CHAPTER 33

Safely ensconced in Mrs Hibbert’s cosy cottage while the others caught a few hours’ rest and Sue made some work calls at the castle, Martha kept half an eye on the window as daylight eventually gave up at almost four o’clock. It was as if the day just didn‘t have anything left and allowed itself to be overpowered by night, which brought with it a strong breeze and finally proper, freezing rain.

“What a shame,” Mrs Hibbert remarked as she made her way around the small house, closing curtains as she went and lighting lamps. “I hope it doesn’t put people off Mr Calvert’s party. It’s a small enough guest list this year as it is. Heaven be with the days when there would be hundreds of people milling around the place for the whole weekend – a shooting party then on the Sunday to clear everyone’s head.”

She sighed and turned back to Martha who was seated on a small sofa beside the solid fuel cooker in the kitchen, Ruby on her knee. The little girl had completely forgotten her encounter with the Christmas tree earlier. There had been plenty of diversion throughout the afternoon, of course. Will and Sue had joined them for lunch and playtime in the cottage while Gabriel spent the early part of the afternoon with his godfather as he buzzed through the castle preparing for the night’s festivities. Mrs Hibbert, too, had scarcely sat down for a moment, running back and forth from her cottage to the castle kitchens, keeping an eye on the professional caterers which had been hired for the occasion.

Ruby had played for hours with the housekeeper’s kitchen utensils – unfamiliar pots and pans which were all excellent musical instruments to a toddler. Martha was delighted that she had settled in so quickly, even though she couldn’t manage to shake the memory of the falling tree from her mind. Another inch or two and it was down on Ruby’s head. With such enormous force behind it. She shuddered to think what might have happened and picked Ruby up to hold her close for a moment.

Martha wondered if it might just have been too much to bring her along with them. She hated leaving her with anyone overnight – since Norfolk, she was even nervous leaving her for a couple of hours. And now Sue wasn’t even going to watch her as had been arranged – Mrs Hibbert had offered to do it to allow Sue join in the festivities, to make up the numbers. She’d insisted so vehemently that Martha had felt obliged to agree. She’d have to get dressed up in her finery and make her way through the rain back into the castle, leaving her little girl with this complete stranger. More upheaval in her little life. Her mind strayed again to Dan – the kiss – all the things she had said at dinner only the previous night. Sue was right. She needed to get to him as soon as she got back to Edinburgh. Explain to him – face to face, of course. She didn’t want to do it over the phone, not that she had a choice while at Dubhglas with the non-existent coverage – the house phone was too public.

The place seemed even more desolate and bleak as night set in. As if the rest of the world didn’t just grow dark, but set the castle and its grounds adrift from the rest of civilisation. Some people loved this sort of thing, Martha thought. But not her. She craved lights, company, heat and comfort. And while all of that was available to her in Mrs Hibbert’s home, there was still that threat just beyond the back door that opened on to a courtyard where log piles leaned against the back wall of the castle and herbs grew in pots scattered throughout. The threat that was just a few steps across the cobbles, always looking over the shoulder of the cottage. The threat of the castle which gave her the creeps. She wondered how Will and Gabriel’s investigation had gone the night before and then stopped herself. If they had found anything, she didn’t want to know about it. There was time enough for them to tell her when they got back home.

Martha tried to block the negative thoughts and focused instead on Mrs Hibbert’s kindness. The woman couldn’t do enough for them. At first, Martha had been disappointed to see her sleeping quarters – a small room decorated in fawn and pink, with a single bed and beside it a low camp bed for Ruby. “She won’t hurt herself if she falls from that,” Mrs Hibbert had said reassuringly. “And we’ll line the floor with pillows for her so that if she takes a wee tumble then it’ll be a soft landing.” And with that she had firmly drawn a pair of thick curtains, concealing a set of sliding doors which led from the bedroom out onto a small patio and then further into the orchard and the kitchen garden which ran parallel to the main castle lawns. “The lawns lead all the way down to the loch,” the housekeeper had told Martha, pointing in the direction of where the water lay. Martha shuddered at the thought. That lake which was the cause of so much mystery. Not to the current residents of Dubhglas, perhaps. To them – should they even know about the murder – the case was cut and dried. A long-forgotten double murder by the odd-job man with a taste for young boys. But was that really the case? Martha gazed at the closed curtains, the vision of the darkening sky beyond them burned upon her brain.

As the evening wore on, the thought of staying in the cosy room with its beds for just herself and Ruby – Will, Gabriel and Sue were all billeted in the castle itself – appealed more and more as the house was buffeted by the worsening weather. The calm inside as Mrs Hibbert made tea and bustled about her chores while Martha and Ruby unpacked in their sleeping quarters, was occasionally shattered by a screaming gust of wind and the sound of rain being lashed across the long glass panes behind the curtains. An odd place for such a door, in the guest bedroom, but Mrs Hibbert explained that a previous resident, long ago – another housekeeper – had been ill for a long time and they had installed the doors so that she had a bright view of the garden and could be wheeled onto the patio on warm days. The cottage looked very old from the outside, she’d explained, but it had been modernised some time in the early 1990’s. It was a little dated now, Martha thought – the pink, floral bed coverings and matching curtains with hand-sewn pelmets, the oatmeal carpet on the bathroom floor with its aubergine suite, the wallpaper decorated with cherry blossom flowers. But, like Mrs Hibbert, it was warm and certainly a lot less forbidding than the castle. As night approached, Martha found herself grateful to Will for making the decision to put her in here. “The castle’s not a place for children,”she remembered Hibbert saying just after the tree had fallen. Nor for her.

A plate of Violet’s Fish Fingers and some thick homemade chips later and Ruby had fallen under the thrall of Mrs Hibbert who clucked away to her in her soft accent throughout the meal. Martha drained yet another cup of tea and glanced at her watch, realising that the time had come for her to prepare for the evening. She moved off the couch where she sat beside her daughter who had allowed the housekeeper to bounce her on her knee while crooning nursery rhymes in a low voice. Ruby stared, watching the woman’s face intently, her eyelids growing heavy before she’d force them back open again and continue to watch her new friend. Martha smiled. This was something that Ruby didn’t have, she realised. A grandmother. A proper granny to sing her these old songs and teach her how to bake, or sit for hours with her doing jigsaw puzzles. Her eyes widened as she saw Ruby finally succumb, and nestle into Mrs Hibbert’s arms, relaxing against her chest, her soother lolling from her lips as she bounced her gently and continued to sing.

“You might as well take a chance on leaving now, my dear,” said Mrs Hibbert softly, between the lines of a tune that Martha didn’t recognise. “Why don’t you get dressed in my room? It’s the door next to yours – and you can be on your way. I’ll take my chances with this wee one. If she’ll go to sleep for me, then there’s less of a shock if she wakes up and sees me with her.”

It made sense, Martha knew. And she really had to get moving. She hesitated for a moment before pushing herself upwards from the cosy, threadbare sofa, and tiptoeing out of the room. She picked out the clothes she needed and then stepped under the shower for a quick wash before shutting herself into Mrs Hibbert’s room to prepare herself.

When she emerged, Ruby was asleep in her bed and Mrs Hibbert was trying to figure out the workings of the baby monitor. Martha smiled, gently took it from her and pressed the ‘on’ switch.

“I’ll most likely hear her from here anyway,” Mrs Hibbert remarked, placing the monitor on the small, tiled fireplace as if it were cut crystal. “Don’t you look nice though!”

Martha smiled and gave a little twirl, feeling the swing of the full-length, velvet, Empire-line gown in midnight blue which she had found in a vintage dress shop in Edinburgh. The bodice was decorated with tiny pearls, and the thick shoulder straps were trimmed with silver edging. She had teamed it with kitten heels in the same shade of blue and had pulled her hair back to one side with a diamante-encrusted fan-shaped comb. Mrs Hibbert stood back to admire Martha fully and, for a brief second, Martha was sure again that she recognised her from somewhere, that she had seen her before.

“Thanks so much, Mrs Hibbert,” she said and meant it. “Not just for the compliment but for everything – for looking after us, especially when you were so busy today– it’s really been lovely.” Another gust of wind roared outside and the pelting rain against the house caused the monitor to crackle. Martha jumped. The damn thing always made her unnecessarily uneasy these days, especially in strange surroundings. “The afternoon with you has really been the calm before the storm – literally,” she added.

The old lady waved her away. “It’s a pleasure, dearie,” she said. “Now get ye on up to the big house. Your friends are waiting and the wee thing – she’s beautiful – is sound asleep in her little cot bed. No harm done. There’s nothing to worry about.”

Martha nodded, feeling that pang that she always had on leaving Ruby. Always. Without fail.

Mrs Hibbert saw the moment’s hesitation. “She’s perfectly safe, Martha,” she said. “That’s why she’s out here with me. So she’s safe.”

Martha looked the housekeeper in the eye then, the words finally striking a chord with her. Did that mean that she would be unsafe in the castle then? The note from the butler to Gabriel said that the staff were all nervous. Why wouldn’t that include Mrs Hibbert, as sensible as she seemed? What had she seen up there? And why wouldn’t a child be safe?

Hibbert broke the stare before Martha could open her mouth to speak, and bustled out of the door into the hallway, returning with what Martha realised was a black oilskin cloak and hat and a pair of wellington boots.

The old lady was smiling. “Now don’t laugh at me, but I reckon this lot will complete your ensemble this evening.”

Martha laughed as she allowed herself to be draped in the waterproof gear. Mrs Hibbert really had thought of everything.

“It’s a short walk to the back door of the castle,” she said wisely, “but it can be a wet one – I’ve many years experience of winters up here but I’ve never made the trip in gear so fine as what you’re wearing so let’s keep it fine, eh? There you go!” She pulled the sou’wester down heavily on Martha’s ears and held her arm for balance as she slipped out of her shoes and replaced them with the boots which were a size or two too large. “Leave the lot inside the back door when you get there, and if it’s still blowing a gale when you’re coming back out – which I wager it will – then they’re ready for you and you won’t get soaked.”

“Thanks again,” said Martha as she allowed herself to be ushered down the small back hall.

She stood for a second or two at the open door, the hall suddenly filled with the sounds of the rain beating against the walls and down on the cobbles of the yard. The movement of the door triggered a sensor light and she saw in the distance the back door of the castle which she knew was her destination – Hibbert assured her that the plain brown door was unlocked and would lead her straight into a hallway where she should take the stone stairs up to the main body of the house. Martha smiled and thanked her again before tugging the hat down on her head and suddenly plunging herself out into the wet night, head down as she hurried toward the castle, all the time glad of the fact that Mrs Hibbert was watching from her cottage, observing her passage.

Reaching the door, with a great heave she pushed it open and made her way inside to the darkness and cold of Dubhglas Castle.

CHAPTER 34

Gabriel was the first person that Martha recognised on stepping through the doorway under the stairs into the main hallway which by now was busy with people in evening dress, milling around with drinks in their hands.

