Shiver Page 8

  She disliked saying the words out loud. They sounded so bleak and dismal, put bluntly like that.

  “Poor children,” Mr MacFarlane muttered under his breath. “But there must be more to it than that.”

  “That’s what I thought,” Fiona cried, relief flooding her face. “I thought it can’t really be as bad as all that. No mother would do that to her own children, would she? Surely?”

  No one seemed to want to answer that question.

  “And what made you think of coming to speak to me about it?” Mr MacFarlane said quietly.

  “Well, you know so much about the surrounding history of the place,” Fiona explained, as if that much was obvious. “You’ve lived on Sheriffmuir all your life.”

  “So I have,” he murmured, “but I can’t tell you anything about a ghost girl and her brother.”

  The children looked badly disappointed. “We could look it up though,” he added. “We’ve got a date to be going on with, anyway.”

  “Do you have any books?” Sebastian asked, hopefully, then realizing what a silly question it was, he grew quiet again.

  “Aye, I have one or two,” Mr MacFarlane said sagely. “Do you?”

  Sebastian lowered his head sheepishly.

  “Anyway,” he grunted, as he eased himself up from his chair. “Hot chocolate anybody? Come on, now. It’s snowing out there. You’ll be needing something warm inside yer bellies.”

  “That’d be great, thanks,” Fiona replied for them all. She’d inadvertently become the elected spokesperson, seeing as her brothers had become so tongue-tied in the old man’s presence.

  Mr MacFarlane moved towards the Aga and began pouring milk into a heavy iron saucepan.

  “You can go through into the sitting room, if you like, and look at the bookshelves. You might find one or two there about local history. Flick to the index and see if you can find anything pertaining to the date you mention. 16 … what was it again?”

  “1604,” Fiona supplied helpfully.

  “That’s the one.”

  Charles and Sebastian got up, glad of an opportunity to leave the room and could be heard rummaging in the room next door.

  “Second shelf down. On the left,” Mr MacFarlane shouted instructions through to them.

  “Don’t know if they’ll come up with anything,” he added, “but it’ll keep them busy, nonetheless.”

  “How’s that mother of yours?” he added then, glancing in Fiona’s direction as he poured a stream of frothy hot chocolate into cups. “Still quibbling about that field of mine?”

  Fiona blushed. It had been a bone of contention between Patrick MacFarlane and her mother: some argument over a disputed piece of land. Fiona’s mother had claimed it belonged to the Dunadd estate and Mr MacFarlane had been unable to take the case to court, so he’d had to back down in the end as he couldn’t afford to pay the solicitor’s fees, and decided it wasn’t worth the trouble. That was all Fiona knew about the matter. However, it had been enough to sour relations between the two adults. “And neighbours an’ all,” Granny had snorted contemptuously, in her own inimitable way.

  “Well,” he said. “What do you think this Eliza Morton wants?”

  It was the obvious question and one which had been exercising Samuel and Fiona’s minds all day.

  “I don’t know,” Fiona said, running her hand thoughtfully over the knotted grain of the old table.

  “It could be anything,” Samuel said. “It could be revenge.”

  “Or a desire for peace,” Mr MacFarlane pointed out.

  “Or she might want to be free,” Fiona said.

  “Or … she could just be having a bit of fun,” Samuel added.

  “A mischief-maker?” Mr MacFarlane looked impressed. “That’s a possibility.”

  It was at this point that the boys came through from the other room, clutching a book.

  Charles laid it on the table and flicked through the pages. “It’s got a section on the history of Sheriffmuir,” he said, bending his head low over the page. “It mentions the battle, of course. But there’s nothing about 1604, or anything round about that time.”

  “I wonder how they died?” he speculated, becoming more talkative now as he picked up his cup of hot chocolate and began to sip it.

  “D’you think they were murdered?” Sebastian blurted out suddenly, his face draining of colour. “In some gruesome and grisly way.”

  Mr MacFarlane looked reproving. “That’s enough speculation. It doesn’t help.”

