Winter Solstice (39 page)

There must be, of course, explanations, but it was too cold to stand there on the doorstep and listen to them. Carrie stepped back, opening wide the door.

“I think,” she said, “you had better come in.”

But he hesitated.

“Are you sure?”

“Of course. Come on.”

He went past her, into the house, and she closed the door against the cold and turned to face him.

He looked a bit embarrassed.

“I’m really sorry. I hope I didn’t disturb you.”

“Not at all. Hadn’t you better take your coat off? We’ll hang it here, there’s a radiator and it’ll dry.”

He had put the key back into his pocket and now pulled off his leather gloves and unbuttoned his overcoat and shucked it off. She saw that he was conventionally, even formally, dressed, in a dark-grey flannel suit and a tie. She took the heavy coat from him and hung it on the old bentwood hat stand.

“Perhaps,” he said, “I should introduce myself. Sam Howard.”

“Carrie Sutton.” They did not shake hands.

“Come up to the sitting-room. There’s a fire on there.”

She led the way, and he followed behind her; up the stairs, across the landing, and into the huge sitting-room. Entering, he observed, as newcomers invariably did, “What an amazing room.”

“It’s unexpected, isn’t it?” She went to pick up the abandoned newspaper.

“And lovely during the daytime, because it’s always full of light.” She laid the paper on the table by her chair.

“Would … would you like a drink or something?”

“You’re more than kind. I’d love to, but I’m driving.”

“Where are you driving to?”

“Inverness.”

“Inverness. In this weather?”

“I’ll be okay.”

Carrie doubted this, but gave a mental shrug. It was no business of hers. She said, “Then why don’t we both sit down, and you can tell me why you have the key to Oscar’s house.”

His expression was rueful.

“To be honest, I’m not quite sure.” But he came and settled himself in Oscar’s chair, and at once looked quite relaxed and at home, and not at all as though he had just walked in out of the snow, unexpected and unasked. She thought that he had an interesting face, neither handsome nor homely. Unremarkable, but interesting. His eyes, deeply set, were unusual. He leaned back on the chair, his long legs crossed at the ankles.

“But I am sure we can clear up the confusion. Tell me, did Mr. Blundell once live in Hampshire?”

“Yes, he did.”

“And does he have an elderly uncle living in London?”

“I’ve no idea.”

“And a cousin called Hughie McLennan?”

“I’m afraid you’re asking the wrong person. I’m just a guest. I don’t really know anything about Oscar’s family. This is the first time I’ve met him, and I’ve had flu and I have been in bed, so there hasn’t been much opportunity for finding things out about each other.”

“I see.”

“And Oscar and Elfrida… she’s a sort of cousin of mine, and Oscar’s friend… they’re out. They’ve gone out for drinks. They won’t be back till about eight o’clock.” She glanced at the little clock in the middle of the mantelpiece.

“It’s nearly seven now. If you wanted to wait-”

“No, I can’t wait. I must be on my way.”

“But I still don’t know why you have a key to this house.”

“I was given it by Hughie. He wants to put the property on the market. Put it up for sale.”

Carrie stared at him.

“For sale!” She could feel her jaw drop. “But it’s Oscar’s house.”

“I think they are joint owners.”

“I know they’re joint owners. Oscar told me. But even so, Hughie McLennan, whoever he is, has no right to put a house up for sale when he doesn’t even own it.”

“Yes.” He agreed with her. “It does seem a bit suspect.”

“And why would you want to come and look at it anyway? Do you want to buy it?”

He said cautiously, “I thought I might.”

“What for?”

“To live in. I have a new job, in Buddy. Getting McTaggarts, the woollen mill, back on its feet again. I shall be based here, and I’ll need somewhere to live.”

“Where’s Buckly?”

“About twelve miles south. I’ve just come from there. Spent the afternoon having a meeting with the workforce.”

“Wouldn’t it be better to live in Buckly?”

“The mill accommodation has all been sold off. It probably would be more convenient, but I was told about this place, given the key, and thought I’d come and, just quickly, drive around, have a look at the town. To be truthful, I thought the house would be empty. But then I saw the lights on, and decided to ring the bell and solve the mystery.”

