Chapter 20 The Wild Girl, Chapter 10
The cottage had a slate roof, although some slates were missing.
The grey stone of the walls wasn’t whitewashed like many of the others and blended in, almost as if it was part of the rocks behind it.
Tattered curtains hung in the one window that faced them.
Roland went ahead of Melrose and banged on a rough front door.
He waited, then banged harder. At last shuffling steps were heard and the door was wrenched open.
“What do you want?” Flora’s father stood there, not the most attractive sight in a greyish woolen undershirt and braces. From his bleary-eyed stare it looked as if he had been awoken from a sleep.
“I’m sorry to disturb you, Mr MacLeod,” Roland said, “but we wondered if we could have a word with your daughter.”
“Daughter? I don’t have a daughter,” he said, blinking as he stared at them as if the light hurt his eyes.
“Your daughter Flora.” Melrose stepped forward. “I am Detective Inspector Melrose from Glasgow, and we need to speak to your daughter as soon as possible. Withholding evidence of her whereabouts is a criminal offence and you could be locked up.”
The man gave an amused snort. “Locked up now, is it? Have the police now turned into bully boys? Do you know what? Sometimes being locked up sounds pretty good to me. Three meals a day and a warm cell and no need to go out on the high seas in the worst weather. Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you, but you’ll get nothing from me because I know nothing.
Flora’s not here, nor has been these past few months.
I lost my lassie when your family lured her away with the promise of new clothes, your fancy food and the chance of book learning.
” His gaze focused on Roland and was not friendly.
“I was told that your daughter came to visit you a few days ago,” Melrose said. “They said you had been poorly and she brought you a bowl of broth from the castle.”
“Poorly? When have I ever been poorly?” the man demanded.
“If I don’t fish, I don’t eat. I’ve been out there in a storm with a fever and a bad chest before now.
And these past few days I’ve been out at sea all day and every day.
You can ask the other fishermen along the coast. They’ll have seen my boat. They’ll know.”
“So Flora would not have found you home if she brought you a bowl of broth?”
“She would not, unless she came in the middle of the night. And that she did not do. I tell you, I’ve only caught the least glimpse of her these past months. As far as I can tell she doesn’t care whether her old father lives or dies.”
“Might we come in?” Melrose asked. “I’m sure you’ve heard that there has been a great tragedy and the laird’s daughter has drowned.”
“And what’s that to do with me?” MacLeod asked.
“If the laird’s daughter wants to go running off with a troublemaking nobody it’s not my concern.
She got what she deserved for not obeying her parents.
I said the same thing to my daughter, although .
. .” He paused. “I always did right by her, didn’t I? ”
He stood at the doorway with one arm barring entrance.
Melrose thought it was clear that they were not about to be invited in and wondered if Flora was inside at this moment.
From what Melrose had heard the man had completely neglected his daughter, but Roland had warned him to keep his mouth shut, so instead he said, “We just wondered where we might find Flora now. I’ve been told that she and Miss Lucy were close friends.
I thought that maybe Lucy had confided in her about her plans to run away. ”
“And what if she had. A lot of good it would do now, with the young lady lying on a slab like a piece of fish, from what I’ve been told.”
“We need to find out who did this terrible thing, Mr MacLeod,” Melrose said. “Who tried to wreck their sailing boat so they couldn’t make the crossing to the mainland. Someone must have known they were going, and made sure they didn’t reach the other side.”
“And you’re trying to hint it was my wee lassie? I can tell you one thing, Mr Policeman from Glasgow, my lassie adored Miss Lucy. She thought the sun shone out of her head. She’d have done anything for her. Anything at all. And she’d not have harmed her in any way.”
“Thank you, Mr MacLeod,” Melrose said. “That is good to hear. So please be assured that your daughter is not in any kind of trouble, but we would wish to have a word with her. Do you have any idea where we might find her?”
The old man stared up towards where the mountains had now vanished into cloud.
“She could be anywhere,” he said. “She knows every inch of the land around here. She’s probably got any number of secret hideouts.
Even when she was a little girl she’d be gone for days.
Everyone worried about her, and then she’d turn up, right as rain, as if nothing had happened.
You should see the way she ran through that heather, like a little sprite, she was, as if she weighed nothing at all.
And the way she’d communicate with the animals and birds.
They trusted her as if she was one of them, you know. ”
Melrose realized how keen he was to meet the elusive Flora.
