Page 47 of A Scottish Highland Surprise

Xander led the way and pressed the intercom, saying his name into the speaker. There was a throaty laugh and then the door clicked to let us in.

It was a jumbly open-plan office space with mismatched chairs, a cluttered desk to the right and a couple of illuminated cabinets, highlighting an assortment of beautifully crafted glazed crockery, presumably made by the lady herself.

At the back was another door, which I assumed led to Saffy Clements’ studio. This door eased open and a curvy, attractive brunette with milky skin and cinnamon freckles sashayed out. She was wearing a loose-fitting T-shirt, splattered with clay, and tight jeans.

Her dark eyes glittered at Xander. “Hello, handsome. And to what do I owe the pleasure?”

As she neared Xander, she noticed the bruising on his forehead. “Oh my God, Xan! What have you done to yourself?”

Xander dismissed her fawning. “I haven’t lost an eye, Saffy. I wasn’t looking where I was going.” He had the good grace to flick a long sideways look my way.

She reached up and brushed her fingers over his bruise. “Is it painful?” she enquired in a husky voice.

Then, noticing my presence, Saffy’s big flirty smile withered. Was it just me or had the temperature in here plummeted?

Xander was oblivious. “Saffy, this is the lady I was telling you about. Sophie Harkness.”

She pinned on a tight smile that didn’t reach her eyes and extended a hand. “Nice to meet you.”

“Likewise,” I replied, shaking her hand. “I hope we aren’t disturbing you.”

Her gaze swivelled back to Xander. “Oh, I’m used to this one strolling in as though he owned the place.”

But Xander was too preoccupied by one of Saffy’s vases in the display cabinet to reply.

The look of adoration Saffy was bestowing on him was like a flower drinking in the sun on a spring day.

Xander returned his attention to Saffy. “I wondered if you could spare us a few minutes to look at the notes in your great-grandfather’s journals? It’s the notes he made about the Briar Glen area that we’re especially interested in.”

“Of course. Come with me.”

She hooked hunks of her wild, dark curls back behind her ears and led us behind her reception desk, where an office computer sat amongst invoices and sketches. The door Saffy had come through had slipped open a little further and I could make out it was her studio. The sound of a radio seeped out. There was a long wooden table in the centre of the room and an electric pottery wheel, together with an assortment of buckets, an old refrigerator, a sturdy sink and a ceramic kiln in the corner.

Saffy pulled up a couple of electronic files on the screen and after a few moments, pictures of neat, considered handwriting appeared. Her great-grandfather’s name, Victor George Prentice, was printed in bold type on the covers of each of the three journals.

“I don’t know how useful some of this will be to you, “she admitted, increasing the size of the pages so that we could read them better. “What I did find strange though, is that my great-grandfather always seemed such a meticulous man – he was a librarian, so he was used to keeping records in good order – but there are sections of his notes that appear to be missing.”

Her freckled hand closed around the mouse.

Xander and I leant in a little closer together towards the screen. Saffy’s eyes narrowed at our close proximity. “I’ve read bits and pieces, but not as much as I would like. It’s one of these things I keep promising I will do during my breaks, but work keeps getting in the way.”

There were a number of paragraphs that Saffy’s great-grandfather had written about Briar Glen’s population and layout, together with sketchy notes on the rumoured blue rose. But it was as we were about to move on to the next page that an excited breath lodged itself in my throat.

“Could you go back, please?” I asked Saffy.

Xander turned to look at me. “What is it? Did you see Briar Forsyth mentioned?”

I shook my plait. “No. It wasn’t her name I read.” I scanned over the few lines again, to make sure I hadn’t imagined it.

I pointed to the section up on the screen, written in the neat, confident black handwriting of Saffy’s great-grandfather. “See whose name Mr Prentice has mentioned and why?”

I turned to Xander, hope and excitement tugging at me. “Jonathan. Jonathan Gray.”

Xander shrugged. “Sorry?”

I jabbed my finger at the computer screen. “Jonathan was the name of the man this Briar Forsyth wrote to.” My attention flew back to the images on the screen. “I think this Jonathan Gray mentioned here could be him.”

Chapter Twenty-Two