Scots on the Rocks

by Mary Daheim

  Joe helped Judith get out of the skiff and onto flat granite stones set in the sandy ground. “How,” she asked pointedly, “do we get up?”

  “We follow these stones,” Joe said in a reasonable tone. “Look. There’s the lift.”

  The elevator was an iron-grilled cage on cables that seemed to disappear into the clouds. Judith stared—and shuddered. “Is it safe?”

  “Gibbs came down in it,” Joe said. “So now we go up in it.”

  Renie was balking. “No way. I’ll sleep on the beach.”

  “Move it,” ordered Bill, giving his wife a push. “Let’s go, let’s hit it, let’s boppin’, let’s—”

  “Let’s shut the hell up,” Renie snarled. But she moved.

  The foursome went inside the cage. Joe found a lever and pulled it. The conveyance rumbled and shook—and moved slowly up the face of the cliff. After about a minute, it stopped. They got out and took in the sight before them.

  “My God!” Judith cried. “It’s a castle!”

  Joe chuckled and put his arm around her shoulders. “Didn’t you want something fit for a queen?”

  3

  Good Lord!” Judith gasped. “It’s real? It’s not a mirage?”

  “It’s real.” Joe offered Judith his arm. “Shall we enter, milady?”

  “What’s it called?” Renie asked, looking suspicious.

  “Ah…” Joe hesitated. “Grimloch, Gaelic for ‘green’ or ‘grass.’”

  “No,” Renie countered. “It comes from Old English for ‘fierce.’”

  “Are we waiting for a dictionary?” Bill asked impatiently.

  Judith and Joe moved toward the arch. She noticed a raised portcullis and saw that the castle’s building stones were a weathered dark gray, covered in patches of lichen and moss. Indeed, water seemed to seep out of the masonry cracks. The outer wall was only one story, though the inner U-shaped section had at least two levels aboveground. Since the castle sat high on an outcropping of rock, there was a drawbridge and a moat. Judith noticed twin towers, the castle keep, the battlements, and a few narrow windows on the ground floor. The inner courtyard was planted with grass and shrubs.

  “There’s only a couple of lights inside,” Judith said, then peered at her watch. “It’s a little after seven. Where is everybody?”

  “I told you, we’re the only guests,” Joe replied. “Isn’t that great?”

  The social animal in Judith reacted. “I don’t know if I like that.”

  Joe ignored the comment. He had led the others to a heavy oak door on their right. The iron knocker was a boar’s head, which he banged three times.

  Judith felt chilled as the wind picked up and the damp air crept into her bones. Like Renie, she was hungry, but she was also very tired.

  Finally a rotund white-haired woman with pink cheeks opened the door. “Welcome,” she said with a tight little smile. “I’m Mrs. Gibbs, the housekeeper.”

  The housekeeper didn’t offer her hand. She merely stepped aside with what might have been a little bow and allowed the visitors to enter. A shield showing three muzzled boars’ heads on a blue background hung on the opposite wall. Above it was draped a predominantly green and blue tartan plaid. Judith could feel a draft coming from somewhere in the narrow stonewalled passageway.

  “You’re the ferryman’s wife?” Judith said, unable to restrain her friendly—and curious—nature.

  “Aye.”

  “When’s dinner served?” Renie asked.

  “Bide a bit,” Mrs. Gibbs replied.

  “Bite a bit?” Renie retorted. “I’ll bite more than that if you—”

  Bill tugged at Renie’s arm. “Mrs. Jones’s feeding time is past due.”

  “We should probably change,” Joe put in. “Perhaps you could show us to our rooms.”

  “Aye.”

  Mrs. Gibbs led them down the narrow passageway to a winding stone staircase. Judith regarded the steps with trepidation.

  “How many flights?” she asked.

  The housekeeper turned slightly. “Flights? Oh. One.”

  The stairs were narrow but spaced close together. Judith realized that when the castle had been built hundreds of years ago, people had been shorter and smaller. That, she thought, was a blessing for her hip. She also noticed that the torches in the wall sconces had been replaced by electric lights shaped like flames. Maybe the accommodations weren’t as grim as the castle’s name implied.

  Mrs. Gibbs stopped at the first door on their left. “Flynn,” she said, taking a set of keys on a metal ring from the leather belt she wore over her gray dress. Unlocking the door, she handed the key to Joe. Then she moved across the hall. Judith heard her say, “Jones.”

