Page 43 of The Secret Castle in the Highlands

Mr Cooper,

Apologies for the dramatic way in which this diary was delivered to you, but I was anxious that it was placed in the right hands.

As you will see from the inscription, this diary belonged to Mrs Georgina Lapley, a member of the Port Starr Lapley dynasty.

I feel it is imperative you have it. I was very concerned that the diary was at risk of being located by another third party, whose interest, as you may have guessed, is not an honourable one.

I hope this diary is of assistance to you in your quest for the truth.

The note finished as abruptly as it began, with no clue as to who had written it – or who had delivered it to Mason earlier that day.

I folded the typed note and handed it back to Mason. ‘Blimey.’

‘Blimey indeed,’ he said, placing it back inside the diary. He then scrolled on his phone, his long fingers clicking on certain sections of the ancestry website.

Names of the Lapley family shimmered up on the screen, ancestors from decades gone by.

Mason’s eager eyes scanned this way and that across the phone screen, until he let out a quiet but excited ‘There! There she is.’

I leaned across, a wave of mint bodywash emanating from under his T-shirt.

Mason stopped reading the web page. His wolf-like stare was inches away from my face. I held my breath as he lifted his attention to my hair, which was still secured away from my face in a high ponytail. His eyes swooped down to rest on my lips.

I pointed back at his phone screen. ‘So,’ I squeaked with a series of frantic blinks, ‘have you found Georgina Lapley, then?’

Mason sank back in his seat, appearing somewhat disorientated. He straightened his shoulders, the spell broken. ‘Er, yes, it looks like it.’

My mind fought not to engage with what had almost happened. Had he been thinking of kissing me? Well, going by his growing reputation, it was a good thing he didn’t. I tried to concentrate on the Lapley family tree.

Mason moved the screen up and down. ‘This family tree confirms it. Georgina Fawcett married Augustus Lapley. They are Alex Lapley’s great-great-great-grandparents.’

I nodded at her diary, lying in Mason’s lap. ‘So, I take it there’s mention of her husband, Augustus, in there.’

‘Yes, there is. He might have been her husband,’ he answered, ‘but she wasn’t in love with him, though.’

‘What do you mean?’

Mason picked up the worn diary and held it in one hand. ‘I’ve only started reading the first few entries, but it’s clear she hated Augustus Lapley and I can’t say I blame her.’

My lips parted with surprise. ‘Really? Why?’

‘Well, to put it bluntly, he was a controlling, spiteful bastard who showed more affection to his two noisy gun dogs than he did to his own wife and son.’

I read the excerpt eagerly as we sat in Mason’s car.

7 June 1793

‘The boy doesn’t need a violin tutor.’

‘With respect, Augustus, I believe he does.’

My husband’s fair brows knitted together with annoyance.

‘He possesses a real musical talent,’ I argued, ‘and with the correct instruction, I think he can achieve wonderful things.’

Augustus drew his thin lips back in a snarl. ‘Are you suggesting, my dear, that your husband has not?’

I swallowed a frightened lump in my throat. ‘Not at all. All I am suggesting is that Oscar would benefit greatly from a suitable music teacher.’