by Kennedy Kerr
‘Who says I’m not content?’ Temerity argued, but she knew her sister was right. A part of her longed to say yes to the invitations that often came her way. Sometimes there were even job offers: universities, auction rooms and museums had all asked Temerity Love to work her magic for them. Yet Temerity refused them all.
‘Come on, Tem. This is me. I know everything about you, okay? I know. About Patrick – that you feel responsible. That you can’t leave. Somehow, in your mind, losing Patrick is your fault and you think you’ve got to… I don’t know. Stay as a penance. I don’t know how many times I have to tell you that it wasn’t your fault.’
‘Come on, Tils. I don’t want to talk about that right now,’ Temerity muttered.
‘Fine, fine. But you know I’m right.’ Tilda raised her eyebrow as she drank her tea.
Tilda was usually right about most things and it pained Temerity to admit that her sister knew the intricacies of her feelings on this matter, too. Still, she’d never say so: it would make Tilda even more pig-headed than she already was. Pig-headedness certainly didn’t help Tilda make friends, but Tilda was too obstinate to see it. Temerity had tried to explain that perhaps it wasn’t so much Tilda’s witchcraft that the villagers had a problem with, but her brusque way of answering when anyone asked her about it.
‘You don’t know everything, you know,’ Temerity often complained. As children, Tilda had always wanted to play schools: take the register, organise games with lots of rules and generally have an excuse to boss her sister around. Later, she had excelled in the hockey team, where her strong thighs and aggressive tendencies made her an intimidating opponent. Temerity, by comparison, hated all sports, daydreamed in most of her lessons and had often bunked off hockey lessons to sit in a hidden spot beside the loch, listening to music and eating chips.
Temerity had only stumbled into her work with antiques because someone had to take over the shop after their parents died and she had a gift for psychometry. She could touch something and know who it had belonged to, or where it had been; she could hold an unusual antique in her hands, or wrap her long, knobbly fingers around a chair leg or a drawer handle and get flashes of information about where it had come from and what it was.
In antique speak, that meant establishing the provenance of an item. That was what she was famous for now, in certain circles. Temerity specialised in magical and occult items because that was what she knew most about, growing up inside Love’s Curiosities, Inc. But she was also an expert in bringing clarity and light to the old, odd and lost.
Some might have considered Temerity and Tilda odd, but, unlike many, they weren’t lost. Love’s Curiosities was their home and always would be.
2
As Temerity pushed open the door to The Singing Kettle she heard a girl say fearfully, ‘They say it’s haunted.’ The girl was looking at the sign above Lost Maidens Loch’s only tea shop. Inside, the familiar hum of chatter welcomed Temerity in, and she smelt the buttery aroma of fresh scones. The windows were permanently fogged from the steam of Muriel’s brass boiler as she made tea all day: in bone china cups for tourists, mugs for the regulars who had come in for their lunch and takeaway paper cups for the boat shed or those who wanted to take a hot drink with them on a tour of the loch.
Muriel was fiftyish, comfortably round in all the right places and always dressed in either a shapeless navy fleece sweatshirt and slacks, or a cream fisherman’s sweater, jeans and cracked walking boots, under a spotlessly clean floral-patterned apron. Her sleeves were always rolled up and she usually had a pen pushed through her short grey-blonde hair for taking orders – not that she often used it, as she had an excellent memory. Muriel’s family had lived in Lost Maidens Loch for more than ten generations and she thought of herself as its unofficial historian. However, it wasn’t just history that Muriel kept for the village: The Singing Kettle was a hub of gossip. If you wanted to know anything that had ever happened in Lost Maidens Loch, then Muriel was who you asked.
‘Who says it’s haunted?’ Temerity held the door open for the girl. About as haunted as my knicker drawer, Temerity thought, but she saw the look of disappointment on the poor girl’s face and erased the frown from her own. The girl showed her a little guidebook she held in her hand: The Mysteries of Lost Maidens Loch by T.L. Hawtry.
