Shoulder the Sky (Drumberley Book 3)

by D. E. Stevenson

  It was then and only then that James remembered he had no key. The fact that he would need a key to open the door of his house had never crossed his mind for keys were not much used at Mureth. The front door of Mureth House usually stood open and even at night it was rarely locked, but this little house was empty so it was bound to be locked.

  “Good Heavens, what a fool I am!” cried James.

  “No key, I suppose? Aren’t we mutts!”

  “I’m the mutt, not you.”

  “We’ll break in,” Rhoda assured him. “I’m sure there’s a window that somebody has forgotten to shut.”

  They went round the house examining the doors and windows but nobody had forgotten to fasten a window or to bolt a door. Everything was safely locked and barred and bolted, no burglar could have made an illegal entry at Boscath Farm. Only upon the upper floor was there a window which had been opened a tiny crack — the smallest crack imaginable — from the top.

  “It will have to be that one,” declared James.

  “No, James, you couldn’t,” objected his wife.

  “I could. That’s the window of the little back-bedroom, isn’t it? I could get onto the roof of the coal-shed.”

  “We could go across to Mureth,” suggested Rhoda who had uncomfortable visions of James’s falling off the coal-shed roof and breaking his neck.

  James had thought of this, but he did not want to go to Mureth tonight. There were several reasons which made the idea distasteful, but the principal reason was that he had been a fool to forget about the key and if he could break in it would restore his prestige. Having decided to do it, James did not hesitate, he climbed onto the roof of the coal-shed and found that he could reach the window-sill. Fortunately there was a small staple let into the wall beneath the window and this made it easier than he had expected. He rested his weight upon it and was able to open the window from the bottom.

  Rhoda watching with bated breath saw James draw himself up, throw a leg over the sill and disappear. She ran round to the front door where the luggage was stacked and waited for him to come. He was longer in coming down than she had expected but presently she heard the sound of bolts being drawn and the door swung open. The light was on in the hall and the brightness streamed out into the darkening night.

  “Rhoda!” said James breathlessly. “There’s a woman —”

  “A woman!”

  “Asleep in bed in that room — the room I got into. It’s a strange woman. I never saw her before.”

  “James, what nonsense!”

  “It’s true,” declared James half laughing. “A woman with a round flat face, with eyebrows like — like George Robey. Her mouth was open and she had no teeth. I couldn’t believe it!”

  “I don’t believe it either.”

  “Honestly, Rhoda. I lighted a match and gazed at her. She didn’t move. She didn’t stir. She’s lying there asleep … not exactly snoring but breathing heavily through her mouth.”

  This wealth of detail convinced Rhoda. James might have made up the story of a woman in bed but not a woman with a flat face breathing heavily through a toothless mouth.

  “It must be a cook!” exclaimed Rhoda in awed tones.

  “Well, never mind who it is,” said James. “I’ve opened the door so let’s go in,” and seizing his bride in his arms he carried her over the threshold with a masterful stride and set her down in the hall … and then, before relinquishing her, he kissed her. In the last month James had practised this delicate art quite often and was now extremely proficient. No film star had anything on James when James really got down to kissing his wife.

  “What was that?” exclaimed Rhoda, disengaging herself.

  “What was what?”

  “A sort of noise.”

  “What sort of noise?”

  “A sort of — gasp,” said Rhoda doubtfully.

  “Couldn’t have been.”

  “The cook!”

  “The cook — if she is a cook — is asleep. She’s as fast asleep as the Sleeping Beauty waiting for her Prince. I can assure you a bomb wouldn’t have wakened her.”

  “A kiss might have,” said Rhoda, giggling.

  “Wait till you see her!” said James.

  The house was ready. It was clean and orderly and shining. There were sheets upon the bed, there were towels upon the rail in the bathroom, soap in the soap-dish. The fire in the sitting room was laid and blazed up brightly when James put a match to it. James went round his house gloating upon everything and seeing in every little detail the hand of Mamie — the hand of love. Meanwhile Rhoda had found what she needed in the kitchen; she was opening up the box of provisions which they had bought in Glasgow and preparing a meal.

