Chapter 28
The wind sprang up again that night, howling around the chimney.
Emma heard the clunk of a slate falling from the roof, and the windows rattled as they were buffeted.
I want to go home. The thought echoed around the room.
There was no central heating, and the fire in the living room had died down so that it sent no heat through to the bedroom.
She had plugged in both electric fires, but they didn’t seem to be doing much to raise the temperature.
The cottage felt cold and hostile, as if it didn’t want her there.
Lying awake, staring into the dark, she tried to calm racing thoughts.
She’d go to Scotland, because Iris had insisted on it, but what then?
She’d see the scenery for herself, find out if the castle was based on a real place, then come back, none the wiser about who killed Mr Chisholm.
It had to be Flora, of course. Trying to protect Lucy.
But that was too easy. It wasn’t the clever twist which Iris’s readers expected.
How could she, Emma Callander, with only one book to her name, be expected to come up with a plot worthy of a legend?
At last she drifted off to sleep and woke to a clear sky and the deafening sound of birdsong.
Having grown up in the Australian Bush she was used to magpies and other local birds, whose songs were so different from the songs here, and she lay there enjoying the blackbird and thrush competing with the incessant rhythmic cooing of a pigeon.
When she looked out of the window the lawns sparkled with dew.
The country wasn’t such a bad place in the right weather, she decided.
She got up, opted against a shower as the bathroom was icy, but washed and dressed in her smart pantsuit again, ready for the trip back to London.
She repacked the suitcase, then stood, looking around the room, turning to the stack of manuscript pages on the table.
If she was going to Scotland she’d dearly have loved to take them with her, to remind her exactly what happened, but everyone had made it clear that the pages were not to be taken away.
So instead of going over to breakfast Emma sat down again, went through each chapter making more notes.
Ferry. Armadale. Portree. Kyleakin. Mountains.
Cuillin. And then on the mainland Miss Anderson and Lord Chisholm.
She knew they were fictitious characters, but it would help to see where they lived.
As she worked she began to feel more enthusiastic.
She had been given a wonderful challenge.
And Iris had said that if she completed the book she’d not have to worry about money again.
That was a heady thought, but it sent a warning bell.
She put down the page, thinking. Payment had not yet been discussed.
She had no idea how much she would be paid if she finished the book, or if she’d get any credit on the cover.
Would she have a meeting with Iris this morning before she left?
At least Iris would want to meet with Tony when he came to pick her up.
And she found herself breathing a little faster at the thought that she’d be riding with him to the station.
“Nonsense,” she said firmly. “Has a girlfriend. Remember Simon. They always choose the one who can help with their career.”
And with that she went over to the big house to breakfast.
“The mistress is having hers in bed again.” Mrs Fisk poked her head out of the kitchen to greet her. “You’d better come into the kitchen.”
Emma did as commanded, sat at the table and was poured a cup of tea.
“So what’s it to be?” Mrs Fisk asked.
“Oh, nothing special. Just some toast would be fine,” Emma said, rather afraid of the woman’s glowering.
“You’re a considerate little thing, I’ll say that for you. And the missus has clearly taken to you. So tell me what you’d like and I’ll cook it for you.”
“A boiled egg if you don’t mind,” Emma said.
“Of course.” Mrs Fisk got to work, producing an egg, thinly sliced soldiers and a toast rack full of toast. The egg, of course, was cooked perfectly.
Emma spread homemade marmalade on the toast and found herself thinking that it wouldn’t be so bad to return to write the book with Iris. At least she’d eat well.
She finished her meal, carried her plate over to the sink, then wondered what to do next.
Tony was coming at noon, that much was set, but she’d dearly have loved to see Iris and talk to her about the book before she left.
Feeling self-conscious and out of place she wandered through to the conservatory.
On this bright morning the sun sparkled through the glass and there was a pleasant scent in the air from the many plants.
She found the daily papers arranged on a low table, took The Telegraph and sat on a wicker rocking chair, reading.
After a while she heard voices down the hall and Iris came in. Today she was dressed in smart wool trousers and a silk blouse with jabot and looked quite the countrywoman.
“You’re still here,” she said, sounding surprised.
“Yes, Tony is coming for me at noon, remember?”
“Tony? Oh yes. Tony. Good. So how have you enjoyed your stay here?” She took the wicker chair opposite Emma and picked up The Times.
“Very much, thank you.”
“But you still want to go home to Australia?”
Emma smiled. “It’s not as if I live in a place like this. But it has reminded me that I’m a country girl at heart. I feel trapped in the big city.”
“As I did,” Iris said. “I tried Sydney for a while, and it’s much more open and friendly than London, but even that was too much. I’d have to go and walk in the Domain, or on the waterfront every day.”
“I felt the same,” Emma said. “But you have a lovely place here.”
“Lovely, but a bit remote, you know. I have to invite people to see me, otherwise I’d be stuck with Cynthia and she’d drive me potty.”
“How long has she been with you?”
Iris considered. “She came as my secretary before the war. Then she joined up to do her part, as she said. I think she was probably something quite hush-hush, but she’s not allowed to talk about it.
Then when the men came home and she was kicked out of the Admiralty, she came back to me.
