by Jemma Harvey
‘Her money passed to him on their marriage: that was the law of the time,’ Nigel responded. ‘But he had little chance to enjoy it – he went off to Africa almost immediately. Lady Mary seems to have left it virtually untouched. In the end, Archie inherited it, with the title, the castle and all.’
‘And Iona married the lot,’ I said. ‘Where was Archie at the time of Alasdair’s wedding?’
‘In Africa. There’s no doubt of that, I assure you. He was suppressing a native uprising – the kind of thing that went down very well with the Victorians, though it would have been frowned upon by us. It was a particularly bloody insurrection, even by African standards; we have the documents to prove it. There’s no way he could have been back in Scotland, even supposing a relationship between him and Iona, and there’s no evidence of one. I suspect your dream took an assortment of facts and mixed them up. Dreams are not noted for their accuracy.’
I gave him a very cold shoulder. I can’t stand it when these academic types turn patronising and superior.
Besides, the re-enactment scenes were nearly all finished now, so I didn’t have to be charming any more.
‘He could be right,’ Roo said later. ‘Your dream doesn’t really fit in with the chain of events, does it? You obviously got Alasdair’s love for Elizabeth confused with his connection to Iona. After all, it was just a dream. Dreams do muddle things.’
‘It wasn’t that kind of dream,’ I said, though I was beginning to doubt myself. ‘It was so . . . real.’
And, to Ash, ‘What do you think?’
‘Most dreams, like most ghosts, come from the dark places of the mind. How far they could be subject to an outside influence I don’t know. The past is always with us, but . . .’
He was plainly hedging his bets. For a psychic researcher, he seemed rather cautious about believing in things.
But then, I don’t believe in ghosts either. In daylight, the impression of my dream was fading, and I wondered, reluctantly, if Nigel might be right. I must have seen Iona’s picture many times in a not-noticing sort of way; perhaps I’d heard him or HG say it was her. The rest could have come from a confusion in my imagination. I wasn’t going to go around talking about my intuition or any of that bullshit; I’d leave that to Brie.
I took the opportunity to remove Roo from Ash’s company (in case she was enjoying it) and take her into the dining room for a late breakfast.
Brie was in there, drinking something that looked like her own urine – camomile tea? – and eating a boiled egg with no marmite soldiers. Her latest diet. Yuk.
She was talking to Dorian because there was no one else around. Or rather, listening, in a sort of catatonic trance, while he explained the details of some computer game he’d invented. Brie, too, was obviously having a go at being a good listener, and was finding it even more heavy going than me. At least I’d had HG to practise on; the thought of doing it with Dorian was truly scary.
It must be very hard for HG, having a nerd for a son. I mean, at an age when he should have been cutting his first album and generally treading in his father’s footsteps, he was designing software. Too embarrassing.
Brie looked up thankfully as we sat down. ‘What’ve you guys been doing?’ she asked.
‘Checking up on the castle ghosts,’ said Roo.
I hadn’t wanted to mention it. I knew Brie would start intuiting as soon as the subject came up.
She did.
‘Have you figured out what it was that I saw the other evening? It was like, this looming shape, just standing there, in the darkest part of the hall. It was only there for a second, but I saw it quite clearly—’
‘Man or woman?’ I said, helping myself to coffee. I knew an urge to upstage her with my dream, but I didn’t want to sound all New-Age phoney about it.
‘I don’t know. I told you, it was just this shape . . .’
‘Well, what shape?’
‘I couldn’t tell; it was dark. The shape was dark and the hall was dark and the evening was getting dark . . .’
‘Then how could you see it?’
Dorian interrupted, which was probably just as well. The business of the dream was making me twitchy and suddenly I wanted all the ghost stuff to be nonsense. ‘That actress woman saw something too; she said it was a man in Highland dress – but then, she would say that. And Morag’s seen things.’
‘Awful old hag.’ Brie shuddered. ‘In her case, it was probably DTs. That sort always drinks on the quiet.’
‘She thinks strong drink is an instrument of the devil,’ Dorian said. ‘Except for whisky.’
Roo stood up abruptly, leaving her coffee untouched. ‘I’m going for a walk,’ she announced. ‘I need some air.’
