Page 80 of A Scottish Highland Surprise

“I think I need a lie-down in a darkened room for the next half an hour,” I joked, glancing over my shoulder at the glossy yellow and blue crockery adorning our current window display.

Cass spotted me. “Already thinking about ideas for autumn?”

I pulled an apologetic face. “Was it that obvious?”

Once the children returned to school in a month’s time after the summer holidays, the number of visitors to Briar Glen would start to dwindle, and in just a few weeks the surrounding gardens and parks would begin to wrap themselves in russet and amber colours. “I was thinking of sorting out any red, amber and orange tea sets,” I mused. “We could get some coppery crepe paper and some leaf stencils as well.”

Cass smiled with enthusiasm. “That would be lovely. I can just picture it now. If you like, I could start looking through the stock and flag up any pieces I think might be suitable?”

“That would be a big help. Thanks, Cass.”

I rose from my seat to go and make us a well-deserved cuppa. “Oh, and once Halloween approaches, I thought we could inject the display with a few pumpkins, witches’ brooms; mix it all up a bit.”

Cass agreed that was a great idea.

“Right,” I exclaimed, tapping away from her in my open-toed, jewelled pumps, “I am going to make this pot of tea for us, before we both pass out from dehydration.”

But the shop doorbell had other ideas. It was already tinkling, bringing with it a wide-eyed older American couple, who were animatedly chatting about our window display.

Cass jumped up from behind the counter, wreathed in her most welcoming smile. “No rest for the wicked,” she hissed out of one side of her mouth. “You had better throw in two sugars for me.”

The American lady, in her linen beige trousers, gold trainers and belted jacket, admired the tartan teapot. “Oh, Larry! I can’t make up my mind between this one and that one over there. No, not the one with the thistles!”

I buried a grin. “I think I might join you.”

Something told me we were both going to need an infusion of sugar.

I arrived home that Saturday evening with weary feet. I was craving a simple dinner before flaking out on the sofa in front of some mindless TV, but the box of Annabel’s notebooks threw me meaningful glances from the hallway. I set it down by the edge of my sofa and picked out a couple more notebooks, including the one Ophelia and I had been halfway through on Friday evening.

I snuggled up against my scatter cushions and turned first of all to the notebook we had been reading the other night, the one that contained details of Castle Marrian’s former employees.

As it turned out, the list ran on for pages. Most of them were just like Briar Forsyth: their employment with the Gray family lasted for only a matter of months. Seeing as the Gray family occupied Castle Marrian for less than a year, something told me being in their employ would not have been an enjoyable or rewarding experience. Despite the claims in Victor Prentice’s journal extract that the Grays were reported to be kind and considerate towards their staff, nothing was pointing to that, if their fast turnaround of employees was anything to go by.

After a few more pages wading through names, the dizzying list of employees started to become a hazy blur:

Charles Hesketh – Butler – June 1899 – February 1900

Annie Mason – Head Cook – July 1899 – January 1900

I muttered a “Good grief!” to myself. If this had been a modern-day organisation with a revolving door of staff, questions would have been asked.

I could feel myself blinking at the lined pages and streams of black handwriting. The combination of feeling so cosy, with the summer rain slapping against my sitting-room window and the dreamy, languid music as I switched on my CD player, began to entice my eyes to shut themselves for a few moments.

Sleep was pulling at me and I began to succumb against my cushions, the exercise book flopping open on my lap.

It was only when it tumbled to the floor that the fluttery noise of the pages startled me. I pushed myself upright, swiping at my tangle of ponytail.

Maybe I should stop for the day, I thought, reaching down to retrieve the exercise jotter. It had fallen open on the carpet, spine upwards like a mini tent.

I was about to close it and return it to the top of the pile in the box when my attention locked onto the pages it had fallen open on. I peered down at Annabel’s swooping handwriting.

The weather was now dark and moody outside, so I reached for my brass table lamp and fired it on.

The light spilt across the open notebook, bringing Annabel’s notes even more vividly to life. I stared in surprise at what I was reading, before a thrilled, raspy noise escaped from the base of my throat. I pushed myself poker-straight and swiped at my eyes with the back of my hand, before reading over the notes again.

I stared into the distance for a moment, focusing somewhere between my silky curtains and my fluted vase of yellow roses.

My emotions sky-dived from excitement to indignation while I processed what I’d just read, before returning to read it over once more, just to make sure.