Shot Through The Heart (Supernature Book 1) (7 page)

"Sure," said Mark. He shut the laptop and put it in his bag.

Elizabeth led him back down the stairs, carrying their coffees, Mark holding the dictaphone in his hand. She took him through the door underneath the stairs, which led to an enormous kitchen. Ivor stood in the middle of the galley, a giant cleaver in his hand, chopping at some red meat. "Don't mind us," said Elizabeth to Ivor, who grunted acknowledgement. She led Mark outside into the garden, linking her arm into his.

Mark swallowed hard - he decided to focus on anything other than Elizabeth Ruthven.

He looked around at the house and its grounds - at one point it would have been grand, he imagined, but now it was slightly overgrown with wild roses, long grass and thick moss covering the flagstones. Stone balustrades lined three sides, which overlooked the loch system.

"Please continue with your theory," said Elizabeth, leading him down a path that led towards an ornate bench carved from oak that sat under a blossoming laburnum tree, its yellow fronds framing the seat.

"As far as I can tell, the primary motivation was greed," said Mark, struggling with the physical intimacy that Elizabeth was forcing on him. "There's a bit of a grey area around the first wave of the Clearances, which might have had a different agenda than the pre-Clearances activity and the second wave."

"So, you're saying that the Pre-Clearances was a run-up to the second phase and not the first?" asked Elizabeth.

"It's possible," said Mark.

"Interesting," said Elizabeth. "I don't really know much about the time, I'm afraid. All I can really say is that my family lost most of our land during the first phase of the Clearances, so it wasn't just the crofters that lost out."

Mark noted that down - it was another angle he hadn't previously considered. It was a good excuse to shake free, but she quickly reasserted the linked arms.

"All I have left is this castle," said Elizabeth.

"They've marooned you," said Mark, with a broad grin.

Elizabeth smiled back, but her expression held a tinge of bitterness. "In a way," she said, looking over the water. "I actually don't mind it too much, but I do miss the travelling I used to do in my younger days. I don't really like being trapped here."

Mark frowned. "You're not that old," he said.

"I'm older than you think," said Elizabeth, repeating her previous statement which mystified him as much as her seeming attraction to him.

"I meant that you're not so old that you're housebound," said Mark.

"Well, I'll let you draw your own conclusions from that," said Elizabeth. "I haven't been off the island in a year and even then it was only for a couple of hours with a young chaperone in tow."

"I find that hard to believe," said Mark.

"Believe it," said Elizabeth. She eyed him and licked her lips. "I'm just looking for some young man to sweep me off my feet and take me away from this."

Mark flushed with embarrassment. He looked down at the list of questions he had. "What do you think the legacy of the Highland Clearances has been?" he asked.

Elizabeth exhaled deeply and looked across the loch towards the far shore. "That's a difficult one," she said. "There was clearly a lot of unrest caused by it. If it hadn't happened, the Highlands would be a very different place. Ruthven might be a town with a Tesco and what have you. Not necessarily a better place, either."
 

She finished her cup of coffee.

"The aftermath to the First World War, changed things forever. The Clearances brought it forward. It may have been more unsettling had they not happened, you know. I don't really know - none of us is gifted with foresight, are we?"

"What was your family's role during the Clearances?" asked Mark.

"Well, as I say," said Elizabeth, "we owned many acres but we lost it at the time. We certainly weren't trying to kick people off the land."

"How did you lose it?" asked Mark. "It's not something that can easily be taken away, is it?"

"Well, this area was essentially between two large Clans," said Elizabeth. "We were just squeezed out. There was some ancient document, dating back to the 1600s, I believe, that allowed the land to be taken over by the neighbouring Clans. All that remained was the castle."

"Which clans would those be?" asked Mark.

Elizabeth raised her hands up. "I'm afraid I can't recall," she said. "I'm sorry."

"No worries," said Mark. He scribbled it down to follow up later - it was quite interesting, at least on the surface. "How do you feel about it?"

Elizabeth stared him, her gaze intense. "Sometimes I wish that my ancestors had fought back," she said. "One day, I would like to reclaim the land from those that stole it from us." The searing intensity vanished as quickly as it appeared. "Then again, I'm just a woman, and one that's past her best."