  It was their first meal in their own home; they had it comfortably in front of the sitting-room fire and took their time over it. They talked quietly, remembering the cook — if she was a cook — and unwilling to disturb her slumbers. They had been in each other’s company for a month but there was still plenty to say and somehow now that they were actually at home there was a new relationship — a tender relationship, a safe cosy relationship — blossoming between them. Rhoda put the feeling into words, she said with a little sigh, “The honeymoon was good but this is much, much better.”

  4

  MISS FLOCKHART had awakened at the sound of her bedroom door closing very quietly. It was the manner of the closing that had awakened her. Ordinary noises did not waken Miss Flockhart for she had shared a bedroom with two restless nephews for the past year. Her brother’s house adjoined the Steele Arms Hotel and her window looked out onto the yard and the bar. At first the noises had nearly driven her crazy but after a few weeks of broken rest she had become used to the noises, both inside and out, and had slept the sleep of the just.

  The furtive closing of her bedroom door was a different sort of noise. Miss Flockhart awoke. The mists of sleep receded. There was a curious dream lingering in her subconscious mind. She felt as if there had been somebody in her room (a man, young and handsome, a sort of Fairy Prince) but that was rubbish of course. Nobody could possibly have been in her room. Before going to bed, Miss Flockhart had gone round the house most carefully, bolting every door and snibbing every window — every window except her own which she had left open a tiny crack, the tiniest crack imaginable. Oddly enough the window was now shut.

  Supposing somebody was in the house, had managed to get in somewhere? Miss Flockhart sat up and listened intently. Somebody was in the house. There was no doubt about it. Who could it be? She got out of bed, opened the door and tiptoed onto the landing. The light was on in the hall and the front door was wide open. Miss Flockhart leaned over the banisters and saw … and saw a young and beautiful man stride into the house with a young and beautiful maiden in his arms … and she saw the kiss.

  Something moved inside Miss Flockhart; it was as if her whole inside turned upside down for a moment and then righted itself. She had seen kisses on the screen and had watched them unmoved, but this was real. This was … there was no word for it. Her head swam. Her whole body tingled. She felt almost as if she were participating. It was not until the kiss was over that Miss Flockhart came to her senses with a long drawn sigh and, realising that she had seen what nobody had a right to see, scuttled back to bed.

  It’s them, thought Miss Flockhart, sitting upon the edge of the bed and trying to pull herself together. Well, of course it must be them. It was unthinkable that people with burglarious intentions should pause to kiss before opening the safe. Miss Flockhart considered the matter carefully; should she put on her dressing-gown and go down and welcome her new employers? Was it her duty to offer to make tea? She decided it was not. They did not want anybody. She would pretend she had not wakened. Miss Flockhart straightened her pillow and laid her head upon it, but there was an odd feeling of restlessness in her and it was some time before she was able to compose herself to sleep.

  The morning was dark and rainy. Miss Flockhart had set her alarm at six-thirty f
or she had a lot to do. Although the house had seemed completely ready to James and Rhoda, Miss Flockhart was not satisfied with it. In her opinion the furniture needed polishing and the china cupboard was improperly arranged. When the alarm went off Miss Flockhart awoke reluctantly for she had had a disturbed night and it was several moments before she came to her senses and remembered where she was. It was quite a while before she managed to sort out the real events of the night from the phantasmagoria of her dreams. In fact it was not until she had dressed and gone downstairs that she was sure she had seen Mr. and Mrs. Dering Johnstone arrive. The remains of their meal convinced her that she had and she took action accordingly.

  Rhoda left James shaving and descended in some trepidation. Last night she had been able to take the whole thing lightly but this morning she felt differently about it. Rhoda had never possessed a cook of her very own before. She was not quite sure if it really was a cook — and, if a cook, how to address her — and it was so important, so vitally important to make a good first impression. She crept noiselessly to the kitchen door and peeped in. Her nose and eyes instantly informed her that her guess had been correct: the smell of frying bacon and of newly baked scones and the sight of a comfortably plump figure with a white apron tied round its waist.

