Little Pink Taxi

by Marie Laval

  ‘It was Isobel,’ she insisted. ‘You said she had a hooded cloak, didn’t you? That’s what she always wears. Actually that’s all she ever wears. Apparently she is stark naked underneath.’

  He sighed, impatient. Did the woman actually believe this nonsense? ‘I don’t believe in ghosts. It was a hiker, or some new age hippy … or some Isobel McBride ghost impersonator.’

  She burst out laughing. ‘Now you’re being funny.’ She glanced at him and grimaced. ‘No, you’re not … Anyway, I hope you don’t see her again.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Men who see her more than once usually end up drowned in the loch.’

  He shook his head. This had to be the silliest conversation he’d ever had. ‘They probably had too much to drink.’

  ‘Well, that too.’ She reached out to switch the radio back on.

  ‘No.’ His sharp voice stopped her in her tracks. ‘No music, no singing, and no more talking.’

  She glanced at him in surprise. ‘Don’t you like music?’

  ‘I like civilised music, not what you’ve been playing.’

  ‘And what do you call civilised music, Monsieur Petersen? No! Let me guess. You like classical music and jazz, am I right?’

  He looked surprised. ‘How did you know?’

  Rosalie almost replied that it was what pompous, arrogant people called civilised music, but instead she bit her lip and said nothing. Until she knew who exactly Petersen was, and what he wanted, it was wise not to antagonise him.

  He reclined against the headrest and closed his eyes, making it clear he didn’t wish to speak again. He wanted silence? Fine. She’d give him silence. She had better things to do than make conversation with an arrogant French businessman – or was he Scandinavian? It was hard to decide, because though he had a slight French accent, his name was unmistakably Nordic.

  The rain and wind had eased by the time she turned off the main road onto the castle track. The taxi rumbled over the potholes, and splashed in deep puddles. She slowed down to a crawl to drive across the old bridge over the Filly, wondering once again if it would last the winter.

  The imposing grey mass of Raventhorn Castle, with its four towers and pointed turrets, its slate roof and tall chimneys, appeared at the end of the lane. With only a few lights shining from windows on the ground floor, it looked forlorn and full of secrets and, as usual, it took Rosalie’s breath away. It was the most beautiful place in the world. It was the only place she’d ever called home.

  ‘Raventhorn,’ she announced as she parked in the courtyard.

  Petersen opened his eyes, and looked around.

  ‘I’m afraid we’ll have to use the kitchen entrance. We rarely use the front door.’

  ‘Do you live here?’

  ‘I told you, I’m practically family. I’ll give you the grand tour later, if you’re interested.’

  His hand on the door handle, he looked at her, deadly serious.

  ‘Of course I’m interested. I own the place.’

  Chapter Two

  Lorna came rushing out of the kitchen before Rosalie could ask Marc Petersen what he meant.

  ‘At last you’re back.’ Lorna’s eyes were red, her face blotchy. Something – or someone – had upset her, and from experience, Rosalie could guess just who that someone was.

  ‘What has Geoff done now?’ she asked.

  ‘He crashed the Porsche on the loch road,’ Lorna announced in a strangled voice. ‘But don’t worry, he wasn’t badly hurt.’

  ‘He went out? But he was in no fit state to drive!’

  Disbelief and anger twisted Rosalie’s stomach in a tight knot. Geoff had drunk himself into a stupor the night before and she’d had to pull him up the stairs and push him into bed. It had been sheer luck that she’d spotted his diary on the bedside table with the scribbled note about collecting Marc Petersen from the airport today.

  ‘He asked for you as soon as he woke up,’ Lorna said, ‘and when I told him you’d left to pick up his whisky, then collect his guest from the airport, he became very agitated and said he had to catch up with you.’

  Rosalie let out an impatient sigh. ‘Did you say he was hurt?’

  ‘He only suffered a few cuts and bruises. The silly man hitchhiked a lift home with a gritting lorry. He wanted to wait for you here but I insisted he went to the hospital, so Niall took him after arranging for the Porsche to be towed to the garage. They left about half an hour ago.’

  ‘Why didn’t you wait for me to take him to the hospital?’

  Lorna wiped her hands on her apron. ‘Geoff said you should stay and make Mr Petersen feel at home.’

