The Turn of the Key(58)

“Thanks.” There was a kind of comfort in sharing my fear, however guardedly, though I felt like something of a fool now the words had left my lips. After all, what was I going to find up there, other than dust and old furniture? But it couldn’t hurt, and maybe there was some simple explanation—a window left open, an old chair rocking in the draught, a lamp swinging in the breeze. “That’s really kind.”

“There you go, now.” The voice came from behind us, and I turned to see Mrs. Andrews holding two coffees—proper cappuccinos, made by a human being, rather than a bloody app. I set mine to my lips and took a long, hot gulp, feeling it scald the inside of my throat, heating me from within, and for the first time in a few days, I felt my confidence return.

“This is great, thank you,” I said to Mrs. Andrews, and she smiled comfortably.

“Och, you’re welcome. I don’t suppose it’s a patch on Mr. and Mrs. Elincourt’s fancy machine up at Heatherbrae, but we do our best.”

“Not at all,” I said with a laugh, thinking of my relief at dealing with a real person for once. “Actually, their coffeemaker is a bit too fancy for me, I can’t get to grips with it.”

“From what Jean McKenzie says, the whole house is a bit like that, no? She says that you take your life in your hands trying to turn on the light.”

I smiled, exchanging a quick glance with Jack, but said nothing.

“Well, it wouldn’t be my taste, what they’ve done to it, but it’s nice that they took the place on at least,” Mrs. Andrews said at last. She wiped her hands on her apron. “There’s not many round here that would have, with that history.”

“What history?” I looked up, startled, and she made a shooing motion with her hand.

“Och, don’t listen to me. I’m just a gossipy auld woman. But there’s something about that house, you know. It’s claimed more than one child. The doctor’s little girl wasn’t the first, by all accounts.”

“What do you mean?” I took another gulp of coffee, trying to quell the unease rising inside me.

“Back when it was Struan House,” Mrs. Andrews said. She lowered her voice. “The Struans were a very old family and not quite”—she pursed her lips, primly—“well, not quite right in the head, by the end. One of them killed his wife and child, drowned them both in the bath, and another came back from the war and shot himself with his own rifle.”

Jesus. I had a sudden flash of the luxuriously appointed family bathroom at Heatherbrae, with the outsize tub and Moroccan tiles. It couldn’t be the same bathtub, but it might conceivably be the same room.

“I heard there was . . . a poisoning,” I said uncomfortably, and she nodded.

“Aye, that was the doctor, Dr. Grant. He came to the house in the fifties, after the last Struan sold up and moved over the border. He poisoned his little girl, or so they say. Some’ll tell you by accident, others—”

But she broke off. Another customer had come in, setting the bell above the door jangling, and Mrs. Andrews smoothed her apron and turned away with a smile.

“But listen to me rattling on. It’s just idle gossip and superstition. You shouldn’t pay any heed. Well, hello, Caroline. And what can I get for you this morning?”

As she moved away to serve her other customer, I watched her go, wondering what she had meant. But then I shook myself. She was right. It was just superstition. All houses above a certain age had experienced deaths and tragedies, and the fact that a child had died at Heatherbrae didn’t mean anything.

Still though, Ellie’s words rang in my head as I tied Petra’s bib more firmly under her chin and dug out the pot of rice cakes.

There was another little girl.

*

We took the long way round back to Heatherbrae House, driving slowly along past peat-dark burns and through sun-dappled pine forests. Petra snoozed in the back as Jack pointed out local landmarks—a ruined castle, an abandoned fort, a Victorian station decommissioned long ago. In the distance the mountains loomed, and I tried to keep track of the peaks that Jack named.

“Do you like hill walking?” he asked, as we waited at a junction with the main road for a lorry to pass, and I realized that I didn’t know the answer to his question.

“I— Well, I’m not really sure. I’ve never done it. I like walking, I guess. Why?”

“Oh . . . well . . .” There was a sudden hesitation in his voice, and when I looked sideways at him, there was a flush of red across his cheekbones. “I just thought . . . you know . . . when Sandra and Bill are back and your weekends are your own again, perhaps we might . . . I could take you up one of the Munros. If you liked the idea.”

“I . . . do,” I said, and then it was my turn to blush. “I do like the idea. I mean, if you don’t mind me being slow . . . I suppose I’d have to get boots and stuff.”

“You’d need good shoes. And waterproofs. The weather can turn very fast up on the mountain. But—”

His phone gave a little chirrup, and he glanced down at it, and then frowned, and handed it across to me.

“Sorry, Rowan, that’s from Bill. D’you mind telling me what he says? I don’t want to read it while I’m driving, but he doesn’t normally text unless it’s urgent.”

I pressed the text on the home screen and a preview flashed up, all I could see without unlocking the phone, but it was enough.