  “Oh,” said Rhoda. “Oh, what a gorgeous smell!”

  Miss Flockhart turned and smiled shyly and Rhoda was surprised to see that her new retainer was quite good-looking. Rhoda had steeled herself to behold an absolute gargoyle. Admittedly her new retainer s face was round and somewhat puddingy but she had nice white teeth this morning and her eyes, beneath the slightly surprised eyebrows, were definitely good, large and well-shaped and softly brown.

  “We came a day sooner,” said Rhoda apologetically.

  Miss Flockhart stared at Rhoda. She was absolutely dazzled by Rhoda’s beauty, by her golden hair and her dark blue eyes and her perfect complexion.

  “We didn’t know there would be anybody in the house,” added Rhoda.

  “I came — yesterday,” said Miss Flockhart in a faint voice.

  “How lucky!” Rhoda exclaimed. She hesitated after the exclamation. What should she say next? There was so much to be said that it was difficult to know where to begin. Perhaps it was best to say nothing, to take everything for granted until she could feel her way. “How awfully lucky!” repeated Rhoda.

  Miss Flockhart nodded.

  “We flew to Renfrew,” continued Rhoda. “It was a lovely day — blue sky and fleecy clouds — simply heavenly.”

  Miss Flockhart said nothing. She was dumb with enchantment. She seemed to see an aeroplane swooping amongst fleecy clouds with the sun shining upon its wings. That was how they had come. Not in a lumbering, noisy, dirty old train but in a silver chariot swooping amongst the clouds.

  There was a short silence. Miss Flockhart pulled herself together with an effort. “I hope you like bacon, Mrs. Dering Johnstone,” she said.

  “I adore bacon,” replied Rhoda.

  “I didn’t know, you see,” Miss Flockhart explained. “I just risked it. Some ladies like fruit to their breakfasts and nothing else, but gentlemen usually like bacon. I made porridge too, and oven scones. I just — risked it.”

  “You were inspired,” declared Rhoda with conviction.

  Miss Flockhart did not quite understand the meaning of the word but she realised from the expression upon her new employer’s face that she had done well to risk it. “Mr. Brown liked bacon,” she said.

  “Wise man,” commented Rhoda.

  “He used to say my oven scones were — were ambrosial.”

  “The food of the gods,” nodded Rhoda.

  “I was with Mr. Brown before,” continued Miss Flockhart, who was beginning to find her tongue. “I was housekeeper at Tassieknowe for ten years and three months exactly … and I’d be there now if he hadn’t died.”

  Rhoda made a little sound of sympathy.

  “He was old, mind you,” said Miss Flockhart. “He had asthma and the doctor had told me his heart was bad and he might go off any minute, but still it gave me an awful turn when I found him sitting in his chair with his spectacles on and the chess all arranged on the table. It seemed — it would have been more — more natural if he had been comfortably in bed.”

  “Oh no!” cried Rhoda. “You mustn’t think that. I mean if he liked chess —”

  “He was crazy on it. He’d sit for hours playing away by himself, working out problems he called it.”

  “Well then, how much nicer for him to die happily like that instead of being ill and lying in bed and getting worse every day!”

  Miss Flockhart had opened the oven door and was taking out her scones. She said a little unsteadily, “I’d have nursed him faithfully.”

  “Of course you would,” agreed Rhoda. “And I quite see how awful it was for you to find him like that; but honestly it was the best way for him.”

  “Maybe, but it wasn’t best for me. There was a lot of nasty talk in Drumburly. Folks said I should have had him in his bed and looked after him. They’d not say it to my face but I knew fine there was talk.”

  “How horrid of them! How absolutely beastly!”

  “It was that,” agreed Miss Flockhart, warming to her new employer more and more.

  “It must have upset you dreadfully,” said Rhoda in sympathetic tones.

  “Och well, there’s always talk. I was a lot more upset with — with something else.”

  Rhoda immediately enquired what else had befallen.

  “Do you think people can see what’s happening here after they’re dead?” asked Miss Flockhart, answering Rhoda’s question with another.

  “Yes,” said Rhoda.