The Christmas tree which she had last seen lying across the boxes, was now upright and firmly secured, in pride of place in the hallway across from the front door where it greeted guests. It seemed friendlier now, festive, twinkling with lights, as was the garland wound around the stairway and the festive friezes atop each of the doors which led off the hallway. A couple of waiters circulated offering hors d’oeuvres – plates of crostini, mini-burgers and quiches. Martha’s stomach gave a pang as she saw them. She had only picked at her meals all day, still too shaken by Ruby’s near-miss with the tree to enjoy lunch. The air in the hallway was no longer musty, but now thick with the scent of pine from the Christmas tree, and of cinnamon and cloves coming from a great tureen on a trestle across the drawing-room door where a waiter ladelled out cups of mulled wine.

“Don’t you look positively splendid,” observed Gabriel as she reached him.

Martha gave a slight curtsey before taking in his appearance, then stared at him in disbelief. “You’re wearing a kilt,” she observed, stunned. “And those socks . . . Gabriel . . .”

Gabriel glanced down at his legs and reached an arm down to tug the end of the kilt, as if to make himself decent. “And your point is?” he queried drily.

“Your knees . . .” Martha continued, nibbling on her food and continuing to stare, a mocking expression on her face as she did so.

“I am a Scotsman, young lady,” pronounced Gabriel in response, brushing his hand imperiously along the green and blue squares, “and this is my family tartan I’ll have you know. Well, it’s a tartan at least. Of that much I am absolutely sure. All is well in the housekeeper’s outpost?” He flagged down a waiter and plucked two champagne flutes from his tray, handing one to Martha.

She accepted and nodded, looking around her then for Will. “Vicious night, isn’t it?” she remarked, only to be greeted with his customary shrug followed by his attention being drawn across the room to a waving woman standing by the Christmas tree standing beside a man who was essentially an older version of Gabriel.

“That’s my folks over there, actually,” he observed. “Come and say hello, why don’t you? Only for heaven’s sakes don’t mention ghosts, my brother, the Navy, the Territorial Army or Ally McCoist to my father. In that order.”

Martha hid a grin as Gabriel took her arm and led her across the hallway toward the smiling couple.

An hour later and they were going in to dinner in the long banqueting hall to the rear of the castle. Will came to escort Martha and Sue in – Sue stunning in a backless, red halter-neck with matching lipstick and her blonde hair tight in a chignon. “You know me! I always keep something fancy in my overnight bag,” she shrugged when Martha complimented her, as though it were the most natural thing in the world. And for Sue, it was. She was nothing if not always prepared.

Will was looking stunning himself in his dark-blue tux, his tie slightly loose at the neck from repeated tugging. Martha reached a hand out to straighten it and basked in his smile. Forget about last night, she urged herself. You didn’t mean any of it. Look forward. This is what’s important now.

It wasn’t hard to be distracted from any such thoughts. Tall, festive flower arrangements stood at equal distances along the table which was covered with white linen and laid with red-glass goblets and tartan napkins held in shape with holly-topped napkin rings. Two more Christmas trees, smaller than the one in the hallway, flanked the fireplace behind Christopher Calvert who sat at the head of the table. Two more stood at the opposite end of the room where a small stage was prepared with a number of chairs, instruments atop them or at their legs. Martha noted the accordion with some dread. Outside, the rain lashed across the panes of glass which overlooked the lawns. It made inside seem cosier, the thick drops trailing down the windows catching the reflection from the candles and the tree lights and making the window sparkle.

And the food, when it arrived, was fantastic. A salmon and prawn starter served with crème fraiche on homemade potato cakes was followed by a creamy leek soup. The main course of simple beef and trimmings was delicious and Martha felt her seams begin to strain as she devoured the last mouthful of Yorkshire pudding and set her cutlery on her plate.

“You always do that, don’t you?” grinned Will beside her.

“What?” She smiled hesitantly back, wondering what he was thinking.

“You save your favourite thing on the plate for last – like Yorkshire puds. I don’t know anyone who loves them as much as you do.”

Just then Gabriel appeared behind them, dinner jacket off and tie loosened. He hunkered down between Martha’s and Will’s chairs.

“Whooh! That was a good bit of scran, no?”

Martha was puzzled by the term. “Seriously, Gabriel, have you started to speak in tongues since we got here? And your accent is getting stronger too!”

“It’s being around my dad,” he giggled. “Military slang.” He made a dismissive wave of his hand and continued to scan the room. His face was red from a combination of sitting near the fireplace and the wine he was clearly enjoying. “Those caterers are quite the job. You should hire them for your – emmm – parties. In the future. Any parties you might be having –”

“You having a good time up top there?” barked Will suddenly, changing the subject and nodding toward Gabriel’s place setting.

Gabriel made his lips into an ‘eee’ of silent apology. “Och, you know, old folks’ jokes – ‘remember the times’ – all that old yawn,” he huffed as he glanced up the table to where his godfather, a sprig of heather pinned to his lapel, was engaged in conversation with Gabriel’s parents who were seated on either side of him.

“You’re having a great time, admit it!” smiled Martha.

“Do you think you might get to ask him about Pine?” said Will suddenly.

Gabriel’s expression changed to one of uncertainty. “Not sure if it’s the time,” he said, raising his eyebrows. “It’s not my parents’ special subject.” He stood up sharply, his knees cracking as he did so. “Oh, I’ve eaten too much,” he groaned, and rubbed his stomach. Then, looking at Sue who was seated beside Martha but engrossed in conversation with the man to her right, he muttered, “I’d best have a word with Brice. Mr Duffy there next to her could be a really good catch for her actually. Local salmon smoker so he is.” Gabriel raised his eyebrows and moved on to Sue and the salmon smoker.

Will slung an arm across the back of Martha’s chair and surveyed the room.

“Did you get all that business done with Dan?” he asked suddenly.

Martha reached out and took a small swig from her wineglass, feeling herself go red as she did so. Thank heaven the room was so warm.

“The forms are signed anyway,” she said. “I saw some photos as well. It looks lovely – we might take a trip there when we’re with your folks next time and see –”

“Martha, when we’ve finished with dinner, I wonder could I talk to you about something?” Will interrupted.

Her heart froze in her chest. He knew. He must know that something had happened with Dan. What else could it be?

“It’s not bad or anything,” he continued, his own cheeks going a little pink.

He must have seen my face, she thought. Calm down, for heaven’s sake! Don’t give yourself away with a stupid guilty expression.

“At least I hope you won’t think so . . .”

“Of course,” she managed quietly, forcing a smile, feeling the shock of his request subside. It was probably something to do with his work, she reasoned. A six-month secondment to a haunted friary in Wales or something . . .

A shadow passed over her face for a moment, interrupted by the familiar clang of spoon on glass as speeches were announced. Christopher Calvert had risen to his feet and was demanding silence. He began to speak in a low tone that she could barely hear. It appeared that he was thanking his staff, the caterers – the usual thing, it seemed. Martha allowed her thoughts to drift off and she absent-mindedly pushed her spoon around the empty dish of panna cotta with rhubarb compote. It was so difficult to focus on the speeches in that heat. Her reverie was interrupted by applause as the speech ended.

Sue touched her arm to get her attention, announcing a little too loudly. “This is Mr Duffy, Martha! He smokes salmon, can you believe that?”

Martha extended her hand to greet the man and registered that while his face was distinguished, his greying hair still thick on his head, his eyes a steely blue, when he smiled his mouth was entirely devoid of front teeth, top or bottom. She could see Sue grimacing in a ‘get me out of here’ way and she spent the next few minutes engaged in a conversation with Mr Duffy conducted across Sue, trying to ignore the faint smell of fish and peat which was beginning to creep her way as she leant forward.

Her escape came when a team of staff entered the room and started to clear away teas and coffees. The initial whine of the accordion was the signal for toothless Mr Duffy to finally spot a fresh target and he excused himself and disappeared across the room, leaving Sue to vanish quickly to check if the weather was yet clement enough do some smoking of her own.

“Oh Christ, I hate ceilidh music!” Martha exclaimed, turning her nose up as a guitar and a fiddle joined the accordion and a joyful tune rang out across the room.

“You’re not alone in that,” came a woman’s voice from behind her.

Martha turned sharply to see Gabriel’s mother standing there. She smiled and indicated that she should sit in the seat vacated by Sue.

The older woman was smartly dressed in a slate-grey silk shift, a shawl alive with exotic peacocks in blues and greens was draped over one shoulder to enliven the look. She was tall, her hair cut short and grey in colour. Violet McKenzie’s skin was clear and her blue eyes bright. She really was an attractive woman, thought Martha as it struck her that she must be in her late seventies or even early eighties.

“That son of mine babbles on about you all the time, you know,” smiled Violet, seeking Gabriel out in the crowd.

His cheeks red, he had headed to the dance floor and was attempting some sort of jig in his kilt. Martha did an exaggerated double take and it was Violet’s turn to smile.

“It’s good to see him enjoying himself up here for a change,” she remarked, taking a sip from the glass of red she had brought with her. “He always hated it as a child. Hid in his room with earphones on, Christopher used to tell me. Had no interest in fishing or shooting or any of the outdoor stuff.”

It was a simple observation but loaded, perhaps unwittingly, with comparison. Martha looked at Violet’s face, as she in turn watched her son again, and realised that she was looking into the face of a woman who had lost a child. Whose firstborn had been taken from her. Alive when she left him for his summer holidays, then gone, without her being there with him when he died. Martha felt an incredible sadness sweep over her. How could she still come here, she wondered? Still function, cope, smile, live even? How did she get through every day?

“How’s your little girl doing? Ruby, isn’t it?” Violet asked politely and with real interest.

Martha averted her gaze a little too quickly and nodded. “She’s great,” she replied. “Sound asleep with Mrs Hibbert out in the cottage.”

“I hope I can meet her tomorrow?” asked Violet. “I never thought Gabriel would speak with affection about anything that can’t debate the finer points of religion with him, but he gets a real kick out of Ruby.”

Martha smiled again. She knew that, but Gabriel would never have admitted it in a million years. Martha wondered exactly what sort of things he discussed with his mother when they chatted alone? He was close to her, she knew. Closer than he let on. Closer because of his father’s hard line, his military discipline and methods. But in his own way Gabriel adored him too.

“This room is beautiful, isn’t it?” said Martha politely.

Violet gave the room a cursory glance and responded with a shrug, the same as Gabriel’s. “I’ve never liked this room,” she observed. “Christopher built it on about fifteen years ago – he had some notion about turning the place into a wedding venue and this was as far as he got. The castle’s completely unsuitable as is, of course. It needs a complete overhaul but try telling him that. He’s always had his own ideas about this place, has Christopher. Stubborn old thing.”

“You’ve known him a long time?” prompted Martha, covering her glass with her hand as a waiter bent toward her to refill.

He stepped back and then bent to Violet who held her glass up to him. She took a generous sip.

