The Magical Painting E-Book

Stuart G. Yates

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

Can a painting be a link between the present and the past?

Forced to return to his ancestral home in the shadows of the Scottish Highlands, such ideas are far from Andrew Lambert’s mind. His business has failed, his love life is a mess. When his friend invites him for a welcome-home drink, he accepts, and a car crash is the result.

From this moment, Andrew’s life is transformed. He locks himself away inside the confines of his family castle, shrouded in secrets and untold stories from the past, and discovers far more than he ever thought possible. These stories seduce Lambert’s waking moments, control his dreams, and reveal to him the presence of a special, tantalizing woman: Lorna.

Delving ever deeper into his family history, Lambert discovers the truth of what happened to his ancestors... and learns of the secret that has haunted the castle for centuries.

Leseprobe

The Magical Painting

A novel of the heart

Maliny Moon(with Stuart G. Yates)

Copyright (C) 2018 Maliny Moon

Layout Copyright (C) 2021 by Next Chapter

Published 2021 by Next Chapter

Cover art by Cover Mint

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.

'The world that we perceive is a “presentation” of objects in the theatre of our own mind.' Schopenhauer.

1

“It's Mr Miles on the phone for you, sir.”

Andrew Lambert groaned, the voice of Sinclair, the last remaining servant of Castle Strythe rumbling down the hallway. This was not the plan he had in mind for his first night back in Scotland, but Miles insisted. He wanted to meet up. No arguments.

A cold shower did little to bring life back to Lambert's body, a whisky not helping to relieve his exhaustion, but here he was, driving through the night towards his friend's castle. Squinting into the developing darkness, the rain starting to fall, with his mouth dry and tongue rough and foul tasting, he wished he'd been firmer, told Miles to wait until tomorrow. But Lambert knew his old university friend was not the man to argue with and now, with his eyes red raw and full of sleep, Lambert strained to keep the car straight, the headlights bouncing back at him from the solid wall of rain. His life, like the Scottish weather, was bleak and filled with trepidation.

Returning from London to his ancestral castle in Scotland had not been a clear-cut decision for Andrew Lambert. With his company facing an uphill struggle for survival, the problems often seeming insurmountable, it became increasingly difficult to choose between reviving his business, and closing it for good. He'd decided on taking the easier course and an inherited castle nestling in the shadows of the Highlands, a place, although seldom visited, he viewed as his eternal shelter. The place where he had grown up, happy memories seeping from every stone. The decision to return lightened the blow of losing almost everything he'd worked for over the last few years. Business, however, was not something which sat comfortably with him and so, with Jennifer's acerbic words ringing in his ears, he set off on the long journey north, driving his car into a new adventure simply to prove to himself this was not the end of the world.

He knew the longer he dawdled, the worse the journey to Miles' home would be, so he'd taken the bag of peaches old Sinclair had thrust into his hand and now, his stomach rumbling louder than the car engine, he picked one out and took a bite.

The sweet, overly ripe flesh erupted in his mouth, the juice spilling down his chin onto his shirtfront. He cursed, held the peach between his teeth as he struggled to pull a paper handkerchief from his trouser pocket. Twisting his body, raising himself off the seat to gain access to the tissue, his foot pressed harder on the accelerator. The car surged forward. As he battled with the wheel, his mobile phone sprang into life.

The details grew hazy from that point, but of one thing, he was completely certain. As he fought to keep control and answer the mobile at the same time, his headlights picked out the figure of a woman in the road. She stood unperturbed by the downpour or by the oncoming vehicle. He screamed, pulled down hard to the left and everything went blank.

They dropped Andrew Lambert off at the castle in the late afternoon of the second day and Megan came bounding down the steps with her tail wagging and her mouth open in as close a thing to a grin as a dog can get. The two ambulance personnel laughed as Lambert tried and failed to keep the big, black Labrador from assaulting him with huge licks of her wet tongue.

The worst journey of his life had brought him finally home.

A few days ago, he'd arrived at his ancestral castle, tired from his journey, and paused to take in the view. The hard, granite walls were as he remembered, every lead-latticed window black, grim, the west tower foreboding. He'd spent his youth here and when he left for university, he hadn't shed a single tear. Childhood was an adventure, adolescence suffocating. Now, standing here and taking it in, a tinge of regret ran through him, a moment's wish for years gone by, a brief return to more innocent times when cares and worries had no place. He should have appreciated it more, but the curse of being a teenager never allowed him such thoughts. He longed to escape; having done so, he wished he never had.

Appearing from nowhere, Sinclair relieved Lambert of his bags, a thin smile splitting his craggy face. “I'll take these to your room, sir.”

It was as if he had never been away.

