Ghost Walk

by Alanna Knight

  He paused and then added. ‘It will look better if you are with me, make it more informal. Less like an official visit.’

  So that was the reason I had been invited along. Not for my charming company, I thought cynically.

  It took a lot longer to reach the castle by the road than by the track where I had been apprehended by the gamekeeper and his savage dog and accused of trespassing.

  We circled the estate by a bank of trees and a couple of fields leading through ornate gates, where a long drive twisted through tight shrubbery to emerge at the magnificent frontage of the castle, which I had seen from far above. The lawns sported a raised platform and canopied seating area.

  Preparations for a Jubilee pageant, I decided, as the pony cart rattled across the gravelled forecourt and a footman appeared at the door.

  Jack stepped down. A murmured conversation, heads turned in my direction.

  ‘Would madam care to wait for you in the library, sir?’ asked the footman.

  I stepped down from the cart and shook my head. ‘Thank you. I’ll wait outside and enjoy the sunshine.’ Keen to be accommodating, the footman indicated a path through the shrubbery. ‘Feel free to explore the gardens, madam. We’ll ring the bell when sir is ready to leave.’

  Jack grinned and they disappeared inside. As the door closed I had an instant’s regret at missing a chance to view the library.

  However, the sun was warm and I love grand gardens, my life having been severely deficient in that respect during my years in the Arizona desert.

  There were several inviting paths spread out like the fingers of a hand, twisting through tall, well-manicured hedges. Small, shady, not to say chilly arbours, with stone seats under the watchful melancholy stone gaze of a number of underclad gods and goddesses, who must have found the long winter months somewhat trying.

  At last I emerged at a large artificial lake with a boathouse. There were swans and ducks and a boy with a toy boat. He was about eight years old, immaculately clad in sailor suit and a straw hat tilted back over a mass of blond curls. A picture book child unaware of being watched and I regretted not having my sketchbook.

  A cry of distress: he had lost his hold on the boat’s rope. He was leaning forward, staggering, ready to topple into the lake.

  I raced forward, grabbed his legs just as the rest of him was about to slide into the water and pulled him ashore.

  The sleeves of that immaculate white suit were somewhat the worse for the experience, but he wasn’t grateful for my lifesaving activity.

  Pointing he yelled, ‘My boat. Please get it back. Look, I’ve lost it!’

  ‘You almost lost more than that, young man,’ I said sternly. ‘Just wait until your mamma sees you –’

  He was unconcerned and continued to wail. ‘My boat, it’s drifting away.’

  ‘Wait here, don’t move,’ I commanded and tore down a loose branch from one of the overhanging willows. ‘I’ll get it for you.’

  Following the boat’s progress around the lake and then, by lying flat on my stomach, with some careful manoeuvring of the branch, I managed to steer it safely shorewards.

  ‘There you are now, no damage done,’ I said, ignoring the condition of my sleeves drenched in the process.

  Hugging his boat to his breast, his smile was angelic. ‘Thank you, thank you. You saved her! I don’t know what would have happened if you hadn’t been around.’

  ‘You would have taken a tumble into the water and and got very wet indeed, I fear.’

  He looked up at me and shuddered. ‘I might have drowned. You saved my life. In that case I won’t tell Ben that you were trespassing,’ he added sternly, and holding out his hand. ‘Very pleased to know you, madam.’

  We shook hands. ‘I take it that you live here.’

  ‘Oh yes indeed. I’m Alexander. My father owns this place. What is your name?’

  As I said: ‘It’s Rose –’, the peaceful scene by the lake erupted as the fierce sheepdog I had met once before hurtled out of the shrubbery.

  Chapter Ten

  ‘Down, Billy – down,’ commanded my small companion in a voice amazingly full of authority for one so young.

  The sheepdog was closely followed by my old enemy the gamekeeper. His angry grimace showed yellow teeth identical in colour to those of his dog.

  Ignoring Alexander he shouted, ‘What are you doing here, miss. Don’t you know you are trespassing. This is the second time I’ve caught you,’ he added suspiciously. ‘Molesting the young master, too. You had better come with me up to the house.’