“All my life,” came the response. “We were neighbours as children, went to the same school but not at the same time. I’m a wee bit younger – didn’t stop me stealing his pencil-case and throwing it into a tree on the way home though!” She smiled at the memory and then tutted, shaking her head. “What a horrible cow I was,” she giggled. “I suppose that’s the way first love goes, though, doesn’t it?” she added.

How candid, thought Martha. The source of yet another of Gabriel’s traits.

“He was your first love then?” she asked.

“Absolutely.” Violet nodded. “If you asked me then, or asked anyone on our road, you’d have thought that I was definitely going to be Mrs Calvert, suburban accountant’s wife, seeing him off at the door each morning with a peck on the cheek.”

“And what happened?” asked Martha.

The shrug came again. “This place, I suppose.” Violet looked at her surroundings and Martha thought she could detect a hint of contempt in the glance. “Jack . . .”

The name hung on the air.

“Jack Ball?” Martha said hesitantly.

Violet looked at her in surprise. “You’ve heard of him then?” she asked.

“Just a little bit. He used to own this place, didn’t he?”

Violet spluttered a little. “In name only, Martha. In name only.”

“How do you mean?” prompted Martha, curious to hear about him, thirsty to hear tales of Jack Ball from someone who had known him first hand. Of course Violet would have – he had lived with the Calverts, her neighbours, for years.

“It wasn’t Jack’s money bought this place, but it made perfect sense to keep him up here. Like tying up the guard dog, I suppose,” said Violet, her eyes glazing with the memory.

Martha straightened a little in the chair.

“Of course he never actually stayed put up here for too long. There was too much damage to be done down in London but after he served his time in prison he did things differently, kept his nose clean. He wasn’t so thick that he didn’t know he’d been given a great opportunity with this place by his . . . well, we’ll call them bosses . . .”

Martha knew that she was referring to the Krays. Violet McKenzie had known the Krays. Bloody hell.

“He was the name behind the so-called ‘business’ that they’d throttled out of the Calvert family fish stall. He could have lugged mullet around indefinitely at Billingsgate but when the opportunity came to make it a bit more, he grabbed it with both hands. Literally by the throat. But his limited intelligence, shall we say, gave him only the insight that he needed someone to do his thinking for him, so who better than his sister’s swotty lad? Clever old Christopher. My Christopher.”

Martha looked on in surprise as Violet’s gaze travelled across the room to the thin old man holding court still at the top table.

“I was Christopher’s secretary for a while when I left school – during the transition from fish stall to factory.”

A thought crossed Martha’s mind. “Violet’s Frozen Foods – Gabriel mentioned it was named after you, am I right?”

This was met with a dazzling smile. Violet shook her head. “What a lovely thought, but I’m afraid not! It was Jack who thought of the name. He was buttering up the real bosses of course – coincidentally Violet was the name of the main woman in their lives – their dear old mother. Jack thought if he ingratiated himself with them that he could be a big player. He wasn’t fully content with the business they more or less handed him on a plate – he wanted to be like them. Strutting around London forcing people to hide from him. And Christopher could never stand up to Jack. He was a terrible bully, of course. A cuckoo in the nest – a big brawny child thrown in with his cousins who were all little sparrows. The difference made him mean. Especially to poor Christopher. He called him ‘Speccy’ because of his glasses, ‘Birdy’ because he was skinny, ‘Swots’ because he was brainy – wore him down so much that when he suddenly started to build him up again, telling him how he needed him to run his business, that he should forget about the skinny secretary next door – me – and take a real opportunity, Christopher was so grateful for the attention that he packed his bags and left for Dubhglas and never came back. It was the one thing that made me happy about the whole sorry mess. That Christopher inherited this place and that he loved it so much. He turned the business around, somehow managed to make it all legitimate. As for the castle, though – he’s made a complete pig’s ear of it, of course, but it makes him happy – one of his few pleasures in life save for the work he does in the village. And the boys, of course.”

Martha glanced at Violet’s wineglass, noticed it was half empty and realised that was another reason for her honesty.

“I met Phillip then, when Christopher had left to come up here, and we fell in love and had our son – it was complete coincidence that I moved to Scotland as well but Phillip was stationed up here. It was nice to be close to Christopher again. It meant I got to keep a bit of an eye on him, keep him as a friend. Jack isolated him up here completely. I felt I couldn’t not ask him to be involved with . . . my sons. It was a connection for him, you see, a connection to other people. People who weren’t Jack with that stinking cigar in his mouth and his camera round his neck and that filthy cat, Tiger.”

Will swung his head abruptly to look at Violet. “Tiger?” he said, his voice intense.

Violet nodded. “He used to bring the animal everywhere with him. It slept in his room, had the run of the place – it verged on feral, of course. A vicious thing. A rat got it in the end, I seem to remember. After Jack . . . died . . . there was no one to take care of it so it ran wild around the castle – wild enough to attack anyone who came near it, but too mollycoddled to be able to stand up for itself. No one was sorry to see it gone.”

An expression of concern flickered across Will’s face as Violet continued.

“I couldn’t bear being around Jack, of course. Never could. So I used to leave the boys here for their holidays. Phillip approved of that, of course. Cut the apron strings, make men out of them. But look what happened . . .”

Martha felt uncomfortable. “So Christopher never married?”

Violet shook her head. “Never. He’d go on after one or two whiskys that I was his one and only. But I think his real love is Dubhglas. The village and the castle. He’s made a real life for himself here. Probably better than I could have offered him – waiting by the door with his dinner made, ready to darn his socks. This way he got to carve out a real place for himself, do some good. And escape.”

An uncomfortable silence fell across the trio, Violet’s attention straying back to the dance floor to seek out her remaining son.

Will coughed politely. “Excuse me – I was actually just wondering if I might steal Martha away for a few moments?” he asked.

“But of course,” said Violet.

Martha had turned to him in surprise. Surely he wasn’t going to ask her to dance or something awful?

He saw her concern. “Don’t worry, no dancing where there are accordions,” he said, as if it were something he’d learned by rote. “I just want to show you something . . . nothing of . . .” he glanced at Violet who was staring intently at the dancing crowd, “a supernatural kind either. Look, just come with me for ten minutes and then I’ll have you back here. I’ll even staple you to your seat so you can’t get up should an urge to break into dance strike you.”

“All right then,” Martha agreed, with some regret. She was fascinated by what Gabriel’s mother was telling her. “If you don’t mind, Mrs McKenzie?”

Violet was already distracted. “What’s that? Oh, not at all, Martha. I’ll see you later perhaps – but, if I don’t, make sure that I get to give that wee girl a cuddle tomorrow, won’t you? And enjoy the rest of your night!”

With a smile, Martha allowed herself to be steered away from the table by Will. Together, they walked out of the main doors of the function room and back along the passage that connected it to the entrance hallway of the castle, the sounds of the function room fading behind them.

CHAPTER 35

Summer 1963

“Can you look after that for me, Drum?” asked Laurence in a rush, retracing his steps from the lawn to the stone bench where she sat against the wall of the kitchen courtyard, dumping something cold and hard into her outstretched hand, and running again without a glance back toward the lake.

Claire looked at what he handed her and saw there his most prized possession – his swimming medal that he’d won at his local pool for lifesaving and which he wore proudly every day, like a war hero. Why had he taken it off now and given it to her?

She shook her head in puzzlement and sat back to wait for Martin, enjoying the last rays of the evening sunshine. Her eyes closed as she leant her head back, feeling the sun on her face, the heat sinking into her bones, the bench warm beneath her. She probably shouldn’t be on the side of the wall overlooking the lawns, but it was such a beautiful evening she couldn’t bear to sit indoors, nor in the shady courtyard between the castle and the Turnbulls’ cottage.

The boy had started to call her Drum, she’d noticed. It was Martin’s name for her. “Little Drum,” he teased her affectionately. “Always banging on about something in that big loud voice of yours. Never shut up, you. Can’t hear myself think with all that talking you do. Gives me a blummin’ headache,” he used to say, and the more she laughed, the more elaborate the effect of her alleged incessant talking had on Martin. “Rabbit-rabbit all day long. Nagging me about this and that. Can’t get a word in edgeways . . .”

He was slightly late, she knew, but she didn’t mind as it afforded her the chance to sit there and take in the last of the summer heat. Laurence’s parents were coming in the morning to take him home for a new term at school. And then in the coming weeks, the evenings would start to close in and a chill would make the air sharp.

She glanced down again at the medal in her hand and blushed when she remembered how shy she had been around the boy when Martin had first invited her to spend time with them. “Is he some sort of lord, or royalty or something?” she had whispered to Martin when she was sure he couldn’t hear. Mr Calvert treated him like he was a young king, she had noted, and so she did the same.

Martin had spluttered with laughter at the question. “God, no!” he had managed to exclaim eventually. “Kid’s dad is in the army! They live in a bloody Semi D!”

She stretched in the sunlight and yawned, feeling warm and content, like she was on some sort of blissful island.

“Wotcher, puss,” came a voice behind her and she pulled her arms down sharply from the stretch instinctively lest Martin launch an attack on her exposed armpits with tickles. “What’s that you got in your hand?”

“Oh, it’s just Laurence’s medal,” she said as he sat down beside her on the step, bumping his hip against hers to get her to move over. She wrapped the red, white and blue ribbon on which it hung around the bronze disc and stuffed it into her cardigan pocket. “He asked me to mind it for him and then went tearing down toward the lake. Does that boy never get tired at all?”

Martin glanced at his watch. It was going on for half past eight. “Evenings are starting to draw in,” he observed. “Little tyke should be in his bed.”

“It’ll be quiet tomorrow when he’s gone,” observed Claire.

Martin nodded in agreement. “Yes, we’ll miss the little fellah when he goes back, but home’s the best place for him.”

“But you’ll have no one to play with any more,” grinned Claire.

Martin looked at her for a moment, his expression deadly serious, before suddenly throwing an arm about her and ruffling her hair. Claire squealed.

“You’re getting cheeky in your old age, ain’t ya?” he laughed, his teeth gritted in mock ferociousness.

Claire laughed until he released her from the tight grip but kept his arm around her waist. She didn’t move it. It made her feel safe.

They chatted for a long time, and then sat in silence for a while, watching the evening taking on that particular shade of summer blue. Claire rested her head shyly on Martin’s shoulder and he pulled her closer to him as the sky darkened even further. Claire’s attention was drawn to the first star of the evening twinkling overhead. She contemplated pointing it out to Martin but instead remained silent in his embrace.

“’Ere, check out that moon,” he remarked suddenly, raising a finger to point at the great glow that was now just visible over the trees down at the lake.

Claire gasped. It looked close enough to touch, the craters and lakes clearly visible in the milky orb. She stared at it for a long time, overwhelmed, trying to imprint the picture on her mind as she often did with things that were beautiful – taking an internal photograph and saving it for later. It was a lifetime’s habit for her to drink in things of beauty as if they were a dying man’s draught, lest they be taken from her.

