‘I don’t suppose you could take them on a tour of the house? I would be so grateful to you.’
‘Me?’
‘Yes. That is, if Morven and Becky can manage here.’
Becky shrugged her shoulders accommodatingly. ‘We’re quiet at the moment.’ Morven agreed enthusiastically.
I flailed around for an acceptable excuse. ‘But I’m not knowledgeable enough about Glenlovatt. I mean, I know the basic facts but I’m not clued up on it anywhere near as much as Mrs Baylis.’
Gordon brushed aside my concerns with a tanned hand. ‘There’s plenty of historical background on the internet you can use, and you’ve got such great communication skills and enthusiasm.’
The words ‘laying’ and ‘trowel’ sprang into my mind.
Becky began fishing around inside her purple rucksack. ‘Here,’ she grinned, ‘you can use my tablet. It’s fully charged and will make you look the part.’
‘Oh, thank you so much,’ I said through gritted teeth. ‘What on earth would I do without you?’
She poked out her tongue as she handed it over. ‘Glad to be of service.’
‘Couldn’t Vaughan do the tour?’ I asked, looking up from Becky’s rainbow screensaver, but Gordon had gone in a blur of navy suit. ‘I’ll take that as a no then.’
Morven directed me to one of the empty tables. ‘Here. Sit down, grab some lunch and study up on the history of this place.’
Becky gathered up a tea set and plates from another table. ‘How does a slice of tomato and mozzarella quiche sound? Jess rustled some up before she finished for the day.’
‘Brilliant, thanks,’ I sighed, tapping away on Becky’s tablet. I tried to make my eyes two giant pools of irresistibility. ‘Morvs, couldn’t you do it?’
‘Sorry, sweetie, but I’ve got to go soon. Meeting in town with printers about some fliers. She gave me an encouraging smile. ‘You’ve worked in PR, Lara. This should be a walk in the park for you.’
Shaking my head, I continued pulling up information on the internet about Glenlovatt, and an image of the great house laced in snow like spun sugar appeared on the screen. I started to read aloud: ‘“Glenlovatt Manor, situated on the outskirts of Fairview, Scotland, is a majestic stately home built in 1760”.’
Becky brought over my lunch. ‘If this house could talk, I bet it would have a hell of a lot of juicy stories to tell.’
I tapped again on the screen but was interrupted by a shrill voice.
‘Business can’t be booming when the owner’s sitting around on a computer.’
My skin prickled. I’d know that voice anywhere.
I eased myself around in my chair to see Kitty Walker framed in the Thistles doorway, and she wasn’t alone. Peering around behind her was her fellow gossip, Moira Kendrick.
‘Oh, great,’ I hissed to Becky under my breath. ‘Just what we need right now—a visit from Cruella de Vil and Bellatrix Lestrange.’ I configured my expression into one of fake friendliness and called out, ‘So, True Brew not open today then?’
Kitty patted her concrete curls. ‘My sister and niece are in charge this afternoon. It’s a relief to be able to leave my business in such reliable hands.’
Ouch.
They’d at least made an effort for their visit to Glenlovatt, if their voluminous floral frocks and mismatched hats were anything to go by. They looked as if they’d raided an ancient dressing-up box in the dark.
Becky’s mouth tightened with recognition. ‘Your old boss and her bodyguard,’ she whispered. ‘Nice.’
‘All ready for the McNaughtons to claim their prize?’ asked Kitty with her best great white shark smile.
‘Yes,’ I lied, ‘but how did you know they were coming today?’
Kitty raised her sparkly shadowed eyelids.
‘We hear everything in True Brew,’ piped up Moira, finding her voice at last.
They clopped across the tea room, snootily eyeing Lydia’s artwork.
‘You haven’t heard of the McNaughtons then?’ asked Moira lightly.
Becky folded her arms across her Thistles apron. ‘No, should we have? They’re not related to some major crime syndicate, by any chance?’
‘Are they?’ asked Kitty as she pursed her lips. ‘I wouldn’t be surprised.’
For goodness’ sake.
‘Anyway,’ announced Kitty, squeezing herself into one of my poor high-backed chairs, ‘the McNaughton clan are incomers.’ She dropped her voice. ‘They’re from the east.’