Given the opportunity, he wandered alone around the many rooms, all so silent and empty, the memories flooding back. Little had changed, but in the study, he turned his attention to a series of three paintings he had never seen before, neatly arranged above the fireplace. Scenes from the past, of how the castle might have looked two hundred, four hundred and seven hundred years before. The third, depicting the castle in ruins, gripped him more than the others and he stepped closer to read the inscription running along the bottom of the frame, 'Castle Strythe, 1386'. He frowned, wondering what had happened to cause everything to appear pulled down, or destroyed. The view of the surrounding hillsides, the distant loch, the same as the accompanying pictures, was in sharp contrast to the desolation of the castle. Curious, he decided to ask Sinclair for an explanation; the scene troubled him, the blackened masonry sinister and the vague portrayal of a woman sitting forlorn on an outcrop of rock so sad it caused him to consider something very wrong had happened in the depths of history.

What a difference a matter of days could make.

For now, returned from the hospital with the accident so recent, all previous troubles seemed far away.

He sat in a wheelchair after they'd dropped him off, his right leg covered in a thick plaster cast, took Megan by the collar, and ruffled the great dog's fur. He looked up to see Miles striding towards him across the gravel. Miles sighed, shaking his head. “You don't do things by halves, do you?”

Lambert shrugged, becoming a little hot around the collar, and turned to the first paramedic. “Thanks. I'll see you in around three weeks.”

Miles took the handles of the chair and pushed his friend towards the castle entrance as the ambulance drove off, tyres crunching over the hard-packed shale of the sweeping driveway.

At this time of year, the wisteria and ivy clinged to the dappled cream granite walls of the castle like a second skin, breaking up the drab exterior with splashes of violet-blue flowers hanging in clusters from the spreading plant. Lambert hadn't noticed it on his first arrival, and he wondered why this was so. Nevertheless, grateful for the lightness of heart the wisteria brought him, Lambert breathed in the perfume and relaxed for the first time since the accident.

Miles grunted as he pushed the wheelchair up the incline of the makeshift ramp placed over the entrance steps. As he struggled to the double doors, Sinclair appeared. Dressed in a striped black and white apron the manservant beamed, joining with Miles to push the wheelchair into the hallway. “Mr Lambert, good to see you looking so well…given the circumstances.”

“It's good to be here,” said Lambert as Miles stepped back, breathing hard.

“I was making a late lunch,” said Sinclair, wiping his hands on a tea towel. “I trust you are feeling up to eating?”

“I'm always ready to eat, Sinclair.” He patted his midriff. “Too much sometimes. And a couple of days of hospital food have made me eager to sample something slightly more imaginative.”

“Mr Miles has been very kind and went shopping for some fresh trout, which we will have for dinner, but lunch will be something light and quick.”

“Well, whatever it is, I'm sure it will be delicious,” said Lambert, threw a smile towards his old retainer and allowed a recovered Miles to wheel him into the dining room, Megan running around enjoying the game, barking with excitement, her thick rope of a tail thwacking anything within close proximity. Lambert rubbed his own arms, “It's cold in here.”

“I'll get Sinclair to make the fire,” said Miles, positioning Lambert close to the huge, open fireplace. “I should have told him to do it before, but he insisted on making some weird concoction he said was your favourite.”

“I think I can guess. Corn-beef hash,” said Lambert with a chuckle. “He's a rock that man.”

Miles pulled a face and was about to go when he stopped and turned to his friend again. “Andrew, tell me how it happened. From what I heard it sounded a ridiculously stupid thing to do.”

“Thanks, Miles, I can always count on you for a kind word.”

Miles tilted his head. “You swerved, so you told the police, to avoid a squirrel? Is that it?”

“You phoned me as I was driving. I tried to answer, lost control. You knew I was coming, why the hell did you phone?”

“Oh, so it's my fault? Sorry, I understood you were the one behind the wheel.” He shook his head, “I phoned to see where you'd got to, you surly sod. I was worried. And thanks to me, leaving your phone open, I heard it all. It was me who called the ambulance, even though I had little idea where you were.”

“There's only one road to your place.”

“Exactly. So you're bloody lucky to be alive, all thanks to me. But don't mention it, you ungrateful bastard.” He laughed. “You must have been driving at some speed though, bonny lad. What actually happened?”

Lambert sighed, grimacing as he tried to reposition his leg. “If I told you, you'd think I was drunk or something.”

“The 'something' is probably closer to the mark. So tell me.”

Lambert gazed into the gaping fireplace, the grate full of ash from the previous blaze. “I saw someone.”

Miles came closer, put his elbow on the mantelpiece and frowned. “You mean a person?” Lambert nodded. “So what was this about a squirrel?”

“I had to tell the police something. So, I used the first thing that came into my head.”

“I don't understand. If it was a person you saw, why didn't you tell that to the police?”

“Because she was standing in the middle of the road.”

“She? And you didn't hit her, so did she run away, what? The police made no mention of there being anybody else involved.”

“That's because by the time they got me out of the ditch she was nowhere to be seen.”

“But who the hell was she?”

“I don't know.”

“Was she old or young? How was she dressed? Was she—”

“Miles, please,” said Lambert holding up his hand, “You don't understand.”

