by Mary Daheim
“Serves you right,” Bill said.
At precisely eight-thirty, Gibbs reappeared. “Dinner is served,” he announced. “Cook will present.”
The dining room was long and rather stark with its stone walls, two recessed windows, and an open fireplace where logs burned fitfully. The single table for sixteen was covered with a white linen cloth. The settings were handsome, however, with gleaming silver, elegant plates, and sparkling crystal glasses. The chairs were quite plain, though upholstered with faded brown damask. A candelabrum burned at the end of the table where the place settings had been laid.
A swinging door opened. Cook appeared, delicately balancing two soup plates on each arm.
“Mrs. Gibbs?” Judith said in surprise.
“Aye.” Mrs. Gibbs, who was attired in a flowered frock protected by a big white apron, adroitly set Judith’s soup in front of her. “Feather fowlie. Granary rolls in covered bread basket.” She delivered the rest of the soup and presumably returned to the kitchen.
Judith tasted her soup. “It’s delicious,” she said, accepting the roll basket from Bill. “The fowlie must be chicken. I wonder if Mr. and Mrs. Gibbs take care of this entire castle themselves.”
Joe shrugged. “Could be. It’s the off-season.”
Renie looked across the table at Bill. “Cute,” she murmured. “But not now. I’m eating.”
Bill looked up from the roll he was buttering. “What’s cute?”
“You,” Renie said. “With the kneesies.”
“Kneesies?” Bill looked puzzled. “I’m sitting five feet away from you. How could my knees stretch so far? You know I’m a thirty-inch long in the leg and a thirty-four waist.”
“I know the thirty-inch part,” Renie said dryly. “The waist measurement is…Hey!” She turned to Joe and then to Judith. “Who’s bumping me? Cut it out! I almost slopped my soup.”
“So what?” Bill inquired. “You’re a messy eater.”
“My knees aren’t near you,” Joe asserted. “I’m a thirty-two long and a…ah…um…”
“Forget it,” Judith snapped, almost saying that her husband couldn’t count that high. “It’s not me. You must be hitting something.”
“No,” Renie declared. “I haven’t moved my…Yikes!”
The table rocked and the fine white linen cloth flew up at the corner between Renie and Joe. A head of short, curly dark hair poked out and turned to gaze at the startled diners.
“Hello. I’m Chuckie.”
Judith gasped—and stared. The boy looked like a gnome, with small dark eyes, a long chin, and a big, cheerful grin.
Joe was the first to recover. “Hello, Chuckie. Do you live under this table?”
Chuckie shook his head before crawling out and sitting on his haunches. Judith guessed him to be in his early teens, but small for his age. She assumed he was the person who had skittered across the passageway earlier.
“I live lots of places,” Chuckie said. “I’m rich.”
“That’s good,” Joe said. “How about living somewhere other than where we’re having dinner?”
Chuckie scowled. “Where?”
“Do you have more than one castle?” Joe asked, his mellow voice even softer, as if he were interrogating a juvenile offender.
Chuckie shook his head. “Sometimes I sleep in a barrel.” He got to his feet and surveyed the table. “A roll, please.”
Bill passed him the basket. Chuckie studied the remaining rolls closely before making his choice. He began picking the roll to pieces, dropping the bits on the floor as he moved away.
“So I won’t get lost,” he said, and left the dining room.
“The short one’s crazier than the tall one,” Bill said.
“He’s certainly creepier,” Renie asserted. “How old?”
“Twelve, thirteen,” Joe guessed.
Bill disagreed. “He’s older, but very small for his age, barely five feet. I’d estimate him as closer to twenty.”
“Is he developmentally disabled?” Judith asked.
Bill, who rarely answered serious questions without a great deal of careful thought, considered the query. “That depends on what you mean. I’d have to study him much longer to decide.”
“Is he dangerous?” Renie asked.
Again, Bill took at least a full minute to respond. “I don’t know.”
“That’s not very reassuring,” Renie said.
Mrs. Gibbs entered the dining room, bearing prawn cocktails. “Ye done with yer soup?” she asked.
Judith nodded. “It was delicious. Thank you.”
