Irene could easily imagine how cold the house must be in the wintertime when the storms whined around the eaves. The windows were so small to allow them to keep the house warm.
Mary showed them into a surprisingly bright and pleasant living room. Light entered through the tall french doors to the terrace and the large picture windows, which must have been installed in recent years. The furniture was pastel-hued and modern.
“Please, sit down,” Mary said, but she remained standing with her back to the picture windows. She had her arms crossed over her chest again. Irene and Glen were forced to sit on the rigid white sofa, which faced the window.
Glen made a vague gesture encompassing thee surroundings. “This really is a beautiful old house.”
“Yes. Building was begun in the seventeen hundreds,” Mary replied.
“It’s a fantastic environment for children to grow up in. Does Christian visit often?” Glen continued in a casual tone.
“Sometimes.”
“When was he here last?”
Mary thought for a moment before she replied. “In March.”
“Have you ever met Rebecka Schyttelius?”
They couldn’t observe the expression on her face, which was shadowed, but Irene could see her slender figure stiffen. “Once. This past Christmas.”
“So she and Christian are a couple?”
“No,” she said sharply.
Glen lifted his eyebrows meaningfully, which had the intended effect. Mary Lefévre felt that she needed to explain.
“She had been sick during the fall and didn’t have the strength to travel home to Sweden over Christmas. Christian didn’t want to leave her alone in London, so he brought her here.”
“I understand. What impression did you form of her?”
This time the silence lasted quite a while.
“She was so quiet. . it was difficult to reach her.”
“That’s exactly the impression we also received. She really is quite sick. The murder of her family has naturally worsened her condition,” Glen said seriously.
Then he smiled and showed his charming dimple. He does it deliberately as part of his strategy, thought Irene.
“By the way, what’s the name of Christian’s girlfriend?”
The silhouette against the window froze. Her voice was tense when she answered. “I don’t know. You’ll have to ask him.”
“We will.”
He was still smiling, but his tone was more serious. “It’s about time for us to head to the castle. Thank you for letting us intrude. Here’s my card if any questions should arise or if there’s anything you would like to tell us.”
Glen rose, still with a friendly smile. Irene followed his lead. Like a sleepwalker, Mary Lefevre began moving toward the front door. She didn’t look at Irene or Glen. Her movements were stiff as she opened it. She seemed afraid, almost shocked. Why? Glen’s questions had taken them into sensitive territory, but her reaction seemed exaggerated.
When they were about to leave the house, Glen held his hand out to say good-bye, but either Mary Lefevre pretended not to see it or she really didn’t notice. Irene couldn’t decide which it was.
“WHY DID you want to speak with Christian’s mother?” Irene wondered.
They were in the car driving down the avenue that led to the hill that was topped by the magnificent castle.
“Because she’s Christian’s mother,” was the laconic answer.
There was a certain logic in that, Irene realized. It had been a brief but thought-provoking interview, which they would need to analyze on their way home.
They drove through the open gate in the stone wall, ended up in a courtyard, and parked the red rental car next to a shiny new silver-colored Porsche. The cobblestones in the courtyard had been worn smooth by hundreds of years of trampling feet; they felt slippery. The castle towered on three sides of the courtyard. The main building lay straight ahead; the side buildings were like wings. The whole structure was made of gray stone, the roof of slate. There were walled, round towers in the outer corners, topped by turrets, reminiscent of Sleeping Beauty’s castle. The sturdy ivy on the walls added to the effect. A few splendid trees and large rosebeds gave a little life and a touch of greenery to the otherwise barren stone surroundings.
The main building, straight ahead of them, was a bit taller than the wings. A substantial door of massive wood didn’t look very welcoming.
“Here you need a sledgehammer to knock on the door,” Glen observed.
They were walking toward it when someone yelled, “Hello! This way!”
Both of them stopped in their tracks trying to locate the source of the voice. Irene saw a man in the door to the western wing. He beckoned to them. They had only taken a few steps when Irene stopped again. They had gotten close enough that she could see Christian Lefévre standing before them in the doorway. But when she moved forward and got even closer, she realized her mistake. It wasn’t Christian. The cousins looked very much alike.
Andrew St. Clair was a bit taller and somewhat larger than Christian Lefévre. But he had the same dark hair, worn in a ponytail. His dark-brown eyes behind rounded glasses blinked nearsightedly at his visitors. The cousins could very well have passed as brothers, both dark-haired and brown-eyed, despite the fact that they were English. Irene had expected that a Scottish nobleman would be red-haired, with ears sticking out and an overbite, the stereotype in Sweden of a Scot. There had been quite a few times during this investigation when her assumptions about how Englishmen-or Scots-would look had been proven wrong.
St. Clair was dressed in a bright red knitted woolen sweater with a little symbol on the chest, which Irene recognized but couldn’t remember the name of. A white collar could be seen in the V-neck opening and a tie with bright red and blue stripes. His checkered pants of thin wool were of the highest quality, just like his expensive shoes.
“Everyone goes the wrong way their first time. Welcome to Rosslyn Castle,” said Andrew St. Clair.
It sounded as though he really meant it. He shook their hands before he showed them into the house.
It was unexpectedly warm and cozy in the large hall, which was similar to the hall in the Lefévre house but significantly larger. St. Clair took their coats and hung them in a large cabinet with carved doors illustrating some form of a hunt, with dogs and running deer.
“Only this part of the castle is occupied. Everything is modern and comfortable here. I’ve kept the fireplaces and tile stoves, but on the ground floor I had the stone floor taken up and I installed heating under the floor. Then I replaced the old stone slabs.”
The pride in his voice couldn’t be missed. Irene realized that it was justified. It must have been a time-consuming job. But something told her that Andrew St. Clair had not actually done the work himself, even if he described it that way. As he walked in front of them, he chatted about the castle’s history and made them feel like long-awaited guests. Meeting people was easy for him, and he was friendly. That was the big difference between him and his cousin. And his aunt, too, for that matter.
“The wing across from this one is the oldest part of the castle. It was built at the end of the fifteenth century, but was rebuilt after a fire two hundred years later. In the late sixteen hundreds, the main building was constructed as well. This portion was built at the end of the seventeen hundreds, at the same time as the gatehouse at the beginning of the avenue. My grandfather started its renovation, and my father and I have finished it. But we’ve been very careful about maintaining the castle’s style.”
He led them through large rooms with gold and red silk striped wallpaper and large tapestries covering the walls. Light filtered in through beautiful stained glass in the high windows, which showed images from the family’s history and family coats of arms. Andrew St. Clair enthusiastically described the picture in every window they passed. Gloomy gold-framed portraits stared down at them. Shields and old swords were hung between the portraits. Here and there, suits of armor stood ghost-like along the walls. There were also large heavy cabinets in dark wood decorated with carving and gilded fittings. All the furniture they passed seemed very old. Irene felt as if she were in a museum as their footsteps echoed desolately on the stone floors. As if in response to her thoughts, their host continued, “I’ve had the finest and oldest furniture moved to the State Room. Wooden pieces don’t do well in unheated spaces, and I don’t heat the uninhabited portions of the castle.”