Chapter 27 The Wild Girl, Chapter 17
On the return crossing he tried to keep his mind focused on the case, but a pair of blue eyes kept swimming into his vision, making it impossible to concentrate.
Until now he would have scoffed at the idea of love at first sight, but this was it.
Somehow or another he had to have that girl.
While he had been at Chisholm’s estate, the mist had come in, and the ferry’s horn echoed eerily as the boat inched forward.
When he got back to Kyleakin he found that the dog and its owner, a Mr MacGregor, had arrived. The dog was a hound of indeterminate breed, very friendly, and immediately covered Melrose with wet kisses.
“Whist now, you silly beast,” the owner said.
“I offered him to the police, but you can see he’d be no good chasing a criminal.
Unless he licked him to death.” He chuckled, then grew serious.
“But when he’s on the job he’s quite different.
You give him a scent and he’s focused until he’s found something.
There’s several climbers who owe their lives to Whisky here.
Found one lying in a cave halfway up a mountain.
In a place where the men swore they had already searched.
The poor wee laddie was unconscious, but Whisky found him. ”
“That’s great,” Melrose said. “I need him to trace a missing man. He left without telling anybody and no one has seen him since. But there are plenty of items of his left in the guest cottage at the castle, so we could start from there.”
“Aye, that would be a good place to start,” the man said softly.
Melrose sent for Jock and they set off with Melrose in the front seat, dog and handler in the back. All the way Melrose was conscious of the hot breath on the back of his neck and was glad when they finally took the turn-off winding down to the castle.
“Should we announce ourselves to Sir Henry, do you think?” the dog’s owner asked as they arrived. “I don’t like sneaking onto his property.”
Melrose hesitated. He knew it was the right thing to do, and he had already had a slap on the wrist for sneaking in the back door to speak to the servants.
He stared up at the forbidding castle, barely visible through the mist, and shook his head.
“We can access the guest cottage without being seen from the castle itself. And I don’t think anyone will be looking out of windows on a day like this.
Let’s just get on with it. I don’t want Sir Henry sending someone to accompany us. ”
He led them to the cottage tucked into the outer wall of the keep. Luckily the door was still unlocked. Inside everything was just as he had left it. He pulled back the covers to reveal the neatly folded pyjamas. “These should do the job, don’t you think?”
“Oh, excellent.” The man picked up the pyjama jacket and held it out for Whisky.
The dog sniffed at it with enthusiasm. “Go find,” he said.
He opened the door and the dog took off ahead of them, heading through the outer gate and back along the way they had come.
Melrose and MacGregor broke into a trot to keep up with the dog before it was swallowed up into the mist.
“Ach, so yon man went this way,” MacGregor said. “But then you have to in order to leave the castle, don’t you?”
“Unless you take the steps down to the harbour.”
“Well he didnae do that.”
Melrose made note of that. Had Chisholm been down to the harbour earlier and then made his escape in the opposite direction?
The woodland loomed ahead, the trunks of the tall pine trees rising until their branches were lost in mist. The silence was absolute apart from the crunch of their feet on the gravel drive.
“Whisky, where are you?” MacGregor called. His voice was muffled.
Ahead of them they heard a bark. A short, high-pitched yip.
“He’s found something.” Mr MacGregor sounded excited.
They followed the barks deeper into the woodland, stumbling over tree roots, edging between close-growing trees until they came upon the dog. He was standing, ears and tail erect, barking at the ground.
“Oh no,” MacGregor said. “What did you find, boy?”
Melrose dropped to his knees, heart beating fast, and started to scrabble at the soft soil.
His hand touched something and freed it from the loam.
It was a sock. He scrabbled a little more.
Several other items of clothing came to light.
A man’s white shirt. An undershirt. A wool scarf.
Melrose stared at them, frowning. “Chisholm’s clothing,” he said. “Why did he bury his clothing?”
“Maybe he didnae want to be burdened down with carrying it if he had far to go,” the man suggested. Melrose tried to understand this. Why not just leave it deep in the wood? Why waste time burying it? “Let’s see where he went from here, which way he took, if we can.”
MacGregor picked up the sock. “Whisky. Go find.”
The dog paused, sniffing at the sock, then took off again, not back to the track itself but further into the woodland.
