Kingdom of Shadows

by Barbara Erskine

  It was only when she was outside in the snow that she realised that she was still wearing Clare’s coat.

  Peter was exhausted. He had just arrived at the Shangri La Hotel after a five-day trip touring oil palm and rubber plantations and property developments in southern Malaysia and having got rid of the hired car he was looking forward to a shower and a long cold drink.

  His room was in the Garden Wing. He looked round appreciatively and noted with a scowl that the red message light on the telephone console by the bed was already flashing. Ignoring it he walked through into the white marble bathroom and stripped off his clothes. Outside the rain was pouring down into the lush gardens, pitting the swimming pool, swilling off the glossy leaves of the plants on his balcony. It was very hot with the balcony window open.

  Sipping his gin and tonic he rang the switchboard and frowned. Three messages all from Emma. He glanced at his watch. It was the middle of the night in England, but if it was urgent she wouldn’t mind. He dialled the Kew number and waited. There was no reply. Twice more he dialled then he looked at his message again. From the 23rd she would be at Duncairn. Shrugging, he dialled Scotland. The line was dead.

  Taking his gin he walked out on to the balcony and stood looking down into the gardens. The rain had stopped as abruptly as it had started and the sun had come out. Everything was steaming. The vegetation smelt lush and very beautiful. He smiled. Emma would have loved this. Next time he would bring her. Somehow.

  Paul drove as fast as he dared on the snow-covered roads. Twice he stopped, once for petrol, once at an inn just outside Aberdeen where he bought himself a drink and ordered a pie and chips. He didn’t want to reach Duncairn before Cummin got there. He wanted to time it exactly right.

  He smiled grimly as he waited for his food, glancing at the briefcase which he had brought in from the Range Rover so that he needn’t let it out of his sight. He was looking forward to seeing Rex Cummin’s face.

  He reached Duncairn just after three. The place was deserted. Twice he rang the bell in the hall, then he put his head around the door of Grant’s office. It was empty. His gun, he noticed, was where Grant had left it in the corner by the filing cabinet. He frowned, putting his hand into the pocket of his jacket. The remaining cartridges were still there, and he fingered them gently for a moment.

  ‘Royland!’ Rex had appeared in the doorway behind him. ‘What are you doing here? Where is your wife?’

  Paul looked him up and down slowly. ‘I came here to see you.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Why else? I’ve something here which might interest you.’

  ‘Indeed?’

  Rex was still upset and angry with Emma and furious with himself for handling the bedroom situation with her so ineptly. He was in no mood to trifle with Paul Royland, the man who had done him out of Duncairn. If they had completed the deal a month ago as Paul had promised, Duncairn would have been his by now. He took a deep breath, trying to control himself. ‘I can’t think what you could possibly have that would interest me.’

  ‘Duncairn.’

  Rex laughed. ‘You’ve sold Duncairn to Sigma!’

  ‘Supposing I haven’t.’ Suddenly Paul had forgotten the need for discretion. He had forgotten everything except the importance of telling this man that he had finally won, that in the end he had forced Clare to give in. ‘Supposing the documents I gave Warner weren’t legally binding? Supposing the signature was false?’

  ‘You mean your wife still wouldn’t play ball?’

  Paul smiled. ‘Now she has,’ he said softly. ‘Now Duncairn is mine to sell to whom I wish.’

  He still had that bad feeling about Sigma; his heart had almost stopped beating when he saw the helicopter outside the hotel even though he was half expecting to see it. ‘I have the deeds to the hotel in my briefcase, together with Clare’s signature on the document, giving me absolute authority to sell. She gave in in the end.’ He smiled.

  ‘Too bad she took so long.’ Rex eyed him with dislike. ‘I seem to remember telling you that I wasn’t interested in buying any more. I haven’t changed my mind.’

  ‘OK.’ Paul could feel the sweat breaking out between his shoulder-blades. ‘So, the deal was too rich for you?’ His mocking tone hid his panic.

  ‘No, but it sure as hell stank.’ Rex folded his arms.

  ‘I suppose you think you’re going to beat me down.’ Paul turned away to Grant’s desk and sat down. His hands were shaking.

