Page 2 of The Secret Castle in the Highlands

As if he were reading my thoughts, Blake Summers addressed my burning guilt. ‘You have nothing to reproach yourself for, madam. You did everything in your power to help my sister.’

‘Not enough, it would seem.’

He appraised me. ‘No, it is your husband who is the murderer. When the opportunity presents itself to seek revenge on Augustus Lapley, I will take it.’

‘Now enough of that talk,’ Harris said loyally.

However, we were interrupted by a sudden rush of voices breaking through the damp chill. It was two of the groundsmen, armed with their yelping gun dogs.

I waved away Harris’s words with one of my berry-coloured gloves. ‘Let him leave, Harris.’

‘Madam?’

‘Please do as I ask, Harris. Allow Mr Summers to depart.’

Lizzie’s older brother fixed me with his impenetrable gaze. ‘Thank you, madam.’

I swung around to look over my shoulder. My breath was coiling like a ghost in the winter air. ‘Go! Go now! If they discover you, we will all be implicated.’

I watched as Blake Summers took off across the thick layer of snow. His scuffed dark boots skidded and slid, as he fought to make his way. He reached his horse and before he mounted, drew up sharply. ‘I am a man of my word, madam. Your husband will pay for the cruelty he showed my sister.’

And with that, he leaped into the saddle and took off, thrashing through the undergrowth and sending snow flurrying in every direction.

Chapter One

Irolled up my powder-blue crew-neck jumper and stuffed it into my open suitcase on the bed – only for it to be mercilessly crushed under everything else I’d rammed in there.

‘Oh bugger!’

Outside my bedroom window, London was awash with slate-grey rain. Umbrellas were popping up along the street like multicoloured mushrooms. Across the road, the butter-stone slopes and angles of the local post office and coffee shop were wearing chains of raindrops.

I’d envisaged quickly packing for my two-week holiday to visit my parents and brother back home, before taking a meander around the shops to check out new paintbrushes for my acrylic landscape work. Then I’d intended to spend the afternoon making more headway on my Scarlet Highwayman portrait, which could safely be described as my perpetual ‘work in progress’.

I’d reworked my imaginings of this mysterious man on several different occasions, as I attempted to capture what I thought might be the perfect representation of him. I’d had to construct his image using scant details from one rather faded sketch that I’d found buried in some obscure historical guide to Scottish coastal resorts, when I was in my late teens.

The Scarlet Highwayman and the mysterious, enchanting McKerron Castle, up in Port Starr, my Scottish Highland seaside hometown, never failed to captivate me. I could imagine him on his shadowy black horse (rumoured to be named Linus) streaking along the surf, or Linus’s hooves clattering over the castle cobbles.

Painting had always been important to me, ever since I was in my teens, but became even more so after my divorce. I suppose I was trying to reconnect with my love of it after my marriage failed; build my confidence back up with something I knew I possessed a talent for.

The story of the notorious Scarlet Highwayman was every bit a part of Port Starr as our vanilla, rocky beaches and McKerron Castle, but he wasn’t spoken of with any great affection. In recent years, the tale had lost some of its charm.

If the tale of the highwayman did ever surface, the locals would dismiss him with comments like ‘Och, he was a wrong ’un, that one,’ or ‘We don’t speak about the likes of him.’ He had been branded a ruthless robber, banished into the realms of Port Starr history, for so-called marauding around the local area for almost forty years.

From the information I’d managed to research about him over the years, he’d been described as tall, with wild brown curls and dark eyes; to me, that conjured up a rather alluring image. I’d used a limited portrait palette of titanium white, yellow ochre, light red, raw amber and dry black to recreate his face, but I still wasn’t happy with the angle I’d given his chin. I was so keen to get my portrait of him right and as representative of him as I could, that I felt sometimes like I was continuously getting it wrong.

My fascination with this man had started at Port Starr Academy, my old secondary school, when, instead of choosing a Mediterranean breakfast scene of bowls of fruit or an array of crockery to paint and submit as part of my Higher Art portfolio, I opted to paint a portrait of the highwayman. I knew it was a risky option but found myself completely immersed as I was able to use artistic licence to bring him to life.

Not only did my decision pay off (I was awarded an A pass), but my art teacher, Ms Duffin, put my name and my highwayman portrait forward for a regional exhibition on Scottish history. My work was selected, and from that day, the Scarlet Highwayman became even more of an enigma to me. Not only that, but it fired up my desire to become a full-time artist. While studying for my art degree in Edinburgh, I spent my time continuing to research everything I could about him.

There were all sorts of fanciful claims and some rather disturbing accusations, but nothing that could identify who he was or why he became the person that he did.

The more mysterious his past became, the more intrigued I was. And over the many years, my fascination never waned. Even my then husband, Nick, commented that I seemed more interested in the Scarlet Highwayman than in him.

My spare bedroom in my rented flat in North London, which I’d converted into an art studio, contained everything, from my two wet panel boxes, for transporting paintings while I was out and about, to my pochade box: an easel and palette in one, made out of maple and stained with a deep-cherry finish.

My sketching desk, with its chrome, high-backed wooden chair, looked directly out of the window onto a swirl of treetops, with the merest glimpse of London architecture sandwiched between the jumble of shops.

The top of my desk was organised chaos. There was a sea of miniature paint pots, assorted pencils and a large, recycled jam jar containing my favourite paintbrushes. I used red sable for my watercolours and synthetic, cheaper brushes which were hardier when coming into frequent contact with water.