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‘You’re welcome, dear. Gets me out of the old folks’ home. I’ll tell you a secret about the roof tiles, shall I?’
‘Please do.’ Liz slung her handbag onto her shoulder, wrapping her own coat around her and shivering. The misty morning above the loch was beautiful, but freezing.
‘I happen to know that the Laird probably isn’t as up to date with the castle’s repairs as he would be usually. Due to a certain romance with a certain American.’ Gretchen took Liz’s arm and raised an eyebrow coquettishly.
‘What American?’ Liz asked, curiously, as they walked slowly up to the imposing castle door, Liz allowing for Gretchen’s slower pace. ‘What’s the Laird like? I heard he was youngish. I’d assumed he would be…’ She trailed off, not wanting to offend Gretchen. But what she had meant wasI’d assumed that he’d be old.
‘Wizened, like me? Hardly. Hal Cameron’s a fine young man; some might saybuff, but I couldn’t possibly comment. He’s seeing an American friend of mine, Zelda. That’s a whole other story. I’ll fill you in later.’ She lowered her voice as the castle door opened and a tall, well-built man with light brown curly hair and a beard stood in the doorway.
‘Ah, hello, Gretchen. Welcome. And this must be Liz?’ He stepped forward and shook Liz’s hand. ‘Hal Cameron.’
Liz kept a straight face, wanting to giggle at the fact Gretchen had described Hal asbuff.He absolutely was – Liz could see that straight away. It was more that eighty-three-year-old Gretchen had chosen that word in particular. She was glad she’d come up to the castle; it was cheering her up no end.
‘Indeed, yes. Thanks for having us in your lovely castle.’ Liz smiled. ‘Gretchen’s told me so much about your wonderful archive.’
‘Ah, well. The Camerons have been here a long time, that’s all,’ he demurred, leading them inside. ‘The least we could do was keep records of what happened in the area. I’m grateful to my ancestors for that, if not their war-mongering.’
They stepped into a cavernous reception hall, and Liz looked around her in awe. A variety of old-fashioned weapons were arranged on the walls in neat lines and circles, while an array of oil paintings hung on the opposite wall, facing the muskets and rifles.
‘I see what you mean about the war-mongering,’ she said, taking it all in. ‘Were these used in battle?’
‘Aye. Some have blood on them still.’ He nodded, gravely. ‘I’m not one for all that, but it was all there when I was born and it’ll be there when I die. Ancestry. Tradition. I think if I took it down, my ancestors would start hauntin’ me.’
‘Are those your ancestors?’ Liz pointed to the portraits. ‘There’s a resemblance, I must say.’
‘Aye, yes indeed. Every one a Cameron.’ Hal looked up at the portraits. ‘Not every one a good man, but I guess every family has a few black sheep, eh.’
‘Oh, yes. In fact, Liz, Hal helped me find out about some of my ancestors, not so long ago. I’ll have to tell you the story sometime,’ Gretchen said, leaning on her stick. ‘However, my legs aren’t what they used to be, so, Hal – can you take us to the archive, so I can sit down and so Liz can look up what she needs to?’
‘Aye, certainly. Come this way.’ Hal led Gretchen and Liz down a long, dark wood-panelled corridor which featured many doors leading off it. Liz peeked into some of the rooms as they walked past: drawing rooms with sofas and side-tables, a formal-looking dining room with a highly polished wooden table and a games room with green baize billiard tables made Liz wonder what it must be like to live in such a grand place. She wanted to explore a room filled with rows and rows of antique leather books, but Hal led them on to a door just before the end of the corridor.
Liz helped Gretchen down some stairs and they found themselves in a shorter, below-stairs corridor which was painted an old-looking sage green colour, like an old hospital.
‘The old larder and store rooms are down this way,’ Hal explained. ‘We dinnae really use them anymore, but the area stays cool, so I keep the records down here. Here ye are.’
He opened a heavy oak door onto a medium-sized room in which various glass-fronted cabinets ranged the walls, and a large oil painting of an old-fashioned sailing ship on a choppy blue sea hung over a heavily singed cast iron fireplace. Liz could see that most of the cabinets were piled up with old leather books and large ledgers. One whole wall also held shelves of old-looking books protected by locked glass doors.
Hal brought out a set of keys from his pocket and used one to open the padlock on the glass walled section. Gretchen settled herself into one of three chairs that sat at a wooden table in the middle of the room, sighing.
‘Ah, that’s better,’ she muttered. ‘Now, then, Liz. Who was it again you wanted to know about?’
‘Muriel Peabody, Elspeth Anderson, Felicity Black and Evelyn McCallister. I have their dates of birth here.’ Liz reached into her handbag and took out her notebook. ‘They were members of the parish; they’re buried up at the little chapel on the hill.’
‘Okay. Let’s have a look at the dates.’ Hal glanced at the notebook. ‘Muriel Peabody died in 1834?’ Liz nodded. ‘Okay. Let’s look at the births, marriages and deaths ledger first, an’ then I’ll pull out the records we have that covered her lifetime. It’s varied, what’s here, but the Chamberlains used tae keep the records for what happened in Loch Cameron. It might be criminal proceedings, observations on the weather, strange occurrences, weddin’s, that kind o’ thing. And there’re some local census reports sometimes. My ancestors did them intermittently, but they contain some interestin’ information.’
‘Great. Thanks so much, Hal.’ Liz took the leather-bound volumes that the Laird handed her, and laid them on the table next to Gretchen. ‘Gretchen? Would you mind looking for any mention of Muriel in those, and I’ll take the next person on the list?’ she asked.
‘Certainly, dear. And help yourself to these, if you like.’ Gretchen reached into her handbag for her glasses and a tin of travel sweets, which she placed on the table next to her. ‘I’m sure that the Laird’ll bring us a cup of tea as well, when he’s ready.’
‘Oh, he will, will he?’ Hal chuckled. ‘Okay, Gretchen. Comin’ up, aye. Why d’ye want tae see the records for these women, anyway?’ He turned to Liz. ‘Bit of a local history enthusiast, or…?’ He trailed off.
‘Oh, well, kind of, I suppose.’ Liz nodded. ‘I’ve just started work at the distillery. I’m the new Sales Director. Thing is, confidentially, the distillery’s not doing so well, and I’ve suggested they launch a new product. But it’s up to me to come up with a new concept, and when I was up at the graveyard the other day, I got to thinking about these women. Did you know that the knowledge of distilling was mostly held by women, when the tradition started? There was a time when it was viewed with suspicion, like witchcraft.’
‘I didn’t know that. Interestin.’ Hal took a boiled sweet from Gretchen’s tin. ‘So, what’s that got tae do with these women? Were they distillers?’
‘Not that I know of. But, you know, they’re buried up in the graveyard with very dismissive headstones. They all just say OLD MAID.’
‘Rude,’ Gretchen interjected. ‘If anyone puts that on my stone, I’ll haunt them.’
