Monkshood

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‘I see.’ The girl shrugged. ‘The nearest garage is in Rossmore, about five miles away. You could possibly telephone them tomorrow if the weather improves.’

‘Oh, yes! Thank you.’ Melanie glanced round. ‘Er – a Mr. Bothwell – gave me a lift. He came into the hotel. Do you happen to know where he is? I’d like to thank him, Oh, and my cases are in the back of his car.’

The girl hesitated and then turning went to the door which led into the room behind the desk. Opening the door, she called: ‘Sean!’ rather sharply, and a few moments later Bothwell himself emerged.

He had shed the heavy fur-lined jacket he had been wearing, and looked darker and more muscular than ever in tight-fitting dark trousers and a polo-necked navy sweater. Melanie felt impatient with herself for asking his whereabouts now that he was here. She thought he would more than likely imagine she was deliberately drawing attention to herself again, and she tried not to speculate on what his relationship might be with the girl behind the desk.

In consequence, she was very brief in her expressions of gratitude, and he bowed his head politely at her words. She thought he was perfectly aware of her discomfort and his face took on an expression of sardonic amusement as he said: ‘It was nothing, believe me. I’m used to rescuing lambs in distress, and your predicament was not so different!’

Melanie managed a forced smile and then turned back to the girl. ‘I’ll just get my cases,’ she said.

Bothwell came round the desk. ‘I’ll get them,’ he said, his tone brooking no argument, and Melanie said: ‘Thanks!’ rather ungraciously.

The girl surveyed her curiously as Bothwell disappeared outside and Melanie moved a trifle restlessly under her regard. Heavens, she thought impatiently, what was she? An oddity, or something?

Bothwell came back a few seconds later and stood in the hall, a case in each hand. The girl handed Melanie a key and said: ‘Room seven. Up the stairs and it’s the third on your right.’

‘Thank you.’ Melanie took the key and turned to the stairs.

‘The maid will be up later to make up your bed,’ continued the girl, casting a speculative glance in Bothwell’s direction, and with a casual gesture he indicated that Melanie should precede him upstairs.

Melanie hesitated only a moment and then began to mount the wooden staircase. It wound round at the top and then reached a small landing with a corridor running from it. She looked along the corridor and Bothwell nodded rather impatiently.

‘Number seven,’ he said, nodding.

Melanie was making her way down the passage when another door opened and an elderly man emerged to stand and regard them curiously. Bothwell greeted him casually, and the old man frowned.

‘Who’s this, Sean?’ he inquired sharply.

Bothwell stood Melanie’s cases down outside her door. ‘This is Miss Stewart, Alaister,’ he said, flexing his shoulder muscles. ‘A fellow guest!’

‘Oh, ay, is that so?’ The old man eyed Melanie dourly. ‘Ye didna say ye were expecting anyone.’

Melanie’s eyebrows lifted, but Bothwell merely shrugged. ‘We didn’t know we were,’ he observed dryly. ‘Are you away for your tea ?’

The old man stomped off towards the stairs. ‘Oh, ay, ay,’ he said mutteringly, and with a faint smile Bothwell turned back to Melanie.

‘Well,’ he said, ‘can you manage from here?’

Melanie fumbled with her keys and he bent past her and pushed open her bedroom door. ‘It’s not locked,’ he said, unnecessarily. ‘We don’t go in much for security here, I’m afraid.’

Melanie compressed her lips and stepped into the room as he switched on the lamps. It was a very attractive room, she had to admit, with colourfully printed curtains and a fringed bedspread. The furniture was light oak, and as downstairs old but mellowed with years of polishing. Bothwell drew the curtains and turned to face her and she moved quickly, bringing her cases inside the door to avoid that brilliant gaze.

‘There are no private bathrooms, I’m afraid,’ he went on, ‘but there are two at the end of the corridor and if you’re a late sleeper you should find no difficulty.’

There was sarcasm in his tones again and Melanie reacted to it. ‘Why should you imagine I’m a late sleeper!’ she inquired coldly.

He shrugged. ‘Town-dwellers are not known for their early morning fatigues,’ he remarked mockingly.

‘You’re sure I am a town-dweller.’

‘Undoubtedly.’ He walked past her to the door, without waiting for any retaliatory comment. ‘Dinner is at six-thirty. It’s early, I know, but the cook likes to get away home soon after nine.’

