A Rhanna Mystery Read online

  Table of Contents

  About the Author

  Title Page

  Also by Christine Marion Fraser

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Map

  Part One: Spring 1968

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Part Two: Summer/Autumn – 1968

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Part Three: Autumn/Winter – 1968–69

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  About the Author

  Christine Marion Fraser was one of Scotland’s best-selling authors, outselling even Catherine Cookson, with world-wide readership and translations into many foreign languages. She was the author of the much-loved Rhanna series. Second youngest of a large family, she soon learned independence during childhood years spent in the post-war Govan district of Glasgow. Chris lived in Argyll with her husband. She died on 22nd November 2002.

  A RHANNA MYSTERY

  Christine Marion Fraser

  www.hodder.co.uk

  Also by Christine Marion Fraser

  Rhanna

  Children of Rhanna

  Return to Rhanna

  Song of Rhanna

  Storm Over Rhanna

  Stranger on Rhanna

  A Rhanna Mystery

  King’s Croft

  King’s Acre

  Kinvara

  Kinvara Wives

  Kinvara Summer

  Kinvara Affairs

  First published in Great Britain by

  HarperCollinsPublishers 1996

  This edition published in 2013 by Hodder & Stoughton

  An Hachette UK company

  Copyright © 1996 Christine Marion Fraser

  The right of Christine Marion Fraser to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library

  ISBN 9781444768244

  Hodder & Stoughton Ltd

  338 Euston Road

  London NW1 3BH

  www.hodder.co.uk

  To Frank Gallagher,

  Who made the dial of the golden sun,

  To tell me of the dawning of a day that’s just begun,

  Who brings to me the laughter, of music and stories shared,

  And all the treasures springing from a friendship, never spared.

  With thanks to Ken

  for all the numerous cups of coffee,

  when I was back once again on Rhanna.

  C.M.F.

  Part One

  SPRING 1968

  Chapter One

  Fergus felt uneasy. He had emerged from a restless sleep and now he lay in the darkness of the room, wide awake and alert, his eyes on the grey oblong of the window. The March night was black outside. Normally he could see the rugged outlines of Sgurr nan Ruadh etched against the sky but now there was nothing, just the night and the blackness and this strange feeling of foreboding in the pit of his belly.

  Taking a deep breath he made himself relax. The door of the bedroom was partially open; from the hall he could hear the faint ticking of the grandmother clock. It was a tranquil sound, one that he had known from childhood. The clock had been in the family for generations.

  ‘A grand old lady,’ his father had affectionately called it, and though Fergus himself would never have openly voiced such a sentiment he thought of it that way: the grand and tireless old lady who had stood sentinel in the hall all these years, the heartbeat of the house, the matriarch who had dictated the household routine for so many McKenzies.

  It was a sound that was both soothing and compelling. One minute he felt lulled by it, the next he found himself counting the ticks. Tick-tock, tick-tock. His lids were growing heavy. Wryly he smiled to himself in the darkness. Other people counted sheep; he counted clock beats, maybe because, as a farmer, he’d had enough of counting sheep to last him a lifetime.

  The house was peaceful and quiet around him, the big feather bed was warm and comfortable, there was no reason in the world why he shouldn’t just allow himself to drift off. But he fought against it. Something out there was disturbing him. He strained his ears, listening; there was nothing unusual to be heard, only the sigh of lonely places, the voice of silence on the hills, the River Fallan rushing over the stones.

  Throwing back the covers he padded quietly over to the window and looked out. A blanket of swirling mist covered the island; in the distance the beam of the Rhanna light filtered faintly through the haar; the mournful tones of the fog horn came eerily through the darkness.

  There was nothing to be seen of the village of Portcull, nor of the Sound of Rhanna beyond. Down below, the ghostly grey shapes of the trees were still and silent, the pale glitter of hoar frost on the roadside verges the only vestige of brightness in the landscape. Menace seemed to lurk in the branches, melancholy crept amongst the twisted trunks . . . he felt threatened and oddly apprehensive.

  He shuddered and tried to shake off his mood. He wasn’t the sort of man to indulge in fanciful imaginings. Trees were trees, shadows were shadows, it wouldn’t be night without them . . .

  Straining his eyes Fergus peered downwards . . . and his heart lurched into his throat! Something had moved down there in the bushes, one of the shadows had detached itself from the rest, a being of the night, shuffling furtively towards the house . . . He blinked his eyes and looked again. There was nothing, all was as it had been, not a branch moving or stirring.

  If anybody was out there, he reasoned, it would most likely be old Dodie, the island eccentric, who had, for most of his life, wandered the hills and glens of Rhanna at all hours of the day and night. Yet Dodie was more settled these days, ever since the laird had moved him from his lonely cottage in the hills down to Croft Beag on the edge of the village. Dodie had never been more contented, his cow and his hens round about him, his garden to tend, Mairi McKinnon in the neighbouring croft, only too willing to see to all his little home comforts. Even so, the wanderlust was in his blood and would be till the day he dropped. If the mood took him he quite simply upped and went. No matter the hour, off he would go a’roaming, his huge, wellington-clad feet fairly covering the miles, his greasy black coat flapping in the wind.