‘Are they really?’ gasped Becky, clutching a heavily ringed hand to her chest. ‘Quick, Lara, inform the police immediately.’
Kitty eyed her frostily. ‘You may mock, young lady, but I’ve heard all about that lot.’
Here we go.
‘Heard what?’ I asked, irritated.
Kitty’s frosted pink lips smacked together like an applauding seal’s flippers. ‘The father’s been done for theft, the mother looks permanently harassed, and as for their two teenagers—’
‘They look ready to mug elderly people at a moment’s notice,’ interjected Moira with all the subtlety of a brick.
Kitty nestled back in her chair. ‘Two teas when you’re ready, waitress. Oh, and we’ll have two slices of that Guinness cake while you’re at it.’
‘Looks slightly dry to me,’ murmured Moira.
‘We’re only being polite,’ replied Kitty without a trace of irony.
I swung my head back to Becky’s tablet. Time was running out for my crash course.
‘Did I hear you say you’re conducting the McNaughtons’ tour, Lara?’
What a nosy old crone. She and Moira must have been listening outside.
I pasted on a smile. ‘Yes, that’s right. If I don’t return after an hour,’ I said, ‘search Fairview Loch. I might be swimming with the fishes at the hands of the McNaughtons.’ I took a savage bite of my quiche.
‘Ahem.’ Travis was standing uncertainly by the door, accompanied by four granite-hard faces.
‘Lara,’ he grimaced. ‘I’d like to introduce you to the McNaughton family. They’re here for their guided tour.’
I picked up the tablet, praying to the Patron Saint of Gobby Mouths that they hadn’t heard my stupid remark.
Mrs McNaughton introduced herself first, as Claire, and I also shook hands with her husband, Eddie. Their son, Robbie, and daughter, Flora, reminded me of hollow-faced models in a flashy clothes advert.
Kitty eyed them over the rim of her teacup.
‘Don’t feel you’ve got to hang around,’ I said to her pointedly.
Kitty and Moira nestled even further into their chairs, like two old ducks. Which they were.
‘No rush,’ quacked Moira, ‘we’ve got all afternoon.’
Becky sauntered over and gave the laminated menus a cursory wipe with a cloth. ‘Don’t worry,’ she whispered. ‘I can handle these two.’
I indicated to great hall and started to lead the way for the McNaughtons.
I knew some facts about Glenlovatt but I certainly wasn’t the encyclopaedia Mrs Baylis was. I’d just have to use Becky’s tablet discreetly and rely on my own genuine admiration of the old house to carry me through. Hopefully, they wouldn’t be too disappointed with my efforts. I sighed to myself. I was very fond of Gordon but at that moment I could happily have lynched him with one of his Silkworm ties.
‘Keep an eye on the family silver,’ barked Kitty to our retreating backs.
I bristled with anger. ‘After your tour,’ I smiled, addressing the family, ‘we’ll be delighted to serve you a delicious afternoon tea in Thistles. Congratulations on winning the competition, by the way.’
Robbie didn’t even look up. He continued jabbing texts into his mobile. Flora was examining her nails.
‘Thank you,’ smiled Claire awkwardly. ‘We’re looking forward to it.’ She nudged Eddie, who was coaxed into a silent nod.
Oh, someone, help.
We ascended the staircase, shafts of light seeping in through t
he mullioned window. ‘Glenlovatt was built in 1760 by Christopher Carmichael, a successful merchant of fine wines,’ I gabbled.
‘This is so lame,’ groaned Flora under her breath. Robbie, under his crown of blond hair, remained oblivious, seemingly far more interested in videos of farting dogs.
‘Don’t be so rude,’ muttered her father. ‘It won’t be long till we get our grub.’
My heart ached for Claire McNaughton. There she was in her Sunday best, eager to make the most of the day and instil some culture into her family’s heads.
I led them along to the first turret and cleared my throat, remembering a story that had always fascinated me. It was worth a try.
‘I particularly love this part of the house,’ I explained, sneakily looking at the tablet once more to make sure of my facts, ‘and it exists because Christopher Carmichael said his beloved wife, Charity, reminded him of a golden-haired princess.’