  ‘Stop, Ben. This instant!’ Armed by his inborn right to instant obedience, the youngster at my side said sternly, ‘This lady is a friend of mine. Her name is Miss Rose.’

  The man’s face underwent a rapid change of emotions, a quick succession too great for me to interpret, and when he spoke again belligerence had been replaced by formality.

  ‘Very well, young sir, but we’ll see what his lordship has to say about that.’

  Any further discussion was cut short at that moment by what sounded like the clang of a school bell from the direction of the front door.

  I turned and said with great dignity, ‘That is for me. My fiancé –’

  I had almost said Detective Inspector Macmerry but something stopped me just in time.

  Alexander took my hand, bowed over it gravely and, ignoring the scowling man and his equally scowling dog, said, ‘Thank you – for the boat, I mean.’

  ‘I’m glad I got here in time,’ I said.

  He said shortly to Ben, ‘She saved my boat – from shipwreck, you know.’ And to me, the bow, that angelic smile again. ‘I do hope we shall meet again.’

  ‘I hope so too,’ I responded politely without any certainty that any such an occasion would ever arise.

  At that Ben cut short any further conversation with a stern, ‘You had better come with me, Master Alexander, you’re all wet. Nanny won’t want you catching cold again.’

  Alexander nodded obediently and about to follow Ben, he turned. ‘Will you be coming to our garden fete – on Jubilee Day?’

  ‘I might.’

  ‘Oh, please do. I would like that very much.’

  Ben held out an impatient hand. I was conscious of his brooding expression. Not lust this time. Something else, sly yet triumphant. As if he had made a totally unexpected discovery.

  Worse than his leers when we first met, it unnerved me. I was glad Jack was with me and I resolved to stay well out of the gamekeeper’s way in future.

  Jack was standing by the pony cart in earnest conversation with the tall man holding the school bell.

  As I approached, he turned, saw me and bowed. I decided I had never seen anyone in my whole life who looked so like a knight of old as Lord Quentin Verney. A thatch of white hair, white moustache, red face and regal bearing – every inch of him suggested that he had just this minute stepped out of a suit of armour.

  As Jack was about to make the introductions, the footman ran down the front steps, with an urgent whispered message to his lordship. Bowing again, with a smile and murmured apology, Verney disappeared indoors leaving Jack and I to step into the pony cart.

  ‘Successful?’ I asked.

  ‘Indeed,’ said Jack nodding solemnly. His noncommittal tone I knew of old. It meant there wasn’t any further information forthcoming. ‘What about you?’

  ‘Oh, I had an adventure.’

  ‘What kind would that be?’ he asked cautiously.

  ‘Well, I rescued a boat from shipwreck and fell in love.’

  ‘You – what!’ he laughed.

  ‘I fell in love at first sight, just like the heroine of a romantic novel, with the handsome young master of the house.’

  He guessed I was joking but felt obliged to ask, ‘Does this mean I have a rival and will have to call him out and demand satisfaction?’

  ‘You might. But not for a year or two. He’s only eight years old.’

  Jack laughed heartily and put
an arm around my shoulder. I told him about the young Master of Verney as we set off back down the drive and, approving my life and boat saving actions, he consulted his watch.

  ‘What shall we do now, Rose? I am yours for the rest of the day. My train leaves at eight o’clock. What say you to a picnic?’

  ‘That would be lovely. But a picnic without food?’

  He chuckled. ‘I had all that in mind when we were offered the pony cart. Look under the seat.’

  And there it was. A splendid basket, full of his mother’s best baking and a bottle of her elderberry wine.

  ‘Now I’ll show you a piece of Eildon history,’ said Jack, urging Charity along a steep and little-used track. Below us the smooth line of undulating hills was scarred by the monstrous overgrown remains of what had once been a working quarry.

