‘So the family actually believe in this curse?’
‘We’ve never really discussed it. But I’ve come to my own conclusions. Wilma believes, of course.’
‘Mrs Guthrie?’
‘Yes. But she’s the fourth generation to be in service here. The MacNab curse would have been dinned into her along with the Lord’s Prayer and the nine times table. But generally the women don’t believe in the curse. I’m sure Zelda doesn’t. But it would never affect her, you see. She can afford to be sceptical.’
‘But I thought you said it was the women who… who were affected?’
‘That’s correct. They die or they’re infertile. Or both. Like poor Coral.’ Sholto shook his head. ‘She let the curse get to her, but she was… a depressive. Well, that’s perhaps unfair. She seemed cheerful enough when Alec first introduced her to us. Meredith never took to her, but I liked her. She was a quiet girl. A bit deep, but so’s Alec. We thought she’d be good for him. But the marriage got off to a bad start. It began with a death and ended five years later with another death.’
‘So you’re saying some people think Meredith’s death – and Coral’s – are to do with the curse?’
‘You’re forgetting poor Liz. In my lifetime alone there have been three deaths attributed to the MacNab curse – two accidents and one suicide. All women, all incomers. The curse doesn’t affect the MacNabs, you see, just the unfortunate women we marry. So if you were to ask me why hasn’t Alec married again or why a damned good-looking boy like Fergus has never even been engaged, I’d have to say, I’ve no idea. Their private lives are no concern of mine. But if you asked me, do my sons believe in the curse, my answer would be, I fear they might. And who can blame them? They lost a mother and a stepmother. Alec also lost a wife.’
Birds began to chatter noisily above our heads and I looked up to see blue tits racketing around in the branches of a huge fan-trained apple tree, like tiny feathered dodgems. The sight should have lifted my spirits, but it didn’t. I took a deep breath and, keeping my voice level, said, ‘So the curse says any woman marrying into the MacNabs of Cauldstane will be infertile or die.’
‘Or both.’
‘How dreadful! Even if you don’t believe in it, it’s an awful thing to have to live with.’
‘Indeed. My father and grandfather took the precaution of marrying first cousins, thereby avoiding the curse.’
‘Because their wives had MacNab blood in their veins?’
‘Precisely. Earlier generations had married “out” and their wives had come to grief – though dying of TB or in childbirth was not uncommon. Infertility was less common and in previous centuries a few childless MacNab wives died suddenly in their late thirties. The bereft MacNab then married some girl half his age not long after, leading one to suspect the unfortunate MacNab wives might have met their maker prematurely because they’d failed to produce an heir. Either way, the curse was fulfilled. But it could have been used as a smokescreen for murder.’
‘This is all horribly fascinating, Sholto, but are you all right discussing it? You don’t find it upsetting?’
‘No, because I don’t believe in it! I’d find it easier to believe in Santa Claus than the Cauldstane Curse.’
Unconvinced, I regarded his face for a moment but saw nothing more than his usual affable expression. ‘Well, if you’re sure… Tell me then, what was the origin of the curse? Who did the cursing and when?’
He leaned back on the bench and crossed his legs. ‘It’s quite a tale. There’s no documentary evidence, I’m afraid, just generations of hearsay and a peculiar stone.’
‘What sort of stone?’
‘A boulder. Round. Flattish. The result of glacial deposition, probably.’
‘Where is it?’
Sholto gestured over his shoulder with his thumb. ‘In the river. Near the bridge.’
‘Oh no…’ The words were out before I knew I’d spoken. Sholto watched me for a moment. It was his turn to decide whether to continue.
‘You’ve heard about Coral, then?’
‘Mrs Guthrie told me. And I saw Alec on the bridge, the day I came up for my interview. I didn’t speak to him there, I just saw him from my window, throwing a rose into the river. I wondered what it meant. It was the anniversary, I gather.’
‘Yes. You wouldn’t have seen Alec at his best that day.’ Sholto swivelled round on the bench to face me and said, ‘Are you sure you want to hear all this twaddle? You’re looking a bit peaky. We could always leave it for another day. It’s a gruesome tale and my forebears don’t emerge with any credit.’