Melanie clenched her fists. ‘You seem to know a lot about it, Mr. Bothwell!’

‘I should do. I run the place,’ he replied smoothly, and went out, closing the door behind him.

Melanie stared after him in astonishment. He ran the place! She shook her head helplessly. So that was why that old man had commented upon the suddenness of her arrival to Bothwell. She had thought at first he must be a guest here, too. And that also explained why he had been in the room behind the reception desk. As for the blonde girl, she might conceivably be his wife. There couldn’t be much enjoyment for anyone so young living out here in the wilds of the Highlands without some definite reason for staying.

Melanie shrugged. It was not important. What was important was why she was here, and tomorrow she would have to make some inquiries about Monkshood.

As she unpacked her night things and a dress to wear for dinner that evening, she wondered whether she ought to give Michael a ring. It would at least ease his mind to know that she had arrived safely, and she did owe him that much consideration. After all, he had not wanted her to come all this way without him, and it had been impossible for him to get away at this particular time with several important cases in the offing. He had begged her to wait until he was free to accompany her, but just for once Melanie had wanted to get away on her own. Maybe it was the knowledge that they were getting married in March which made her eager for this last spurt of independence, or maybe it was simply that excitement at inheriting a house like Monkshood had driven all other thoughts out of her mind.

CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_d0301c7d-69e1-5c21-8b08-7d6b095758c8)

MELANIE awoke the next morning with a feeling of expectancy. There was something entirely satisfying about being away on her own with no one to consider but herself, and if this feeling of satisfaction was vaguely tinged with guilt she thrust such thoughts aside. After all, surely she had the right to show independence sometimes. Michael was always too willing to take her burdens from her and make her life as smooth and easy as possible, and occasionally she had wished that he would just leave her alone to make her own way, mistakes or otherwise. Maybe his training as a solicitor accounted for that air of officialdom that now and then intruded into his private life. At any rate, just for once Melanie was appreciating the freedom of being without his solicitude, and she wriggled her toes under the warm covers with contented abandon.

A glance at her watch told her it was a little after eight and she hastily slid out of the warm bed, shivering as she made her way to the windows. But when she drew back the curtains she could not suppress the gasp of amazement that escaped her at the sight that met her startled eyes. The snow which last night had eased so dramatically had returned with full vigour and beyond the frosted panes of glass all she could see were the whirling flakes.

She drew back the curtains completely and turning back to the bed reached for her dressing gown. Heavens, she thought, not without a trace of unease now, how long was this storm going to last? Had it been snowing all night, and if so, however was she to find her car, never mind get it to the hotel?

Opening her door, she peeped out. No one was about and picking up her toilet things she made her way quickly down the passage to the bathroom. Once inside, she turned on the bath taps and while the bath filled she cleaned her teeth at the porcelain hand-basin. She was so intent on thinking about the deplorable weather conditions that she did not notice that the bath was not steaming as it should have done and when she put one foot tentatively into its depths she drew back with a gasp of dismay. The water was cold and her foot tingled from that icy contact.

With an exclamation of annoyance, she pulled out the plug and allowed the water to drain away while she doused her face and hands in the running water at the basin. Then, compressing her lips, she opened the bathroom door and came face to face with the man she had seen the night before and whom Bothwell had called Alaister.

‘Oh!’ She stepped back in surprise, wrapping her housecoat closer about her slim figure, but the old man merely regarded her sourly.

‘Morning,’ he grunted abruptly, and Melanie forced a smile.

‘Good morning,’ she responded politely. ‘Er – the water’s cold.’

Alaister eyed her derisively. ‘Och, ay, is that so? Then the boiler’s gone out again.’

Melanie moved past him. ‘Does it often go out?’ she inquired, deciding that were she in charge of the hotel it would not be allowed to do so.

Alaister sniffed. ‘Och ay, occasionally. Ye’ll no freeze to death. Sean will have seen there’s a good fire in the dining-room.’

‘That’s reassuring,’ commented Melanie, a trifle dryly, beginning to feel decidedly cold.

Alaister made a sound very much like a snort. ‘If ye’d wanted the comforts of a plush hotel, ye shouldna ha’ come to Cairnside,’ he retorted grimly, and going into the bathroom he slammed the door behind him.