“That’s beautiful, isn’t it?” she said and the silence fell between them again as they took in the view. It wasn’t long, however, before Martin turned his attention back to Claire and she raised her face for a kiss in which she lost herself. To them, it felt like moments, but the moon had travelled much higher in the sky by the time that they finally broke apart and Martin glanced at his watch.

“Blimey!” he exclaimed. “It’s almost ten o’clock already! How did that happen?”

“Goodness!” said Claire, but she didn’t budge, despite the fact that she knew she really should go to bed herself. She hated when her time with Martin came to an end and found herself trying to devise ways to make it last just those few moments more.

“I should go and check that Little Lozza is tucked up safely in his bed,” he said,sitting up a little.

Claire snuggled further into his neck again, tried to make him stay. Five more minutes. “He’s probably still down at the lake,” she murmured.

“In the dark? On his own? He couldn’t be. We just didn’t notice him coming back up to the house – must have gone round to the front door.”

“He’s not on his own,” she replied sleepily. “I saw Mr Ball going down there just before he did. I guess they’re fishing or something . . .”

Claire’s head was jolted upright as Martin sat up fully. “You mean Laurence is down there with Uncle Jack?” he demanded. “On his own with Uncle Jack?”

Claire nodded, looking at Martin in astonishment. She was tossed to one side as he jumped to his feet and stood, staring firstly at her and then looking down the lawn toward the lake.

“Whatever’s the matter, Martin?”

“He’s on his own with Uncle Jack,” Martin muttered, almost under his breath. It wasn’t directed at her. Without warning he broke into a run, calling over his shoulder back at her. “Get Mr Calvert! Mr Turnbull – anyone!”

“Martin!” Claire called after him, standing herself, brushing her skirt down. “What’s happening? Why do you –”

“Just get someone!” Martin yelled as he pelted down the lawn in panic.

Claire watched him, bewildered, for another few seconds. She didn’t know why he wanted her to do it, but she turned in the settling darkness and made her way back inside to fulfil his request.

CHAPTER 36

Martha held Will’s hand loosely as they drew further away from the noise and warmth of the function room. It was cooler along the passage and Martha regretted not bringing a wrap. She cocked her head to one side to more clearly hear a noise that sounded to her at first like distant drummers but then realised that it was the rain, lashing against the castle, growing louder at every second. As they emerged into the main hall the sound seemed to fill the space as it battered the roof above and Martha looked upward as if it might cave in any second. A gust of wind screamed all of a sudden and she shivered violently. There was a whine to it that sounded almost human.

“Where are we going?” she asked Will quietly. Afraid to speak in case someone could hear her. She had never had a stronger feeling of being out of bounds, somewhere that she shouldn’t be.

He halted and glanced nervously around. “I’m, eh, not sure actually. There’s something . . . oh, shit . . .” He fumbled in his pocket – the left first and then the right, then dropping Martha’s hand to search both at the same time. “I’ve forgotten it,” he mumbled. “Wait there. I’ve left something upstairs Stay right here, okay? I’ll only be a second. Don’t move.” Behind them noise from the function room grew loud for a moment and then faded again. Will and Martha both jumped as a voice came from the darkness behind them.

“Where are you two off to?” came Sue’s voice. “I couldn’t stay in there a second longer – everyone smells of peat. Or maybe that’s still the toothless guy and I can’t shake the stink.”

She joined them and Will sighed, annoyed. “I’ve . . . eh, just left something upstairs,” he said, looking directly at Sue.

Martha glanced from one to the other. The knowing look on Will’s face, the sudden flicker of recognition on Sue’s.

“Oh shit!” Sue exclaimed suddenly. “Em, that’s where I’m going too. Upstairs. Bursting for the loo actually. Won’t be a second”

In an instant Will and Sue had fled for the stairs, watched by a puzzled and hurt Martha. What was going on? Was Will sharing some sort of evidence with Sue, something that he’d found the night before that he didn’t want to show to her? She pouted as they took off up the stairs together at speed. She made to follow them and then stopped herself. It was clear that they didn’t want her with them – Will had told her not to come, after all. She glared after them, feeling left out and alone.

The feeling only lasted a moment, however, as a torrent of raindrops distracted her, beating solidly on the roof above. She shuddered. The hallway was dim now, the only illumination a single bulb under a dark glass globe that hung down from the high ceiling and the faint light provided by the Christmas lights on the garlands and the trees. Martha heard Will and Sue’s footsteps clatter distantly upstairs and then fall completely silent.

She felt very alone in the space and looked around her, taking in the height of the ceiling, the stone floor, the heavy occasional furnishings dotted around the edges of the hallway, the doors downstairs, and up. Her eyes travelled to the doors that led off the mezzanine upstairs. Where did they all lead, she wondered, and all at once felt dwarfed by the possibilities.

“That was smooth,” remarked Sue sarcastically as they stood outside the door of Will’s room, waiting for him to open it. The lighting in the passage outside the rooms was so dim, like everywhere else in this damn castle, he thought to himself, that it was virtually impossible to see the lock to insert the rusty key that Gifford had given him.

“You weren’t exactly the Queen of Cool yourself,” he replied, distracted. Finally the door budged and he pushed it open, bracing himself in case there was something inside that he didn’t want to see. A gush of wind screamed down the chimney, as they entered and he jumped. His hand flapped around the wall until he found the light switch and he was thankful that someone had replaced the blown light bulbs during the day, for what good they did.

“That’s one more thing that this place needs – sixty-watt bulbs,” he grumbled.

“Screw the bulbs,” hissed Sue. “Show me!” Her excitement was palpable and infectious.

Will gave a quick glance around and saw the ring box where he had left it, on the bedside table. He reached across the bed, handed it to Sue and pointed at the bathroom door. “Just going to attend to some business,” he observed, ignoring Sue’s look of disgust which soon disappeared as he locked the door and she opened the box. Her face fell a little as she held the ring up to the weak light, turning it this way and that, watching it glisten and then, satisfied, she replaced it in the box, closed the lid and took in the room around her.

“Amazing interior decorator in this place, huh?” she called toward the bathroom, walking to the centre of the floor at the end of the bed and taking it all in with an expression of distaste. Her attention was drawn to the incongruous metal filing cabinet and she moved toward it, reaching out an arm to tug at the top drawer. There was no budge. No sound either of Will emerging from the bathroom. Sue grasped the key which appeared to be rusted into the lock on the top right-hand side. She tried turning it to the right first. Nothing. Then the left. She jiggled it – it was against her nature to see a key in a lock and leave it unturned.

Sue heard the toilet flush at the same time as another sweep of wind and rain drove against the window. Her attention was momentarily distracted by how loud it was, the gust of wind making a long whine trail down the chimney. For a second she glanced away from the key in her hand. And that was when it turned.

Her eyes shot back to her hand. But that was impossible! It was completely rusted shut. No one had opened this in years. But there, like it had been freshly oiled, it had twisted open. Like someone else had done it for her . . .

Downstairs in the hall Martha stood shivering in her sleeveless gown. What were Will and Sue up to? This was ridiculous. What was he thinking of, dragging her out of the function room for no good reason and then leaving her here in the cold dank hall?

A sudden noise drew her attention sharply toward a door behind and she swung around to look at it, sure that there was someone there. She couldn’t see anybody, but something drew her toward it. “Hello?” she asked, hearing the word echo around the freezing hallway and taking a tentative step in the direction of where she had heard the noise.

Gently pushing open the door, she peered inside and instantly shrank back for a moment. Lit faintly by wall lights and with a soft glow from a dying fire, the room that must be the library, if she remembered Will’s account of the castle correctly, was as intimidating as he had described. Curious, she gingerly took a step further in and felt silence close around her. There was nothing to be heard – not a trace of ceilidh music in the distance, not a footstep from upstairs. There was even a momentary lull in the storm.

Will emerged from the bathroom, drying his hands on a towel. “Bloody towels are like sandpaper! What’s the matter?” He stopped in his tracks, catching sight of Sue’s face, shocked in the dim light.

She pointed to the cabinet with her free hand, the other still grasping the key as if it couldn’t let go. “I seem to have opened this somehow,” she said cagily. Slowly, she pulled the top drawer open toward her.

Will threw the hard, threadbare towel on the bed and joined her.

They peered in, both recoiling from the cloud of must and stale air which billowed out. The drawer was deep, and dark. Sue reached her hand in and felt around inside. Will heard her palm brush against some sort of paper as she did so and he watched as she withdrew her hand, a number of photographs held in it. She turned toward the light with them as she checked the images, leaving Will to peer into the drawer again to see if she had missed any. She had. There was one stuck under the metal edge of the drawer. He was about to retrieve it when Sue spoke, a little breathlessly, and turned to show him what she held in her hand.

“This is Gabriel’s brother, isn’t it?” she asked, fanning out the six or so photographs in her hand and pointing to one of them.

Will peered at them, patting his pocket for his phone and the torch app which he had decided against using the previous night. He fumbled with it, and then held the small but powerful beam of light toward the images to get a better look.

“Sure is,” he agreed.

The black-and-white pictures were shot from an open window out onto grass. Clear as day, two of them focused on one subject only. Laurence McKenzie at play on the lawn of Dubhglas Castle, deep in a game, unaware that he was being photographed

“They were taken out that window,” observed Will, nodding his head in the direction of the curtains which were tonight closed.

“But the rest . . .” Sue pointed at the remainder and gathered them back into her hand, “weren’t.”

She flicked through them one by one so that Will could see under the scrutiny of his phone-torch again. They were of boys. Four different boys, aged roughly between the ages of eight and sixteen. Like the photos of Laurence, they had been taken without the subject knowing. One on a street, against the backdrop of a market. two in a park, the last out a window also, the boy playing hopscotch on the street below completely unaware that his image was being captured.

Sue looked at Will, an expression of discomfort on her face. “They’re not exactly what you’d call offensive by today’s standards,” she said quietly. “But I find these images really unsettling, don’t you?”

Will nodded, staring at the shots again and then looking away from them quickly, as though he shouldn’t have looked at all. He took the prints from Sue’s hand and wordlessly dropped them back into the drawer. He was about to shut it when he spotted the photo that had been left behind. He plucked at it to retrieve it and held it up to the light, doing a double take as he caught a glimpse of the subject. Again it was taken without the boy’s knowledge, this one a little older than the others but thin of frame and slightly girlish of feature. Will held the torch up again and studied it more closely, recognising from Sue’s files the image of a young Martin Pine. It was taken at what looked like a theatre, or a nightclub – Pine was sitting beside a showgirl in full costume and headgear who was showing daring amounts of flesh. The young man looked obviously uncomfortable at the proximity of the woman. And at first glance it seemed as though the woman was the subject matter of the picture. But taken in context with the other photos, Will felt sure that wasn’t the case. He pocketed the shot and then shut the drawer gently.

