Highland Fling Episode 19

That side of the room was dark, but Mirabelle could make out the vertical lines of shotgun barrels stored tidily in a row. “Mind you, the chap would have a fighting chance,” Bruce continued. “By the time I got downstairs and unlocked the damn thing—”

“Don’t joke,” Mcgregor cut in. “You don’t want to end up on a self-defence charge.” “In my own home,” Bruce objected. “You can’t shoot people for coming inside, Bruce.”

“It might have been better for poor Nina if I had.”

Mirabelle peered through the glass. The guns were in good condition. The barrels had been oiled. They glowed in the low light.

“They belonged to my father,” Bruce continued. “Made to measure. Luckily Al and I are more or less the same dimensions in the shoulder. The two on the left belonged to my grandfather. They’re out of date now. We’ll see how you take to them tomorrow, Al. My guess is that Dad’s will fit you like a glove.”

Mcgregor grinned. “It’s good you have them locked up.”

“Grandad always had a proper cabinet. Even before you had to.”

Mirabelle turned back into the room. “If it was a prowler, are you sure nothing was taken? It occurs to me that the whole thing still might have been a burglary gone wrong.”

Bruce was adamant. “There’s nothing missing. Not at all.”

After midnight, Mirabelle found herself craving the darkness and the cold. She pulled on a coat and sneaked some sugar cubes from the sideboard. Her steps echoed in the hallway now everyone had gone to bed. Outside, the darkness swallowed her. The horses hardly stirred. “Hey,” she said, coaxing them with the sugar. “Here.”

One woke and sauntered over to eat from her outstretched palm, his breath hot on her skin, the smell of hide and hay wafting around him.

Above, the sky went on for ever. She shuddered as she imagined Nina walking up the hill, glad to get inside the house – so much warmer than out here. Then she turned, hoisting herself on to the fence to stare back at the mansion, the windows dark, the silence absolute. This was how it had been last night – the murder just under 24 hours ago. Her heart quickened. She was vulnerable out here alone, she realised suddenly, with a murderer somewhere. It felt different from the usual run of things. A town. Streetlights. Officers on patrol.

She jumped as the door opened, casting round for a weapon, about to get off the fence and pick up a rock from the ground to defend herself in the darkness as a shadow moved across the threshold. If she screamed everyone would hear her on this side of the house, but could they come quickly enough? She took a breath, letting it out slowly in relief as the light from the moon revealed the figure as Mcgregor. He helped her down, his hands firm on her waist.

“You OK?”

She laid her head on his shoulder. “We are so small,” she said, “aren’t we?”

She had never been so glad to see anyone. Mirabelle had never seen rain like it. She woke in the morning to the sound of hammering on the window-pane. It seemed impossible that such a deafening clatter could follow the stillness of the night.

They had made love when they came indoors and this time so tenderly she felt as if there was no space between them. Now the morning light filtered blearily through the curtains as her eyes adjusted. Susan was standing in the middle of the room staring as Mirabelle sat up. “Miss.” The girl dropped her eyes. Mirabelle smiled. Mcgregor was asleep next to her. If she woke him, he’d be mortified. “Thank you, Susan,” Mirabelle said quietly, nodding towards the fire that was kindling in the grate. “You can leave the curtains.”

Susan walked smartly out of the room. Mcgregor turned over and snored as Mirabelle laughed softly at the girl’s shocked expression at finding two unmarried people in bed. She wondered if Susan would tell Mrs Gillies – the shame of it. It wouldn’t be the first time in a house such as this, but unmarried love was ever the scandal.

As she turned over, the details of Nina Orlova’s death came back to her. Sleep was usually a good way to work things through but this morning the murder remained stubbornly inexplicable. Gradually, the sound of the rain intensified. Mirabelle thought it must sound like being under fire – not that she ever had been. Still, the noise woke Mcgregor. He shifted blearily and reached for her, kissing her neck, hauling himself out of bed and padding along the hall towards the bathroom. The lock on the door clicked behind him.

Mirabelle got up and pulled the curtains. The sky was overcast. Below, there was movement in the orangery. The police must hardly be able to hear what they were saying, she thought. Such heavy rain on glass would drown out normal conversation. A large, grey puddle, the size of a small lake, had formed in the middle of the lawn. A little way off, three blackand-white milk cows sat under a tree. From the bathroom she could hear the pipes sing as Mcgregor ran a bath.

Mirabelle slipped into the seat at the dressing table and fixed her hair. It seemed impossible the men would go shooting in this weather. She had hoped she might walk up the hill again today. She always thought of herself as a town mouse. It surprised her that she was enjoying the country. Still, the wild landscape had granted her a reprieve from the world of wedding dresses, and standing outside with Mcgregor, holding each other in the darkness after midnight, had been the best part of the day. Getting up, she pulled a tweed skirt and a sweater out of her wardrobe and tied the laces of her sensible shoes. She’d leave him to his ablutions.

Downstairs, Bruce sat alone at the breakfast table, reading a newspaper.

“Morning,” he said, bobbing up and down as a matter of courtesy. “You’re the early bird.”

Mirabelle helped herself to scrambled eggs from the warmer and smoked fish poached in milk. She was surprised she was hungry – most days she skipped breakfast, but the Highland air or the holiday spirit seemed to have endowed her with an appetite.

“We’re headline news.” Bruce pushed the newspaper towards her. “American heiress murdered at midnight in local estate.”

If she screamed everyone would hear her on this side of the house... but would they come quick enough?

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