The Ghost Tree: Gripping historical fiction from the Sunday Times Bestseller

‘Hush! Duck right down.’ Finlay was studying the wing mirror. ‘I was wrong; he was following us. It’s OK, I think I’ve lost him, but he’ll turn round when he realises. I recognised the car. He moved up closer in the heavier traffic just now so I was able to check the number. He must have been waiting round the corner as we left. That’s the problem with having a red car; it’s easy to spot.’ Finlay drove an old maroon Daimler.

They sat in silence for several minutes then Finlay pushed open the door. ‘You stay here. Lock yourself in. I’ll go up to the corner and peer round. See if he’s cruising up and down the road.’

‘I’m not staying here on my own!’ Ruth reached for the door handle.

‘He’ll recognise you if he’s there.’

‘You think he won’t recognise you?’ She stared at him incredulously. ‘You spoke to him on the doorstep. And he’s not going to forget what you look like, Finlay Macdermott!’

‘Touché! Come on then.’ He reached out for her hand.

They looked round cautiously. There was no sign of Timothy’s car.

‘Do you think it’s safe?’ Ruth breathed.

‘Probably. I won’t drive straight home, just in case.’

They drove around for twenty minutes before deciding it was safe to head for Cramond. As they drew to a halt outside the mellow stone-built old house with its long driveway and broad gravelled parking area, it was already growing dark. Ruth followed him through the front door and into his kitchen. ‘Ssh!’ Finlay put his fingers to his lips. Tiptoeing across the floor, he pulled the curtains and only then did he turn on the lights.

Ruth looked round. The room was warm and full of the succulent fragrance of cooking herbs. It was years since she had been here. Then it had been with Rick and they had had the most wonderful few days in Fin’s company. The kitchen was exactly as she remembered it, with a huge oak dresser and refectory table, a bookcase stuffed with cookery books and several framed French posters on the stone walls. The only nod to modernity was a circular ceiling rack laden with shiny saucepans and utensils, and an elegant kitchen island with an attendant cluster of high stools.

‘It is lovely to be here again, Fin.’ She climbed onto a stool and accepted a glass of chilled Pinot Grigio. ‘We had such a lovely time when I came with Rick.’ She watched as he slid a dish out of the oven and checked it. Satisfied, he pushed it back, threw down the oven gloves, adjusted the heat slightly then he turned to her. ‘I’ve got something to show you. Wait there.’

The something was the writing slope. He had mended the lock and somehow removed the deep scratches from the wood. Ruth exclaimed with delight. ‘You’re so clever. You would never know it had been damaged!’

‘I enjoy doing things like that. A bit of a hobby. Open it.’

She did so. Inside was an envelope. She picked it up. ‘What’s this?’

‘Something I found when I was mending it. The blotter is made to lift up to form yet another secret cavity.’

She peered into the envelope and extricated a small folded piece of paper. ‘It’s a letter!’

‘A very old one.’

She unfolded it carefully and laid it on the table. The handwriting was small, closely crammed on the page, the ink faded to sepia. Screwing up her eyes, she could just make out the last line of the address at the top. ‘It’s Sussex. Where my grandparents lived.’

My Darling Daughter

it was signed

Your loving mother, xxx

With a grunt Finlay climbed off his stool to fetch a magnifying glass from the dresser. ‘I needed this to read it. Very charming. I’ve no idea who these people are, but it seems affectionate. Try this.’ He pushed the glass over towards her.

Ruth studied the letter. ‘I’ve no idea who they are either.’

‘Ancestors of yours?’

‘I don’t know. I suppose they must be.’ She looked up. ‘I’m going to try to construct a full family tree. But I’m not sure how to begin.’

‘You start at the bottom with you. Then go up to your mum and dad. Then up to your grandparents – on both sides if you can, to keep it fair. You can get that far, presumably?’ He grinned. ‘Then if there’s no one you can ask – cousins? Uncles and aunts? – and no birth certificates and things like that to look up, there’s always the Internet these days. And, in your case, you can start the other end, with your Lord High Chancellor himself. His wife, his children and grandchildren are bound to be easy to find as he was famous, and then you can go down from there towards you until you meet in the middle, or backwards to find out his ancestors and on up a tree full of ghosts into this glorious aristocratic jungle your father hated so much.’ He looked at her mischievously. ‘What fun. Count me in for help if I can do anything. This research of yours is a perfect way of taking your mind off the horrors of the low life that is Timothy Bradford.’

Ruth looked up at him fondly. ‘I don’t know what I’d do without you.’

‘You’d manage.’ He reached for the bottle to top up her glass. ‘Come on. Let’s eat.’

Timothy had pulled up at last at South Queensferry near the towering girders of the Forth Railway Bridge. He climbed out of the car and went to stand by the parapet, overlooking the Firth, his hands in his pockets. He shivered as the wind found its way down the neck of his jacket. He had been looking forward to telling April that he had found out where Ruth’s minder had taken her and now he had lost the trail. But there was always tomorrow. He would go and stake out Number 26 again and this time he would make sure he followed Ruth everywhere she went.

His mind went back to April. It was odd how she had gone all superstitious on him, shuddering when she tried on those rings, or whenever he mentioned the loot, anxious to be rid of it all. Thank goodness he had the sense to see that as long as they held onto it there was no possibility of anyone spotting it. It would be a shame to chuck it away. His eyes strayed out over the cold grey water. The tide was running fast and there were white-topped waves crashing onto the shingle below the wall.