“Andrew, are you certain this is right? You saw a woman standing in the road and you swerved to avoid her, ended up in a ditch with a busted leg and you have no idea who she was or where she went?”

“She was dressed in Edwardian clothes, Miles.”

His friend forced a laugh, “This gets weirder by the second. Had you been drinking?”

Lambert shook his head. “I lost consciousness for a brief moment, but I don't understand why. An image came into my head, but I can't recollect any part of it. I think it was the castle.” He pointed to the three studies of the castle on the wall. “I can't remember. Weirder still, I had the wherewithal to switch the engine off and when I glanced back at the road, she had gone. Not a sign.”

“She'd run off?”

“No, Miles. She'd disappeared.”

2

Bedtime proved the worst, and Lambert wondered if he would ever have a good night's sleep again. Sinclair offered to help put him to bed the first night, but Lambert waved him away, angry, not because of his manservant's offer of assistance, but at his own helplessness. So Sinclair, who had made up a bed of sorts in the study, left him alone and the night was long and extremely uncomfortable.

At around three, Lambert pushed himself out into the hallway to the dining room. Negotiating the table and chairs, he made his way to the drinks cabinet without too many bumps and scrapes, poured himself a large whisky and sat before the impressive French windows. In the far distance, against the smudges of black and grey that made up the sky, the towering shapes of the Highlands dominated everything and as he stared, the memories of the accident descended, darker even than the night.

She stood, a pale white streak of indeterminate age, emerging from the road as if hoisted upright by invisible wires, and he saw her face, clear as day. Consumed by her, unable to resist, the road and the rain forgotten, he focused all of his senses on the loveliness of her features and she smiled, beckoning him to drive straight towards her.

The phone went off at that moment, the call from Miles. It snapped Lambert back to the present, but too late. At a rush, realising where he was, he slammed on the brakes with all his might, tyres squealing as they slithered over the wet tarmac. He grappled with the wheel, the car going into a wild skid, and all the while, the woman's face filled his vision, her soft, open mouth drawing him in.

The world turned over, body buffeting around like a pebble in a bucket as the vehicle careered out of control, hit a bank, pitched and rotated. The night mingled with the rain and her voice, so concerned, full of panic and distress, “Andrew!”

The car slammed into a ditch with a bone-jarring shudder and somehow his foot became trapped in the buckled, twisted metal as the bonnet collapsed inwards. Hot, searing pain shot through his leg, but for the moment, he forced aside the excruciating agony as thoughts of exploding petrol tanks leaped into his mind, overwhelming him. Lambert screamed, fighting to free his foot from under the broken brake pedal. He heard rather than felt the snap of his ankle. A moment of disbelief froze his body, followed by a horrible nausea as strength drained from his guts. Soon, mounting waves of pain flowed from his shattered limb, building in intensity until his screams became almost continuous. Nevertheless, despite it all, he had the presence of mind to stretch forward and turn off the ignition.

He turned, and a bizarre sight greeted him – her face beyond the window, arms imploring him, anguish written in her features, the dread concern of a friend, a lover, yet none of it seemed right. Then the realisation caused him to gasp. He was upside down.

The whisky glass fell from his numb fingers, shattering on the floor, and he jumped, for a moment forgetting where he was and went to stand up. As he bore his weight down on his shattered limb, he cried out and immediately sank back into his wheelchair, breathing hard, biting down the pain. He put his shaking hand against his mouth and waited until his raging heartbeat lessened.

He struggled back to bed and lay in the darkness, body exhausted but sleep far, far away.

Through the course of the next few days and weeks, Lambert sleepwalked his way through life, spending time in the garden, trying to read, listen to music, surfing the Internet, anything to relieve the mounting boredom.

Visions of the mysterious woman from the crash became less, but sometimes, when looking out towards the hillside, her face loomed up in his mind and he took to imagining whom she might be and where she had come from. Perhaps a photograph he saw once, a fleeting glance of a pretty face, or the friend of a friend, an introduction lost amongst the stresses and strains of the past few months. He didn't know, but one thing was certain – she was beautiful.

Time seemed to stretch out, every minute lasting an hour and he grew increasingly restless, his current situation so different from his recent past, when he had so much to occupy his mind. The stress of a business spiralling towards disaster, his failed relationship with Jennifer. Now, he felt frozen in a timeless absolute. Intuitively, he wished he had a wiser vision; something beyond his capabilities, to challenge him, stretch his intellect, bring some hope of a more meaningful existence.

Sinclair, ever close, drifted in and out, bringing food, hot drinks. Sometimes Miles would come and talk, cracking jokes and generally being his usual, cheerful self. Lambert sat through these visits without offering up either verbal ripostes or the faintest glimpse of a reaction. The more he sat, the more morose he became. Reading didn't help, nor the daily ritual of sitting watching mindless daytime television. Even the Internet, with its possibility for discovery and exploration of every situation and thought process from around the world – a world that rarely makes sense – couldn't make any inroads. Boredom and inactivity competed to overwhelm him, and he took to wheeling himself out into the grounds of the castle, even when it rained, to sit and breathe in the sweet air rather than the musty, dampness of the interior.