‘You’d better be careful,’ Dorian said. ‘It can be dangerous if the mist comes down. I’ll come with you. We can ask Dougal about the weather.’
That’s what happens if you’re a good listener. You get saddled with people who want to be listened to. Roo and Dorian went off together, and I took the opportunity to pump Brie about Ash.
‘He’s gay,’ she said. ‘He’s got to be. One, he’s absolutely beautiful, in a gay sort of way, and two, he never made even a flicker of a pass at me.’
My feelings exactly.
It was a strange sort of day and, though I didn’t know it, about to get a lot stranger. Sundays are always a little weird when you’re on location, because you feel you ought to be working and you’re not, and at Dunblair there wasn’t much to do. Alex had found a small room with a large TV screen and ensconced himself on the sofa in front of it, cuddling Fenny and saying he didn’t feel well, so I went to the bedroom to paint my nails and do some serious thinking, though I wasn’t certain what about. The disappearance of Elizabeth Courtney, Roo’s love life (lack of), the niggling fact that Alex and I still hadn’t had sex since he came to Dunblair. I decided to have some tea so I could order Winkworth about, but when I picked up the phone (all the bedrooms had one, like a hotel) a broad Scots accent told me he wasn’t available.
‘It’s his day oot,’ said the accent, possibly Dougal. ‘And Morag’s i’ the kirk. One of the girrls is here tae cover for them. If there’s something ye were wanting, I daresay ye could ask her.’
‘Tell her to bring me some tea,’ I said. ‘Earl Grey.’ I didn’t really want it, but the germ of an idea had come to me, and I needed to talk to the girl.
When the tea arrived, it tasted more like PG Tips, stewed rather than brewed, dark and strong and bitter. But I didn’t complain.
‘Winkworth took my shoe to be mended,’ I said, improvising. ‘The heel came off. D’you know what he’s done with it?’
The girl – Margaret, I think her name was – looked dumb. It wasn’t difficult.
‘Perhaps it’s in his room,’ I said. ‘Could you look?’
‘I’m no siccar . . .’
‘I’ll come with you,’ I said. ‘I know what it looks like.’
Fortunately, it didn’t occur to her to point out that Winkworth would be unlikely to keep many women’s shoes in his room. Although you never know with some guys . . .
Once we had found the room (but not the shoe), I dismissed her. ‘Don’t worry about it,’ I said airily. ‘I’ll ask him myself.’
When I was sure Margaret had gone, I slipped back along the corridor and went in. It was a good thing doors weren’t kept locked at Dunblair. I was slightly nervous – in detective thrillers, whenever the heroine goes to search a suspect’s room, they’re guaranteed to turn up in the middle. ‘He’s out,’ I reassured myself. ‘I’ve got plenty of time.’ I didn’t really know what I was looking for, or where to start, but it’s customary to open drawers, so I did. It was a large room, lacking the Basilisk touch, comfortable and, for a man, fairly tidy. The drawers contained the usual things you find in men’s drawers: socks, sweaters, boxer shorts. (Why do men always have so many socks? I swear they have more than women have tights or stockings.) In the cupboard, shirts, jeans, jackets, a coupl
e of suits, a few ties. Owing to the informal lifestyle obtaining at Dunblair, he didn’t normally wear a tie. In the shoe rack, mostly outdoor footwear and trainers. No pyjamas anywhere (he obviously slept naked or in his boxers), but a burgundy towelling bathrobe hung on the door to the en suite. In the bathroom, toothpaste, razor, Hugo Boss eau de cologne. In short, everything you would expect.
‘This is boring,’ I said out loud. ‘Why isn’t there any personal stuff?’
There were a couple of books by the bed: a Michael Marshall thriller and a book on Middle Eastern politics by someone called Adel Darwish who, from the jacket shot, appeared to be male. Also Private Eye and The Economist. What butler reads Private Eye and The Economist? He ought to have a trade publication, Butling Weekly or something. And the Mail, or the Sun, or . . .
Why wasn’t there any personal stuff?
No diary, no address book, no laptop. (Presumably he carried his mobile with him, since there was a recharger plugged in at the wall.) No photographs. If he had a wife and two kids, there should be pictures. I knew he wasn’t married . . .