“We’d better get back to Martha,” said Will, clearing his throat. The wind gave another piercing whistle down the chimney and he stirred a little. “She’s downstairs by herself – she’ll be terrified,” he said, reminded again that it wasn’t safe for her – for Sue either, for that matter. After everything that had happened – those scratches on his arm, the tree falling so close to Ruby, Gabriel’s sense that something was going to happen . . .

Entering the room, Martha had felt as though she were entering a different space and time somehow. She had stood there, taking it all in: the walls lined with book-laden shelves, hardbacks, paperbacks, leather-bound tomes – the clutter of chairs, occasional tables, display cabinets scattered here and there, the baby grand piano. In the gloom she had walked about the room cautiously, peering at the titles of the books on the shelves, studying the odd ornaments crowding every surface – she shuddered as she encountered a stuffed weasel baring its vicious teeth.

It was all so forbidding. As the whole castle was, in fact. Or was she just projecting her awareness of its nasty history on it? Poor little Laurence . . . Martin Pine . . . Jack Ball . . .

She had shaken off those grim thoughts. She couldn’t allow herself to think of things like that alone in a cold, dim room. It was unnerving enough as it was, without allowing her thoughts to stray. Deep breaths, she had thought. Deep breaths. Time to leave. Will would be back any second now.

She moved towards the door. Then stopped suddenly and swung around. She thought . . . no, she was sure she had heard a noise come from the direction of the piano – like a breath, a sigh or a very light cough perhaps. She stood totally still, breath held for a moment, to see if she could hear it again, but there was nothing. Don’t be ridiculous, she chastised herself, forcing her ear to see if she could pick up distant sounds from the party but to no avail.

She turned to go, then stopped and held her breath again, listening. She was sure she had heard the sound again.

Unnerved, she turned and glanced around the room quickly. The first time she could have easily just been hearing things – it happened all the time. There was a lot of extraneous noise that could be misinterpreted – the wind, the rain. But a second? An identical noise? An identical breath? A wave of goose-bumps ran down her bare arms as she became sure, all of a sudden, that there was someone in the room with her. Yet as far as she could see, there was no one else there. She was completely and utterly alone. Martha felt a familiar dread begin swell in her gut.

She exhaled quietly, terrified lest even the smallest breath or rustle of her clothing would cover another sound, and strained her ears to hear anything else that might be there. She was suddenly aware – overwhelmed – by the possibilities that lay in all the dark spaces – the alcoves either side of the fireplace. the spaces behind chairs, the ceiling, under the piano itself.

Martha felt herself start to panic and tried to control it. The noise had been like a breath, she thought, but it could have been anything – peat shifting in the fire perhaps? A mouse scratching? There is no one here, she urged herself. Be logical about things. And just leave.

But she couldn’t leave. Frozen with fear, she found herself rooted to the spot, incapable of moving a step, afraid to turn her back on whatever might be there . . .

She suddenly turned her head, feeling in an instant like there was someone behind her. Nothing. The space behind her toward the window and the door was empty. No one had joined her in the vast and dim room.

No one had to, an inner voice said. They were here already.

Again, Martha took a deep breath and shook the voice away.

Then suddenly, again, just when her attention was focused elsewhere, there was a small, vague noise, a movement. There was no mistaking it. Martha stared in the direction of the bookshelves to the left of the fireplace. It had been something definite that time, she was sure. But it was the one area of the room that was relatively uncluttered. She could clearly see the shelves – about three feet of clear floor space in front of them, with no chairs, or small tables, or geegaws of any sort.

Martha found herself drawn to the space, unable to take her eyes away from it, as if staring at it for long enough might reveal to her what exactly had made the noise she had almost heard.

It was then that she noticed it. The book. She could just about make out that the cover was a burgundy colour, embossed with gold lettering, on the second shelf from the bottom, about a foot away from the floor. Where all the other books were firmly in line with each other, pressed right in to the back of the shelf, this one jutted out right to the edge. She found herself drawn toward it for some reason and took the steps from where she stood, surveying the room, to where the book sat, out of place and, she felt, somehow calling for attention, as if the other books were trying to squeeze it out – or it was trying to squeeze itself out. She watched, transfixed, as it did just that. The book edged itself out from the shelf and plopped the short distance to the floor. The other books relaxed into the space it had occupied and Martha stared in disbelief. The book had just removed itself from the shelves. Classic poltergeist, she heard Will say in the back of her mind. A spirit had done this. Someone was there, with her . . .

Enough, she thought, and turned sharply, ready to make for the door. She had barely taken a step when, out of nowhere, something hard hit her square on the eyebrow, just adjacent to her temple. The room flared white and Martha grunted, her hand shooting to the side of her head where the object had made its impact. She was dimly aware of the thud as she saw the book bounce off her skull and hit the floor. For a second she could think of nothing else, had to stop to allow the searing pain to fade. The impact dazzled her, confused her completely. There was a warm sensation under her fingers. It took her a few moments to realise that it was blood.

Will had already opened the bedroom door when he realised that Sue hadn’t budged from her position at the filing cabinet. As he’d looked at her questioningly, she’d placed her hand on the second drawer down, her huge green eyes focused on Will’s face.

He’d hesitated, thinking of Martha alone downstairs, then reluctantly closed the door again.

Sue had given the drawer a tug, her eyes still fixed on his face. It slid open and they’d looked down together, peering in nervously, afraid of what they might find. There was nothing.

Nor was there anything in the third drawer.

Then Sue’s hand had made its way down to the bottom drawer and she’d tugged gently to open it but it had failed to yield. She’d pulled it again and it moved a little, but not enough to force it open.

Will had taken a turn then but was unable to get it open. He shone his phone-torch in and examined the edges closely, leaning right down to get a closer look.

“Have you got a nail-file?” he asked. “One of those metal jobs?”

Sue snorted. “Not on me right now, goshdarnit,” she sneered. “I think I left it in 1965 along with my lace hanky and a fresh ribbon for my hair. A metal nail-file, Peterson? Seriously!”

Will looked at her and frowned. “Over there,” he urged her, pointing to the back of the door where his jacket hung. “The pocket of my jacket – there’s a penknife in there actually. Could you get it for me?”

Sue did as she was told, squatting back down to peer at what Will was doing once she’d handed him the implement. “A nail-file you ask for? When you’ve got the whole Swiss army in your pocket? Think, Will, think!” She tapped the side of Will’s head for emphasis and giggled as he chipped away at whatever was holding the drawer shut. Both the discovery they had made and the relief of what they hadn’t discovered had made her slightly giddy.

“This is well and truly jammed,” he said.

Sue sat back on her hunkers and continued to prattle. “Where did you get the big sparkly ring, by the way? I did you a deal with those guys who make the really unusual pebble rings. Although I have to admit that Martha will probably prefer the shiny one. When are you going to do it? A moonlit walk by the lake in this weather isn’t really on . . . oh!”

The drawer had shot open.

“What is that?” said Sue.

They leaned in further to see the drawer’s contents more closely.

“What’s all this stuff?” Sue asked, reaching a long, red nail in to poke at the pile of filthy pink, shiny fabric, for all the world like a quilt of some sort.

Silently, Will forced himself to reach in and withdraw something black that he could just about see among the folds of stinking fabric. He pulled the long strap all the way out from its soft hiding place and held it aloft, watching the camera swing from side to side. Something caught his eye suddenly and he lifted the apparatus closer to his face, holding it up to the light. It had faded a little over time but the monogrammed initials were still clear enough.

“I’m not sure what else is in there,” he said, concentrating hard, “but I think we may just have found out who our photographer might be.”

He dangled the camera toward Sue so that she could get a better look. It took a moment for her to realise what she was looking at, but when she did, recognising the initials as a J and B intertwined, she gave a gasp and bit her lip, looking at Will with wide eyes.

CHAPTER 37

Martha staggered through the library door back into the hallway. Her mind was a complete jumble, her heart pounding, her body electric with fear. She was only vaguely aware of being surrounded by the noise of rain beating like applause on the building. Instead, she was deafened by the jagged rasps of her own breath and the clatter of her feet on the hall tiles. What the hell had just happened? Her head throbbed where the book had hit her. And what about the blood, now seeping through her fingers from her temple? She stopped moving, her mind a blank, and turned to stare back at the library door, terrified lest whatever was in there should lurch out and that she should see it.

She staggered a few feet further toward the centre of the hall, a feeble attempt at making herself safe, creating a distance between herself and what had happened. She felt her palm, wet and sticky with blood, and the realisation dawned on her that she could be badly injured. She glanced up the stairs . . . where had Will and Sue gone? What was taking them so long? Anger mingled with the terror.

She had to be with people, she suddenly realised. Had to get some help. Still clutching her head, she started back toward the dining room, back to the party. A sudden moment of clarity hit her, however. She couldn’t go back in there. A party, in full swing, and in walks a woman bleeding from the head, injured by an object thrown at her by something unseen? Martha trembled. No one would believe her for starters, they’d think she was crazy – and it would cause such a scene. Questions – people would ask questions that she couldn’t answer. Where the bloody hell was Will?

She thought about calling for him, but was worried that it might attract more attention to herself in the silence of the hall. She could go upstairs after him, but she didn’t know where he was. She hadn’t so much as set foot on the first step since she got here, and she didn’t want to have to go searching in the dark when she hadn’t a clue where she was going. Not here, not now. Her chest tightened with another wave of panic and she looked yet again at the library door. She had to get away from there, reason out what had happened to her. She’d have to go back to the cottage. That was it. Mrs Hibbert . . . Gabriel said that the staff knew that something odd was going on. Perhaps she wouldn’t think Martha was crazy . . .

She felt a fresh throb of pain from her head. Be practical, she thought. She had to get her wound seen to. The practicality of the thought spurred her onwards and she turned sharply and began walking at first, breaking into a run as the terror of what could yet come behind her gripped her.

Martha pelted back the way she had come when she had first entered the castle earlier in the evening, through the door under the turn in the stairs, into the dark passageway beyond. She paused for a second, feeling a little braver as the door to the hall closed behind her, a barrier between herself and what had just happened. Then fresh anxiety rippled through her as she was confronted with the darkness. She reached her free hand to the wall and felt for a light-switch but could find none. Stay calm, she told herself, her breath still coming in short gasps, keeping her hand pressed to the cold stone for security. Her eyes adjusted a little to the darkness and she looked down, teetering for a second on the edge of the top step of the steep flight of old stone stairs which spiralled down before her, which she had climbed to initially enter the castle. She took a deep breath and tried to ignore her racing heart as she began her shaky descent, her legs trembling, her knees threatening all the way to betray her.

It seemed like an age before she felt the different floor surface of the flag-stoned passage under her feet. There was a hint of light now, and sounds of people and clattering pots and pans. The kitchens, of course. A wave of hope washed over Martha. She contemplated for a moment seeking help from the kitchen staff – they’d have first-aid kits, training . . .

