Libby 
Libby
Alice had taken her across the hall into what must be the core of the old tower house and up an extraordinary carved staircase to a room off a galleried landing. “Settle yourself in,” she said, “and then come down for some lunch. Bathroom’s through there,” and she left.
It was a lovely room, a corner room with two windows, one overlooking the garden, the other with views stretching out to the headland. Libby could see the stream with the ruined church and the manse beyond, once the focus of a scattered community. And she thought of Ellen going about her daily chores, escaping perhaps to step across the stream as Libby had done and walking out onto the headland. And if she leaned out Libby could just see the roofless cottages where Ellen might have lived.
She turned back to examine the room; the old-fashioned sleigh-style bed looked gloriously inviting. The door Alice had indicated opened into a bathroom which had doubtless once been a dressing room with a tiny fireplace, now dominated by a deep ball-and-claw-footed bath with an overhead shower arrangement. It was a triumph of Edwardian plumbing, but would she dare use it? There was a fine sink with a marble surround and a toilet with overhead cistern and chain, apparently in good working order. A little period piece. But everything was very clean, and Alice had put thick fluffy towels on top of the old radiator which was gurgling into life, and left a pink-striped dressing gown on the bed.
Rodri had brought up her bag and she surveyed the contents, thinking that what had seemed enough for a weekend was inadequate for a longer stay. She had a quick wash, in scalding water, tidied her hair, and went out onto the landing and took in her surroundings. The panelling on the walls looked very old but everything else appeared Victorian in date, and decidedly shabby, almost as if the house had settled into that time, and saw no way of moving on.
She examined the paintings on the staircase as she went downstairs: romantic highland scenes for the most part, many foxed and yellowing, interspersed with mediocre portraits, presumably of past baronets and their families. One of these took her attention, not so much for the individual, who was resplendent in full highland dress, but for the background. It encompassed not only the church with a high cross beside it but, by skewing perspective, the painter had included the headland, and out on the tip was Odrhan’s cell, restored imaginatively into a small chapel. Libby peered more closely, and saw two figures standing beside it. Ulla, presumably, with fair hair cascading to her waist, and Odrhan, the monk, facing her and holding an improbable hook-ended staff.
Dear God—
She found her way back to the kitchen, drawn by the sound of voices. Rodri Sturrock had disappeared, but Alice was sitting at the table chatting to another woman and they looked up as Libby came in. “All sorted? Rodri’s gone to see a customer and then on to school for a football match. He says you’re to take it easy, and I agree. This is Maddy. Maddy, Libby.”
“Hello,” said the newcomer, and Libby thought she had never seen such incredible green eyes, their colour sharpened by her red hair. “I’ve been hearing about your day.” She spoke in a soft, lilting voice which proclaimed her to be a local. “That bruise looks dreadful.”
“Rodri always drives like a maniac,” said Alice, “so we’ll blame him. Come and have some lunch. And I’ve lit the fire in the library so you can put your feet up in there afterwards. Maddy and me’ll be heading for the dairy when we’ve eaten.” She bent to the Aga and pulled out a quiche which smelt wonderful. “And we want your opinion of this. It’s a new recipe.”
Foodies, Libby remembered her saying, and as they ate she asked about their business. What did they make? “Everything,” Alice replied. “At the moment we’re specialising in butter, as well as smoked cheeses, smoked fish, and anything else we can think of.”
“And shortbread,” said Libby, with a smile.
“Aye, shortbread, and tatty scones and oatcakes. Bread and fancies. Jams and pickles. We’re still working out what sells best. The big hotels are our mainstay, although other people are getting to know us and word’s spreading. We were just at a big food fair, networking, selling too. Lots of new orders. We’re partners, Rodri, Maddy, and me.”
Libby struggled to see Rodri Sturrock making jam, and said so. Alice gave a hoot. Maddy smiled and said, “He’s mostly tied up with running the estate, but he does the admin, and promotion.”