  ‘I could beat you into the ground, my friend.’ Rex was growing bored with the conversation. ‘I could tell your DTI friends a few things about you, remember?’ His tone was menacing. ‘Don’t think you’re going to leg me over now, Royland, because you are sure as hell not. I don’t want your damn hotel.’

  ‘Then why are you here?’ Paul’s voice was silky. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve come up to Duncairn for pleasure.’

  Rex was silent. So, Paul didn’t know he was here with Emma! And, by God, he didn’t want him to know. He just wanted him to go away. He prayed that Emma would not choose that moment to return from her walk. ‘OK. Say I’m interested.’ All he wanted now was to find out where Clare was and get Paul out of there. ‘Supposing you show me this famous agreement of your wife’s.’ He folded his arms.

  Paul reached down and swinging his briefcase on to Jack’s desk snapped open the locks. Inside it there was nothing but a manilla envelope. In it was the paper Clare had signed. He handed it, still sealed, to Rex and smiled.

  Rex tore it open. He unfolded the sheet and read it through carefully. When at last he came to the signature he stared at it, then slowly he began to laugh.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Paul’s voice was edgy.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Rex looked at him with pity. ‘What kind of a dumb head do you take me for, Royland?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Paul stepped forward. Suddenly his stomach was churning.

  ‘What do you think I mean?’ Rex threw the paper down on the desk. ‘You don’t seriously expect me to fall for that? You know, I’m beginning to think you’re the one that is mad, Royland. Quite, quite, mad.’ He turned and stalked out of the office, still laughing.

  Paul grabbed the paper with shaking hands. He stared at it. There at the bottom of the page, in the space he had marked with a cross, was the one word ISOBEL in spidery, Gothic script.

  He stared at it in disbelief. The bitch! The scheming, clever bitch! Even in her fear she could fool him! Why had he been such an idiot? Why hadn’t he checked? How could he have been so confident? He picked up the paper and tore it across twice, tears of frustration in his eyes.

  She had beaten him! He was through. There was nothing he could do. Even if Sigma hadn’t made the discovery themselves, he had told Cummin, now, that the papers he had sent them were forged. He was finished.

  Suddenly he began to laugh.

  He closed his case slowly and as he did so his eye fell again on the rifle propped up in the corner. Grant was criminally irresponsible leaving it there. Someone might have stolen it. He moved across the room and picked it up, weighing it in his hands. It was a beautiful piece of workmanship – the polished stock smooth as silk beneath his hand.

  Slowly he felt in his pocket for a cartridge and slipped it into the breach.

  The afternoon was nearly over, the sun almost gone, the snow streaked red from the sunset. The castle ruins were shadowy and dark, mysterious in front of the soft night-blue of the sky. He could hear the sea sighing at the foot of the cliffs. Somewhere a sea gull called out, a ringing, laughing cry which echoed amongst the ancient stones.

  Then he saw her. Clare. Standing in the ruins of the old chapel, staring out towards the cliffs, and behind her another woman, a woman in a long cloak who moved slowly away from her into the dusk. He frowned, staring into the shadows. Was that Isobel? Had she shown herself to him at last? He shook his head with a shiver. Whoever it was she had gone, and Clare was alone. He didn’t ask himself how she had got there, or what she was do
ing. He just watched her. She hadn’t moved. She was just standing there, gloating. Gloating over a pile of stones that could have saved him.

  All his rage and self-pity and resentment boiled to the surface. Clare, in the mink coat he had bought her with his money, was probably laughing at him at this very moment. He raised the rifle to his shoulder and took slow and careful aim. She was moving now, hands in pockets, walking with a light, swinging gait – happy –

  He squeezed the trigger so lightly that it was a surprise when the deafening report rang out. The figure in his sights dropped to the ground.

  He smiled. Then slowly and methodically he took another cartridge from his pocket. He loaded it and turning the gun, slipped the cold satin-smooth steel of the muzzle into his mouth. For a split second he wondered if the kiss of a gun would be more pleasant than the kiss of a woman.

  Then he pulled the trigger.

