‘Oh yes.’ He gave a mirthless smile. ‘They said it was the Devil himself. There was even a rumour that she had murdered the child at birth in some kind of blood sacrifice, which was why no one ever saw him.’ Charles’s face tightened in anger, as if he took such ignorance and prejudice personally. ‘But that is a real mystery – with all the gossip flying, there was never a finger pointed at any of the island men. Not even the disgruntled maid could confect any plausible evidence of male visitors in the year after Ailsa was widowed. Even the minister didn’t cross the threshold.’
‘Wow. She really knew how to keep a secret.’ Zoe felt a growing admiration for Ailsa McBride and her disregard for convention.
‘So it seems. But after the child was born, Ailsa left the management of her financial affairs to the one solicitor in the village, a Mr Richard Bonar,’ he continued. ‘Bonar would go out to the house once a month to discuss the estate. His letters to William Drummond are fascinating.’ He leaned forward, eyes bright. ‘He says despite the talk, he’s never found Ailsa anything less than entirely lucid. She is always impeccably dressed, the house clean, and she displays a sound understanding of her accounts and investments together with an impressive grasp of arithmetic for a woman.’
‘Big of him,’ Zoe remarked.
Charles laughed. ‘Yes. Though it’s curious – I can’t help but wonder about the effect of those letters. What might have happened if Bonar had been less pragmatic, if he had encouraged William to come back and see his sister. But William was evidently reassured by Bonar’s words. Especially when, a couple of years later, the solicitor said he’d seen the child.’
‘So the son was alive?’
‘Most definitely. A frail boy, Bonar says, very pale, but to all appearances well cared-for, though he suspected he might be mute. So William saw no need to get involved. He was engaged to be married by then, to a girl from an Edinburgh clergy family of some standing – he was moving up in the world and had no wish to be burdened with the care of a widowed sister and sickly nephew on a remote island, particularly when that sister had more than enough money to look after herself and there was a rumour of illegitimacy hanging over the boy. He writes encouraging Ailsa to sell the land and move to Edinburgh so they can see more of each other, but he doesn’t make much effort to persuade her.’ He stopped for another gulp of coffee and shook his head. ‘Perhaps if he had taken more trouble with her, the story might have had a different ending.’
Zoe watched him with a frisson of excitement, waiting for the reveal.
‘Would you like to see her?’ Before she could answer, he crossed the room to a vast walnut cabinet against the back wall, crouched to unlock the top drawer and drew out a leather folder crammed with documents. After some riffling through papers he held out a yellowed photograph, curling at the edges. She reached out for it, aware of a strange tightness in her throat.
‘I’ll put another pot of coffee on,’ Charles said, setting the folder down on the desk and leaving her with the picture.
Zoe looked down. The photo in her hand was a formal portrait, the woman sitting stiff-backed in her black dress with its high lace collar and wide skirts, hair severely parted and pulled back into a bun. The face was stern, not beautiful but strong-featured, with fierce dark eyes that stared into the lens as if issuing a challenge. No wonder the locals left her alone, Zoe thought; the force of that gaze would make anyone step back and apologise. Around her neck, Ailsa wore a silver Celtic cross patterned with ornate tracery.
‘Formidable woman, isn’t she?’ Charles’s voice over her shoulder made her jump. ‘Shall I get you a refill?’ He leaned over for her empty mug. ‘You wouldn’t want to be on the wrong side of her, to judge by that expression. You can see why she made the villagers nervous.’
‘So what did happen to her?’ Zoe called, as he pottered back to the kitchen.
‘I’m about to tell you,’ he said. At the same time, the bell above the shop door chimed. Charles emerged from the kitchen, wiping his hands on a tea towel, as Mick appeared in the archway to the main shop. His gaze alighted on Zoe with the photograph in her lap and she watched his face working to suppress a reaction. Again, Zoe felt she had incurred his disapproval; guilty, she glanced at her watch.
‘Thought I might find you here.’ Mick pressed his lips together, but his reproving look was directed at Charles.
‘I’m so sorry,’ Zoe said, half rising. ‘I didn’t realise how quickly the time had gone.’
‘It’s my fault entirely,’ Charles said, with his charming smile, flipping the cloth over his shoulder. ‘I persuaded her to stay for coffee, I’m afraid.’
‘And a wee history lesson, I see.’ Mick nodded to the picture in Zoe’s hand.
‘I asked him to tell me,’ she said, looking at Mick. She did not want to be the cause of ill feeling between the two men, but she found Mick’s efforts to hide the stories from her both irritating and a little ridiculous. Perhaps he was ashamed of having a family history that included witchcraft, or madness. That sort of thing still mattered in a place like this. ‘The island is so fascinating. I thought it might be inspiring for my painting.’
Mick’s face clouded further. ‘I don’t think—’ he began, but changed his mind. ‘I need to get back up the pub in a minute. If you do a quick dash round the shop now, I can run you home, but we’ll need to get a shift on.’
Zoe stood. ‘Look, I don’t want to put you to any trouble. Couldn’t I get a cab? That way I can take my time and explore a bit more.’
Mick laughed. ‘A cab, she says. Good luck with that.’ He folded his arms and appeared to relent. ‘Nae bother. You’ve my mobile number – if you can’t get a lift, I’ll be free again after about four, you can try me then.’ His eyes darted back to the photograph. ‘And don’t believe anything he tells you.’ He turned and stalked briskly out of the shop, leaving the bell jangling as the door banged behind him.
Zoe caught Charles’s eye and he grimaced.
‘We’re in the doghouse,’ she said, handing back the photo, avoiding a last look at the woman’s stare. ‘I shouldn’t have kept him waiting, when he was going out of his way to help me.’
‘It’s me he’s angry with,’ Charles said, though he didn’t sound as if this troubled him unduly. He picked up the document case and tapped it with a tobacco-stained forefinger. ‘But I only ever promised not to write publicly about the story without his blessing. I certainly never agreed not to discuss it. And as a publican, he should have a better grasp of human nature. The more he tries to stop you hearing, the more curious you’re bound to be.’ He took a long look at Ailsa McBride before slipping the picture back among the other papers. ‘How was your first night in the house, by the way?’
Zoe hesitated. For one reckless moment she considered telling him about the singing and the locked door, the figure on the beach. It would be a relief to voice the strangeness of it aloud, to have someone as unflappable as Charles reassure her that she had imagined it. But in the same instant she recalled the dream that had preceded it, her own nakedness and fierce desire, and felt unaccountably ashamed, as if he would be able to read traces of that dream in her face. Besides, he had seen her at the pub; he must have noticed how quickly the whisky had gone to her head. He would be too polite to tell her it was the drink, but she could hardly expect to be taken seriously. She shrugged and smiled.
‘Fine. I needed the sleep.’
He raised his head, eyebrows cocked in a question. ‘You didn’t find the silence unnerving? People often do.’
‘I’m OK with silence,’ she said, still smiling, though her face had begun to feel rigid.
‘That’s good. Few people really know how to be comfortable with it, I find.’