Melanie was taken aback by his rudeness. What a disagreeable old man, she thought angrily, marching down the passage to her room again. Surely expecting hot water to wash with in the mornings was not unreasonable?

Back in her room, she rummaged in her cases for warm pants and a chunky sweater and dressed before doing her hair. She had shoulder-length hair which she sometimes put up for evenings, but this morning an Alice band secured it and she was quite satisfied with the result. A glance at the window showed that it was still snowing and collecting her handbag she left her room.

Downstairs it was considerably warmer. The previous evening she had dined in the small dining-room that opened off the hall and she had seen her fellow guests. There were four of them altogether, including Alaister; two elderly women who looked like retired school-mistresses, and another man who seemed a more cheerful individual. But as she had left the dining-room immediately after her meal to make her call to London, she had not learned their names. Nor had she seen either Bothwell or the blonde girl again. The elderly man who tended the fires and seemed general factotum about the place had shown her where the telephone kiosk was situated and the maid who had made up her bed was the same one who had served dinner in the dining-room. Melanie thought they would not need a large staff here. There were so few visitors and even accounting for the evening callers to the bar at the other side of the building they could not make a lot of money.

After making her call she had gone straight to bed, but now thinking of that call, Melanie sighed. Maybe Michael had been right in his protestations about her coming so far alone at this time of the year. She had deliberately refrained from mentioning how nearly she had sought disaster on her way here, but he still expressed his anxieties on her behalf and urged her to return home immediately and abandon the whole idea.

Melanie sighed again. Everything should have gone so smoothly, but as it was … She shrugged. Who knew what might happen? She could get snowed up here, and then what would she do?

A roaring fire was burning in the grate in the dining-room, but the room was empty. The hotel fires burned logs and as well as giving off a tremendous amount of heat they smelt sweetly of pine. She was standing, her back to the fire, feeling wonderfully warm and glowing, when the door opened again to admit Bothwell.

Dressed this morning in knee-length black boots, close-fitting black trousers that moulded the muscles of his thighs, and a laced leather waistcoat over a bronze shirt, he looked powerful and disturbing, and Melanie attempted to return the challenging look he sent in her direction. The idea of being snowed up here with this man was infinitely more frustrating than she cared to admit.

‘Ah! Good morning, Miss Stewart,’ he greeted her, nodding his head politely. ‘I trust you had a good night.’

Melanie moved away from the fire. ‘I slept beautifully, thank you, Mr. Bothwell.’

‘Good. I thought you might. The beds here are noted for their comfort.’

Melanie bit her lip. ‘It was quite a novelty, having a couple of hot water bottles again. I’m afraid I’ve got quite spoilt with electric blankets!’

Now why had she said that? she asked herself impatiently. Last night she had found the warmth of the hot water bottles rather comforting. Maybe it was his complete self-confidence that aroused this streak of perversity inside her. At any event, she need not have troubled herself. Bothwell was superbly at his ease, as he said:

‘It’s a great pity when people forget that their bodies were given them to use and not to abuse. I find electric blankets destroy the body’s natural powers of self-heating.’

Melanie held up her head. ‘I’m sure you’re right,’ she returned shortly. ‘However, not everyone has your will power, I’m afraid. I’m weak enough to succumb to comfort before anything else.’

He shrugged. ‘That’s your affair, of course. But if that is how you feel, then I should have thought you would have chosen a less – shall we say – demanding time of the year to visit Scotland!’

Melanie coloured. ‘I’m quite prepared to face any kind of conditions,’ she retorted, his cool insolence getting under her skin in spite of her efforts to remain calm.

‘Indeed?’ He drew out a case of small cigars and placed one between his lips. Before flicking his lighter he said: ‘Do you mind?’ and at her abrupt shake of her head he lit the cigar and inhaled deeply. ‘I’m glad you feel like that, Miss Stewart,’ he continued smoothly, ‘because it seems that you may have to share our hospitality for slightly longer than you had originally intended.’

Melanie stared at him. ‘Why?’

He studied the tip of his cigar. ‘Weather conditions in this area are unpredictable. Unless you intend to leave soon, you may not be able to leave at all.’

Melanie moved impatiently. ‘I can’t leave until—’ She halted abruptly. ‘Is there any chance of getting my car?’

He half smiled. ‘I very much doubt it.’