On one such day, Sinclair, whilst bringing him a tray full of oatcakes, malt whisky and coffee, shuffled awkwardly and coughed. “Sir, if I may make a suggestion?”

Lambert did not raise his head as he considered the malt, peering into its amber depths, savouring the moment. The tumbler, heavy crystal-cut glass, seemed to enhance the flavour as he took the first mouthful, closed his eyes and sighed deeply. “God, that is bloody good.”

Sinclair grunted, tried again. “Sir, I am somewhat concerned.”

The man's rich brogue seemed on edge, as if he were struggling to find the words. “Are you?”

“Yes, sir. You seem so disheartened, depressed perhaps. I am becoming increasingly concerned, sir.”

“Well, you needn't be. I'm just fed up. I can't go anywhere, do anything, and my leg's beginning to itch like billy-oh.” To give weight to his words, he raised the plaster cast and waggled it. “See, no more pain. The sooner the bloody thing comes off the better.”

“Next week, I believe the doctors said? They will re-examine you, perhaps apply a simpler dressing and then—”

“Six weeks they said. Compound fracture, ankle and shin crushed. Even then, I won't be able to put much pressure on it. I'll have to exercise, walk with a bloody crutch…” He shook his head and drained the whisky. “Good stuff, Sinclair. Thank you.”

“Sir, your disposition, it…” He made a face as if in pain. “Sir, if I might suggest something? To ease the tedium of your situation.”

“Anything you can say that will bring some relief would be very welcome indeed, Sinclair. But please don't tell me it's whist, or chess.”

Sinclair's mouth hung open for a moment. “Er, no, sir. Nothing of the sort.”

“What then?”

“The West Tower, sir. The entrance is blocked, but I do believe I can find a way in, with your permission of course.”

“The West Tower? I'm not sure I've ever stepped inside.”

“No, sir, I do not believe you have. Your grandfather kept it locked, and even your father only ventured inside somewhat rarely.”

“He said it was haunted.” Sinclair looked away, a little too sharply, and the action brought a slight stab of alarm to Lambert, who shifted in his chair and frowned. “You don't believe all that rot, do you?”

“Not at all, sir. Your father was a somewhat fanciful man, sir, who often conjured up the wildest of fantasies.”

“Did him all right for writing novels though, eh? You ever read one, Sinclair?”

“I believe I started 'The Vicar of Castelrig Knoll', but I am ashamed to admit I couldn't get into it, as they say.”

“He did most of his writing in here, in the study, didn't he?”

“During the weekends only, sir. You father was a man of peculiar habits. The rest of the time, he worked in the Tower, looking out across the glen. That was after your grandfather passed away, sir.”

Lambert nodded and allowed his eyes to wander over the rolling hills until they settled on the distant mountains. “I was five years of age when grandfather died. Father often spoke of him, but I can't even remember what he looked like.”

“He looked remarkably like you, sir.”

“Did he? No one ever said.” Lambert shrugged.

“He could be your twin brother, sir.”

Frowning, Lambert looked away.

Silence hung over them both, the only sound the far-off cry of a soaring buzzard, lonely and hauntingly beautiful as if, in that single, plaintive call, the captured souls of the tormented begged for release. As he looked, Lambert thought he saw a couple in the distance. He couldn't quite make them out, but screwing up his eyes in an effort to male out their details, the face of a man turned towards the glen and the woman's slender hand reached out to caress his cheek. “My love…”

Lambert snapped his head towards the servant, seized by an inexplicable dread. “What did you say?”

Sinclair blinked, “Er, I was talking about the Tower, sir.”

Lambert quickly scanned the room, saw there was no one, then took another look across the countryside. “Sinclair, this is private property, correct?”

“Sir? Private property? I don't quite—”

“Damn it, man, has the public access to the glen?”

“This is your estate, sir. True, there are several pathways, which give access. The public have right of way, sir, as long as they do not cross into those areas deemed private. There are numerous notices to alert them to those area, however. Why do you ask?”

Keeping his eyes locked on the rolling hills, the valley, the various clumps of woodland, he shook his head. “It doesn't matter, I thought I…” He blew out his cheeks and swung his wheelchair around. “You were saying? The Tower? What about it?”

Sinclair frowned. “Well, only an idea, sir, but I believe your father may have kept unfinished manuscripts, letters and poems there, together with a large collection of old photographs. I thought perhaps you might want to go through them, unearth some forgotten gems, perhaps discover more of your family's history.” He shrugged, gave a half smile. “It would give you something to do, sir, and may even shed some light on…”

His voice trailed away, and Lambert considered what he'd heard. “I'll sleep on it,” he said.

But that night, he could not sleep. The appearance of the couple bothered him. They might have been simply out on a stroll, but the more he thought about it, the more this explanation seemed unlikely. He went to the dining room once again to drink whisky, more than one glassful, allowing his mind to linger on the buzzard and its cry, the woman's voice floating as if on a breeze. The more he thought, the more the belief grew something very odd was striving to make its presence felt.

