Highland Fling Episode 68

“It’s only...” The housekeeper crossed herself. “It’s Robertson business and for the women alone.” Mirabelle felt her fingertips tingling. “What is it?”

“The Green Lady, Miss Bevan.”

“The ghost?”

“Oh, she’s not a ghost. Heaven’s sake, that’s only chatter in the village. What do they know? The thing is, I can’t tell the officers about it. You mustn’t either.”

“We can’t withhold information, Mrs Gillies. There’s too much at stake.”

“This is the Highlands. We’ve been withholding information from the authorities for centuries. If I show you, and it’s relevant, we’ll have to think of something.”

Mirabelle considered this momentarily. She wanted Gillies to tell her.

“Very well,” she said.

Gillies led her through the hallway and up the main staircase into the dressing room of the main suite, where she carefully locked the connecting door to the bedroom in which Bruce lay sleeping.

The place was in disarray. The policemen hadn’t been careful. It would take hours to put the room back.

Uncharacteristically, Gillies ignored the mess and instead opened the doors of the large mahogany wardrobe, which had been filled with Eleanor’s clothes.

She muttered a short prayer, pulled out one of the drawers and twisted a knob hidden beneath the lip.

Then she pushed back the clothes the police search had left to reveal the back of the wardrobe as it slid to one side.

Mirabelle peered inside. Lit by a tiny skylight, the wardrobe concealed a room.

It was only six feet square, and inside stood a worn wooden statue mounted on a plinth, of a woman in a green robe, the paint long flaking.

“Is this a priest hole?” she asked. Gillies shook her head. “There was a priest hole in the old Robertson house. That was many generations ago.

“By the time the family built this place, the killing times were over and the lady of the house had this hidden chamber installed, almost in memoriam.

“I understand it came in handy after Culloden when Charlie Robertson was on the retreat. His sister hid him here for several weeks in 1746 before they could smuggle him to France. There were redcoats everywhere, running amok.”

“And Eleanor knew this was here?” Mirabelle checked.

“Only Mrs Robertson knew, apart from myself.”

“Not Bruce?”

“The Robertson women pass the secret from generation to generation. Mother to daughter. I suppose Katrine Robertson must have shown her brother when she saved his life, but the secret died with him, in the male line. When you marry Mr Mcgregor, you’ll be a Robertson, Miss Bevan, and you’ll be entitled to the knowledge.

“I didn’t want to withhold this place, but I couldn’t bring myself to tell one of the policemen.

“The Robertson women have kept the Green Lady safe all the years; I couldn’t throw her open.”

The little room felt eerie. As Mirabelle climbed through the wardrobe, Gillies stood guard like a gorgon.

Briefly Mirabelle imagined hiding in this room for weeks, maybe months on end. It was like a cell.

She ran her hands over the plinth and up the Green Lady’s robes. Her fingers quickly searched out a tiny button on the reverse of the wooden book the saint was holding.

She clicked it and behind the plinth a second concealed door opened. “What’s this?”

“The tunnel,” Gillies said. “It comes out down behind the lodge. Nobody has used it for centuries as far as I’m aware. Is it a help, miss?”

Mirabelle peered inside. The tunnel was low – perhaps only four feet high. A set of steps ran down, between what she realised was the back wall of the drawing room and the front wall of the day room.

She used her fingers to check the walls at the top of the stair. They were solid. Then, as she turned, she inspected the back of the door.

People forgot doors once they had passed through them. The fronting was lined with four pine panels. As she tapped she realised one was hollow. An examination of the edging revealed how to open it so the panel swung out.

Inside, there was an old Bible. Mirabelle removed it. “Mrs Gillies?”

“I don’t know, miss.” Gillies said. “I didn’t know that was there.”

There was nothing inside the book beyond the printed text. Mirabelle noted the date on the flyleaf – 1790 – such a long time ago.

In spidery writing at the front, somebody had drawn a Robertson family tree going back to the 1640s. She felt momentarily as if she was being pulled by a long thread, anchored centuries ago by a clever woman.

“Miss,” Gillies said, “I can hear Mr Robertson stirring.”

Mirabelle nodded. She replaced the Bible and it was only then she realised that the old book wasn’t dusty enough.

The rest of the crevice was coated in a thick layer, but not the cover. Something had sat on top of the book and had been removed.

“Was Mrs Robertson devout?” she asked, as she closed the door and climbed out of the wardrobe.

“Not especially,” Gillies said doubtfully. “I didn’t think so. Thank you, Mrs Gillies.”

Mirabelle thought for a moment. ‘If this is somewhere the Robertson women keep to themselves, did Alan’s mother know about it?’

“Oh yes, miss. Miss Deidre was the one who showed me.

She knew once she was gone there would be nobody to keep the secret, what with Mr Bruce and Mr Alan both being bachelors. She hoped one of them would marry.

“I showed Mrs Robertson when she first came to the house as Mr Bruce’s bride. She was delighted.”

Mirabelle grimaced. “I’m sure she was,’ she said. ‘And nobody else knows?”

“You and I, Miss Bevan, and I for one will take the lady’s secret to the grave.”

She ran her hands over the plinth and up the Green Lady’s robes. Her fingers quickly searched out a tiny button...

More tomorrow.

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