The Magical Painting

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Book Excerpt

Chapter One

“It’s Mr Miles on the phone for you, sir.”

Andrew Lambert groaned, the voice of Sinclair, the last remaining servant of Castle Strythe rumbling down the hallway. This was not the plan he had in mind for his first night back in Scotland, but Miles insisted. He wanted to meet up. No arguments.

  A cold shower did little to bring life back to Lambert’s body, a whisky not helping to relieve his exhaustion, but here he was, driving through the night towards his friend’s castle. Squinting into the developing darkness, the rain starting to fall, with his mouth dry and tongue rough and foul tasting, he wished he’d been firmer, told Miles to wait until tomorrow. But Lambert knew his old university friend was not the man to argue with and now, with his eyes red raw and full of sleep, Lambert strained to keep the car straight, the headlights bouncing back at him from the solid wall of rain. His life, like the Scottish weather, was bleak and filled with trepidation.

Returning from London to his ancestral castle in Scotland had not been a clear-cut decision for Andrew Lambert. With his company facing an uphill struggle for survival, the problems often seeming insurmountable, it became increasingly difficult to choose between reviving his business, and closing it for good. He’d decided on taking the easier course and an inherited castle nestling in the shadows of the Highlands, a place, although seldom visited, he viewed as his eternal shelter. The place where he had grown up, happy memories seeping from every stone. The decision to return lightened the blow of losing almost everything he’d worked for over the last few years. Business, however, was not something which sat comfortably with him and so, with Jennifer’s acerbic words ringing in his ears, he set off on the long journey north, driving his car into a new adventure simply to prove to himself this was not the end of the world.

He knew the longer he dawdled, the worse the journey to Miles’ home would be, so he’d taken the bag of peaches old Sinclair had thrust into his hand and now, his stomach rumbling louder than the car engine, he picked one out and took a bite.

The sweet, overly ripe flesh erupted in his mouth, the juice spilling down his chin onto his shirtfront. He cursed, held the peach between his teeth as he struggled to pull a paper handkerchief from his trouser pocket. Twisting his body, raising himself off the seat to gain access to the tissue, his foot pressed harder on the accelerator. The car surged forward. As he battled with the wheel, his mobile phone sprang into life.

The details grew hazy from that point, but of one thing, he was completely certain. As he fought to keep control and answer the mobile at the same time, his headlights picked out the figure of a woman in the road. She stood unperturbed by the downpour or by the oncoming vehicle. He screamed, pulled down hard to the left and everything went blank.

They dropped Andrew Lambert off at the castle in the late afternoon of the second day and Megan came bounding down the steps with her tail wagging and her mouth open in as close a thing to a grin as a dog can get. The two ambulance personnel laughed as Lambert tried and failed to keep the big, black Labrador from assaulting him with huge licks of her wet tongue.

The worst journey of his life had brought him finally home. 

A few days ago, he’d arrived at his ancestral castle, tired from his journey, and paused to take in the view. The hard, granite walls were as he remembered, every lead-latticed window black, grim, the west tower foreboding. He’d spent his youth here and when he left for university, he hadn’t shed a single tear. Childhood was an adventure, adolescence suffocating. Now, standing here and taking it in, a tinge of regret ran through him, a moment’s wish for years gone by, a brief return to more innocent times when cares and worries had no place. He should have appreciated it more, but the curse of being a teenager never allowed him such thoughts. He longed to escape; having done so, he wished he never had.

Appearing from nowhere, Sinclair relieved Lambert of his bags, a thin smile splitting his craggy face. “I’ll take these to your room, sir.”

It was as if he had never been away.

Given the opportunity, he wandered alone around the many rooms, all so silent and empty, the memories flooding back. Little had changed, but in the study, he turned his attention to a series of three paintings he had never seen before, neatly arranged above the fireplace. Scenes from the past, of how the castle might have looked two hundred, four hundred and seven hundred years before. The third, depicting the castle in ruins, gripped him more than the others and he stepped closer to read the inscription running along the bottom of the frame, ‘Castle Strythe, 1386’. He frowned, wondering what had happened to cause everything to appear pulled down, or destroyed. The view of the surrounding hillsides, the distant loch, the same as the accompanying pictures, was in sharp contrast to the desolation of the castle. Curious, he decided to ask Sinclair for an explanation; the scene troubled him, the blackened masonry sinister and the vague portrayal of a woman sitting forlorn on an outcrop of rock so sad it caused him to consider something very wrong had happened in the depths of history.

What a difference a matter of days could make.

For now, returned from the hospital with the accident so recent, all previous troubles seemed far away.

He sat in a wheelchair after they’d dropped him off, his right leg covered in a thick plaster cast, took Megan by the collar, and ruffled the great dog’s fur. He looked up to see Miles striding towards him across the gravel. Miles sighed, shaking his head. “You don’t do things by halves, do you?”

