Dark Castle

They crossed the stretch of shingle and began to mount steps cut out of the rock. Julie was glad of the light of the torch because the steps were uneven in places and her boots were not meant for climbing. She realized she was out of condition, too, as she began to pant while Jonas strode ahead without any apparent sign of fatigue.

At last the steps gave on to a rough stone walk and looking back she saw that they were high above the rocky shoreline now. Ahead she could see the stone towers she had glimpsed earlier guarding an inner courtyard that was surrounded on three sides by the fortified walls of the castle. A dog barking somewhere at the back of the building was a reassuring sound, as were the lights at some of the narrow windows, but Julie still glanced rather apprehensively at her host.

Jonas stopped at the foot of some steps leading up to an iron-studded door set in one of the turreted towers. Julie followed him slowly as he mounted the steps, gradually regaining her breath after the climb, and entered the panelled hall of the tower. It was almost round, of course, with a passage leading off to the left, and a spiral staircase winding away out of sight. The lighting came from gas lamps which cast a mellow glow over the dark wood. The staircase was stone, as Julie knew the walls to be beneath their panelling, but a soft brown and cream carpet added warmth and colour.

She was still admiring her surroundings when a small dark woman came hurrying along the corridor towards them. ‘So you’re back then, Mr. Hunter.’ The woman’s voice was pleasantly accented, with the same brogue as old Angus had used. ‘And this would be Mrs. Hunter, of course.’

‘Of course.’ Jonas had put Julie’s cases down and now turned to her with enigmatic coolness. ‘Julie, this is Mrs. Macpherson. She and her husband, Rob, have lived and worked here at Castle Lochcraig for over twenty years.’

Julie was still getting over the shock of being introduced as Mrs. Hunter. For years she had thought of herself as plain Julie Preston, the name she had always used professionally. That was why she had been so astounded that Mark should have discovered her relationship with Jonas. She had never discussed that period of her life with anyone, not after they had split up, and when Angela had introduced her to Mark it had been as Julie Preston.

But here, apparently, Jonas had explained that she was his estranged wife, and with no small feeling of embarrassment, she shook hands with Mrs. Macpherson and hoped she looked less confused than she felt.

‘Your hands are frozen, Mrs. Hunter,’ exclaimed the housekeeper, looking reprovingly at Jonas. ‘I’m sure you must be tired after your journey. If you’ll away with me, I’ll show you to your room and you’ll have a few minutes to warm yourself and freshen up before I serve dinner.’

Julie forced a smile. ‘That would be lovely, Mrs. Macpherson,’ she agreed, looking down at her suitcase. ‘Shall I bring this?’

‘Rob will see to your case, Julie,’ said Jonas quietly, divesting himself of his duffel coat, revealing a navy silk shirt beneath. The dark colours accentuated the tan of his skin, heightened no doubt by the years he had spent in South America. The shirt was open at the throat and Julie could see the silver medallion suspended from its slender chain which she had given him for his birthday five years ago. The sight disconcerted her. She would have expected him to have got rid of it long ago. She was almost glad when Mrs. Macpherson touched her arm and said:

‘Come along, Mrs. Hunter. It’s this way.’

All the same, as they mounted the spiral staircase with the narrow windows let in at intervals, Julie couldn’t rid herself of the remembrance of that silver medallion or the memories it so painfully evoked. Memories of Jonas in the first year of their marriage, relaxed and laughing, on that holiday they had spent in Barbados. She had bought him the medallion there and it conjured up memories of Jonas trying to teach her to sail, to go snorkelling and skin-diving – of him asleep beside her early in the morning, when the silver medallion had been his only adornment …

Her cheeks flamed and she was glad that Mrs. Macpherson was ahead of her and could not see. She must be mad, allowing such thoughts to invade her head simply because she had happened to see again a cheap piece of jewellery she had purchased in a Bridgetown market. She had to remember that at least one other woman had seen Jonas in that lazily intimate state, and that Jonas himself had been responsible for the destruction of their marriage.

The staircase opened on to a landing with a gallery leading off before continuing on its way, but Mrs. Macpherson indicated that Julie should follow her along the carpeted gallery. The gallery followed the outer wall of the main part of the building and Julie couldn’t help noticing how much thicker the stonework was on one side than the other. No doubt in daylight the view from the windows on the outer side would be quite magnificent, but tonight, with the gaslights flickering disconcertingly, it had an eerie atmosphere.

