The House on the Shore

by Victoria Howard

  His patrician features stiffened. “Anna, I own the estate and what I do with it is my decision.”

  “You may own the land, Alistair, but without the hard work of the people of this glen, the estate would be worthless. I’m telling you, if you don’t consider their needs alongside those of the estate, you might as well move back to France now.” She swallowed the last of her wine. “Thanks for the drink. I’ll see you around.”

  As Anna left the bar, she felt the ice-coloured eyes watching her.

  She dashed to the car park, praying all the while that the stranger at the bar wasn’t following her.

  She allowed herself one last look. There was no one around.

  At least not now.

  Chapter Eleven

  The early evening mist turned into damp, patchy fog. White sea-cloud floated through the village like a ghostly spectre. Anna shivered. In places, visibility was measured in metres rather than miles. It wasn’t far from the hotel to where she had left the Land Rover, but she tread warily for fear of walking into something. The yellow glow from the overhead streetlights, barely discernable in the fog, did little to help her progress.

  The walk that should only have taken minutes took her ten, and when she finally climbed behind the wheel she felt her stomach churn with anxiety. Common sense told her to knock on Morag’s door and ask her for a bed for the night rather than attempt the drive back to the croft. Gripping the steering wheel tightly, she peered through the windscreen and drove slowly down street toward the garage, where she stopped and filled up with diesel.

  The fog closed in as Anna left the village. She contemplated turning around, but the narrow, unlit road, combined with the need to get home to Ensay and Rhona, forced her to carry on. Once or twice she thought she caught a glimpse of headlights in her mirrors, but visibility was so poor, she couldn’t be sure.

  The knotted and gnarled branches of trees, illuminated by the headlights, loomed toward her out of the fog like outstretched arms. Anna bit her lip and stared at the road ahead. Keeping her speed down and her eyes on the grass verge, she slowly negotiated the twisting road along the shore of Loch Hourn. Suddenly the engine began to cough and splutter. Then it stopped.

  “Please, not now. Don’t let me down,” she said out loud, as she turned the ignition over. Much to her relief the engine caught. Releasing the handbrake she set off again, but had barely covered half a mile when it died again. This time no amount of coaxing would make it start.

  Anna flicked on the hazard warning lights and pulled a torch from the glove box then stepped out from behind the wheel. She opened the hood and shone her torch into the engine compartment. She had no idea what she was looking for, and when she examined the cables none of them seemed loose.

  She looked around, trying to see a landmark. No bend in the road or crofter’s cottage, not even the smell of wood smoke indicated where she was, just the gentle sound of lapping water nearby. She had two options. Either she could stay with the vehicle and hope that someone would come along, or she could walk. She slammed the hood shut, turned up the collar of her coat and put the keys in her pocket, then started walking toward the village.

  The thrust in the middle of her back was so powerful that she hardly had time to scream, before she was hurtling sideways into thick white space. Frantically, her outstretched arms sought something to hold onto, but there was nothing. She felt a blinding pain as her shoulder hit something, then she was lying on the ground.

  The world spun.

  She opened her eyes again and felt winded and disorientated. Her limbs were tense and shaking with fear. She lay in the heather and listened for the slightest footfall or sound of a scrape of rock. When she didn’t hear anything, she tried moving one leg, then the other. Satisfied that she hadn’t broken any bones, she eased herself up, and realized she had landed in the ditch that ran along the side of the road. Overhead, through the patchy fog, she could just make out the eerie shape of a birch tree. She grabbed hold of a clump of heather, slithered, and clawed her way out of the ditch. When she reached the grass verge at the top, she sank to her knees and cried with relief.

  With no torch to guide her, she had little choice but to return to the Land Rover. Keeping close to the verge, she limped along the road wondering what had thumped her in the back. Maybe she’d got in the way of a roe deer or one of many the feral goats that roamed the hills. They frequently came down off the hill at night to drink in the loch. Instinct told her that it hadn’t been an animal that had slammed into her, but the hand of a man.