‘No, I want to hear all about it. It will probably give me nightmares, but I can’t resist a good yarn.’
‘That’s my girl,’ Sholto said, chuckling. He paused, then said, ‘An ancient MacNab married an outsider and she turned out to be a faithless hussy. In some versions of the story she slept with his brother. In a racier version she slept with his son. It was said she’d bewitched her lover with a magic herbal draught, but this claim could have been made afterwards to protect MacNab reputations. I doubt any herbal draught was required. To the best of my knowledge, no Cauldstane MacNab ever became a monk, or even a minister. Despite the curse, celibacy is not a path any of the males has chosen. Some of us – my brother Torquil and I, for example – have erred in quite the other direction. But I digress… When the cuckolded laird found out what his wife had been up to, he had her put to death. The usual version of the story is that she was struck down with the Cauldstane claymore.’
‘Claymore?’
‘It’s a huge sword. Ask Alec to show it to you.’
‘It still exists?’
‘Oh, yes. It lives on the wall in the Great Hall. If you catch Alec in a good mood, he’ll give you a demonstration.’
‘Really?’
‘Certainly. Historical swordsmanship is his passion. He’s not too keen on the idea of this book, but I’m sure he’d be happy to show you the claymore. If you’re interested.’
‘I most certainly am.’
An image of Alec came to mind: Alec as he sprang across the courtyard, attacking the air with a rapier. That image was succeeded by another: a snapshot Sholto had shown me of Liz with her two small boys, in which an eight-year old Alec appeared to defend his family against a foe the others couldn’t see. I wasn’t looking forward to asking Sholto about the accidents that killed both his wives. I would probably have to talk to Alec too, despite the possibility he didn’t want me around. Undaunted, I returned to the cheery subject of summary execution.
‘So the errant MacNab wife was despatched with the Cauldstane claymore?’
‘Correct. Probably had her head lopped off. Or she might have been sliced in two. Ask Alec. He’d know exactly how you kill someone with a claymore. Not something he learned at Gordonstoun, I hasten to add… Anyway, that’s when the real trouble started.’
‘It gets worse?’
‘But of course!’ Sholto said gleefully. ‘The wife’s mother was reputedly a witch. When she heard what had happened to her daughter, she cursed all MacNabs, past, present and future. She declared that early death or barrenness would befall any bride not of the blood. So then the mother was condemned as a witch – and probable supplier of the aforementioned herbal draught – and they drowned her in the river, here at Cauldstane. She died cursing the family. Comprehensively.’
We sat in respectful silence for a moment – I felt slightly stunned – and I noticed that when Sholto wasn’t talking, I could hear the sound of the river in the distance, rushing over the rocks. It wasn’t a soothing sound, so I focussed on work again.
‘Do you know the actual wording of the curse?’
‘No. It belongs to an oral tradition. If it was ever written down, the document would have been burned or lost. But I doubt any MacNab would have dared commit the curse to parchment or paper. Asking for trouble! In any case, tradition has it the words were preserved on the Blood Stone.’
‘The Blood Stone? O
h, now you’re teasing me, aren’t you?’
‘Not at all! The Blood Stone is the one in the middle of the river bed. By the bridge. It’s visible whenever the water level is low. The condemned witch was tied up, then hurled from the bridge, into the river. She smashed her skull on this stone. Legend says, once her blood and brains were washed away, the words of her curse were visible, etched on the stone in blood-red letters. They’re conveniently illegible now of course, but there are strange reddish marks on the stone, even I have to admit that. Believers in the curse say the marks are all that’s left after hundreds of years of the river eroding the stone.’
‘You must point it out to me. Could I wade in and have a look?’
‘Don’t you dare! Not without being attached to a rope with someone on the other end. The river’s fast-flowing. The Blood Stone’s close to the surface because it sits on a rocky outcrop. That disguises the fact that the river’s deep in the middle. In any case, there’s nothing much to see. There are red veins in the rock that look something like a faint cursive hand. But I’ve no doubt a geologist could account for the marks.’
