Page 19 of The Secret Castle in the Highlands

‘So, what you’re saying is that the highwayman might have become so frustrated at the social inequality of it all that he set fire to an innocent orphanage?’ I shook my head, dismissing this. ‘Who were these witnesses who claimed to have seen him escaping from the scene?’

Mason scrolled through his electronic notes. ‘They were a … oh, here it is. A Mr Rylance Lapley and two associates of the family, an Archibald Savage and an Ernest Cotter.’

‘A Lapley?’ I repeated, incredulous. ‘I wouldn’t trust any of that lot to tell me the correct time!’

Mason Cooper slid his phone back into his jacket pocket and half smiled. ‘And I suppose you’re going to tell me the Scarlet Highwayman wasn’t responsible for all the robberies around here? Let me guess – it was the tooth fairy.’

‘I never said he wasn’t,’ I bit back. ‘All I’m saying is I don’t believe he did half of what he was blamed for – that violent murder of a local judge and the attack on his wife or almost killing a coach party of clergymen on the coast road. There have been stories that any of the spoils he stole, he donated to the poor.’

Mason studied me. ‘I think the role of Robin Hood has already been taken.’

I clicked my tongue in annoyance.

‘Please forgive me, Poppy, but you seem to be rather blinkered when it comes to this man.’

I sat up straighter on the opposite sofa. Damned cheek! Who did this guy think he was? He knew nothing about me. ‘And will you forgive me, but you now seem rather determined to find him guilty!’

His smoky eyes swept me from head to toe. ‘I’m not a detective, Poppy. I’m a historian.’

I pushed my shoulders back. ‘We’ve had numerous other people come to Port Starr over the years, snooping about in the hope of getting something juicy on the Scarlet Highwayman, trying to blame him for everything that happened around here.’

Mason’s mouth flatlined. ‘I don’t snoop. I research.’ His dark lashes looked almost as uncompromising as the cut of his stern jaw. ‘And historians don’t tend to look for juicy tales. We aim for objectivity. We try to be even-handed with evidence and don’t cherry-pick.’ He looked into my eyes, his own resembling searchlights. ‘Historians research and analyse. We have to interpret and write about the past by studying documents and sources.’

‘Yes, and I’m an artist,’ I clarified through clenched teeth. ‘We allow for poetic licence and for using our imagination. We don’t tend to see things in black and white.’

His face was impassive. ‘I’m sure you don’t, but I should point out that historians have expertise in⁠—’

‘You may be able to decipher old documents and scrolls,’ I interrupted, ‘but in my opinion, the human condition and the human heart are full of passion and unpredictability.’ I let my hands rise and fall back into my lap. ‘That isn’t easy for anyone to predict with any degree of certainty – even well-known historians.’ I pushed out my chin. ‘You’ll be blaming the poor man for climate change next.’

A small smile played at the corners of his mouth. ‘You’re assuming this Scarlet Highwayman character was misunderstood. I respect your faith in him. I admire it. But you do understand that as a historian, I’ll need to see the facts before I’m fully convinced.’

Yes, it was easier to focus on an irresistible figure from the past, who couldn’t let me down or hurt me, rather than allow myself to be heartbroken again by someone real. But my gut instinct had always said the Scarlet Highwayman had been awarded the wrong reputation. Perhaps I could prove it now once and for all. ‘I appreciate that,’ I said, ‘but you’ll see in time that I’m right about him. I’ll prove it to you.’

Mason’s eyes glittered with amusement. ‘I don’t doubt for a minute that you’ll try.’

Chapter Ten

The rest of the weekend evaporated in a haze of paint charts and to-do lists, and when Monday morning swung around, it brought with it a dank late-March cloak of ghostly grey sky.

I forced myself out of bed at six am, so that I could get ready before Caleb, Mum and Dad arrived to pick me up.

Taking them to the airport was a doddle at that time of the morning, with only the silhouette of the coastline and the odd early motorist for company. However, the car journey consisted of Mum checking and then rechecking they’d given us their holiday itinerary, as well as sufficient details of contact numbers and addresses.

Mum fiddled with her newly trimmed bob, while beside her on the back seat Dad was exasperated. ‘Stop fretting, Eve. The kids will be fine. We can FaceTime, we can email; we’re not disappearing off the face of the earth.’

Once we’d deposited Mum and Dad at the terminal with their Mount Vesuvius of luggage by their side, there were fierce hugs and kisses all round. Then Dad steered me to one side. ‘If you need to speak to me, if you have any worries or concerns about the cottages…’

I squeezed his arm. ‘I’ll be fine, Dad. Thank you. Caleb, Katie and I will be okay.’

Dad lowered his voice. ‘Now you’ve got all the financial information I gave you for the business, as well as the accountant’s details, and you know there’re sufficient funds in the bank for you to use.’

I patted his arm. ‘Stop fretting, Dad. You go off and have a great time with Mum.’

Dad’s hazel eyes twinkled under his thick, greying brows. ‘I know I had reservations at the beginning, but I’m proud of you, Poppy. For taking this on and giving it a shot.’

‘Well, hopefully, I’ll succeed far more than just giving it a shot.’

Once Dad had steered our tearful mum through to the departures desk, Caleb returned me to the annexe. ‘Do you want to come in for a bit before you head back?’ I asked.