Mr. McAndrew holds up his hand rather peremptorily, waiting for more people to arrive. I can hear someone in the gallery already, and sure enough, a few seconds later Catriona appears, a big terry-cloth dressing gown wrapped round her.
“Dad? What is it? I could hear you shouting from the shower,” she says, leaning over the balcony.
“Where’s your brother?” Mr. McAndrew asks, his jaw set.
Catriona shrugs. “Gone for a walk with Lucy, I think.”
“Did they take a gun out?”
“No idea, sorry.”
“Dad!” A door behind us bangs and Callum McAndrew strides into the Hall. I’m finding him more and more annoying. Why can’t he just walk like a normal person? He seems to be perpetually surrounded by a dark cloud. He’s wearing a greenish tweed jacket over a big cream Arran sweater and ancient jeans, pretty much exactly what his father’s got on, but somehow he manages to make it look dashing, which is annoying, too. “What the hell’s the row about?”
“Were you shooting by the drive just now?” his father says, beetling his brows at Callum.
Callum looks shocked. “Of course not. I was just out for a walk.”
“What about Lucy?”
Callum drops his gaze, suddenly looking a lot younger. “We had a fight,” he mutters. “She went home.”
“Lucy wouldn’t be shooting by the drive either, Lachlan,” Mrs. McAndrew says. “Everyone knows it’s not safe.”
“Well, someone gave Scarlett a nasty scare,” Mr. McAndrew says.
“She was walking in the wood?” Callum asks, casting a stern glance at me. “Dressed like that? In October? What an idiot!”
“Callum McAndrew!” Moira says, before his parents can get in first. “The lassie’s up from London, what does she know about game shooting? Did anyone bother to tell her? Did you?”
Callum’s eyes flash, but he doesn’t say anything. Moira turns to me.
“You should always wear something bright when you’re walking through the woods in the autumn, Scarlett,” she says, smiling at me. “Or you’re likely to get peppered with birdshot by someone out after a nice plump pheasant or two.”
When Moira says my name, I remember how Dan said it suited me. He was the first person ever to say that. I’d always been embarrassed by it, thinking it was a name for a heroine, a really beautiful one, and I could never live up to it. Even since then, I’ve been a lot keener on being called Scarlett. Even if Lucy’s right, and Dan just went after any girl who’d say yes to him, I still get warm inside thinking of him complimenting me like that.
“Though if she’s walking along the drive, she should be perfectly safe in any case,” Mr. McAndrew bellows. “I’m going to check the gun room now. And if I find anything missing, there’ll be hell to pay.”
He stalks off across the Hall, his wife watching him, her white forehead corrugated with concern.
I’m a bit concerned too. Because I can’t help noticing that Mr. McAndrew’s going toward what looks like the same door that Callum just entered through . . . which means that Callum, despite his denial, came from the direction of the gun room. I look at Callum, whose mother is putting her arm around him. Is he capable of shooting at me? Why would he do something like that—to scare me away from here? And why would he want me to go? He wasn’t at the party the night Dan died, by all accounts, but Lucy could have been acting for him.
And then something strikes me so hard that it’s almost like a blow. I must be the idiot Callum called me, not to have thought of it before.
Who was the older twin—Dan or Callum?
Which one of them would have inherited Castle Airlie if Dan hadn’t died?
“Och, that’d be Dan,” Moira says, kneading away in a big, rather chipped, china bowl, scraps of dough stuck to her knuckles. “But you know, he never cared about the land like Master Callum. It’s an awful thing to say, but it was always Callum should have been the older. Everyone knows it. They popped out in the wrong order, no doubt about it.”
Moira is paralyzingly blunt. I gape at her from my seat on a high wooden stool, which she gestured me to when I followed her into the kitchen. She sees my reaction and bursts out laughing.
“Och, there’s no beating around the bush with me!” she says. “You’ll get used to it soon enough. I tell you, Master Callum loves Castle Airlie. It’s in his blood.”