  “I think so too,” said Miss Flockhart sadly.

  “Something happened? Something he wouldn’t have liked?”

  “Mr. Brown was scarcely cold in his grave before his house was pulled to pieces,” said Miss Flockhart dramatically.

  Rhoda gazed at her aghast.

  “And he was that fond of Tassieknowe,” continued Miss Flockhart, busying herself about the kitchen as she talked.

  “It seems that the wee hillock where the house is built used to be a Roman fort, and it was called after a Roman general — Tacitus his name was. I didn’t pay much heed to what he said, poor old gentleman, but he used to talk about it, even on.”

  “Why did they pull it down?” Rhoda enquired.

  “They didn’t exactly pull it down,” explained Miss Flockhart, “but they made an awful hash of it. He’d let it go a wee bit of course; he didn’t like changes, poor old gentleman. He’d not have a tree cut down nor a bush cut back. It was the same indoors; he’d not have the rooms painted or papered. Well then, when he died the place was bought by a rich gentleman from London and he got onto it straight away and pulled the place to bits. I’ll tell you what, I wouldn’t have known it was Tassieknowe when I went up to have a look at it. Shaved and shorn, it was,” said Miss Flockhart with a little gulp. “Not a tree left, nor a bush, and the house gutted as if there’d been a fire,”

  “Goodness!” exclaimed Rhoda.

  “There it was, sitting on the hill naked, and the place full of foreign workmen — from Liverpool. Drumburly folk were not good enough for Mr. Heddle to employ. Alec felt it a bit (Alec is my brother and he’s the best painter in the district), but I just said to Alec he’d have got no good out of that job if he’d got two hundred pounds. It’s gone,” added Miss Flockhart. “Yon naked wee house on the bare hill is no more Tassieknowe than it’s Holyrood Palace. And what’s Mr. Brown feeling about it? That’s what I say.”

  “He doesn’t mind,” declared Rhoda, who had followed the story with breathless attention.

  “He’ll mind if he can see it.”

  “No,” said Rhoda earnestly. “No, he doesn’t mind. I think people in the next world can see what’s happening in this world but it doesn’t grieve them. Honestly that’s what I think. I’m not just saying it to comfort you. I’ve tho
ught about it a lot. You see, after my mother died my brother did something — something very unkind. As a matter of fact he was engaged to a girl and then suddenly, without any warning, he broke it off and married somebody else. I wondered if Mother knew.”

  Miss Flockhart nodded gravely; the tray was ready to carry in, but she waited.

  “And then I was sure she knew,” declared Rhoda. “Mother knew and she was sorry, but it didn’t distress her as it would have distressed her when she was here. She understood everything,” said Rhoda earnestly. “She understood the whole miserable tangle inside and out — and of course if you really understand a thing and see it in proper perspective it doesn’t make you unhappy.”

  Miss Flockhart was not quite convinced.

  “‘Tout comprendre, c’est tout pardonner,’” said Rhoda. “That means you can forgive anything if you know the truth, and if you understand and forgive people you feel much better. When I really understood about Derek and how it had happened I forgave him at once. It was being angry with Derek that made me miserable, you see.”

  *

  James came down to breakfast whistling cheerfully. He had shaved with soft water, he had donned comfortable clothes; he had looked out of the window and seen the hills. The hills were not really a very cheerful sight this morning, for they were garlanded with scarves of trailing mist and it was raining gently but inexorably as if it never meant to stop, but James didn’t care.

  “Gosh!” he exclaimed when he saw the breakfast table. “Gosh, so she is a cook!”

  “Yes, isn’t it marvellous! And she’s terribly nice. I’ve been talking to her for ages.”

  “I suppose Mamie engaged her for us.”

  “I suppose so,” agreed Rhoda.

  “Didn’t you ask?”

  “No,” said Rhoda. “No, as a matter of fact —”

  “What’s her name?” enquired James, as he helped himself to a large plateful of porridge. “Is she staying permanently? I suppose we’ve got to pay her the earth!”

  “Er —” said Rhoda. “Um — I don’t know, really.”