Chapter 37
Emma was glad to find Jock waiting for her, engrossed in reading his newspaper. The wind had dropped, but there was still continuous rain. Emma took off her headscarf and shook it out as she got back into the car.
“Creepy sort of place, isn’t it?” he asked as they drove off. “Mind you, I’ve never been inside. What’s it like?”
“Equally creepy,” she said, laughing as the tension melted away. “I met old Sir Robert, the grandfather. I’m afraid I upset him, asking about his sister’s drowning.”
“Poor old fellow. He’s not long for this world now, is he, so I hear?”
“He did seem pretty frail,” Emma agreed.
They had entered the wood again. Drips thudded onto the roof of the car and the place felt eerily still.
The wood stretched as far as she could see in both directions.
Surely Mr Graham could not have been buried too far from the track?
But how could she ever suggest this to the local police?
“So I’m thinking you’ll probably be needing something to eat now?” Jock said. They emerged from the trees and began the descent to the road. “I take it they did not offer you a wee strupak there?”
“I was offered coffee but declined,” Emma said. “After the old man got so upset I felt it was wise to beat a hasty retreat.”
“They always keep themselves to themselves,” Jock said. “So should we head back to Kyleakin for you to have a wee bite? It would be no use going sightseeing on a day like this. The mountains are hiding inside the clouds.”
“All right,” Emma said, then changed her mind. “Wait. Jock, you must know most people on the island. Are there other old people around here who might remember the incident? Any of those families in the cottages here?”
He slowed the car, thinking. “Aye, well there’s old Mistress MacLeod, the grandmother. She must be close to ninety. We could go and speak to her, if you’ve a mind to.”
“Yes, let’s,” Emma said. “Is she a relative of yours?”
“Just a clanswoman,” he said. “Most people around here are.”
Jock came to a halt outside one of the cottages. He left Emma in the car while he went to the front door. She watched him speak to a young woman, a baby at her hip. Then he returned. “You can come in. She says Granny will welcome the visit.”
The young woman brought them into a spotless little kitchen with copper pans hanging over a stove, lace curtains at the window.
A peat fire was burning in the hearth, giving off a pleasant, herby smell.
A tiny old woman sat by the fire, a hand-knitted shawl around her shoulders, a lace cap on her head.
She almost looked like a caricature of an old-fashioned grandmother.
Her face was withered like a dried apple and when she smiled it was clear she had no teeth.
“Granny, this lady has come from London to ask you some questions,” the young woman said patiently. She turned to Jock. “Her English is not always so good. Maybe you can translate if necessary.”
“Aye, if I can remember my Gaelic,” he said, pulling up a wooden chair.
“You’ll be taking a wee something?” the young woman said, putting a kettle onto the stove.
As Emma sat opposite the old lady the young one put biscuits and cake onto a plate and set about making tea, all the while balancing a hefty baby on one hip.
At last she popped him into an old-fashioned cradle while she poured the boiling water.
Emma watched, fascinated. The woman was clearly no older than she was, and yet she did all these tasks so effortlessly.
It was only when they had eaten and finished their tea that Emma asked her questions.
She mentioned the tragedy and the old woman nodded.
“Aye, I remember it clear enough,” she said.
“Elspeth MacLeod remembers seeing them, a young couple, she said, going to the harbour after dark. And she with her hood up and he with a hat on so she couldnae see their faces, but afterwards she reckons it was the laird’s daughter right enough.
” She gave a knowing grin. “And then one of the fishermen came in next morning and said a boat had been found, floundering on its side. And the men went out and found the poor wee man’s body and afterward they found her, too.
Such a terrible thing to have happened.”
“I read in the paper that the boat was deliberately disabled,” Emma said. “The sail slashed, a rope cut and the rudder broken. Did the men notice that?”
“I can’t say that I heard that,” the old woman said. “Who would have wanted to do such an evil deed?” She shook her head. “Ach well. We’ll never know, will we? At least their bodies were recovered so they could have a Christian burial. Better than never knowing.”
“Tell me,” Emma said. “Did you ever see Mr Alistair Graham when he was staying here?”
“I did not,” she replied, “but my friend Morag did. She said she and another girl were out for a walk one evening when they met him and he commented that she had a nice round little rump. He was overly friendly, Morag said. But that was the way with aristocrats in those days. They thought they could do what they liked with our sort of people. We were nothing. At least things are a bit better in that direction now, wouldn’t you say? ”
Emma thought of Andrew offering sex in the back seat, or the men she met in London who only wanted one thing. Would that ever change? she wondered. Another thought came to her. “So was there really a Wild Girl? Did you know her?”
“Oh aye.” She smiled, recalling a memory. “That would be Catriona, Fiona’s child. We could never understand why Fiona married Angus MacLeod and went to live out there, all alone in that cottage by Allt Dubh.”
“Did they really call her the Wild Girl?”
“They did, and she was. Off on her own over the heather and rocks from the time she was a wee thing. Well, her poor mother died, probably from being married to that man. He liked his drink too much, you know, and got violent. So the wee girl learned to stay out of his way. We tried to keep an eye on her, you know. My mother would put out food, just like you would for a stray cat, and it was always taken, but you never saw Catriona come for it. Sometimes she’d show up at the school and then she’d be off again. ”
“But she was taken in by the laird’s wife, was she not?”
“Aye, and it was a remarkable transformation, too,” the old woman said. “She turned into a fine lady, so we heard. Gave herself airs, just like the laird’s daughter. Wore her clothes, studied with her governess.”
“And then she vanished,” Emma said. “Did you ever see her afterward?”
“I did not,” the old woman said. “We never saw her again. We all wondered, you know . . .” She paused. “We all wondered whether she’d had anything to do with sinking that boat. She did not want Miss Lily to go and leave her, so she made sure she didn’t.”