Melanie heaved a sigh, suppressing a faint sense of panic that ensued at the knowledge that she might well become an unwilling prisoner here. ‘I see. Well, we shall just have to make the best of it, shan’t we?’ Her eyes held his for a long moment before falling before that gaze.

‘My dear Miss Stewart, if you are prepared to make the best of it, who am I to complain?’

‘I shouldn’t like to put you out,’ she retorted, stung by his indifference.

‘You will not put me out, rest assured, Miss Stewart. I am perfectly used to the vagaries of your sex! If it amuses you to drive several hundred miles to stay at an hotel in the heart of the Highlands in these conditions, that is your affair!’

Melanie’s colour deepened. ‘Yes, it is,’ she said sharply.

He smiled at her agitation. ‘All will be revealed in time, no doubt,’ he remarked dryly. ‘Until then – you must excuse me!’

He turned to go when she called him back. ‘Mr. Bothwell!’

‘Yes?’ He turned, his expression sardonic.

Melanie straightened her shoulders. ‘Perhaps you will let me know when I may take a bath,’ she said scathingly.

Bothwell’s eyebrows lifted. ‘Ah, yes, of course, Miss Stewart. My apologies! The boiler died on us last night. However, it is going now and if you would like to take a bath after breakfast …’ He spread a hand expressively.

Melanie nodded. ‘Thank you.’

‘I gather your brave protestations of being ready to face any hazard do not encompass cold baths!’ he remarked dryly, and went out of the room before she could think of any scornful reply.

Melanie was still standing, biting her lips grimly, when the door opened again and the two elderly women came in. They looked across at her speculatively and deciding it was up to her to attempt to make contact, Melanie smiled and said: ‘Good morning! Isn’t the weather appalling!’

One of the two women returned her greeting while the other said: ‘We’re used to these conditions. We live here, you see.’

Melanie raised her eyebrows. ‘Oh! Do you?’

‘Yes.’ That was the other woman. ‘My sister and I retired several years ago and as we’ve often holidayed in this part of Caledonia, we thought it would be rather a pleasant place to retire to.’

‘I see,’ Melanie nodded. ‘I expect you prefer it when it’s a little warmer, though, don’t you?’

The two women exchanged glances. ‘Oh, we like it all the year round,’ one of them volunteered. ‘Winters here are like they used to be. Plenty of snow, and log fires, and roasting chestnuts …’

‘… and lots of berries on the holly,’ put in the other. ‘Are you staying here over Christmas, Miss – Miss—’

‘Stewart,’ supplied Melanie automatically. ‘Melanie Stewart.’

The two women exchanged glances again, and then one of them said: ‘We’re called Sullivan; Jane and Elizabeth Sullivan.’

‘How do you do?’ Melanie shook hands with them politely when it became obvious that it was expected of her. ‘But no, I’m not expecting to stay over Christmas. I have to be back in London in a little under a week. I have a job there, you see.’

‘Oh?’ Elizabeth Sullivan looked expectant. ‘What kind of a job do you do, Miss Stewart?’

Melanie shrugged. ‘Actually I illustrate children’s books.’

‘Really?’ the sisters were obviously intrigued. ‘How interesting!’

Melanie smiled. ‘Yes, it is rather. I enjoy it, anyway. What I really want to do, though, is write the stories, too. And illustrate them myself, naturally.’

‘Naturally.’ The two women were clearly impressed. ‘And why have you come to Cairnside, Miss Stewart?’ asked Jane Sullivan. ‘Are you researching material?’

Melanie sighed. Was everyone here so inquisitive, or was it simply a case of friendly interest? Either way, she had either to answer their question or snub them as she had attempted to snub Bothwell.

Deciding she could not in all decency ignore their query, Melanie said carefully: ‘I – I’ve come to see a house near here. Monkshood.’

‘Monkshood!’ The two sisters looked at one another again. Then Elizabeth frowned. ‘Would that be the house belonging to the late Angus Cairney?’

Melanie’s eyes brightened. ‘Why yes, that’s right. Do you know it?’

Elizabeth shrugged her plump shoulders. ‘I know of it, yes,’ she amended slowly. She looked at Jane for support. ‘You know the house, too, don’t you, Jane?’

Jane Sullivan fumbled with her handbag. ‘Och, it’s that ugly old place near the village, isn’t it?’