  The Flynns’ room was large, with a huge fireplace ready for a match to light the logs. The windows were tall and recessed, with facing stone benches. A canopied bed stood opposite the fireplace. There was a desk, a table, two armchairs, and a settee.

  Mrs. Gibbs returned. “The garderobe,” she said, pointing to another oak door.

  “That would be the…bathroom?” Judith said.

  “Aye.”

  Mrs. Gibbs left.

  “Quite a view,” Joe said, looking out the double window with its ancient glass. “That is, when we can see it. We overlook the water.”

  “How could we not?” Judith murmured. “This is a virtual island.”

  “Shall I light the fire?”

  “No. Wait until after dinner. I’m only semifreezing now.” Judith opened the garderobe door. “At least it’s a real bathroom. Toilet, sink, and tub. Even a shower, thank goodness. I won’t have to worry about getting in and out.”

  “I know,” Joe said, admiring the tapestry of a hunting scene. “I made sure of that. And,” he added, “there is an elevator. I think it’s at the far end of this passageway.”

  “Ah.” Judith was relieved. “What does a place like this cost?”

  Joe grinned. “Nothing.”

  Judith stared. “How come?”

  Joe sat in one of the armchairs. “Remember when Bill and I fished in Scotland while you and Renie stayed with your English friends?”

  “They weren’t exactly our friends,” Judith said. “The connection was my longtime pen pal from high school days.”

  “Right.” He shrugged. “Anyway, while we were fishing, we met a Scotland Yard detective, Hugh MacGowan. He still works, but plans to retire in June. Great guy, an old-fashioned cop who doesn’t trust modern technology and relies on solid detective work and his instincts. He still uses a typewriter and won’t touch a computer. He knew about Grimloch, and said the owners took in summer guests. I wrote to Hugh even before our bet to ask if we could come earlier in the year. Being a canny Scot, he coaxed them into a free stay for us.”

  “Mr. and Mrs. Gibbs own this place?”

  “No. It belongs to a whiskey distillery owner,” Joe replied. “He spends his winters in Spain, but comes here for part of the year.”

  “Good,” Judith said. “You didn’t have to plunder our savings.” A knock at the door sounded as she studied a handsome armoire.

  Gibbs arrived with their luggage. Joe proffered a tip but was refused. “Butler rings gong at eight,” Gibbs said, tipping his fisherman’s cap. “A wee dram awaits in the drawing room near where ye came in.”

  Judith hurriedly unpacked, hanging their clothes in a capacious wardrobe. Joe showered first. When Judith’s turn came, she was elated to discover that although the bathroom fixtures looked old, the plumbing was modern. She had no problem pulling the toilet’s chain as long as it flushed; she didn’t mind the outdated faucets if they poured hot and cold water. Maybe, she thought, just maybe, she might succumb to the castle’s charm. After all, the sun might come out in the morning.

  “Good grief!” she cried, coming out of the garderobe wrapped in a large white towel. “I just realized I don’t have clothes for this kind of weather! I packed for California. Or someplace like it.”

  Joe looked puzzled. “If yo
u didn’t know where we were going, why didn’t you bring clothes you could wear anyplace?”

  Judith heaved a big sigh. “Women don’t pack like that. I’ll bet Renie’s having a fit.”

  “Renie was almost over the limit on her luggage,” Joe pointed out. “I’ll bet she’s brought along some…ah…warmer stuff.”

  Judith was shoving garments this way and that in the wardrobe. “This purple and white orchid dress with the ruffled sweater,” she muttered. “That’ll have to do for tonight. I’ll call Renie and Bill to find out how soon they’ll be ready.” Judith looked around the big room. “I don’t see a phone.”

  “Um…they don’t have one in the guest rooms. No TV, either, but,” Joe went on cheerfully, “that’s because there’s so much else to do.”

  Judith started to dress. “Such as?”

  “Well…the village, shops, history. Oh—dolphins. They call them bottlenoses—or something like that.”

  “You left out fishing,” Judith said sharply.

  Joe looked surprised. “You want to fish?”

  “Never mind.” Judith applied lipstick and blush. “Let’s eat.”

  By chance, Renie and Bill were leaving their room. Renie was wearing a wool emerald green sweater with a long black wool skirt.