‘It says ’ere.’ The girl was in her late teens and her accent placed her from Yorkshire in northern England, or thereabouts. She pointed at one page, which listed The Singing Kettle as one of the five most haunted locations in the village, with the Post Office, the loch itself, Sutherland’s Boat Hire and MacDonald the glass-blower making up the rest of the spooky locales.
‘Of course, Dalcairney Manor would also be a fascinating place to visit, but it says here that it’s not open to visitors.’ The girl turned the page and showed Temerity a grainy photo of the Manor, accompanied by a badly typeset description. Temerity wondered who T.L. Hawtry was; the booklet itself looked very homemade. Probably some local chancer trying to make money from naïve tourists; it wasn’t lost on Temerity that all of the locations listed as haunted in the book most definitely weren’t haunted at all; they were also places that made most of their money from tourists. Temerity felt momentarily piqued that T.L. Hawtry hadn’t chosen her shop to be one of the chosen spooky few: there actually would have been a grain of truth in the idea.
She read what the small book had to say about the local Laird:
Dalcairney Manor, the ancestral home of the Dalcairney family, stands on the site of an ancient chieftain’s land that the Dalcairneys claim lineage to, though this has never been conclusively proven. The Manor was originally built in the 1500s and rebuilt several times. The family currently comprise the current Laird, David Dalcairney, and his mother, Lady Balfour Dalcairney. The Laird’s first wife, Lady Emma Dalcairney, passed away in tragic circumstances. His son, Anthony, from his second marriage to Claire Dalcairney (from whom he is now divorced) lives in London.
‘I think the Laird’s been ill these past few months.’ Temerity handed the book back to the girl; it was their turn at the counter. ‘But I’ve never known the Manor to be open to the public, anyway. They’re very private,’ she added. And I don’t blame them, Temerity thought, looking at the book. She’d hate it if her family and life story were being written about in some badly produced book somewhere. It must be terrible to have your privacy invaded like that.
‘What can I get ye, dearie?’ Muriel asked the girl. ‘I recommend the full Scottish breakfast, with tea. My tea’s the strongest ye’ll find around here. Just what ye need for ghost-hunting!’ She nodded at the book in the girl’s hand.
Temerity caught Muriel’s eye.
‘Muriel, I had no idea The Singing Kettle was haunted!’ she exclaimed in mock-surprise. Muriel gave her a shut up look.
‘Ah, of course it is, dearie! I don’t know how ye could’ve missed that. The house’s been standing since the 1600s and it used to be a blacksmith’s forge, ye know! There’re still some nights when I hear the smith’s hammer – always three strikes, metal on metal. Clang, clang, clang!’ Temerity raised her eyebrow but said nothing. She knew for a fact that The Singing Kettle had been a fishmonger’s before it was a café and that the house was Victorian.
‘And d’ye know what? Whenever I’ve heard that noise, it’s like a warning. Clang, clang, clang! Somethin’ bad happens in the village. An omen!’ Muriel continued, warming to her subject. She leaned over the counter for additional dramatic effect and lowered her voice. ‘In fact, I don’t want to frighten ye, dearie, but I heard the noise just last night. Clear as day.’ She stood back on her side of the counter, looking pleased with herself. ‘That’ll be ten pounds, darlin’. I’ll bring it to you.’
The girl followed Muriel’s gesturing to an empty table, looking kind of overwhelmed by the unexpected performance.
‘Laying it on a bit thick, weren’t you?’ Temerity murmured as she paid for a cup of the thick, strong tea and a warm cheese scone with
butter. ‘And since when was breakfast ten pounds?’
‘Tourist prices. And I cannae help it if someone’s sayin’ the tea shop’s haunted. Got tae give them some razzle-dazzle, otherwise they won’t come, will they? It’s good fer business,’ Muriel hissed.
Temerity was going to argue back that it wasn’t fair to mislead people, when Henry Sutherland barged into the café, banging the door back on its hinges.
‘There’s been a death! Down at the school!’ he cried. He was a big man and he’d obviously run from the boat shed about a hundred metres away, because he was out of breath and red in the face. Maybe a few more sit-ups, Henry, and fewer evenings in the pub, Temerity thought to herself.