“I haven’t really seen that side of him at all,” I say, which I think is pretty tactful and diplomatic of me, considering that I’ve only seen a single aspect of Callum: the loud, shouty, angry one. I consider that maybe this is because Callum was up to his neck in the plan to murder Dan and is shouting at me out of guilt, and perhaps also to make the point that he’s a grieving brother, not a cold-blooded murderer. This is chilling, but it’s only speculation. I sigh. I need a lot more facts.
“Mmm, I can imagine,” Moira comments. “Well, you’ll have to take my word for it. If you took Master Callum from Castle Airlie, you’d break his heart right there and then. Master Callum and Miss Catriona, they both live for being McAndrews of Castle Airlie.”
“Catriona showed me round this morning,” I volunteer. “She was really nice about it.”
“Och, she’s got the manners in the family, no doubt about that!” Moira says, laughing. “And plenty of brains! She’s an architecture student, did you know? Such a bright girl. Keeps her cards close to her vest, too, that’s Miss Cat. Master Callum’s a terrible one for saying what’s on his mind without thinking about it first. Miss Cat, now, she thinks about everything before she says a word. She’ll go far, that girl.”
Moira drives her knuckles down into the dough, expertly working the air into it. Her hands are really strong. I can see the muscles in her forearms moving as she kneads the contents of the bowl.
“Just like Master Dan, now I think of it,” she continues. “He was a born politician. Very charming, Master Dan.” She smiles reminiscently. “And always ready to tell you what you wanted to hear. But he couldn’t hide that he was the only McAndrew who never liked it here—he couldn’t wait to get down to the bright lights of London. That’s why he was at school down there. Living with Mrs. Mac’s sister, going to all the parties there, getting his face in the magazines. Well, you’d know about that, wouldn’t you?” She looks up from her work and assesses me with a quick bright stare. “Drink up your tea, now.” She nods pointedly at my brimming mug, which she insisted on making for me. “You puir gurul, all the surprises you’ve had today. You must be fairly shattered!”
It takes me a little while to realize that “gurul” is Moira’s way of pronouncing “girl.” I pick up the tea and sip at it gingerly. Moira has spooned about half a cup of sugar into it.
“Ever since Dan died,” I say frankly, “it’s been one surprise after another. I suppose I’m getting used to them.”
Moira tuts her tongue.
“You’re too young. You’re all too young for this,” she says sadly. “Look at us here! We should be planning for the party of a lifetime right now, have the house full of people, not be moping around shouting at each other. . . .”
“You mean for Dan and Callum’s eighteenth birthday?” I ask, drinking more tea. It’s horribly sweet, but it is actually making me feel better.
Moira nods.
“We had a wonderful party for Catriona’s eighteenth,” she sighs. “A huge ceilidh in the Great Hall, a band playing, I had four girls in from the village just to help me with the food—och, they danced till dawn! And of course, for the twins, it’d have been even bigger, what with there being two of them.”
She stops kneading the dough and turns away, wiping away what looks like tears with the sleeve of her sweater.
“It’s hard to believe Dan’s gone, you know?” she says through the wool. “I tell myself I’ll never see him walking through that door again with his cheeky smile, coming over to give me a hug and then help himself to some biscuits when he thinks I’m not looking. But it’s not easy. It’s not easy.”<
br />
I look around the kitchen to give Moira some sort of privacy. It’s a huge, drafty room, with a gigantic black iron range set into the wall on one side, an equally gigantic iron hood above it. Various saucepans and pots are set on top, bubbling away, and Moira’s warned me in dire terms to be careful going near it, as it’s all too easy to burn yourself on it. The walls are painted pale blue, which must have been a long time ago, as they’re very faded and stained now, and overhead, in the rafters high above the big battered wooden table, is a system of pulleys and wooden rods draped with drying clothes and tea towels. It’s toasty warm, smells of baking, and is by far the coziest room I’ve seen so far in Castle Airlie—even if it is the size of an airplane hangar.