Flora’s steely grey eyes flickered with the smallest hint of interest. With another glance at Becky’s tablet, I carried on. ‘He had Glenlovatt built as a token of his love for her.’
‘How romantic,’ gasped Claire wistfully. ‘Isn’t that romantic, Eddie?’
Eddie let out a short grunt. He was a bit like a burly mountain bear in his brown suit.
We passed down a short set of steps at the end of the corridor, which led into an alcove with a side door.
‘Now, this area,’ I explained, ‘is where, it is rumoured, two young lads perished while Glenlovatt was being built.’
At the mention of a sinister event, Robbie lost interest in a dancing pig. ‘What happened? Were they crushed? Did someone murder them?’
I tried to disguise my pleasure at finally securing his attention. ‘The story goes that their boss was eager to impress Christopher Carmichael, so he insisted on the lads working late into the night. There was no such thing as health and safety laws in those days.’
‘So what happened next?’ pressed Robbie.
I slid my eyes to the tablet for confirmation. ‘The two young labourers were careless with some brickwork. It’s said they were exhausted from working such long hours and the wall they were building was not up to the standard it should have been.’
I glanced up from Becky’s tablet. ‘The whole thing collapsed, striking one and then the other.’
Flora clutched the strap of her fringed shoulder bag. ‘That’s awful. Do their ghosts haunt this place then?’
‘Not that I’ve seen,’ I answered, picking up on Robbie’s obvious disappointment. ‘But it is said that when one of the young men was about to pass away, he insisted they plant two rowan trees in the gardens of Glenlovatt to commemorate their lives.’
‘And are the trees still here?’ asked Eddie.
‘Yes, they are. I’ll show you them later.’
Flora’s brow creased. ‘Why did they choose rowan trees?’
‘Well,’ I began, repeating what I’d just read on the tablet, ‘in old folklore, rowan trees were said to be magical and prevent those on a long journey from getting lost.’
There was a thrilled hush. As I suspected, this family wasn’t interested in the design of the buttresses or how many flowers bloomed in the gardens. They wanted to know about the lives Glenlovatt had touched, about the fortunate souls who woke up every day under its roof, and the romances, sacrifices and tears it had witnessed in its two and a half centuries.
‘Can you tell us any more, Lara?’ asked Flora, when we were towards the end of the tour. ‘Any stories of handsome princes?’ ‘Has anybody ever been executed in the grounds?’ piped up Robbie with glee.
‘Not yet,’ I smiled thinly, thinking of the two unwelcome guests in the tea room, ‘but there’s still time.’
It was as if I was escorting a completely different family back to Thistles. We filed into the tea room in a gaggle of laughter and chatter.
‘Those rowan trees are so cool,’ said Robbie, ‘but I still think this house is haunted.’
‘You could well be right,’ I replied, surprised to see Kitty and Moira still in residence.
‘They’re on their third pot of tea,’ complained Becky, whipping a tea towel over her shoulder.
‘As long as they’re paying; that’s all that matters.’
I moved behind the cake counter to help Becky prepare afternoon tea for the McNaughtons. We’d reserved a table for them by the patio doors and they sank down gratefully.
Kitty and Moira examined them like lab specimens, as the two women noisily sipped their Earl Grey.
‘Everything still as it should be?’ asked Kitty loudly. ‘You’d better suggest to the laird he do a stocktake.’
Eddie’s bullish head swung round.
‘Don’t, love,’ advised Claire, placing a hand on his jacket sleeve. ‘They’re not worth bothering with.’
Undeterred, Kitty carried on. ‘We’re not used to that kind of people moving into Fairview.’ She stabbed her slice of double chocolate cake, having already polished off her Guinness cake, and forked a chunk into her mouth.
I was considering asking them both to leave when I was distracted by a strange gurgling sound. Initially I thought the kitchen sink drainage was playing up again.
‘She’s choking!’ screamed Moira. ‘Kitty’s choking!’
I turned to see Kitty’s face was scarlet and her eyes bulging terrifyingly.
Before I could even move, Claire was behind Kitty and pulling her to her feet, performing sharp thrusts to her abdomen that had us all wincing. On the fourth attempt, a piece of double chocolate cake shot out of Kitty’s mouth.