Mrs. Macpherson glanced round. ‘All the bedrooms and guest rooms open off the gallery, Mrs. Hunter,’ she explained. ‘And directly below us is the main hall and dining area, and the reception rooms. Mr. Hunter’s private rooms are in the tower where you entered. He doesn’t bother much with the formal apartments, although perhaps he will now that you’re here.’ She smiled encouragingly.

Julie’s face felt stiff. What on earth did Mrs. Macpherson mean? Surely it was obvious from the small amount of luggage that she had brought with her that she was not here on a prolonged visit. Hadn’t Jonas discussed the length of her stay with his housekeeper? She didn’t know how to answer her, so she merely managed a smile and said nothing.

They had passed several heavy doors set into the stonework before Mrs. Macpherson stopped and opened one of them and went inside, beckoning Julie to follow her. The gas lamps here had been turned down, but the housekeeper quickly turned them up and smiled in satisfaction when she saw Julie’s obvious admiration of the huge bedroom which they had entered.

From the minute she entered the castle, Julie had realized that some sort of central heating system was in operation, and along the gallery she had noticed huge pipes and an old-fashioned radiator which had definitely taken the chill from the air. But the bedroom was really warm, heated by an enormous log fire burning in an equally enormous grate. There was an immense tester bed, the hanging canopy of which, although faded, bore the unmistakable imprint of years of intricate tapestry work; there were two massive wardrobes and a tallboy full of drawers, a dressing table with five folding mirrors that could throw back one’s reflection from every possible angle, and two wingbacked armchairs set at either side of the hearth. The silk-hung walls were unadorned, and overhead the ceiling had been panelled and carved. Julie shook her head helplessly. She had never seen such a bedroom outside of a stately home. But, she supposed wryly, that was exactly what Castle Lochcraig was.

‘It’s very nice, Mrs. Macpherson. Thank you,’ she said.

Mrs. Macpherson waved her thanks away. ‘It’s good to see the rooms used again,’ she protested. ‘Mrs. Drummond always slept in this room.’

Julie would have liked to have asked who Mrs. Drummond was, but she thought that perhaps it was something she ought to know, and she decided to ask Jonas rather than question the housekeeper.

‘You’ve a bathroom through here,’ went on Mrs. Macpherson, opening an inner door. ‘See – it’s quite modern.’

Julie peered into the shadowy bathroom. The bath was huge, like everything else here, and the massive, throne-like water closet filled her with amusment. It was good to feel a lightening of her spirits after the day it had been.

‘You’ll be able to find your way downstairs again, Mrs. Hunter?’ The housekeeper paused by the door.

‘Oh, yes, I think so.’ Julie nodded, glancing at her watch. ‘What time have I got?’

‘Will twenty minutes be enough for you?’

‘I should think it would.’ Julie smiled. ‘And thank you again. I’m sure I shall be very comfortable here.’

Mrs. Macpherson nodded. ‘If you’re not, I’ve no doubt Mr. Hunter will soon let me know,’ she commented dryly.

The housekeeper’s words aroused just the faintest sense of apprehension, but Julie dismissed the feeling impatiently. Left alone, she was free to explore her domain, but first she would take off her boots and allow her feet to sink into the soft cream carpet underfoot, and warm herself by the fire.

After a wash, she examined her appearance critically. She had shed her sheepskin coat to reveal a plain tweed suit and high-necked white blouse. She had had to put her boots on again as her shoes were in the case downstairs. Her hair needed little attention, the few strands which had escaped from the chignon soon tucked back into place. She applied a light foundation cream to her skin, added a little eye-shadow, and was satisfied with the result. The wind had added a little colour to her cheeks, but it was not unattractive. She sighed. It would be a simple matter to change her image – to loosen her hair and add lustre to her lips, but she restrained the impulse.

With a few minutes to spare she wandered round the room, examining the carvings that were an integral part of the furniture. The drawer handles on the tallboy were shaped like lion’s heads and one inserted one’s fingers into the open jaws to draw them out …

She stood back in surprise. She had opened a drawer, almost without being aware of doing so, and now she stared at its contents. It was filled with filmy lingerie, pants and bras and slips in a variety of shades, fragile chiffon garments and pure silk that clung to her fingers.