Lambert shrugged, becoming a little hot around the collar, and turned to the first paramedic. “Thanks. I’ll see you in around three weeks.”

Miles took the handles of the chair and pushed his friend towards the castle entrance as the ambulance drove off, tyres crunching over the hard-packed shale of the sweeping driveway.

At this time of year, the wisteria and ivy clinged to the dappled cream granite walls of the castle like a second skin, breaking up the drab exterior with splashes of violet-blue flowers hanging in clusters from the spreading plant. Lambert hadn’t noticed it on his first arrival, and he wondered why this was so. Nevertheless, grateful for the lightness of heart the wisteria brought him, Lambert breathed in the perfume and relaxed for the first time since the accident.

Miles grunted as he pushed the wheelchair up the incline of the makeshift ramp placed over the entrance steps. As he struggled to the double doors, Sinclair appeared. Dressed in a striped black and white apron the manservant beamed, joining with Miles to push the wheelchair into the hallway. “Mr Lambert, good to see you looking so well...given the circumstances.”

“It’s good to be here,” said Lambert as Miles stepped back, breathing hard.

“I was making a late lunch,” said Sinclair, wiping his hands on a tea towel. “I trust you are feeling up to eating?”

“I’m always ready to eat, Sinclair.” He patted his midriff. “Too much sometimes. And a couple of days of hospital food have made me eager to sample something slightly more imaginative.”

“Mr Miles has been very kind and went shopping for some fresh trout, which we will have for dinner, but lunch will be something light and quick.”

“Well, whatever it is, I’m sure it will be delicious,” said Lambert, threw a smile towards his old retainer and allowed a recovered Miles to wheel him into the dining room, Megan running around enjoying the game, barking with excitement, her thick rope of a tail thwacking anything within close proximity. Lambert rubbed his own arms, “It’s cold in here.”

“I’ll get Sinclair to make the fire,” said Miles, positioning Lambert close to the huge, open fireplace. “I should have told him to do it before, but he insisted on making some weird concoction he said was your favourite.”

“I think I can guess. Corn-beef hash,” said Lambert with a chuckle. “He’s a rock that man.”

Miles pulled a face and was about to go when he stopped and turned to his friend again. “Andrew, tell me how it happened. From what I heard it sounded a ridiculously stupid thing to do.”

“Thanks, Miles, I can always count on you for a kind word.”

Miles tilted his head. “You swerved, so you told the police, to avoid a squirrel? Is that it?”

“You phoned me as I was driving. I tried to answer, lost control. You knew I was coming, why the hell did you phone?”

“Oh, so it’s my fault? Sorry, I understood you were the one behind the wheel.” He shook his head, “I phoned to see where you’d got to, you surly sod. I was worried. And thanks to me, leaving your phone open, I heard it all. It was me who called the ambulance, even though I had little idea where you were.”

“There’s only one road to your place.”

“Exactly. So you’re bloody lucky to be alive, all thanks to me. But don’t mention it, you ungrateful bastard.” He laughed. “You must have been driving at some speed though, bonny lad. What actually happened?”

Lambert sighed, grimacing as he tried to reposition his leg. “If I told you, you’d think I was drunk or something.”

“The ‘something’ is probably closer to the mark. So tell me.”

Lambert gazed into the gaping fireplace, the grate full of ash from the previous blaze. “I saw someone.”

Miles came closer, put his elbow on the mantelpiece and frowned. “You mean a person?” Lambert nodded. “So what was this about a squirrel?”

“I had to tell the police something. So, I used the first thing that came into my head.”

“I don’t understand. If it was a person you saw, why didn’t you tell that to the police?”

“Because she was standing in the middle of the road.”

“She? And you didn’t hit her, so did she run away, what? The police made no mention of there being anybody else involved.”

“That’s because by the time they got me out of the ditch she was nowhere to be seen.”

“But who the hell was she?”

“I don’t know.”

“Was she old or young? How was she dressed? Was she—”

“Miles, please,” said Lambert holding up his hand, “You don’t understand.”

“Andrew, are you certain this is right? You saw a woman standing in the road and you swerved to avoid her, ended up in a ditch with a busted leg and you have no idea who she was or where she went?”

“She was dressed in Edwardian clothes, Miles.”

His friend forced a laugh, “This gets weirder by the second. Had you been drinking?”

Lambert shook his head. “I lost consciousness for a brief moment, but I don’t understand why. An image came into my head, but I can’t recollect any part of it. I think it was the castle.” He pointed to the three studies of the castle on the wall. “I can’t remember. Weirder still, I had the wherewithal to switch the engine off and when I glanced back at the road, she had gone. Not a sign.”

“She’d run off?”

“No, Miles. She’d disappeared.”

