Читать книгу Monkshood - Anne Mather - Страница 8

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?’

Elizabeth nodded. ‘Of course.’ She looked back at Melanie. ‘But what would you be wanting with such a monstrosity? Surely you’re not thinking of buying the old place!’

Melanie warmed her hands at the blaze. ‘No,’ she said, honestly. ‘No, I’m not thinking of buying it, I just want to see it, that’s all.’

‘And you’ve come all this way just to see Monkshood!’ exclaimed Elizabeth in horror. ‘In the depths of winter!’

Melanie was growing a little tired of this catechism. ‘Yes,’ she said firmly. ‘Perhaps you could tell me how to get there?’

But just at that moment the dining-room door opened again to admit the man called Alaister, and the two elderly ladies wished him a smiling ‘Good morning’ before taking their seats at a table for two.

Melanie sighed and walked across to her own table laid for one. Her question would have to wait. Besides, there was no hurry. It was still snowing and looked as though it was likely to continue to do so for some considerable time.

The meal, like the delicious dinner she had consumed the night before, was very enjoyable. There were Scottish kippers on the menu, as well as the most conventional kinds of breakfast foods, and Melanie ate well, deciding she might as well linger over the meal to fill in some time. By the time she left the dining-room, the others had gone and she decided to take a look round the hotel.

As well as the reception hall and dining-room there was a small lounge complete with a television, which somehow seemed out of place here. There was the public bar, and a bar lounge adjoining, but the remainder of the rooms were marked private and were obviously used by the landlord and his family. The blonde girl was at the reception desk again as Melanie passed through the hall on her way upstairs, and on impulse she approached her and said: ‘Did you telephone the garage in Rossmore for me?’

The girl looked up. ‘No, miss, but I don’t hold out much hope in these conditions. It’s only a small garage, you understand, hardly a breakdown station.’

‘But surely there’s somewhere in the area capable of towing my car in,’ Melanie exclaimed in surprise.

The girl shrugged. ‘At this time of the year they’re pretty well snowed under, if you’ll pardon the expression, by emergency calls. I don’t think towing your car down to Cairnside could be classed as an emergency, do you?’

Melanie compressed her lips. ‘No,’ she admitted reluctantly.

The girl smiled rather sympathetically, but Melanie was in no mood to appreciate it and she turned away abruptly, only to be halted again as the girl offered:

‘I can ring the garage in Newtoncross, if you like.’

Melanie turned back. ‘Is that near here?’

‘Not exactly. But it is the nearest town of any size and there might be someone there who can help you.’

‘Very well. Thank you.’ Melanie accepted the offer rather ungraciously and then made her way up to her room. Now that the heating was working again, the room was warm and comfortable, and as her bed had been made Melanie carried the basket chair near the bed to the window and seated herself in it looking out somewhat resignedly. If Michael knew the weather was so unpredictable he would insist on her leaving right away and returning to London. But, she asked herself, how could she achieve such a thing even if she wanted to? Her car was lost and abandoned, until someone chose to dig it out, and Cairnside was not at all what she had expected.

Back in London it had all seemed so simple, childishly simple! She would drive up here to the hotel the solicitors had mentioned vaguely and take her first look at Monkshood. But in London the weather had been temperate, with only frosts to contend with, and occasional squalls of rain. No one had prepared her for such extremes as these, and even now she found it difficult to believe that it could last much longer. To return to London without even seeing the house would be too galling. Michael, she knew, would fall over backwards trying to appear sympathetic, when actually he would be feeling delighted that she had proved yet again that she could not manage anything without him. Maybe it was because she had no parents that he felt such a strong protective urge towards her, but whatever it was it became a little overbearing at times and that was why Melanie was determined to succeed in this venture, despite Bothwell’s sarcasm and the deplorable conditions.

She got up from her chair and paced restlessly about the room. What was one supposed to do here when the weather was like this? One simply could not stay in one’s bedroom all day!

She paused by the window and looked out. Her room overlooked the forecourt of the hotel and she could see the man who had shown her where the phone was the night before busily shovelling snow. Maybe she could go out for a walk after all. If she wrapped up warmly and put on her wellingtons she could hardly come to any harm, not if she stuck to the road. She could possibly make her way to the village and inquire the whereabouts of Monkshood, without arousing any further speculation in the hotel.

The decision made, she felt much more cheerful, and she turned to her suitcases eagerly. Luckily she had brought wellingtons with her in case of wet weather, but judging by the conditions it would be some weeks before this area became warm enough to invite rain. She half smiled to herself. Until now, she had never encountered conditions like these.

A few minutes later, warmly clad in her sheepskin coat and a fur hat, mittens muffling her hands and wellingtons hugging her slender legs, she went downstairs. The hall was deserted apart from a Border collie who was showing more interest in a meaty bone than anything else and Melanie crossed to the outer door.

Both the door leading into the lobby and the door to the yard were heavy to swing open, but she managed it and emerged into a white world so cold it took her breath away. In the hotel, it had seemed almost inviting looking out on the snow-covered yard, but now that she was actually out here Melanie had second thoughts. She looked about her, blinking in the flurries of snow that caught on her long lashes and invaded her nose and mouth, but there was no one with whom to pass the time of day. The man who earlier had been shovelling snow had apparently disappeared round the back of the hotel and only the path he had cleared was evidence of his presence.

Sighing, Melanie thrust her hands into her pockets and hesitated, stamping her feet indecisively. She knew the direction of the village, but wasn’t she being a little foolhardy attempting to walk there in this?