  “I feel so sorry for them,” Fiona murmured.

  Charles was quiet. “Me too.” His voice was so low they barely heard it.

  “We haven’t seen the boy, only Eliza, but we’ve heard them talking. He seems like a very frightened little boy,” Fiona explained.

  “I wonder what happened to them?” Samuel said.

  “Well, maybe something up at the house will tell you more?” Mr MacFarlane pointed out. “Remember … that library of yours is packed with information.”

  The children nodded.

  “I only wish I could have been more help,” he added.

  They drank their hot chocolate in silence now.

  The room was dark apart from the firelight, although it was still early afternoon. Samuel glanced towards the window and noticed that it was snowing more heavily.

  “You’d better watch out for that weather,” Mr MacFarlane commented, following Samuel’s gaze. He threw another log onto the fire so that sparks flew up the chimney. “We don’t want you getting lost in that snow now, do we?”

  Sleepover

  Mr MacFarlane had given them plenty to think about as they trudged their way home. It was an ordeal trying to labour up a steep hill through the deepening snow. It was falling more heavily now as the sky began to scowl ominously, and they were very weary as they managed the last part of their journey. The trees formed a white tunnel overhead as they approached the house.

  They could hear the dogs barking.

  “Only us,” Fiona called, as she threw her boots off in the passageway, making a fuss of Lucy, her favourite.

  “Where’ve you all been?” Chris Morton asked.

  “Nowhere,” Fiona replied guiltily.

  “Just out for a walk,” Charles said.

  “In this weather?”

  He shrugged and nodded.

  “It’s not like you four to stick so closely together. Still, if it means you’re getting along, suits me fine.”

  They all knew they weren’t really supposed to visit Lynns Farmhouse. Their mother wasn’t keen on Mr MacFarlane and still bore a grudge about their recent dispute. Granny Hughes thought the whole thing was absurd and had said as much.

  “Is my mum here at all?” Samuel asked now.

  “She’s in her studio I think,” Mrs Morton told him.

  “Where else?” he sighed.

  “She’s doing rather well, I gather. Has one or two commissions lined up.”

  Granny rolled her eyes. “Just so long as they pay,” she snorted under her breath.

  “You can have some supper here, if you like?” Mrs Morton offered. Samuel looked hopefully towards the oven. His mother wasn’t the best of cooks and the idea of eating something prepared by Granny Hughes – usually a casserole of some sort – was rather appealing, especially after walking through the snow.

  “Thanks,” he said. “It’s freezing outside.”

  “Something hot will do you good. Actually,” she added, “nip across to the studio and ask your mum if she’d like something. Save her cooking. We can always send it out to her, like relief workers, if she doesn’t want to stop chiselling or whatever she’s doing.” Chris Morton laughed to herself quietly.

  Granny meanwhile was preparing to leave Sheriffmuir for the night. She pulled on her woollen headscarf and knotted it severely under her chin. Her husband hovered nearby, jangling the car keys in his hand.

  “Are you sure you’ll be alright,” Mrs Morton asked them anxiously. “You know you
can stay here for the night.”

  “Ach, no,” Granny sniffed. “I’d rather not. I like to get home.”

  Mr Hughes sighed. “We’ll be fine, so we will.”

  As they drove away, Charles looked out of the window. The snow had been falling relentlessly all day, smothering the moor. It had probably gathered in unexpected places, in the hollows and dips, waiting to take the wary traveller by surprise.

  “They won’t get far,” he predicted.

  “Look on the bright side, why don’t you!” Sebastian quipped.

  “Granny’s so stubborn,” Fiona said. “She’ll make it somehow.”

  As they sat down to eat at the kitchen table, the snow was still coming down, building up on the window ledges and gathering in the corners of the glass panes.

  “It would actually be really pretty if it didn’t mean we will probably be stuck here,” Fiona said.

  “I quite like it,” Samuel added, spearing a piece of meat onto his fork.

  “Even the solitude?”