Even so, there ought to be photographs of somebody. His mother, his sister, himself in school uniform, himself as a child with pet gerbil/kitten/tarantula. We all keep those photos, even the embarrassing ones. I’ve got my best PR shots framed at the mews, plus snaps of me with every famous person I’ve ever met, ready to include them in my autobiography, but back at my own flat there’s a pin-up board with all the family ones. Me as a baby, Pan as a baby, Roo and me as kids on the beach, Roo and me in fancy dress, Mummy in the garden with assorted dogs and children, my grandparents, an aunt, some cousins. Me in a leather jacket on Ben Garvin’s motorbike. Roo and me, respectively sixteen and eighteen, dolled up for a party. Me at drama college, as Juliet. Roo’s graduation. I’ve even got some old sepia pictures of relatives long deceased, in the cloche hats and dropped waists of the 1920s, or in one case an Edwardian tea gown.
Winkworth had none. Very, very suspicious. I couldn’t wait to tell Roo.
I found the briefcase under the bed. It was one of those multisectioned efforts with an optional shoulder strap, quality leather, unmistakably expensive. Not at all appropriate for a butler, I decided. And it was heavy, suggesting technology inside. The missing laptop.
It was also locked.
A fictional detective would know how to pick the lock, but I hadn’t a clue. You were supposed to use a hairpin, only I’d never worn a hairpin in my life, and I wouldn’t know what to do with it if I had. Or a nail file (I had those, though not on me). But this lock didn’t look easily picked. It was much too efficient a lock for the requirements of a mere butler.
‘I knew he was a fraud,’ I said, feeling vindicated. A genuine butler would have Butling Weekly at his bedside, and pictures of his sweet, white-haired old mother in Surbiton, and the laptop on the desk, open for all the world to see. He wouldn’t have a briefcase hidden furtively under the bed, with a lock on it that would have defeated James Bond . . .
I heard the footsteps just in time. (Thank God the corridor was uncarpeted.) I shoved the briefcase out of sight and, reduced to desperation, dived after it. Happily the bed was well off the floor and there was a frill screening me from view. I lifted it enough to see feet – girl’s feet, in pink trainers. Margaret? I hadn’t noticed her footwear, but pink trainers seemed likely. They padded towards the bathroom, did something meaningful there – changing the towels? – then returned towards the door and departed.
I wriggled out, feeling horribly shaky, waited a minute or two, and left.
Roo wasn’t around, so I sent her a text. ‘Serched Ws rm. Defnitly fake. Tell u al latr.’ Then I hung about, feeling impatient. I’m not good at waiting.
Roo got back around lunchtime.
‘What have you done?’ she demanded, panicking unnecessarily. ‘You can’t go around searching people’s bedrooms just because you don’t get on. It’s . . . it’s invasion of privacy.’
‘He’s invading our privacy,’ I said, ‘by pretending to be a butler when he isn’t. Anyway, there’s no point in flapping over something I’ve already done.’
‘What did you find?’
‘It’s what I didn’t find,’ I said, and told her all about it.
‘It’s odd,’ she conceded, ‘but it isn’t conclusive. Maybe the family photos are in the attic of his house in Kensington. Maybe his wife has them. She could have left him, and taken the children and the pictures. Or maybe they’re in his briefcase.’
‘Rubbish,’ I said. ‘People don’t keep personal pix in a locked briefcase . . . unless they’re actually incriminating. Perhaps he really is planning to rob the place, and the pictures show him with notorious Mafiosi.’
‘You’re getting carried away,’ Roo said. ‘Harry isn’t the criminal type. He’s just—’
‘He’s up to something,’ I declared. ‘We have to find out what. HG will be very grateful.’
‘There’s nothing else we can do.’
‘Yes there is. We can open that case.’
‘Lock-picking isn’t one of my talents,’ Roo said. ‘Nor yours. So—’
‘There’s a gun room here somewhere. We could shoot the lock off.’
‘You know, I don’t need mousse or hair gel,’ Roo remarked. ‘With you around, my hair stands on end by itself. Of course we can’t shoot the lock off. For one thing, it would be awfully noticeable afterwards. Not to mention the noise involved.’
