Cauldstane

by Gillard, Linda

  ‘Oh, it’s nothing to do with me. I just sit there with the tape recorder.’

  ‘It’s everything to do with you that he’s enjoying himself. He wasn’t looking forward to it. And we all had mixed feelings about raking over the past.’

  ‘There is rather a lot of past, isn’t there?’

  ‘Hundreds of years. But if you just look at Sholto’s three score years and ten, there’s a hell of a lot of ground to cover. Some of it pretty bumpy. That he’s prepared to do it and appears to be enjoying the process is a testament to your tact and encouragement, Jenny.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘You sound surprised.’

  ‘I suppose I am a little.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Well, I don’t think I can take all the credit.’

  ‘And?…’

  ‘And?’

  He narrowed his eyes and said, ‘There’s something else you’d like to say, but you’re not sure you should.’

  I laughed to hide my surprise and embarrassment. ‘Am I that easy to read?’

  ‘In some ways, yes. In others, no.’

  I waited for Alec to continue, but he just sat drinking his coffee, regarding me, as if waiting for me to speak. The silence was becoming awkward, so I took a biscuit from the plate and bit into it, playing for time. I chewed and swallowed, then said, ‘Well, if I’m being honest—’

  ‘Why be anything else?’

  I broke off some small pieces of biscuit and tossed them outside where some chaffinches were strutting on the path. ‘I suppose I wasn’t really expecting your approval.’

  ‘Why not? This project is good for Sholto. And if the book sells in sufficient quantities, it could help with some of our financial difficulties. Has he told you just how bad things are?’

  ‘No, but he’s dropped hints.’

  ‘You’ll find it hard to get him to talk about it. Well, I do.’ Alec studied the contents of his mug. ‘But things are bad. Fergus thinks we should put the castle on the market. For three million.’

  ‘But it’s your inheritance!’

  ‘Aye, but Fergus is our business brain – the only business brain in the family – and he says Cauldstane’s a money pit. And he’s right. Which is why we’d never get three million for it. But my hope was not to have to sell up in Sholto’s lifetime. That’s where your book might help, you see. A wee cash injection could buy us a bit of time, enable us to maintain the fabric of the building so it would still be worth selling after Sholto’s gone.’

  ‘That’s all so sad. I can’t bear to think of Cauldstane going out of the family, so heaven knows how you must feel.’

  Alec shrugged. ‘It’s an eventuality I’ve had to consider for half my life. Inheriting is the easy part. It’s hanging on to a place that’s hard. But why did you think I’d disapprove of you?’

  I could think of no suitable reply. A certain reticence on his part on the day of my interview, the bitterness about Meredith – these could be ascribed to grief on the anniversary of his wife’s death. But tampering with my laptop?... Looking at Alec now, his face calm, his eyes cool and enquiring, it was impossible to believe him capable of such an act. But if it hadn’t been Alec, who could it have been?

  I turned away and said, ‘I just got the impression you weren’t very keen on the idea of the book.’ It sounded lame, but it was all I could say without asking him outright if he’d come into my room while I slept and deleted my notes.

  ‘Did Sholto say I might be a problem?’

  ‘No, not at all! He just warned me that – well, that you’d had some very bad experiences.’

  ‘And he did that because, at some point, if you do your job properly, you’re going to have to ask me to sit down and talk about death. My mother’s, for a start. Because I was the sole witness. Also the cause.’

  ‘You were only eight.’

  ‘Aye, so they tell me. You’ll also want to know about Meredith’s death. And no one apart from me will discuss with you whether or not I was indirectly responsible for that too. But one thing they will all tell you is that my wife committed suicide. Which isn’t actually true, though I can never prove it.’

  ‘It wasn’t suicide?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So was it … an accident?’

  ‘Another accident? Aye, well, that’s the inevitable conclusion, is it not? There were no injuries to her body. No sign of a fall. No broken bones or blow to the head. Her lungs were full of water, so that means she drowned. The bruises and scratches on her body were the kind that would have been inflicted as she was swept along. There’d been heavy rain for several days before she died and the river was in a dangerous condition. Her coat was found on the river bank. So it was assumed Coral waded into the river with the intention of taking her life. I understand why folk thought that. She’d fought a battle with depression for a couple of years and depression was winning.’

