Page 92 of A Secret Scottish Escape

“Yes. Well, in a manner of speaking.” If anyone thought they knew the real Mask, I would be very keen to meet them.

I gathered what little strength I had left before slipping my bag over my other shoulder and assisting the hobbling Ed across the road. I’d taken a sneaky look at my mobile at the waterfall but there still wasn’t any reception.

Going to Coorie Cottage was our only option.

It was a relief when we reached Mask’s front door. The windows glinted and the sun sparkled off the red, tiled roof.

Ed leaned against the side fence while I went up the steps to the door. He had to be in, or perhaps tending to his garden. If he wasn’t, we would have no alternative but to wait until he returned.

I strained my ears and thought I could hear the whisper of a guitar from somewhere inside. I lifted my hand to knock on the door when Mask’s silhouette appeared behind the glass.

Before he could say anything, I gushed with relief, “Mask, it’s me. Layla Devlin. I need help. It’s an emergency.”

His deep Antipodean voice rumbled back through the closed door. “Is this your way of trying to gain entry to my house?”

Indignation shot through me. I narrowed my eyes and glanced over my shoulder at Ed who was slumped against the picket fence. “No, it bloody well isn’t! I’ve got a man here with an injured ankle!”

I expected another caustic retort, but there was silence and then a fumbling sound. Through the front-door glass, I could make out his fingers reaching up to his face and then his hood was pulled upright. He must have been putting his mask back on.

The black door swung open. Mask stood there with his arms folded like a black-clad Ninja warrior.

I dashed back down the steps to assist Ed. He shrank backwards at the sight of Mask glowering down at him from the door.

“Are you sure this isn’t the Bates Motel?” he hissed under his breath.

I couldn’t help laughing. “Don’t worry. He likes to make out he’s a tough guy, but he’s a pussycat really.”

Ed looked doubtful.

“OK,” I conceded, “maybe a sabre-toothed tiger.”

“Are you two going to come in or are you going to have a tea party out there?” growled Mask. He watched me help Ed adjust his body weight and angle one arm again around my neck. “Oh, for goodness’ sake, Ms Devlin. You’re going to put your back out. Look. Stop there. Let me help.”

My eyes popped with surprise as an irritated Mask strode over and ably assisted Ed up the steps.

I followed up the rear, amused by Ed’s slack-jawed expression. Here he was, with a bruised foot or sprained ankle, being helped into a strange house by a man in a black masquerade mask.

Mask vanished inside the cottage with Ed. Moments later, he reappeared. His black hot eyes gazed steadily back at me. “Well, Ms Devlin, are you planning to join us or not?”

Chapter Forty-Four

Mask took Ed into his sitting room, off the hall to the right.

I could see Ed was making every effort not to stare up at his concealed face.

The hallway I was standing in was a plain vanilla affair with a pale wooden floor, while the sitting room was all steel-grey walls and matching carpet, dotted with black furniture.

Ed was now sprawled on Mask’s squashy leather sofa, with two silver satin cushions supporting his back.

There was very little light filtering in through the closed venetian blinds, but what there was highlighted a dark Gothic-style fireplace with smouldering logs popping in the grate.

There was one black and white print above it, showing Sydney Harbour Bridge glittering like a strand of tinsel against the night sky. He certainly preferred the minimalist look.

A charcoal shelf ran along the opposite wall, housing a selection of musicians’ biographies.

Mask’s voice interrupted me as he spoke to Ed. “Here,” he said, “put this bag of peas on your foot.”

Ed thanked him and placed the frozen item against his sock. He let out a noise that was a combination of satisfied groan and delicate whimper.