She banished it. Again, she couldn’t face it. The scenario was too unbelievable. She was best braving the elements and just getting back to the cottage, getting out of the castle altogether. She reached out in the dark and found the wall opposite her, then turned left and felt her way along the wall.

It was growing brighter ahead of her, a passage off to the right throwing some light out into the passageway and she was able to remove her hand from the wall where it had guided her, finally able to see where she was going. She winced as her head gave a throb, and carried on, trying to move more quickly now, comforted by the faint bustle she could hear from the kitchens, a clatter of pans and glassware, conversation. She walked on, getting closer to the sounds. It was dark again down here, but she didn’t care. She could feel the hint of colder air and knew that she was near the back door. Her steps quickened with relief. She wouldn’t bother with the raingear – she knew she’d get soaked but she didn’t have the time or the patience to fumble with it. She didn‘t care about her party dress, she wasn’t going back up there anyway.

She glanced back, as though she might see something, the thought flashing across her mind that whatever it was that had injured her in the library could still be coming, could be anywhere.

She didn’t see the dark shape before her step from a door on her right – wasn’t aware that there was anyone – anything – in the small passage with her until she touched against it, the fingers of her free hand brushing against something too late for her to withdraw. Martha walked directly into a human form, her mind flashing white with fear, turning blank as she squeezed her eyes shut and finally screamed.

CHAPTER 38

The red handprint on Mrs Hibbert’s pale pink sleeve where Martha had tried to fight her off was vivid. The blouse was ruined, Martha knew, and she burned with a sudden and fierce embarrassment, made more intense by her bubbling emotions, the residue of the terror she had experienced upstairs.

“I’m so sorry, Mrs Hibbert,” she managed.

It struck her that she should make some attempt to let Will and Sue know where she had gone, but she felt so drained all of a sudden, sitting there in some sort of old kitchen, the woman fussing around her, peering at the cut on her forehead. It felt so warm in here, so comforting. She’d just stay here a while, have someone else look after her for a bit . . .

“That’s fine,” replied Mrs Hibbert in a soothing tone. “I must have given you a terrible fright stepping out in front of you like that. Your wee girl is fine by the way, I’ve left Laura with her – she’s one of the weekend girls and she’s very good. I’d only popped in here for a moment myself to find something Mr Gifford needed.”

Martha blushed again. Ruby. It hadn’t even occurred to her to be concerned that the woman in whose care she’d left her daughter was here in front of her. She felt exhausted and overwhelmed.

“That’s such a nasty cut,” fussed Mrs Hibbert as she crossed the room to the old Belfast sink under the high window and ran water into a bowl. She rummaged then in a cupboard until she found a first-aid box. Crossing back to the table, she removed a thick roll of cotton wool and dipped a segment in the water. She dabbed gingerly at the wound at first, tutting as she peered closely at it.

The room was lit by a single fluorescent strip that hung directly over their heads. Martha sat in a wooden chair at the head of a long formica-topped table with her back to the doorway. The chair faced toward an unused solid-fuel stove, old-fashioned but highly polished.

“You shouldn’t have tried to come down in the dark, my dear,” said Mrs Hibbert and Martha realised the old lady thought she had hit her head against the rough brickwork of the wall in the dark. “But of course you didn’t know where the light-switches were . . . I should have told you . . .”

Mrs Hibbert looked up suddenly as someone entered. Martha couldn’t turn her head but she heard the squeak of a door and the kitchen sounds that had guided her down the dark passages outside grow loud for a moment. A man’s voice spoke.

“Everything all right here, Mrs Hibbert?”

“Everything’s fine, Mr Gifford,” the old woman replied, holding Martha’s head still as she spoke. “We’ve just had a wee accident here but nothing to worry about.”

“If you’re sure then? I’ll be off so. Thanks for finding that serving dish for me by the way. Sorry to drag you out on a night like this.”

“Not at all.” The old woman resumed dabbing at the cut, wetting a clean piece of cotton wool and swirling it over Martha’s cheek. “Safe home and I’ll see you tomorrow. We’ve ten for lunch.”

“Ten. That’s good then. Goodnight, Claire.”

And with that, the squeak as the door closed again and the man was gone.

Mrs Hibbert concentrated on cleaning the cut.

“Is it all right?” asked Martha tentatively. “There was so much blood . . .”

“Nothing to worry about at all,” repeated Mrs Hibbert. “I thought at first you might need a stitch but you don’t. The cut’s a little bleeder all right but I’ve cleaned most of it away. I’ll put some disinfectant on it and pop a plaster on it. That should do you.”

Martha was grateful. “Thank you so much,” she said sincerely. “I really wouldn’t fancy a trip to hospital on a night like this.”

The housekeeper continued to busy herself with the first aid. “Och, I could sew you up myself in no time,” she said, applying the disinfectant while Martha winced. “I’ve been in this job so long I’ve seen my share of slipped carving knives. It saved a lot of time and effort for me to learn how to do a few stitches.” She smiled warmly and looked full on at Martha.

It was then that she saw it. The faint trace of the eye turned inwards, not as evident as when she’d first looked at this face, in the grainy photograph. Martha gasped.

“You’re Claire Drummond, aren’t you?” she blurted, without thinking.

The old woman stopped what she was doing. “How . . . how do you know that?”

Martha wished she had said nothing. “Your picture . . . I saw your picture . . . we were looking at the files about . . . what happened here. About Laurence . . .”

Concern spread across Mrs Hibbert’s features and she stared at Martha. “How did you get that cut?” she then asked sharply. “It wasn’t an accident, was it?”

It was Martha’s turn to feel uncomfortable but she didn’t have anything left in her to make something up. “I was in the library . . .”

Mrs Hibbert gave a start. She stood up straight, the expression on her face turning to pure worry. She turned her back on Martha to rummage in a drawer.

“There was a book . . .” began Martha, allowing the sentence to trail off, unsure if the older woman was listening to her at all.

Mrs Hibbert turned, brandishing a plaster, and came back to Martha, all the while avoiding eye contact.

She made to pull the package apart to retrieve the bandage inside but, as Martha’s eyes travelled down to watch, she saw that her fingers were trembling violently and she gave up.

“I knew it. Knew that it was only a matter of time before someone got hurt in the castle,” she said, looking away from Martha.

She was talking almost to herself and Martha leaned closer to hear what she would say next.

“I asked Mr Gifford if there was any way at all to cancel this party,” the housekeeper said a little louder, her voice trembling, “but he said Mr Calvert was having none of it. He doesn’t know he’s here, of course. Or if he does, he chooses to ignore it . . .”

“Who doesn’t know who’s here?” probed Martha, a feeling of uncertainty creeping through her. Did the old woman understand what she’d said or rather what she hadn’t said about how she’d obtained the wound? Martha at once became fearful of continuing the conversation, of facing what Mrs Hibbert might say next.

The housekeeper looked Martha straight in the eye finally, before she spoke.

“If you saw me in those files then I’m sure you’ll have seen him too,” she whispered, her voice quaking.

“Who?” asked Martha again, unsure whether or not she wanted to hear what she knew would come next.

It seemed to take an age for Mrs Hibbert to finally speak. “Uncle Jack,” she whispered, so low this time that had Martha not faced her directly, had not read her lips, she wouldn’t have known what the old woman had said.

Martha felt herself turn to ice.

“Jack Ball,” said Mrs Hibbert by way of clarification. She looked around her, taking in whole room, as if checking that they were alone. “He’s come back for someone. Come back for Martin.”

Martha sat there in silence herself. She felt herself reel a little. She wasn’t sure what to do, what to say next. “You mean Martin Pine?” Her voice shook as she spoke the words.

A tear rolled down Claire Hibbert’s face and she stifled a fearful sob. She nodded and Martha sat back in her chair to take it in.

“It’s all my fault,” sobbed Claire, looking around the room frantically. “I made a promise to Martin and I haven’t kept it ­yet – I promised I’d tell someone, that I’d give her the letter he wrote before he . . . There was an injustice done here. So long ago that you’d think it wouldn’t matter but it does. If I’d just done what I promised him, then he wouldn’t have to be here, do you understand? And if he wasn’t here, then Jack Ball wouldn’t be here and none of this would be happening!”

Martha leaned across and grasped at one of her hands which rested on her lap. “Calm down, Claire,” she said softly. “I’m sure it’s not your fault.”

“But it is,” gasped Claire. “We were in love, me and Martin . . . I should have said something . . . I knew he couldn’t harm anyone. He didn’t do it . . .”

“Wait, Claire, slow down,” Martha said insistently, and then more quietly, “When you say he didn’t do it, when you say that an injustice has been done, what do you mean? Are you saying what I think?” Martha paused, gripping the wrinkled hand, searching the woman’s face. Could it all be true then? Could there be substance to it? She could only whisper the words. “Was Martin Pine innocent of those murders?”

Martha felt the warm old hand grasp hers back. Claire Hibbert looked down at where their fingers were joined, sniffed, took a breath, and looked up again. She nodded.

“That’s right,” she managed. “You do know about this, don’t you? All of you? It’s why you’re here? Why Gabriel and his friend were here in the kitchen so early this morning?”

Martha blinked. This woman had actually been here when it had all happened. When Laurence and Jack Ball were murdered. If she said – if she somehow knew that Martin Pine was innocent, then all of this was true – the messages in Gabriel’s flat, Will’s theory about what they meant, Angeline Broadhead’s chilling words . . .

Martha’s head throbbed as she tried to take it all in. Up until now, it hadn’t seemed real somehow, despite the newspaper cuttings and the constant conversations, despite actually going to the bother of coming to the castle. But suddenly, as she touched the woman’s skin, she felt a strange connection to it all, felt the story suddenly come to life. It grew vivid in an instant, the characters not just pictures in Sue’s file, but real people – here was one of them before her. And Martin Pine really could be innocent. A picture of his face, that photograph from the files, flashed suddenly in front of her eyes, so real that Martha felt she could reach out and touch it.

She watched as Claire Hibbert gently released her hand from where it was intertwined with her own and, with weary movement, pushed herself upright. She walked slowly and with effort across to the worktop beside the stove where an electric kettle stood.

“I’ll make us some tea, shall I?” she asked, and Martha shivered as a loud gust of wind screamed past the castle, flinging rain like a handful of pebbles against the window.

CHAPTER 39

The day was glorious as the woman stepped from the black cab and eyed the buildings nervously. She wished that she hadn’t bothered with her heavy raincoat now. She took it off and draped it over her arm. The sky was cloudless, sharp blue as far as the eye could see. Which wasn’t very far, she noted, as the five tower blocks soared high above her, casting shadows over the courtyard. This place was no different to thousands of other tower blocks across the world – children playing in the shade of the courtyard below, washing hanging on the walkways between the flats, women watching their offspring and sharing gossip with their neighbours, unemployed men staring with suspicion at the newcomer from doorways, cigarettes dangling from lower lips.