Struggling to absorb the impact of Sholto’s grim story, I looked down at my notebook, scanned my list of prepared questions and adapted one. ‘What was it like growing up with all these tales? Being surrounded by magic stones and ancient swords… You must have been less sceptical as a child, surely?’
‘My father believed in the curse, so naturally I didn’t, as a matter of principle. Two staid and fearful parents produced three non-conformist children who were determined to live life to the full. I suppose we were all explorers in our different ways. Zelda was perhaps the bravest.’
‘You mean marrying a racing driver?’
‘No, my dear – marrying a foreigner. My father would have preferred to see her enter a nunnery than marry a Frenchman. Zelda had no choice but to live abroad. And poor old Torquil was told he’d driven his father into an early grave with his homosexual exploits. It was made clear to me that I should be the one to produce a proper Cauldstane heir. As I had no intention of doing anything other than marrying for love, I couldn’t afford to believe in the curse. But I do remember as a boy being tremendously excited by the legend of the Cauldstane claymore.’
‘There’s a legend as well?’
‘Yes. You must get Alec to tell you about it.’
‘I want to know now!’
Sholto rolled his eyes and muttered, ‘Will I ever get my morning coffee?’ Then he grinned, obviously enjoying himself. ‘The claymore is supposed to have supernatural powers, power to protect the MacNabs from evil, but as is usually the case with these magical devices, there’s a strict limit to the number of times the magic can be invoked. Our sword can be used only once more to defend the lives and honour of the MacNabs, then, inexplicably, its power expires.’
‘How many times has it been used?’
‘Twice. The execution of the adulterous wife was the first time.’
‘And the second?’
‘1975. When Torquil attacked a burglar.’
I couldn’t help laughing. ‘He attacked a burglar with a priceless antique?’
‘It was probably the priceless antique the burglar was trying to steal. God knows, we don’t own much else of any value. Not any more. And there’s quite a market for old weapons now.’
‘What did Torquil do?’
‘He said he was too drunk at the time to realise the implications of using up the sword’s magic quota. He just grabbed the nearest heavy object. He hadn’t a clue how to handle the thing – a claymore would make the strongest of fellows look limp-wristed – but the intruder thought Torquil knew what he was doing and turned tail, then broke his neck falling down a turnpike stair. There’s an uneven step, designed to trip the unwary – one of those built-in security measures you get in castles. The family know about it and outsiders don’t. Simple but effective. The poor fellow went flying head first and that was that.’
‘So the claymore apparently exerted its power again.’
‘That’s what believers said.’
‘But now, thanks to Torquil, it can only be used once more.’
‘According to the legend.’
‘This is wonderful stuff, Sholto! It can go straight into the book, just as you tell it.’
‘You think so? Will readers be interested in these ridiculous stories?’
‘Of course they will!’
‘Well, if you say so. It all seems a bit ho-hum to me because I grew up with it. I never really took any of it seriously.’
‘Never?’
‘No. Well, not until Meredith died.’ Sholto clasped his stick tightly. ‘I did wonder for a while then. I mean, losing two wives… It would make you think, wouldn’t it? But accidents happen. Especially when people are drunk. And Meredith was very drunk. I didn’t realise she’d driven off on her own. It was Alec’s wedding reception and Cauldstane was heaving with guests. I didn’t notice she’d gone. Not until it was too late.’
‘Why did she drive off on her own? Do you know?’
Sholto didn’t speak but he looked at me, as if assessing what he should say. I returned his gaze and waited. I’ve learned to wait.
‘I’ve no idea why Meredith was so drunk, but she got into her car and drove off because Alec had told her to go to hell. Which I fear, poor girl, she duly did.’
As if on cue, a mournful bell began to toll and Sholto sat up, galvanised. ‘Ah! That’s Wilma telling us coffee’s served.’
‘That bell has a wonderful cracked note. Full of character. Is it very old?’