Buzz! I jump. I’m so wound up with everything that’s been happening today that for a moment I don’t realize the weird fizzing vibrations I’m feeling in my side are actually coming from my phone. A text just came in. Jase! I think instinctively, and have to stop myself reaching for it straightaway. God, I so hope it’s him. These people, fighting all the time, this huge echoing castle, not to mention playing hide-and-seek with a shotgun this afternoon—I could really do with hugging Jase, feeling his warmth, being briefly enfolded in his strong arms and pretending, like some feeble heroine from a fairy tale, that having a boy close will make everything all right.
I know it doesn’t work like that. I know you have to fight your own battles. But just for a few minutes, there’s nothing I’d love more than to pretend that hugging Jase would solve all my problems.
Moira hasn’t noticed my start. Reaching for a tissue, she blows her nose with a loud trumpet, shoves the tissue up her sweater sleeve, and returns to her kneading. I finish my tea in one big slurp, and, high on the sugar rush, climb down off the stool and put my mug in the deep sink that runs half the length of the kitchen.
“I think I might go lie down in my room for a bit,” I say.
Moira nods vigorously.
“Now that’s a guid idea,” she says. “Dinner’s at eight, as always. You get a bit of a rest.” She indicates a door at the end of the kitchen. “Go up the servants’ staircase. Pop through that, go up the stairs in front of you to the second floor, through the baize-covered door, turn left and your room’s third on the right. Easier than going through the Great Hall, and you probably won’t bump into anyone. Which is probably the last thing you want to do right now, eh, hen?”
I blush. “Well, um . . . ,” I mumble.
Moira shakes her head. “Master Callum’s still breathing fire,” she says sadly. “I’m not saying it was the right thing for Mrs. Mac to ask you here, especially not now. But once you entered Castle Airlie as a guest, that’s how you should be treated.”
I tense up, wondering where she’s going with this. Is she going to say I should leave? Because suddenly I realize that, despite all the drama and upset here in Castle Airlie, not to mention being stalked this afternoon, I definitely don’t want to go: I sense that the key to the mystery of Dan’s death is right here, among these people. And I have to stay until I find it.
“Off with you now,” she says. “Get some rest. At least you’ve worked up an appetite with all that walking! It’s cock-a-leekie soup and brown trout for dinner, with oatmeal potatoes, so you’ll have plenty to eat.”
I mumble a thank-you and head for the door she pointed out. Halfway up the stairs, though, I reach for my phone, and my heart leaps just at the sight of the little yellow envelope at the top of the screen that says I have a message. I unlock it and click on the icon in one fast move, and it must say something really awful about me that I have incredibly mixed emotions when I see the message.
I should be over the moon that I haven’t lost another friend. But I’m torn—although I’m incredibly curious about its significance, I’m gutted that Jase still hasn’t got in touch with me.
On my screen are the words:
MEET ME WHERE CARS PARKED ASAP. LOTS 2 TELL U. HOPE UR OK! T
Taylor’s here? At Castle Airlie? How is that even possible? I dash down the steps again and look around me. There’s a door at the end of the corridor that looks as if it might lead outside. I know where the cars are parked, because that’s where Mr. McAndrew left the Land Rover this afternoon. And I know, too, that there’s another bridge over the moat at the back of the castle, for kitchen deliveries, because I saw it when Catriona and I were on our walk this morning. I nip down the corridor, grateful yet again for my trainers which allow me to move near-silently, and lift the latch of the door.
I push it. It opens into a wide, stone-paved room which must be the pantry, as it’s lined with shelves stacked with tins and packets of food. I can see another door further along the wall which must lead to the kitchen, and then, across the room, is a big wooden door with a smaller one cut into it. Bingo! In a flash I’m tugging at the latch. It creaks a bit, but I lever it up as gently as possible and prise it open.
Cold air blows through the opening. I’ve found the way out.
seventeen
“I’M ON FIRE!”
It’s already dark. Night comes early in Scotland when winter’s on its way. The pantry door opens straight onto a wide concrete bridge. I dash over it and, taking a quick inventory of Castle Airlie’s geography, turn left on the grassy bank that borders the moat. There’s a well-trodden path along it and I run round it, keeping a steady pace until the brick wall of the old stables, where the cars are kept, comes into view. Then I slow down until my breath is back to normal again, or close enough that no one could hear me panting and realize someone was coming.