She looked round at the hotel. Its mellowed walls were smudged with clinging flakes, while its eaves were laden with more snow. It looked somehow warm and comfortable and inviting and Melanie was tempted to abandon her ideas altogether. But the thought of spending the whole day in the hotel, wasting time, was more than she could bear, and with determination she set off.

It wasn’t so bad, actually. The snow covering the ground had taken away the glassiness and she could walk quite briskly and keep warm. The road was quite clearly defined in daylight, the tracks of the one or two vehicles which had passed this way providing a trail, and Melanie’s spirits lifted. This was better than sitting in the hotel, hugging the fire, and listening to the click of the Misses Sullivans’ knitting needles. Which was perhaps a little unkind, she conceded silently to herself, as she did not really know whether they knitted or not.

Beyond a curve in the road, she came upon a snow-covered gateway, and something made her stop and stare beyond the gate to the house at the head of a tree-lined drive. The whole place looked neglected, even in its blanket of snow, and she hesitated for a moment before stepping across the grass to the gate itself.

She looked up the drive speculatively. The house was empty, certainly, and it backed the mist-shrouded mountains as did the hotel. And if she was not mistaken, the village was not much further now. She frowned. Jane Sullivan had said it was near the village, so this could conceivably be Monkshood.

Without waiting to consider her actions, she pushed open the gate and walked slowly up the drive. The keys the solicitors had given her in Fort William were lying in her handbag at the hotel, so she would not be able to go inside, but she could not resist taking a look round and maybe peeping through the windows.

It was certainly an ugly old place, as Jane Sullivan had said. Not even the frosting of snow could improve upon its square windows and heavy eaves, and the straggling creepers that clung grimly to its walls gave it a rather ominous appearance.

To her disappointment the front windows were shuttered downstairs and she walked disconsolately round the back, following what appeared to be a path through straggling gardens interspersed with pine trees.

To her astonishment, there were footprints at the back of the house – huge footprints that laced and interlaced the area just outside the back door. Some had obviously been made some days ago, as these were already beginning to disappear under more layers of snow, but some seemed to have been freshly made.

She frowned. Could she possibly have made a mistake? Was this not Monkshood after all? If so, she was trespassing on someone else’s property.

She shook her head in bewilderment. Cairnside was such a sparsely habited area it seemed incredible that there could be two houses possessing the same characteristics and both in such an obvious state of neglect. She had been prepared for neglect, the solicitors had warned her of that, but they had also said that basically the house was sound and that was why she wanted to see it for herself.

The silence all around the house was almost deafening. Even the snow fell silently, and Melanie felt a sense of unease assail her. What if she was right? What if this was Monkshood and someone was using it as a sleeping place? After all, there had been no footprints at the front of the house, so whoever it was wanted to remain anonymous, it would seem.

She shivered momentarily. There were footprints at the front now. Her footprints! And anyone looking out of an upper floor window would see them. A desire to run assailed her, and only the memory of Michael’s smiling contention that she would never be able to manage alone caused her to still her racing pulses. She was being melodramatic, allowing the silence to get the better of her. This was her house, after all, and if anyone was inside, they would jolly well have to shift themselves.

Stepping forward, she tried the handle of the back door. To her astonishment, it gave under her fingers and she pushed it open incredulously.

The door fell back to reveal a kitchen, stark and cold. There was a range of the like Melanie had never seen before, which appeared to provide cooking as well as heating facilities, a scrubbed kitchen table, somewhat mildewed now with dampness, and several plain wooden chairs.

She hesitated on the threshold, listening, but there were no sounds. It seemed that whoever was using the place was not at home at the moment. She stepped inside, but refrained from closing the door behind her – just in case!

Resisting the impulse to walk on tiptoe, she crossed the kitchen and opened the door at its farthest side. This led into a passage which, although it was gloomy, could be seen to lead directly through the house to the front door. At the end of the passage, near the front door, stairs could be seen running up, and there were several doors opening from the passage itself.

Melanie grew a little more confident. There was no sign here of anyone’s habitation, and she threw open the door opposite the kitchen door.

This appeared to be the dining-room. There was a table, heavily covered with dust, several chairs, and an antique dresser loaded with grimy plates and cups.

Another door revealed a kind of study, with books against the walls, and a desk that would do marvellously for her illustration work. Yet another room appeared to be the lounge, with an old suite and several odd chairs and tables.

The whole house, it would appear, if the upstairs was the same, was furnished after a fashion, and Melanie thought that a good spring-cleaning was what was needed. Indeed, her spirits rose higher, if she was stranded in Cairnside for any length of time, she might be able to accomplish this herself.

She was so absorbed with her exciting reasoning, that she did not hear footsteps descending the threadbare carpet on the stairs, nor hear a man approach the doorway of the lounge to stand regarding her with obvious astonishment, until a deep voice said:

‘Do you mind telling me what the hell you’re doing in here?’

Melanie almost collapsed, so great was the shock, and she swung round to face Sean Bothwell.

‘You!’ she exclaimed, in disbelief. ‘It was your footsteps I saw outside!’

‘It was,’ he agreed uncompromisingly, his expression grim. ‘But you haven’t answered my question. I asked you what you thought you were doing here!’

Melanie quivered a little under that penetrating stare. ‘I – I might ask you the same question,’ she retorted.

Bothwell’s eyes narrowed. ‘I asked the question first,’ he said, with harsh insistence in his voice.

Melanie swallowed hard. ‘Very well, then. I – I own this house.’ She put a hand to her lips. ‘This is – Monkshood, isn’t it?’

There was a moment when she thought she had been mistaken after all; when she began to think frantically that she had made some terrible mistake, and had indeed invaded someone else’s private property.

And then he said, slowly and clearly: ‘Yes, Miss Stewart, this is Monkshood. But you are not the owner. I am!’