  Spasmodic tremors coursed through her body. Her eyes darted left and right as she searched for the slightest sign of movement. Then, appearing out of the fog, she saw the flashing hazard lights of the old Land Rover.

  Cold, tired, and edgy, she fumbled in her pocket. Panic gave way to relief when her fingers closed around her keys. Using the steering wheel as a lever, she hoisted herself into the driver’s seat and inserted the key in the ignition. To her astonishment the engine roared into life. She wept aloud as she selected first gear and drove off. Gulping hard, she brushed the tears from her eyes, and driving as fast as she dared, she headed straight for the croft.

  Only when she had locked the door and called the dogs to her side, did she begin to feel safe.

  Chapter Twelve

  In the imposing library of Killilan House, Alistair Grant faced an ugly choice. He could either ignore the letter from the Bank or pretend he hadn’t received it. Either way the outcome was the same—disaster. He knew he couldn’t stall his creditors forever. If he could just hold them off for another few weeks until his plans came to fruition, then all his problems would be solved.

  He thought about approaching his sister once more. She must be good for five thousand at least, but after their earlier acrimonious argument, he knew that her answer would be no. In which case, he would have to sell something.

  He glanced at the gilt bronze Louis XV clock on the marble mantel. The casing was very ornate. Made in the Rococo style, surmounted by the figure of a draped woman holding an oval sun face disk, it was not his taste at all. His mother had loved it, and for that reason alone, he would be sorry to sell it. However, its disappearance would be hard to explain.

  He walked around the room picking up objects here and there. A tall, delicate Minton vase, decorated with a foliate and floral pattern in greens, blues, and browns drew his attention. The glazing was badly crazed and there was a crack in the rim. He replaced it on the table. Whatever he chose had to be small enough not to be missed by Mrs. McTavish, his eagle-eyed housekeeper, but large enough to raise sufficient cash to make the repayment on the overdraft, pay the staff, and cover the household bills for the next month.

  He selected a book from the shelf, and blew the dust off the faded leather cover and spine. The Works of Thomas Carlyle. He turned to the flyleaf hoping for a first edition. Although published in 1800, it was a second edition. He replaced it and chose another. Bleak House by Charles Dickens. How ironic, he thought, and roared with laughter. This time luck was on his side. He set the first edition on the arm of a chair and continued searching the shelves. Then it dawned on him. He would need to sell a large number of books to raise the amount of money he required. Besides, Mrs. McTavish would notice the gaps on the shelves and no doubt search the house for the missing volumes.

  Apart from the books, the only other items of interest in the library were the portraits of his father and grandfather. Even if painted by some famous artist, they were far too large, and their disappearance would raise too many questions. He didn’t want the staff knowing he was financially embarrassed.

  Six years ago the insurance company had insisted his father have the household contents valued and had given the old boy a copy of the appraiser’s report. Had his father given it to the Bank, or was it with the other estate papers, he wondered. Alistair rifled through the drawers of the ancient desk. At length he found it tucked into a folder marked ‘Killilan House.’

  He
sat down and read the valuation. Halfway down on the page for the library, he found an entry for a Georgian silver snuffbox valued at £3,500. That would do nicely.

  He flicked over the page. Somewhere in the dining room there was a set of four, George III silver candlesticks. He had no idea what a rounded base and bead decoration meant, but decided they shouldn’t be too hard to identify. The valuation listed next to the description, showed them to be worth £12,000. Just one or two more items would raise sufficient money to see him through until the contract was signed, less any commission the dealer might charge.

  That just left the bedrooms in which to find something. There appeared to be nothing suitable…then, on the last page under the ‘Rose bedroom’ he saw an entry for a pair of George III chambersticks valued at £5000. Chambersticks? Where they the same as candlesticks, he wondered?