“And he shoots things,” Alice added. “All the macho stuff. Rabbits, pheasants, and deer, and we host rough shoots in season. Maddy’s dad supplies the salmon and smokes it for us. We’re a proper little cooperative and it’s beginning to pay off.”
“Fantastic,” Libby said. “How long have you been at it?”
“When did I move up here?” Alice turned to Maddy. “Eight years ago?”
“Nine. When David was two.”
“Aye, nine. Time flies.”
When lunch was finished, Alice hustled Libby into the library, refusing point-blank to let her help with the clearing up. She gestured to a low armchair by the fireside and pulled over a footstool. “Go on, feet up, pamper yourself. I’ll bring some tea through before we go off, and we’re only across the courtyard if you need us. Get yourself settled.”
The fire looked inviting, but Libby stood where Alice had left her, looking around and taking in the extraordinary room. It was part of the later addition, and clearly designed when Scottish Romanticism was in high vogue. Oak panelling and bookshelves lined three sides of the room, the fourth being mainly filled by a large bay window overlooking the garden. A frieze of carved knotwork decorated the shelves and above them were panels depicting elongated birds with improbable legs carved in low relief. The plaster coving and ceiling displayed thistles and rowanberries in complex interlace patterns. Celtic revivalists had been furiously at work. Not to everyone’s taste, perhaps, but when newly completed the room must have been quite extraordinary.
And it must have cost a fortune.
But these were more straitened times. The furnishings were worn and faded and stained plaster above the window suggested leaking gutters; the days of gracious living at Sturrock House, it appeared, were long gone. Through the window she could see a neglected lawn, a playground for the moles, while rhododendrons and broom spilled from the borders with unfettered abandon. Daisies too were doing well.
Her eye was caught by the brackets supporting the window seat and she bent to examine them. They had been carved into the stylised trunks of trees, each one uniquely gnarled, with spreading branches and carved foliage flattened to provide the seat.
“Blame the third baronet.” Alice appeared in the doorway, a tray of tea in her hands.
“What an extraordinary room—”
“Makes me feel like a hobbit.”
Libby laughed. Straightening, she saw that the upper panes of the windows had been painted. Some had heraldic devices but one showed a ship with a striped sail, another the headland on which stood a monk and a tall woman, their clothing blown by the wind as they watched the ship pulling away from the shore towards a crescent moon.
“It’s Ulla, isn’t it, and Odrhan?”
“Aye. They get everywhere. The barmy baronet went a bit over the top.” She set the tray down and Libby moved on to the second window, which showed Odrhan standing over a grave.
“Is he the one in highland dress, on the stairs?”
“And a daft expression on his face? Aye, that’s the one. He’d a screw loose, if you ask me. Spent shed-loads of money turning the place into a Celtic theme park. These windows are famous, they tell me, so it’s a good thing they aren’t at the front of the house or they’d have suffered the same fate as the dining room ones.”
“Meaning?” she asked, but her eyes were fixed on the figure of Odrhan.
“Football. Cost Rodri a fortune in restoration. Now, are you going to sit yourself in front of that fire, or do I have to rope you down?” Libby went and sat, while Alice built up the fire. “Good girl. And we’re just across the way if you need us.”
She closed the door behind her and left Libby alone in the room, where the silence was broken only by the quietly ticking clock on the mantelpiece and the gentle sound of peat settling in the hearth. Even the ends of the fire irons had been forged into tall Celtic crosses, and the coal scuttle was thistle-shaped; the iron fireback proclaimed a coat of arms. No detail had been over-looked, and the room must have changed little from how it had looked a century ago.
She picked up her teacup and saucer, then looked back at the window with its depiction of Odrhan and was swamped again by a deep sense of unease. For there could be no mistaking the jewel which hung on his chest—a gold cross with a single central stone—identical to the one which had slipped from an envelope onto her lap just one week ago.