“A fertility doctor would have been more to the point,” Judith said.
To her dismay, both young women again went into peals of laughter. “You Americans are always so practical,” Marie said after overcoming her latest giggle spasm. “Beth’s mum enjoys hocus-pocus. But she’s a wizard in the kitchen. You should taste her marmalade.”
“Maybe,” Beth said, “you have. She’s always giving it away.”
Judith remembered the jars of jams and condiments marked with the letter
“No, for Mrs. Gunn,” Beth said, and looked at her diamond-studded watch. “It’s after seven-thirty. Want another, Marie?”
“Certainly,” Marie said.
“Mrs. Flynn?” Beth inquired.
“No, thank you. But your husband’s Scotch is wonderful.”
“Oh, he runs a fabulous distillery.” Beth poured refills from a cut-glass decanter. The Venetian chandelier over the bar created a sparkling effect on the glassware, the diamonds in Beth’s watch, the sheen of the satin trim on her tiered georgette halter dress, and even the luster of her fair skin. Judith felt as if she were watching a princess tend bar.
“What time do you expect Will to get here?” Beth asked Marie.
“For dinner,” Marie replied. “Poor man, he has to work on Sundays. It’s not fair.”
“You mean,” Judith said, “he has to go into the office? I understand that Blackwell’s headquarters is in Inverness.”
“It is,” Marie said, “but he’s working at home. He said he’d leave our house shortly before eight. I got here before the tide was all the way out. Poor Gibbs had to come fetch me in his funny little boat.”
Settled in with their second drinks, the young women began to talk of clothes. Judith had finished her own cocktail. She had no excuse to linger. Bidding Beth and Marie good evening, she left the drawing room.
Chuckie was in the corridor, rolling oranges on the stone floor.
“Hullo,” he said glumly. “Are you drunk?”
“Not in the least,” Judith replied, filled with compassion for the young man. “Where did you get the lovely oranges?”
“My father brought them from Spain,” Chuckie replied. “He says they’re good for me, but I never eat them.”
“Say, Chuckie, could you give me a quick tour of the castle?”
His face brightened. “Really? You want to see my secret places?”
“Sure. Where do we go first?”
“Outside,” Chuckie replied.
“Shouldn’t we collect your oranges?”
“No. Someone else will pick them up.” He paused, his small, bright eyes darting from orange to orange, a total of six scattered along the corridor’s cold stones. “My father’s very rich. Why doesn’t he hire more people here? Only old Gibbs and Gibbs until summer. I’d like a valet and a groom and…an orange picker-upper.” He smiled broadly.
“I thought you didn’t live here all the time,” Judith said.
“I don’t.” He turned slightly sullen. “Didn’t, I should say. But the last year or so, I’ve been kept here. I’m bored.” He stared at the oranges. “Oh, come on, let’s do the tour.” Chuckie scurried down the corridor and waited for Judith by the entrance.
“Hurry up!” Chuckie called. “You’re slow. You’d never escape the enemy marauders.”
“I’m kind of crippled,” Judith responded. “I have an artificial hip.”
“You do?” Chuckie frowned. “I thought you were normal.”
“Nobody’s normal,” Judith said. “The worst abnormalities,” she went on as she joined him by the door, “are inside.”
“But then nobody knows,” Chuckie argued.
“Oh yes they do,” Judith assured him. “They behave badly and cause trouble.”
Chuckie’s long face revealed intense concentration as he considered the statement. “You mean, like Harry?”
“Harry? Do you mean what happened to him or what he did?”
“Harry was mean,” Chuckie declared, leaning against the heavy door to open it. “He was nasty to me and unkind to Moira. He deserved getting blown up.”
“Nobody deserves to be killed,” Judith pointed out.
“Yes they do,” Chuckie insisted. “I’ll show you.”
He led the way into the courtyard. Judith felt the damp air on her cheek as soon as she moved outside. The only light came from a half dozen electric lanterns that hung from stanchions along the stone walls.
Chuckie pointed to their left. “See there, by the corner?”