3

He woke with his head pounding, tongue thick in his mouth, longing for water. “Jenny, get me something will you, an aspirin, anything to take away this God-awful headache.”

Shadows danced around the corners of his eyes and as the room came into focus, the pain in his leg brought him back to reality. No longer lying beneath the covers of his London bed, central heating wrapping him in its warm embrace, the promise of Jennifer's lithe body responding to his gentle caress … Instead, here he was. Castle Strythe. Another world. He groaned, rolled over, and took his time getting to his feet.

Coffee waited for him in the dining room, the pot fresh, steaming hot. Thank God for Sinclair. The man seemed to possess a sixth sense, knowing instinctively what was required, and when.

Afterwards, Lambert waited at the entrance to the Tower, listening to the old retainer clumping up the winding stairway to the uppermost rooms. For all his life Sinclair had wandered around the periphery of Lambert's existence, as much a part of the castle as the ancient stones, first laid down in the Fourteenth Century, permanent like the Highlands, eternal as the glen. His earliest memory of the man was when, after falling from his bicycle and lying in the gravel wailing like a newborn, Sinclair stood over him, warm smile, big hands lifting him, “A young Laird doesn't cry,” he said. “A young Laird is strong and brave, as his forefathers were.” He'd patted Lambert on the cheek and the pain eased. When Father came and asked, Lambert shrugged, sniffed and said, “Nothing, Father. A mere scrape is all.”

“There,” said Sinclair, breathing hard.

Lambert blinked and found the servant standing over him, with two large, well-taped cardboard boxes at his feet.

Sinclair straightened his back, wincing a little. “It's damned awkward negotiating those steps, but I'll do my best.”

“I'll phone Miles, ask him to come and help. If you can take the boxes to the study. I'll sort them there.”

Sinclair smiled, seeing the sense of his master's words. “Very good sir. Whilst you telephone, I shall bring some more boxes down from your father's study.”

Lambert wheeled himself to the house, pausing at the rear entrance to take in the scenery of the glen. The sky appeared leaden behind the mountains, the threat of rain thick in the air, a metaphor for a new phase in his life he mused. What secrets lay contained in those boxes, he wondered. His father had made a good living from his writing, twenty-two books published, two film adaptations together with a long-forgotten television series. And now, the promise of more unpublished tomes about to be brought to light. Lambert ruminated with the idea of becoming something of a literary wizard himself but knew, deep down, such a thing could never be. He had inherited his mother's fastidiousness and cold, clear business sense; his father's vibrant and ceaseless imagination was an alien concept to him. Better at analysing the daily performance of stocks and shares than the creation of character and plot, Lambert kept his mind firmly fixed in the real world, not the one of fiction.

Why then the images of the girl?

His eyes were gritty and when he returned to the study, he wheeled himself over to the fire and allowed himself a moment, to rest. He required a few moments, to recharge his spirit. He allowed himself to drift.

A train rattled through his brain, as if he were travelling between two stops, one London, with its colourful, vibrant life, the other dark, threatening, drawing him closer to the night of the accident.

He fought against the darkness, found courage in a memory, a bottle of Moët and Chandon chilling in a bucket of ice, Jenny moving around in the bedroom.

“Come on, darling. You can try your new coat on later, this champagne won't keep.”

She appeared in the doorway, wrapped in her new Burberry coat, open to reveal matching black underwear, her toned body shimmering, slim, endless legs in sheer stockings and black, leather boots. The woman of his dreams; a goddess.

“What do you think?”

Her eyes sparkled like the champagne in the glass as she reached out, took his hand and led him into the bedroom, pushing him down upon the cover. She pulled away his shirt without a pause, ripping the material, discarding trousers and pants. He moaned, not wanting to resist, her soft lips wandering over his body, teeth nipping at his nipples. He cried out, arching his back, responding to such sweet torture!

Moments later, her hot breath lava from a volcano, flowing down his body until it reached the most gentle and sensitive area of his being, the gate opening to what he knew would be paradise.

Lambert snapped his eyes open, sucking in a breath. He put the heels of his palms into his eyes, rubbing away the images. Why was he thinking about all of this now? He'd made his choices. So had Jennifer.

Jennifer. Was the dream a memory, or a hope? A longing for something that never was? Was it even her? He struggled to regain her features, to recognise the Jennifer he knew with the one of a few moments before.

Perhaps…

His hands dropped to his lap and he gazed into the fire and saw her, the woman in the road, her shocked look of anguish as he lay entangled inside the car, her helplessness as she reached out her hand and realised she could do nothing. Who was she and to where had she disappeared? When the paramedics came and eased him from out of the wreckage he told them what had happened but, despite the police combing the immediate vicinity, they found no trace of the mystery woman, as if she had never existed.

And yet, he had seen her.

