Chapter 41
As the ferry pulled away from the dock, Emma looked back and felt a profound sense of relief.
The horror of the day no longer seemed quite as real and raw, and she found herself questioning whether she had let her imagination run away with her.
But the tone in Andrew’s voice when he couldn’t find her gave him away.
A concerned friend would have been worried, scared that something had happened to her.
He was furious. She looked back to Tony.
He had taken it upon himself to come all this way. That had to mean something, didn’t it?
As if he sensed her looking at him, he asked, “So tell me now. What happened that made you so frightened?”
“Andrew Patterson tried to kill me,” she said.
“Andrew Patterson?”
“Ross Patterson’s son.”
“He tried to kill you?” The horror on his face was real.
She took a deep breath. “He turned up this morning and offered to make up for his father’s rudeness. He took me out for a lovely drive then wanted to show me the best view on the island. It was on this ledge halfway up a mountain.”
“And he tried to push you off?”
She shook her head. “No, but I sensed that was what he was going to do.”
“Are you sure, Emma? You weren’t letting your imagination run away with you?”
Emma’s face flushed with anger. Coming from Tony it felt like a betrayal. “You don’t believe me?”
“Of course. I’m sorry. I can see you’re really upset.”
“It’s okay. I asked myself the same question,” she said, calming down, “but I picked up his feeling of suppressed excitement all morning, and I realized he’d orchestrated the whole thing—holding my hand, saying he was sorry I had to leave, gaining my trust and then insisting I climb up this bloody rock face.
I confess I did wonder if I was overreacting, but then I heard his voice when I ran away.
He was furious, not worried. Absolute blind rage, Tony. ”
“But why would he want to do that?”
“I have to presume I’d uncovered something detrimental to his family.”
“And had you?”
She hesitated before saying, “Tony, I know Iris didn’t want you or anyone to read the manuscript, but it’s all true, and in it there is a murdered man buried in the wood behind the castle.
There is no mention of this in the newspaper accounts of the time.
I don’t know if Iris told you that her fiction turned out to be a real event—a couple fleeing together died when their sailing boat was tampered with.
Only Iris doesn’t mention the broken rudder, which was the worst part. ”
Tony was frowning. “If they died in a sailing accident who was buried in the wood?”
“The young woman’s suitor, a local aristocrat. But the newspaper only mentions that he had disappeared, and hinted that he was responsible for the boat capsizing.”
“I see.”
“So I don’t know whether Iris made that part up to embellish the story and make it more suspenseful or if she somehow found out about it, although I don’t know how. So I’m wondering if there really is a buried body and the Patterson family wants to stay mum about it.”
“It would appear so,” Tony said. “Although if this all took place long ago, why would they worry now? Surely none of the participants are still living?”
“Only the grandfather and he’s . . . shall we say . . . fragile.”
Tony was silent for a moment, then said, “Do you think we should go to the police?”
“Oh God no,” she said. “No good would come of messing with that family any more. It’s their island. I’m sure they have a lot of clout here. They’d dismiss me as a hysterical woman.”
Tony reached across and put his hand on hers. “Well, you’re safe now. But in a way I wish we hadn’t had to leave in such a hurry. I’d like to have seen this castle and given Andrew Patterson a punch in the nose.”
Emma gave a nervous chuckle. “I don’t think that would have ended well.”
“You don’t think we should tell anyone about the body buried in the wood? It’s a pity we didn’t have a chance to check for ourselves.”
Emma shook her head. “After dealing with Andrew and his father I don’t think I’d want to have been caught in their grounds. They’d probably have shot at us. And I wouldn’t have wanted to go to the local police either.”
The ferry came into the dock. Car motors started up as the ramp was lowered.
“So do you want to drive straight back to Inverness?” Tony asked.
Emma considered. “I had been planning to speak to the Graham family. In Iris’s book, it was their ancestor who was buried in the Patterson’s wood. I wonder if they know more.”
“You can’t just descend on someone and tell them a family member was murdered if they don’t know.”
“In real life he may have fled and contacted his family later. I don’t understand how Iris could possibly know that a murder took place thirty years earlier unless she spoke with someone who had seen it happen, but why would they share this information with a stranger, a foreigner?
If anyone knew, why not go to the police?
” Emma sighed. “None of this makes sense, Tony. She says she came here on a brief visit years ago, then suddenly decides to write about it now. Why? And how did she find out so much on a brief visit?”
Tony shrugged. “She’s a brilliant woman, and perhaps old people become fascinated with reliving their past. Or . . . she’s been going through all the ideas she never used and thinks are too good to ignore . . . or . . . she’d wanted to write about this but it had never fitted into her series.”