"Oh, I wouldn't say that," said Mark, immediately regretting it.

Elizabeth smiled and stroked his chest. "Thank you," she said. "I needed that."

Mark felt a shiver up his spine - there she went again. He tried to avoid her intense glare by looking through his notes - the remaining questions were either redundant or had already been covered. "That's probably it."

Elizabeth looked disappointed. "Oh?" she asked.

"I'm afraid that I've asked all the questions I have," said Mark. "Just one thing, though, do you have a dog?"

"A dog?" asked Elizabeth. "No."

Mark nodded. "It's just that I saw your daughters in the bar last night with a dog," he said.

"How did you know that it was them?" asked Elizabeth.

"A fellow drinker," said Mark.

Elizabeth shrugged. "I hear tales of a stray dog in the village," she said. "It must have been that."

"Fine," said Mark. He looked over the loch, the waters perfectly still - the wind of the previous night had long since disappeared.

"Would you like to come here for dinner tomorrow night?" asked Elizabeth.

Mark raised his eyebrows. He was wary of encouraging her, but in truth he had very little to do, other than write. Besides, more insights might spill out, or he may think of another avenue of investigation. "That would be nice," he said.

"Shall we say seven?"

Mark arranged his fork and knife on the plate, alongside the scattering of peas he'd left. He'd headed down to the restaurant at the back of seven, where he'd tucked into one of the best steaks he'd ever eaten - moist and bloody - with crispy chips and a mountain of peas.

Mark had taken the scenic route back to the hotel and had explored the glen on his bike, getting a feel for the countryside and trying to clear his head from the lack of sleep.

He looked around the dining room - the German couple were the only others there. He was half tempted to strike up conversation with them, but he'd had enough of speaking to strangers that day.

It struck him they may have spoken to Kay. He reluctantly approached their table, just in case. He fumbled over introductions in his high school German, just as the wife got up to go to the bathroom.

"It's okay, my friend," said the husband - Friedrich - smiling, "I speak fluent English."

"I feel so embarrassed," said Mark. "We're really bad at foreign languages."

Friedrich smiled again. "It is very true," he said, "but you are fighting uphill battle, ja?"

"What do you mean?" asked Mark.

"The rest of the world speaks your language," said Friedrich, "you have no real incentive to learn. I work for Volkswagen and if I didn't speak such good English, I would not have a job."

He dabbed a napkin to his lips.

"I deal with Americans, mostly, but also some English. With the French, for example, we speak in English. It's International English, of course, which is not as rich or poetic as the form you yourself would use, but it is a very good functional language."

He laughed and tapped Mark on the shoulder. "My own language is very difficult to learn - English is relatively easy."

Mark had done some undergraduate linguistics and had come to much the same conclusion at the time. The broadsheet browbeating about how poor the British were at languages wasn't entirely our own fault. "I agree with you," he said. "It's the genders that get us. There isn't a point to them, is there?"

Friedrich grinned. "I did a degree in Languages," he said.

Friedrich's wife returned just then - he introduced her as Marlene, and, though her English wasn't a patch on her husband's, it beat Mark's German hands down. "Did you ever see a young woman who was staying here?" he asked, showing the photo of Kay on his phone.

Friedrich examined it closely, before nodding his head. "Ja," he said. "Kay, was it not?"

It was Mark's turn to nod his head. "It is," he said, putting his phone away. "She works for me and I haven't heard from her in a couple of days. I wondered if you'd spoken to her?"

"We had dinner with her," said Friedrich. "Saturday, I think. She was very charming. Are you the writer?"

Mark blushed - it seemed like Kay had been promoting him more than the publicist. "I am," he said. "She seems to have vanished on Monday night."

"Ja," said Friedrich. "We haven't seen her since, now you say it. I wondered if she had checked out."

"She hasn't," said Mark. "Did you see her on Monday?"

Friedrich frowned, as if rigorously searching his memory. "Ja," he finally said. "I think we saw her leave on Monday night."