  But on a freezing cold March night? With barely a glimmer of light to show him the way?

  Fergus decided he’d better go and investigate. Pushing his feet into his slippers he threw his dressing-gown round his shoulders and stole soundlessly downstairs.

  The kitchen was warm and comforting, the f
ire had been damped with dross before bedtime and under the crackling of black cinders its heart was starting to glow. At Fergus’s intrusion into the room a floppy, indistinct shape half rose from the rug and Fergus laughed.

  ‘It’s only me, lazybones,’ he said softly, affectionately rubbing the dog’s ears. Last summer he had rescued the animal from the river, all tied up in a sack and left to drown. It had only been a pup then, big-boned and eager, an incongruous mixture of genes, jet black in colour with a soft spotted nose and a distinctive Border collie tail, recognisable labrador features, curly spaniel ears and ‘God knows what else,’ Bob the Shepherd had said with disgust when first he had clapped eyes on the beast. ‘It’s like one o’ they comic creatures they have in the circus. It will be no good at all as a working dog and will likely just spend its life lazing around at the fireside.’

  ‘Definitely a fifty-seven variety,’ Kirsteen had said when her husband brought home his find, ‘what else can we call him but Heinz?’

  ‘Ach, you can call it all the fancy names o’ the day,’ Bob had spat disdainfully. ‘It won’t do a bit o’ good. Why else do you think it was thrown in the river? It will become just an ornament on the rug, it has the look o’ a lazy bugger about it already.’

  Bob had never had time for ‘lapdogs’ as he put it. Neither had Fergus for that matter, but this dog was different; he’d had a traumatic start in life. Almost from the moment he had been fished out of the water he had shown a deep and lasting gratitude to his rescuer. As soon as he had recovered from his experiences he attached himself very firmly to Fergus and wouldn’t let go.

  Where Fergus went Heinz followed, watching every move with his huge mournful eyes. When Fergus sat he sat, when Fergus moved he moved. He was like a shadow, faithful and loyal, even when Fergus was exasperated by his lack of prowess in all things useful and roared at him to go home. Because Bob had been right, Heinz was useless with sheep, and he was no good at all in the fields. Instead he liked to round up the hens in the yard and tease the cats in the barn and quite early on he displayed a terrible weakness for a game of football with the youngsters who came to visit Laigmhor.

  He was marvellous with children and old people, but other than that he was ‘a lazy good for nothing’ in Bob’s own triumphant words. Undoubtedly he adored the fireside and all the comforts of home and was effusive in his appreciation when Kirsteen set down tasty meals for his enjoyment.

  Bob was soon proved wrong about one thing, though. Much to his annoyance Heinz was not destined to be a lapdog. As an ungainly pup he had only just fitted Kirsteen’s knee, and deep had been his contentment in those precious few weeks, cosily dreaming and snoozing the evenings away. But when he was just six months old he had soon wakened to the reality that he had become much too big even for the biggest basket, and with many mighty sighs and moans he’d had to make do with the hearthrug.

  One thing was certain however. At Laigmhor he had found a home for life. Everyone who met him loved him. He wooed and won all-comers to the house and in so doing allowed another of his little failings to become apparent: he would never even make a good watchdog. He was alert to the everyday sounds round about him, such as a knock on the door or a chicken roosting on a windowsill, the rattle of the letterbox or footsteps on the path, otherwise he was at peace with the world and loved everybody. The only time he displayed any aggressive tendencies was if anybody showed signs of threatening behaviour towards Fergus, his god. If, in his master’s presence, a voice was raised or a stick brandished, no matter how innocently, up Heinz would jump and the rumbles would start deep down somewhere in his massive lungs, growing in strength till his whole body trembled with the might and force of his feelings.

  ‘Ay, I’ll say that for him,’ Bob admitted grudgingly, ‘even if he’s no’ got much else in his head he’s got your interests at heart, man. I have no doubt he’d kill anybody that looked near you and wi’ those great buggering teeth o’ his he’d make a good job o’ it too.’

  ‘I hope Bob’s right.’ Fergus smiled dourly to himself as Heinz responded to his fondling with a great show of stretching and moaning. He was vastly content and delighted to see his master at this unusually early hour of the morning, and it was obvious that nothing out of the way had disturbed him.

  Seizing a torch from a hook on the wall Fergus went to the door and opening it he went outside, recoiling a little as the freezing foggy air penetrated his thin clothing. He went all round the house, shining the torch into nooks and crannies, checking the nearby outhouses to make sure nothing or no one was lurking there.

  Heinz, feeling he ought to be on duty, reluctantly left the warmth of the kitchen and followed in Fergus’s wake, sniffing at every bush as he went, licking at the little mound of frost that had gathered on his inquisitive nose.

