. Guilty that she was only visiting her godmother’s bequest to her in order to offload it as quickly as possible, profit or no profit.
Carrie had hired a Porsche at the airport, navigated the tortuous exit roads around the terminal until she was heading west and before long was passing Dumfries and heading towards Castle Douglas, the romantically named town close to Dundrannan. Heavy container lorries thudded past her in the opposite direction delivering goods unloaded from the port of Stranraer.
The flattish land gradually yielded to the soft hills of south west Scotland, and Carrie felt her spirits lift as the late afternoon sun picked out the heathered skylines dotted with rocky granite outcrops, fingers of orange and red creeping over the hillsides. It was dusk by the time she checked into the small pub hotel that Josie had booked for her. It was smothered with tartan wall coverings, faux-highland nicknacks and miniature bagpipes for sale to hang in your car window, and Carrie smiled to herself as she remembered the last suite she had stayed in - a deluxe hotel in Dubai.
There were curious glances as she walked through the bar to the small restaurant, and she had the distinct feeling of being watched and assessed. Had word had got around? Did people knew who she was, and what she was doing at Dundrannan? But the meal was simple and filling, served by a pretty young waitress who Carrie tried not to notice, with Beanie’s words still fresh in her mind.
But she slept soundly and opened her eyes long past her usual waking time; nor did she have to get to the gym for a workout, or meet someone for a competitive game of early morning tennis. She showered in the tiny cubicle that was a quarter of the size of her wet room back in London and half as warm, dried herself and glanced out of the window.
Below her, Castle Douglas’s main street was deserted except for a newspaper delivery van, but it looked as though it was going to be a fine day and she grabbed a sweatshirt, pulled on her jeans and boots and went down for breakfast.
“Will you be wanting anything else, ma’am?” It was the same waitress who had served her the evening before.
“No - no! I ate far too much last night. It was fantastic.”
“Aye, well, we don’t like guests going hungry.”
"Where did the trout come from?"
"It's all local, ma'am. Caught in the river. And the meat is off the hill, raised locally."
Carrie thought of the difference between the taste of the fish she had eaten compared with some of the expensive restuarunts that were her normal haunts. Then she asked casually, “How far is Dundrannan House from here?”
“Och - it’s close enough. I’d say no more than ten or fifteen minutes. I’ll check with Donald, he’ll know for sure.” She paused. “But I dinna think there’s anyone there now, except Iza - she used to be the housekeeper and still goes up every day. But not before ten in the morning most times.”
Carrie smiled and fought an instinct to keep the girl in conversation and enjoy her soft brogue, and softer smile, but she felt she ought to check in with the office, in spite of her feigned sickness. “I tried the hotel wi-fi, but couldn’t get a signal. Is it working?”
“Oh dear - and the man’s coming later to fix it. I’m afraid you’ll be needing to find the internet cafe - it’s just down the road.” She looked at her watch. “It will be open in a quarter of an hour.” Her voice was flustered. “We’ve been meaning to get it fixed for days, I’m afraid.”
But Carrie found herself unexpectedly relaxed. For once, the lack of mobile reception didn’t seem so important.
“No problem - I’ll go for a walk, and then find the cafe.”
It took barely five minutes to walk down one side of the main street, and cross the road to retrace her steps. The wide street had once been the main route for drovers to take their cattle to market, and Carrie walked slowly past the neat whitewashed houses with their dark slate roofs: a newsagent, an art gallery with indifferent landscapes of the area, and a couple of tourist shops selling memorabilia of Robert Burns, the famous local Scots poet, until she came to the cafe that proudly boasted “Free W-Fi” on a faded sign stuck to the window.
Just as she pushed the door open her phone vibrated in her pocket.
“Have you checked your emails?’ It was rare for Josie’s messages to sound strained.
“No - I didn’t sleep well,” Carrie lied, ducking into an alley checking that there wasn’t any traffic approaching and walked into a quiet backyard. She dialled Josie’s mobile. “So what’s the problem?”
“It’s Marc. You know what he’s like. He suddenly wanted to check something with you and heard you weren’t in. Even though you were sick he still wanted to get hold of you.”
Carrie swore. “What’s up with him? Tell him I’m having open heart surgery! No, wait, Josie, I’m sorry. I’ll get back to him asap. Is there anything else I need to know? Is the world ending down there?”
She heard her assistant laugh. “Everyone’s asking why the star performer isn’t around. They think you’re leaving the bank. I’m sure Marc suspects you’re being headh
unted to another company and that you’re going to jump ship.”
“If he goes on behaving like an asshole I probably will,” Carrie replied. “Listen, Josie. There’s hardly any internet or mobile around here. I’ll check in when I can. Keep the wolves at bay and I’ll see you the day after tomorrow, ok?”
A few moments later she had ordered a coffee, found a table by the window with her back to the rest of the cafe, and logged on to her email account. As Josie had warned, there were a string of emails from Marc Delaney requesting progress reports on the pitch she was to make in San Francisco. There was no reference to her being off sick, of course, she thought to herself, but there was no point in antagonising someone known for his petty-mindedness.
Blake parked the battered Jeep provided by the estate and walked into the internet cafe carrying her laptop.
“Is the wifi working today?” she teased Bett who was loading fresh cut sandwiches on to the counter.
The owner tossed her head. “Always complaining, aren’t you Blake? Just because we were offline for the first time a fortnight ago, after the storm. But you’re in luck. So long as you buy something,” she added warningly.
“Of course, of course! The usual coffee - and a toasted scone please.” Blake looked around the cafe; a couple of hikers were examining a map, and another customer with her back to her was tapping into a laptop. Blake chose a table at the back of the cafe and logged on to her email. There was no internet connection at the bothy, and she looked forward to keeping in touch with her friends back in New Zealand.
She scanned her inbox: gossip from her brother Pete down in Christchurch; she smiled at his description of local gossip: same old, same old, she thought.
Blake was about to reply to when she saw the next messagein her inbox. It was from from Iain Kinkaid, the Dundrannan House estate manager: