The Three Lives of Aila Douglas Book 2

by Lei R. Tasker

  Will’s parents were all for the relationship, allowing him to spend most of his free time wandering the estate and house with Aila and insisting Aila attended dinner at their house a few times a week. It was clear to them that Aila had an atypical relationship with her family, left alone for large chunks of the year and not helped or inspired in her schoolwork.

  Will’s father acted as an informal academic guide for her, pushing her towards university with a gentle but inspiring persistence.

  With the warmer weather, Aila and Will spent most of their time laying in the uncut meadows of Dunmistles outer fields, either reading or talking.

  “My back’s itchy,” Aila laughed as Will rolled her over to kiss her, pressing her down into the tall grass stalks.

  “Come on then,” he said playfully, standing up and offering a hand to help her up, “We should probably get some lunch anyway.”

  Aila took his hand and allowed him to pull her in close, putting her hand on his shoulder and marvelling at the wisp of curly hair that fell down by his right ear.

  “What are you smiling about?” Will said, looking into her eyes.

  “I’m just happy,” she replied, taking his hand and starting to walk up the path that ran along the edge of the field.

  They found bread and jam in the kitchen, making a snack and taking it to Aila’s bedroom.

  “Milton?” Will said, almost mockingly as he picked up a copy of Paradise Lost that Aila had on her bedside table, “You want to try some Burns if you want good poetry.”

  “I can like both,” Aila said, snatching the book back off of him with one hand and shovelling jam-laden bread into her mouth with the other. She continued, mouth full, “I have a very old copy of Burns – or rather my Da’ does.”

  “Really?” Will said.

  “Yes,” Aila said, chewing and swallowing down the bread with some effort, “Come on.”

  She walked down the corridor to her father’s study, which he kept locked but Edmund had given her the key so that she could access the books.

  “Wow,” Will said as he examined the shelves, “Some of these books are really old.”

  “Yep,” Aila said dismissively – she took for granted the fact that her family had old heirlooms, “Let me just look in his chest, he keeps some books in there.”

  She went to her father’s desk and opened his inkwell. She knew that he kept a key to his wooden chest in a separate side compartment. Opening it, she found a silver angel’s wing, the tip of which acted as the key, hanging from a small-linked chain.

  She took the silver wing and pressed it into the lock of the wooden chest, turning gently and lifting the lid.

  As suspected, inside there were lots of old leather bound books scattered amongst some of her father’s other precious possessions including a decorative and very old poniard in a leather holder, some broaches that she presumed were her grandmother’s and a small landscape painting.

  “Here we go,” she said after sorting through the items for a moment. She held the battered copy of Burns aloft and Will came over and took it from her, a look of reverence on his face. She smirked to see him so pleased at the discovery and sat on the floor for a moment watching him leaf through.

  She cast her eyes back to the chest and noticed another dog-eared volume that had been under the copy of Burns. She lifted it out carefully. The cover was plain like a notebook, made of faded green leather.

  She flicked to the first page and her throat caught with emotion as she saw handwriting, blue ink spotted and scribbled across the page.

  It was her mother’s handwriting.

  18th July 1981

  Aila is more and more like my sister every day – her hair, her smile, her curiosity. I wish Miriam had lived to meet her niece.

  I walked with father to the village today. I found a nice paperweight in the antique shop, hopefully John will like it.

  A quiet day.

  Aila was stunned. She had no knowledge of her mother’s father or sister. To see her mother’s words on the page was heart-wrenching enough, but to know she had family she had never met or heard about was unbearable.

  I wish Miriam had lived to meet her niece.

  She wondered what her happened to her maternal aunt. She thought her mother’s parents had died when her mother was a child. Her father had always said her mother was raised in the foster system.

  She turned to another page.

  25th April 1982

  I spent the evening with my father today. John was furious – he hates that I still have contact with him.

  I got home late, and John was waiting for me. He was worried, upset that I’d been out so late. He threw a plate at me. I’m glad Aila was already asleep upstairs, I don’t want her to see him when he’s like that. He doesn’t mean to get so angry, he can’t help it.

  I’m not going to see my father for a while, John will be happier that way. It’s better for Aila when he’s happy. Hoping tomorrow is a better day.

  Aila angrily turned to the end of the book.

  3rd October 1984

  John hit me again today. The bruise was worse than last time and his ring caught my nose, so it bled. I decided to stay with my father for the night.

  It broke my heart to leave Aila there with him, but I couldn’t get to her, I just had to leave.

  Father says I should divorce John, but what sort of life would Aila have without him? The castle is her home.

  I’m going to stay and try to appease John. Perhaps if I spend less time with my family he will calm down.

  I’ll stay for Aila and things will be better in time, I know they will.

  Aila started at the last sentence unable to take her eyes off of it. Her name looked alien on the page, her mother’s cursive curling around the letters in a comforting and yet unfamiliar way. Her name started to dissolve as a tear dropped down, the water sinking into the paper and ruining the inked letters.

  “Aila?” Will said, coming closer, “What’s that?”

  “My mother…” Aila stuttered.

  Will didn’t say anything, but sat next to Aila on the floor, seeing her distress.

  “I think my father killed my mother,” Aila said detachedly, not able to process the idea.

  Renfrewshire or county of Renfrew (Latin: Praefectura Renfroana) is a historic county, in the west central lowlands of Scotland.

  The earliest evidence of human activity in the area is traces of an Iron Age fort in the Busby area and a pre-Roman settlement in Overlee. When the Romans advanced in the year 80 from the Solway Firth, the territory that would later become Renfrewshire was occupied by the Damnonii, a British tribe.

  Kings and Princes form alliances and enemies throughout the history in Renfrewshire.

  Read more of Renfrewshire history here[2]

  Chapter Fourteen

  July 1995

  “Aila, slow down!” Will said as he followed Aila down the driveway of Dunmistle Castle. She was heading to the main road with the diary still clasped in her hand.

  Will was tall and athletic, but her rage was fuelling a walking pace that even he was struggling to keep up with.

  “No,” she said quietly. He drew level with her and held her free hand in support.

  They reached the village after a long but silent walk and Aila sought out the pub. Will waited anxiously outside with the diary clasped to his chest.

  The Four Huntsmen stood at the northernmost part of the village, surrounded by the rolling hills of the Renfrewshire countryside. It was the only pub in the village and as such was the main meeting place of the locals.

  After finding the diary entries, Aila had pulled the information together in her mind.

  Will had told her where she could find the one person who could give her answers.

  The now retired DI George Hill was sat at the end of the bar.

  “No unaccompanied minors!” The pub landlord called as Aila entered, but she ignored him, striding straight over to George and sitting next to him.
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  “I’m not unaccompanied,” Aila said coldly to the landlord, looking at George with furious but confident eyes.

  “Uh…” George mumbled, looking for the landlord to Aila expectantly, “She’s with me, I ‘spose.”

  “You’re DI Hill,” Aila said.

  “No one has called me DI in a while,” George said, sipping his pint.

  “You dealt with my mother’s death,” Aila whispered, barely able to speak the words.

  “I expect so,” George nodded sadly, adding, “Who was your mother?”

  “Heather Douglas.”

  “Douglas… at the castle?” George replied with raised eyebrows. Aila could see in his eyes that he remembered the case.

  “At the castle,” Aila parroted back, “I want more information about her death.”

  “Pft…” George leant back on his bar stool, “I can’t give out anything that wasn’t already made public.”

  “Please,” Aila said, desperation tinging her words.

  “Are you alright here, George?” The landlord said, indicating her was heading into the bar cellar.

  “We’re good, don’t worry,” George said. Aila glanced around. There was an elderly couple eating pie and mash at the far end of the room and a man and his Jack Russel at the other end of the bar talking loudly to the bar maid, but the rest of the pub was empty.

  The landlord nodded and walked into the cellar and Aila scooted closer to George. He smelt of alcohol and body odour and she winced as she leaned in.

  “Please, George,” Aila said, “I want to know what happened to my mother.”

  “Look, kid,” George said, and Aila’s face darkened at the patronising word, “I told you, I can’t give you any information, as much as I’d like to.”

  “So, you do know what happened to her?” Aila said.

  “Well, I know she was found in the river, poor lass. She was covered in bruises, must have fallen.”

  Something in his tone told Aila he knew more, as she had suspected.

  Will had given her the piece of paper marked “W.M”. He had kept hold of it all these years in the back of his copy of Sherlock Holmes, along with any other notes or scraps that he had enjoyed collecting in his play-sleuthing. Little did he know that this one would be so significant.

  Aila placed the piece of paper on the bar top, careful that no one else saw it and that it wasn’t marked or spoiled by the drips of beer and sticky residue on the wood.

  George’s face instantly changed.

  “I need to know what happened to her,” Aila said, “And I’m prepared to do anything. She was my mother, George.”

  “Come on, kid, you’re not serious,” George said, shaking his hands from side to side, “This is real stuff, not a game.”

  “I know,” Aila said, “This piece of paper, along with a name, a witness and some perfume,” she felt a pang of satisfaction as she saw his mouth drop open at the mention of the perfume, “would be very tricky for you to explain to Mrs. Hill.”

  “Stop this,” George hissed angrily, “This isn’t funny.”

  “No, nothing about this is funny,” Aila agreed, “Tell me what you know about your mother and this information remains with me.”

  George looked at her, chest rising and falling furiously.

  “Fine,” he said after a couple of minutes. He sighed deeply and the back of Aila’s neck tingled as she prepared herself for the details of her mother’s murder.

  “Your mother,” George started, “Was an open and shut suicide case.”

  “But…” Aila said, inserting the word for him.

  “But…” he replied, “The coroner did find some bruising patterns that we couldn’t explain.”

  “Bruising patterns?”

  “On her neck,” George said, “Likely a strangulation before she ever entered the water.”

  “Then why didn’t you push further?” Aila snapped.

  “The case went cold, love,” George said, “There was no evidence linking anyone to the scene. You wouldn’t speak to the officers, and you were so young your testimony wouldn’t have held up very well in court. Who would we have charged? The obvious person to look at would have been your Da’,” Aila’s throat clenched as he confirmed her suspicions, “But he had an alibi. He was with his brother-in-law at the lunch club.”

  “Horace?” Aila asked, realising what she had already known deep down.

  “That’s right,” George said, “There wasn’t anyone willing to commit to backing up that alibi at the club, but what else could I do?”

  “Take it further,” Aila said, “Do your job.”

  George was silent, staring into her eyes guiltily.

  “Can the case be re-opened?” Aila asked after a few minutes of silence.

  “I’m retired,” George said, “And besides, there was no evidence! Nothing besides the bruising to say she was killed by someone else.”

  Aila pocketed the piece of paper and jumped down from the bar stool.

  “I won’t forget this,” she said coolly, turning to leave.

  “And W.M?” George said as she started to walk away.

  “No one will know,” Aila said, pushing the pub door open.

  Chapter Fifteen

  September 1995

  “Good to be back again, although it’s frightfully cold here,” John Douglas said as he pushed open the front door of the living quarters, travel bag in hand.

  Aila and Will were sat on the sofas nearest the fireplace, reading. Will shot Aila a look as he saw John, noticing the seething hatred on her face. John didn’t seem to notice, bundling in with Fenella and Iona, a valet bringing the rest of their bags.

  Aila and Will had decided to keep the information about her mother to themselves. Aila couldn’t prove anything, and the police weren’t willing to help her.

  That didn’t mean that her hatred of her father wasn’t growing daily.

  A few weeks after he returned from Italy, her father decided to renovate Aila’s bedroom and the guest rooms in the same wing. She voiced her disgust but obliged – she knew which battles to fight and which to leave.

  Her father’s business – various aspects of buying and selling around Europe as well as the revenue from the estate – had been profitable in recent years, and whenever John saw a profit, he liked to spend, whether that was on a new car, a holiday, or in this case, a renovation of the castle.

  As a result, Aila was forced to sleep in Iona’s room, just two rooms along from her father.

  She hadn’t realised how much she treasured being in the other end of the castle from him, and as much as she loathed her timid cousin, she hated being near to her father even more.

  At night, she could hear him snoring, the sound reverberating off of the old stone walls and travelling down to her as she slept.

  “Good morning,” John would call to her from the doorway, no concept of privacy as he burst in on his teenage daughter and niece. He had been in a good mood since arriving back from Italy, which made Aila feel even more pained; he didn’t deserve happiness while her mother’s death still went unpunished.

  “Good morning uncle,” Iona replied, Aila shooting her a frosty glance as she did.

  “Would either of you like to come to the club?” John asked, “I’m having lunch with an old friend there.

  “No thank you,” Iona said, “It reminds me too much of Dad.”

  Aila hadn’t thought about the impact Horace’s disappearance must have had on Iona – she was quiet, and it made her seem as if she was doing okay, but under the surface Aila could see a lingering sadness. Whilst Horace had been her tormentor, he had been Iona’s father and it was only natural that she held him in high esteem. Despite her tumultuous relationship with her own father, until recently Aila had at least respected him.

  Now, there was nothing left but bitter rage.

  Chapter Sixteen

  September 1995

  “You need to know for certain,” Will said to Aila with a serious tone that he r
arely used. They sat on a homemade tyre swing that hung from a tree at the far edge of river nearest the orchard. They still had their school uniforms on, covering them with mud and leaf mulch as they sat on the tyre and dangled their legs.

  “How?” Aila said, “DI Hill said that Horace provided by father’s alibi and that it wasn’t corroborated at the club. That means either one of them was lying, or they were both involved. How am I supposed to find out what truly happened, especially now that Horace isn’t around to ask?”

  “Evidence,” Will said, “We need to get back into your father’s study.”

  “He’s back from Italy,” Aila said, “He’s always in there.”

  “Then I’ll get him out of it,” Will said.

  “What do you mean?” Aila asked.

  “I’ll encourage my Dad to take him out for a drink – he’s always saying him and Mum should meet your family.”

  “Do you think that will work?”

  “Yeah, if your Dad agrees.”

  Will spoke to his father and arranged the outing, offering to go along to ensure John was kept out of his study for as long as possible. To Aila’s surprise, her father agreed to meet Will’s dad, and actually seemed enthusiastic about it.

  “He’s not quite who I would have matched you with,” John said to Aila, scribbling notes onto a piece of paper as she stood awkwardly in front of his desk. It felt like she had asked him for a favour. “But he seems a studious boy, so I can only hope he’s a good influence on you. You haven’t been in as many fights at school since returning.”

  “Will says fighting is pointless – words are more powerful weapons,” Aila said, saying what her father wanted to hear.

  “Good!” He said, “I’ll be glad to meet the boy’s father – a surgeon you said?”

  “That’s right,” Aila replied. Whilst John held very little respect for those outside of the aristocracy, certain careers held more merit than others, medicine being one of them.

  John left the castle to meet Will and his Dad at The Four Huntsmen at 7pm, and Aila knew she only had an hour or two before he would return, likely quite drunk and thus more likely to fly into a rage if he found her in there.