‘No, Zelda rescued it from the local primary school in the days when there was a local primary school. It’s a holiday home now.’ Sholto struggled to his feet, then stood swaying a little. ‘There’ll be coffee in the summer house and some in the drawing room. Take your pick. I’m going indoors. The chill gets to my bones these days. You’d think a lifetime of roughing it would make you tolerant of cold and damp. Rather the reverse, I’d say. I hated it at Eton and I hate it now. Used to lie in my tent in Antarctica, trying to warm myself up, thinking about how I almost died of heatstroke in the Sahara. Didn’t work. Still perished.’ He stood staring at the ground, apparently reluctant to move. When he finally spoke, his voice sounded as cracked as the bell. ‘Poor Meredith... Bloody awful way to die. Christ, she was a mess...’
With that he turned and walked away, setting a brisk pace that I’m sure must have caused him physical pain. I let him go on alone and headed instead for the summer house.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Sholto had indicated that the summer house was in a corner of the walled garden at the junction of the south- and west-facing walls. I didn’t head in that direction immediately. Concerned he might fall, I watched until he was out of sight, then gathered up my things and shoved them into my bag. I turned and followed the path, wondering why I couldn’t see the summer house. I caught sight of Mrs Guthrie on the other side of the garden, trotting off in the direction of the castle. I was about to call out and ask where the summer house was when I found it, almost obscured from view by an enormous shrub rose, taller than a man, which grew beside it. The roof and walls were additionally camouflaged by a canopy of what I later learned was a clematis, so that the wooden building resembled something from a fairy tale, a sort of tree house on the ground.
As I approached, I noticed a faint but continuous buzzing noise. I looked up and saw that the yellowy-green bell-shaped flowers of the clematis thronged with bees. I stood for a moment with my eyes shut, feeling the sun on the side of my face, listening to the hum of the bees. I inhaled the climber’s elusive scent and knew a moment of sheer and simple happiness. That was dispelled a moment later when I opened my eyes and looked through the open door of the summer house. Alec MacNab, dressed for work in his worn leather apron and steel-capped shoes, was seated on one of the battered Lloyd Loom chairs, his long legs extended, his feet resting on another chair. My immediate thought was to turn and walk away, b
ut I felt sure he must have heard my approach on the gravel path. As I stood, undecided, he turned his head and smiled, but didn’t move.
‘Good morning. Will you join me for coffee?’ He indicated a large thermos coffee pot on the table. ‘Wilma just delivered, but no one else seems to want to brave the elements today.’
‘Sholto and I have been in the garden all morning, but he was tired. And a bit cold, I think. So he went back to the castle.’ I hesitated in the doorway. ‘You’re sure you don’t mind if I join you? I’d love some coffee.’
‘Sit down and I’ll pour you some.’ He stood up and brought a chair forward and placed it in the doorway. ‘If you sit just there, you’ll have a good view of the roofline of Cauldstane. On a day like today, you might see a red kite if you’re lucky.’ He looked at me, checking I understood. ‘Not the kind flown by wee boys.’
‘I know,’ I said, smiling as I stepped inside the summer house which was warm and musty and seemed rather dark after the bright sun outside. I sat down on the chair Alec had arranged for me. ‘I have a friend who’s a keen birdwatcher and some of it’s rubbed off. He was quite jealous when I told him I’d seen a kite at Cauldstane.’
‘They’re magnificent creatures. The wing span is almost two metres. You don’t notice that from the ground.’ Alec poured me a mug of coffee and said, ‘Milk and sugar?’
‘Just milk, please.’ He handed me the mug, then as he picked up a plate, I raised my hand in protest. ‘Don’t even think of offering me one of those biscuits! My willpower is non-existent when it comes to Mrs. Guthrie’s home baking.’
‘Resistance is futile,’ Alec said as he took a biscuit from the plate. ‘How’s it going with Sholto? He seems to be enjoying himself.’
‘You think so?’ I tried to ignore the tempting crunching noises and averted my eyes from the biscuits.
‘He’s in his element, re-living the past, dusting down the old traveller’s tales. And it’s doing him a power of good. We’re very grateful to you.’
Cauldstane Page 6