In answer to Lambert's phone call, Miles arrived within twenty minutes, clapping and rubbing his hands with glee, filling the room with his persona as he strode across the floorboards to the fire burning in the grate. “Damned bloody weather,” he said, face ruddy with the run to the castle from his car, the rain pelting down with the force of bullets. “Why the hell did you ever come back to this place?” He turned, massaging his backside before the flames. “Not that I'm ungrateful, mind. It's good to have you back, but I'd much prefer to be living it up in your London apartment.”

“I've sold it,” said Lambert, pouring out two tumblers with whisky. He clinked in ice and turned, offering out his hand to his oldest friend.

“Well, you're bloody stupid.” Miles took the drink and downed it in one. “You made a tidy profit, I hope.”

“Yes, of course. Enough to keep me comfortable whilst I'm here.” Lambert sipped at his own drink, savouring the warming sensation as the malt trickled down his throat to lie and smoulder in his stomach.

Miles gaped. “You need your head testing.”

“No. Father's death made me think, Miles. Made me think what to value and care about.” He swept his hand around the room. “All this. My family have lived here for generations and I grew up here, running like a mad thing through the corridors and up and down the winding staircases but as soon as I was able, I couldn't wait to get away. Now…” He shook his head, deep in thought, recalling the images, wondering again if they were of Jenny, or someone else. He finished his drink. “It's different now, Miles. I'm different now.”

“And Jenny? What did you say to her?”

Lambert shrugged, wheeled back to the drinks' cabinet and poured out another glassful of malt. “We hadn't been getting on for a long time. She was seeing someone else. Some guy from the UAE, dripping with money. Who cares?”

“She was seeing someone else? Since when?”

“Since ages. He'd been screwing her for months and I didn't know a damn thing about it. When the business went pear-shaped, she took the opportunity to kick me whilst I was down and tell me all about him, how fantastic he was, so rich, so handsome.” He chuckled, took a sip of the whisky. “I sat and listened to her, telling me how useless I was in bed, how I'd never satisfied her, how—”

“Women always say those things when there's a break up.”

“True. A lot of friends told me their own 'bad date' experiences. I laughed them off, finding them trivial, never once realising when it comes to your own experience, it's one of the hardest things to accept.” He swilled the whisky around the bottom of the glass, deep in thought. “When I was able to provide something akin to a luxury lifestyle, she heaped praises upon me, telling me I was so handsome, such a brilliant lover, but when I reminded about that after our break up, she mimicked the fake orgasm scene done by Meg Ryan in 'When Harry Met Sally'. She told me she'd done the same. I was devastated.”

“Jesus Christ, Andrew, that's no measure of—”

“Apparently it was to her, Miles. She made very sure I knew exactly how fucking wonderful her new lover was between the sheets.”

Miles stood in silence, staring down into the bottom of his tumbler. “You're better off out of it by the sound of things. You don't need a woman like that in your life, Andrew, so forget about her! There's no shortage of pretty girls out there, so never ever give up. Look at me, eh?” A boyish impishness twinkled in Miles' eyes.

“But I miss her so much. She celebrated life. Every single day I spent with her was like fireworks going off in my heart.” Images of Jennifer, her smile, the way she always played with the hem of her dress, coy, sucking in her lip, tossing her flaxen hair, came into his mind.

“You're punishing yourself for something that was not your fault.”

“You think so? They say everything happens for a reason, but I'm not so sure. Sometimes, a picture of her pops up in my head, her eyes, the cut of her hair, to remind me of the pain of losing her.”

“I think you need time alone to sort your head out. You're here now, in your ancient castle surrounded by majestic hills, breathtaking wildness and the great history behind it all … maybe things will all turn out for the best, in the end. She was always too stuck up anyway.” Miles screwed his face into a gargoyle mask and took a large drink.

“She may have been, but she was gorgeous, and I believed…” Lambert looked away, put his finger and thumb into his eyes. “I believed we had a chance. I hoped for happiness, a life together, a family. I toyed with the idea of coming back here, of bringing up our child in the castle. I was a bloody fool, wasn't I?”

“Andrew, stop beating yourself up. You have to let it go, look forward not back.”

“I suppose. But it's hard, Miles. One moment I'm in the City, the next the shares hit rock bottom, we haemorrhage money and Jennifer sticks her boot in. Within the space of a week, my whole life was turned upside down.”

“And you didn't see any of it coming?”

Lambert shrugged. “I don't know. Maybe. I didn't care, I'd lost interest. After Father's death, I'd thought a lot about who I was, the sort of person I'd become and I didn't like it, Miles. I got out some of my old books and I read them through again, listened to the type of music I used to when I started uni.” He chuckled. “I rediscovered myself. Corny isn't it.”

“Not at all.”

“I think Jennifer panicked at what she saw. As my interest for making money waned, she would disappear for a few days. I never took any notice, but of course, I realise now what she was doing. And why.”

“It's for the best. You'll come to believe that, Andrew. Honestly. All you need is some time.”

“Yes, I suppose you're right.”