  ‘Was it something to do with the Cauldstane curse?’

  Alec cocked his head to one side and regarded me. He looked terribly pale. ‘You know about the curse?’

  ‘Sholto told me about it this morning. It must have been a dreadful thing to have to live with.’

  ‘The existence of the curse certainly didn’t help because the main cause of Coral’s depression was our inability to conceive a child. We’d both had tests and it seemed there was no reason why she shouldn’t conceive. She just didn’t. So everyone assumed she took her life in a fit of despair. The more fancifully inclined concluded she was a double victim of the Cauldstane curse. She was barren and destined to die young.’

  ‘But you don’t believe that.’

  ‘Damn right I don’t.’

  ‘Why? What else could have happened? How can you be so sure it wasn’t suicide?’

  I watched as his chest rose and fell with a great sigh, then he said, ‘Three reasons. One – there was no note. Two – her camera was missing.’

  ‘Her camera?’

  ‘Aye. I gave Coral a camera to encourage her to get out and walk round the estate. I thought the fresh air and exercise would do her good. That camera was missing when she died. We lived in a wee house on the estate when she was alive and I turned the place upside down looking for it. I never found it and it’s never turned up in the castle. That suggests to me she had it on her when she drowned.’

  ‘And no one contemplating suicide would go out with a camera.’

  Alec shot me a look of something like gratitude, then went on. ‘The camera wasn’t found with her body, so it’s just a theory.’

  I waited for him to continue but he said nothing, then suddenly set his coffee mug down on the tray. It made a jarring sound that startled me and the flock of small birds that had congregated around the biscuit crumbs I’d tossed through the door. My nerves were frayed; it already felt like it had been a long morning, but I had to know. ‘Alec… You said there were three reasons you knew it wasn’t suicide.’

  ‘Aye, I did. You can dismiss the lack of note – they say some folk don’t leave them – and the camera’s not evidence until it’s found. But leaving those factors aside, there’s no way my wife would have committed suicide, not on that day or on any day thereafter.’

  ‘How can you be so sure?’

  He turned and the look of cold anger in his eyes frightened me. ‘Because the night before she died, Coral told me she was pregnant.’

  I sat quite still, not knowing what to say, but it seemed important not to look away. I sensed he wanted to say more, but couldn’t find the words. I held his eyes, even though I felt I was being beaten down by his pain. His words, when they came, surprised me.

  ‘I’m sorry, Jenny.’

  ‘Whatever for?’

  ‘For burdening you. With – with my theories. My anger… But Sholto will talk about it as if it was suicide. And he’s wrong. He has no understanding of mental frailty. Nor can he forgive it. He thought Coral was weak. Weak in the head.’

  My tone was brisk. ‘Well, if Sholto tr
ies to persuade me it was suicide I shall point out to him that readers just won’t buy it. There’s not enough evidence. They’ll think Coral had everything to live for. Inheriting Cauldstane. A loving husband. Many more years in which she could still have become a mother. That’s how readers will see it. They’ll prefer random tragedy to suicide any day… Sorry, Alec, I don’t mean to sound flippant, I just wanted you to see that I – well, that I’m on your side.’

  ‘That’s OK. I understand.’ He got to his feet. ‘I’d better get back to work. Beating hell out of some steel will soon put the colour back in my cheeks.’

  I stood up and put my empty mug on the tray. ‘I’d love to see your workshop. Could I come and watch you work one day? At your convenience, obviously. Sholto said you’d show me the Cauldstane claymore.’

  ‘It would be my pleasure.’

  ‘He also said you’d tell me how to cut someone in two with it.’

  ‘Had you anyone particular in mind?’

  I felt absurdly pleased to see his grin. It was as if a weight had been lifted off my chest and I could breathe easily again. I followed him out of the summer house and into the sunshine. The bees were still busy.

  ‘No, my interest is purely academic. There’s no one special.’

  We set off along the gravel path, heading for the gate that led out of the walled garden. Alec turned to look at me. ‘Is there anyone special in your life? If you don’t mind my asking.’

  ‘Of course I don’t. I can’t expect people to open up and trust me with their stories without giving something of myself.’

