Michael Ridpath - Amnesia

‘This may sound odd, but did a family called Trickett-Smith ever own the estate?’

‘Yes, they did. Dr Cunningham asked all about them. But they sold up in the nineteen seventies.’

‘That was my grandfather’s family,’ said Clémence. ‘I thought I had heard it mentioned.’

‘A hundred years ago the estate was bought by a man who owned a big furniture store in London. Bought it for the deer stalking, of course. Then the Trickett-Smiths owned it, and then a German and now Mr de Bruijn. Mind you, the local history society says that a couple of hundred years ago, there were dozens of Scottish families up here farming. Before the clearances.’

‘The clearances?’ Clémence had a feeling she had vaguely heard of them. She feared they were bad.

‘Aye. When the rich landowners turfed out all the folk because you could make more money out the sheep than out the crofters.’

She was right; it was bad. ‘Oh,’ she said.

Sheila smiled. ‘That was a wee while ago. And we can hardly complain. Terry’s job needs people who want to spend a lot of money stalking deer, if you see what I mean.’

Clémence had yet to see a deer at Wyvis. She assumed stalking meant sneaking up on them and shooting them. Memories of the Bambi video she had watched over and over again as a kid flooded back; it was scary and it was sad. But she decided not to make any comment.

‘Have you ever heard of a book called Death At Wyvis ?’ she asked.

‘Aye, I think there’s a copy in Dr Cunningham’s study. It’s an old book.’

‘Have you ever read it?’

‘No, pet. But I know some of the locals around here did when it came out. I think it’s about a murder.’

‘I think it is,’ said Clémence. ‘I have started to read it to Dr Cunningham. Do you know if it’s true?’

‘Well, I can’t be sure, because I haven’t read it, see, but there was a murder just down the loch thirty years ago, something like that. A woman was found, drowned, I think.’

‘Did they find who did it?’ Clémence asked. She realized she was holding her breath as she waited for an answer.

Sheila thought for a moment. ‘I can’t just mind, if I ever knew. The old stalker’s wife still lives in Dingwall, Pauline Ferguson. You could ask her.’

‘Maybe I will,’ said Clémence.

Just then she heard the sound of slow, uneven footsteps on the stairs.

‘Dr Cunningham!’ Sheila exclaimed as the old man entered the kitchen. ‘It’s lovely to see you out the hospital, pet.’

The old man smiled. It was clear that he recognized her, but then Clémence realized that she had probably visited him in hospital.

Sheila fussed over him for a few minutes and then left them to the soup, promising to pop in again at least once a day to make sure they were all right.

Clémence was alone again with her grandmother’s killer.

They ate lunch. Clémence wasn’t in the mood to talk, unlike the old man.

‘Nice woman, Mrs MacInnes,’ he said. ‘I’m damned lucky she found me. At the hospital they said I might have died of hypothermia.’

Clémence grunted. She was tempted to say that she wished he had, but she couldn’t quite go that far.

‘You read very well.’

‘I like reading out loud,’ Clémence said.

‘Even to an old fool who can’t remember his name?’

‘Even to you.’ She winced inwardly: that sounded ruder than she had meant it. But the old man didn’t seem to mind.

‘Were you impressed by my chat-up lines?’

‘Not especially.’

‘Medieval land reform doesn’t do it for you, eh?’ The old man chuckled to himself. ‘Sophie must have been very patient. I sounded so young , don’t you think? Your friends aren’t that innocent, are they?’

‘I don’t think many of them have been to Parisian brothels. At least I like to think they haven’t.’

‘That’s a point. I’m curious to hear what happens next, aren’t you?’

‘Yes,’ said Clémence, as unenthusiastically as possible, although in truth she was curious. At last, her terse replies had the desired effect: the old man gave up and they ate the rest of the meal in silence. But just as she was clearing the soup bowls, he grabbed her hand.

She tugged it away from him.

‘No. Let me look. At that mark.’

She knew immediately what he meant. The ragged red spot on her wrist. Reluctantly, she offered him her hand.

His fingers were firm as he examined it. ‘You should get that checked,’ the old man said. ‘Soon. And while they are at it, get them to check the rest of your skin.’

‘Is it skin cancer?’

‘Almost certainly,’ the old man said. She felt a jolt run through her body. His eyes met hers. Strong. Comforting. ‘Don’t worry, it’s basal cell carcinoma, the least serious, and we’ve caught it early. It’s practically harmless. But it will need to be cut out.’

‘Are you sure it’s not going to kill me?’ she said.

‘I’ve seen hundreds of these in Australia,’ he said.

Clémence raised her eyebrows. ‘You remember Australia?’

The old man smiled. ‘I don’t know how, but I do know I have seen them before. You said you lived in Hong Kong. Have you spent a lot of time out in the sun?’

‘Yes. When I was little we lived in Morocco and then Vietnam. Maman tried to put sun cream on me, but she didn’t do a very good job.’

‘Did you burn?’

Clémence remembered wriggling in her sheets when she was small, her shoulders itching. ‘Yes. I did.’ She looked at the old man in panic. ‘Will I get more of these?’

‘Probably, in time,’ he said. ‘Just be very careful from now on with the sunscreen.’

He patted her wrist and let go of it. ‘Don’t worry. But make an appointment as soon as you can. You’ll be OK.’

Clémence wanted to believe him. It was only a tiny spot. She would be OK. ‘You are sure it won’t spread?’

‘Quite sure.’

She took a deep breath and cleared the rest of the table. The old man moved to help her with the little bit of washing up.

She couldn’t stand him hovering over her shoulder. She felt a sudden urge to leave the cottage. ‘Look. I’m going out for a walk. When I get back, we’ll read some more of the book.’ It was a command, not a suggestion.

The old man nodded. ‘All right. I’ll see you later.’

The sky was blue and the sun had some warmth to it. The snow had completely melted off the branches of the trees, and was slipping away from the heather. It almost felt warm, although the temperature was certainly below ten degrees.

She walked down the path through the woods and soon reached the loch. She headed along the shore towards the Stalker’s Lodge.

The loch was a dark Prussian blue in the sunshine. Two swans drifted across its surface. She wondered if you could tell how deep it was just by looking at it. It seemed to her that it must be very deep. Was there a Loch Glass monster down there?

Was there a monster in the cottage?

He was just an old man. Whatever he had done had been done decades ago when he was younger, a different person. Was he a different person? She didn’t know. He didn’t even know. Why hadn’t Aunt Madeleine told her about this?

She was alone in an isolated cottage with a murderer. Should she be frightened? The old man was in his eighties, but he was still a couple of inches taller than her. He had a stoop, but his shoulders were square and he was fit. She had no idea whether she could overcome him in a fight. Or he might take her unawares — there were knives in the kitchen.

But she just wasn’t scared of him. Those soft brown vulnerable eyes. She felt safe with him — not just safe from him, but protected. She was supposed to be looking after him, but despite his age, she also felt he was looking after her. She was still angry with him, though.