And has been here ever since. Funny old biddy, isn’t she?
But alarmingly devoted to me. I really do believe she’d throw herself on a hand grenade to save me.
” She chuckled, then added, “Of course I’ve left her well provided for in my will.
She won’t have to worry about money when I go. ” A wistful look came over her face.
“Miss Blackburn—Iris . . . ,” Emma said hesitantly. “Can I talk to you about the book? I really want to know your thoughts on where the story should go. You say you can’t remember, but you must have some idea. Was it supposed to have a brilliant twist with a killer we hadn’t thought of?”
Iris frowned. “I’m not sure that I ever knew.
Melrose usually tells me himself. He finds out something, or someone says one little sentence and he thinks, ‘Aha. So that’s what was missing.
’ But I’m afraid he’s fallen silent. He doesn’t speak to me any more.
” She leaned across to Emma. “Perhaps he’ll start talking to you. You’d be his type. He’d like you.”
“Not as much as the governess,” Emma said. She smiled. “So do you know what happened with the governess? Did they ever get together? Did they marry?”
“I suspect it was one of those loves that could never be,” Iris said slowly. “Kept apart by fate. She couldn’t leave her father. He got a chance to go to London . . .”
“That sounds awfully sad. If they truly loved each other they’d have made it work,” Emma said.
“In that case you make it work, if you feel so strongly about it,” Iris said.
Emma blushed. “I couldn’t mess with your story.”
“Nonsense. If you write it, it will become your story. You’re the puppet master.”
“I don’t think so,” Emma said. “I think if you’ve created the characters they tell you where they need to go. At least that’s what I’ve heard you say.”
“True. All right. Perhaps Melrose will show you what he means to do with Miss Anderson.”
Emma felt a tight grip in the pit of her stomach at the thought of Melrose dictating a storyline to her.
So presumptuous. Most likely he’d take one look at her and think that she was not worthy to carry on the tradition.
Please bugger off, Miss Callander, and get Iris back here. That’s what he’d say.
“So tell me, Miss Blackburn,” she began.
Iris held up a hand. “Oh for God’s sake, darling. It’s Iris, please. We’re Aussies. We don’t need all this bloody formality. You and I are going to be working together. We’re mates.”
The thought of being a mate with Iris Blackburn made her blush again.
“So I wanted to ask you, Iris, why did you choose the Isle of Skye? You must have been there because it’s all so real and vivid.
Did you decide when you first wrote Inspector Melrose that he’d have some kind of connection to that place? ”
“I did go there once,” Iris said. “When I’d been in England for a while and had made some money, I decided to see the rest of the British Isles.
I hired a car and driver and went around Scotland.
And the driver was from Skye. He insisted on showing me his island.
I only had a day or two there but it left a lasting impression.
Hauntingly beautiful. I intended to go back and spend longer, but there were other places to be explored.
Then the war came, and after that I was horribly famous and invited to literary events all over the world until I got too old to travel any more. ”
Emma nodded, understanding. “But you decided to revisit it by writing about it.”
“I always intended to set a book there, but never got round to it until now. I’m interested to see what you think of the island.
Perhaps it’s changed since the war. Perhaps you’ll find it’s all caravan parks and tea shops, but I hope not.
Will you drop me a letter or a postcard from time to time to let me know how you’re getting along? ”
“From time to time?” Emma asked. “Aren’t you only expecting me to stay for a few days?”
“Stay as long as you need to, my darling. Weeks if you need to get the feel of the place, and if it helps you to figure out the story.”
“Oh, I don’t think I’ll need that long,” Emma said. “Surely I can have a car and driver take me around the whole island in a day.”
“Such an impatient person,” Iris said, wagging a scolding finger at her.
“The young are so impatient. First she reads the whole manuscript in one day, then she wants to do Skye in one day. But when you are a writer sometimes you have to wait and let things percolate. You can’t go rushing ahead.
” She leaned forward, towards Emma. “So my advice to you is to take your time. Let the island speak to you. Know how it feels. It certainly spoke to Melrose, didn’t it? ”
“I believe it did,” Emma agreed.
“Good, so go and have a bloody good time. Drop me a postcard every day then. Do you like whisky?”
“I’ve never really had a chance to try it,” Emma said.
“You will. I understand there are distilleries on Skye now. The best stuff comes from there. It’s the water, coming down from the mountains through the peat.”
“Then I’ll certainly give it a go,” Emma said.
“Tony should be here soon.” Iris looked around as if expecting him to materialize. Then she added, “He likes you. You’d make a good couple.”
“He has a girlfriend,” Emma said more sharply than she intended.
“I could send him to Scotland with you. A couple of weeks together in the romantic Highlands?” Iris’s smile was teasing.
“Oh no, please don’t,” Emma said rapidly. “I wouldn’t want to interfere with someone else’s life.”
“Just kidding, darling. No, I want you to concentrate on the task ahead. I want you to be open to what you see and learn there.”
“Yes,” Emma said. “I’ll do my best and try not to let you down.”
“Don’t be so bloody earnest,” Iris said. “Say ‘I’ll go to Skye and have a bloody good time no matter what.’”
Emma had to laugh.