  He nodded. “It’s atmospheric.”

  Suddenly the lights flickered. “Uh-oh,” Mrs Morton said. “Here we go again.”

  A buzz could be heard fizzing overhead, then there was a loud bang from the basement, as if something had short-circuited. The rooms were plunged into sudden darkness.

  Chris Morton sighed. “Looks like the circuit board has fused again … but quite spectacularly this time. Or else the snow’s brought the power lines down.” She reached behind to the dresser for a clutch of candles and tea-lights. “Must be the weather,” she remarked. “If it wasn’t for you and your mother, Samuel, I don’t know how we’d manage up here from one day to the next. We’d never see a living soul at this time of year.”

  Fiona began lighting tea-lights and the kitchen soon glimmered into life.

  “It’s rather romantic actually,” Mrs Morton said cheerfully, examining the table in front of her.

  “I wonder how long it will be off for this time?” Fiona asked.

  “Perhaps I should call somebody? Get it checked.” Her mother was speaking to herself now.

  “One of us could try the electrics,” Charles suggested. “See if a fuse has blown.”

  But his mother wasn’t sure she liked that idea. She left the others eating at the table and went to the hall telephone, returning a few minutes later.

  “That’s odd.”

  “What is?” asked Sebastian.

  “Telephone’s down as well. Go across to your cottage when you’ve eaten, Samuel, and see if yours is working, would you?”

  “Try your mobile,” Fiona suggested. “See if you can get a signal.”

  “In this weather?”

  Mrs Morton wandered into the corridor with her mobile phone clamped to her ear.

  “Nope. No signal. I’ll try again later. Not to worry. We’ve got candles and open fires. We should be okay for a while. It won’t last long,” she said confidently, more for her own benefit than anyone else’s.

  Down in the glen where the narrow road crossed over the Wharry Burn, Granny and Mr Hughes had not got far. They were stuck. They stood forlornly next to their little car, gazing at it. The snow had drifted and it was impossible to get through.

  “Ach, well,” Mr Hughes muttered. “Thought that’d be the case, so I did. We’ll just have to walk back to the house, I suppose.” He sounded resolved.

  He put his arm round his wife. “Come on, now. It’s not far.”

  Granny looked up at the house through the trees. It didn’t look very welcoming.

  “Lights have all gone out,” she observed, in a gloomy voice.

  “So they have,” Mr Hughes confirmed.

  They trudged their way slowly back to Dunadd, beneath the tunnel of white trees. The bleak house stared back at them balefully, its windows blank. Granny Hughes shivered, pulling her headscarf a little tighter.

  Everyone was relieved when Granny and her husband reappeared through the snow.

  “I’m glad you came back,” Chris Morton admitted. “We were worried about you. Besides, we now have a little problem,” and she glanced in Mr Hughes’s direction. “How are you with electrics, Jim?”

  “Ach, well …” he began, unconvincingly.

  Although they looked to see if a fuse had blown, there was nothing obvious, so they promptly gave up.

  “We’ll just have to wait till morning,” Chris said.

  Later that night, with no power, no electricity and no heat – apart from the open fires – the adults decided on a sleepover for the children.

  “They can sleep next to the fire in the drawing room,” Mrs Morton suggested to Isabel. “With plenty of pillows and sleeping bags. That should do the trick.”

  Isabel readily agreed. “At least they’ll stay warm that way.”

  They banked the fire up until it was roaring. Outside the trees could only be seen dimly through a gentle curtain of white snowflakes, but the huge drawing room flickered with orange and crimson light from the big stone fireplace.

  “I’ll leave you lot to sleep then. No wandering about in the night, okay?” Chris Morton instructed them.

  They nodded their heads obediently and prepared to snuggle down, lying as close to the flames as they dared without scorching their feet. The hearth was so wide it could take plenty of large logs.

  “This is fantastic,” Samuel said, wriggling his toes contentedly.

  Charles leaned his back against a sofa, reading a book by the light of a single candle, snug inside his sleeping bag.

