Chapter 32
“Do you want to get out and take a closer look?” Andrew asked.
Emma shook her head. “It’s not what I expected at all. I suppose my cowriter just took the name because it sounded exotic.” She sighed. “Never mind. If you could drop me in the town, I’ll find this Kings Arms Hotel and book myself in. Then I need to figure out what I should do.”
“All right.” He reversed the van with difficulty in the narrow area, then inched down into the town.
“That’s the Kings Arms,” he said, indicating a long, low white building on the waterfront. “It will be a good base for you.”
He stopped the van outside the hotel, retrieved her suitcase from the back and helped her down.
“Thank you so much,” Emma said. “I really appreciate this.”
“You can send me a copy of the book when it comes out,” Andrew replied. “And I can point out all the things you’ve got wrong, unless you’d let me take a look now and save you from future mistakes.”
Emma shook her head. “I can’t do that. My cowriter won’t allow it.”
“So she calls the shots, does she? Or is it a man?”
“I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to say.”
He gave her a questioning stare. “Mysterious! Oh well. Good luck then.” He carried her suitcase to the front door.
“I have to take a delivery over to the mainland in a couple of days, so I may look you up if you’re still here.
There’s not much to do in Kyleakin, but I expect I can find a way to amuse you.
” The way he said it made her a little uneasy, although she suspected he might just be acting the part for a foreigner.
At least she had a good-looking chap seemingly interested in her, but as he had said, there wasn’t much choice on the island.
“Thanks again, Andrew,” she said.
He gave her a friendly wave and headed back to the van.
She picked up her suitcase and went into the hotel.
The reception area was dark with a low ceiling and the smell of woodsmoke from a fire.
At one end was an oak counter and at the other a lounge area with chairs around the fireplace.
It felt cosy and warm. She rang the bell on the counter and an older woman came out.
She had wispy white hair and bright red cheeks, but her eyes were still bright.
“Hello, my dear,” she said. “And what can I do for you?”
“I’d like a room, please. If you have one?”
The woman smiled. “At this time of year you can take your pick. Now if you’d been here in August it would have been another matter.
We had quite a crowd this year, and we’re getting more people from other countries, too.
Germans and Americans, if you can believe it.
” She leaned closer. “An American woman wanted to know why the central heating was not on. I told her it was summer, and she said it didn’t feel like it.
I didn’t have the heart to tell her she won’t find central heating anywhere on this island. ”
Emma chuckled.
“So how long will you be staying, Miss . . .”
“Callander,” Emma said. “Emma Callander.”
“Oh. Callander.” Emma waited for her to say she was a fellow Scot. “We had a Dr Callander staying here last year. He was from Edinburgh.”
“No relation,” Emma said. “I’m from Australia, although I suppose my ancestors came from Scotland.”
“We’ve had several Australians here, too,” the woman went on. “Friendly people. So are you just here for a night or two?”
“I’m not quite sure,” Emma said. “Probably at least a week. It depends how long my work keeps me here.”
“Oh, so you’re here on business?” She leaned closer again.
“I’m doing research for a woman who is writing a book,” Emma said. It seemed wiser than saying she was the cowriter.
“A travel guide, would it be?”
“No, it’s fiction, but it’s set on Skye so she wants to get it right.”
“Of course she does. Well, you can tell her how special this island is, can’t you?”
“I intend to.”
“Now if you’d just register in the book here, I’ll show you your room. Since we’re nearly empty I’ll give you the corner room at the end. Lovely views across the water. And far enough away from the bar if it should become rowdy.”
She led Emma along a hallway and opened a door at the far end. The first thing she noticed was the view, across the strait to the mountains on the mainland.
“I’ll leave you to have a wash and brush up then,” the proprietress said. “And there will be a cup of tea ready for you in a wee while. Bathroom’s just two doors down from you.”
Emma put her suitcase on the bed and unpacked.