  ‘At home?’ Rosalie glared at Petersen. He stared back, impenetrable, oblivious to the icy wind ruffling his dark blond hair and the icy raindrops pelting his face and coat.

  ‘What you said before,’ she started in a more hesitant voice, ‘surely it’s not true. You haven’t—’

  ‘Bought Raventhorn?’ he finished. ‘I did, or rather my father did.’

  ‘What?’ Lorna looked at them in turn, and lifted a hand to her chest. Her face turned a sickly shade of grey and she crumpled on herself.

  ‘Lorna!’ Rosalie rushed to her side but Petersen was faster. He scooped Lorna into his arms before she collapsed onto the wet cobbles.

  Holding the unconscious woman against him, he turned to Rosalie. ‘Where shall I take her?’

  ‘The drawing room. Follow me.’

  She led the way through the kitchen and up the stone staircase that led to the ground floor, and pushed open the door to the drawing room. Petersen lay Lorna down on the battered leather sofa in front of the ornate fireplace, where a fire was lit.

  Kneeling down beside the couch, Rosalie stroked Lorna’s hair. How pale and frail her friend looked. Surely these white streaks were new, as were the deep lines around her mouth and the dark, hollow shadows under her eyes.

  Blinking away the tears, Rosalie jumped to her feet. ‘I’ll get some water.’ She ran down to the kitchen, her thoughts all over the place. What was wrong with Lorna? She was never ill, but she was getting older and perhaps taking care of Raventhorn, and Geoff, was taking its toll. Unless the shock of hearing Petersen’s ludicrous claim about Raventhorn had caused her to faint. Yes, that must be it. Her hand was shaking so much as she carried the glass back she spilled half the water on the stairs.

  By the time she made it back to the drawing room, Lorna had opened her eyes, and Petersen was helping her to sit up and pushing a cushion behind her to support her back. He moved away when Rosalie approached.

  ‘Here, have some water.’ Rosalie held the glass to Lorna’s lips. ‘How are you feeling now?’

  ‘I’ll be all right, don’t worry.’ But Lorna’s voice was weak and her face still ashen.

  Rosalie turned to Petersen. ‘It’s your fault. You gave her a shock with this nonsense about buying Raventhorn.You can’t have bought Raventhorn. One, it’s not for sale. Two, only a McBride can own the estate, and you’re French … or Swedish or—’

  A cold smile stretched his lips. ‘Half-French, half-Danish, actually, but that’s irrelevant. Who says only a McBride can own this place?’

  ‘That’s the way it’s always been.’

  ‘Then I guess things just changed.’

  Lorna looked at Petersen. ‘You were speaking the truth, weren’t you?’

  He nodded.

  She heaved a sigh. ‘So Geoff finally did it. He sold Raventhorn.’

  Rosalie recoiled in shock. ‘I don’t believe this. Are you saying that it’s all true, and that you knew about it and never said a word to me?’

  ‘I knew he was thinking about it.’

  Rosalie shook her head. It had to be a misunderstanding, a dreadful mistake. For now, however, the priority was to take Lorna home and make sure she had a rest.

  ‘We’ll talk about it later. I’ll drive you home, if you feel up to it.’

  Lorna shook her head. ‘I can’t leave just yet. What about Mr Peter
sen? Supper isn’t quite ready and Geoff could be at the hospital for hours yet.’

  ‘I’ll deal with dinner,’ Rosalie said, ‘and I’ll wait here for Geoff to come home. It’s Duncan’s shift this evening, so I’m free.’

  Lorna looked anxious. ‘You’re not going to cause any trouble, are you? Geoff isn’t a well man, and with the accident and …’ she gestured towards Marc Petersen ‘… everything else, he is bound to feel a bit stressed.’

  Rosalie almost stamped her foot in anger. Geoff was stressed? He should damn well be stressed if he’d been keeping a secret like selling Raventhorn from her!

  ‘Don’t worry, I shall be very gentle with him,’ she lied. She turned to Petersen. ‘I’ll show you to your room now, unless you prefer to wait for me here.’

  ‘Would you like some help taking your friend home?’ he asked.

  Although she was pleasantly surprised by his offer, her reaction was instinctive. ‘No, thanks, we’ll be fine. The lodge is less than a mile down the lane.’

