Page 72 of The Secret Castle in the Highlands

‘Is that where Gideon Kelly is buried?’ I asked.

He tapped one finger at the coloured map, which featured three smaller photographs beside it; one was of an aerial view of the entire cemetery, and another was a grainy picture of Gideon Kelly’s headstone.

This evening, the early summer sun trickled through the branches, bathing the cemetery in an almost heavenly light, and there was the fizzing song of blackbirds.

Mason strode off on his long legs up the nearby gravelled path, full of purpose. ‘It’s this way.’

We weaved past the folds of grass, on which numerous headstones crouched. The ghosts of former Port Starr residents, their names and often tender ages, became a blur amongst the ripples of headstones and the scent of cut grass.

Mason stopped for a moment and took in his surroundings. ‘Have you noticed something about this section of the graveyard?’

I shook my head. ‘No. What?’

He pointed. ‘I think this area was reserved for the more affluent members of Port Starr society.’ He folded his arms. His pale-blue shirtsleeves were rolled up, his muscles rippling under the cotton. ‘The further we go into this section, the more extravagant the headstones.’

He was right.

‘It was the Victorians who really started the customs and practices associated with death.’ Mason studied the view in front of him: the needle-thin tombstones and ornate sculpted designs that punched upwards out of the lush grass. ‘They really went in for elaborate headstones. The more lavish and decorated, the better.’

‘I take it that was a social thing?’ I asked as I admired a carving of a vase of lilies depicted on a gravestone to my right.

Mason nodded his dark head. ‘It was. At one time, gravestones were only erected by the so-called middle and upper classes.’ He glanced around. ‘In the eighteenth century, there was a short-lived craze for covering graves with iron cages.’ He indicated over his shoulder. ‘That’s an example of one there. It was known as a mortsafe.’

I adjusted the strap of my pink shoulder bag. ‘Was that to protect the headstones from theft?’

‘And also, the grave itself, from body snatchers.’

I shuddered. ‘Good grief.’

We walked on, our trainers crunching the shell-pink gravel under our feet. ‘It was around the seventeen eighties that there was a shift towards commemorating the soul of the person who had passed on and also being more considerate to the loved ones who were left behind.’ Mason shot me a glance, his lips moving in a short flicker of a smile. ‘Sorry if I’m going on a bit or boring you, Poppy. Not exactly my best chat-up lines, are they?’

He seemed to realise what he had said and all at once straightened his shoulders. ‘If you look over there, you’ll see a weeping willow tree featured on one or two of the slate and marble stones. That was the most popular gravestone image for people in the nineteenth century up to around eighteen sixty.’

‘You’re not boring me,’ I reassured him quickly. ‘I’m really interested.’

Mason flicked me a look. ‘That’s good. I’m glad.’

There was an electrified silence.

I flicked one hand, just for something to do. ‘So, what was the meaning of the willow tree? Was it sorrow and sadness, I guess?’

Mason thrust one hand into his pocket, while the other still clutched his phone. ‘Exactly.’

Celtic-style crosses and pensive winged angels seemed to watch us with interest as we passed by. Other stones were shaped like church doors.

He referred to his map on his phone again and took a sharp right on the path. The sun was now sliding lazily down the trees. ‘Gideon Kelly’s grave should be up here. Going by all the stonework we’ve seen so far, this looks like it could be it…’

Mason’s voice disappeared into the light evening breeze.

‘What is it?’ I called, moving away from a pretty headstone studded with marble lilies. I drew up beside him and blinked with surprise. ‘Oh. Is that it?’

There was the usual array of ornate headstones circling us, sporting everything from scalloped flowers to overlapping stone hearts. But stationed further away was this much plainer stone.

It sat apart from the others, surveying the bowing trees. There was no elaborate inscription. All it said on the pale-grey stone was:

Gideon Kelly

1762–1830