‘Oh my goodness, Claire,’ I said, still in shock at the speed of events. ‘Well done!’
Claire scooped her bobbed brown hair behind her ears. ‘I used to be a nurse.’
All eyes swivelled to Kitty, now looking like a discarded duvet cover from the 1970s. I continued scooping fresh cream into a small pot and arranged several fat scones for the McNaughtons. ‘Kitty, I think you need to say something to Claire.’
Kitty gasped a couple more times. ‘Thank you. Thank you very much.’
Claire resumed her seat and sipped her tea before finally acknowledging Kitty with a curt ‘You’re welcome.’
Thirty
I had never been so grateful to fall through my front door as I was that evening. That was until I remembered I had two noisy and uninhibited houseguests.
I kicked off my trainers and watched them skitter across the mat. Things seemed unusually quiet tonight. The faintest traces of music seeped through the closed spare room door and a note from Mum was propped up on the breakfast bar.
Just gone to a local exhibition on The Power of The Vagina in 21st Century Scotland. Will be back soon! Love Mum xx
I squeezed my eyes shut. Great.
I let the note flutter out of my hand and tugged today’s newspaper out of my bag. If Wolf was happy to wallow in his room to the creative strains of some folk band, that suited me. I clicked on the kettle and made myself a hot chocolate, before flopping onto the sofa with the paper and scanning the articles. Headlines swam in front of my tired eyes: stories about philandering MPs, the never-ending struggle to achieve work-life balance, a husky that could sing opera.
I turned a couple more pages, trying to absorb the words, before a large black-and-white photo made me stop. There was something vaguely familiar about the pointed jaw and hooded eyes of this man, a lock of hair tumbling onto his brow. He was attractive in a public schoolboy kind of way. A throng of trees loomed up behind him and his face possessed an intense quality. Considering he was wearing a dinner suit, the whole effect was dramatic. Above the photograph a headline screamed, ‘Young Heir Search Goes On’.
My eyes turned back to the man’s image. What was it about him that made me think I recognised him? Apart from the Carmichaels, I didn’t spend much time with the landed gentry.
I turned my attention to the accompanying article and read that the photo was of Brodie Fairbairn, heir to the well
-known Fairbairn Stationery empire. The story recounted how the thirty-two-year-old had suddenly disappeared, citing family pressures as his reason for absconding from the ancestral pile overlooking the moody beauty of Loch Ness. He’d been missing for several months after having a series of heated arguments with his parents over his future.
As I read on, my attention switched repeatedly between the article and the man’s face. According to the report, Brodie Fairbairn had made it abundantly clear to his family that he wanted to pursue a writing career. This had not been warmly welcomed by his parents, which led to him vanishing into the Inverness night. Details of his whereabouts and confirmation of his safety were still being sought. His parents had spent a fortune on private detectives but there had been no conclusive sightings of him.
My brows knitted. I was sure there was something familiar about him. Had he visited Thistles or been at Glenlovatt, perhaps? Surely not.
The creak of the spare room door interrupted my thoughts and I glanced over my shoulder. Wolf ambled out in a haze of dark brown beard, and stone grey combat trousers slung loosely on his frame, teamed with a pale blue T-shirt. He was clutching a novel with something resembling a phoenix on the cover.
His head jerked up. ‘Oh, hi there, Lara. Didn’t hear you come in. Good day, yeah?’
Was it the angle of his face, perhaps? Or the slant of his slate grey eyes? Whatever it was, realisation dawned as I alternated my eyes between the dapper guy in the paper and the hipster dude in my flat.
I scrambled up from the sofa, thrusting the newspaper article in front of him.
‘Wolf. This is you, isn’t it?’
Alarm spread across his face. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘This,’ I repeated, offering the open newspaper page to him. ‘You’re Brodie Fairbairn, aren’t you?’
Wolf inclined his head towards the article. Silence sandwiched itself between us.
He gingerly took the newspaper in one hand, gripping his novel in the other. A kaleidoscope of emotions travelled through his eyes. ‘Shit.’ His chest heaved and he reluctantly muttered, ‘Yes, that’s me.’ Before I could comment, he took a step forwards. ‘Please, Lara. Don’t tell Christine.’
A Room at the Manor Page 16
