Highland Fling Episode 43

Tash bit into a biscuit and found she couldn’t speak. She chewed noisily before managing to swallow. “Not for me. I ate a huge breakfast,” Mirabelle said as Gwendolyn swung the plate towards her. “We’re trying to figure out Nina’s last hours,” she continued.

“That’s the thing. And we wondered if she mentioned anything to you, Gwendolyn? Anything she might have been worried about?”

“To me? Why ever would she mention anything to me?” Gwendolyn put down the plate.

“I just wondered if anything had come up when you two met. For Champagne. Before dinner the other night.”

Gwendolyn looked uncomfortable. “Who told you?” she asked, and then answered her own question, “Ah. Her black man.”

Mirabelle’s skin prickled. “Gregory did mention it,” she said, trying to keep Gwendolyn talking. “What did you talk about?”

“This and that. People we had in common. The state of the world.”

“What was Nina’s view on the state of the world?”

“Very much the same as mine,” Gwendolyn said with a smile. “She was a sensible woman. She understood we need to keep control of things in the West – that we need to work together.”

“To keep out the Reds, you mean?” Tash demanded. “Exactly. They can’t threaten us. Now, more than ever, it is up to the Allies to stick together.”

“The Russians, as I recall, were our allies during the war,” Mirabelle said.

Gwendolyn looked outraged. “That’s hardly relevant. There’s no excuse for what they’re doing. Bloody backward Communist bullies – our local schoolchildren are undergoing drills, you know. In the event of –”

“Honestly, Gwendolyn,” Eleanor couldn’t bear it any longer. “It’s not so black and white. The West has done its fair share of bullying. Britain isn’t what it was, let’s face it.”

This riled Gwendolyn. “What nonsense!” she muttered. “Look at the way the Russians behaved over Suez. Bloody cheek! Anyway,” she struggled to control herself.

“We should go up to the ramparts. You know what the Scottish weather is like. If we don’t get up there while the sun is out, it’ll be tipping down before we know it. You can’t come to Brochmor and not see the view.”

They abandoned the tea things. The dog came with them. As they climbed the stairs, he wound between their legs, almost tripping them up.

Mirabelle caught Eleanor’s eye and they smiled like naughty schoolgirls.

From the ramparts the view was as extraordinary as Gwendolyn had promised. Bagpipe practice over, they settled into the thick silence, which was only broken now and then by the sound of the birds and the wind.

Gwendolyn began a commentary that she had clearly given several times before.

“This part of the castle is 13th Century – built by Lord Fraser Dougal and completed in 1275, and over there is a later addition, built in the early eighteenth century. Johnny-come-lately,” she laughed at her own joke.

“We have a ghost,” she added. “Not as sad a story as your Green Lady.”

“I didn’t know you believed in ghosts.” Eleanor kept her tone measured – quite a feat.

Gwendolyn continued with relish. “The castle is haunted by Lord Fraser Dougal’s son, Robert. He died at the battle of Stirling Bridge in 1297, fighting alongside William Wallace. They say he couldn’t bear to leave Brochmor. Occasionally someone sees him here on the ramparts. Sweet, really.

“It must be awful to have an unhappy ghost – I mean the Green Lady is so tragic.”

Eleanor’s slim smile strained. “We manage.”

“He walled her up, didn’t he? The husband. When she locked herself in her room? Starved to death, poor thing.

“Now, let me see, that must be Bruce’s great-great-great-greatgrandfather.

“I heard someone saw her in the village on Wednesday night. They say she appears if the laird hurts a woman.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake. There’s no such thing as ghosts, Gwendolyn. It’s just a stupid story,” Eleanor snapped.

There was some weak warmth in the sun. Mirabelle turned her face towards it. She worked out the direction of the railway, though you couldn’t see it from the castle.

Old habits, she chided herself, always figuring out how to get away.

The tracks were close, she realised, though whoever had been the laird when the railway was laid clearly had a hand in keeping the steam trains out of his line of vision. At a glance, nothing much had changed here in centuries.

Bruce was right, she thought, the biggest shake-up the place had seen since the Jacobites was probably Eleanor with her forward-thinking determination. She had taken on a lot – ghosts and all.

Gwendolyn continued her commentary as if nothing had happened. “Do you see that little whitewashed bothy?” She pointed. “Willie’s grandmother had it built. She and her husband used to play at being crofters.

“They’d stay overnight and she’d make porridge. Silly but romantic. It’s nothing like a real cottage inside, of course. They made frightfully posh crofters but it’s a sweet story.”

“Do you and Willie ever stay overnight in the bothy?” Tash’s eyes sparkled.

“Certainly not!”

It must be awful – the Green Lady is so tragic... They say she appears if the laird hurts a woman...

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