  ‘In that case, I’ll get my bags out of the cab and work in here,’ he said, walking to the door.

  ‘Now I understand why Geoff was so moody these past few weeks,’ Lorna said as soon as he’d left. ‘Going ahead with the sale must have been traumatic for him.’

  ‘Petersen has it all wrong.’ Panic made Rosalie’s voice rise. ‘He doesn’t own Raventhorn. He can’t own Raventhorn. Geoff probably cooked up another of his grand schemes, which never amount to anything, or he made enquiries about raising some capital. It will all blow over, you’ll see.’

  Lorna pulled a doubtful face. ‘I’d better cancel my holiday,’ she said.

  ‘You will do no such thing. You’ve been planning this break at your sister’s for months. You have your train ticket, your suitcase is packed and Margaret is waiting for you. You are going even if I have to drive you to Norwich myself.’

  ‘What about Geoff?’

  ‘I’ll look after him, and I can promise he won’t get near a single drop of whisky while you’re away.’ She’d look after Geoff all right. She would start by asking him what all this nonsense about selling Raventhorn was about.

  ‘What if Petersen wants to see the housekeeping accounts, conduct an inventory of the castle, or talk about the wedding bookings?’ Lorna objected. ‘We don’t have any this side of Christmas, but he might want to look at the books.’

  ‘I can help with that.’

  She looked at Lorna and swallowed hard. She couldn’t help the bitterness in her voice. ‘I can’t believe you kept it to yourself that Geoff wanted to sell Raventhorn. I hope there’s nothing else you have omitted to tell me.’

  Lorna closed her eyes, silent seconds ticked by.

  ‘No, sweetie, of course there isn’t,’ she whispered at last.

  It must have started raining hard again because when Petersen walked back into the drawing room with his bags, his hair was so wet it was almost dark and water dripped from his coat onto the parquet flooring.

  He took off his coat, draped it over the back of a chair and loosened his tie. ‘I took the boxes out of your cab and piled them up in the utility. I thought Lorna might prefer to lie down on the back seat.’

  Rosalie was once again surprised by his thoughtfulness. She nodded and helped Lorna to her feet. ‘Thank you. We’d better go.’

  He may be in the middle of nowhere, but at least there was wifi and a mobile phone signal at the castle. He checked his voicemail, answered a few emails, and started working on his spreadsheets, but staring at the screen only made his headache worse, so he closed the lid of the laptop and reclined in his chair.

  It was odd to be alone in the castle with night closing in, rain and wind beating against the windows, and flames dancing in the fireplace. He breathed in scents of wax polish and wood smoke that didn’t quite cover the damp, musty smells pervading the old house. He glanced around the room.

  Oak panels and dark green paper covered the walls, together with paintings of gloomy landscapes and hunting scenes. Faded green velvet drapes framed the tall windows, and a couple of frayed, faded rugs stretched over well-worn parquet flooring. The décor was a far cry from the sleek, modern apartment he owned in Paris, and the one he’d just moved into in London, where he’d relocated to take care of his father’s affairs.

  It didn’t matter that he wasn’t keen on Raventhorn’s interior. He didn’t intend to spend more than a week or so here, just long enough to look at the accounts and put the place up for sale. As usual, it would be surgical, efficient and successful. Like his father, he had become infamous for his cold, ruthless business ethics. Hadn’t Newsweek run an article about the two of them a few months before, entitled, ‘Slash, burn … and prosper. Are Petersen and Son the Vikings of International Finance?’

  His father only boasted of his Danish roots when it suited him, and being compared to a merciless Norseman flattered his ego. There had been a time when Marc would have been proud to be tarred with the same brush. Not any more. These past few months had changed that.

  His throat suddenly too tight, he got up, added a couple of logs to the fire and poked at it until flames rose again, bright and tall.

  A half-full whisky decanter and sparkling crystal tumblers on a silver tray attracted his attention. He lifted the cut-glass top and breathed in. Single malt. Wasn’t that supposed to cure all evils, from colds and arthritis to a broken heart and a guilty conscience? He would need more than a carafe of whisky to assuage his guilty conscience. He poured himself a generous measure, sipped the fiery amber liquid and walked to the window. A pair of headlights shone through the darkness. Rosalie Heart was coming back.

