Page 48 of A Scottish Highland Surprise

Saffy peered at her great-grandfather’s writing and read what he had said about Jonathan Gray. “Victor’s not singing his praises, is he?”

Xander rubbed at his chin. I noticed it was carrying the faintest peppering of black stubble. With the light from the screen highlighting his concentrated expression, he began to read the journal notes for himself.

24th December 1899

Christmas Eve and yet the festive spirit seems to have eluded certain individuals.

I had the misfortune to come across Mr Jonathan Gray, as I travelled from the library in Briar Glen on my return journey to Darroch.

The snow was whirling itself into a frenzy and the trees appeared so forlorn, their heads heavy with ice.

I was preparing to board the carriage, when Gray appeared with a woman. He failed to notice me ascending the carriage steps. He was far too preoccupied, appearing to accuse this slight, distraught young lady of something.

I recall the haunting pain in her eyes, and the skirts of her gown being whipped about her ankles by the relentless cold.

The coach driver insisted we wait for another moment longer, in the hope that he might secure a few more travellers, and so I was able to sit within the confines of the carriage and witness the sorry spectacle of Gray and this distressed young lady exchanging words out in the snow.

I was unable to hear his words, but I could detect by his expression his fury and her visible heartbreak. There was one point in the conversation where he reached for her arm and gripped it tight in his gloved hand.

Infuriated at the sight of this aggressive behaviour, I started to rise from my seat, intending to intervene and put an end to what I was witnessing, when the carriage driver announced that we were to leave. He was concerned that the inclement weather would grow worse and he, his horses and myself could fall prey to the conditions.

As we set off across the cobbled town square, with the moon a frosty chip in the sky and the squeals of excited children echoing through the streets, I overheard Gray’s voice, strident and sharp. “You tell anyone about this, you trollop, and I shall ruin you and that tawdry family of yours!”

I strained my head, clasping the scarf at my throat to keep out the chill wind. The woman gripped the ribbon under her chin securing her bonnet. Her eyes were almost childlike, and swimming with tears.

She reached out her gloved hand in an effort to appease him; perhaps to make him understand. “But Jonathan, I want nothing from you, except that you acknowledge what has happened.”

Our coach began to swing to the right, the horses’ hooves plodding through the fresh snow.

The figures of Jonathan Gray and the young woman were slipping away from me, silhouetted shadows in the descending darkness, like pieces placed upon a chess board.

But as the driver of the coach eased us out onto the lane, Gray was marching away from his female companion. His top hat wobbled furiously as he moved. She appeared to say something else, before skittering after him in her shabby ankle boots.

Whatever she had said caused him to draw up, his dashing face contorted in fury. He swung round to confront her, his gold-topped walking cane winking like the decorations dripping from the Briar Glen Christmas tree in the church grounds. “Stay away from me, you hussy! And stay away from my parents, otherwise I shall wreak revenge on you, the likes of which you cannot begin to imagine!”

The last, resounding image in my head as my carriage departed, leaving this painful scene behind, was Jonathan Gray striding away towards his waiting coach and horses and the anguished young woman, sinking to her knees in the carpet of snow.

I let out a long, slow breath. Reading over Victor Prentice’s version of these events was like being dragged there myself into the sparkling scene of Christmas Eve. I could see the distraught young woman, the chill wind biting at her bones, and the callous, well-dressed young man verbally berating her before striding away, leaving her on her knees with her gown clinging to her in the deep, crisp snow.

Even Xander fell silent for a moment. He turned to me. “So you think the Jonathan in that letter you found is this Jonathan Gray?”

“I think there’s a good chance. And if it is, this poor young woman he abandoned in the snow could well be Briar Forsyth, the lady who wrote the letter to him.”

Standing behind Xander, Saffy observed us both. “There’s more information contained in his other diaries and journals. He was a prolific notetaker.”

She angled herself in front of Xander and presented him with a dazzling smile. “How about I email them over to you and if you have any questions, you can give me a call?”

“Thanks, Saffy. That would be very helpful. Oh, and if Sophie gives you her email address, can you send them to her as well, please? It’s something we’re checking out together.”

I could feel myself shrivelling under her furious gaze.

“Sure,” she managed after a moment. Her pale pink lips drew back in a cold smile. “I guess every Sherlock needs a Dr Watson.”

Chapter Twenty-Three

25th September 1970, Briar Glen

Helena’s love for her job grew.