Highland Fling Episode 14

Mirabelle peered. Eleanor’s skin looked translucent in the wash of low moonlight. It struck Mirabelle she had forgotten the size of horses – from a stand at the Brighton racetrack, they looked like toys. Here, she could smell the sweat on their hide and they seemed huge and utterly unpredictable. Her heart was pounding. “You gave us a fright,” she said. “We couldn’t see you.”

“Sorry. We had to get out,” Eleanor apologised. “It’s late to ride but they’ve got eyes in their heads.” She patted her horse.

Bruce was wearing jodhpurs and a tweed riding jacket. He smiled as he walked his horse forward and leaned down to offer Mirabelle a hand. “Come on,” he said. “We’ll ride home together, pigeon pair. Climb up.”

Mcgregor helped her to mount and then climbed behind Eleanor and they set off up the hill, trotting at first and then speeding to a gallop across the open ground. It was exhilarating. It had been a long time since Mirabelle had felt a horse move beneath her and the slap of freezing air on her face – the adventure of not being able to quite see ahead. She could only just make out Mcgregor and Eleanor a few feet away thundering up the hill beside them. She heard Eleanor unleash a shrill laugh and wondered what Mcgregor had said or whether it was the thrill of riding at speed that had made her cry out. Ahead, Bruce moved as if he was part of the animal. She’d forgotten the strength you needed to ride – the sheer force of will as she clung on to Bruce and squeezed her thighs against the horse’s flanks.

In conditions like this, any moment they could be thrown, but she trusted Bruce’s competence. He’d lived here all his life. He knew the landscape and the animal. At last, the house came into view, its warm yellow windows a beacon.

They dismounted and Bruce took the reins. Then in her peripheral vision she saw a movement and swung round just as a man stepped forward from the portico. He was ungainly, as if his limbs did not fit in place.

“Mr Robertson?”

“Yes.” Bruce squinted into the light. “Ah, Murdo Kenzie, isn’t it? What can I do for you?”

“It’s what I can do for you, sir.” Eleanor let out a sigh. She was right, Mirabelle thought, this was a cheesy start, whatever Mr Kenzie wanted. His accent, she noticed, sounded craggy compared to the soft brogue of Alan and his cousin.

“I work for the Inverness Courier, sir. They sent me to cover the story of the woman’s murder. People are saying all sorts of things.”

“Are they now?”

Eleanor took the reins from her husband and made to lead the animals back into the paddock while Kenzie continued. “Given that I know you...”

“Know me?”

“That I’m from here... I can help, I think. I can keep the heat off. We’re going to run the story on tomorrow’s front page, if you’d give me an exclusive...”

Bruce advanced. “Someone has died in my house...”

“She was murdered, sir, and the public are curious. If you could just see your way...” The man took a notebook and pencil from his pocket.

Bruce looked as if – had he still been on his mount – he would have run the fellow down.

Mcgregor stepped in. “Mr Robertson has nothing to say except that everyone is trying to deal with this tragedy and we’d appreciate you not imposing,” he said.

“Mr Robertson has more to say than that,” Bruce cut in. “He says get off my land, you animal. Go on! Your father must be ashamed of you. You should be ashamed of yourself.”

“But, sir,” Kenzie pleaded, “every paper in the country will want the story... if you let me cover it...”

“You can sell it, is that what you’re after? Christ almighty! Go on! Off with you!”

“You think nobody is going to care about a dead American on our soil? Or was she Russian? This is a story of international significance, Mr Robertson. Given the political situation...” Bruce let out a roar. His eyes were lit now. Kenzie stuffed the notebook in his pocket and backed off the portico as Bruce advanced.

Mcgregor moved quickly. He held back his cousin and the reporter disappeared down the driveway, into the darkness.

Eleanor returned. “Is that Dougal Kenzie’s son?” she asked. “The schoolteacher’s boy?”

“It is,” Bruce replied. “Bloody intrusion!” “I put the horses in the paddock but I can’t...” Eleanor started.

“I’ll see to the tack,” Bruce told her. He patted Mcgregor on the back and went to see to the animals. The others stamped their feet on the doormat and gratefully bundled inside. Mirabelle caught a flash of herself – skin pink and eyes bright – in one of the hallway mirrors. Her cheeks felt like blocks of ice. Her ears ached.

“Do you ever lock this door?” she asked, as she relaxed into the relative warmth of the hallway and the ease of electric light.

“No.” Eleanor dropped her riding crop on a Georgian mahogany carved chair. She removed her hat.

“Not even at night?”

“It’s always been like that,” Mcgregor confirmed. “We used to nip out for midnight assignations – biscuits under the stars, Bruce and I. In those days my uncle had three basset hounds. They followed us everywhere.”

That meant anyone could just walk in, Mirabelle thought.

Though Mr Kenzie hadn’t gone that far. “Cute, midnight feasts,” Eleanor commented. “Well, we’d best dress for dinner,” she said and made for the stairs. In her room, Mirabelle fell on to the bed. “I bet that made your heart pound.” Mcgregor slid his hand around her waist.

It had, but she pushed him away. “I was going to have a bath,” she said. He wandered away to lay out his evening suit as she set off down the hallway.

The bathroom was mostly taken up with a sea-green enamel tub. The window was frosted with the same starred, opaque glass as the hut at the lodge, though the upper panes were clear. Mirabelle turned off the electric light and lit three candles on the windowsill, so she could watch the dark sky and its pepper of stars. Then she turned on the taps and swished her hand through the water to check the temperature. On the walls, paintings juddered in the candlelight. She recognised the hill they’d climbed in a watercolour signed DBMC, and she wondered who the artist was.

Then, as the bath filled, she slipped out of her clothes, tied up her hair and stepped into the steaming water, soaping herself with a square of hand-cut soap that trailed the scent of lavender.

More tomorrow.

You think nobody is going to care about a dead American on our soil? Or was she Russian? This is a matter of international significance...

Copyright © Sara Sheridan 2020, extracted from Highland Fling, published by Constable, an imprint of Little, Brown Book Group, at £8.99