The boy – an old man now – lived on the fifth floor and the woman, too terrified to take the stinking lift, was bathed in perspiration by the time she reached his door. She hesitated for a moment to collect herself, smoothed back the grey hairs that had strayed onto her forehead during the climb and ran her hand under each eye to wipe away the light sheen of sweat on her cheeks. She took a breath and, after another second of hesitation, knocked lightly.

Everything about Martin Pine had turned grey in the years since she had seen him – his curly hair which remained thick, the faint traces of a beard appearing on his chin – even his skin was grey. He opened the door nervously and peered outside with his grey, sad eyes, registering no emotion when he saw who was outside. The visit wasn’t a surprise after all.

The woman – Claire Hibbert, formerly Drummond – entered slowly, stepping carefully over the threshold and peering down the hallway before her. She couldn’t help but wrinkle her nose a little. The smell wasn’t of cooking or human waste or anything so unpleasant, but the air was thick with the musty smell of a human body and cigarette smoke. She had found Martin’s smell reassuring once, but now it assaulted her and then enveloped her as she stepped timidly inside and he closed the door with its cracked frosted pane of glass behind her.

Nothing was said at first. Pine, remembering himself, twitched his arm in the direction of a door at the end of the hallway to indicate that Claire should go through. With a small nod of acknowledgement she did, taking four steps and pushing the door at its end, with its thick layers of yellowed gloss paint and scratched metal handle. She was hit at once by a wall of light – the beaming sunshine of the day filling the picture window that looked out over the square created by the grouping of the apartment towers. Claire blinked a little, registered that the smell was stronger here, and that there was little or no ventilation except for a small top window which was open an inch.

She stopped in the doorway and surveyed the room before her – everything was yellowed from smoke – the once-white walls, the stippled ceiling, the skirting. The net curtains which had been pulled to one side along a grubby curtain-wire were grey with age and dirt and she noted that the windowsill was dotted with occasional dead flies. The plain brown carpet tiles had seen better days as had the furniture – a once-beige suite with flattened cushions, a matching armchair facing a small portable TV. She could just about make out the shape of a quizmaster and two contestants on the screen through a thick snow. There was a coffee table bearing only an ashtray filled with butts, emitting a thin wisp of stale smoke into the air where a cigarette had just been extinguished.

As she looked around, Martin Pine pressed the ‘off’ switch on the TV. In an instant the room was thankfully silent, a relief from the deafening fizz of the white noise.

Through the silence, Martin made an attempt at speech, but blushed as no word came out – just a guttural noise, a mixture of a cough and a grunt. He cleared his throat, embarrassed, and tried again. Claire wondered when had been the last time he had spoken to another person?

“Welcome,” he managed nervously on his second attempt, and as she heard his voice, the emotion finally hit her.

There he was. The boy who had kissed her at the kitchen door, held her close by the lakeshore that lifetime ago. The fresh-faced, cheeky lad who had shared his cake and his coffee that sweltering day when she had first run to Dubhglas. And this was what he was now, what he had come to, this grey old man for whom words refused to form. So alone.

The wave of feeling was tinged with nerves. She looked at her feet, folded her hands together as if in prayer and paused to control herself before replying.

“Hello, Martin,” she said. There was so much more to say, but where to start?

“You got my letter then,” he said, indicating that she should sit down in the armchair.

She managed a short smile, smoothed the skirt beneath her, and perched on the edge of the chair, to avoid the indignity of sinking into it. She took a moment to arrange herself – to place her handbag on the ground beside her, and carefully smooth the raincoat over the arm of the chair where it covered a multitude of small burn marks. Pine took her lead and sat himself on the edge of the furthest cushion on the couch, closest to the window.

Claire glanced up to find him looking at her, taking her in.

For a second, in the sunlight, there was a trace of the boy she had once known, and then he was gone – in his place, a worried and sad old man, thin-lipped and hard. And desperately uncomfortable.

She tried a warmer smile. “It’s good to see you, Martin,” she said. She had thought she’d forgotten her feelings from back then but here they were, despite their grim surroundings, despite the hardness of the features that looked back at her. This was proving much more difficult than she thought.

“It’s very good of you to come,” he managed.

She shook her head in denial. “I was due some days off.” She paused. “I’m going home this evening on the five o’clock train.”

Silence fell in the room.

“By home, do you still mean . . . the place?” he asked.

“Dubhglas?”

“The castle,” replied Martin.

Claire nodded. “I live in Mrs Turnbull’s cottage now,” she said. “Myself and my husband . . .” She paused, she didn’t know exactly why but it felt wrong somehow to mention Jim. “Well, we moved in there when Mrs Turnbull had to go into a home. The poor dear couldn’t look after herself – she was confined to a wheelchair . . .”

A look of dismay flashed across Martin’s face and he lowered his head to hide his face. Claire paused, realising she had upset him. There was silence for a moment.

“And is your husband with you in London,” he asked, raising his head, his eyes unmistakeably moist.

Claire shook her head again. “No. He passed away last year,” she said matter of factly.

There was another silence.

“Sorry to hear that,” mumbled Martin. “And sorry to hear about Mrs T as well.”

Claire suppressed her own sadness, the sadness that welled in her sometimes when she thought about the past, thought about Mrs Turnbull, her once-capable saviour reduced to a withered, confused old woman who couldn’t tell where she was from one moment to the next, whose body eventually ceased to function. Her sadness when someone was kind enough to express sympathy at Jim’s loss. Their marriage hadn’t been stormy or passionate, their tale not a great love story, but she missed his company sorely, even though she kept herself busy with the few hours she still did at the castle and with her reading. She wondered what to say next.

“You look well,” said Martin suddenly, starting a fresh topic.

Claire looked at him to see him indicating his own face but meaning hers. “Your eye . . . it’s different . . .”

Claire smiled despite herself and nodded. “It is,” she said, raising her hand to it. Trust Martin to be still so upfront about things. “I had an operation some years ago.”

Martin smiled back at her. “Nice,” he said, and in his voice she again heard the young East End boy. For an instant it felt like she were reliving a film in her memory where the characters lived in a hazy place filled with warm yellow sunshine rather than the glare of today. It certainly didn’t feel for a second like it was her own life she was remembering.

“Drum, I haven’t got much time left,” he said suddenly.

Claire reeled a little, felt as though she had been slapped. “You’re unwell,” she managed.

Martin nodded weakly. “Cancer,” he said. He pointed at his cigarettes and lighter on the table before him. “Not much else to do in prison but smoke.” He attempted a grin but failed. “The doctors say that I might have six months, tops. I’ll probably have to go into hospital soon. That’s why I wanted to see you. There are things I need to do before I . . . go. Things that need to be set straight . . .”

Claire found that she was holding her breath in. Holding her whole body in, if she were honest with herself. Martin. Her Martin. Dying. Talking in terms of months – sitting before her like this. Dying. All that part of her life, gone now. Those happy, happy days before that night by the loch . . .

Martin’s face suddenly grew dark and he sat even further forward in the seat.

“I didn’t do nothing to Laurence,” he said. The words hung in the air for a moment as he fixed Claire with a stare. He spoke slowly, his words careful and measured. “And I didn’t do nothing to bloody Jack Ball. Do you understand? I have to tell someone. What I said in court all those years ago – when I pleaded not guilty – I was telling the truth.”

She’d been right all along. She’d always known it. Known that Martin couldn’t have harmed the boy. But she’d never told another soul. Had just gone along with everything, too afraid to defend him . . .

“I never touched him in any way – do you understand? He was my mate. I never had mates when I was small – always had to be a grown up, always ducking and diving, and that’s how my life’s been since. Laurence McKenzie might have been a kid but he was the best bloody friend I ever had.”

Spittle glistened on Martin’s lower lip as he grew silent again, his eyes filled now with rage and hurt, his chest rising and falling more rapidly with the exertion, his tired, rotting lungs unable to keep up. It was a while before he calmed his breathing enough to begin again.

“Uncle Jack used to . . . to hurt me . . . to do things to me . . . Do you understand?”

It took a moment for it to sink it, but when it did, Claire bit her lip hard in a futile attempt to stop herself crying at the shocking realisation of what he was telling her. He’d been abused. Just like she had . . .

The tears made her vision blurry and when she couldn’t help but blink, one rolled down her cheek rapidly, followed by another.

Martin Pine looked away from her, as if watching her tears might be catching. He steadied himself to continue. “That’s why I told you to go and get help that night at the lake, do you remember? I knew that Uncle Jack was done with me and was ready to move on to greener pastures.” He looked directly at Claire. “I couldn’t let Laurence be alone with him. When I knew that they were both down at the lake that night, I had to stop it. But you know what a bully Ball was. I couldn’t have done it alone. And besides which, I needed someone else to see . . . to know. That’s why I told you to go get help. To get someone who could have stopped him.”

Claire watched him, her eyes wide, as he continued to speak, his breathing becoming more laboured as he went on.

“When I got down to the lake that night, it was dark of course but I could see clearly – there was a moon – a great, round harvest moon, do you remember that and all? You have no idea how vivid it all is still in my head. I’ve played it over a million times, Drum.”

Claire nodded for him to continue.

“And there they were, just coming alongside the little jetty – you remember the one? With the ladder to climb in and out of the rowing boat? I was so scared, Drum – how could I have let that happen? Let Laurence be out there on his own with that evil piece of work for so long? I couldn’t help myself – I ran as fast as I could onto that jetty, shouting the odds, yelling for little Laurence to get out of that boat, yelling at Ball to keep his hands off him.

Ball tried to brave it out at first, you see. Started throwing faces at Laurence, cocking ’is thumb at me as much as to say ‘who’s this nutter then?’ and trying to laugh it off only poor Laurence didn’t seem to think it was so funny. His face was white as a sheet, Drum. To this day it haunts me that I don’t know actually what happened out on that lake, to that poor little lamb.

But I wasn’t going nowhere, I tell you. I could tell Jack was getting madder – his ’orrible face was like thunder and he started bellowing at me like a bull – he lurched to his feet and started shaking one of the oars at me while the boat rocked, telling me to get the hell back to the house and keep my nose out, but wild horses wouldn’t have dragged me away from that boat. The boat was close enough now for me to help Laurence out of the boat and up the ladder. I reached out to him, I did. Except it was Ball grabbed my arm and pulled me right close to his face so that I thought I was going to fall in, or that he’d pull my arm clean out of its socket. I could feel his spit on my face as he told me to shut up and get out of his sight before he did me some real harm. His voice came from his boots when he was angry, and he was angrier than I’d ever seen him in my life. Angrier than I thought a man was capable of being.”

Martin fell silent for a moment, partly to collect his thoughts, partly to regain his breath. Claire watched him retreat into himself, his face darken, watched him go back in time to that night, standing on the jetty.