  “You’ll hurt your eyes like that,” Fiona commented.

  He ignored her.

  As the house fell silent around them, the adults having retreated to their beds, Samuel leaned towards the others.

  “Hey,” he whispered, “we can use this as an excellent opportunity to do some more research.”

  “Great idea,” Fiona agreed.

  Sebastian looked less enthusiastic. “Ghost hunting again? The whole house is in darkness,” he pointed out.

  “Exactly,” Samuel said. “The perfect conditions. No one will see us.”

  “Apart from you-know-who!” Fiona shuddered slightly.

  “What does she look like, anyway?” Samuel asked his friend, suddenly gripped by a morbid curiosity.

  “Charles will tell you. Kind of thin and hungry-looking,” Fiona murmured quietly.

  Charles looked up from his book. “She had sad eyes. There were shadows under them … and this white powdery stuff on her clothes and hair and things.”

  “What d’you mean?” Samuel asked.

  “I don’t know,” Charles said. “I can’t explain it.”

  Samuel thought for a moment.

  “I think we should look in the library, for books … for anything that might have some information … like Mr Macfarlane said.”

  “On you go then,” Charles said.

  Samuel stood up and went next door to explore the bookshelves. Fiona followed him, but soon decided against it.

  “It’s too cold away from the fire,” she complained and ran back to the warmth.

  Samuel selected one or two books with promising titles – Disappearing Communities of Sheriffmuir and Sheriffmuir: A Brief History – and brought them back with him. He plonked them on the floor next to his sleeping bag. By the light of the flames, he opened their hard leather covers and turned the pages. “Maybe one of these will tell us something about what was going on in 1604,” Samuel muttered. “Historically, I mean.”

  “That doesn’t mean to say it will explain what happened to Eliza and her brother,” Fiona pointed out.

  “Or how they were murdered,” Sebastian added.

  She rounded on her brother sharply. “We don’t know that they were murdered.”

  “Just a wild guess!”

  Samuel peered closely at the text in front of him.

  “What is it?” Fiona leant over his shoulder.

  “It says in this one, Disappearing Communities of Sheriffmuir, by H.R.
Black, that there was an outbreak of plague in this area in 1600 … in the surrounding villages of the foothills. There’s no mention of Sheriffmuir, though, or Dunadd. Hang on … there’s more.”

  Samuel read the passage out loud, while the others listened.

  “There were occasional outbreaks of plague in the area, although exact dates are largely confused and do not always correspond. It wasn’t unknown for the victims to be buried in separate graveyards, set apart especially for the purpose: plague graveyards, which are easily discernible today owing to the headstones’ markings of a skull and crossbones to denote the cause of death. However, it was not uncommon for the victims to be disposed of unceremoniously in mass graves rather than private graves. Their bodies would have been slung in sacks and covered in lime, to avoid contamination and the spread of disease, although whether the method worked or not is a moot point. These plague pits would have been covered with earth and left unmarked. Today, it is difficult to ascertain the exact location and whereabouts of these places, although it is likely they would lie outside, or on the outskirts, of any built-up areas such as towns, villages or cities.”

  “What does ‘moot’ mean?” Sebastian glanced at the others.

  Samuel shrugged.

  “It’s a phrase,” Charles said. “It means they don’t really know if it worked or not.”

  “Well, there’s no point worrying about it now anyway,” Fiona added.

  “Young children died all the time back then,” Charles said. “What did they call it? Infant mortality?”

  “Perhaps that was it,” Fiona murmured. “The plague would explain it.”

  “But why blame their mother for what happened? No, I don’t think it’s that,” Samuel said.

  It was getting late and far too chilly to move away from the warmth of the fireplace. They gradually nodded off, one by one. Charles was secretly relieved about not having to sleep in his own room that night, after his recent experiences. It wasn’t that he was particularly frightened, he told himself, it was just that … what with the loss of power and everything … it was good to have some company. Usually such a loner, he was enjoying the unaccustomed camaraderie.