blushes still tinted the waves of the loch. Loch Roy probably meant Red Lake, from ruadh, red. Although the stones here weren’t red, not like those on the far side of Skye. Had the waters of the loch been tinted red with blood from various clan battles? More likely, the name came from a person’s name—Rory, also from ruadh, as in red hair. Or, considering the climate, red face, red from the cold or red from the reaction to that bright yellow globe in the sky when it condescended to appear.
Did he have red hair, the ill-fated Rory MacLeod who had chosen the hard place below old Dunasheen over the sharp edge at his back? How about Greg’s ancestor Tormod, of dubious but intriguing memory?
Alasdair said, “It’s by way of being a fake, is it? Well then, the Duke has no call claiming a large insurance settlement.”
Cold as they were, Jean’s ears twitched, and she abandoned her wordsmith’s reverie.
A pause while Ian, whose virtues lay in method rather than imagination, spoke. Then Alasdair replied, “No, it’s not at all surprising. Crusaders, soldiers, toffs on their Grand Tours, they’d bring back loads of art, antiques, artifacts, holy relics—not all of it legally, mind you. And half the time not knowing what they had, nor caring, come to that, so long as they put on a good show. There’s a trait’s not yet died out, not by a long chalk.”
No, it hadn’t, Jean thought, with another look at the castle. But she couldn’t criticize Fergie and his daughter and business partner—who, despite Alasdair’s “wee,” was almost thirty years old—for trying to present a good enough show to hang onto their house, the physical representation of their own family tree.
“Cheers, Ian. Enjoy your holiday.” Tucking the phone into his pocket, Alasdair turned to Jean.
Her feet in their wellies were so cold she felt as though she was wearing ice buckets, and shuffled rather than stepped. “Tea,” she reminded him. “Coffee. Maybe a wee dram, even. A warm fire. One of Fergie’s dogs or our own cat, whatever, as long as it’s got fur. I’ll get my notebook and lie in wait for Greg and his murder story. Or Fergie and his plans for saving the estate, whoever crosses my bow first.”
“Right,” Alasdair said. Once again, they started off toward the house, this time walking even more briskly.
Ahead of them, the courtyard gate opened and shut with a clang. A woman hurried across the gravel terrace and up the path, arms knotted across the chest of her fake leopard skin coat. One hand held Fergie’s largest flashlight tucked below her elbow like a semi-concealed weapon. Luxuriant golden-blond curls bounced around her pert, tanned face. Her tight red mouth loosened far enough to say, “Hello there. Have you seen a bloke in a red jacket?”
“Greg MacLeod?” Alasdair returned. “He walked down to the old cas—”
“Stupid sod! I told him he could wait ’til tomorrow, we’ve just arrived, not even unpacked, but no, we’ve come halfway round the world, he said, what’s a few more yards, dark or no flipping dark?”
This was “the wife.” At first glance, Jean thought she was twenty years younger than Greg. At second glance, Jean realized that she wasn’t at all younger, she was simply fighting gleaming tooth, painted nail, and hair color a shade too bright for her complexion, against the forces of entropy.
“I’m Tina MacLeod, Greg’s, well, Greg’s been going on for years about this godforsaken place, imagine that!”
God had phoned it in a few times out here, thought Jean, but you could say that of Sydney or Brisbane, too.
Alasdair’s expression remained neutral.
“London was good, lights, a hotel, nightclubs, but no, that’s not enough, he’s stuck on the flipping family tree, been rattling on about it for flipping years. Here we could be sitting at the C Bar back home, having a cold one beneath the palms—do you know Townsville, that’s in the tropical part of Queensland—I read a brilliant story about a miniature dinosaur in the back garden, made perfect sense.”
Alasdair managed to get a word in. “He’s gone down to the beach and round to the left.”
“I’d better yank in his lead, then, it’s almost time for tea. Or drinks, more likely. Anti-freeze. Ta.” She picked her way past, the wellies she, too, had liberated from the stash by the back door slapping along the path. A few paces away, she switched on the flashlight. A bubble of luminescence danced before her like a will o’ the wisp leading unwary travelers to their doom.
“Have a care,” Alasdair shouted after her. “The path’s right slippy.”
“Ta!” Tina said again, without turning around.
They waited while the light disappeared down the slope to the bridge, reappeared at the hulking shadow of the ruined castle, vanished behind the wall. Faintly, Tina’s voice called, “Cooeee, Greg!”
It was bad luck for a woman or a blond or red-headed man to be first across the threshold at the new year, although whether Fergie’s Hogmanay package included that old custom, Jean didn’t yet know. He could have a twofer with Tina MacLeod.
Exchanging dubious smiles, she and Alasdair turned away from the old castle, a dark shadow against the clouds. Great minds thought alike, but his was less likely to be visualizing will-o’-the-wisps and doom than pondering how dangerous ruins could be, and not from anything paranormal… It was the sky that was ominous, Jean told herself, not Skye. A year ago she’d learned that seasonal affective disorder was a real threat in the depths of a Scottish winter. It said something about the national temperament.
As long as the free-range Aussies made it past the castle, they’d be okay. Even Jean, whose middle name was not “Grace,” had managed to get from church to castle along the pebbled beach without mishap.
She and Alasdair pressed on across the gravel and stepped through the gate into the courtyard. The damp cobblestones inside glistened with streaks of gold, red, and green. The arched door in the angle of the wall displayed a wreath of holly and ivy tied with MacDonald tartan ribbons, hung so that the Green Man knocker—one of Fergie’s artistic endeavors—peeked mischievously from its center.
They walked up the three steps to the door. Alasdair set his hand on the iron handle. From inside came a barely perceptible strain of music.
Then a long, wavering, shriek, pulsing with anguish, echoed across land and water and set the gulls to screeching and flapping upward like winged ghosts.
Jean spun around, her heart lurching. “That’s got to be Tina!”
Instead of leaping back down the steps, Alasdair threw the door open. Sweeping Jean with him, he lunged inside and shouted, “Fergie! Diana!”
She blinked at what seemed like a flood of light, although it was only the contrast—the aging ceiling fixtures weren’t emitting more than a yellow glow. This was the back door, the postern gate, where old and mismatched boots, limp hats, and a couple of tall vases bristling with umbrellas, walking sticks, and fishing rods had come to roost.
“Fergie!” Alasdair bellowed, drowning out the music Jean could now identify as the CD she had given Fergie, the latest from her friend and neighbor Hugh Munro, who was singing lustily about heaving away and hauling away, bound for South Australia.
From the open door behind her came a cold draft and an ominous—no, not silence, a distant sobbing, wailing sound that was neither wind nor sea. And Jean
