Chapter 33
It was just as Iris had described: a tall tower of grey stone rising up from the rocky headland.
The stone was weathered and almost looked like an extension of the rock itself.
At first it seemed a solid wall until Emma noticed small slits of window sunk into it.
A real fortress, a place to be defended, almost a fairy-tale castle.
Surrounding it was an outer wall and at the back of the little peninsula was the woodland, Scots pine trees mixed in with birch, their leaves now turning gold.
Emma held her breath as the narrow lane eventually came down to the shoreline and the castle rose up ahead of them, looking even more forbidding than it had from first glimpse.
“So people still live in it?” she asked.
“Och aye. Same family for several hundred years. I’m not sure how old but definitely back to medieval times. They would have been defending against Vikings and Danes and then the English.”
“But it’s not open to the public at all?”
“I’m afraid not. The family keep themselves quite private, although you can tour the distillery.”
“Distillery?”
“Aye. They are well known for their whisky. See the building up at the other side of the bay? That’s it. Would you like to go and see?”
“I’d like to take some photos here first,” Emma said. “Could you pull over?”
“Of course.”
Emma got out, trying to shield the lens from the raindrops that were now falling faster.
She took photos of the castle, the harbour and then the cottages along the seafront.
She couldn’t wait to show them to Iris. Surely Iris must have come here once.
The description was too accurate to be made up.
And she could see why Iris had chosen it as her setting. It was perfect for a murder mystery.
When she got back into the car she asked, “Tell me, Jock, did your father ever mention driving a famous writer around the island and bringing her here?”
“I don’t think so,” Jock said. “When would that have been?”
“I believe it was the nineteen thirties.”
“He never mentioned it to me. He did drive several famous people: a film star—I can’t remember which one, though—and some football players who played for Celtic. Oh, and a member of Parliament on a fact-finding mission. But he never mentioned a writer.”
“Perhaps she wasn’t so famous in those days,” Emma said.
“So this writer of yours, she’s quite well known?”
Emma hesitated. “In writing circles,” she said cautiously.
“And she wrote about this place? About Craigard?”
“I think she must have, although she called it by a different name. She called it Dun Akyn.”
“Must have got it mixed up then,” Jock said. “Dun Akyn is the old name for Caisteal Maol. It’s just a ruin.”
“I know,” she said. “I was shown it yesterday.”
“So would you like to visit the distillery now?” Jock asked. “I think we’d have to hurry. They close earlier at this time of year.”
“It’s owned by the family who live in the castle?” Emma asked. It occurred to her that she might charm her way into a tour of the castle.
“Aye. The Pattersons.”
“Patterson? I got a ride with Andrew Patterson yesterday. He was very nice.”
“Aye, well he would be to a pretty girl. We’ve heard about Andrew’s high jinks. He’s got an eye for the ladies, so they say. A bit of a wild lad when he was off at university. His father brought him home where he can keep an eye on him, and is making him work to sober him up.”
“He told me he was having to learn the business from the bottom up.”
“Well, that’s only right. He’s the only son, so he’ll need to take over one day.”
Jock eased the car forward and they drove along the seafront with the cottages on one side and a wall above a rocky coast.
“Are there still fishing boats here?” she asked. The small harbour was empty.
“A couple, I believe, although these days it doesn’t really pay any more.
Other countries have big factory fleets, don’t they?
They come and sweep the ocean clean so there’s no fish for the small boats.
Although the lobster fishermen still make a good living, and there’s still the herring fleet and the kippering sheds over at Mallaig. ”
Emma’s brain was working feverishly. If the castle was real, and the setting was real, was it possible that any of the story was true, or had Iris merely used the backdrop for a Melrose plot?
“So tell me, Jock,” she said. “This story I’m working on. It involves tragedy with the family who lived in the castle. The writer calls them the Hamiltons. But do you know of any real tragedy that happened here? The daughter of the family was drowned? She was trying to elope with an outsider?”
Jock slowed the car, frowning. “I’ve a mind I did hear something like that once. Although drowning is not an unusual thing here. We’ve all known someone who was taken by the sea. It’s part of our history.”
“How would I find out, do you think?” Emma asked. “Is there an island historian or something?”
“I suppose the older generation would remember,” he said. “And it would have been reported in the island newspaper, would it not? How long ago was this?”
“In the nineteen thirties.”
“Then I can ask my father. He was driving the taxi in those days. He’d know.”
“Great. Would you do that?”
He nodded. “I could take you to visit him and you could ask him yourself, if you like.”
“That would be wonderful, if you could arrange it,” she said. “What does your father do these days, if he doesn’t drive the taxi any longer?”
“He was injured in the war, you know. In the Royal Navy, on a boat that was torpedoed. So now he’s got a bad back and doesn’t like to sit behind a wheel all day.
But he’s also not the type to accept disability and stay home.
He runs a snack bar in Portree. Does well in the summer months.
Really good sausage rolls and meat pies. ”
“I haven’t had a decent meat pie since I left Australia,” Emma said. “Could we visit him tomorrow, do you think?”
Jock grinned. “You’re paying for my time. Wherever you want to go. Do you still want to visit the distillery?”
Emma debated. If there had been a real family tragedy she should probably find out that first, before she put her foot in it. “Let’s leave that for later.”
“Right. Then I think we’ve done enough for one day, don’t you?”
“I do,” she said, “but I’m really anxious to know if your father remembers a tragic drowning of the laird’s daughter.”
He reversed the car and started up the hill.
Emma looked back at the castle. Who would want to live in such a place?
she wondered. Those tiny slits of windows couldn’t let in much light.
And that grim tower on the rocky headland reminded her of a prison from a fairy tale—a place where a beautiful princess was locked away.
Surely it must affect the family that lived in it?
Although Andrew had seemed easy-going and friendly enough—even if he was a bit of a lad, according to Jock.
Not that he’d tried anything . . . Not that I’d want to . . . , she thought.
She switched subjects in her brain. There was the wood behind the castle, now presumably even denser with trees than it was in the days of the story.
Had a Mr Chisholm really been buried there?
If it was all true, then the end of the story would have been written for her. She couldn’t wait to find out more.
Back at the hotel she enjoyed a welcome cup of tea and a scone with homemade jam before writing the next postcard to Iris.
She wanted to make sure it went with today’s post collection.
It felt important to tell Iris that she had located the real castle.
As she picked up the pen to write she found herself wondering: Why had Iris chosen this setting for Melrose’s first case and such a different sort of crime?
Had a brief tour of the island made such an impression that she wanted to write about it, to recreate that tour, after all these years? She couldn’t wait to ask.
On the postcard she wrote: Today I found your castle. Just like you described it. Tomorrow I’m going to try to find out if your story is based on any real crime. Skye is amazing. So beautiful. So wild.
As she wrote the word “wild” she remembered the Wild Girl.
And Jock talking about kelpies and selkies as if he believed in them.
Was there a Wild Girl once, whose father might not have been a human?
It was too ridiculous to consider. She signed the postcard and carried it down to the postbox outside the village shop.
In the fading daylight she watched the ferry heading back to the mainland.
Had there really once been a beautiful young governess who had touched Melrose’s heart?
Would Melrose ever speak to her the way he apparently spoke to Iris?
Then she reminded herself: Melrose only existed on the pages of books. He was fiction.