  He glanced at his watch—twelve noon. He had plenty of time to find the objects, drive to Inverness, sell them, and be back in time for dinner. If anyone noticed the items were missing, he would simply say that they were with an appraiser. He could easily replace them once the contract was signed, if he chose too. Which, he chuckled to himself, he might well not!

  The clock on the mantelpiece struck the half hour. He peered out of the window and waited until he saw Mrs. McTavish, tie a headscarf under her chin, climb on her ancient bicycle and cycle away down the drive. Picking up the inventory off his desk, he went in search of his booty.

  There was only one part of his plan which needed more thought, and that was how to dispose of the items. He thought about this as he climbed the stairs and walked along the gallery to the Rose bedroom.

  Named after his great-great grandmother, the room overlooked the formal gardens on the south side of the house. He pushed open the bedroom door and wrinkled his nose. The room smelled of mothballs and damp. The wallpaper of roses and intertwined ivy leaves, long faded by the sun, had peeled here and there. He noticed a huge damp patch on the ceiling, no doubt caused by a leak in the roof. He shook his head, just another problem to add to the already impossibly long list. The furniture was old fashioned and in need of a polish. There was a chestnut armoire, a matching chest of drawers, and a huge four-poster bed.

  He found the chambersticks next to bed. He gathered them up and carried them back down to the library, placing them on the table with the snuffbox. He just needed the candlesticks from the dining room and his problem was halfway to being solved.

  While there were a number of antique dealers in Inverness, he would get a much better price if he sold everything in Glasgow, but doing the rounds of the antique shops on Sauchiehall Street filled him with dread. What if he bumped into someone he knew? He would be humiliated. There was always that Internet site - the one where people auctioned unwanted items. What was it called? E – something. E something. EBay! That was it.

  He strode down the corridor to the estate office and turned on the computer. The old modem wheezed its familiar song as it connected him, albeit slowly, to the Internet. He typed in the web address and waited. The page slowly loaded as he drummed his fingers on the desk. When it was complete, he clicked on the link that told him what he needed to do to start the process.

  All the fine print baffled him. There was jargon about sellers’ accounts, a long table detailing the commissions he could expect to pay, and the list of reasons why he should upload photographs of the items he planned to sell. Photographs? He had to take photographs too? It was far too complicated and to make matters worse he was required to provide his name, address, and details of his bank account. That was the last thing he wanted to do! There had to be some other way.

  Just then, the outer door to the office jerked open and MacKinnon stepped inside. Alistair stared at him.

  MacKinnon had connections, but could he be trusted?

  “What do you want, MacKinnon? You know I don’t like you coming to the house uninvited.”

  MacKinnon scowled. He took a drag on his cigarette and blew out smoke. “One of the lads said he’d seen a fox hanging round the pheasant pens. I came to get some more shells for my shotgun. I thought I’d go down to the wood and take a look around.”

  Alistair’s eyes narrowed. “In that case, you’d better have the keys to the gun cupboard.” He opened the desk drawer and tossed them to MacKinnon.

  “Thanks. By the way, I hear the MacDonald woman’s vehicle broke down on her way home from the meeting last night. While she was walking back to the village, someone jumped her and knocked her out. By all accounts, she ended up in a ditch.”

  Alistair visibly stiffened. His blue eyes became flat and unreadable as stone. “How dreadful. I hope she wasn’t badly hurt.”

  “According to Ewan at the hotel, she has a few bruises and got a nasty fright. It might make her think twice about staying, especially after an accident like that. Anyway, it’s not often you come in here, your Lairdship. What are you up to?”

  “I’m just checking the bookings for the start of the grouse season,” Alistair blustered. “The numbers are down on last year. I think it’s time I put another advertisement in the Horse and Hound.”

  “Why bother? You’ll have millions in the bank by then.”

  “Because Killilan Estate is renowned for its grouse moor.” Alistair shot him a withering glance. “Haven’t you finished yet?”

  “I’m going. Keep your wig on,” he said, tossing the keys on the desk and striding out.

