“Why?”
Rebecca was saved further embarrassment by the sudden intervention of McHarg. For once, she was very glad to be interrupted by the severe pursed lips and icy stare.
“Dinner…sir!” McHarg’s tone was clipped and a glacial stare was directed firmly at her Uncle. The gimlet eyes alighted on Drew, the discovery of whose presence seemed to cause further affront.
“Will young Campbell be staying to dine… sir?”
“Aye, yes, Miss McHarg, I’m sorry, I meant to tell you we were one more. He has been so good as to put in extra hours as holiday rep for Rebecca, so it is the least we can do.”
“Well, we will have to hope that the potatoes stretch. Come, Campbell, you can collect your own cutlery. I’ll not be waiting on the assistant ranger.”
Out of sight of McHarg, Rebecca and Drew exchanged smiles. Uncle Henry’s attention was back on Sibley, who was holding forth on the subject of the great McLeish’s use of canvas. Rebecca sat nervously fiddling with her napkin, hoping dinner would not last too long so she and Drew could put the rest of their plan into action.
***
Rebecca and Drew watched Sibley and Uncle Henry disappear into the drawing room to continue their examination of the McOwan collection.
“Hurry!” whispered Rebecca urgently, propelling Drew towards the North door. They ran across the lawn to the shed and retrieved the original painting.
“Let’s hope they don’t see us,” muttered Drew, looking anxiously at the castle windows in the gathering gloom. They manoeuvred the bulky painting as quickly as they could back across the grass and inside. Regaining the safety of the library, they quickly removed the forged painting and repositioned the original above the fireplace. Then they took the forgery back to the shed, wrapped it in the same black plastic and hid it again.
“Right – you stay here,” said Drew.
“I’ll get back inside before I’m missed. McHarg’s getting me back – washing up duty.”
***
A fish broke the surface of the loch with a splash as she sat down on a rock, causing Rebecca to jump. She smiled at her own edginess, gathering her coat about her against a chill breeze coming off the black waters. Night was not far away now, purple dusk enshrouding the hillsides. Rebecca could no longer distinguish the mass of Shadow Island against the hillside on the far bank. Once again, she was drawn to the beauty and stillness of this country.
Something swooped just above her head and she jumped again as it flew off towards the trees. It was a bat. Rebecca recoiled instantly, shuddering.
She had only been sitting on the bank a short while, when she was disturbed again.
“Becca! Becca!” Startled, Rebecca heard the voice which had called to her high on the mountain. Her pulse quickened. She jumped to her feet, summoning her courage, determined that this time she would discover who was calling and why.
“Who is there? Who are you?” Her own voice, loud and unfamiliar.
Silence. Mist had descended once more, thick and swirling, enveloping her, impenetrable.
“Becca! Becca!” The voice was closer. Once again, Rebecca could hear the sound of oars, splashing through the water. She strained her eyes into the mist, desperate to catch a glimpse of the boat, of someone.
“I can’t see you! Show yourself! Who are you?” she cried out, as the splashing became louder.
A long, mournful howl.
A shiver ran down Rebecca’s spine. Her feet were rooted to the ground, her mind racing. Eyes wide and wild, she looked rapidly to either side and behind her, fearful of something leaping out of the mist at her.
What manner of creature could have made that noise?
An eerie, creepy stillness followed. Rebecca wrung her hands together. They were clammy with sweat.
The sound had come from the water. As it died away, Rebecca could see sinister shapes emerging from the mist, no more than ten metres off shore.
She shrank back into the shadows.
“Becca! Becca!” The voice was quieter, and Rebecca could now make out a huge figure, standing in the bows of a great boat.
With an instant chill of dread, she recognised the warrior from the painting in the Great Hall. Behind him, shapes moved at the oars, their faces shrouded in darkness.
Was this the Ghost Ship?
Next to the warrior, the white eyes of the Wolf stared unblinkingly at her. Rebecca could not breathe.
Hakon raised his great nose almost imperceptibly, as if sniffing her scent. His grey and white coat was beautiful. To see the beast so close was amazing, yet terrifying.