“We had a visitor,” Joe said as Mrs. Gibbs removed the soup plates. “A young fellow named Chuckie.”
“Oh?” Mrs. Gibbs wasn’t surprised. “Was the wee laddie hungry?”
“He wanted a roll,” Joe said.
Mrs. Gibbs espied the crumbs on the stone floor. “Ah.”
Judith couldn’t resist. “Who is he?”
“The master’s son and heir,” Mrs. Gibbs replied. “Chuckie Fordyce.” She placed the prawn cocktails on the table. “The laddie will one day run Glengrim distillery.” She smoothed her white apron. “Unless…” She shrugged. “Main course is next.” She made her exit.
“Don’t buy stock in Glengrim,” Renie cautioned. “The company’s future looks…grim.”
“We have locks on our doors,” Bill said. “I think we’d better use them. The residents seem to show up without warning. Both of them.”
“There could be more,” Judith pointed out. “I must ask Mrs. Gibbs about the tall young man who told us he was the grandson. If Harry is married, maybe there’s a granddaughter-in-law living here, too.”
“According to the layout of the castle that I got from Hugh MacGowan,” Joe said, “the rooms in our wing are all for guests. There must be another section where the family quarters are located.”
“I’d like to see that layout,” Judith said. “Do you have it?”
Joe nodded. “It’s in the pocket of my big suitcase.”
The rest of dinner was uneventful. Since Mrs. Gibbs was looking harried from her exertions, Judith refrained from asking any more questions. After the Flynns and the Joneses had finished their excellent Angus beefsteak, partaken of Bonchester and Cadoc cheeses, and finished with a crème brûlée, they were stuffed—and sleepy.
Mrs. Gibbs had a final word for her guests. “Breakfast at five,” she announced.
“Five what?” asked an astonished Renie.
“For the gentlemen,” Mrs. Gibbs replied.
Joe looked sheepish. “Bill and I are meeting Hugh at seven to go over our fishing plans. Maybe we’ll try out a stream nearby.”
Renie looked relieved. “For a moment I thought…Never mind.”
“The ladies may come down anytime after eight,” Mrs. Gibbs informed the cousins. “Breakfast is served from the sideboard in the other part of the dining room.”
When they returned to their room, Judith was too tired to chide Joe about his early departure in the morning. “Just don’t wake me up,” she said, and kissed him good night.
She fell asleep before her husband could start the fire or even begin to undress. Judith had worried that her fatigue might bring on strange dreams, even nightmares, but she slept soundly. When she woke up the only dream she could remember was sitting in a beach tent looking at a gigantic thermometer that registered eighty-five degrees. That was as close to a nightmare as she got.
But of course they’d only been at Grimloch Castle for a few hours.
4
It wasn’t surprising that Renie wasn’t on hand when Judith went down to breakfast at nine o’clock. The food, including kippers, toast, rashers of bacon, scrambled eggs, fruit, and flat, soft rolls was tasty. When Judith finished eating, she couldn’t resist seeking out the kitchen.
It wasn’t difficult. She opened the door Mrs. Gibbs had used, and faced a second baize door. Judith knocked. Mrs. Gibbs responded.
“Aye?” the cook said. “What would
ye want?”
“I shouldn’t intrude,” Judith apologized, “but I run an inn. I was curious to see how you manage your kitchen. I serve only breakfast.”
“Come along,” Mrs. Gibbs said with a resigned air.
The kitchen was huge, with an open fireplace and a spit that looked as if it was used regularly. The cast-iron stove had eight round cooking spaces of varying sizes, not unlike the smaller version Grandma and Grandpa Grover had used for years in the family home.
“Wood-burning?” Judith inquired.
“Wood and coal,” Mrs. Gibbs replied.
The counters were made of old, well-worn wood, fragrant from decades of cutting fruit and vegetables. There were two sinks, both enamel with old-fashioned faucets like the ones in the guest bathroom. The big black refrigerator, however, looked new. The only hint of nonfunctional decor was a framed tartan on the far wall next to a glass-covered cupboard.
“You do all this yourself?” Judith said with admiration.