Chapter Two

Bedtime proved the worst, and Lambert wondered if he would ever have a good night’s sleep again. Sinclair offered to help put him to bed the first night, but Lambert waved him away, angry, not because of his manservant’s offer of assistance, but at his own helplessness. So Sinclair, who had made up a bed of sorts in the study, left him alone and the night was long and extremely uncomfortable.

At around three, Lambert pushed himself out into the hallway to the dining room. Negotiating the table and chairs, he made his way to the drinks cabinet without too many bumps and scrapes, poured himself a large whisky and sat before the impressive French windows. In the far distance, against the smudges of black and grey that made up the sky, the towering shapes of the Highlands dominated everything and as he stared, the memories of the accident descended, darker even than the night.

She stood, a pale white streak of indeterminate age, emerging from the road as if hoisted upright by invisible wires, and he saw her face, clear as day. Consumed by her, unable to resist, the road and the rain forgotten, he focused all of his senses on the loveliness of her features and she smiled, beckoning him to drive straight towards her.

The phone went off at that moment, the call from Miles. It snapped Lambert back to the present, but too late. At a rush, realising where he was, he slammed on the brakes with all his might, tyres squealing as they slithered over the wet tarmac. He grappled with the wheel, the car going into a wild skid, and all the while, the woman’s face filled his vision, her soft, open mouth drawing him in.

The world turned over, body buffeting around like a pebble in a bucket as the vehicle careered out of control, hit a bank, pitched and rotated. The night mingled with the rain and her voice, so concerned, full of panic and distress, “Andrew!”

The car slammed into a ditch with a bone-jarring shudder and somehow his foot became trapped in the buckled, twisted metal as the bonnet collapsed inwards. Hot, searing pain shot through his leg, but for the moment, he forced aside the excruciating agony as thoughts of exploding petrol tanks leaped into his mind, overwhelming him. Lambert screamed, fighting to free his foot from under the broken brake pedal. He heard rather than felt the snap of his ankle. A moment of disbelief froze his body, followed by a horrible nausea as strength drained from his guts. Soon, mounting waves of pain flowed from his shattered limb, building in intensity until his screams became almost continuous. Nevertheless, despite it all, he had the presence of mind to stretch forward and turn off the ignition.

He turned, and a bizarre sight greeted him – her face beyond the window, arms imploring him, anguish written in her features, the dread concern of a friend, a lover, yet none of it seemed right. Then the realisation caused him to gasp. He was upside down.

The whisky glass fell from his numb fingers, shattering on the floor, and he jumped, for a moment forgetting where he was and went to stand up. As he bore his weight down on his shattered limb, he cried out and immediately sank back into his wheelchair, breathing hard, biting down the pain. He put his shaking hand against his mouth and waited until his raging heartbeat lessened.

He struggled back to bed and lay in the darkness, body exhausted but sleep far, far away.

Through the course of the next few days and weeks, Lambert sleepwalked his way through life, spending time in the garden, trying to read, listen to music, surfing the Internet, anything to relieve the mounting boredom.

  Visions of the mysterious woman from the crash became less, but sometimes, when looking out towards the hillside, her face loomed up in his mind and he took to imagining whom she might be and where she had come from. Perhaps a photograph he saw once, a fleeting glance of a pretty face, or the friend of a friend, an introduction lost amongst the stresses and strains of the past few months. He didn’t know, but one thing was certain – she was beautiful.

 Time seemed to stretch out, every minute lasting an hour and he grew increasingly restless, his current situation so different from his recent past, when he had so much to occupy his mind. The stress of a business spiralling towards disaster, his failed relationship with Jennifer. Now, he felt frozen in a timeless absolute. Intuitively, he wished he had a wiser vision; something beyond his capabilities, to challenge him, stretch his intellect, bring some hope of a more meaningful existence.

 Sinclair, ever close, drifted in and out, bringing food, hot drinks. Sometimes Miles would come and talk, cracking jokes and generally being his usual, cheerful self. Lambert sat through these visits without offering up either verbal ripostes or the faintest glimpse of a reaction. The more he sat, the more morose he became. Reading didn’t help, nor the daily ritual of sitting watching mindless daytime television. Even the Internet, with its possibility for discovery and exploration of every situation and thought process from around the world – a world that rarely makes sense – couldn’t make any inroads. Boredom and inactivity competed to overwhelm him, and he took to wheeling himself out into the grounds of the castle, even when it rained, to sit and breathe in the sweet air rather than the musty, dampness of the interior.

On one such day, Sinclair, whilst bringing him a tray full of oatcakes, malt whisky and coffee, shuffled awkwardly and coughed. “Sir, if I may make a suggestion?”