All of these ideas made sense. “I suppose so,” Emma agreed.
Their turn came to drive off the ferry and they followed the stream of cars into Kyle of Lochalsh.
“Can we at least find out where the Graham family lives?” Emma asked.
“You don’t think we should just leave this now, go back to Iris and see if she wants to proceed or not?” Tony looked worried.
“Tony, we could be looking at another murder. I’m not sure who we tell or what we do, but at least we should check on the facts. Maybe I’m worrying over nothing.”
“All right,” he said. “How do we find out where the Grahams live?”
“We could ask at one of the shops. He was supposed to have an estate nearby.”
Without hesitating Tony pulled up beside a newsagent’s. Emma got out and went inside.
“The Grahams?” The man at the counter scowled. “Snooty lot they are. Never come and shop here. Have everything sent up from Edinburgh or even London, so I’ve heard. Of course the laird never was one of us.”
“Do they live nearby?”
“Bloody great pile up on the road towards Plockton,” he said. “You can’t miss it.”
Emma relayed the news and they set out again, this time heading north and hugging the coastline.
The newsagent was right. It was a bloody great pile, and they couldn’t miss it.
As they came around a curve in the road they saw it on the hillside above.
It reminded Emma of Dunvegan, the seat of the MacDonalds on Skye.
One of the gates was open and they drove up a driveway to an impressive grey stone house.
“Do you want me to come, too?” Tony asked.
“If you don’t mind,” Emma said. “I’m still a bit shaken up.”
“Of course.” He got out, came around and opened the door for her.
Together they walked up steps to an enormous front door.
A bell tolled somewhere deep inside and the door was opened.
Emma had expected a footman or butler but instead a middle-aged man in corduroy trousers and a baggy, hand-knitted cardigan stood there.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “We don’t do house tours at this time of year.”
“We are not here for a house tour,” Emma said. “I just want to ask the current laird a couple of questions about his ancestors for a book I’m helping to research.”
“Oh, right. Well, I’m Alexander Graham, the current laird, and you’d better come in.”
Emma looked around a hall with banners hung from the ornate wooden ceiling and family portraits around the walls. Again she found herself wondering how anybody felt comfortable living in a veritable museum.
“Come through to the morning room,” the man said. “We have a fire in there. The rest of the place is bloody cold.”
It was a small, pleasant room with a view out over the coastline to Skye. The laird invited them to sit.
“I’m sorry to trouble you,” Emma said, “but for this book I’m researching we can’t find anything out about your grandfather, it must be, Alistair Graham. The newspaper reports on Skye say he vanished about the time of a tragic boat accident. Do you happen to know more?”
“Sorry, but he’s not my grandfather,” the man said.
“The direct line died out with him. My father was a third cousin or something and got dragged away from a pleasant suburban life in London to look after this monstrosity. I went off to university and was also enjoying a pretty normal life until he had a heart attack and died young. Now I’m stuck with it. ”
Emma gave a sympathetic nod. “So Alistair Graham died?”
“That was a problem for years. As you say, he vanished. It was assumed he went abroad and met with a bad end. But he couldn’t be declared legally dead for years after.
From what we understood he was a bad lot, and we were told he’d caused the boating accident then made his getaway.
So I’m sorry. I know no more than you do.
I only wish he’d been found alive and sired heirs for this place.
It’s not easy keeping it going while it falls to pieces around us. ” He gave a sad little laugh.
“I’m sorry.” Emma stood up. “Thank you for your time,” she said.
He escorted them back to the front door and they drove off. For a long while Emma was silent.
“You’re very quiet,” Tony said. “Are you writing the book in your head?”
“No,” Emma replied. “I’m thinking that Alistair Graham was killed and buried in the Patterson’s estate and they know about it, but nobody else does.
” She paused, staring out as the spectacular scenery of the coastline swept past. The sun was now sinking into the bank of cloud on the western horizon and the sea was like navy blue velvet.
“I don’t really know what to do, Tony. If there was a murder, do we report it, after so long? ”
Tony glanced across at her. “In the end it’s up to Iris, I presume, but I’d say we leave well alone,” he said.
“It was so long ago that those involved are dead. There’s nothing we can do to see justice served, and what’s more, the Patterson family has shown that they are prepared to stop at nothing to keep the truth from being found out. ”
“You’re right, I suppose,” Emma said. “I hate to just walk away and admit defeat, but the book can never be published the way it is written.”
“There’s one thing that’s troubling me,” Tony said. “If the police and the rest of the population didn’t find out about it, how the hell did Iris Blackburn learn of it in her few days as a tourist in Skye?”