Rebecca had to summon all her strength and willpower to speak. “What do you want of me?” Her voice quavered and died.
The boat came to rest at the water’s edge but neither the warrior nor the wolf moved.
“Go to the Sanctuary, Becca. Intruders disturb my lady’s rest. You will do what must be done. You understand. You have seen the signs. Only you can do what must be done.”
The warrior and Hakon stared at her, the wolf’s eyes piercing into her very soul. Rebecca took a pace forward, her courage returning. But as she did so, the mist swirled around the Ghost Ship again and enveloped it.
“Wait! But wait …” Rebecca cried out in vain. “I don’t understand what you mean …tell me!”
Her words hung in the silence over the loch. No reply came. Once again, as quickly as it had come, the mist receded and Rebecca stood alone at the edge of the water, watching ripples flickering gently in the moonlight.
***
Rebecca heard a rustling in the trees behind her. Still shaking, she turned swiftly.
Drew emerged, his face grim.
“Bad news, I’m afraid –” he started to say, stopping when he saw her ashen face.
“What’s the matter?”
In a garbled rush, she told him what had just happened.
“Are you sure you didn’t drop off?” Drew shook his head, when finally she had finished, his face registering a mixture of amazement and disbelief.
“It was just now – how could I be dreaming? I thought you would believe me, even if nobody else did. Didn’t you see or hear anything?”
“No, really, I didn’t. I saw Willie go off on the boat but no mist … there was no mist.”
Rebecca sat down on a rock at the edge of the water, frowning. Drew stood a few feet away, looking across the loch into the night. “The Ghost Ship … I do believe you, really. It’s just so strange, that’s all. Spirits from the past? Ghosts talking to you? Why?”
“If I knew that! It’s me it’s happening to – how do you think I feel? Something is going on here and I seem to be part of it.” Her tone bordered on anger.
“He seems to want you to do something. You really don’t know what?”
“I haven’t a clue. ‘Go to the Sanctuary. You will understand, you will do what must be done.’ That’s what he said but I do not understand.”
Drew paced up and down, deep in thought, his eyebrows furrowing together.
“I overheard Sibley talking to Henry about a ‘Sanctuary’, part of this McOwan Art Collection, or something. Perhaps it’s the same one?”
“Maybe.” Rebecca was distracted.
“‘You have seen the signs,’ he also said. What signs? Perhaps he meant the journal and the key? Becca wrote about the Princess and the place where she was buried, guarded by a warrior and a wolf. Am I meant to read and discover something?”
“Sibley had a list of all the artefacts and paintings. It’s on the library desk. Let’s go and see if it says anything about a Sanctuary.” Drew stood expectantly, looking down at her. Rebecca sighed and got to her feet, nodding silently.
“Oh – first though, I have to tell you what I was about to say. You stopped me with your spook story. I went back to the shed just now and the painting has gone!”
Rebecca looked at him in pained disbelief. Drew gave a rueful smile.
“The crooks must have slipped back earlier than we thought.”
“Damn! That ruins everything. Uncle Henry certainly won’t believe us about Sibley now. Oh no, and we had him! I should have listened to you.”
Rebecca paused for a moment, looking at Drew.
“Don’t say you told me so, please.”
“Wouldn’t dare,” Drew smiled wryly.
“What if they were waiting and watching – what if they saw us?” Rebecca’s face registered sudden alarm. “They might think we are on to them. They wouldn’t do anything, would they?”
Drew frowned.
“No way. Sibley wouldn’t want anyone alerting Henry and if anything happened to us, Henry would stop this McOwan Collection business straight away and the thieves would have to back off. They might keep an eye on us though, to see how much we do know.” Rebecca shuddered.
***
Having slipped quietly and unseen back into the castle and the library, Drew was poring over a small booklet entitled ‘The Machoiann Collection’. Rebecca’s attention had been momentarily drawn back to the painting in the Great Hall, which she had first looked at on her arrival. Now the inscription began to make more sense to her.