“But we haven’t solved it.”

“No. Not really. And we won’t until I speak to Mr. Blundell. And I’m afraid there’s not time for that. Maybe, another day…. Right now, I think I should make tracks.”

“And I think it’s important that you see Oscar. It’s only fair on him that he should know what has happened … what is happening.”

“I really must….” He was on his feet. Carrie stood too and went to the big bay window and drew back the heavy curtain. Outside lay a wintry scene. Snow fell heavily, steadily, and his Discovery, parked at the pavement’s edge, was already blanketed. No cars moved, and no person trod the streets. She thought of the road to Inverness, the long miles, the hill that climbed the Black Isle from the bridge over the Cromarty firth.

She, unlike Elfrida and Oscar, was not nervous of driving in snow. She had spent three winters in the mountains of Austria, and after that, nothing much fazed her. But this, obscurely, was different. There was a relentlessness to this weather. This snow was not going to stop, nor be blown away. The storm was here for the night.

She turned. He had stayed by the fireside. She said, “I don’t think you should go.”

“You don’t?”

“Come and look.”

He joined her, and together they gazed out at the clearly deteriorating conditions. First he didn’t say anything, and Carrie felt a bit sorry for him.

“It really is bad.”

“Yeah. Fergus Skinner, the manager at the mill, said I should phone the AA and get a report. I didn’t think it was necessary at the time, but perhaps I was mistaken.”

“I would say that would be a good idea.”

“I have my mobile, but no number.”

“I’ll find it for you.”

She went out onto the landing and came back with the phone book and looked up the emergency number.

“Here it is. Do you want to write it down?”

He produced a pen, she read it out, and he wrote it on the margin of the phone book, and then took his mobile from his pocket.

She left him sitting by the window, with the opened curtain and a backdrop like a stage setting. She put another log on the fire and stood, watching the fresh flames.

He got through almost at once. Inquired about road conditions, the A9 to Inverness. Then, a long silence as he listened. Then, “How about tomorrow?” Another pause, ay. I get the picture. Thank you. Goodbye.”

Across the room, they looked at each other. She didn’t I ny anything, but knew that the news was the worst. He con-finned this.

“You were quite right. The road is impassable. To be honest, I had no idea it would be so bad.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I…” He was stowing away his mobile.

“I think I’d better be off. Get out of your way.”

“Where?”

“Sorry?”

“Where will you be off to?”

“There’ll be some guest-house, hotel… I’ll check in there.”

“There is no hotel or guest-house open in Creagan at this time of year. Everything closes down for the winter. You’ll find nothing.”

“But surely …”

She said, “You’ll have to stay here. With us.”

“Here? But I can’t do that!”

“Why not?”

“You don’t know me. I’m a stranger. I can’t just come and-”

“Of course you can. Anyway, there doesn’t seem to be an alternative. There’s an empty bedroom, I know. An empty bed. It would be ridiculous not to use it.”

“But…”

Carrie smiled. Now that matters were settled, and she had won her point, she was rather enjoying his discomfiture.

“What do they say? Any port in a storm.”

“But… Mr. Blundell…”

“I expect he will be delighted to have another guest. And most interested in what you have to tell him. And his companion Elfrida will be pleased, I’m sure. There’s nothing she likes better than unexpected arrivals and impromptu house parties. You don’t even have to worry about dinner. There is a kedgeree in the oven, and plenty of hot bath water. All mod cons. What more could any man want?”

He shook his head, defeated by her insistence.

“Nothing, I guess.”

“A toothbrush?”

“I have one in the car. And my electric razor. But if it’s all right by you, I should make another call.”

“Feel free.” (He obviously needed to ring home, wherever that was; explain to his wife what had happened.) “You don’t want anybody worrying.”

He took out his mobile once more and punched the numbers. Carrie wondered if she should make some excuse and go from the room, not wishing to overhear a private and personal conversation: loving words, messages for the children. But before she could do this he had got through and was speaking to the receptionist at some hotel in Inverness.

“Just to let you know I shan’t be back tonight. I’m stuck here, in Creagan, in a snowstorm. I’m all right. Staying with friends. Maybe back tomorrow. Just keep the room. Thanks.