‘Haud yer weesht!’ Muriel shouted above the sudden din in the café; it was a Scottish phrase that meant be quiet. ‘I cannae hear! Henry, did ye just say someone died at the school?’
‘Aye, so I hear. Police radio,’ Henry panted. Temerity didn’t bother asking why Henry had been listening in to what was supposed to be a private wavelength; people in Lost Maidens Loch were notoriously nosy.
‘Gods.’ Temerity shook her head. ‘Looks like your blacksmith was right after all,’ she said to Muriel.
Muriel wiped her hands decisively on her apron and pointed at Temerity. ‘Okay, lassie. I cannae close the café, but tell the teachers they’ve got free lunch here, as much as they want.’ She looked anxious. ‘Oh dear, I hope it wasnae any of the kiddies… or Brenda. I’ve been warnin’ her aboot her heart,’ she appealed to Temerity. ‘Be a darlin’, go and find out for me, aye? I won’t rest until I know.’
‘I’ll go.’ Temerity got off her stool and pulled her coat on. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll let you know as much as I can once I’ve been there. I’m sure it’s not Brenda.’ Brenda was the school cook and Muriel’s best friend. They made a formidable pair of gossips when they got together and Brenda usually stopped off at The Singing Kettle for dinner and a chat on her way home from school. Temerity often saw them together, talking in low voices and watching the customers.
It would be killing Muriel that she had to keep the café open; as chief gossip she needed information as quickly as possible. But Temerity knew that Muriel would give everyone a free lunch that day; it was her way. She mothered them all and today they’d need it, whoever had passed over: a death in a small community was a terrible thing.
Temerity also knew that she was being dispatched as Muriel’s eyes and ears and that she’d better get to the school as soon as she could. She knew Muriel well enough to be sure that she’d receive a cool reception at the café forever more if she didn’t do as the woman asked, and quickly. Yet there was something else apart from Muriel’s request that was drawing her there. It was a strange feeling: a kind of hot compulsion, like being dragged with a rope around her middle in the direction of the school. She might have dismissed it as her own natural curiosity kicking in, but Temerity knew, in her bones, it was more than that.
This wasn’t a normal death. As she left the café and started to run to the school, dread started building in her chest like black seawater in a storm. Something was wrong. Something was very wrong indeed.
3
The school gates were closed and no one answered from Reception when she buzzed the entry button outside. It made sense that the school would be on lockdown. Temerity caught her breath and nodded to the group of parents gathered at the entrance.
‘There’s nae point buzzin’. They’re gonna send the kids out. No one’s allowed in,’ one of the mothers said.
‘What happened?’ Temerity panted. ‘We heard at the café someone had died.’
‘School sent an email maybe half an hour ago. One of the teachers keeled over in the staff room, not sure who.’
‘Thank heavens it wasn’t one of the children!’ another parent interjected.
The feeling, like choking on seawater, was still in Temerity’s chest. She was about to ask if anyone knew anything else about what had happened when Inspector Kim Hyland strode through the crowd, followed by a younger policeman who Temerity didn’t recognise.
Temerity couldn’t remember a time when Kim Hyland hadn’t been the policeman in Lost Maidens Loch: he was an indefinable age, with white hair and deep creases in his forehead – marks o’ the job, aye, he’d say – but his eyes twinkled when he talked and there were as many laughter lines around his eyes and mouth as there were lines of worry on his forehead. He was stout and of medium height, but Temerity had seen him lift the boats into the shed with Henry Sutherland, the boat master, and race children in the playground after he’d done his regular assembly about stranger danger or fire safety.
Kim worked alone. Usually, village life was unremarkable: the odd burglary, a lost tourist… usually, he could be found at the counter of The Singing Kettle with a cup of tea and a slice of Muriel’s fruitcake, reading the newspaper. That was, until the unusual happened – now and again Kim Hyland had to investigate a death.