She closed the drawer with a jerk and turned away, unaccountably disturbed. Whose garments were they? What were they doing here in this bedroom that Mrs. Macpherson had implied had been long unused? Or had she said that? She had said that the formal apartments downstairs were seldom used, but that didn’t mean that no one had used this bedroom. On the contrary, she had said that Mrs. Drummond had always slept here. But somehow Julie knew that the Mrs. Drummond who had always slept here was not the person to wear such extravagant underwear.

Her brows drew together. The articles she had seen were not old. Whose ever they were they had been put there only recently. Had Jonas had some woman staying with him? The idea was distasteful to her. And yet why should it be so? She and Jonas were separated. What he did was his own affair. And if he chose to take some woman as his mistress, it was nothing to do with her.

Even so, there was an awful curling sensation in the pit of her stomach when she considered him sharing this bed with another woman. If he had, she would rather not sleep in it.

She looked towards the embroidered quilt that covered its enormous width. The bed could have comfortably accommodated half a dozen people, she thought with aversion. Oh, why had she opened that drawer? Like Pandora, she had released something totally unexpected.

She picked up her handbag and walked towards the door, but then she remembered she had not turned down the lamps. She went back to do so and as she passed one of the wardrobes her reflection mocked her. Curiosity was like a cancer inside her and without hesitation she reached out a hand and opened the wardrobe door. Inside were hanging perhaps a score of dresses, both long and short, suits and slack suits, skirts and trousers.

She stared at them in amazement. Surely no woman would go away and leave so many clothes behind her! So what did it mean? That some other woman was still staying at the castle? That she had given up her room to Julie? It didn’t make sense.

She turned down the lamps, closed the wardrobe door, and left the bedroom walking swiftly along the shadowy gallery to the spiral staircase. Before going down she looked upward, seeing the spiral disappear towards some upper section of the building. Were there other floors? And if so, did anyone occupy them?

She shook her head. She was becoming fanciful. The sooner she went downstairs and stopped speculating about things that did not concern her, the better it would be.

When she reached the lower hall she looked round. Now she could see that the reason the hall was not completely circular was that two doors had been set into the panelling and beyond them no doubt lay Jonas’s private rooms, the rooms Mrs. Macpherson had mentioned.

She was hesitating about which door to open, when a voice behind her said quietly: ‘Did you find the accommodation to your liking?’

She swung round to find that Jonas had come along the passage without her being aware of it and was standing supporting himself with one hand against the arched stonework of the aperture. He had clearly washed, too, and combed his hair which now lay smoothly against his head, flicking over the collar of his shirt at the back. He had also added a maroon velvet waistcoat which went well with his dark attire.

Mentally squaring her shoulders, she replied: ‘Everything seems very comfortable, thank you.’

Jonas’s mouth turned down at the corners and straightening he passed her to open one of the doors she had been hesitating over.

‘Won’t you go in?’ he invited, standing aside for her to do so. ‘This is my sitting-room. I spend most of my free time in here. The room next door is my study. We can have a drink before Mrs. Macpherson arrives with our meal. I’ve told her we’ll eat in here this evening.’

Julie entered another strikingly attractive room. It was a curious shape, having three straight walls and one curved one, but its decoration more than made up for its lack of design. A soft apricot and olive green carpet flowed into every corner, no doubt to allay the chill of stone floors, long velvet curtains in matching shades covered the narrow windows, while soft cream leather armchairs and a well-worn cream and green tapestry-covered couch looked superbly comfortable. A small display case contained some exquisite Wedgwood pottery, while the shelves that flanked the fireplace were filled with books and magazines. Another log fire burned cheerfully in the grate and the flames winked on the collection of bottles and decanters which stood on the open flap of a cocktail cabinet. It was an elegant room, and yet it had a relaxing, lived-in sort of atmosphere, and as it was much smaller than the bedroom upstairs it was also less imposing.

Jonas closed the door and nodded towards the chairs and the couch. ‘Sit down,’ he suggested, walking towards the cocktail cabinet. ‘What can I offer you to drink? Sherry? A Martini? Or do you still like Pernod?’

‘I’ll have a dry Martini, if I may,’ she replied, sitting down in one of the soft leather armchairs. Pernod, like the medallion, had too many associations with the past.

Jonas shrugged and turned to pour her drink, pouring himself a generous measure of Scotch as he did so. Then he handed the glass to her and came to sit near her on the tapestry couch, stretching out his long legs towards the fire. He swallowed half his Scotch without any effort, and then looked sideways at her.