Cauldstane by Linda Gillard Read Free Book Online Page B

remember. I recalled typing a lot of questions and topics to think about later. The only contentious thing I remembered writing was a question about Alec succeeding Sholto, but I’d expressed no opinion myself. There had also been a question about Coral MacNab’s suicide. Perhaps someone thought I shouldn’t be prying into private grief? Alec was the most likely candidate. It was after all the anniversary of his wife’s death and hadn’t Sholto hinted at his son’s instability?
    Then I realised something that made me sit up with a start and spill my coffee. I hadn’t left my room. Whoever had tampered with my laptop had done it while I was asleep on the bed. They’d read my notes while I dozed, deleted them, then left as silently as they’d come. But who? Would I have heard Mrs Guthrie in her trainers? Perhaps not. Alec, with his cat-like poise, could probably get in and out of a room without making a sound.
    But the most likely explanation was surely that I’d somehow wiped my own work in some semi-conscious state. Was it possible I’d woken briefly, gone over to the laptop, made a few more notes, accidentally wiped the whole document, then gone back to sleep again? This scenario seemed even less likely than an intruder entering and deleting a load of harmless questions. It would only have taken a few keystrokes: Select all and Delete .
    Except that wasn’t what he’d done. (I was shocked to realise I’d already fixed on Alec as the culprit.) He hadn’t deleted everything. There was half a line remaining – the final line, if my memory served me. As we drew into Perth, I switched on my laptop, half hoping my notes might have re-appeared. They hadn’t.
     
    leave Cauldstane to its ghosts
     
    Each time I read that phrase I fought back an irrational fear, a heartfelt wish that these words would also disappear, because the thought that someone had left them deliberately, that they weren’t just a remnant of text, but a message, a warning even, made me feel sick and shivery – exactly how I’d felt on the landing when I was talking to Alec. Was this my damn virus getting a hold again? Or was it those words?
    If they were a message for me, then I had to accept the possibility that someone – Alec, I supposed – didn’t want me at Cauldstane.
     
    ~
     
    When I got home, I watered my houseplants, checked my post, then sat down to ring Rupert. I chose my favourite spot – the sunny, plant-filled bay window of the Victorian semi I used to share with him. It had always been mine but Rupert had paid me rent and shared the running costs. It was one of the things that had prevented us calling ours a permanent arrangement. He liked to refer to me jokingly as his “landlady”.
    I’d met Rupert at a publishing party. He was a theoretical physicist who’d just published a popular science book. We found we got on well and one thing led to another. He eventually moved in to reduce the trekking about from his flat in Putney to my house in Crouch End. The break-up had been equally relaxed. There was no third party involved – unless you wanted to cite God – and I had many happy memories of our years together. I still kept a few photos of us on display and was gazing at one while I waited for Rupert to pick up the phone.
    We we re pictured on board ship, smiling at a fellow passenger who’d taken the photo for us. It was a Norwegian cruise ship, headed for the Arctic Circle and we were togged up in coats like duvets. Rupert, always self-conscious about his lack of height, looked almost as broad as he was tall, like Henry VIII, but he’d just seen a sea eagle at close quarters and was grinning like a schoolboy. I looked more Nordic than the Norwegians, dressed in white, with pale skin and long ash blonde hair, but I was slouching as I always did in photos, so I wouldn’t look taller than Rupert. (I don’t know if I ever really loved him, but I was always tender of his feelings.)
    I looked different now. Older of