Gathering mist hides a clear silver pool
Where the taunt of bold Hakon doth play ye the fool
Whispering waters, Phoebus in cloud
Where time has stood still in yesterday’s shroud
She had now heard the taunt of Hakon for herself. She had heard the whispering waters and seen the clear silver pool in the mist up the mountainside.
Looking at the painting, she wondered whether it was the work of Becca, rather than Donald as her uncle had suggested. Becca, too, may have encountered the Warrior and Hakon. Perhaps this had contributed to her disturbed mind.
The white eyes of Hakon stared down from the painting.
Rebecca decided to read more of the journal that evening.
As she entered the library, Drew turned and showed her the page he was reading. Rebecca snorted contemptuously as she read a foreword by Simon Sibley, phrased in his pompous, self-important style and laying the major share of credit for the research at his own door. The work of other experts, by Sibley’s measure, appeared to register on the lesser side of slight.
“He’s even spelt the name McOwan wrong,” said Rebecca dismissively, pointing at the heading ‘The Machoiann Collection’. Drew gave a short laugh.
“That is actually the right way, or should I say, the Gaelic way. It doesn’t look one jot like it sounds. Like our mountain – pronounced ‘Larven’ but spelled L-a-d-h-a-r B-h-e-i-n-n.”
“And when you say ‘gallic’, I suppose you mean ‘gaylich’?”
“Nope – correct pronunciation ‘gallic’, spelt g-a-e-l-i-c. ‘Gaylich’ is Irish.”
Rebecca snorted.
“Well, thanks for the spelling lesson but let’s get back to the point.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Drew tugged his forelock. She ignored him and started flicking through the booklet. After a couple of pages, her eyes widened and she grabbed Drew’s arm.
“Here! ‘The Sanctuary. Unattributed, probably first half of the eighteenth century. Subject matter unknown.’” Her face fell.
“Well that tells us practically nothing, Mr Know-it-all Sibley.”
“It isn’t the only one that’s ‘Unattributed’ – look. “ Drew was flicking over the pages and pointing to other entries.
“There must be ten more at least. Are any of them …”
His voice tailed off as he read. He flicked quickly back and forth through the pages.
“What?” Rebecca was impatient. “Tell me! Tell me!”
“Well …” Drew looked up thoughtfully. “There are no entries attributed to Becca and yet we know she painted at least half a dozen or so that are here in the castle.”
“Well maybe Sibley doesn’t consider her worthy of a place in his collection.”
“I doubt that. I don’t know much about art but one of Dougie’s pals studied art history and he reckons they are the best things here.”
He paused and sat down in the window seat. Outside it was now pitch black.
“Is this one of hers?” Rebecca was looking at a painting on the wall near the window. It depicted a woman’s face, screaming at someone or something which was not part of the picture. Drew came over and scrutinised it over her shoulder.
“Aye, there’s her signature, I’d say. R.M. Wonder who the woman was?”
“Maybe it’s a self-portrait,” said Rebecca, staring at the picture. “You said she went insane.”
Drew was back scanning the booklet. He tapped it with his finger tip.
“There’s one here called ‘Rage’. Unattributed. Perhaps that’s it.”
Rebecca was still looking intently at the painting. She was strangely drawn to the anguish and pain that seemed to reach out from this woman. The face was lined and gaunt, the artist having made little attempt to portray it as attractive in any way. If Rebecca had truly been insane, could she really have created something as eloquent as this? Perhaps the painting allowed her to express the torment and anger that raged inside her. She inclined her head to one side.
“It’s like the painting in the gun room, of the woman tearing out her hair. Do you think it could be a self-portrait?”
“Giving expression to the inner demons, you mean? Aye, could be I suppose. Looks a bit like you, actually.”
“I have to get the journal,” said Rebecca, suddenly making for the door.
“I have to see if she talked about her paintings and what she is trying to say in them. And to see what this Sanctuary business is all about. Maybe it’s all tied up with these strange mists and I’ll find out what the warrior is asking me to do.”
Drew came over to the door and took a quick look outside to check nobody was about.
