listened wide-eyed to every tale, spending hours sitting listening as they wielded their long-handled spades or sat around their campfires at night. The moss fascinated him. In daylight the colours made him itch to reach for his pens and brushes, trying to capture the emerald of the moss itself, the russets and yellows and the glories of the purple heather. On hot days they saw adders and lizards basking and they heard the calls of distant snipe and the chink of stonechats and the yelp of buzzards. But at night it was lonely and eerie, swathed in mist and moon-shot shadows and the only sound was the haunting call of an owl.
All three boys were devastated when David received a letter from their mother informing them that the time had come for them to return home and that their cousin of Carnock would be sending his coach at the end of the week. The days were not as warm now as when they had first arrived; mist hung in the trees in the mornings and there was a scent of autumn in the air, but even so, they could have stayed there for ever.
Tom wrote everything down in his notebook, careful with the details, including sketches and even little tinted paintings. One of his mother’s friends had shown the boy how to use a brush to shade his inks and to grind up pigments to make the watercolour washes that would make his sketches realistic and he practised in the evenings by the light of a lamp as his brothers read or left him alone to walk through the moonlight to take a dram with their neighbours. He didn’t realise he was keeping a diary, but the keeping of meticulous records was another skill he would practise all his life.
Finlay greeted Ruth with a crushing bear hug when he arrived next morning just after nine. He brought croissants and coffee in a Thermos. ‘I wasn’t sure whether your father would have proper coffee-making equipment,’ he said as he sat down at the kitchen table, the paper bags in front of him. He was a huge man, a larger-than-life character in every way, the same age as Rick, but as they had often joked, he appeared older and was far more worldly wise.
He surveyed her sternly. ‘My God, you look knackered, sweetheart.’
She reached in the cupboard for cups and plates. ‘I was up late doing family research. It’s a good distraction from what’s been going on here.’
He studied her for a moment. ‘I was so sorry to hear about your father. What a bum summer you’ve had. And now this ne’er-do-well turns up!’ He began to unpack their breakfast. ‘It broke my heart when I heard you and Rick had split up.’
When he finally allowed her to speak she told him the whole story as he sat devouring his croissant, his eyes fixed unwaveringly on her face.
‘Forgive me asking, but why did your mother stay with your father?’ he asked when she finished her story.
Ruth smiled sadly. ‘I keep asking myself that. I used to come up to Edinburgh and meet her sometimes secretly; he never knew. After she died I had no contact. He never tried to persuade me to come home.’
‘Till he needed you.’
‘Even then, it wasn’t him who called, it was Sally, next door. To be honest, he barely recognised me.’
They sat in silence for a few moments, then he leaned forward, seemingly re-energised. ‘Right, so, you want me to store some of your precious family stuff for you.’
She nodded slowly. ‘I don’t think it’s all that valuable in money terms; I suspect Timothy has already been through it and if there was anything worth having he’s probably taken it, but I feel a bit threatened, as if he would take things out of spite if he thought I valued them.’
He leaned forward, elbow on the table, chin in hand, and studied her again with disconcerting concentration. ‘I can take as much as you like. You have me to take care of you now.’ He grinned boyishly. ‘The problem will be to make sure he isn’t spying on you. If he thinks you are moving anything out, he might go to the courts. I don’t know the law on this. We should check with your Mr Reid. Is there any large furniture you want removed?’
‘No, most of the stuff I want to keep is really small. This writing box is the largest.’ It was lying on the kitchen table. ‘The rest is in suitcases and boxes. I’m still looking for the family portraits. I don’t know if they even exist still. Dad really hated them. Mum only brought them here because there was no one else for my grandparents to leave them to. I don’t care about the rest of the furniture, to be honest.’
‘Right.’ He stood up. ‘Why don’t we go out to my place now with a load. That writing box for a start. I could mend that for you. My car is just up the road. We’ll check he isn’t lurking. What sort of car does he have?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t even know if he has one.’
Finlay was back at once. ‘He’s parked right outside, or someone is, watching this house. Take a shifty out of the front window.’
It was Timothy. Cautiously she peered from behind the heavy curtain. He had made no attempt at being subtle; his hands were clamped on the steering wheel with every appearance of impatience. From time to time he glanced at his watch. ‘He looks as though he’s waiting for someone. No, he’s getting out of the car.’ She stepped back from the window. ‘He’s coming in.’
They heard the sound of a key in the lock. Timothy wrestled with it for a moment, before uttering an exclamation of impatience. Ruth opened her mouth to protest, but Finlay put his finger to his lips and gestured to her to remain out of sight.
He crept towards the door surprisingly quietly for such a large man and opened it. Timothy was standing there, a key in his hand. ‘Can I help you?’ Finlay stood four-square in the doorway.
‘She’s changed the lock!’ Timothy’s anger was barely contained. He didn’t ask who Finlay was and Finlay didn’t volunteer the information.
‘If by “she” you mean Ruth, you’re right. She has. On the advice of her solicitor. She suspected, rightly, obviously, that you had kept a key to her house when she asked you to leave.’
‘My house.’ Timothy was tight-lipped.
‘I doubt if any court in the land would substantiate that claim.’ Finlay folded his arms. ‘I understand you’ve removed articles belonging to Ruth’s mother which are her property and no part of her father’s inheritance; that is theft.’
Timothy stared at him, seemingly inarticulate with fury, then he turned and walked back to the car. Finlay closed the door. He put his hand in his pocket and brought out his phone. ‘Let me make a note of the licence number for future reference.’
Ruth was seething with anger. ‘The nasty sneaky man! What was he planning to do when he got in?’
‘I should have asked him.’ Finlay slipped his phone back into his pocket. ‘I think you should ring your Mr Reid. Tell him what happened. We have to keep the law tight on your side and at the same time warn him that your so-called brother is not playing cricket.’
Ruth stared at him, her mouth open. ‘My brother!’ she echoed in horror. ‘No!’
‘Well, half-brother. And almost certainly, no. He will have to take a DNA test to prove it.’
‘Of
