Breakfast polished off, she had an hour before she was expected at the castle, so she returned to her studio to work on her latest piece. This one was fun and light-hearted. She’d already created the sky and the sea background with a wash of blue and aqua watercolour paints. Now she arranged several bits of driftwood on the canvas to look like a rickety old fence, then placed some tiny pebbles, along with the odd shell or two, across the bottom of the picture to signify the shore. Finally, she added the seagulls using white and black glass, and used more white glass for the clouds, before drawing a pair of little legs and an eye on each bird.
The whole thing took about an hour, and when she was done, she set it aside. Once the glue was dry, she’d frame it.
Checking the time, she realised she’d better get a move on. She was late. Mhairi was one of the kindest and most generous people Giselle knew, but she was a busy woman, and she disliked tardiness. If she said eleven a.m., she meant eleven a.m., and it was already five minutes past.
Leaving her workbench in a bit of a mess, Giselle hurriedly washed her hands, picked up the more interesting morning finds then dashed out of the studio.
The castle was on the opposite side of the gravelled car park, white and luminous in the late morning sunlight. Arched windows with mullioned glass adorned each side, an impressive porch sheltered the enormous wooden front doors, and four turrets, one at each corner, reached into the sky, one of them sporting a flag.
Each time she saw Coorie, Giselle was amazed anew. The castle had been built in the thirteenth century, but there’d been a fortress on the site even before that, and everything about it screamed history, from the wide wood-panelled hall, the sweeping staircase, the coat of arms over the door, and the ancestral portraits and faded old tapestries on the walls. The smell of beeswax hung in the air, mingling with the scent of the fresh flowers on the reception desk.
One of the receptionists, Avril, was behind the desk and her friendly professional smile widened into genuine pleasure when she saw Giselle. Avril had worked at the castle for almost as long as Giselle and was her closest friend. Avril ‘got’ her, like few other people did. In the past, Giselle used to wish she was more like Izzy, but not now. She was happy in her own skin. Not everyone could be the life and soul of the party. The world also needed quieter people, and Giselle’s preference was to let others waltz in the spotlight while she enjoyed a solitary dance in the rising sun.
‘Go through,’ Avril said. ‘Mhairi’s expecting you. I’ll bring a tray of tea in a minute. I expect she could do with a cup. She hasn’t rung for one this morning.’
‘Lovely. Thanks.’
Avril beamed and Giselle waggled her fingers as she headed towards Mhairi’s parlour. The parlour was a sitting-room-cum-office where the old lady held court and spent most of her time. The door was closed, as it usually was (Mhairi wasn’t an open-door person – she liked her privacy), so Giselle tapped gently before going inside.
The room was large and sedate, stuffed full of antiques, with a huge mirror above a marble fireplace, several chairs set at right angles to it with an ornate coffee table between them and a heavy wooden desk next to a tall window.
Mhairi was seated in one of the upright wingback chairs by the unlit fireplace. A tall woman, she was slim and regal looking, with styled white hair and an English-rose complexion. She had a notepad on her lap, but she wasn’t writing in it. She was taking a nap.
Oh, bless her, Giselle thought, wondering whether to creep out and let Avril know that she’d pop by and see Mhairi another time.
But just as she was about to turn around, something made her hesitate.
Mhairi was very still.
Toostill.
Giselle swallowed hard. Her heart in her mouth, she said, ‘Mhairi?’
No response.
Louder now, she called her name again. ‘Mhairi!’
Still nothing, and even before Giselle screamed for help and began CPR, she knew Mhairi was dead.
Chapter 2
‘Here, get this down you.’ A chunky cut-glass tumbler half-full of amber liquid was thrust into Giselle’s hand.
The tang of oak-aged whisky hit her nose before she took a sip, the liquor sliding down her throat without her tasting it, the heat warming her stomach. She wished there was something she could drink to warm her heart. She’d never felt so cold, so numb.
Someone had draped a soft woollen blanket over her shoulders (she thought it may have been Cal), but the fabric did little to dispel the chill settling into her bones.
Mhairi was dead. Giselle hadn’t been able to save her.
‘There’s nothing you could have done, hen.’
Giselle looked around to see Cook smiling sorrowfully down at her.
Cook continued, ‘She was an old lady and—’
‘I was late.’
‘Pardon?’
