Page 10 of The Cottage in the Highlands

I encouraged Harley to abandon her intimidation of the snail and to come with me.

We trampled and crunched over twigs, approaching the area where the shiny glint was coming from.

A sudden break in the trees surprised me. I had expected it to run on for miles. Instead, the branches and trunks parted to reveal what looked like an old, grand house squatting in the middle of a beautiful but overgrown front garden. A high wooden fence concealed the rear of the house.

I realised that what had been shining in the evening light was one of the house’s French windows. Surely it wasn’t occupied, with a huge garden left to roam like that?

Although unkempt, it had an errant beauty about it, with its cracked pots struggling to contain a throng of creamy tea roses and purple heather.

A couple of naked cherry blossom trees were in situ, standing to attention in the front of the acid-green lawn. It looked as if it hadn’t seen a lawnmower in years. If that was the condition of the front garden, goodness knows what the rear garden was like!

Harley sniffed behind me. The air carried earthy undercurrents of moss and damp woodland.

The house itself was impressive, all solid brick painted white with black beams and windowsills. The angled roof glided downwards towards a porthole hall window.

The front door consisted of ebony wood and a long, slim panel of frosted glass, but the net curtains hanging limply at the windows were faded.

I moved a little closer to where the sitting room window was located. I noticed it was smudged with dust.

Harley sat by my feet and observed.

The curtains were closed, although not completely, so I was able to squint in through a chink. Sunset was splashing through the rear sitting room window, illuminating heavy, ornate furniture. There were two sofas opposite one another in creaky, dark leather. The claret patterned carpet added to the dated aura of the place.

There was no television, but a series of family photographs scattered along two shelves running along the side walls. I couldn’t make out the features.

A single painting of Silver Ness beach adorned the left wall.

I was about to step backwards when something bright drew my eye. It was set to the right of the window I was looking through, on top of an occasional table.

I let out a surprised gasp. It was a Christmas present, wrapped up in red shiny reindeer paper.

Good grief! How long had that been sitting there? Had the person who owned the house died and nobody knew? Could they be lying in there? What if they had no family and were in trouble? Perhaps they were hurt in there and unable to call for help?

I gulped and gripped Harley’s lead. “Come on, sweetheart.”

I moved to the side window to take a look into the kitchen. There was a patchwork-style blind tugged halfway down. Again, everything carried an air of quiet abandonment. The fixtures and fittings consisted of a bright amber sink unit and cupboards and a long-beaded curtain in the kitchen doorway. It was 1970s kitsch.

I moved with Harley to the opposite side of the house, negotiating the crazy-paving path that was fighting to be seen through the grass. There was a narrow bathroom window through which I glimpsed an avocado bathroom suite.

I guided Harley away and round to the front entrance. On closer inspection, I could see a stack of mail piled up against the frosted glass of the front door.

The light was fading faster now. I debated what to do. What if someone elderly and reclusive did live there and had suffered a fall? Or perhaps they were languishing on that dusty-looking carpet and needed urgent medical attention?

I pulled my mobile from my back jeans pocket and switched on the light. It spotted against the smudgy windows of the sitting room again.

The sky was deepening and the surrounding trees, with their bare, twisted branches, were transforming into ghostly silhouettes.

I was reaching for the letterbox to give it a rattle in the hope that someone might answer and assure me they were all right when I realised there was the sound of someone – or something – moving behind me.

I spun round, my heart whizzing up to my throat. Harley let out a nervous growl.

A silhouetted figure stood there. “And what do you think you’re doing?” barked an aggressive female voice.

Chapter Four

She shot a frozen look at Harley and me and repeated the question. “What are you doing?”

I was struggling to make out her features. Every so often, strands of light would slip across her pointed face.