“And where do you think she went after that?”
The old woman shrugged. “Certainly not back to her father. Maybe somewhere up in the wild hills. She knew how to take care of herself. Or perhaps she managed to get to another island, or even the mainland. We’ll never know that either, will we?
It’s such a long time ago.” Her face became wistful and she stared into the fire.
Emma couldn’t think of anything else to ask. Everything she had learned confirmed what Iris had written. But nobody knew the fate of Graham or the Wild Girl. He liked women, she thought. What if he and Catriona had run off together?
The rain eased to a fine drizzle as they drove back to Kyleakin. They stopped for fish and chips on the waterfront and then Jock deposited her at her hotel.
“Will you be needing me tomorrow?” he asked.
Emma considered. “I’m not sure what I still need to do here,” she replied, “apart from you showing me the Fairy Pools.”
He smiled. “Aye. I’m not letting you leave without seeing my favourite part of the island. But we’ll need to wait for good weather.”
“Is it supposed to clear up tomorrow?”
He shook his head, still smiling. “If the weatherman says it will be fine, that means rain for sure. I don’t know how they earn their money, always being wrong.”
Emma went into the hotel, went to her room without encountering Mrs Bruce and wrote another postcard to Iris.
Have been to the castle and met the old man who was Lily Patterson’s brother.
He got very upset when I wanted to talk about his sister, and I was forced to leave.
So I haven’t learned anything new. One thing I do know: it rains a lot here.
She put on her waterproof and walked down to the postbox.
When she came back she lay on her bed, wondering how long she should stay on the island and what there was still to find out.
Eventually the warmth of the gas fire made her nod off to sleep.
She was woken by tapping on her door and sat up, confused about where she was.
Mrs Bruce opened the door. “Ah, Miss Callander, sorry to disturb you, but you have a visitor, and I didnae like to let him come to your room. That would not have been correct.”
Her first thought was that it must be Andrew.
Mrs Bruce would not have had problems with Jock.
She got up, splashed water on her face and brushed her hair before going into the lounge.
A strange man was sitting by the fire. He stood up as she approached.
He was tall, middle-aged, grey hair slicked into neat waves, distinguished-looking and wearing a dark suit.
“Miss Callander?” His voice was smooth upper-class English. “I am Ross Patterson. You came to visit my father this morning.”
“Yes, I did,” she said.
“May we talk somewhere private?” He glanced around the lounge. Mrs Bruce still hovered by the counter. “It’s a matter of some importance.”
“I suppose you can come to my room,” Emma said.
“That will have to do then.” He followed her along the hall. She hastily pulled up the covers on the bed and took her coat from the one chair. “If you’d like to take a seat? Do you have more information to give me about your family tragedy?”
He sat in the chair while she perched on the bed.
“You came to see my father . . .” His stare was cold.
“We’ve already established that,” she replied.
“And you upset him. You upset him greatly. His nurse had to sedate him to calm him down.”
“I’m really sorry, Mr Patterson,” Emma replied, “but I had no idea that a tragedy that happened all that time ago would still have such a powerful effect. I’m sure it was devastating to lose his sister, but I lost my father only six years ago and I feel sad when I think about it, but I’ve got on with my life, and it certainly doesn’t make me break down to speak of him. ”
“My father is an old and sick man. Things play on his mind and you’ve stirred up an old wound.”
“As I said, I’m sorry. I had no intention of causing grief. I won’t trouble him again.”
He crossed his legs, still staring coldly at her. “So tell me, Miss Callander, this book that you are writing—what on earth gave you the idea that you could write someone’s family history without asking permission first?”
“Let me clarify,” Emma said, annoyed by his tone, “I am not the writer. I am merely an assistant. I was told this was a novel. I had no idea it was linked to real family history until I came here.”
“Who is this writer? And why did she decide to write about our family?”
“I’m afraid I can’t give you her name,” Emma said.
“She values her privacy. But she came on a visit to Skye years ago, before the war she said, and I can only deduce that while she was doing research for her books somebody told her about this sad story. And she jotted down the details and put them aside for a future book. That’s what writers do.
They come to a place and have antennas out for any sort of story.
I don’t know if she spoke with your family at the time, or interviewed the police . . .”
Mr Patterson stood up suddenly. “Whatever she did it is a damned cheek and an invasion of our privacy. You will tell this woman, whoever she is, that my family history is not for public consumption. If she dares to proceed with this harebrained scheme, we will see her in court and do everything in our power to prevent this book from ever seeing the light of day. Do I make myself clear?”
“Absolutely, Mr Patterson, although I assure you she intends it to be a novel. The castle is fictitious, the names and dates are changed. Only the story about the drowning is taken from reality.”
“My dear girl, what on earth good do you think changing the names will do? Everybody will know it’s us. I am a member of Parliament. I do not want my family name dragged through the mud.”
“Hold on a minute.” Emma stood up, too. “Nobody’s dragging anyone’s name through the mud. It’s a love story that ends tragically. A young girl runs off with the man she loves secretly and their boat capsizes. What is so awful about that? It is the stuff of Scottish ballads.”
“It’s more complicated than that, as you know.
You’ve been poking your nose where it’s not wanted—trying to drag up sordid details.
So I’m not going to tell you again: you pack up your things and go home and tell this blasted writer to set her stories somewhere else.
She is not wanted on Skye and neither are you. ”
He gave her one last glare then opened the door and stalked from the room.
Emma sank onto the bed, her heart pounding.
What could have triggered that outburst?
What had made that man so angry that the veins stood out on his temples as he yelled at her?
Then she began to wonder: Did they know that a person was buried in their wood?
Did they know who killed him, and would the revelation rock their family reputation?