Gillian Galbraith - Where The Shadow Falls

The second book in the Alice Rice Mystery series, 2008

Maureen Allison

John Beaton

Colin Browning

Douglas Edington

Lesmoir Edington

Robert Galbraith

Daisy Galbraith

Hamish Galbraith

Sheila Galbraith

Diana Griffiths

Jinty Kerr

Dr Elizabeth Lim

Aidan O’Neill

Pat Younger

Any errors in the text are my own.

His head lolled to the side again and he raised it upright, aware for the first time of its enormous weight. Am I still fully compos mentis , of sound mind or whatever, James Freeman mused, before concluding that he was, probably, no longer capable of such a judgement. Pouring himself more whisky from the decanter, the old man drank it neat, in a single gulp, determined to dull his brain further, banish all remaining senses. Anything, he thought, rather than stay in this limbo, with emotions heightened and nerves jangling. He had imagined a peaceful journey, a seamless transition from tranquil sensibility to blessed oblivion, with his love by his side. Never mind. Before long this cup too would be taken from him, and impatience at such a time, and with so little left, might lead to damnation. Hellfire no longer seemed preposterous, better play safe than risk that.

The ringing of the doorbell startled him, causing him to drop his tumbler onto the rug and utter a loud curse. Then realisation dawned, and his spirits soared. Now he would not be alone, despite all his well-intentioned efforts. Neither of them had proved strong enough to remain apart and he, at least, did not regret it. Rising immediately from his favourite chair, he was surprised to find how unsteady on his feet he was, swaying dizzily, the room spinning around him. With a supreme effort of will he straightened up and began to cross the carpet, heading towards the landing. His own momentum helped him down the stairs and he steadied himself on the banister end, resting for a few seconds before preparing to traverse the vast expanse of the hall. A straight crossing was all but achieved. ‘Fwiend or Foe,’ he whispered theatrically, before opening the door to greet his caller. Without another word, he ushered his visitor in, readying himself to speak, concentrating intently on what he must say and saying it clearly.

The halting speech delivered by the old fellow elicited a reply, but it made no sense to him, sounding like a string of meaningless noises, and his inability to understand made him fearful. It could have been the braying of a donkey or the miaowing of a cat for all it now conveyed to him. Attempting to reimpose order on his befuddled mind, he focussed his attention on the corner of the window, where a butterfly was struggling to free itself from a spider’s web. A single silken thread had attached itself to the creature’s legs, and as it twisted and turned it bound itself more tightly, manacling its delicate wings, inadvertently parcelling itself up. And then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw the dark form of the spider scuttling towards its prey and could bear to watch no longer. He must intervene. Conscious of the offence he might give, but careless of it, he turned his back on his companion, intent only on freeing the Painted Lady before it was too late.

The first blow to his head felled him and as he tumbled to the ground, his left hand caught the butterfly in her trap, simultaneously releasing her and killing her. And all the angry words that rained down upon him, accompanying each subsequent stroke, landed on deaf ears .

As James Freeman was speaking in his drawing room, trying, in vain, not to slur his words, Alice Rice was removing her keys from the ignition and smiling to herself, anticipating her parents’ reaction to her unheralded visit. Carefully she disembarked from the car, closing the door without making a sound. The front door of their house was ajar and she crept on tiptoes through the hall, heading in the direction of the kitchen. Unexpectedly, she found the place deserted. Wandering into the garden, she was surprised to see her father at the far end of it, energetically digging in the potato patch, intent on earthing up the shaws. In the Rices’ precisely demarcated world, such cultivation was solely her mother’s responsibility and never before had she seen her father wielding a spade. Still unaware of her presence, he stopped for a few seconds to catch his breath before returning to his task with redoubled vigour. Softly, she walked across the lawn until she stood, motionless, behind the bent figure, intending to tap him on the shoulder, hearten him with her unanticipated visit. But noticing her shadow on the ground, Alexander Rice turned round to face her before she had even begun to extend her arm.

‘Alice! What on earth are you doing here?’ He sounded irritated.

She was taken aback by his reaction, momentarily speechless, disappointed that he was not pleased to see her. Her face betrayed her feelings, and immediately he spoke again, this time his tone softer.

‘Darling, it’s lovely to see you. I’m so sorry, I just wasn’t expecting anyone, and to be honest I’m rather on edge today.’ He reached for her hand, abashed, eager to soothe any hurt he had inadvertently inflicted.

‘Where’s Mum?’ she asked, still numb from his initial response.

‘She’s in Edinburgh at the moment, I don’t think she’ll be back until about seven or so. Let’s go into the house, have a cup of tea, eh?’

Carefully, he poured milk into her cup, and then began to tilt the teapot. Glancing down at the resultant chalky mixture, Alice asked gently: ‘Dad, did you put any tea leaves or teabags in the pot?’

He lifted the earthenware lid, peered in and then smiled, shaking his head. They sat together at the kitchen table, elbow touching elbow, but not, as was usual between them, exchanging news and chattering easily. Both were discomfited by the continuing silence, but Alice’s attempts at conversation soon petered out as her father, preoccupied, failed to catch her drift or answer at all. He was somewhere else altogether. Looking at his familiar face, she noticed that his mouth moved occasionally, saying nothing, as if he was absorbed in some kind of troubled internal dialogue. It was a mannerism he’d never shown before, and it disturbed her.

‘What’s the matter, Dad?’ she asked, hoping that she did not sound as anxious as she felt.

‘Nothing, darling. Are you going to spend the night with us?’

She nodded. ‘That was my plan, if it suits you.’

‘Of course…’ He stared out of the window, into the distance, and then turned to her, adding as if the thought had just entered his mind, ‘Would you do me a favour, Alice? If you could it would make a great difference to me… well, to both of us, actually. I’m supposed to attend a meeting, an anti-windfarm gathering, at the MacGregors’ house near Stenton. I’m the minute-taker for the group. Would you go in my place? I want to speak to your mother about something when she gets back… to be here when she gets back.’

As he seemed so strained, so uncharacteristically tense, she longed to repeat her earlier enquiry, but he had chosen to say nothing, and presumably had a reason for it. Consequently, she refrained from asking anything, conscious that if she did he might withdraw his request, thinking it too much bother. Instead, she dissembled, telling him, despite a headache starting at the base of her skull, that she would enjoy going and seeing such a gathering for herself.