  34

  Isobel received King Robert in the castle great hall. A slim, solitary figure, swathed in a blue cloak – upright, proud, a little afraid – she was determined that he would never know how her heart was crying out to him. For a moment she didn’t move, standing near the huge driftwood fire, her eyes fastened on his face, then as he stepped forward she came to him hesitantly and taking his outstretched hand she sank to her knees.

  ‘I am so pleased to see your grace.’

  Behind them his three companions tactfully turned their backs, making for the huge fire in the eastern wall of the hall. The castle servants were less meticulous, staring openly as the tall, handsome King, greying now, his face marked by suffering, stooped and raised her to her feet.

  ‘My Isobel. I thought I would never see you again.’ His eyes sought hers again as she raised her face to his. ‘Holy Virgin! When I heard what they had done to you I thought I would go mad!’

  ‘They did the same to Mary and your little Marjorie.’ Isobel could feel her heart slamming beneath her ribs.

  He gave a half smile. It was very grim. ‘They were released from their cages long since, thank the Lord – but they are still captive.’ He did not mention his wife, Elizabeth, who was also still in England, and neither did she.

  ‘I had thought I was still captive, too.’ Isobel gave a faint smile.

  ‘You are, my love.’ The last two words slipped out so naturally that neither noticed. ‘At least, your fair jailer, the titular Countess of Buchan, and I have reached an agreement. Duncairn stands in a part of the country I hold, but for a while I am content to allow the castle a nominal English overlord!’ He smiled. ‘We are to share rights, your Alice and I.’

  ‘Rights over who holds me?’ She spoke in a whisper.

  ‘Tonight I shall hold you.’ He put his hands on her shoulders. ‘And I share that right with no one.’ He swung to face the hall.

  ‘My friends – I leave you to amuse yourselves,’ he called to his companions. ‘Lady Isobel and I have much to talk about in private.’ He took her hand. ‘Will you show me your solar, my lady?’

  They talked until the night closed in around the castle, the darkness lying softly over the sea and over the cliffs, lapping with the cold dew over the walls as in the hall below the flares were lit and the fires piled high. It grew late. They nibbled the foods she ordered brought to them from the kitchens, and drank some wine, and remembered the time they first kissed, here, in the chapel at Duncairn. Then at last he led her gently towards her bedchamber.

  She never asked him why he had not tried to rescue her; she did not mention Christian of Carrick or their children, nor ask about his exploits over the years. He talked of some things. Of friends lost, and friends found again, of Isobel’s mother, happy as far as Robert knew, far away in England, of her great grandmother who like so many others in those fearful years, had disappeared, never to be heard of again after Kildrummy had fallen, of battles and defeat and then of victory; surely and slowly victory after victory as more and more of the country was clawed back from the English. He did not mention his brothers’ fearful deaths, and neither did she. He spoke most of all of the future – of the time when he would throw the English finally and for ever out of Scotland and give his country back her liberty. Of their future together he did not speak and she did not even think. As he gently unlaced her gown and drew it down over her still-thin body, and then removed her shift, all she cared about was the present, snatched from fate.

  He touched her with gentle hands, then drew her down on to the bed, pulling the feather-filled covers over their heads before he touched his lips at last to hers.

  He stayed two days and nights at Duncairn that cold November, then he rode away. She waved to him from beneath the gatehouse arch until he was out of sight, then she turned back into the castle. He had promised that he would come back.

  Three weeks later the first snow of the winter fell, and three weeks after that she knew that she was carrying the King’s child …

  ‘I have to find him! He has to know about the baby. He must …’

  Clare had scrambled to her feet. She turned to the door and, leaving the candle burning on its saucer, she opened it and listened. The house was silent.

  ‘Chloe? Chloe? Where are you?’ She ran down the stairs and across the hall, into the drawing room. There was no one there. Sobbing, she turned desperately towards the kitchen. There was no one there either. The house was empty. ‘Chloe? I have to find him. I have to tell Robert about the baby!’ She looked into her step-father’s study and the dining room. ‘Chloe? Where are you? I have to find him, don’t you see?’

  There was no reply.

