The loch was mostly calm, though she could see muscular ripples offshore that hinted at currents easily strong enough to claim Eleanor Bruton’s body. At the shore’s edge a flat shelf of rock was visible just beneath the water’s surface. If I wanted to swim, Clio thought, that’s where I’d get in. She could see that if she slipped over in that spot, it would be easy to sustain a significant head injury, and with no one around to help, she’d be in trouble.
It relaxed her a little, because it made the story about Eleanor’s death seem entirely believable, even if she would still like to know why Eleanor had come here. There were many less remote places to hide out, places with fewer practical challenges for someone living alone, places you didn’t need a boat to access, places with a shop. But maybe that was the point; maybe Eleanor wanted to make herself as difficult to reach as possible. Maybe she wanted to deter visitors. Maybe she came here with the embroidery for some reason, but died by accident. Though that didn’t explain why it wasn’t found among her things. Maybe her only reason for coming was to escape her family. Not all women wanted to be free childcare providers. Perhaps she hadn’t been as excited about her grandchild as her family believed.
Clio hiked farther around the island until her legs ached and her stomach growled. When she got back to the cottage, she ate hungrily then fell asleep on the sofa and woke late in the afternoon, disorientated, groggy, and a little chilly. But it felt good to have slept. She’d been running on too few hours of rest since Lillian died.
She went upstairs and ran a bath in the claw-footed tub, which had chipped enamel and cranky taps. The water was hot, but the pressure was poor, and the tub was deep. It would take a while to fill.
It was getting dark and she noticed a man in a boat on the loch, so she went to pull the drapes before she undressed. They were made from heavy, worn green velvet and moved easily enough along the wooden rail they hung on, until the bottom of one snagged against the leg of a chair.
Clio reached down to unsnag it, but it was caught firm at the hem. She grabbed a handful of the fabric and yanked, but it didn’t come loose. She knelt to inspect it more closely. There was something sewn into the hem; it crinkled as her hand closed around it. She worked the drape loose, turned the hem up, and saw a line of stitching, neat and new.
She fetched a kitchen knife to cut the threads and pulled out an ordinary white envelope. It was unmarked but sealed, a gap at one end just wide enough for her to slip her little finger into. She tore it open and found a sheet of paper inside.
She unfolded it. At the top of the page there was a simple line drawing of a sun, with wavy rays. Beneath it, a handwritten poem. She read it and said, “Holy shit.”
If you read this, I may be dead,
But I leave you with this little thread.
Your first refuge and your first inn,
Is a city to house deserving women.
He who on the ladder has the sacred bird displayed,
Was where two men hang but St. Eustace did fade.
Where horse and man cross Styx with Big Dog,
A visit here could lift the fog.
But if you share this castle view,
You may soon be dead, too.
Chapter Four
Anya
Summer passed quickly. I couldn’t wait to make the move to St. Andrews. In August, I packed up my life in Oxford and said a temporary goodbye to Sid, who was staying to finish up his PhD. I wanted to have some time with Mum before I went up to Scotland.
Viv took some time off, so it was just Mum and me for a whole fortnight. We pottered: baking, doing some gentle work in her cottage garden, a little walking, playing card games and chess. As she got stronger, we started to feel hopeful that she would be able to endure a new round of chemo in September, which was what her doctors recommended.
My decision to accept the job in St. Andrews caused friction. No matter how often I told Mum that it wasn’t a compromise, I couldn’t convince her. In the end, we avoided the topic because both of us got upset if it came up. But in September, when Viv was back and Sid and I were packed up and ready to go, Mum wished us luck and gave us both a big, tight hug. She and Viv waved us off from the cottage gate.
Viv is here, so I will be fine. Go live your life.
We were at the tail end of the summer’s heat wave, and thecountryside looked baked as we drove north, everything waiting for rain. Air shimmered over the asphalt on the motorway and Sid’s old car had no air-conditioning, so we drove with the windows wide open, buffeted by the hot draft, the music cranked up.
“Do you realize this is the first road trip we’ve made together?” Sid asked. He was shouting to make himself heard.
“I don’t know why we didn’t do it before.”
“We were working too hard.”
“True. But I think it was worth it, don’t you, Dr. Hill?” Sid had successfully defended his PhD with no corrections.
“I do, Dr. Brown.”