“Are you not going to invite us in for a wee strupak, Angus?” Roland said. “We’re getting fair drenched standing out here.”
“Then you’d best be back to your motor car, hadn’t you?” Angus MacLeod said. “Because I’ve nothing more to tell you.”
“Did Flora not keep any of her possessions in your cottage still?” Melrose asked.
Angus MacLeod shrugged. “She might have left a few things in an old trunk—clothes that were not suitable for the fine life at the castle. A stuffed rabbit my wife made for her before she died. Maybe some shells she found on the beach.”
“Could we just take a look?” Melrose asked.
The old man shrugged. “I can see you’re determined to come in. Well, come on then. No doubt I can find you a cup of tea and an oatcake, but I can’t vouch for the state of the place. I’m no housekeeper, and since my lassie went I’ve not had the time or inclination to do much.”
He opened the door to let them enter. Immediately Melrose wished he hadn’t suggested this.
The smell was almost overpowering: a mixture of unwashed clothing, unwashed body, fish and spoiled food mingled with the pleasant aroma of peat smoke.
The fire glowed in the hearth and a kettle stood on the hob.
“Sit yourselves down then,” Angus MacLeod said.
There was a bench made of an old board running along the wall beside the table and one rickety-looking chair. Roland gave Melrose a look of disgust as they both chose the bench. Angus took the kettle off the hob and poured water into an old brown teapot.
Melrose looked around the room, taking in the unwashed dishes, the items of discarded clothing lying on the floor. There was no trace of a woman’s presence, no sampler or picture on the walls, nothing to hint that a young girl had ever lived here.
“Your tea.” MacLeod put chipped earthenware cups in front of the two men, along with a plate of oatcakes.
“So does your daughter not come home to help you around the place any more?” he asked. He took a swig of horribly strong, sweet tea and followed it with a bite of dry and elderly oatcake.
“She does, occasionally,” MacLeod said, pulling up a stool opposite them. “When the mood takes her. But not in a while. Too busy with the things that you fine folks get up to at the castle to see her poor old father.”
Melrose did feel for him. He imagined his parents if he moved away and they didn’t see him again. “Could I take a look at her things in the trunk?”
“Aye, I suppose so, if you’ve a mind to.
” MacLeod crossed the room and pulled out a battered sea chest from beneath several pegs hung on the wall, holding oilskins, a scarf and hat.
Melrose went over and opened it. His instinct was to shut it again.
This felt like an intrusion on privacy. Apart from a couple of well-worn jumpers and skirts there were only childhood treasures: a cardboard box of shells and pebbles, interesting shapes of driftwood, and the toy rabbit, the plush now worn almost shiny with being handled. He closed it again.
“You’ll not find nought of interest here.” MacLeod dragged the trunk back to its position in the corner. “She’s long gone. Long gone from my life, too.”
Melrose wondered if the man actually missed his daughter or missed having someone to keep house for him.
He couldn’t imagine that Flora had had a happy life here, or that the man had shown her much affection.
And now what would happen to her? Would the Hamiltons still welcome her at the castle with their daughter gone?
Would they want Lucy’s clothes back? Would she have a chance to find herself a job on the mainland, or would she return to her old life in this dismal cottage?
One thing was sure—there was no indication that Flora had been here recently, and Melrose could see no large vessel that could have carried broth from the castle. Wherever Flora went a few days ago, it was not to see her father.
Emma looked up, startled by a hammering on the door. For a second she felt she was in the cottage on the rocks and wondered if this was Flora. Then she realized where she was, got up and answered the door. Maggie the maid was standing there.
“The mistress thought you’d be needing your tea, and she didn’t want you to break off what you are doing to come to the house for it,” she said. She came in, carrying a tray. She put it down on the table.
“I’m to tell you that dinner is at seven and you don’t need to get dressed up for it. It’s just us tonight.”
“Thank you,” Emma said. When she had closed the door behind Maggie she examined the tea tray.
Beside the teacup there was a small Chinese teapot, milk jug, sugar basin, a plate of egg-and-cress sandwiches covered in a white cloth, a slice of malt bread and butter and a piece of Victoria sponge cake.
All most satisfactory, except Emma didn’t feel hungry and was keen to keep on reading.
She knew there was no rush. Nobody was forcing her to finish, but now she had to know the truth about who had damaged the boat and where the Wild Girl had gone.
She poured herself a cup of tea, picked up a sandwich and went back to the book.