Monkshood. Anne Mather

and inviting and Melanie was tempted to abandon her ideas altogether. But the thought of spending the whole day in the hotel, wasting time, was more than she could bear, and with determination she set off.

      It wasn’t so bad, actually. The snow covering the ground had taken away the glassiness and she could walk quite briskly and keep warm. The road was quite clearly defined in daylight, the tracks of the one or two vehicles which had passed this way providing a trail, and Melanie’s spirits lifted. This was better than sitting in the hotel, hugging the fire, and listening to the click of the Misses Sullivans’ knitting needles. Which was perhaps a little unkind, she conceded silently to herself, as she did not really know whether they knitted or not.

      Beyond a curve in the road, she came upon a snow-covered gateway, and something made her stop and stare beyond the gate to the house at the head of a tree-lined drive. The whole place looked neglected, even in its blanket of snow, and she hesitated for a moment before stepping across the grass to the gate itself.

      She looked up the drive speculatively. The house was empty, certainly, and it backed the mist-shrouded mountains as did the hotel. And if she was not mistaken, the village was not much further now. She frowned. Jane Sullivan had said it was near the village, so this could conceivably be Monkshood.

      Without waiting to consider her actions, she pushed open the gate and walked slowly up the drive. The keys the solicitors had given her in Fort William were lying in her handbag at the hotel, so she would not be able to go inside, but she could not resist taking a look round and maybe peeping through the windows.

      It was certainly an ugly old place, as Jane Sullivan had said. Not even the frosting of snow could improve upon its square windows and heavy eaves, and the straggling creepers that clung grimly to its walls gave it a rather ominous appearance.

      To her disappointment the front windows were shuttered downstairs and she walked disconsolately round the back, following what appeared to be a path through straggling gardens interspersed with pine trees.

      To her astonishment, there were footprints at the back of the house – huge footprints that laced and interlaced the area just outside the back door. Some had obviously been made some days ago, as these were already beginning to disappear under more layers of snow, but some seemed to have been freshly made.

      She frowned. Could she possibly have made a mistake? Was this not Monkshood after all? If so, she was trespassing on someone else’s property.

      She shook her head in bewilderment. Cairnside was such a sparsely habited area it seemed incredible that there could be two houses possessing the same characteristics and both in such an obvious state of neglect. She had been prepared for neglect, the solicitors had warned her of that, but they had also said that basically the house was sound and that was why she wanted to see it for herself.

      The silence all around the house was almost deafening. Even the snow fell silently, and Melanie felt a sense of unease assail her. What if she was right? What if this was Monkshood and someone was using it as a sleeping place? After all, there had been no footprints at the front of the house, so whoever it was wanted to remain anonymous, it would seem.

      She shivered momentarily. There were footprints at the front now. Her footprints! And anyone looking out of an upper floor window would see them. A desire to run assailed her, and only the memory of Michael’s smiling contention that she would never be able to manage alone caused her to still her racing pulses. She was being melodramatic, allowing the silence to get the better of her. This was her house, after all, and if anyone was inside, they would jolly well have to shift themselves.

      Stepping forward, she tried the handle of the back door. To her astonishment, it gave under her fingers and she pushed it open incredulously.

      The door fell back to reveal a kitchen, stark and cold. There was a range of the like Melanie had never seen before, which appeared to provide cooking as well as heating facilities, a scrubbed kitchen table, somewhat mildewed now with dampness, and several plain wooden chairs.

      She hesitated on the threshold, listening, but there were no sounds. It seemed that whoever was using the place was not at home at the moment. She stepped inside, but refrained from closing the door behind her – just in case!

      Resisting the impulse to walk on tiptoe, she crossed the kitchen and opened the door at its farthest side. This led into a passage which, although it was gloomy, could be seen to lead directly through the house to the front door. At the end of the passage, near the front door, stairs could be seen running up, and there were several doors opening from the passage itself.

      Melanie grew a little more confident. There was no sign here of anyone’s habitation, and she threw open the door opposite the kitchen door.

      This appeared to be the dining-room. There was a table, heavily covered with dust, several chairs, and an antique dresser loaded with grimy plates and cups.

      Another door revealed a kind of study, with books against the walls, and a desk that would do marvellously for her illustration work. Yet another room appeared to be the lounge, with an old suite and several odd chairs and tables.

      The whole house, it would appear, if the upstairs was the same, was furnished after a fashion, and Melanie thought that a good spring-cleaning was what was needed. Indeed, her spirits rose higher, if she was stranded in Cairnside for any length of time, she might be able to accomplish this herself.

      She was so absorbed with her exciting reasoning, that she did not hear footsteps descending the threadbare carpet on the stairs, nor hear a man approach the doorway of the lounge to stand regarding her with obvious astonishment, until a deep voice said:

      ‘Do you mind telling me what the hell you’re doing in here?’

      Melanie almost collapsed, so great was the shock, and she swung round to face Sean Bothwell.

      ‘You!’ she exclaimed, in disbelief. ‘It was your footsteps I saw outside!’

      ‘It was,’ he agreed uncompromisingly, his expression grim. ‘But you haven’t answered my question. I asked you what you thought you were doing here!’

      Melanie quivered a little under that penetrating stare. ‘I – I might ask you the same question,’ she retorted.

      Bothwell’s eyes narrowed. ‘I asked the question first,’ he said, with harsh insistence in his voice.

      Melanie swallowed hard. ‘Very well, then. I – I own this house.’ She put a hand to her lips. ‘This is – Monkshood, isn’t it?’

      There was a moment when she thought she had been mistaken after all; when she began to think frantically that she had made some terrible mistake, and had indeed invaded someone else’s private property.

      And then he said, slowly and clearly: ‘Yes, Miss Stewart, this is Monkshood. But you are not the owner. I am!’