“He’s a lot smaller than Archy,” said Bill. “I suppose it goes to his head faster. And now, Miss Kingsley, I have another favor to ask of you.”
By seven o’clock that evening, Bill and I were on board a private jet bound for Wick.
21
Andrew MacLaren was at the airport to meet us. As tall as Bill and broader across the shoulders, he walked with a pronounced limp and used a cane, yet he seemed surprisingly agile. Certainly he was more fit and trim than I’d have expected for a man of his age, not to mention a man with a handicap.
He must have read the question in my eyes, and it must have been a familiar one because he tapped the cane lightly against his leg. “Polio. Grew up with it. Doesn’t slow me down.” His nonchalant manner put me at ease and by the time we had reached the parking lot, Andrew’s lopsided gait seemed as unremarkable as Bill’s steady stride.
He led us to a dilapidated Land Rover. Uh-oh, I thought as we climbed in, an aristocrat on the skids. I wondered if that might explain his reluctant invitation; perhaps he was ashamed to have houseguests. But that theory went out the window as we approached MacLaren Hall. When the road narrowed from a one-lane gravel drive to a rutted track, I realized that Andrew’s choice of transport was merely practical.
“I’m sorry about the road,” he said. “We have a perfectly usable drive, of course, but this is faster and, as it’s getting late, I thought you might be in need of supper.”
There was no need for him to apologize. We were far enough north and it was still early enough in the year for there to be a good deal of daylight left even at that late hour, and the scenery more than made up for the jouncing, jostling ride. We were surrounded by some of the wildest, most desolate country I’d ever seen, with mountains looming on all sides, barren, craggy, majestic. They took my breath away, but also left me feeling uneasy. This was a harsh, unforgiving place. I suspected it would not deal kindly with weakness and, given half a chance, it would kill the unwary.
MacLaren Hall did nothing to soften that impression. It was an enormous, intimidating old place faced in weathered red brick, with dozens of chimneys and deep-set, shadowy windows. It stood on a rocky hillside above a loch—magnificent, but terribly lonely, overlooking the black water in bleak isolation.
As if to compensate for the somber surroundings, Andrew had ordered his housekeeper to lay on a huge spread, including venison from a deer he had bagged himself and whiskey from the family distillery. While we ate, he regaled us with the history of MacLaren Hall. He was obviously proud of his ancestral home and he seemed to have a story about every family member who had ever lived in it. Except for Bobby. It wasn’t until we had retired to the library, whiskeys in hand, that Bill was able to broach the subject. On the flight up I had agreed to leave the questioning to him.
“As I mentioned on the telephone, Mr. MacLaren,” Bill began, “we found something in Miss Westwood’s papers that piqued our curiosity.” From his breast pocket he took the letter we had found at the Flamborough and handed it to Andrew. “The envelope was still sealed when we found it. We were wondering if the matter you mentioned was ever resolved.”
Andrew glanced briefly at the letter. “It was settled long ago,” he said. Then he crumpled it into a ball, and with a flick of the wrist, threw it on the fire. I started up from my chair, aghast, but Bill motioned for me to remain seated and continued on as though nothing had happened.
“Might I ask what it concerned?” he said.
“Some property. It’s unimportant now. As I say, the matter was settled years ago.”
“You relieve my mind,” said Bill, seemingly unconcerned. He raised his glass to the light. “This is from the family distillery? It’s marvelous. Tell me, do you use oak barrels for the aging process or do you prefer…” With unshakable aplomb, Bill led the conversation on a circuitous route. By the time he got back to Bobby, Andrew had tossed back three glasses of whiskey in quick succession and his mood had mellowed considerably.
“Was Bobby your elder brother?” asked Bill.
“By two years,” Andrew replied. “There was only the pair of us.”
“You must have been very close.”
“We were.” Andrew stared moodily into the fire, as though mesmerized by the dancing flames.
I wondered how long it had been since he had spoken of his brother. I wondered if it came as a relief to him to say Bobby’s name aloud, or whether it fell like a hammerblow every time. How much more whiskey would it take before he could say the name without flinching?
“I worshiped him,” Andrew went on. “You might think I’d feel a dram of jealousy or envy, with Bobby being the elder son and healthy to boot…”
“But you didn’t?” said Bill.
“Never crossed my mind.” Andrew emptied his fourth glass, then set it on a table beside his chair. “What you must understand is that Bobby treated me as an equal. When I couldn’t walk, he carried me up into the hills to see the falcons’ nest, or out to fish in the loch. He taught me how to track, how to use my eyes and my brain to compensate for the weakness in my legs. I’d have been bedridden for years longer if Bobby hadn’t lured me out to explore the world.”
“He must have been a fine young man,” said Bill.
“They come no finer,” said Andrew. “The curious thing was that he made me love the place much more than he ever had. He was so full of life himself that our barren crags left him feeling hungry for… something kinder, less austere, I suppose, something more like himself.” Andrew picked up the empty glass and held it out to Bill.
“It must have been very hard on you when he joined up,” said Bill. When he handed the glass back, it was filled only halfway.
“He was too young, much too young,” Andrew said with a note of bitterness. “But they didn’t question matters too closely in those days. There was a great demand for air crews and he was keen as mustard, so…”
“They took him on.”
“They did. He was stationed at Biggin Hill. God help me, I was so proud of him. It never occurred to me that he could be killed. My brother was young and strong and invulnerable. He was…” Andrew’s voice faltered, but another swallow steadied it. “He was shot down over the Channel on the ninth of September, 1940. His wingman saw the plane hit the water, but there was no parachute, and Bobby… The body was never recovered,” he finished gruffly.
“My God,” I whispered.
Andrew raised a hand to smooth his thinning gray hair. “It was a common enough occurrence during the war,” he said, bowing his head to stare into his glass, “but I’ll admit that it was an uncommon blow to me. It may sound foolish, but I sometimes go into the chapel to be with him.”
“The chapel?” Bill asked. “But I thought…”
Andrew looked up. “It’s a family tradition,” he explained. “A family as old as ours has left its share of unburied sons on many battlefields. When Bobby died, we added his name to the memorial tablet. I like to think I can sense his presence down there. MacLarens are canny that way.” Andrew was silent for a few moments. Then he asked: “Would you like to see it?”
“Thank you,” Bill replied. “We would be honored.”
Carrying a lantern to light the way, Andrew led us to the family chapel, a narrow Gothic structure attached to the west wing of the hall. Generations of MacLarens were entombed there, and I’d never seen a darker, damper place in all my life. The weeping granite walls seemed to close in upon us, and the chill air made me wish I’d worn something warmer than my short-sleeved tea-party dress. I couldn’t imagine how anyone could rest in peace there. I could almost hear their bones rattling from the cold.