Miles smiled, seeming relieved as Andrew relaxed. “Talking of the past, I've missed this old place, and your dad. I really liked him. He often used to phone me up, inviting me over, saying, 'I've just got hold of a lovely bottle of Château Margaux, come and help me finish it'. He often showed his penchant for the finest of Bordeaux wines by finishing off a couple of bottles during my visits. I'd drop everything and we'd spend the most precious moments together. He'd be full of stories, about all sorts of things, but usually about wine.” He laughed. “He was something of a historian, your old dad, when it came to the ruby nectar. He told me about the earliest known vessels for storing wine – wineskins, containers made from animal hide or bladders, how he'd looked up references going back to Homer's Odyssey, continuing through to Shakespeare's plays…” Miles stopped, lost in the memory. Silence proved more eloquent than words. “He told me that the last time I saw him.”

Lambert studied his friend for a long time, determined not to allow grief to overcome him.

“Andrew, he was a great man your old dad. I loved him.”

Lambert pressed his lips together and nodded, unable to speak. He drank the malt whilst Miles moved past him, helping himself to a refill before sitting down in a nearby armchair. Both men stared into the flames.

Sometime later, Sinclair arrived with the first of the boxes and Miles, regaining his enthusiasm, helped the old butler to bring more of them up from the Tower. Within half an hour, eight or ten such boxes lay heaped upon the study floor. Miles grinned, hands on hips, the sweat across his brow. “What the hell is inside all of these?”

“Manuscripts and photographs, so I understand,” said Sinclair. “Mr Lambert would often abandon projects mid-stream. I sometimes saw him tying up over four-hundred pages and discarding them. He had no qualms about such things, but when he did experience some form of emotional connection with a story he always finished the work. Every day he would write, from the early morning until well into the evening. When Mrs Lambert passed away he became almost obsessed.” He smiled across to Andrew Lambert, who sat holding his whisky between his palms, listening to every word. “Apologies, sir. Your mother was an exceptional woman, in so many ways. Her death affected him acutely.”

“He soon recovered though, didn't he?”

Sinclair frowned at the sharp tone used and turned to Miles who offered nothing but a slightly raised eyebrow. “It is true they were more friends than lovers, but…” Sinclair's face grew red. “Forgive me, sir, I do not wish to offend the memory of your father. The life he lived with your mother was not usual but it worked for them. He grieved for her, sir, I know that much. Always a private man, he rarely revealed his emotions but I could feel his anguish at her passing.” He pulled in a raking breath, “I shall fetch some more boxes.”

“No, Sinclair, this will be enough to be going on with.” Lambert raised his glass. “Thank you.”

He watched the manservant go out and when the door closed quietly, he glanced across at Miles. “A private man? Didn't stop him having a rack of affairs though, did it.”

“Don't judge your father harshly, Andrew. There's a lot you don't know.”

“Oh, and what makes you the expert?”

“Relationships, they're bloody complicated. Look at you and Jenny.”

“Life is a great canvas; it's not easy to find your complimentary colour.” He frowned, surprised at his own use of such imagery. Perhaps a sense of creativity was beginning to assert itself. He shook his head, continuing, “Jenny immersed herself completely in the material world. My mother possessed something more, the one thing my father needed from her – the one thing he really, truly valued: he needed inspiration. She gave it to him, showed him the way to success and enabled him to grab the possibility. Without her support and ceaseless optimism I doubt he would have continued writing.”

Miles said nothing for a moment, preferring to look though the window to the wonders of their natural surroundings. He smiled. “I read almost all of his books. They were sublime, Andrew. Nothing like anything else. Deep, thought-provoking, forcing the reader, me, to question what we perceive as truth.”

“I'm ashamed to say I've never read any of them.”

“Then you should.”

They stared at one another for a long time and then Lambert, snapping himself out of his reverie, prodded his friend in the leg and smiled. “You'll stay, help me through this lot?”

“These boxes?” Lambert nodded. “Christ, Andrew, do I have to?”

“No. I thought you might want to help out an old friend, that's all.”

“Pompous ass.” Miles grinned, threw down the whisky and stood up. “No, I'm off. I have much to do.” He clapped his hands together and beamed.

“Really. What's her name?”

“Hah! You know me too well, you boring bastard. I'm off to wine and dine the lovely Natalie down in town. Then, it's back to my place for an evening of wild, unbridled sex.”

Lambert blew out his breath in a long stream. “I envy you at times, you know that?”

“Then why not get yourself a girl, eh? I could fix you up, if you want. Nobody like the material girl Jennifer with her limp thighs and her haughty-taughty manner. What you need, my bonny lad is a nubile young thing who will shag you stupid.”

“Yeah, and spend all my money, money which I haven't got I hasten to add.”

“God, you're boring.”

“Careful, more like. It's all right for you, you have two brothers to look after your estate, a private bloody income and enough time on your hands to indulge in every whim and fancy that comes to mind. I've got this place to sort out. Father left a mountain of debts and my responsibility is to get things straight.”

“You should hold a party.”

“What?”