  He pointed to my left hand. ‘You don’t appear to be married.’

  ‘No. I lived with someone for a number of years, but we never wanted to make it permanent. Actually, that’s not true. I think maybe he did want to marry me, but I didn’t want to marry him. Especially when he decided he wanted to become a priest. I didn’t see myself as a vicar’s wife.’

  ‘No, I don’t see you as a vicar’s wife either.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  I caught his sidelong glance and noted the grin again. When I’d dismissed Alec MacNab’s looks as ordinary I’d possibly done him a disservice. His curling brown hair was actually tawny in the sunlight and there was nothing ordinary about that smile. It was just a rare occurrence.

  ‘No regrets, then?’ he asked.

  ‘No, no regrets. But I think if I’d married I might have had them. Lots of them. I fear I might have sat brooding in the vicarage, railing against God and plotting my escape. You weren’t married long enough to know that misery.’

  ‘No. But I’ve known what it is to want to escape from someone.’

  I didn’t feel I could ask what he meant by this enigmatic remark, so silence yawned between us again. I was relieved when I saw we were almost back at the courtyard. As we passed through the archway, he said, ‘Jenny, d’you mind if I ask you another personal question? You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.’

  ‘No, go ahead.’

  He stopped walking and swung round to face me. ‘Are you Imogen Ryan?’

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  I blinked at Alec and said nothing. He must have thought I didn’t understand because he added, ‘I mean, Imogen Ryan, the novelist.’ I suppose I looked shocked, because he took a step towards me, then checked himself. ‘Sorry. I shouldn’t have asked. It’s none of my business.’

  ‘Yes, it is. I’m writing your father’s memoirs for him. He’s a notable and much loved man. You have every right to know who his literary alter ego is.’ I looked around and said, ‘Alec, is there somewhere we could go and sit down? Not in the castle. I don’t think I want to see any of the others. Not right now.’

  ‘Come into the armoury. There’s an old sofa. It’s filthy, but comfortable.’

  Alec opened the door to his workshop and ushered me in. While he removed his leather apron and hung it on a peg, I looked round for somewhere to sit.

  The workshop wouldn’t have won any prizes for tidiness or cleanliness, but it was very warm. I felt as if I’d walked into a giant toolbox. Everywhere I looked, on walls, tables and workbenches, were tools and machinery, the function of which I could only guess. A pall of dust – or perhaps it was ash – had settled over everything in the room except some tools, which looked bright with use, and a sword blade that was obviously work-in progress. There was a furnace that looked like the mouth of a miniature hell, a machine with a big grinding wheel, two different anvils, a mallet I don’t think I could have lifted, quantities of oily rags and used emery paper, several coffee mugs – one growing mould – and an open packet of biscuits.

  The room was lit by a single window, bare hanging light bulbs and a dusty, black anglepoise lamp attached to a bench, its angular frame totally in keeping with all the tools, some of which looked like instruments of torture. There was something slightly sinister, almost Brueghelian about the darkness and chaos. The cleanest thing in the workshop was a notice board on which were pinned sketches, diagrams and news cuttings featuring Alec in fencing gear and various kinds of period costume. I noted in passing that he looked good in tights.

  I headed for the sofa, regretting my decision to wear cream trousers, but Alec got there before me and spread a clean tea-towel. I thanked him and sat down, clasping my hands in my lap in an attempt to compose myself.

  He wandered over to the window and appeared to be absorbed by the empty courtyard. Eventually he turned round and, leaning against the wall, his arms folded, said, ‘So you are Imogen Ryan?’ It wasn’t an accusation, just a question.

  ‘Yes.’

  He frowned, then shaking his head as if in disbelief, he laughed and said, ‘But why?’

  ‘Why am I pretending to be someone else?’

  ‘Why are you ghostwriting? You were a best-selling novelist. Famous! Did you not win an award?’

  ‘Several. You know my work then?’

  ‘Not directly, no. I’m not much of a reader of fiction. But Coral was a big fan. She had all your books. I kept one when she died. Don’t know why exactly. It was very hard clearing everything out. I suppose I wanted to keep a few things that had meant something to her.’

  ‘So you recognised me from a photo on the dust jacket?’