There might be someone else in the stables, someone who isn’t Taylor. After my scare of this afternoon, I’m taking precautions.
I walk through the wide stone arch, careful not to make any sound. It’s completely dark in here. I stand in the center of the stables, looking around me. Faint light gleams off the metal of the cars, but it’s an overcast night, with barely any moon glowing through the clouds, and the shadows are pits of black, completely impenetrable. The cold in here is damp, unheated stone, with a faint odor of mold. It’s very creepy.
“Taylor?” I whisper.
There’s a stir of movement from the far corner of the stables. I turn to look and see Taylor’s face hovering in the shadows in what looks like an optical illusion. As she walks toward me, I see it’s because she’s wearing a black high-neck sweater and black jeans, which make her body invisible against the dark background. She looks like a cat burglar or a ninja. Very cool—and suitable for secret rendezvous after dark. I suppose that’s the exception to the no-black-in-the-country rule.
“Over here!” she whispers back, her face gleaming, pale and eerie. “Come on, let’s go outside.”
“Outside?” I say, baffled, even as I follow her back through the arch.
Taylor tuts her tongue.
“In there someone could sneak up on us,” she explains, leading the way round the back of the stables. “Out here we can see anyone coming from miles off. I figured that out while I was waiting for you.”
“Nice one,” I say respectfully, before I remember that she’s not supposed to be anywhere near Castle Airlie. “But what are you doing here?” I continue. “How did you even get—”
“Flew up to Ayr, got a cab to Airlie village, found a B and B, hired a bike,” Taylor cuts in succinctly. “Told the nice lady at the B and B my mom and dad were joining me and we were going to tour the area for my half-term. Then I said I’d got a call from them and they were stuck on their dig in Turkey because their paperwork wasn’t in order.”
Taylor’s parents have given her a large contingency fund for emergencies—I suppose this counts as one. I admire the cunning way she’s used the truth to make her lie as plausible as possible.
“I figure I have a couple more days before she starts freaking out that my folks aren’t showing up,” Taylor’s saying, “but you’ll be going in a couple of days anyway, right? So we should be covered.”
“But what are
you doing here?”
She shrugs. “It was really boring at school without you. Practically everyone’s gone home for half-term. Besides, I thought things over, and I decided that while I . . . maybe . . . overreacted before, I wasn’t going to listen to what you said about needing to come up here alone. What a girl in your situation needs is backup.” She raises her eyebrows. “And, considering what happened this afternoon, I’d say I was right, wouldn’t you?”
“You saw what happened this afternoon?” My voice rises, and Taylor instantly makes a lowering motion with her hand to remind me to keep it down.
“I was bicycling along the drive,” she explains quietly. “I thought if anyone stopped me, I’d just say I was a tourist and got turned around on all these roads to nowhere. I got to this kind of miniforest, and just as I reached it I heard a shot, and I thought I’d better take cover. So I got off my bike and just sort of stuck my head round a few trees to see what was going on. I saw you doing one of your show-offy gymnastic moves over a tree branch. I did think at first you were just trying to impress some guy”—I stick my tongue out at her, which she ignores—“but then I heard another shot, and you know, I sort of began to think that someone might be after you. So I sneaked in a bit—”
“Did you see who it was?” My heart is pounding. What a break it would be if Taylor could identify the shooter.
“Sort of,” she whispers.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean I didn’t see their face! Whoever it was had on a deerstalker hat and a checked jacket. And the person was definitely not that tall.”
“Ugh!” I sag in disappointment. “Well, it couldn’t have been Mr. McAndrew, because he was driving up the road and found me. And it can’t be Callum, because he’s even taller than”—I clear my throat—“Dan.”
“Damn, I really wish I had seen the person’s profile at least.”
I realize there’s a piece of information about Callum that she is still unaware of. “Oh my God, Taylor. You’re not going to believe this, but . . . Callum is actually Dan’s twin brother. I fainted when I saw him. And it’s their birthday the day after tomorrow.”
Scarlet Wakefield 02 - Kisses and Lies Page 16