Page 70 of The Secret Castle in the Highlands

I tried not to laugh and squared my shoulders. ‘Well, better that than being Port Starr’s answer to Lucifer.’

His mouth broke into a million-dollar smile, with erupting dimples.

‘Right,’ I exclaimed, ignoring the appreciative ripple in my stomach, ‘so what we could do is check up on who was employed by the Lapley family around the time of the highwayman.’

Mason indicated the crumpled paper lying on the desk in front of us. ‘We could,’ he answered, ‘even though I’m somewhat sceptical.’

‘Steady,’ I gasped, ‘I’m sure you used the “we” word again then.’

He raised his hands in the air in surrender. ‘What can I say, Rapunzel? Maybe I’m slowly getting used to having a partner in crime.’

The next couple of days brought with them the start of the tourist season. The Scottish schoolchildren were eagerly anticipating the start of their summer holidays, and the number of visitors to Port Starr was building. Younger families were taking advantage of the weather and coach tours, and affluent couples could be seen meandering around the cobbled lanes and along the ribbon of sandy beach, or savouring ice creams and hot chocolates down by the harbour. McKerron Castle continued to buzz with fascinated tourists, weaving in and out of its courtyard and gift shop.

At night, there was still quite a strong breeze that would pirouette in from across the sea, but it didn’t stop the holidaymakers from soaking up the atmosphere, as the creamy coloured moon splashed its light down onto the cresting waves and illuminated the turrets of the castle.

Thursday saw a stream of purchases made by a visiting busload of tourists from Spain. They’d been lured up to the cottages by the promise of spectacular views, and thanks to Katie’s smattering of Spanish and her persuasive chatter at the office door (I think it was more a case of her dragging some of the bemused unfortunates in), we soon saw our courtyard occupied by the baseball-cap-wearing, waterproof-jacket-clad visitors.

Several of them also snapped up a selection of my smaller watercolours. They seemed very taken with the cottages and a number of them had scanned the QR code in our office window, linking them to our website, which contained details of availability until Christmas.

We breathed a collective sigh of relief when they shouted, ‘Adios!’ as they headed for their metallic coach in the car park, and we welcomed the peace descending on us again.

Katie offered to jump in her car and buy us two glistening Danish pastries from the bakery as a treat for all our hard work that day. She’d been gone a few minutes when my mobile trilled in my bag.

I wondered if it was Katie, struggling to decide between fruit or a more custard-based variety for us. But it wasn’t a deliberating Katie. It was Mason.

His voice washed over me. ‘Hi there. How are things?’

‘Oh, we can’t complain. A very busy afternoon with a Spanish coachload.’

‘That’s good.’

I could sense he had news.

‘I’ve been doing some digging into locals who were employed at The Hawthorns estate around the time of the highwayman, as you suggested.’

‘And?’

‘And it’s not great news, I’m afraid.’

‘In what way?’

I could hear Mason rustling some notes and then jabbing at his laptop keyboard. ‘They recruited and lost staff faster than I change my socks.’

‘But there must be at least one or two men that could be likely suspects.’

‘There are two possible names, but I’m not holding out much hope.’

I could hear Mason tapping on his keyboard again.

‘There’s a Gideon Kelly, who was recruited as a music teacher to Georgina’s son, Oscar, but this guy seems to be a real John Doe. There isn’t anything about him, other than where he’s buried.’

I wandered over to the office window. ‘There’s no other information about him in the archives?’

‘Well, he’s interred in Port Starr cemetery, but there’s no sign of a family tree for him or any evidence of links to the area.’ Mason’s frustration was evident. ‘If I didn’t know any better, I might think this Gideon Kelly had been wiped out of local history.’

‘Really?’ I gasped, observing our new arrivals, an elderly couple who had just taken up residence in Heron Cottage, waving at me as they sauntered past.

‘Don’t get too excited,’ he warned. ‘It’s far more likely this man was either a dodgy bugger or it’s just been some Records Office oversight.’