Mark felt a surge of adrenaline - he was onto something. "Did she say where she was going?" he asked.

Friedrich shook his head. "Nein," he said. "She was going for a walk."

Mark looked at Marlene. She smiled politely, in agreement with her husband. He didn't have any reason to doubt their story - it certainly fitted with everything he knew, except maybe for her car.

Friedrich and Marlene got to their feet. "We will be leaving tomorrow," he said, "but it was charming to have met you."

They left Mark alone in the restaurant. He jotted their sighting of Kay in his notebook. He got the bill added to his room then made a difficult decision - consolidate his notes upstairs or go for a beer.

John Rennie was holding court at the bar with the blacksmith and a couple of older men. Mark ordered a pint of beer and sat in the corner, keeping a safe distance from John and his whisky. All six students were there, in the same seats by the fire.

A football match was just kicking off and Mark found his eyes glued to the screen. He'd been tempted to mess about with his phone, but the lack of reception just gave him the choice of playing a game or watching the TV. The football was so dull, it allowed the events of the day to filter through his mind.

Nobody had any idea of where Kay had gone. It deeply frustrated him - he was here to find her and she just wasn't anywhere. He hadn't particularly enjoyed the interviews - he'd only managed to get the slightest whiff of some tangent to his story so far.

The blacksmith kept looking over at him. He was a strange little character - harmless, Mark decided, but entirely useless as far as the book was concerned. After a few minutes, the blacksmith and the other two men left the bar, leaving John on his own, an impish grin on his face. He slowly wandered over and sat next to Mark.

"Man City, is it?" asked John.

"I've no idea," said Mark. "I think it's a Russian match - that lad with the red face used to play for Arsenal if I'm not mistaken. My wife is a football fan, but I'm not - I'm more of a rugby man."

"I see," said John. "What about tennis? Wimbledon next week. Reckon it'll be Murray's year?"

"If it's not this year then it never will be," said Mark. "Federer's on his way down, Nadal's knee is knackered. It's pretty much just Murray or Djokovic."

John nodded. "It'd be a belter if he won it, though," he said. "Seventy-seven years since the last British winner and it's a Scot. Get it right up ye!"

Mark laughed. "Shame Thatcher didn't get to see it," he said.

"Dinnae start me on her," said John. "Good laugh last night, though, eh? Had a belter of a hangover this morning. Should really have stopped you buying me whisky."

He licked his lips, staring into space then locked eyes with Mark again.

"Thought I was going to get away with a nice quiet snooze this morning but a flock of sheep escaped from their field again on the way to Kinbrace, then I had a bugger of an afternoon, too. A load of management consultants from London were up on some team-bonding thing." He bellowed with laugher. "I've no idea what they thought, but they're away back to Inverness with three brace of pheasants for their troubles."

Mark smiled politely. "I bumped into another group of students today," he said.

John frowned. "Eh?" he asked. "Where?"

"At the tea room in the village," said Mark. "Seven of them. Asked if I wanted spiritual enlightenment."

John sighed and slowly nodded. "That'll be the devil worshippers," he said.

Mark screwed his face up. "Devil worshippers," he said, his voice level.

John grinned. "I'm not joking," he said. "They've got a place near here on the way to Loch Naver."

"And they're devil worshippers?" asked Mark, still sceptical.

"Aye," said John. "Long history of it in the Highlands, you know? Haven't you heard of Aleister Crowley?"

Mark nodded. "I'm aware of his work," he said. "
Do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the law
and summoning the devil." Mark knew his Led Zeppelin and some comics that Buffy had forced on him as a student. "Crowley lived in Boleskine House which is a hundred and fifty miles south of here."

"The lad was a latecomer, put it that way," said John. "Took inspiration from the locals."

"I don't believe you," said Mark.

John shrugged. "Suit yourself," he said.

Mark took a long drink of his beer. "I was over at Ruthven Castle this afternoon," he said, nodding towards the students.

"Oh aye?" asked John, a curious look on his face. "What did the good lady have to say for herself?"

"Oh, not much," said Mark. "A few bits and bobs about the Clearances, nothing particularly useful, though."