  She had it all worked out. She wouldn’t let her temper get the better of her this time. She would be charming, ply Marc Petersen with fine wine and good food and find out exactly what was going on.

  Unfortunately she had to wait to confront Geoff. She had rung the hospital from Lorna’s lodge, and the nurse had said that the doctors were keeping Geoff in overnight for observation, that he’d been given a sedative and was already asleep.

  She ran up to the drawing room, and forgot all her good intentions the moment she saw Petersen standing in front of the fireplace, a glass of Geoff’s best whisky in his hand.

  ‘I see you made yourself at home.’

  He looked at the crystal tumbler in his hand and nodded. ‘I have a headache. I thought it might help. I should have waited for you. Sorry.’

  Now he made her feel petty as well as rude. His cool grey eyes skimmed over her. Self-conscious, she pulled on her pink jumper to cover her hips.

  ‘Geoff won’t be coming home tonight,’ she told him. ‘The doctors are worried about his blood pressure, so I’m afraid you’ll have to deal with me until he comes home.’

  He drank a sip of whisky. ‘I thought you were a taxi driver. Why should I deal with you?’

  ‘Because Raventhorn is where I grew up and where I’ve lived most of my life. Because my mother was Geoff’s best friend and personal secretary for years. And because I know everything there is to know about the place.’

  ‘Yet you had no idea McBride had sold the estate.’

  He was right, but she wasn’t going to admit it. ‘A misunderstanding, that’s all.’

  ‘Doesn’t McBride employ a secretary or estate manager I could talk to?’

  ‘Not any more. We had someone, but he left months ago. Now there’s only Lorna, who takes care of all cooking and housekeeping duties, a cleaning lady who comes twice a week, and a few daily helps if we have visitors or honeymooners.’

  ‘I see.’ He put his glass on the tray. ‘Why don’t you give me that tour of the castle you promised earlier?’

  ‘I don’t have time now. I have to make dinner, but I can show you to your room.’

  The Crimson Room was the room reserved for paying guests and newlyweds, and one of the few boasting an en suite. It was also Rosalie’s least favourite room. She found the four-poster bed cumbersome with its oak posts
and red velvet drapes. The red wallpaper, matching curtains and counterpane made the room dark and oppressive. A walnut desk near the window, a tallboy and an old creaking wardrobe completed the décor.

  The room may not be to her taste but she would cut off her tongue rather than admit it. Lorna worked hard to keep everything looking pristine with the measly housekeeping money Geoff gave her.

  She switched on the light, walked to the window and pulled the curtains shut. ‘The room overlooks Loch Bran. It’s very picturesque and I’m sure you will enjoy the view tomorrow morning.’

  She touched the antique radiator under the bow window. It was lukewarm, as usual. ‘There are logs in the basket if you fancy making a fire. If not, just turn up the radiator. It’s a bit temperamental but should heat up. Eventually.’

  He looked around, clearly unimpressed. ‘It’s rather old-fashioned.’

  ‘Old-fashioned?’ she cried out, instantly forgetting that she’d always disliked the room. ‘Every single piece of furniture is steeped in history. The chest of drawers and the wardrobe are Queen Anne. These oil paintings over there are originals by George Blackie Sticks and Edwin Landseer.’

  ‘Hmm … What happened to the bed?’ He pointed to the markings on the posts. ‘These dents look like they were made by claws.’

  She shrugged. ‘There were made by knives.’

  ‘Really? Why was that?’

  Her face hot, she turned round and busied herself rearranging the cushions on the bed.

  ‘Has there been some kind of accident?’ he prompted.

  Rosalie sighed. ‘No … That bed is special. Most of the McBrides since the late fifteenth century, as well as countless babies from surrounding villages, were conceived here.’

  ‘So there’s a notch for every baby.’ He faced her, hands pushed deep in his trouser pockets, eyebrows arched.

  She cleared her throat. ‘Sort of. Do you remember Isobel McBride, the woman you saw in Corby Woods tonight? Well, she had some old wizard cast a spell on the bed before her nuptials to make sure her betrothed could …’ She swallowed hard.

  ‘Could?’