Highland Fling Episode 13

The pub was warm compared to the brisk, cold paper-cut of the January Highland air. Flames from the fire licked the stone grate. An old man with a ragged beard sat smoking a pipe at the bar. Mcgregor greeted him as Mirabelle took a seat and, eyeing the superintendent warily, the old man slowly knocked out his pipe, downed the last of his pint and left. As he closed the door a heavily pregnant woman appeared.

“Hello,” she said. “You’ll be the laird’s cousin.”

“And you’ll be Mrs Mccrossan.” “Davina,” the woman shook his hand. “They’re saying there’s been an accident up at the big house. What with all the police cars.”

“Who’s saying that?”

“Susan Macleod was half-hysterical. She came past on the way to her mother’s. She hardly made sense.”

“And she said it was an accident?” “No,” Davina Mccrossan admitted. “She said it was a murder, but I wouldn’t like to repeat that without knowing it was true.”

Mcgregor hesitated, then relented. “There’s a body. A dead one, I’m afraid. Another guest of the laird’s and poor Susan is right – it looks like murder.”

Davina Mccrossan crossed herself. “My God,” she said. “That’s terrible. Was it one of those smart ladies who had been up and down to the mill?”

“It was. What makes you think that?” “Only that they were strangers. Was it the mother or the daughter?”

“The mother – or the godmother, in fact – but I expect it’s not something for a lady in your condition to go into. It’s a distressing business.”

Davina crossed herself again. “God rest the poor woman,” she said. “They’re already saying, of course.”

“Saying what?” Mcgregor asked. “Oh, the Green Lady. You know, the ghost up at the hall. She’s a tangled soul. It’s a tall tale but you know how people are.”

A smile played around Mcgregor’s lips. “Ah,” he said. “Tell me, did Miss Orlova ever come in here?”

“Yes, the two of them did. They took out a bottle or two. Off-sales. They were far too smart to sit in.”

“Well, Mrs Mccrossan, I hope we are just scruffy enough.” Mcgregor smiled.

“Oh sir. I didn’t mean...” She sounded distressed.

“Not at all. I’m only teasing. We’ll have a whisky and a gin and IT, please.”

Davina Mccrossan poured the order and laid it on the bar. “I’m going to sit in the back,” she said, supporting her back with the palm of her hand. “I’m overdue.”

“Perhaps I shouldn’t have mentioned anything...” Mcgregor started but she stopped him.

“Actually, I was saying only yesterday I could do with something to bring it on,” she smiled. “My husband says if this business with the Russians and Americans wanting to kill everyone isn’t giving me enough of a scare, he doesn’t know what will. Not that I was wishing for something like this.”

“Of course not.”

“Just call if you need anything.”

The fire crackled again. Mirabelle felt her stomach rumble. It must be the country air. The cold made you feel curiously alive, she realised, as Mcgregor brought over the drinks.

“The Green Lady?” she said. Mcgregor shook his head. “My great, great, great grand-mother. Maybe even more greats... the original chatelaine of the manor. She died young and is said to have been beautiful. She kept away from the village, so this story started that she’d walled herself in or her husband locked her up, or some such. You know how people are. A hundred years from now they’ll be calling Nina Orlova the Red Lady. Villages thrive on gossip.”

He took a pack of cards from his pocket. “This might not be the holiday we planned, but I promised you peace and quiet and a decent hand of rummy and, by God, I’m going to make good on that at least – murders and hauntings aside.”

He was different here, she thought as he shuffled the cards. Brighton had contained him somehow.

She wondered if she was different – it didn’t feel that way, but then she wasn’t coming home. Mirabelle never thought much about having a home, but if the Mcgregor she came to live with was a little more like this fellow, she thought she might like it.

“You’d better watch out. I’m very good at rummy,” she said as he dealt the cards.

The death of a beautiful woman is the most poetical topic in the world

From their vantage point in the pub, they watched as the sun sank fast, bleeding across the vista in a pool of rich oranges and reds like a bloodbath. Mirabelle tried not to think of it as an omen. Once it was dark, the locals flooded into the pub. Conversations struck up between those who had seen Nina Orlova at one time or another, passing in a car or walking into the village – the local gossip mill getting to work. “Was she Russian? Do I have that right?” one man asked.

“No. American. She spoke like those fellas during the war,” another corrected him, and then they lowered their voices, glancing guiltily at Mcgregor and Mirabelle, as if they were somehow involved.

When they left the pub it was half past five and had been dark for over an hour. The temperature had dropped dramatically and a piercing wind whistled along the main street of the village. The sky was cloudy, obscuring the light from the moon, which had only just risen.

Mirabelle wondered how clear it had been the night before, when Nina Orlova had set out from the lodge in the middle of the night.

Just as she and Mcgregor stepped out of the last pool of streetlight and into the dark, they heard a pounding sound. Ahead, high above, trees were silhouetted against the sky at the top of the hill. Mirabelle felt her skin prickle.

“What’s that sound?” She reached for Mcgregor”s hand.

“I don’t know,” he said. They froze as the pounding drew closer until out of the darkness two shadowy horses pulled to a halt just ahead of them, their hooves clicking on the tarmac as they stepped on to the road.

“Hi,” said a woman’s voice, out of breath.

Oh, the Green Lady. You know, the ghost up at the hall. She’s a tangled soul. It’s a tall tale but you know how people are...

More tomorrow.

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