  “For sunny California?” Judith asked with sarcasm.

  Renie shrugged. “Once the sun goes down, it gets chilly in Southern California.”

  “Nice room,” Bill remarked as they headed for the staircase. “Too bad it’s not on the ocean. We see the village.”

  “All those bright lights,” Judith retorted. “All four of them?”

  “I built a fire,” Bill said.

  “That must be pleasant,” Judith responded. “Joe’s going to try that after dinner. If he can find the flint.”

  They started down the circular stairs. “I’m taking the elevator back up,” Judith declared.

  “What elevator?” Renie asked.

  “There’s one somewhere,” Bill said vaguely.

  They reached the ground floor. “The gong,” Judith said. “Have we heard the gong signaling dinner?”

  “It’s two minutes after eight,” Judith said, looking at her watch. “How could we hear it through these thick stone walls?”

  “Good point,” Joe said. He gestured straight ahead. “That’s where we came in. The drawing room is—” He stopped. At the far end of the passageway, a small, furtive figure skittered into view, paused, turned around, and disappeared.

  “Who was that?” Judith asked.

  “What was that?” Renie said. “A kid? The butler? Our waiter?”

  The door to the drawing room opened just before the foursome moved on. A man in proper butler’s attire beamed at them. He looked familiar to Judith.

  “Gibbs?” she said.

  “Aye,” he replied, still smiling. “The finest Scottish whiskey awaits ye. Did ye hear the gong?”

  “Aye,” Judith said. “I mean—nae. No.”

  Gibbs nodded. “I thought not. Nobody ever does.”

  The drawing room made Judith catch her breath. Some of the furnishings looked very old, perhaps from the seventeenth or even sixteenth century, but they had been lovingly restored. Brocades, silks, and velvet covered the chairs and settees. Many of the pieces were heavy and solid. The walls were paneled in oak; the ceiling was coffered. Judith immediately moved to the fireplace hearth where logs were ablaze. The chimney, she noticed, was decorated with a stag’s head, proper.

  “The family crest?” she inquired as Gibbs stood by a satinwood table where decanters, glassware, and an ice bucket had been set out.

  The ferryman cum butler smiled. “Aye, the Forbes clan. The master is a Fordyce, a sept o’ the Forbes. There’s a Castle Fordyce to the southeast, but distant kin, ye ken. Now and again, folks get confused, come to the wrong one.”

  “That’s understandable,” Judith said. “Did this Fordyce inherit Grimloch Castle?”

  “Nae.” Gibbs’s face turned stony. “The master…bought it some twenty-odd years ago.” He cleared his throat. “Will ye be drinking his special malt?”

  Judith, Joe, and Bill said yes. Renie looked apologetic. “Do you have any Canadian whiskey—or Pepsi?”

  Gibbs nodded and reached into a glass-fronted cabinet next to the table. “Set aside for our colonial cousins.”

  Judith accepted a flared crystal highball glass. “May I please have some ice?”

  “Ah.” Gibbs’s blue eyes twinkled. “Yanks. Ye must have yer ice.”

  After the drinks were poured, Gibbs announced that he’d retire to assume his other duties. “Cook serves at half past the hour,” he said.

  Judith sipped her drink and explored their surroundings. “Some of these paintings must be very valuable,” she said to Renie. “Is that Venice scene a real Canaletto?”

  “Could be,” Renie replied. “There’s a Turner Grand Canal on the other wall. The portraits are excellent, too.”

  “Mostly ancestors, I suppose.”

  “Maybe, but not all of them,” Renie said. “I spotted Mary, Queen of Scots, and her son James VI—James I, if you only count him as an English king.”

  “Fascinating.” Judith looked at Renie’s wool sweater and skirt. “You were smart to pack at least one warm outfit.”

  “Ah…well, you know…” Renie looked away, ostensibly studying an inlaid chess table on a pedestal. “The weather’s always unpredictable.”

  Judith eyed her cousin suspiciously. “But wool?”

  Still avoiding Judith’s gaze, Renie shrugged. “Wool…breathes.”

  “Only when the sheep’s wearing it,” Judith snapped. “What else did you pack that you couldn’t possibly wear in eighty-degree heat?”