  Hearing the stealthy padding at his back Fergus swung round and laughed in relief at the sight of his dog looming through the mist, unconcernedly lifting his leg at his favourite watering post – a gnarled old broom bush at the side of the path.

  ‘Come on,’ Fergus led the way back to the house, ‘there’s nothing here, back to bed wi’ you, lad, as if you need to be told.’

  Kirsteen stirred and murmured in her sleep when Fergus climbed back into bed and snuggled down beside her. His feet were like ice, she was as warm as toast, and he couldn’t resist moving closer to the enticing heat of her body. She was soft and yielding and smelled faintly of new baked bread and apple blossom soap. The passing years hadn’t lessened their desire for one another; last night he had made love to her with a fierceness that had taken her breath away.

  In a few hours, weather permitting, she was going away from him, her little case all neatly packed and ready on a chair near the bed.

  Doctor Lachlan’s wife Phebie was going to Glasgow to nurse an old aunt who had just been discharged from hospital after a gall bladder operation.

  ‘Why don’t you come with me?’ Phebie had said to Kirsteen, her rosy face sparkling at the thought. ‘You haven’t had a holiday in years and could be doing wi’ a break. Aunt Minnie’s a nice old soul, a widow wi’ plenty o’ money, thanks to having had a husband who was a bank manager. She’s a bit grippy mind, doesn’t believe in letting anything go to waste, she’s also a bittie eccentric and fussy but a great character for all that. She lives in a lovely flat in the west end, near the botanic gardens. I won’t have to be at her beck and call all the time and you and me could have a fine time in the Glasgow shops. She’s got bags o’ room and will be only too pleased to have company.’

  But Kirsteen had hummed and hawed. She hadn’t left the island in years, she wasn’t too sure if she would like being in a town, Fergus needed her, he would be like a helpless bairn without her, there was far too much to do at Laigmhor, the lambing season was coming on; she couldn’t possibly just up and leave everything and everybody to their own devices.

  ‘Nonsense!’ Shona, Fergus’s daughter, had said briskly when she heard all this. ‘If by everybody you mean Father you needn’t worry your head about him. I’ll make sure he’s fed and watered and has everything he needs. He isn’t a baby, you know, and Phebie’s right, you do need a holiday, you’re getting to be like Mirabelle was, with all your fussing and smothering!’

  ‘Smothering! Well, I like that!’ Kirsteen had gasped. ‘I’ve never smothered anybody in my life . . .’ she had glared at Shona contemplatively ‘ . . . until now, that is!’

  Shona had laughed unrepentingly. ‘Alright, make that mothering. You do mother Father, and you do fuss over him. I’m just up the road at Mo Dhachaidh and I can easily pop in to make his meals, and if that isn’t enough I’ll even bring the bairns down here and stay with him for as long as need be, Niall won’t mind, I’m sure.’

  But Niall had minded. When he learned of his wife’s plans his face had turned red and his brown eyes had glittered. ‘Hey, hang on,’ he had protested, ‘what about me? Your one and only husband? Where do I fit into all this?’

  ‘Och, don’
t foul your breeks,’ Shona had replied with a toss of her red head, ‘we can manage between us just this once. Kirsteen has helped us out plenty in the past. It’s time we did something for her for a change. Anyway, it probably won’t come to me actually having to stay at Laigmhor, I only really said that to please Kirsteen. Father’s perfectly capable of biding on his own for a while. After all, Phebie’s leaving your father to fend for himself.’

  ‘He has Elspeth to see to him,’ Niall said quickly.

  Shona smiled. ‘Elspeth’s head is too full o’ Captain Mac these days for her to bother with anyone else, but I take your point. Ruth will be only too happy, I’m sure, to help me look after you while I’m looking after Father and Tina won’t mind helping to look after Father while I’m looking after you.’

  All this sounded rather confusing. Niall blinked and grimaced, Shona followed suit, then they looked at one another and burst out laughing, all their little differences forgotton in the daftness of the moment.

  After that it was all settled; Kirsteen capitulated to all the persuasive tongues, the assurances that nothing would suffer in her absence. She was now quite looking forward to going with Phebie to Glasgow, but still she worried about leaving Fergus and spent the days leading up to her departure cleaning the house and cooking large quantities of the kind of foods that wouldn’t easily perish.

  ‘It will just go to waste,’ Fergus told her patiently. ‘Don’t forget, the electrics haven’t come to Rhanna yet and I’m thinking that the freezer you bought last year will rot away before we’re able to wire it up.’

  ‘We don’t need a freezer, I’ve made things that will keep.’ She had shooed him out of the kitchen at that point and after that he had held his tongue because he knew it would be useless to argue further.

  The evening prior to her departure she had baked batches of scones, bread, and pastries and had tumbled into bed exhausted, though she hadn’t been too tired to respond to his persuasive mouth, or to the demands of his body moulding itself to hers.