“Explain why you’re Pretty Miss Welcome down in Dubneath, and Boadicea as soon as we see that phony Victorian castle. And,” I said on as she drew furious breath, “why you think you have the right to ballock me as soon as we’re out of Jamie’s earshot.”
She said quietly, “So it’s money you want.”
“Or antiques. Or both.”
“Very well, Lovejoy. You’ll be paid.” Pause. “Enough.”
A minute’s reflection, and I nodded. We rolled as I got in. She nearly took my toes off with the wheel. Our relationship was deteriorating fast.
“The… owner of Tachnadray agreed with my idea of having copies of the antiques made and selling them. We have two men doing it.” She turned us between two tall stone gateposts bearing carved coats-of-arms. “I believe we—Tachnadray—are being defrauded.”
Such disloyalty, I thought, but didn’t say. “And I’m to prove your suspicions?”
“Much, much more, Lovejoy.” She’d recovered her smile. However daft her dreams, she really seemed to come alive again in Tachnadray. She’d recovered all her sparkling good humor as soon as we made the glen. “You’re to prove who’s doing it.”
“Here, love,” I said uneasily. “You’re not wanting anybody buried at midnight in the crypt, are you? Because hunting’s not my game—”
“Here we are, Lovejoy,” she said gaily, stopping the van below the steps. “Tachnadray.”
The woman waiting in the shadows of the main door stepped forward into view. She walked with grave composure to the top step and stood to welcome us. I got out and went forward. For half a step I was a bit uncertain. After that there was no question.
Between the two women the air had thickened with utter hatred. It’s not fair that hunters last longest, or that prey wear out fastest. Somebody should change the rules.
Quickly I stepped to one side, put on my most sincere smile, and went bravely up the steps. This new woman couldn’t give me a bigger pack of lies than Shona.
« ^ »
—— 12 ——
Caithness is one of those places you think of as perfect, full of plain wisdom, isn’t it.
The simple life: dawn porridge, down to the trickling burn to brew up the day’s malt whisky or whatever, then highland reels all evening. Idyllic. Instead here I was ascending these wide steps, grinning hopefully at the elegant older woman smiling down at me, with a lovely bird like Shona smiling away at my side, and me wishing I was in battledress being fired at. It had felt safer.
“Morning,” I said pleasantly. “I’m…” Who the hell was I?
“Ian McGunn, Michelle,” Shona introduced in her lovely brogue. “We stopped to admire the klett.”
“Isn’t it a lovely view, Ian? Welcome to Tachnadray.”
Klett? “Thanks. Yes. Lovely, er, klett.”
“Do come in.”
“Ian’s the one I spoke about, Michelle.” Shona walked ahead with her, ever so pally.
Neither tried to stab the other, with visible restraint. “A furniture craftsman. He trained at the London College.”
“Oh.” Michelle placed her dark eyes on me. “You’re going to be marvelously useful, Ian.”
French? Belgian? Her accent matched her dark hair, wavy and lusciously thick. She seemed about fifty. She wore that continental dressiness which our women only manage on Derby Day. I blame those rotten hats the Royal Family keep wearing.
“Eh?” Somebody’d mentioned antiques.
“Duncan will show you later on. I’ll arrange it.” Michelle rotated those deep eyes. “But we’ll expect excellent output, Ian. We can’t afford passengers.”
Shona drew breath. Evidently multo-double meanings were hidden therein for somebody, not me. Between the two women I felt as nervous as a Christmas nut.
The house was a giant of a place, with those lovely Victorian wooden panels nobody does properly any more, and even the glass bowls chained over each hanging ceiling light. They’ve become a fantastic source of profit— nowadays builders clearing old housing estates let you have them, five for a quid. They’re collectors’ items. Tip: Look in “redevelopments” (as our psychopathic town planners now term vandalism). I once got a small cast-iron staircase, circular, with the Darby Ironworks stamp on and everything, thrown in because I took sixty glass light bowls off a builder’s hands while he battered a priceless 1695 building to smithereens in East Anglia for a car park. I’d dined in superb elegance for six months on the profit…
“Ian McGunn, darling,” Michelle announced, showing me into the tallest sitting room on earth.
The girl paused a second—surely not for effect?—and spun her wheelchair. I honestly gasped. She was the loveliest creature I’d ever seen. About sixteen. Limpid eyes, pale skin with that translucency you instinctively want to chew. She was so slight in her lace blouse. A tartan blanket covered her legs. Pearl earrings, a beautiful black velvet choker with a central silver locket, probably late Victorian, and hair pale as her face. She honestly did seem lit from within.
“Come in, Ian McGunn,” she said. “I’m Elaine.”
“Elaine’s—” Shona started, but the girl silenced her with an abrupt gesture and propelled herself forward.