  Alistair counted to twenty before getting up and locking the door. He didn’t want that nasty little man wandering around the house in his absence, poking his nose in where it wasn’t needed. Besides, MacKinnon might decide to do some pilfering of his own.

  On his way back to the library, Alistair stopped by the flower room and picked up his old cricket bag. He dropped the silver inside. It clanked as it settled to the bottom. He started; worried that he might have dented something, so quickly checked. It looked all right. He carried it out to his car. With any luck he could be in Glasgow in four hours, complete his business, have a good dinner, and be back at Killilan House by midday tomorrow.

  On the long journey south, through the lonely mountain passes and brooding glens, he contemplated how best to go about disposing of the silver without drawing attention to himself, and decided that a small auction house might be best. However, he needed the cash now, not in three or four weeks’ time.

  As the miles passed he became more and more uneasy. Hadn’t he read somewhere that the police regularly checked antique shops for stolen goods? If so, he would have to be very careful. In which case, he should sell the items separately rather than to one dealer. Then he remembered his old school chum, Findlay Armstrong. Fin had inherited the family estate on his father’s death, but was forced to sell it in order to settle the death duties payable to the Inland Revenue.

  Last time he’d spoken to him, Fin still owed several thousand pounds, yet still managed to live in a stylish apartment overlooking the river Clyde. Surely, he would be prepared to help an old school friend in his time of need. In return, Alistair was more than willing to line his pockets with a little cash.

  Fin’s telephone number was in his diary. He pulled into a lay-by and took out his mobile phone. Three minutes later a disgruntled voice answered.

  “Fin? Fin is that you? It’s Alistair Grant. Can you hear me?”

  The voice that answered was full of false joviality. “Alistair. It’s good to hear from you. Are you in Scotland, or still living it up in the South of France? Ah, I remember the marvellous shooting parties we used to—”

  “—Actually, I’m on my way to Glasgow. I was wondering if we could meet. How about that new hotel on Jamaica Street? We can have dinner, my shout.”

  “Sure, why not.”

  “About seven-thirty, would that suit you?”

  “Let me check my social calendar. Unbelievably, I am free tonight. I’ll see you then.”

  It was the middle of rush hour by the time Alistair reached the city. The traffic ar
ound the railway station had ground to a halt. Frustrated, he left his car in a multi-storey car park and walked the short distance to the hotel.

  Once in his room, he hid the cricket bag on the top shelf of the wardrobe behind the spare pillows and blankets while he took a quick shower. When he entered the bar, Fin was sitting at a corner table with a large glass of malt whisky in front of him. He stood when Alistair approached the table.

  Alistair motioned for the barman to bring him a drink and another for Fin, who accepted, and raised his glass to his.

  “Alistair, you haven’t changed one bit,” Fin said.

  “Neither have you, my friend,” Alistair replied, gazing at his friend’s well-tailored suit. “You’re doing well for yourself, I see. But didn’t you have a run in with the Inland Revenue?”

  “They were on my back, but that’s resolved now. You know old Fin—Rubber Ball Fin. Wasn’t that what you used to call me, eh? Throw things my way and I dodge them every time. Remember?”

  “Ah, yes.” Alistair smiled. “You were always the one to get yourself out of trouble. I wish I could say the same.”

  “So what’s the story? Girl trouble? I can see it in your face. One’s got a broken heart and she means to get you to the altar no matter who gets hurt in the process. Am I right?”

  “Girl trouble, yes, although marriage doesn’t quite figure into the scheme of things.”

  Fin grinned. The skin around his eyes folded into heavy wrinkles. Odd, thought Alistair. He never thought his charming, handsome friend would age so rapidly.

  “Fin, I need your help.”

  “Really,” Fin said, ignoring the no smoking signs, and lighting a gold filtered cigarette. “I was about to ask you for a favour, old boy. You see, I’m not as well off as I seem. You see this button? I sewed it on myself.”