Page 91 of The Secret Castle in the Highlands

‘I’m sorry, Ms Summers, but I can confirm that your cottages aren’t currently under Listed Building status.’

I slid my pen up and down the page in my notebook, making erratic patterns. ‘Oh, I see.’ I didn’t really but I didn’t know what else to say. Why had someone provided me with their telephone number, in that case?

The Historic Heritage official, whose name was David, gave an empathetic sigh into my ear as I spoke to him on our business line. ‘Say you were to discover some concrete evidence that your business did have a link to someone like the Scarlet Highwayman. I can’t give you a categoric promise that your application for Listed Building status would be granted, but…’

I wriggled in my chair. The pearly July rain was shifting inland through the knitted shreds of clouds. Drops zigzagged down the office window as though taking part in some frenzied race.

I was still reeling from my FaceTime conversation with Mum and Dad an hour earlier, when I’d told them about Alex Lapley’s revelation that he owned our business.

My parents had gone from stunned silence to bubbling disbelief and then rage.

‘We’ve got to do something,’ struggled Dad. ‘I won’t accept this. How the hell…?’

I’d assured Dad that I had things in hand and keep them informed. I hoped I’d sounded calm and confident. Inside, I was anything but, frightened that we’d lose what we’d worked so hard to build.

I refocused on my phone call to Historic Heritage. ‘Please go on,’ I urged, desperate for any shred of positivity.

‘Well, if you were able to find something that did have a viable connection to him and the cottages or the land they’re situated on, then, put it this way, your application would be of interest.’

I ran one agitated hand down the length of my plait. ‘What would that mean if someone wanted to tamper with my business?’

I could almost hear a smile lift his face. ‘Ms Summers, if you found that your land was, say, the site of the birthplace of someone like the Scarlet Highwayman, it would virtually guarantee protection of your business.’

‘If only that were true.’ I smiled ruefully down the line.

At that moment, Katie arrived, dashing droplets of rain from her halo of curls and white hooded jacket.

‘Thank you for your help, David. I appreciate it.’

‘Oh, no worries at all. Good luck.’ He paused for a moment. ‘Something like that would be a real coup for us, too. The Scarlet Highwayman’s a bit of an enigma, isn’t he?’

‘Yes, he is.’

‘All the best to you, Ms Summers, and if you have any more questions, please don’t hesitate to get back in touch with us.’

‘Thank you for all your help.’ I rang off and gave the desk a frustrated thump.

Katie offered me one of her sympathetic smiles. ‘I take it that was Historic Heritage you were talking to?’ I had called Katie and Caleb last night to tell them the latest.

‘Yes. They were very helpful. Turns out this place isn’t listed. The only chance we would have is if there was irrefutable evidence linking the cottages or the land in some way to the Scarlet Highwayman.’

‘But there must be something about this place,’ said Katie, undeterred. ‘Otherwise, why would someone suggest we contact Historic Heritage in the first place? They must think there’s some sort of link.’

‘That’s true.’

She set down a small cardboard box containing two freshly baked scones. ‘I picked these up on the way in. One of those, dripping with warm butter, will bring a smile to your face.’

‘Oh, go on, then.’

Katie eagerly picked one up. ‘It’s raining, it’s Monday and if they aren’t two reasonable enough justifications to eat a buttered scone, I don’t know what is.’

Once we’d devoured our scones, the morning seemed to speed past in a flurry of phone calls and email enquiries, including one from an advertising agency in Edinburgh, who were keen to make a block booking for the cottages for the following April, as part of a staff team-building weekend.

The two of us were fussing around at the rear of the office and failed to hear the door edge open. The bell must have given the faintest ding, but Katie and I were making too much noise, clattering mugs and spoons, to hear it.

A stern-looking woman in a Barbour jacket coughed. Katie dived to the front of the office.

‘Can you imagine Alex Lapley’s waxy face if this area were to become Listed?’ I murmured to Katie as the lady examined one of my A5-sized textiles of the beach.