The two men were gasping as they stumbled over the uneven ground between trees, unable to see more than a few yards ahead, trying not to lose sight of the dog.
Cold, damp mist swirled around their faces.
It felt like moving through a dream. Then the barks came again, this time excited and more insistent.
They came to a small clearing. An old pine tree had fallen and undergrowth had sprung up around it—bracken and blackberries, now dead and dying at this time of year.
They went over to a mass of piled dead branches near the tree.
Melrose hauled them aside and saw that sod had been replaced.
Under it the earth appeared to have been disturbed.
He dropped to his knees. He didn’t have to dig far before he touched something hard and cold.
He recoiled, dug on until he was looking at a human hand.
“Give me some help here.” He looked up at MacGregor. The owner had been restraining his dog. He gave a command to stay, then reluctantly the man dropped to the ground. After several minutes of feverish working they found themselves staring at the face of what had undoubtedly been Euan Chisholm.
“No!” Emma shouted. She was holding the last sheet of paper in her hand. She got up, looked around the room. There were no more pages. She had come to the end. As if on cue the telephone on the table rang. She went over and picked up the receiver. “Hello?”
Cynthia answered. “Oh Miss Callander, I thought I should warn you that we’ll be eating in about fifteen minutes. There is sherry now in the drawing room if you’d care to come across.”
Before Emma could say anything the line went dead. “This is not fair,” Emma said. “She can’t leave it there. I can’t possibly take on her story now.”
Would Iris be at dinner tonight? Emma wondered, or was she deliberately staying absent until Emma finished reading?
There was only one way to find out, and that was to go over to the big house.
She caught sight of herself in the mirror over the fireplace—her hair was an unkempt bush and she was wearing old tracksuit bottoms. Although Miss Morton had said not to dress for dinner, that it was “only us,” she could hardly show up at dinner wearing that.
She pulled the curtain aside and looked out of the window.
It seemed the rain had subsided to a wet mist. The thought of the word “mist” sparked a strong reaction in her head.
Melrose in the mist, in that wood, and Chisholm’s body.
Now she had to find out where Iris intended to go with this story.
And what about the governess? How did their narrative play out?
She went into the bedroom and changed the baggy trousers for a skirt, and at the last moment opted to change the big jumper for a blouse and cardigan.
Iris had been confined to her room all day, but just in case she appeared for dinner, Emma cared enough to look respectable, if not fashionable.
Then she brushed her hair, held it back with a clip, and ran a lipstick over her lips.
She found the umbrella, put on her mack and hurried through the darkness to the side door.
Good smells were coming from the kitchen as she sidled past, hanging up the mack on the peg in the hallway and leaving the umbrella in the stand.
She could hear voices coming from an open door ahead. Iris’s voice, she thought, and again her heart started racing. She wasn’t quite sure what she was going to say to Iris. She found herself tiptoeing down the hall, then jumped as Miss Morton came out of the room.
“Oh, Miss Callander, there you are. I was just going to give you another ring. Mrs Fisk hates it if we’re not to dinner on time. Do go in. There’s sherry on the tray.”
Emma went into the room, which was almost too warm. Iris was sitting in one of the high-backed Queen Anne armchairs by the fire, a rug over her knees and a glass of sherry in her hand. She looked up expectantly as Emma came in.
“Here she is, the lovely girl who is going to finish my book,” she said. “How far have you got, my darling?”
“I’ve finished it. At least I’ve finished all you have written, but you can’t leave it there, Iris, you absolutely can’t.” The words just spilled out. “Who killed him?”
“Killed who, darling?” Iris looked puzzled.
“In your book. Mr Chisholm. I’ve just found him dead and buried. And I have to know who killed him.”
“Mr Chisholm.” Iris toyed with the words, then shook her head. “I really can’t say I know a Mr Chisholm, and I’ve no idea who killed the poor man,” Iris said. “Is he in the story?”
“Yes,” Emma said, fighting back exasperation. She wanted to shake Iris and say, “You must remember. Think hard.” But of course one could not do that to a national treasure. “He’s not a very nice character. He was supposed to marry the girl who drowned.”
“Drowned?” Iris paused. “Oh yes. Drowned.”
“You remember. Scotland. The Isle of Skye. The castle.” Emma could hear the tension in her voice.