The room had a cosy, homey feeling to it, with a big, old-fashioned oak wardrobe and matching chest of drawers, a small chintz-covered armchair with plenty of cushions and a handmade quilt on the bed.
There was indeed no central heating but a gas fire on one wall.
Emma was relieved to see it didn’t require shillings in a meter.
It reminded her of the way her home had looked during her grandparents’ time, when the winery still belonged to them.
They had both died when she was quite small, and her fashionable mother had thrown out their furniture, redecorated and changed everything.
Emma hadn’t thought about them for ages.
She was too young to have anything except hazy memories—sitting on Nana’s knee and being read to, or on Grandpa’s knee and riding horsy.
They had both been older parents, her father an only child of later life.
He in turn had not married until his thirties.
Now she found herself wishing she knew more.
Had they come out from Scotland as young people or been born in Australia?
She tried to call up their voices. Had they had a Scottish accent?
Or had the accent been lost through years of living in Australia?
Her father hadn’t spoken much about them or about her heritage.
There was no point in asking her mother.
She was staunchly and proudly English. And yet it gave Emma a warm feeling to know that she was part of this lovely countryside. It was in her bloodline.
After a quick trip to the bathroom she went to the reception area and found a tea tray with a toasted teacake. She ate with relish and thanked the woman when she came to collect the tray.
“At what time do you want your evening meal, Miss Callander?” she asked.
“Whenever is convenient.”
“Then shall we say at seven? And if you’ve a mind for it, my Ruari caught a marvelous salmon yesterday. Our local salmon is the finest in the world, so they say. Would you like to try it?”
“Oh, yes please,” Emma said. “What did you say your husband’s name was?”
“Ruari.” She spelled it out. “It’s a local Gaelic name.”
“That’s interesting because my father was Rory. I suppose it’s the same name with anglicized spelling.”
“No doubt it would be.”
“And what is your name, ma’am?”
“I’m Mrs Bruce. Born a MacDonald. My parents ran this place before me.” She looked up with the hint of a smile on her lips. “I married an outsider, you know. From over on the mainland. I’ve never heard the last of it.”
Emma shared her smile. “So tell me, Mrs Bruce,” she said. “If I wanted to hire a car and driver to show me around the island, how would I go about it?”
“Why, that would be Young Jock,” Mrs Bruce said. “He’ll not be too busy at this time of year.”
“Young Jock?” Emma’s jaw dropped. “How old would he be now?”
The woman looked surprised. “Why, about your age, I’d think.
His father owned the taxi service before him, and his grandfather had the first motor car on the island.
Both of them named Jock, too. This Jock’s father had been Young Jock before him.
Now the grandson is Young Jock and his father is Old Jock. ”
So that much of Iris’s story had been true, Emma thought. Had Old Jock been the one to drive her around the island? She felt an excitement that there was at least one tie.
“And how would I contact Young Jock?”
“I’ll have him come round to meet you in the morning. He’ll be available, I’m sure, unless . . .”
“Unless he has to drive someone to the hospital,” Emma finished for her. The woman looked up, surprised. “Now that was just what I was about to say. And it’s true. The only ambulance on the island is up at Portree, so Jock does a lot of that sort of thing.”
Mrs Bruce picked up the tray. “I’d better get on with my work or there will be no supper for any of us tonight. Until later then, Miss Callander.”
Emma watched her go, feeling strangely warm and cared for, almost as if she had come home.
Since it was still light she decided to walk into the little village to see if she could buy postcards.
She had, after all, promised to write a report to Iris every day.
As she walked along the waterfront the sun was setting beyond the mountains, etching them sharply in silhouette and painting the water of the strait with a deep, rich glow.
Above to her right the castle ruins stood out, also glowing blood red in the setting sun.
Emma stood, wrapped in an emotion she couldn’t describe.
A place so different, so magical, and yet it somehow felt right that she should be there.
This was how Inspector Melrose had felt, standing in the same place.
Maybe he’d start talking to her now and she’d be able to write again.