be stupid to go across now, until I knew more about the tides. I wondered where John Parsons was; looking for his garnet-studded âintrusionâ, whatever that was, on the other side of the island? I could see the tent from here, pitched in a hollow not far from the broch wall. The entrance flaps were shut.
I trod up through the seaweed at the edge of the beach, then followed the path to the gate in the garden wall. I peered through the bars. Inside the grounds the path continued, curving up between the overgrown rhododendrons in the direction of the house. I hesitated. There would presumably be a driveway of sorts leading from the back of the house to the road and my easiest way home. To try and get to it by going round outside the garden wall meant ploughing through waist-high nettles and clumps of bramble. So . . . ? So I opened the gate and went through.
There had never been much of a garden, only the rhododendrons flowering red and pink and lilac, where bees droned happily. Beyond the wild tangle of flowers I could just see the upper storey of the house, grey stone with tall sashed windows and a roof of grey slate with its unsmoking chimney stacks. There were curtains in the windows. The place must still be furnished, then. I tried to remember when Mrs McDougall had said the old lady had died. February? And Archie McLaren had told me that the house would probably have to be sold, so it was to be supposed that at any time now people might be coming to look at it.
It was the subconscious mind taking over again. I found myself halfway up the path between the rhododendrons before the conscious mind caught up with the fact that, though there had been a padlock on the garden gate, the gate had been unlocked. So, surely there could be no objection to someone taking a look at a place that would soon be up for sale anyway? I crossed a lawn that badly needed cutting, and started on a cautious tour of the Hamilton house.
I doubt if there are many normal women who can resist looking at houses. I believe, in fact, that when a house is up for sale more than half the people who look over it are not prospective buyers, but merely ladies who cannot resist exploring someone elseâs house. I had never done that, but I was not immune. I trod carefully up to the most important-looking window, and peered in.
The drawing-room. A rather lovely fireplace, with a hideous overmantel. Faded carpet and curtains. Typical family paintings of dim-looking, not-quite-Raeburns, and improbable horses and dogs. Round tables with skirts, their surfaces smothered with photographs. Sagging armchairs with faded covers, not too clean. A quite awful vase in one corner, full of dried pampas grass.
The dining-room. More portraits, if possible duller still, and lightened by a couple of horrendous still lifes, dead hares and poultry, staring eyes and blood congealing from beaks and nostrils; just the thing to give one an appetite for meals.
The gunroom . . . But enough of that. It was a very ordinary, rather pleasant, Highland country house; originally a shooting-lodge and of no great size or importance for the day when it was built. And meant only for summer and early autumn; no heating apparatus except the open fires, and a kitchen rather on a par for mod cons with my cottage at Ottersâ Bay.
The only thing that was quite extraordinary was what I found when I got as far as the back premises.
The back door was standing open.
My excuse, a thin one, is still the subconscious mind. I did knock at the door, then, when there was no response, took a couple of steps through into a passage floored with stone slabs and containing nothing but some buckets of coal and a rack of ancient clothes, gardening clobber by the look of it. In spite of the open door, the place smelled of damp and disuse.
The kitchen door was on my right. I pushed it open. Emptiness again; somehow a kitchen, which is the warm heart of any house, is the worst
I trod up through the seaweed at the edge of the beach, then followed the path to the gate in the garden wall. I peered through the bars. Inside the grounds the path continued, curving up between the overgrown rhododendrons in the direction of the house. I hesitated. There would presumably be a driveway of sorts leading from the back of the house to the road and my easiest way home. To try and get to it by going round outside the garden wall meant ploughing through waist-high nettles and clumps of bramble. So . . . ? So I opened the gate and went through.
There had never been much of a garden, only the rhododendrons flowering red and pink and lilac, where bees droned happily. Beyond the wild tangle of flowers I could just see the upper storey of the house, grey stone with tall sashed windows and a roof of grey slate with its unsmoking chimney stacks. There were curtains in the windows. The place must still be furnished, then. I tried to remember when Mrs McDougall had said the old lady had died. February? And Archie McLaren had told me that the house would probably have to be sold, so it was to be supposed that at any time now people might be coming to look at it.
It was the subconscious mind taking over again. I found myself halfway up the path between the rhododendrons before the conscious mind caught up with the fact that, though there had been a padlock on the garden gate, the gate had been unlocked. So, surely there could be no objection to someone taking a look at a place that would soon be up for sale anyway? I crossed a lawn that badly needed cutting, and started on a cautious tour of the Hamilton house.
I doubt if there are many normal women who can resist looking at houses. I believe, in fact, that when a house is up for sale more than half the people who look over it are not prospective buyers, but merely ladies who cannot resist exploring someone elseâs house. I had never done that, but I was not immune. I trod carefully up to the most important-looking window, and peered in.
The drawing-room. A rather lovely fireplace, with a hideous overmantel. Faded carpet and curtains. Typical family paintings of dim-looking, not-quite-Raeburns, and improbable horses and dogs. Round tables with skirts, their surfaces smothered with photographs. Sagging armchairs with faded covers, not too clean. A quite awful vase in one corner, full of dried pampas grass.
The dining-room. More portraits, if possible duller still, and lightened by a couple of horrendous still lifes, dead hares and poultry, staring eyes and blood congealing from beaks and nostrils; just the thing to give one an appetite for meals.
The gunroom . . . But enough of that. It was a very ordinary, rather pleasant, Highland country house; originally a shooting-lodge and of no great size or importance for the day when it was built. And meant only for summer and early autumn; no heating apparatus except the open fires, and a kitchen rather on a par for mod cons with my cottage at Ottersâ Bay.
The only thing that was quite extraordinary was what I found when I got as far as the back premises.
The back door was standing open.
My excuse, a thin one, is still the subconscious mind. I did knock at the door, then, when there was no response, took a couple of steps through into a passage floored with stone slabs and containing nothing but some buckets of coal and a rack of ancient clothes, gardening clobber by the look of it. In spite of the open door, the place smelled of damp and disuse.
The kitchen door was on my right. I pushed it open. Emptiness again; somehow a kitchen, which is the warm heart of any house, is the worst
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