I waved aside afterwards. ‘Once we know the truth about him, it won’t signify.’
‘Supposing the truth is that he’s just a normal butler? It isn’t a crime to lock your briefcase, particularly with people like you around.’
‘You can’t keep changing your position,’ I said. ‘You’ve admitted it’s odd about the photos. It might be far-fetched to suggest he’s a crook, but he is likely to be an undercover reporter.’
‘Which reminds me—’
‘Anything he’s written will be on the computer, which is why he’s locked it away. We can get Dorian to hack in and retrieve it. He’s pretty keen on you.’
‘Don’t,’ Roo said, with a shudder. ‘He tried to kiss me today. He says he likes older women – it’s not as if I’m that old, either – and we have a connection, and I really understand him. I should never have let him show me his computer game.’
I burst out laughing. ‘That’s what comes of being a good listener. I knew I was right to give it a miss.’
‘Anyhow, never mind about Dorian – or Harry. We’ve got a real problem to sort out. We heard this morning that there are a couple of journos in the village. They were in the pub the other night, only I didn’t realise. They’re flashing cheque books and trying to get the inside story on your row with the Basilisk.’
‘It doesn’t matter if they do,’ I said. ‘I won.’
‘It does matter. If anything got into the gutter press, HG would hate it, and you can’t blame him. Basilisa is his wife, after all. And without HG we have no series.’
‘There’s nothing we can do,’ I said. ‘You’re not used to working with celebs, are you? We have the paparazzi on our tails all the time; it goes with the territory. We can always leak them something about my wedding to keep them happy.’
‘I think they’d prefer the fight,’ Roo said. ‘Violence beats romance in the popularity stakes, any day.’
Ruth
Sunday was usually a quiet day, time to have a lie-in and do nothing, a vital oasis of calm in the chaos of the working week. There was little to show that this Sunday was going to be any different, no forewarning of the drama that was to come. I lost my lie-in to Delphi’s dream-phantoms, my solitary walk to Dorian’s determination to keep me company. HG, he told me, had taken Basilisa away for a day or so to placate her, visiting an exclusive hotel with designer cuisine, deluxe indoor pool and spa, beauty therapy (for the Basilisk) and golf (for HG). The thought of having to work with her again appalled me, but that was my job, I would do it if it killed me, an
d in the meantime I tried to clear my mind of worry and anticipation and enjoy my day off. I was succeeding so well that Dorian’s amorous advances went unnoticed until he flung his arms round me and attempted to eat my face.
‘What the hell—’
‘You know how I feel – you must do,’ he said as I struggled to push him away. ‘You’ve always been so . . . I mean, no one else understands like you do. I can tell you anything . . .’
‘I’m much too old for you!’
‘I like older women. Older women are cool. I’ve met lots of girls, of course – I’ve been out with lots of girls—’
‘Of course.’
‘– but I’m too mature for the young ones. I didn’t fancy Basilisa, but she had the right idea. I need someone really adult, someone compatible who can enter into my interests. You and I would be perfect together. Besides, I’ve got much more sexual energy than older guys. Men peak at eighteen – I’m nearly at my peak. Women peak at twenty-five. We’d be ideal in bed – both almost at our peaks. We could have such great sex—’
‘I’m not feeling very peaky right now,’ I said hastily. ‘Dorian, pull yourself together. I – just don’t think of you that way. It’s very sweet of you to—’
‘I’m not sweet!’ I’d got him in the ego – and I was trying to be nice. Fatal. ‘I’m a man, not some cuddly little boy! If we were in ancient Rome I could’ve been a centurion by now. Did I tell you how many hits I had on my website last year? I’m much smarter than my dad. I know he likes you, but he’s really old – he’s so old it’s obscene – and anyway, there’s my stepmother. You can’t fancy dad – can you?’
‘No, of course not, but—’
‘There you are!’ He grabbed me again, lips homing in on mine. I saw to it they missed. ‘Ruth – you’re so special . . .’
‘No I’m not! I mean, I do like you, but I can’t – I don’t – oh, for God’s sake cut it out! I really don’t need this . . .’
He drew back, looking hurt. The kicked-puppy effect. ‘I thought we . . . had a connection.’