“I’ll be off. Willie will be back for McHarg soon and I can hide away aboard. I’m going to do some asking around in the harbour tomorrow, see if anyone knows just who these divers are and what they are up to.”
CHAPTER 9 – Locked In The Crypt
“So why are you in such a fine hurry to bolt your breakfast this morning?
Some tomfoolery, I’ll be bound. Young flipperties, you girls these days.” McHarg’s lips had pursed into a thin red line. As she stood at the sink, the disapproving set of her head was now becoming familiar.
“I’m going over to Stoul in the boat … to church.” Rebecca smiled mischievously.
The brush dropped from McHarg’s hand into the water. Eyes wide, she favoured Rebecca with what constituted the closest she was likely to get to a beam of pleasure.
“It’s heartening that you will be venturing to the Lord’s house. The path of righteousness leads to His door.” McHarg’s face shone for a second and then she resumed washing up, her expression settling back into its usual severe set.
Rebecca bit her tongue to stifle a giggle. Through the kitchen window, she glimpsed Drew going into the boathouse to wait for her. She looked away, down at the floor and back at McHarg and saw a frown hovering at her brow. It was but momentary, however, the naturally suspicious nature for once quelled by the joy of one young “flipperty” at last finding the true path.
“And will young Campbell be joining you at the kirk?” The suspicious nature had not vanished altogether then, Rebecca smiled inwardly.
“Yes, he will, Miss McHarg,” she replied, noting the repeated astonishment on the other’s face with some satisfaction.
“The Lord’s house is a solemn place.” The severe set was back. “You’re not to be causing shame to your uncle, and you can warn young Campbell that he’ll have me to deal with if I hear of any malarkey. I shall be along to the kirk later and I will be speaking with the minister, you can be sure of that.”
The icy stare threatened to freeze the dirty crocks.
Uncle Henry had been observing all this from behind his newspaper, amused. Rebecca caught his gaze. Her eyes narrowed.
“What?” she whispered, seeing a quizzical l
ook come into his eyes. For fear of giggling, she quickly shovelled a spoonful of cereal into her mouth. Uncle Henry held her gaze for a few seconds longer and then looked down.
“No matter,” he said, softly.
***
On leaving the castle and finding Drew waiting, Rebecca had grabbed him by the arm and propelled him unceremoniously aboard the boat.
“Well, I’m glad you told me where we’re going and why,” said Drew, ironically, as they cast off. She looked up apologetically.
“Sorry, didn’t have time to explain, in case somebody asked you.”
“Yeah, but I don’t know where –” He was cut short by Rebecca’s upraised hand.
“I know – sorry. I couldn’t tell you and if you had been asked and not known, it would have been too complicated. We’re going to Stoul, to the church.”
“The church!” exclaimed Drew, recoiling in horror. The boat swerved momentarily.
“I never go to the kirk! That’s for Wee Frees, guitar-playing hippies and old grannies like McHarg. And I swear they are weird … they probably do sacrifices and stuff.”
Rebecca laughed at his horrified expression.
“Steady! Keep your forelocks on! Well, we are going today. A lot of good people do go to church, you know – even young people. Anyway, I thought you were all God-fearing up here, like McHarg?”
Her eyes could not hide a merry glint. Drew was frowning, his eyebrows locked together.
“She’s batty! The one thing most likely to keep anyone away is her and her Wee Free pals.” He shook his head slowly.
Rebecca laughed.
“Just what is a Wee Free?”
“Zealot – Free Church of Scotland-goer. They call Sunday the Sabbath, wear ties all day and frown if you smile before sunset.”
“Well, we are going because of what I read in the journal last night,” she said.
“I’m not the only who’s witnessed these strange mists and had visits from Hakon and the warrior. Becca my ancestor did too. You said she was s’posed to have had strange dreams and hallucinations. Well, she writes about exactly the same things as I have seen. She was out on the loch in a boat one day and got lost in a thick, sudden mist. She ended up drifting out to sea. She met what she called a huge Norseman, who summoned her to the ‘Sanctuary’!”
Voice in the Mist Page 7