“I can still hear Laurence screaming,” he whispered softly, a tremble to his voice. “Screaming ‘Stop, Uncle Jack!’ and ‘Let me off!’ and yelling at him to sit down, that they were going to capsize. His little voice, Drum, screams that you’d think would wake the dead. He was terrified – the sound of it made me want to cover my ears – and still Ball was roaring at me and the boat was rocking from side to side. Then suddenly he let me go and hauled his bloody great fat body up the ladder – I was sure it would come away from the jetty – and he came at me, his eyes on fire, still with the oar in his hand. It was all I could do not to get hit by it once he started swinging it from side to side like some bloody great pendulum on a grandfather clock. I could hear it making a ‘whish’ through the air, swinging past my ears as it went one way, past my legs as it came back, a swing with every step. He’d lost it Drum. I don’t know what it was that night that finally drove him over the edge. There was no reason there, no sense. He was just like a crazy animal and he wasn’t going to be happy until he’d hurt me.

And I couldn’t run, Drum – do you understand? There was nothing to stop me turning tail and making a run for it back up the lawns but I couldn’t. I couldn’t turn my back on Laurence – something just wouldn’t allow me to do that and all the while he was coming at me with this hatred in his eyes and then I lost my balance and stumbled and fell and I was sure I was a goner, a sitting duck. And then suddenly he stopped.”

Martin raised his eyebrows as if somehow he was still surprised, as if the moment was completely unexpected, even though he had clearly lived through it, again and again, for years.

“Just stopped in his tracks. And his eyes sort of glazed over for a moment and everything went still. And I could see Laurence behind him – with the other oar in his two hands. The little soldier had only gone and climbed onto the jetty and brought the oar down on Jack’s head. And for a moment we all froze solid. All we could do was stare at Jack, with his eyes gone all funny and his body starting to sag. There was a little trickle of blood just running down his face, a dark streak that ran down over his scar. He lifted up a finger then, real slow. And he wiped some of it onto his hand and looked at it. Like he’d never seen his own fingers before.

And then he let out a roar, Drum. A roar like a wounded animal. That just seemed to fill the whole night. I was sure that everyone in the whole world could hear that sound at that moment. And then Ball turned away from me. And did the last thing in the world that I wanted him to do. He turned on Laurence.

The little fellah wasn’t quick enough to get away either. Even though Ball was stunned by the blow from the oar, it wasn’t enough to floor him. I don’t think a gunshot would have been enough to floor him – he was fuelled by a rage that I’ll never forget. Pure bloody rage.

He got his fingers round Laurence’s throat before I could stand up and even when I did I couldn’t get at him properly to prise them off. They were like a vice, Drum. Like a crocodile or something when he gets hold of his prey and he won’t let go. That poor kid never stood a chance.”

He paused for a moment, overwhelmed. Claire saw tears form in his eyes as the tragic scene played out yet again in his memory.

“In the struggle we went into the water. All three of us. That’s what happened. Still I tried to prize those big fat fingers from around Laurence’s neck but it just couldn’t be done. Even under the water I tried but we just kept going down and down. Ball couldn’t swim, see? And even if he could I don’t know if he’d have had the mind to. He acted like a great heavy anchor, just dragging us down and down further and the water got muddier and darker with all the silt and the mud that was getting dredged up with us all thrashing around.”

Martin focused again on Claire, his damp eyes pleading for understanding.

“I only left Laurence for a few seconds, Drum. Just went back to the surface to get some air – just a few seconds – but it was enough. When I went back under, I couldn’t see a thing. And it wouldn’t have mattered if I did anyhow. There was nothing on this earth and probably the next that could have saved that child once Jack Ball decided he had it in for him.

“It’s haunted me all these years, Drum . . . if there was anything I could’ve done to stop it all happening, I would’ve. But if I hadn’t gone down there to the lake then who knows what Ball would have done to the boy? Or . . . would Laurence still be alive? Maybe it was my fault after all . . . maybe I did the wrong thing?”

He grew silent again and his eyes glazed over as he concentrated on the memory.

“I’m so sorry,” said Claire through her tears. “I shouldn’t have doubted you . . . I shouldn’t have testified . . .”

“Him being dead and gone – that’s something I don’t regret for a minute. Sometimes, when I was inside, I’d actually wish I’d done it, wished I’d managed to finish him off somehow. Ball was a vile, spiteful bully, and he hurt me and Laurence too, I reckon. Just the once but that’s enough, isn’t it?”

“He was no loss,” agreed Claire. She remembered suddenly Martin’s face that night when she had told him where Laurence was gone, the pure shock, the fear that she’d seen in his eyes. She should have recognised it then. The same look of fear and panic that she’d always felt when she heard footsteps approach her room at night. A lifetime ago now.

Claire was pensive for a moment, filled with regret. “I never spoke up, Martin,” she said. “I never told anyone what you were really like – how kind you were – I could have, maybe, said something to your solicitor . . . explained that you weren’t like that . . .”

Martin laughed bitterly. “My brief wasn’t there to get me off. I was fitted up. Once the case was sent back to London, my fate was sealed. Please don’t beat yourself up about all this, Drum. There was nothing you could have done. The odds were against me, all them years back. No matter what I did or said, there was no way I was ever getting out of that prison. There were forces at work – powerful forces who wanted me to pay for what they thought I did to Ball. The case was put together that I was the one who hit him with the oar and he fell in the water. The sickening part – the part that keeps me awake at night is that they twisted it to make it look like he was trying to protect Laurence from me. That I was some sort of dangerous predator who went on to hold the boy under the water by the neck until he drowned. As if I could, Drum. Whatever else Ball was, he had his uses to the powers that be. I knew that once I went down, I wasn’t getting out and there was no point in even thinking about it. For a long time I cried – I raged about it all. About how unfair it all was – why me and all that. And then time went on and I just got used to it. That was how things were to be from now on. And I grew to accept it and with a little help from Him Above, I realised that there was no point in being angry. But when I knew . . . when I heard my days was numbered, then I knew it was time to act. Time to tell someone. It’s his mother, you see? I can’t stop thinking about her, and about what she must think of me. And I need her to know some peace, do you understand? I need her to know that he called for her. He called out for her as he stood in that boat, terrified of what Ball was going to do next. He was a brave little fellah – the bravest. If he’d grown up he coulda ruled the world.”

Claire nodded. “She still comes to the castle at Christmas, you know. Mr Calvert hosts a party every December. She always comes, with that sad look in her eyes. And her husband comes, and their other son . . .”

Claire was surprised to see a smile cross Martin’s face.

“She had another boy?” he asked.

Claire nodded in response, puzzled.

“What’s he like – the other one?” Martin asked eagerly.

Claire thought for a moment. “He’s a nice boy. Different from Laurence though. He’s grown up now, of course, but when he was young – when he came for the summer, like Laurence used to, he used to hide in his room and read books, and listen to something called The Smiths . . .”

Martin grinned, eagerness showing in his face to know more.

“He hated going out shooting – he’s the complete opposite to Laurence, actually, in that way,” Claire went on. “The first time he shot a deer, Jim – my husband – found him crying behind a tree, although he swore there was just something in his eye. He was a funny wee thing – sharp as a knife. Looked exactly like him too, like Laurence. If you saw him now then you’d be able to see what Laurence would have looked like if he had grown up . . .”

Martin smiled wistfully. “I’d like that,” he said quietly. “Wish I’d met that lad. What’s his name?”

“Gabriel,” said Claire with a smile. “There’s a rumour – of all things – that he can talk to the dead. Mr Calvert would dock me pay if he heard me say that to anyone. But maybe it’s true – there’s sometimes a funny look in his eyes.”

“You mean . . . he’s like one of them mediums, is he?”

“Something of that sort, yes.”

“Maybe he can talk to his brother then, eh?” Martin said with a smile. “I like that idea.”

“I don’t think I do,” said Claire. “He doesn’t come visit now so much any more of course. He joined the army like his dad, but he left – I’m not sure what he does now for a living.”

Martin stared into space. “Funny to think that a whole lifetime has passed since,” he mused. “That a kid’s been born and grown to be a man all the while my life stood still. But I never forgot you, though, Drum. Or Laurence. And I never forgot that damn castle either. It was home to me. I’d go back now . . . if I could.”

Claire blinked away fresh tears, taking him in fully – as skinny as ever, although she didn’t know if that were still his shape or the ravages of disease. She breathed in, felt herself choke and a sob rose from deep within her.

“What are you going to do now?” she asked, her voice a whisper. His future – what little of it there appeared to be, was unimaginable to her. She knew that she’d get the train back to Dubhglas – she’d just leave here and he’d go back to his fuzzy television set and beyond that . . . hospital, ventilators, treatments . . . She looked at him sadly.

“It’s been too long, Drum,” he replied. “But I’ve been thinking and, like I say, I just want someone to know the truth. Can you tell her for me? Laurence’s mother? Tell her I never hurt her boy?”

Claire stared at him, the look loaded with sympathy and desperate sorrow. She nodded a yes. It was the least she could do. She saw her tears mirrored in Martin’s eyesthen.

“Claire – that summer, when you came to Dubhglas, that was the happiest I’d been since I was a kid. Sure, I’d thought I was the big man about town when I lived in London, but I was just a troublemaker. Getting out of London – going to that castle and meeting the Turnbulls and then you was the start of a real life for me, despite everything that Jack Ball did.”

“Martin, we were very young . . .” began Claire.

Martin shook his head, cutting her short. “I know that. We was a pair of kids, for heaven’s sake. But it gave me a taste of what life could be like if I stayed on the straight and narrow. Without what you and I had, I’d have had nothing at all, do you understand? It was the only taste of life I’d ever had, and I savoured it every day for all the time since. Now I just want to get my house in order. I just want folk to know that I didn’t do it, Claire. I really and truly didn’t do it. Will you tell them?”

An image flashed across Claire’s mind of Laurence’s mother, of Violet McKenzie, and the light in her eyes that had been extinguished after her boy had drowned. Claire felt very small all of a sudden. It was as if a camera pulled up, up into the sky and focused back on her, growing fainter and fainter in that chair, till she was little more than a dot. She felt insignificant, but there were all these other lives, all these other people touched by what had happened. And now she had a responsibility to set it straight, to help. Suddenly the camera in her mind rushed back towards her closer and closer and closer until she was somehow inside herself again.

“I’ll do that, Martin,” she said.

The shadows of evening were long when she stepped back out of the archway of the Mulberry Estate. What a sweet name, she thought, for such a horrid place. The air was rich with the smell of a hot summer’s evening. More and more people had emerged onto their balconies, some clutching cans of beer. The children were growing irritable as they played in the courtyard and she was glad to leave the place and hail another cab. She was nervous in London, exhausted by the day’s events. By at last truly knowing what had happened. She longed to return to her place of safety, her little house in Dubhglas.

“Goodbye, Martin,” she whispered as she glanced up toward the top of the tower block where he had returned to solitude, where his life was ending. Claire touched her bag which contained the letter he had given her ­– his testament, the truth – and knew in her heart that it was the last time she would ever see his face.