“Aye. That is,” Mrs. Gibbs explained, “except for summer when the regular guests come. I have a daily or two to help.”
“I should think so. What about cleaning? This place is vast.”
Mrs. Gibbs agreed. “Daily help for that, too, in summer.”
“Does your grandson live here all the time?” Judith asked, admiring the heavy cookware that hung from a circular rack.
Mrs. Gibbs frowned as she used a wooden spoon to stir what looked like cake batter. “He’s paying us a visit.”
“Oh.” Judith smiled. “That’s nice. Where does he live?”
The frown deepened. “Close by.”
“Do he and his wife have children?”
Mrs. Gibbs dropped the spoon and bent down to retrieve it. “He told you about his wife?”
“No,” Judith admitted. “But he’s married, isn’t he?”
“Aye.” Mrs. Gibbs wiped her forehead with the back of her hand. “They had a wee bairn, Jamie, last November.”
“That’s wonderful. You must be thrilled.”
Mrs. Gibbs didn’t respond. Judith changed the subject. “What are those flat soft rolls? I ate two. They’re delicious.”
“They’re baps,” Mrs. Gibbs replied, “from an auld recipe. Tomorrow I’ll make bannocks. You call them…what?”
“Pancakes or flapjacks,” Judith said. “I remember bannocks from when my cousin and I were in Scotland many years ago.”
Mrs. Gibbs nodded once and stirred the mixture in the bowl. “No lunch. High tea at four, if you like.”
“My cousin and I will probably go into the village to explore,” Judith said. “We’ll eat there. What do you recommend?”
“A tearoom, a Chinese restaurant, a curry house, two pubs, pizza. Take your pick.” Mrs. Gibbs kept her eyes on the dough.
Judith pointed at the tartan on the wall and moved for a closer look. “That’s different from the Forbes and Fordyce green and blue plaid in the hallway. I like all the red. Is that the clan’s hunting colors?”
“Nae.” Mrs. Gibbs still didn’t look up. “That’s my family, the MacIver tartan.”
“Oh.” Judith peered at what she assumed was the clan motto. “Nunquam obliviscar. What does that mean?”
The other woman finally glanced up, her eyes narrowed and her tone bitter. “It means ‘I will never forget.’” She turned back to the dough and gave it a hard thump with her fist. “I must finish this.”
Judith sensed that she was being dismissed. “Thank you.” Without another word, she returned to the dining room. Renie was at the sideboard, heaping food onto her plate.
“I thought you’d run off with Chuckie,” she said.
“I was trying in vain to befriend Mrs. Gibbs,” Judith explained.
Renie was surprised. “If you flunked, she can’t be human.”
“The only thing I found out is that Harry is just visiting, and his wife had a baby boy last November,” Judith said, pouring herself a third cup of coffee. “He lives nearby, which, I assume, given the smaller distances between places in Scotland, could be the village.”
Renie topped her scrambled eggs with a couple of kippers. “So?”
Judith shrugged. “Nothing, I guess.”
“I’m more concerned that our husbands will be arrested for poaching,” Renie said, sitting down and sprinkling salt and pepper on her food. “Land along the UK’s rivers and such are usually owned privately.”
Judith had also sat at the long trestle table. “Joe mentioned that MacGowan had permission to fish in certain spots around here. He’s going to serve as their ghillie, which is what the locals call a guide. Apparently you don’t have to buy a fishing license, only some kind of permit that gives you the property owner’s approval.”
“Good. So what do we do for amusement?” Renie asked.
“Explore the village? We may need Gibbs to row us ashore.”
“You could make it up that hill?”
“I think so,” Judith said. “It isn’t very far, though I couldn’t see much in the fog. I found Joe’s castle layout and a local map. We’re close to several interesting places and not all that far from Inverness.”
When the cousins were ready to leave, they found Gibbs by accident. He was in the courtyard, armed with a trowel and a rake, doffing his cap when he spotted the cousins. “Bulbs coming up,” he said. “Got to make way for crocus and daffodils.”
“Ours are in bud at home,” Judith said. “They should be blooming by the time we get back. Do you do all the gardening?”