  Renie grimaced. “A couple of other sweaters. Wool slacks. Hooded jacket. Furs.”

  “Furs?”

  “Faux fur,” Renie said. “Except for my raincoat’s real fox lining.”

  Judith moved closer to Renie, forcing her to back up against a mahogany settee. “You knew?”

  Renie shot a quick glance at Joe and Bill, who were standing on the hearth at the other end of the room. “Bill had to tell me. Otherwise he wouldn’t have been able to get me on the plane. But he figured that if we were headed for Scotland, I’d be willing to fly. You know I love Scottish history. And,” Renie added lamely, “Scottish weather. It’s just like home, only more so.”

  “You lied to me!” Judith exclaimed softly. “How could you?”

  “I didn’t really lie,” Renie insisted. “Bill didn’t tell me until the night before we left. Please don’t let Joe find out. Until now, I had to act clueless. Bill felt terrible about breaking his promise to Joe, but he realized I might stay home even if I had to fake my own death.”

  Judith shook her head. “I’m speechless—and flabbergasted.”

  “Hey.” Renie wagged a finger at her cousin. “This whole thing started because of your dumb bet, and the—”

  “It wasn’t dumb,” Judith interrupted. “At first, it was fifty—”

  “Never mind that part. I mean,” Renie clarified, “the vacation stakes. Why on earth would you, a Pacific Northwest native, want to seek sun? It’s unthinkable.”

  Judith considered her cousin’s words. “Honestly, I don’t know why I said Dana Point. I’d been there a couple of times with Dan, and it was very pleasant. For a few hours. Maybe when Joe asked me where I’d like to vacation, I didn’t think it through. Maybe I forgot how much I hate heat and constant sunshine.”

  “That’s okay,” Renie said in consolation. “Everybody has an occasional lapse.”

  The cousins’ attention was diverted as a tall, handsome young man in classic tweeds entered the drawing room. Joe and Bill nodded as the newcomer went directly to the cabinet where the liquor was stored. He poured out a generous measure of whiskey and rather insolently gazed from the husbands to the wives. “Do I know you?” he asked in a slightly drawling voice that sounded more English than Scots.
<
br />   Joe offered his hand. “We’re guests. Joe Flynn and Bill Jones. Our wives are over there.” He nodded in Judith and Renie’s direction.

  The young man’s handshake lacked enthusiasm. “Oh. I heard you were coming. Or did I?” He frowned. “I’m Harry Gibbs.”

  Judith and Renie had approached the young man. “I’m Mrs. Flynn, and this is Mrs. Jones.”

  Harry Gibbs’s hazel eyes darted from cousin to cousin. “Oh.” He drank his whiskey neat.

  Judith was taken aback by Harry’s ungracious manner. “Are you related to the Gibbses?” she asked to cover the awkward moment.

  “Grandson,” he said, and finished his drink in one big gulp. Harry returned to the liquor cabinet and poured a refill. Without another glance at the visitors, he sauntered out of the drawing room.

  “Not exactly the warm and fuzzy type,” Judith remarked. “I wanted to ask him who we saw at the end of the passageway. Whoever it was almost looked like a child. I should’ve asked Gibbs.”

  “Maybe,” Renie suggested, “it’s another—younger—grandson. Harry’s parents may dump their offspring on Grandpa and Grandma.”

  “Harry’s no kid,” Joe pointed out. “I’d figure him for over twenty. And he was wearing a wedding ring.”

  “He’s old enough to drink,” Renie said. “A lot, it seems.”

  “Unbalanced,” Bill declared in his most authoritative psychologist’s manner. “Something’s off.”

  Renie grinned at Judith. “Lucky us. Your husband notices details like wedding bands and mine diagnoses a nut job at fifty paces.”

  “Hmm,” Judith murmured. “Maybe there are enough people around here to keep us intrigued.”

  Joe put an arm around Judith. “People—my wife’s favorite hobby.”

  Renie gazed at the drawing room door. “Dinner—my favorite hobby. Shall we dine?”

  “I think,” Joe said, “we’ll be summoned. It’s not quite eight-thirty. Anybody want to freshen this most excellent beverage?”

  Judith and Bill requested just a jot more. Renie shook her head. “I’ve hardly touched my Canadian. Liquor is off-putting after my bout with Wild Turkey. I can barely stand the smell, let alone the taste.”