“A party. A get-together. Invite some of the old gang over, lay on a spread. It'll take your mind off everything.”

“Don't be bloody stupid, how am I supposed to organise all of that?”

“I'll help.” Miles jutted his chin towards the boxes. “After you've been through this little lot, give me a call and I'll start the ball rolling, so to speak.”

“I don't want a party, Miles, I'm too—”

“You don't need to do anything, old mate. You can leave all the arrangements to me.” He came across and punched Lambert playfully in the chest. “It'll bring you out of yourself. And who knows, you might even have a good time.”

He breezed out, chuckling softly to himself and Lambert watched him go and wondered if it might work. A party, like the ones he used to know, with Jenny, voices raised in laughter, filling the place with the sound of happiness, replacing the sadness and grief, which draped themselves over every part of the castle. It was time to sweep away the gloom away, bring some cheer to the old stones.

The more he thought the more he became convinced what a good idea it was.

4

Lambert sat for a long time, unmoving, considering the boxes before him. They stank of damp and neglect, some stained dark brown in the bottom corners, most buckled and some broken. He did not know where to start, or even why he ever agreed to such an endeavour. Being bored was one thing, but embarking on the sifting through of endless pieces of dirty, decaying sheets of paper was not what he'd signed up for. He should call Sinclair to burn the lot, but such a thing would be tantamount to turning his back on his father's memory.

He rarely saw his father in his youth. A dark, forbidding shape passing by in the corridors, silent, brooding. Sometimes he would listen outside the study, ear pressed to the door, listening to the constant thump of the typewriter, the occasional loud sigh, the clink of the glass as yet another whisky was poured. Sinclair often took him into town and outside the local bookshop window, the manservant would stop and point out the titles his father had created. “One day you might read them,” he said. Lambert never did. Somehow, he could never relate the words, even those of the titles, to the father he knew. When his mother called him for lunch or dinner, they would sit in silence. Lambert never asked where his father was, because he knew. Writing. Always writing.

On the day Lambert left for university, his father emerged from the study, as always dressed immaculately in padded, purple smoking jacket and black silk pyjama bottoms. He smoked a Turkish cigarette with his usual elegance, fingertips alone holding onto the burning, white stick. He appeared tired, with dark shadows under his eyes. “Well Andrew,” he said and smiled.

There were no other words.

As the years of study sauntered by his father took to writing him letters. Initially a few hastily scratched words but soon they developed into something far more detailed. Page after page of ideas, thoughts, observations. After a while, Lambert began to build up a much fuller appreciation of his father, together with a deeper knowledge of the castle and the family heritage.

And now, here before him, stacked up in untidy piles, more chapters in the life of the man whom he knew best from his letters. He wheeled himself closer to the nearest box, grunted as he picked it up and positioned it on his lap. He made his way to the desk, laid it on the top and, using the letter opener in the mahogany writing set, sliced into the thick tape, which bound the box together.

A waft of dank smelling paper hit him when he pulled back the cardboard flaps and he reeled away, wrinkling his nose, coughing. He waved his hand through the air to disperse the smell before remembering the thin latex fabric gloves Sinclair had provided. He slipped them on, the sensation of the material on his skin setting his teeth on edge. He delved inside the box.

The first few creased and torn papers were of little interest, bearing scattered scrawls in a spider's hand, illegible and faded. His heart sank as he went deeper and discovered much the same with every piece he examined. Pages of scribbles, sometimes complete sentences but mainly a single word here and there. 'Smiles, face, eyes of sultry, smoky grey' and any number of other, mysterious, meaningless jottings.

Over the course of the next hours, he diligently went through each box, only to find similar extracts. He was vaguely aware of Sinclair moving in and out the room, bringing plates of sandwiches and pots of tea but concentration centred on the boxes and the more Lambert rooted around, the more he became convinced something of value lay amongst the heaps of scrawl. Why else keep them all? There had to be a reason for he could never countenance his father being a mere hoarder.

In the afternoon, he asked Sinclair to take him out into the glen.

“I need some fresh air,” he explained, gesturing towards the boxes and the collection of curled papers strewn over floor and desk.

On his return, downing his second whisky, Lambert put his head back. All the talk of Jenny, the break-up, it brought nothing but a dark depression. London, with all its hustle and bustle, seemed a million miles away, and yet she remained. Regret, blame, desire. All mingling together.

There was something he recalled, so sharp, so immediate it made his blood freeze. He and Jennifer attended a charity affair, supporting talented young people. Some students from RADA were there, acting out a series of short, one-act plays, and one of them…

Lambert stared into the mist of his memory. How had he not remembered this before now? One scene was of a duchess who had disappeared. Disappeared from an old castle.

Was that why he saw the woman the night of the accident? Were these two dramas interlaced somehow, distorting reality, making his unconscious appear real?

Too much thinking, he decided. He wheeled himself to the drinks' cabinet, poured himself another malt. Sinclair had mentioned something about the internet going down. It seemed all he had was the Scotch, books, and his father's papers.