For Temerity, Patrick’s death would always be the worst thing that had ever happened in Lost Maidens Loch. He was her first – her only – true love.
They had met when they were nine years old and Patrick’s family had moved in up the street. She and Tilda had stood on the front step of their house and solemnly watched the movers unpacking the van full of boxes and furniture. Patrick, tousle-haired and with kind brown eyes, had come up and introduced himself; Temerity still remembered what he’d said. I’m Patrick Robison. We’re going to be friends. He was so sure of it and Temerity had wondered for a moment whether she should be friends with this oddly self-assured boy with his summer tan and dark blond hair that he pushed impatiently from his face. But Patrick was unusually confident for a child; he had no problem in talking to adults and making them laugh as much as he made Temerity giggle with his constant chatter and his strange exclamations. Within ten minutes of knowing him, Patrick had proclaimed that their house was extraordinarily bohemian, which he liked, and the shop was full of fascinations, which was true.
Almost from that day on, the three of them had been inseparable: dens in the hills, fishing in the loch, hide and seek in the woods. But one day, when they were fourteen years old, Patrick had kissed Temerity under a coppice of fir trees at the edge of the loch. It hadn’t felt odd at all, just the thing that was supposed to happen.
Patrick was Temerity’s boyfriend throughout high school. She had watched him win swimming matches, helped him with his English homework: though Patrick could talk the moon from the night sky, he found writing difficult. Temerity, who adored writing and was eloquent on the page, was shy, a better listener than a talker. But they hadn’t had a chance to find out who they would be together as adults. Temerity had started her pre-university exams, wanting to study Classics, and Patrick was studying sport at the same college when he’d died and the light had gone out of Temerity’s world. No one would make her laugh in the same way again; no one would make her feel as safe and loved as Patrick.
It wasn’t just Patrick who had drowned in the loch – the weather could turn fast and a sudden blanket fog sometimes fell over the water, blinding everyone but the most experienced local sailors. There had been other losses; some in the village said that there was a hungry spirit in the loch. Some said there was a beautiful woman that walked over the water and enchanted travellers, leading them to their deaths. And, sometimes, as the great circle of stars traced their dance in the heavens above the misty loch, the old and weak died in Lost Maidens Loch just like they did everywhere else in the world. Still, it had changed her; the ghost of Patrick was everywhere and Temerity didn’t want it any other way. If she couldn’t have the perfect, sunshiny boy she loved, then she would live in the place that was, at least for her, haunted by him.
‘Good morning, Inspector Hyland.’ Temerity nodded politely.
‘Temerity Love, as I live an’ breathe. Shouldae known that yer sixth sense would drag ye up here.’ The Inspector nodded politely.
Temerity had helped the Inspector id
entify a few strange objects of evidence in different investigations in the past. There had been the burglary that had gone wrong at Henry Sutherland’s Boat Hire, in which the burglar, a known thief in Glasgow, had been on holiday in Lost Maidens Loch and found it too tempting not to take advantage of the fact that people rarely locked their doors. Temerity had given the Inspector a physical description of the man, which she saw in a vision after handling the lock-picking tools he had mistakenly left at the scene of the crime. Then there had been the case of a tourist who had gone missing for days while walking in the hills around the loch, who Temerity had located using dowsing rods.
As a result of her past successes, the Inspector had contracted Temerity as an official police consultant in the event that he needed her special insights again. She’d felt odd about signing actual paperwork at the station, but the Inspector had insisted.
‘I was in The Singing Kettle and Henry Sutherland came running in with the news. I thought I might be able to help.’
‘Ye mean, Muriel dispatched ye quick smart tae get the lie o’ the land?’ Hyland guessed. Temerity rolled her eyes.
‘You know Muriel,’ she admitted.
The Inspector buzzed the entry button and this time the gate swung open slowly. Standing next to him was the other police officer.
‘Aye, I thought as much. Ye may as well stay, though. Ye’ve a sharp mind an’ a good eye.’ He motioned Temerity to follow him and the other officer, who walked ahead of Temerity without a word. Rude, Temerity thought, but followed them into the school.