  ‘And that,’ said Jack, ‘is where the men who built the Abbey in the thirteenth century got their stones from. Can you imagine this as a hive of industry, a thriving community, long before Eildon ever came into being. Thanks to the economic use of the ruined Abbey’s stones by some enterprising farmers, they had no need for the quarry and it’s been abandoned for years now. We were warned it was unsafe, a forbidden place and therefore extremely attractive as a place of adventure in my boyhood.’

  Even in gentle sunshine it did not strike me as a place were I would care to linger or to explore alone.

  Jack’s next words confirmed that. ‘There are all sorts of dangers, unseen hazards. Deep pits and caves and where most of the stone was taken out, a bottomless – so they say – pond. Two lads were drowned when Da was at school and that earned it a bad reputation with parents. There was also a gloomy suggestion that when anyone walked out of the house and disappeared, that was where you would find them – at the bottom of the quarry pond.’

  ‘Not a great place for a picnic?’

  He shook his head. ‘It still gives me the creeps, but I thought you’d want to see it, intrigued as you are by unsolved mysteries. Besides there would have been no famous Abbey if it hadn’t existed so conveniently close. Shall we drive on?’

  We followed more twisting tracks which emerged at the course of a sparkling burn. This was Jack’s favourite childhood haunt.

  When he wanted to get away from everyone, having been naughty, which he said, was often, or just disagreeable and out of sorts with the world in general, he would retreat to this dear spot.

  ‘The number of times I fell in and went home sobbing, a drowned rat, my clothes ruined,’ he laughed as sitting on a large stone as we dabbled bare feet in the burn.

  A very isolated place and, as it turned out, very convenient and secluded for the benefit of lovers as Jack’s motive for the picnic became evident.

  Feeling particularly bruised by recent events I was glad of some physical expression of my future husband’s devotion and our lovemaking, always perhaps the most successful and united part of our relationship, left me feeling breathless, very fulfilled and at peace with all the world – and with Jack in particular.

  By the time we went back to the farm I had almost forgotten my intention to investigate Father McQuinn’s murder as soon as Jack boarded the train. I was very concerned, though, about Thane. He was never far from my thoughts, nervously wondering how he was coping with his new environment.

  Did he feel trapped, as I did – did he long for home, for Arthur’s Seat as I did? In the stable, Thane looked less forlorn and Jack’s father indicated a neatly splinted paw. ‘Intelligent animal, knows it’s for his own good. Never made a bit of fuss, most dogs would need a muzzle. A wee bone fractured, painful and could have lamed him for life. But we’ve sorted that out, haven’t we, old lad. You’ll be right as rain soon,’ he added, ruffling Thane’s ears and his dignity.

  I put my arm around Thane’s neck. ‘How long will it take?’ I asked.

  ‘A week or so and we’ll take the splint off. Jack can come back for him.’

  So I was to be a prisoner too for another week.

  ‘He shouldn’t walk much, mind you,’ Mr Macmerry added and I was relieved to banish from my imagination that ghostly herd of panic-stricken sheep with Thane in full pursuit and every farmer’s gun at the ready trained on him.

  ‘What is he eating? I mean, what are you feeding him?’

  Mr Macmerry seemed surprised at the question. ‘Usual wholesome food we give all our dogs. Grand appetite he has.’

  I looked at Thane who confirmed this by licking his lips.

  I was allowed to see Jack off alone that evening. As we walked to the station I gave him strict instructions that next time he came he was to bring my wedding gown, or more correctly my new Sunday best summer dress which I had purchased at Jenners spring sale. A bargain, I saw it in the window, fell in love with it and had to have it.

  I’m not normally much of a hand with impractical ladies’ gowns more appropriate to the better-off section of Edinburgh society. But this was a gem of its kind. Ivory muslin, with a satin under petticoat, sprigged with delicate cornflowers. A wide blue satin sash did wonders for my waistline and that was what finally decided me.

  I felt it did not altogether meet with Jack’s approval. ‘You look like a little girl, all excited and off to her first grown-up party.’

  And as I surveyed myself in the mirror in Solomon’s Tower and smiled at the compliment, he stared over my shoulder, scowled and said very solemnly, ‘It makes you look infernally young. As if I’m marrying a child bride.’