He turned away and headed back across the road towards the Hawes Inn. The bright lights reflecting out over the wet road were comforting and there was just time for a pint before they closed. Inside there was warmth and food and companionship and escape from the sound of the crashing waves. He saw the door open and then close behind a man and a woman. They hesitated for a moment before the onslaught of the weather, put up their umbrellas and began to battle into the wind. It was only then he realised it was raining.

Thomas

We had always been a God-fearing family. Serious and thoughtful supporters of the Reformation, as the sennachie told us boys, and before that true followers of the old church. Back into the mists of time, as he would say, using his favourite phrase for when his memories no longer served him, although he did mention the Picts and before them the North Britons as others who had been equally devoted to their gods. We were descended from kings, he told us, and when the line of descent strayed away from the throne we supported and served our monarchs with loyalty, if not always skill.

Probity and prayer drove my forefathers into the Presbyterian camp during the Civil Wars of the seventeenth century and through that loyalty they lost their lands and went into exile, first in Holland and then over the sea to the Americas. When they returned to Scotland and the restored Stuart line was replaced, their opinions were split; my mother’s brother and my father’s cousin fought for Prince Charlie and the lands were forfeit again. My other uncle and my cousin fought against the man they called the Pretender. Although all was now officially forgiven and the various branches of the family, through fines and oaths of allegiance, were once more in favour, in their hearts I suspect more families than ours retained their loyalty to the Stuart cause.

My father was a freemason; indeed, had been grandmaster of the lodge before I was born, and my parents were devout followers of the Calvinist faith; my brothers and I were brought up to go to the kirk with scrubbed necks and hands, our well-thumbed Bibles in our hands. My sisters were even more intense in their devotion.

And me? Did I believe? Oh yes, I believed but I am not sure it was in the same things as my family. I paid careful attention to what was required, but there was a whole universe beyond the strictures of the prayer book which I could see and sense with my own faculties. The sennachie knew; my brothers knew and teased me for it. Anne and Isabella were shocked and horrified. I did not learn in time to keep quiet about what to me was obvious. I was to regret that later in my life, but I never regretted the gift of second sight that I had been given. Ever.

11 (#ulink_6ca8ca6f-9ee7-5bb5-a5f3-f4d06b5427bc)

Ruth looked with delight round the cosy bedroom. Its stone walls were hung with paintings and there were heavy tapestry curtains at the window. The bedside light threw a warm glow round the room. She went to the window and drew back the curtains, opening the window and leaning out into the clear darkness. The sound of the River Almond far below, splashing over the rocky falls, filled the room. Even over the sound of the water she could hear the hooting of an owl.

Pulling her laptop from her bag she opened it.

There was an email from Harriet:

I’ve been trying to reach you on the phone. Why don’t you pick up, you infuriating woman!! I want to know what’s happening.

That was the second vivid dream Ruth had had in the last two days. She woke suddenly, disorientated, staring at the unfamiliar ceiling, trying to grasp at the memory, aware of the boy’s shock and misery, his sense of powerlessness, his disbelief that he could be so arbitrarily sent away. She closed her eyes again. Thomas was telling her his life story. In the distance she could hear the sound of the sea, the waves, the rattle of rigging, the tapping of ropes against a mast, the whistle of the wind. In seconds she had drifted back to sleep.

Tom did not like Bath. It was crowded and noisy. He had been used to the press of people living in Edinburgh’s old town, but it was more claustrophobic here, prone to fog in the enclosing basin of hills. That it was fashionable, the home of all that was so desirable for the beau monde, escaped him completely.

His sister Anne had found them all lodgings together in a new house in the Walcot area and they settled in swiftly, just the five of them, the earl and countess and Anne herself, Isabella, Tom and their small household of servants.

A short time before, David had resigned his commission and returned to Scotland and, to Tom’s intense jealousy, he found that his eldest brother was to return to his education with Harry in Scotland. They would come south to rejoin their family for Christmas.

His parents felt instantly at home in Bath. They attended church and religious meetings and took part in long intense discussions with many of the great and the good who had come together in Bath over the summer, but Tom was lonely and confused. His pleas to continue his education so that he could practise a profession when he grew up fell on deaf ears. ‘I told you I could no longer afford your fees. Besides, it is time to earn your living now, Tom,’ his father said sternly when at last Tom plucked up courage to speak to him. ‘I have been making enquiries and discussing your future with, among others, our good friend, Lord Mansfield.’ There was a pause; Lord Mansfield, a fellow Scots aristocrat, had risen to dizzy heights in the English bar and was Lord Chief Justice. The two men were firm friends and Lord Buchan frequently turned to the older man for advice with his wayward brood of children. ‘We feel— I feel,’ he amended hastily, ‘that the Royal Navy would be a good career for you, and it has been arranged for you to sail with his nephew, Sir John Lindsay, as a midshipman.’

‘No!’ Tom felt the colour drain from his face. ‘No, Papa. Please. I hate the sea!’

‘You know nothing about the sea,’ his father retorted. ‘And you were happy enough to go aboard the ships in St Andrews harbour. You and Harry enjoyed the food they gave you, as I recall!’

‘But it was at anchor, Papa,’ Tom said miserably. ‘I would not like to go to the proper sea. Not at all.’