Murder Takes the High Road(50)

The bus labored up a rise in the road, gears straining. We topped the crest and the castle came into view.

There were several gasps.

Edie whispered, “It really is a castle.”

“Castle Dìomhair likely dates to the mid-sixteenth century. It served as a hospital for casualties of Dunkirk in 1940, but afterwards fell into disrepair until it was renovated and converted into a hotel by a local family. In 2003, Vanessa purchased the island, made the castle her home, and four years later began inviting readers to visit as part of Tours to Die For.”

“What does the name mean?” Nedda called.

“There’s a difference of opinion. Some people think it means secret castle and others believe it means castle of secrets. It’s probably the same thing in the end.”

Not really. But I kept my inner librarian quiet.

“Is it haunted?” Bertie asked. “It looks haunted.”

“Absolutely,” Alison said cheerfully. “Through the years there have been numerous claims that Castle Dìomhair is haunted. Visitors and hotel staff used to regularly report witnessing apparitions in the forms of a small girl and a middle-aged lady.”

“What about a teenage boy?” someone said.

Who? The voice sounded thick, unfamiliar. Who had spoken?

No one said a word. I don’t think anyone moved a muscle. I’m not sure we didn’t all hold our breath.

After a sharp pause, Alison said, “No. Nor have the middle-aged lady and small girl been identified, although descriptions of their clothing indicate that they might date back to the 1920s when a fire destroyed much of the structure. The roof was replaced at that time, stonework around the windows was repaired and electric lighting was installed.”

She turned off her mic and turned to speak quietly to Hamish.

The bus began its slow, bumpy descent. The trip down seemed a lot steeper than the trip up, so perhaps that accounted for the unnatural silence as Castle Dìomhair loomed up before us like the sinister painted backdrop in a play.

Dìomhair was not one of those pretty fairytale castles with blue spire towers and diamond pane windows. It looked like a small fortress from an earlier age. A squat gray crenelated stone rectangle with four large and forbidding towers at each corner. In the tour brochures, it had looked more welcoming—or at least more photogenic.

Roddy said, “Looks like a witch’s castle, what?”

Daya gave a strangled laugh.

The spell was broken, and everyone began to talk at once.

“I can’t believe we’re actually going to meet her,” Edie murmured.

“Just don’t say anything stupid,” her sister warned.

“Excited?” John asked me. He was smiling.

That was another thing I liked about him. That he smiled easily, sincerely. He seemed like a generally happy guy. A guy who cared whether other people were also happy. It shouldn’t have been unusual, but it did seem so.

I smiled back. “Yes. Vanessa doesn’t do conferences or book tours anymore, so this is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Plus, no one gets to come on the tour more than one time. So, this is it.”

I happened to look at Ben. He stared straight ahead, his face expressionless. Yvonne was gazing out the side window at the faraway mountains.

Hamish parked us right in front of the large square wooden door, and we began to file slowly out of the bus.

Alison clapped her hands. “This way, everyone! Don’t worry about your bags and suitcases. It’s all under control.”

The entryway door swung silently open. A tall, gaunt woman in a dark pantsuit waved to us.

There was a kind of group inhalation, and then—

“That’s not her,” Nedda muttered.

We all expelled disappointed breaths.

“That’s Elizabeth Ogilvie, Vanessa’s personal assistant,” Alison told us briskly, making little shooing motions toward the front door.

“Welcome to Castle Dìomhair,” Elizabeth greeted us. Despite the jet-black hair, she was probably in her seventies, and though her expression was severe, her voice was pleasant and welcoming. “Come in, come in. There’s room for all.”

“This way. Don’t be shy.” Alison ushered the stragglers on.

We went through the tall doorway and crowded into a large entry hall dominated by an enormous life-size portrait of a Scottish gentleman in kilt and shooting jacket, holding a brace of pheasants. A pair of smug-looking hunting dogs sat at his feet.

At the far end of the room was a rough stone wall covered with leather and brass targes placed around a circle of ten basket hilt swords that seemed to form the petals of a bloodthirsty blossom.

A black wrought iron chandelier as big as a small dining table hung overhead.

I think there were other things, a couple of carved black wood benches and a table or two with vases of heather and roses, but at that moment a woman appeared at the head of the steep curving staircase to the right of the hall.

She was small, very thin and wore a boy’s Black Watch kilt and a baggy blue tweed sweater. Her hair was silver and cut in a geometrically precise bob.

“Good! You’ve arrived. I was beginning to think you’d got lost.” Her voice was unexpectedly deep, and very English.

She started down the murderous staircase with the speed and surety of a feral goat. We stared up at her, gawking—I was gawking anyway—I know there were a few gasps.