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Frustrated, he kicked at the nearest bush, and to his surprise, a book came flying out. Duncan retrieved it and dusted the cover off. It was a copy of The Hobbit. One of his staff must have dropped it, or one of the work crew who’d been painting the windows over the past few weeks. He’d give it to Donna and have her track down the owner. For some reason, he flicked through the pages—and stilled.
He lowered himself to sit on the steps leading up to his kitchen door and started slowly leafing through the book. It was full of drawings. Pen and ink doodles in the margins, and full-colour drawings that filled whole pages. He recognised the images as being illustrations from the text. A hobbit on one page, a troll on the next, a large snarling dragon flowing across a double-page spread at the back of the book. His heart raced at the sight of the work. They were some of the best illustrations he’d seen in years. The drawings almost had a life of their own, a style that made them jump from the page. Whoever had done these had serious talent.
He frowned. Why were they working in Arness instead of making a living from their work? Was it possible someone was trying to get close to him, hoping he’d use his connections in the art world to help them get ahead? It wouldn’t be the first time it’d happened to him. But if that was the case, why hadn’t they approached him already? Or, was this person hiding their talent? A shiver ran down his spine, and he wondered if he’d hit on the truth.
He flicked through the book, stunned again at the quality of the artwork, before turning to the front of the book. No name. No mark of ownership at all. Whoever had done the drawings hadn’t claimed them, and Duncan suspected he was right about them hiding their talent. There had been a time, years earlier, when he would have searched the artist out and demanded they fulfil their potential. That was back in the days when he cared enough to mentor the talent that impressed him.
Still, these drawings, they deserved a second look. Maybe later, when he’d finished dealing with his errant housekeeper, he’d track down the artist and return the book to them personally. In the meantime, he tucked it into his back pocket. It was a mystery, and for the first time in years, he’d found something that intrigued him. Something that stirred up his curiosity and made him want answers. Aye, he’d keep hold of the book for now—until he solved the mystery of the unknown artist.
But before that, he had a housekeeper to sort out.
***
Donna wasn’t proud. She ran from the mansion. And from Duncan. Unfortunately, she ran into town. And it was only when she was cornered by the local branch of the Scottish Women’s Institute that she remembered she was also running from them. It was clear she needed a new life strategy. Avoiding people wasn’t working for her, they just tracked her down. Like the three old women who had her hemmed against the wall outside the bank.
“Hello, ladies,” Donna said. “You all look lovely today.” She stumbled over the words when her eyes landed on Joyce MacDonald. The seventy-eight-year-old was wearing a bubble gum pink jogging suit and had dyed her hair to match. Donna cleared her throat. “Um, I’m sorry I can’t stay and chat. I have a lot of errands to run.”
She took a step forwards, but Joyce—moving with the speed of a woman half her age—blocked her escape with her walker. She gave Donna an angelic smile, revealing teeth smeared with pink lipstick.
Ann Dunbar, a retired head teacher, gave Donna a look that made her squirm. “You’ve been avoiding us.”
There was nothing she could say to that. It was true. She wasn’t even good at hiding it. Ever since they’d approached her months earlier about using the mansion’s ballroom, she’d been dodging their calls, hoping they’d give up and find another venue for their fundraiser. She’d completely underestimated the tenacity of the women. It was like a leg of pork trying to outrun three pitbulls.
“Have you spoken to Duncan about letting us use the ballroom yet?” Flora Reid, Campbeltown’s reigning bingo queen, gave her a sympathetic smile. In her perfectly styled grey hair and peach coloured twinset, she looked like everyone’s favourite grandmother, but Donna wasn’t fooled—she’d seen Flora play bingo. Nothing stood between the woman and a winning line.
“Eh, no.” Donna cleared her throat. “But I plan to.” She’d scheduled for it the twelfth of never.
“You’ve been planning to talk to him for months now.” Ann’s frown made Do
nna feel like she was about to get detention. Something that had never happened when she’d been in school because she’d been too worried about disappointing her teachers to do anything unruly.
“Has it been that long?” Donna gave them a wide-eyed look. “Time sure does fly.”
Ann was undeterred. “Are you seriously trying to make us believe that in all these months, you couldn’t find five minutes to talk to him about the ball?”
“He’s been...um...busy.” Her cheeks burned, and she couldn’t look them in the eyes.
“Doing what?” Joyce demanded. “Moping?”
Her eyes shot up to glare at the woman, and she felt a flush of fury that she quickly tamped down. “He’s mourning. He lost his wife.”
Joyce snorted. “That was two and a half years ago. My Graeme died ten months ago and do you see me moping? No, you don’t. That’s no way to honour the dead.”
Donna bit her lip to stop from pointing out that Joyce and Graeme had barely spoken to each other for decades before he’d died, they hadn’t exactly been the town’s great love story.
“I will talk to him, I promise,” Donna said, hoping to appease them enough for her to escape.
“That’s good,” Flora said. “Because the programme we’re raising money for helps cancer patients and their families with ongoing costs. Things like travelling to the hospital to stay with their sick children.” She gave Joyce a pointed look.
Joyce’s eyes went wide. “Oh, aye,” she said. “Some families can’t work for months because they’re going back and forth with wee ones.”
“Wee sick ones,” Ann clarified.
Flora sniffed and wiped at her eye. “Even babies.”
It was the last straw. How could she stand in the way of helping families with sick children? With babies? Her shoulders slumped. “I’ll talk to Duncan.”
“Today?” Ann pushed.