“Aye.” Mr. Gibbs straightened up, a hand pressing his back. “Stiff I get, o’ times.” He smiled at the low gray clouds. “Spring’s coming.”
“Also true where we live,” Judith said. “We’re going to St. Fergna. It looks as if the tide’s out.”
“It is,” Gibbs agreed. “Harry can drive ye. Here he comes now.”
Harry Gibbs was coming out through a door on the other side of the courtyard. He was dressed casually, if stylishly, in a black jacket that displayed a Burberry plaid lining, and well-cut corduroy slacks.
“Do ye mind passengers?” Gibbs called to his grandson. “These ladies want to plunder the shops in the village.”
Harry paused to survey the cousins. “Well…why not?”
“We passed muster,” Renie murmured.
“I need to buy warmer clothes,” Judith said, indicating her navy blue linen jacket and white cotton slacks.
Harry snickered. “You thought it’d be warm in the Highlands?”
“She thought it would be seasonably warm in California,” Renie responded. “The plane forgot to make a right-hand turn.”
“Awkward,” Harry remarked. “Follow me to the lift.”
In the daylight, Judith could see the sheer cliff below the castle and beyond the sandy beach to the village. She could hear the surf and smell the salt-scented air. There were no dolphins, but gulls swooped above them, coming to rest on the castle’s watchtowers and battlements.
Time seemed to recede, two thousand years a mere tick on the planet’s clock. The Romans moving north to build the barrier of Hadrian’s Wall; Saint Columba setting foot on a nearby shore, bringing Christianity to the Celtic tribes; the Vikings come to raid and plunder; Robert the Bruce and William Wallace fighting for Scotland’s sovereignty; union with England under King James; the religious wars, the clan wars, the foreign wars—so many battles, leaving the land soaked in blood to make way for oil rigs and distilleries and pizza parlors. Judith sensed the irony.
“This is quite a view,” she said as they stepped inside the lift.
“I find it bleak,” Harry said. “I prefer the city.”
“Inverness?” Judith said as they began the slow, noisy descent.
Harry laughed derisively. “London. I grew up there.”
“Oh. Is that where your parents live?” Judith asked.
“Yes. When they’re not traveling the globe.” He yawned, as if the subject—or the cousins—bored him.
Jud
ith wondered how Harry’s mother and father seemed to be living a life of leisure while his grandparents toiled away as virtual servants at Grimloch Castle. But she thought it best not to bring up the subject. In any event, the lift had clattered to a stop.
“That’s my Range Rover,” Harry said, pointing to a metallic silver SUV parked on a stretch of concrete in front of a small wooden shed by the narrow road to the village. “Where shall I let you off?”
“What should we see?” Judith asked. “We drove through St. Fergna after dark last night.”
Harry opened the back door of the expensive vehicle. “There’s not much of interest, in my opinion.”
“Where are you going?” Renie inquired. “We could get out where you park.”
“I’m not stopping,” Harry replied as the cousins settled themselves into the comfortable leather seats. “I’m going beyond St. Fergna.” He closed the door with a click that was more like a whisper.
Judith and Renie exchanged bemused glances, but kept quiet as Harry got behind the wheel. “There’s a very old church,” he said, “if you’re into that sort of thing. Presbyters and all that.”
“We may explore it,” Judith said. She looked around the beach where a couple of wading birds foraged for food. “Are those sandpipers?”
“They’re called turnstones here,” Harry replied. He suddenly took a sharp turn to the right. “That’s odd,” he muttered.
“What’s odd?” Judith saw nothing except for a couple of people much farther down the beach.
Harry slowed down. “That bird on the rock beyond the castle cliffs is a great northern diver. They’re rare around here. They go north to the Orkney and Shetland Islands in the summer. I hate them.” He honked the horn, but the big bird didn’t move. Harry swore under his breath and turned the car back toward the track from the beach.
“It looks like a loon to me,” Renie remarked.
Harry didn’t respond. He seemed to tense at the wheel as he approached the steep bank.
Judith caught a glimpse of fishing boats at anchor about a hundred yards down the strand and decided to change the subject. “Do they fish commercially around here?”
