I needed to take a second train on the West Highland Line that would take me to Fort William, an old garrison town that lay at the foot of Ben Nevis, the tallest mountain in the whole of Great Britain. The letter in my breast pocket stated that when I arrived at Fort William a carriage would await to take me to the Glenlair Estate. I hoped to be at the house by midday.
The West Highland Line train departed from Glasgow Central Station at 8 a.m. The train carriage was less luxurious and packed to the gills with travelers heading to the towns dotted along the railway line. I was lucky to get a window seat and as the luggage racks were full my case sat beside me on the seat, attracting glares of consternation from other travelers in want of a seat but preventing yet more unwanted public touching. The train trundled through Glaswegian suburbs towards Helensburgh, and then up into the hills. The first snow of the season was finely dusted upon the distant, verdant hills and the sharp pale blue of the winter sky turned the painterly landscape into a work of art. The train ran along the shores of Loch Lomond and my heart swelled in my chest at the perfect beauty of the highlands. We sped on towards Ardlui Station, then to Crianlarich, Orchy, Rannoch, and the remotest railway station in the whole of the kingdom at Corrour.
Some four hours later when the train eventually arrived at Fort William Station the once blue skies appeared bruised and threatened snow. There had been less than an hour between me receiving my letter, and boarding the Caledonian Sleeper. My valet had done his best to pack my trunk with things he thought I would need, but ordinarily, such a task requires more preparation. I knew when I stepped off the train that I was not prepared to cope with a harsh Scots winter. The arctic air froze my every vaporous exhalation and I should have been wearing fur-lined boots and thick stockings! The few passengers who had remained with me on the train alighted and went on their way, but, as instructed, I remained waiting outside the station in the frigid biting wind with my trunk, case, hat, and cane, wondering what the bally hell I was thinking to take this journey in the bleakest month of the year. My leather gloves and boots did nothing to ward off the cold and although it was the fashion, my top hat felt clumsy and completely inappropriate for the coming gale.
Three other men also waited outside the remote granite station, stamping their feet on the frozen ground and walking back and forth to keep warm. They all seemed far better prepared, wearing garments that appeared continental in design. One man sported a fur hat with ears like a spaniel that tied at his chin to keep his head and face covered and warm. I was rather envious of that hat!
I did not have to wait long for the black carriage displaying a gold crest on each door. It came trundling down the highland road, pulled by two huge black Clydesdale draft horses. It turned out that the other men were also traveling to Dunecht Hall. Although the thought of sitting with three other men in the back of the carriage made me anxious, I had no choice but to comply. It was freezing and I would not be left at the station to await the return of the carriage. We all climbed aboard and were glad of the traveling blankets and furs provided, and so with the body heat and blankets we were soon thawing.
My companions introduced themselves as Mr. Cecil Drew, who, when he removed his winter hat and looked me in the eye I recognized. He was a collector of fine art and he had attended my auction rooms many a time. I did not know the man in the hat with the spaniel ears who introduced himself as Mr. Artur Engles of Germany, or the third man, Mr. Claude Philippe, who said he had traveled from Paris, France and endured the bleakest of boat journeys across the English Channel. As we chatted I discovered that they had all received an invite to Dunecht Hall for the private sale, but by the sound of it, as they had traveled further they had been given more notice to travel than I.
“It was much of a surprise for me to receive the missive,” Mr. Philippe admitted.
“I never had ze pleasure of meeting Lord Ardmillan, Gods rest his soul.”
I laughed privately at this preposterous pea-cocking. Lord Ardmillan was a thoroughly reprehensible, unpleasant, and immoral man and none who had met him could say it was a pleasure.
“I knew of his collection and for many years and we communicated by letter”. Philippe continued.
“I also did not meet Lord Ardmillan”, Mr. Engles made the sign of the cross at the mention of the late Lord.
”But I am acquainted with his son,” he added.
Hearing of his acquaintance with Euan made me curious. I looked Mr. Engles over and wondered whether their acquaintance was business or pleasure. Mr. Engles wore small round brass-rimmed spectacles that made his eyes appear mole-like. He had a waxed moustache and the thick brown fur hat with the spaniel ears was tied tightly at the chin, covering most of his face. I would have to bide my time and enquire further into his acquaintanceship with my secret ex-lover.
The carriage took the Achinore Road west out of the village and traveled beside Loch Linnhe. The conversation was genial, but all of us kept our cards very close to our chests. I did
