‘Who owns the Wyvis Estate?’
‘A Dutchman, Mr de Bruijn. He’s a lovely man, but he’s getting old, too old for the stalking. He used to come for months at a time, and bring lots of his friends with him, but we hardly see him now. That’s why we rented out this cottage and Corravachie down by the loch. You might have passed it on the way up?’
Clémence remembered the smoke she had seen rising up from the white building on a spit of land.
‘What about the big house at the head of the lake?’
‘That’s Wyvis Lodge, where Mr de Bruijn lives when he comes. We’re thinking about renting that out as well. We should get a fair wee bit for it. But it’s empty at the moment. I keep it clean and we make sure the grounds are tidy.’
The kettle boiled and Clémence spooned instant coffee into cups. ‘Thanks for getting the food and coffee,’ she said.
‘Och, it’s no bother. I’m glad you could come and look after him.’
They sat down opposite each other at the kitchen table. Clémence noticed that Sheila had a small tattoo of a Chinese character under her T-shirt by her collar bone, though it was not one of the few that Clémence recognized. Clémence liked her: she seemed competent and willing, and Clémence might need her help in the next few days.
‘This may sound odd, but did a family called Trickett-Smith ever own the estate?’
‘Yes, they did. Dr Cunningham asked all about them. But they sold up in the nineteen seventies.’
‘That was my grandfather’s family,’ said Clémence. ‘I thought I had heard it mentioned.’
‘A hundred years ago the estate was bought by a man who owned a big furniture store in London. Bought it for the deer stalking, of course. Then the Trickett-Smiths owned it, and then a German and now Mr de Bruijn. Mind you, the local history society says that a couple of hundred years ago, there were dozens of Scottish families up here farming. Before the clearances.’
‘The clearances?’ Clémence had a feeling she had vaguely heard of them. She feared they were bad.
‘Aye. When the rich landowners turfed out all the folk because you could make more money out the sheep than out the crofters.’
She was right; it was bad. ‘Oh,’ she said.
Sheila smiled. ‘That was a wee while ago. And we can hardly complain. Terry’s job needs people who want to spend a lot of money stalking deer, if you see what I mean.’
Clémence had yet to see a deer at Wyvis. She assumed stalking meant sneaking up on them and shooting them. Memories of the Bambi video she had watched over and over again as a kid flooded back; it was scary and it was sad. But she decided not to make any comment.
‘Have you ever heard of a book called Death At Wyvis?’ she asked.
‘Aye, I think there’s a copy in Dr Cunningham’s study. It’s an old book.’
‘Have you ever read it?’
‘No, pet. But I know some of the locals around here did when it came out. I think it’s about a murder.’
‘I think it is,’ said Clémence. ‘I have started to read it to Dr Cunningham. Do you know if it’s true?’
‘Well, I can’t be sure, because I haven’t read it, see, but there was a murder just down the loch thirty years ago, something like that. A woman was found, drowned, I think.’
‘Did they find who did it?’ Clémence asked. She realized she was holding her breath as she waited for an answer.
Sheila thought for a moment. ‘I can’t just mind, if I ever knew. The old stalker’s wife still lives in Dingwall, Pauline Ferguson. You could ask her.’
‘Maybe I will,’ said Clémence.
Just then she heard the sound of slow, uneven footsteps on the stairs.
‘Dr Cunningham!’ Sheila exclaimed as the old man entered the kitchen. ‘It’s lovely to see you out the hospital, pet.’
The old man smiled. It was clear that he recognized her, but then Clémence realized that she had probably visited him in hospital.
Sheila fussed over him for a few minutes and then left them to the soup, promising to pop in again at least once a day to make sure they were all right.
Clémence was alone again with her grandmother’s killer.
6
They ate lunch. Clémence wasn’t in the mood to talk, unlike the old man.
‘Nice woman, Mrs MacInnes,’ he said. ‘I’m damned lucky she found me. At the hospital they said I might have died of hypothermia.’
Clémence grunted. She was tempted to say that she wished he had, but she couldn’t quite go that far.
‘You read very well.’
‘I like reading out loud,’ Clémence said.
‘Even to an old fool who can’t remember his name?’
‘Even to you.’ She winced inwardly: that sounded ruder than she had meant it. But the old man didn’t seem to mind.
‘Were you impressed by my chat-up lines?’
‘Not especially.’
‘Medieval land reform doesn’t do it for you, eh?’ The old man chuckled to himself. ‘Sophie must have been very patient. I sounded so young, don’t you think? Your friends aren’t that innocent, are they?’
‘I don’t think many of them have been to Parisian brothels. At least I like to think they haven’t.’
‘That’s a point. I’m curious to hear what happens next, aren’t you?’
‘Yes,’ said Clémence, as unenthusiastically as possible, although in truth she was curious. At last, her terse replies had the desired effect: the old man gave up and they ate the rest of the meal in silence. But just as she was clearing the soup bowls, he grabbed her hand.
She tugged it away from him.
‘No. Let me look. At that mark.’
She knew immediately what he meant. The ragged red spot on her wrist. Reluctantly, she offered him her hand.
His fingers were firm as he examined it. ‘You should get that checked,’ the old man said. ‘Soon. And while they are at it, get them to check the rest of your skin.’
‘Is it skin cancer?’
‘Almost certainly,’ the old man said. She felt a jolt run through her body. His eyes met hers. Strong. Comforting. ‘Don’t worry, it’s basal cell carcinoma, the least serious, and we’ve caught it early. It’s practically harmless. But it will need to be cut out.’
‘Are you sure it’s not going to kill me?’ she said.
‘I’ve seen hundreds of these in Australia,’ he said.
Clémence raised her eyebrows. ‘You remember Australia?’
The old man smiled. ‘I don’t know how, but I do know I have seen them before. You said you lived in Hong Kong. Have you spent a lot of time out in the sun?’
‘Yes. When I was little we lived in Morocco and then Vietnam. Maman tried to put sun cream on me, but she didn’t do a very good job.’
‘Did you burn?’
Clémence remembered wriggling in her sheets when she was small, her shoulders itching. ‘Yes. I did.’ She looked at the old man in panic. ‘Will I get more of these?’
‘Probably, in time,’ he said. ‘Just be very careful from now on with the sunscreen.’
He patted her wrist and let go of it. ‘Don’t worry. But make an appointment as soon as you can. You’ll be OK.’
Clémence wanted to believe him. It was only a tiny spot. She would be OK. ‘You are sure it won’t spread?’
‘Quite sure.’
She took a deep breath and cleared the rest of the table. The old man moved to help her with the little bit of washing up.