Lambert did not raise his head as he considered the malt, peering into its amber depths, savouring the moment. The tumbler, heavy crystal-cut glass, seemed to enhance the flavour as he took the first mouthful, closed his eyes and sighed deeply. “God, that is bloody good.”

Sinclair grunted, tried again. “Sir, I am somewhat concerned.”

The man’s rich brogue seemed on edge, as if he were struggling to find the words. “Are you?”

“Yes, sir. You seem so disheartened, depressed perhaps. I am becoming increasingly concerned, sir.”

“Well, you needn’t be. I’m just fed up. I can’t go anywhere, do anything, and my leg’s beginning to itch like billy-oh.” To give weight to his words, he raised the plaster cast and waggled it. “See, no more pain. The sooner the bloody thing comes off the better.”

“Next week, I believe the doctors said? They will re-examine you, perhaps apply a simpler dressing and then—”

“Six weeks they said. Compound fracture, ankle and shin crushed. Even then, I won’t be able to put much pressure on it. I’ll have to exercise, walk with a bloody crutch ...” He shook his head and drained the whisky. “Good stuff, Sinclair. Thank you.”

“Sir, your disposition, it ...” He made a face as if in pain. “Sir, if I might suggest something? To ease the tedium of your situation.”

“Anything you can say that will bring some relief would be very welcome indeed, Sinclair. But please don’t tell me it’s whist, or chess.”

Sinclair’s mouth hung open for a moment. “Er, no, sir. Nothing of the sort.”

“What then?”

“The West Tower, sir. The entrance is blocked, but I do believe I can find a way in, with your permission of course.”

“The West Tower? I’m not sure I’ve ever stepped inside.”

“No, sir, I do not believe you have. Your grandfather kept it locked, and even your father only ventured inside somewhat rarely.”

“He said it was haunted.” Sinclair looked away, a little too sharply, and the action brought a slight stab of alarm to Lambert, who shifted in his chair and frowned. “You don’t believe all that rot, do you?”

“Not at all, sir. Your father was a somewhat fanciful man, sir, who often conjured up the wildest of fantasies.”

“Did him all right for writing novels though, eh? You ever read one, Sinclair?”

“I believe I started ‘The Vicar of Castelrig Knoll’, but I am ashamed to admit I couldn’t get into it, as they say.”

 “He did most of his writing in here, in the study, didn’t he?”

“During the weekends only, sir. You father was a man of peculiar habits. The rest of the time, he worked in the Tower, looking out across the glen. That was after your grandfather passed away, sir.”

Lambert nodded and allowed his eyes to wander over the rolling hills until they settled on the distant mountains. “I was five years of age when grandfather died. Father often spoke of him, but I can’t even remember what he looked like.”

“He looked remarkably like you, sir.”

“Did he? No one ever said.” Lambert shrugged.

“He could be your twin brother, sir.”

Frowning, Lambert looked away.

Silence hung over them both, the only sound the far-off cry of a soaring buzzard, lonely and hauntingly beautiful as if, in that single, plaintive call, the captured souls of the tormented begged for release. As he looked, Lambert thought he saw a couple in the distance. He couldn’t quite make them out, but screwing up his eyes in an effort to male out their details, the face of a man turned towards the glen and the woman’s slender hand reached out to caress his cheek. “My love ...”

Lambert snapped his head towards the servant, seized by an inexplicable dread. “What did you say?”

Sinclair blinked, “Er, I was talking about the Tower, sir.”

Lambert quickly scanned the room, saw there was no one, then took another look across the countryside. “Sinclair, this is private property, correct?”

“Sir? Private property? I don’t quite—”

“Damn it, man, has the public access to the glen?”

“This is your estate, sir. True, there are several pathways, which give access. The public have right of way, sir, as long as they do not cross into those areas deemed private. There are numerous notices to alert them to those area, however. Why do you ask?”

Keeping his eyes locked on the rolling hills, the valley, the various clumps of woodland, he shook his head. “It doesn’t matter, I thought I ...” He blew out his cheeks and swung his wheelchair around. “You were saying? The Tower? What about it?”

Sinclair frowned. “Well, only an idea, sir, but I believe your father may have kept unfinished manuscripts, letters and poems there, together with a large collection of old photographs. I thought perhaps you might want to go through them, unearth some forgotten gems, perhaps discover more of your family’s history.” He shrugged, gave a half smile. “It would give you something to do, sir, and may even shed some light on ...”

His voice trailed away, and Lambert considered what he’d heard. “I’ll sleep on it,” he said.

But that night, he could not sleep. The appearance of the couple bothered him. They might have been simply out on a stroll, but the more he thought about it, the more this explanation seemed unlikely. He went to the dining room once again to drink whisky, more than one glassful, allowing his mind to linger on the buzzard and its cry, the woman’s voice floating as if on a breeze. The more he thought, the more the belief grew something very odd was striving to make its presence felt.