  ‘I didn’t. Wilma did.’

  ‘Wilma?’

  ‘She was turning out my room, dusting the books. She’s very thorough. Takes them off the shelf to dust. I was in the room at the time and I heard her make a wee noise, as if she was startled. I thought maybe she’d seen a mouse. I asked what was wrong. She held up the book and said, “Is she not the living image of Miss Ryan? And what a coincidence! The same name.” ’

  ‘So she guessed.’

  ‘I’m not so sure. You look very different with short hair.’

  ‘I decided that was my distinguishing characteristic – long blonde hair. Without it, most people wouldn’t recognise me – people who didn’t already know me, I mean. So you’re saying Wilma didn’t guess?’

  ‘She looked at the photo for a while, then said, “Like two peas in a pod. It must be her sister. Writing obviously runs in the family.” ’

  ‘And you think that’s what she believes?’

  ‘Maybe. Maybe not. But Wilma’s worked for this family for more than forty years. She’s learned there are some things it’s best not to know. Best not to see. She’ll say nothing more about it. And neither will I.’

  ‘Alec, I didn’t lie to Sholto. My CV was partial, I’ll admit that, but I’ve been ghostwriting for years now and my books have enjoyed a lot of success. I’m very good at what I do.’

  ‘I don’t doubt it. But why, Jenny? You must have been earning a tidy sum writing bestsellers. Wasn’t one of your books made into a film?’

  ‘Two, actually.’

  ‘Well, you can’t be doing it for the money. I know Sholto will be paying you a pittance.’

  ‘Yes, he was rather apologetic about that. I’m doing it for love really. I used to travel a lot researching my
novels. But I never went anywhere extreme – the desert, Antarctica, the Himalayas. Sholto did all that and more. I wanted to hear his stories, be a part of them. So I accepted the job. I still don’t know why he offered it to me. He said he would have preferred a man.’

  ‘Aye, that’s what he thought, but Sholto would always choose a woman as a companion. Especially a good-looking one. And I imagine he liked your work. Did you send him samples? Not Imogen Ryan’s, your ghostwritten books.’

  ‘Yes, but I didn’t get the impression he’d read them. I think it all went on the interview. I fear I gushed a bit about Cauldstane. That’s the way to his heart, isn’t it?’

  Alec turned and gazed out the window again. ‘I don’t know,’ he said quietly. ‘It’s not a path I’ve trodden.’

  I looked up at him but could only see his profile which gave nothing away. I gathered my thoughts and started to explain. ‘Things started to go wrong for me, you see.’

  He turned his head and said, ‘Wrong? In what way?’

  ‘My career. I decided I wanted to stop writing fiction.’

  ‘Writer’s block, you mean?’

  ‘No, much worse than that. It wasn’t that I couldn’t write, I just didn’t want to any more.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Oh, it was a gradual thing. There was a downward slide. But I know exactly when it began. I was cornered by a drunk at a party. He asked me what I did and when I said I was a novelist, he sneered and said. “There’s no such thing as fiction”. I think he might have been a writer himself. Or a failed writer. He said, “Don’t kid yourself, darling – fiction is just somebody else’s reality.”

  ‘I thought nothing of it at the time. Well, not consciously. But you know how people are always worried you’re going to put them into your book? Use them as raw material?’

  ‘No, I didn’t know that. But then I’ve never known any writers.’

  ‘Well, novelists do get some of their inspiration from real people, but we don’t usually put them into books. Bits of people, perhaps. Their looks, or certain aspects of their personality. You absorb so much about people, even people you don’t know. You see someone on the news and it gets you thinking, asking questions… Anyway, many of my characters can be traced back to a real person who provided the inspiration in some way. Usually it’s just a sort of physical template that you have in mind while writing. The person might have nothing in common with your character. Nothing at all. I knew a terribly sweet lady who used to do the flowers at my ex-boyfriend’s church. There was something about her that intrigued me. She was so obsessive about her arrangements. So controlling… I used her as the basis of a psychopath, poor thing. But she’ll never recognise herself, even if she reads the book, because I changed so many physical things about her. And that’s how people operate, you see. No one will ever recognise me as Imogen Ryan because she had long, blonde hair. And I don’t.’