‘There’s no airport on Kilfoil, Mum,’ she’d told her frustratedly. ‘And what other boat would you suggest? A fishing trawler, perhaps?’
Mrs Chantry had tutted impatiently. ‘So you’re telling me there’s nothing you can do until the ferries start running again?’
‘As far as getting off the island is concerned, yes,’ said Rosa shortly. ‘Believe me, I don’t like it any more than you do.’
But was that strictly true? Rosa asked herself now, aware that the knowledge that Liam was just a dozen miles away was some compensation. If the ferries had been running she’d have been several hundred miles away by now, and any chance of seeing him again would have been denied her.
She frowned. Well, she couldn’t stay in her room all day. She’d had her breakfast, and once again the books she’d bought held no appeal. There must be some other way she could get out to the castle, she thought, her pulse quickening at the thought. At least it would give her something to do. Even if that old grouse Sam Devlin refused to let her in.
Mrs Ferguson was dusting the sitting room when she went downstairs and, feeling a little awkward, Rosa stopped in the doorway. ‘Um—I was wondering,’ she said, and the landlady looked up expectantly. ‘I was wondering if there was a car I could hire for the day.’
‘Do you not know McAllister’s number?’ The woman frowned and put her duster aside. ‘I think I’ve got it here somewhere—’
‘No.’ Rosa interrupted her, and when the landlady halted uncertainly, she added, ‘I didn’t mean a taxi, Mrs Ferguson. I wondered if there was a car I could hire to drive myself.’
The woman frowned. ‘Well, it’s not much of a day for sightseeing.’
‘I know that.’ Rosa sighed. ‘As a matter of fact, I’d like to drive over to see Mr Jameson again. There—er—there’s something I forgot to ask him.’
‘Ah.’ Mrs Ferguson nodded. ‘And you’re not keen to have old McAllister drive you, is that it?’
‘Well…’
Rosa felt her face turn red, but the landlady was smiling. ‘Yes, I can see you’re not impressed with his driving, lassie.’ She laughed. ‘I have to admit, I’d think twice about getting in his vehicle myself.’
Rosa relaxed. ‘So—er—is there a car I could hire?’ she asked hopefully. ‘I’m willing to pay.’
‘Och, you can take my car, Miss Chantry. It hardly gets used, anyway. It’s not very grand, mind you, but it’s roadworthy.’
Rosa gasped. ‘Oh, that would be wonderful!’
Mrs Ferguson laughed again. ‘Don’t say that until you’ve seen it, lassie,’ she advised. ‘Come along. I’ll show you where I keep it.’
The car, an ancient Ford, was kept in a shed at the back of the guesthouse, and Rosa saw at once that the landlady hadn’t been exaggerating when she’d said it wasn’t very grand. It had to be at least twenty years old, and was covered in dust into the bargain. Mrs Ferguson had to wipe away a handful of spiders’ webs before she could open the door.
But the engine started after only a couple of hiccoughs, and Rosa stepped aside as the woman reversed it out onto the street. One good thing—the rain quickly cleared the dust from the chassis, and Rosa saw that the wipers worked. All in all, it was exactly what she needed, and she couldn’t thank the landlady enough.
‘Och, it’s nothing,’ said Mrs Ferguson, surrendering the driving seat to her guest and stepping back into the shelter of the shed, out of the rain. ‘You drive carefully, now. The roads can be treacherous in the wet. I wouldn’t like you to go skidding into a bog.’
Rosa thought she wouldn’t like that, either, but she refused to be daunted. She couldn’t be a worse driver than old McAllister if she tried. And there was no hurry. If she took all morning to get there, it wouldn’t matter.
The first indication that driving Mrs Ferguson’s car wasn’t going to be a sinecure came when Rosa reached the first corner and tried to turn. The wheel was like a dead weight in her hands, and she realised that it had no power steering. Of course, she thought impatiently, wrenching the car round manually. The installation of power steering in small cars like this was a comparatively recent innovation.
It made driving much harder, and her arms were aching by the time she’d negotiated the twists and turns down to the harbour. It was easier once she was driving up the road out of the village, but she wasn’t looking forward to the journey across that lonely stretch of moor.
The rain hindered visibility, too, and once or twice she was sure she saw ghostly figures rising out of the mist. But it was only the skeletal trunks of trees worn bare by the winds that raked the boggy scrubland. Nevertheless, she was glad she didn’t have to drive across here in the dark.
At last she reached the road that wound down into the glen where Kilfoil Castle was situated. She couldn’t see the castle, of course. The driving rain made that impossible. But now and then she glimpsed a farmhouse, and the unmistakable presence of livestock. She even saw a farmer herding some cows into a barn.
She relaxed. She’d made it. The only problem now was getting in to see Liam himself. She had the feeling Sam wouldn’t be too pleased when she presented herself at the door. But he must know she hadn’t left the island. Surely he might expect that she’d try to see his employer again?
She drove over the small bridge and parked in the same place Liam had used four days ago. Four days! She was amazed. Was that really all it was? She grimaced. Sometimes it felt as if she’d been here half her life.
She got out of the car, closing the door with care. No one had come to meet her, and she was curiously loath to announce her arrival in advance. Squaring her shoulders against the squally wind that blew in off the ocean, she crossed the forecourt to the double doors.
There was no bell, but she’d hardly expected one. Knights of old hadn’t needed such things. In the books she’d read, the knight’s lady would be watching for her spouse from one of the narrow windows in the solar, or perhaps a vigilant guard would warn of a stranger’s arrival. The portcullis would be lowered to protect those within the castle—
‘Miss Chantry!’
Rosa had been so absorbed with her thoughts that she hadn’t heard the door being opened. But now the housekeeper stood there, regarding her with obvious surprise.
‘Oh, Mrs Wilson.’ Rosa knew she should have been better prepared for this encounter. ‘Um—how are you?’
‘I’m very well, thank you.’ The woman cast a nervous glance over her shoulder. ‘Is there something I can help you with, Miss Chantry?’
‘I hope so, yes.’ Rosa smiled. ‘Is—er—is Mr Jameson about?’
It was a stupid question. Rosa knew that as soon as the words left her lips. Where else would he be?
‘Mr Jameson?’
The housekeeper sounded doubtful, and she hurried on, ‘Yes. I mean, is he working this morning? Or could I have a quick word with him?’
‘Oh, I—’ Once again Mrs