“Bye.”

Call finished.

“Is that all?” Carrie asked.

“That’s it.”

“No more calls?”

He slipped his mobile back into his jacket pocket and shook his head.

“Nope.”

“Right. Well. In that case, why don’t you have that drink?”

“Well, that would be very kind.”

“I shall have to go down to the kitchen and bring something up for you. We don’t keep a drinks tray up here, because there isn’t a drinks table. Oscar’s wine-cellar is a slate shelf in the scullery.”

“Let me come and help.”

“No, you stay here and make yourself comfortable. What would you like? There’s everything.”

“Scotch?”

“Soda, water, or ice?”

“On the rocks?”

“Fine. I shan’t be a moment.”

She ran downstairs, and in the scullery found a tray on which she loaded the whisky bottle, the filled ice bucket, a glass, and then the bottle of wine. She carried the tray upstairs and found her visitor, not by the fire, but on the other side of the room, gazing intently at Elfrida’s little picture. In order to do this, he had put on a pair of horn-rimmed spectacles which made him look rather scholarly.

When Carrie appeared, he took these off.

“What a fine lit. tie painting.”

“Yes. It belongs to Elfrida. She brought it with her from Hampshire. She’s had it for years. It’s a David Wilkie. She says it’s her insurance policy, against the day when she runs out of money and doesn’t want to become a bag lady. As you can see, there are no other pictures in this room, so it looks a bit lost.”

“It’s certainly a treasure … here, let me have that.” He took the tray and held it while Carrie made space on Oscar’s table, shunting aside a few files and papers. She said, “I’ll let you do your own drink.”

“How about you?”

“I’m onto the wine.”

“Can I refill your glass?”

“Certainly, if you’d like to.”

She went back to her chair by the fire and watched him, liking the neat movements of his hands. Intrigued, in an objective sort of way, because his appearance at the Estate House, his reason for being there, and his reason for staying on (bad weather) all seemed like a sort of contrivance. The plot of a play, perhaps. The start of a film which could turn out to be disturbing, even terrifying.

He came across the room, with her wine and his whisky, handed her her glass, and then sat again where he had sat before.

He said, “Good health.”

“And to you, too.”

“You said you’d just had flu?”

“Not very badly. I slept it off.”

“And you’re visiting?”

“I live in London. I have a young niece; I brought her with me. We’re staying for Christmas and the New Year.”

“Has she gone to the drinks party, too?”

“Yes, and then on to some sort of reel party with all the other children of the town. Goodness knows when she’ll be home. Do you know this part of the world well?”

“No. I don’t know it at all. I come from Yorkshire. Then I was based in London for a bit, and then New York for six years.”

Carrie smiled to herself because she had been right about the accent.

“Hence the Scotch on the rocks.”

“Exactly so.”

“What is your job?”

“I’m basically a wool-broker…. I work for Sturrock and Swinfield.”

She was impressed.

“Goodness.”

“They bought out my father’s woollen mill in Yorkshire some years ago, and I’ve been with them ever since.”

“New York and all?”

“New York and all.”

“This is going to be a bit of a culture change, isn’t it? Working up here.”

“Yes,” he agreed with her.

“A bit.”

“What did you say the mill was called?”

“McTaggarts of Buddy.”

“Is it a going concern?”

He said bluntly, “No,” and then briefly enlarged on this. Explained the chain of events that had brought it down.

“And is this what you are expected to take on?”

“Not entirely on my own.”

“You mean you have Sturrock and Swinfield behind you?”

“That’s right. And capital, expertise, architects, and designers.”

“And when it’s all up and going, what will you produce?”

“Everything. A very wide scope. Traditional tweeds and tartans, but as well we’ll head for new markets. The fashion trade. Luxury wool lens “When will you be in production?”

“The mill has to be gutted and rebuilt. So, maybe nine months. A year.”

“Why don’t you just bulldoze it away and start afresh?”

“Because it’s a particularly beautiful old building. Stone, with steep gables and long arched windows. It’s over a hundred and fifty years old. Part of the little town. It would be vandalism to destroy it.”

“And you have to have someplace to live?”