  Grabbing a coat from the hook in the hall she pulled open the front door. ‘Chloe?’

  The snow was falling thickly again and she stared at it confused. She had forgotten that it was snowing. ‘Chloe?’

  Without thought of where she was going she set off up the drive, not feeling the soft snow catching on the hem of her nightgown and seeping through her leather slippers, not bothering to button the coat. Behind her her footprints were almost at once obliterated by the swiftly falling snow.

  Chloe and Geoffrey stared aghast at the open front door.

  ‘Clare! I was so sure she would sleep for hours. We should have known there’d be no trains.’ While Geoffrey paid off the taxi that had brought them back from their abortive trip to the station on their vain attempt to get Geoffrey back to London, she flew upstairs. When Geoffrey joined her she was staring down at the guttering candle in the empty bedroom.

  ‘Where do you think she’s gone?’ Chloe spoke in a whisper.

  ‘I don’t know.’ Geoffrey stood glumly looking down, his hands in his pockets. ‘I was so sure it had worked. I thought Isobel was at peace.’ He sounded stunned.

  ‘We can’t be sure that she isn’t.’ Chloe stooped and picked up the saucer. She looked doubtful. ‘She could be sleepwalking, anything. We’ve got to find her, Geoff. She’s in no state to be outside.’

  He nodded, turning towards the door. ‘The candle was still alight so she can’t have been gone for long. She must have left tracks in the snow.’

  But it was snowing heavily still, thick, soft snow which blanketed the ground and muffled their footsteps, hiding their own tracks moments after they had made them.

  Geoffrey stood outside the front door staring round. ‘It’s so hard to see. You can still make out the marks of the taxi, and here, our steps milling round – and here –’ He shook his head. ‘It’s no good, Chloe. Further on there are no marks at all. There is no sign.’

  Chloe was fighting back her panic. Reluctantly she followed her husband back inside. ‘What are we going to do?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Geoffrey ran his hand across his hair. ‘We’ll search the grounds, do a sweep of the gardens, and search the –’ he paused with a glance at his wife. ‘We have to search the river bank. Then, if there is still no sign of her we’ll have to get help.’ He reached for his heavy coat again. ‘Find some boots and wrap up warm. It will be getting dark soon.’


  ‘Geoffrey, I want to ring her boyfriend, Neil. She might have tried to go to him.’

  Geoffrey frowned. ‘I suppose she might, but what about Paul?’

  ‘What about Paul? He and Clare are finished, Geoff. You know that as well as I do.’

  ‘I suppose so.’ He nodded reluctantly. ‘But I can’t condone adultery, Chloe, or divorce.’

  ‘Then just for once, turn a blind eye.’ She was unexpectedly irritable.

  Geoffrey bit his lip. He smiled at her. ‘I’m sorry, my dear. I know I’m being pompous again. And now is not the time. Do you know where this Neil is? How are you going to get hold of him?’

  Chloe shook her head. ‘I don’t know,’ she said miserably. ‘I just don’t know.’

  * * *

  Neil was tired after the long drive from Edinburgh to Duncairn, and his eyes ached from the glare of the sun on the snow.

  It was just beginning to fall again as he pulled in beside Paul’s Range Rover and sat for a moment staring at it. Beyond it there were two other cars. He opened the door and climbed out.

  There was a man in the hall, wearing a uniform with a Sigma on the breast pocket. He stepped forward as Neil walked in.

  ‘I’m sorry, sir, the hotel is closed. I must ask you to leave straight away.’

  Somewhere behind him Neil could hear a child crying.

  He frowned. ‘Where is Jack Grant?’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir, he can’t see anyone just now.’ The man was agitated.

  ‘Look, I’m a friend of his. He’ll see me –’ Neil broke off as a door opened and Jack looked out into the hall.

  He stared at Neil, barely recognising him. ‘I thought maybe the police had arrived –’

  ‘What the hell is going on here –?’ Neil strode towards him. ‘Jack? What’s happened?’

  Jack slumped down on the wooden settle by the front door. He made a helpless gesture with his hands. ‘Paul Royland. He shot his sister and then he killed himself.’