  Then seeing the disappointment on my face he gathered me into his arms. ‘You don’t look like a woman past thirty. You look about sixteen.’

  ‘I wish!’ I suppose I was flattered – what woman wouldn’t be? But whatever the outside shell, inside I was every year of my life.

  In ten years of my marriage to Danny from twenty to thirty, I had lived through every sort of dire circumstance in Arizona. Poverty, deprivation, near starvation, terror from Indians – and bereavement. And the worst that can happen to a mother – the loss of the one beloved only baby after years of being childless.

  And looking ‘infernally young’ as Jack described it could be a considerable drawback in my chosen career. I was well aware of my lack of inches and dressed accordingly, with the care of an actress in a stage play.

  I worked hard at the image of a Lady Investigator, Discretion Guaranteed.

  A dark outdoor costume, tailored and correct, its length adaptable for my bicycle, black boots with a heel to give an illusion of more than my four feet ten inches.

  ‘Which of your bonnets shall I bring?’ asked Jack.

  I thought of the two in my wardrobe at home. Simple, unadorned but reassuringly respectable. Felt in winter, straw in summer, in which my wild mop of yellow hair could be suitably tamed and hidden.

  I laughed. ‘Neither would do. I want a simple wreath of blue flowers,’ I said firmly, ‘and don’t forget my white patent shoes.’

  They too were beautiful, from the sales and as I had very tiny feet, a bargain although not everyday wear and far less comfortable than my sturdy boots.

  ‘You might well be coming back to Edinburgh before the wedding,’ said Jack hopefully.

  ‘On the other hand, I might not.’

  ‘Very well. You can leave it to me.’

  I knew I could do just that. Jack was very reliable.

  As the bell rang signalling the train’s approach, he said, ‘I’m relying on you to do what you can to help Ma with the wedding arrangements and – and no bright ideas about that other business. You know what I’m talking about?’

  I nodded in agreement. His stern reminder was unnecessary.

  ‘Behave, Rose. I don’t want you getting into all sorts of complications. Remember my parents have to live here after we leave. You have no idea what village life is like. They’re very proud and have a fine reputation. We don’t want them to be a laughing stock.’

  A rather cruel assessment of my Discretion Guaranteed activities, I thought, but I understood his sensitivit
y on the subject of his family.

  The train steamed in, hissed impatiently at the platform for its intake of one solitary passenger. With Jack leaning out of the window and that last kiss exchanged, the loftily titled station master in his more lowly role as guard and porter, when required, blew his whistle.

  I stood with my arm upraised until the trail of smoke disappeared around the bend in the track. Wished a polite good evening, the guard, anxious to return home, closed the gate behind me.

  The railway station was on the same side of the village as the Catholic church, and I recognised this as a golden opportunity to call on Mrs Aiden to offer my condolences.

  An informal visit to find out how she was getting on. But I wasn’t fooling myself for an instant, I knew exactly what I had in mind.

  The house door was open, no one heard my knock, so hearing voices I presumed it was all right to enter, to be greeted by the sight of a room packed with black-clad women. Prayer books and rosaries were in evidence.

  Awareness of this new arrival in their midst put an end to all conversation. Heads swivelled in my direction, expressions anxious and embarrassed.

  I knew the reason why. This was a wake for their dead priest and as a non-Catholic and a stranger, I didn’t have any role to play.

  However Mrs Aiden spotted me leaving, rushed over and said: ‘Miss Faro, the funeral’s on Friday. Our new assistant priest is already on his way, sent by the Bishop to help the Father – his rheumatism is – was – bad and the outlying districts a bit too much –’ Her eyes filled with tears. ‘Come to the funeral if you wish.’

  Had she forgotten that I was related to Father McQuinn by marriage?

  ‘I’d like to meet the man who helped you with him –’ I said awkwardly.

  She stared at me. ‘So would I. But as I told you, I had never seen him before. That isn’t unusual, a lot of strangers pass through Eildon on their way to the Abbey.’