Kissing Toads (27 page)

They were talking about committing a murder.

I don't recall many of the words, just the tone of their voices: hers all breathy and panting, his low-pitched, even, urgent. I didn't catch the name of the victim, or the method of killing – only a sense of conspiracy, a stolen meeting, hugger-mugger, intent on crime. They were lovers, I knew that, though they never kissed, never touched. Lovers planning to kill. A slow dread crept over me, a cold, paralysing feeling, like you're supposed to get in the presence of evil. And evil was present, evil was
them
– the shadowy form of the man, the girl, young, so young, with her vivid, passionate face.

I woke abruptly, shivering in spite of the warmth, started out of the chair. But the gallery was empty. I made myself relax and leave without haste to show I wasn't scared. There was nobody there, but I had to prove it to myself. The dread still hung on, left over from the dream. It was irrational, of course; the couple were just phantoms of my imagination, the by-product of my talk with Ash. The McGoogle cousin and the girl Alasdair had jilted . . . It seemed to make sense, or half-sense, but I couldn't be sure. (That was love in her face, first love, the Juliet syndrome – not the drive for revenge.)

I decided to discuss it with Roo in the morning. The next day was Sunday, and Sunday was our day off. Plenty of time to talk.

Back at my door I opened it without trying to be quiet, but Alex didn't stir. Fenny leaped off the quilt and rushed to greet me, and I shed my dressing gown and got into bed, snuggling up to the puppy instead of my fiancé.

Thankfully, I had no more dreams.

Chapter 7:

Rescue Party

I gatecrashed Roo's bedroom in the morning to tell her about my dream. I wanted to discuss it
now
, I couldn't wait, though her reception of it was sceptical. ‘It was probably just your imagination doing overtime,' she said. ‘Still, we should tell Ash about it. Analysing dreams is bound to be one of his skills.'

Ash, however, was really interested.

‘Our conversation beforehand must have stimulated your subconscious,' he said, ‘but that doesn't mean the dream was a lie. Your state of mind might have made you more receptive to an echo from the past. Do you remember any of their actual words?'

‘She was saying something about . . . they must do it quickly. Not later than tomorrow night. Then I think he repeated “
Tomorrow night
” . . . I didn't catch any more.'

‘Are you
sure
it was murder they were planning?' Roo queried doubtfully.

‘Of course I'm sure. It wasn't what they said – I just
knew
. You know how you do in dreams. Besides, there was this feeling of
evil
 . . .'

‘And you think it was Elizabeth Courtney they were plotting to kill?' Ash persisted. I hesitated. ‘There've been a lot of murders here in the past. You have plenty to choose from.'

‘What were their clothes like?' Roo said. ‘Assuming you were dreaming with historical accuracy, that should help us to date it.'

‘It was too dark to tell,' I explained. ‘Long. He had a coat or cloak; she was in a long dress. Full skirt, tight waist. Could have been Victorian.'

‘If it
was
Elizabeth's murder they were planning, you think the girl had to be her rival – Alasdair's ex?' Ash said thoughtfully.

‘Yes. Do we know her name?'

‘Iona Craig.' This was Nigel, joining in. Despite his lack of sex appeal, his historical expertise might come in useful. I wasn't certain how he would react to my dream, but he put it down to my dramatic flair and went along with the rest of us.

‘She looked awfully young,' I said. ‘Sixteen or seventeen. Would that fit the facts?'

‘It does indeed,' Nigel said. ‘Iona was barely seventeen when Alasdair deserted her for Elizabeth. We have no pictures of her at that age, but there's a portrait done after her marriage to the laird about eight years later. It's in the main drawing room. You've probably seen it.'

‘I don't notice things like that,' I said. ‘Even if I did, I wouldn't have known who it was.'

‘It's possible to absorb details without realising it,' Nigel said, sounding maddeningly pompous. ‘You may have known more than you thought you knew.' And, to Ash, ‘Wouldn't you agree? After all, mediums and other supposed psychics depend on the clues people inadvertently let fall to give the impression of telepathic awareness. Their target rarely appreciates how much she, or he, has given away. This could be a similar effect, in reverse. Delphinium may not realise how much she has assimilated.'

Ash was non-committal. ‘Let's take a look at the picture.'

It was just one gloomy Victorian portrait among many, the kind of thing you see in old houses, when the artist isn't famous enough for it to be worth selling. I'd seen it before, but
without
seeing it, if you know what I mean. Its subject was light years apart from the girl in my dream – the girl with her breathlessness and her beauty and her suppressed passion. Nonetheless, there was a sort of likeness: the colouring, the shape of the face, the fullness of the mouth, set now in the demure lines the painter considered suitable for her age and station. It was less than ten years later, but she looked all lady-of-the-manor, the kind of person you could imagine in church on a Sunday, or sitting at the head of the table being charming to her husband's friends. It was the same woman, I was sure – the girl I had dreamed, the conspirator, the murderess. But I didn't think my subconscious could have invented the girl after half noticing the picture even if I'd known who it was. The portrait was dull; the girl in my dream, whatever else she might have been, hadn't looked dull at all.

‘What about the man?' Roo said. ‘Is there a painting of Alasdair's cousin –
if
it was him?'

‘I only saw his back,' I pointed out. ‘Even if a picture exists, it wouldn't mean a thing to me.'

These enigmatic dreams can be very irritating. They never give you enough information.

‘There are a couple of pictures of Archie McGoogle,' Nigel told us. ‘He bore a strong resemblance to his cousin Alasdair, though he was older and not so handsome. Of course, living in Africa had had its effect on him: he was sallow and weather-beaten and had survived various fevers, including malaria. One of the pictures is in the old hall now.'

We trooped after him, feeling investigative, although, as I said, Archie's image wouldn't convey much.

There were two paintings side by side. The smaller one showed Alasdair, looking quite young and very good-looking (for a portrait), despite the sideburns that made him resemble someone out of an old seventies TV series. He had light brown hair, blue eyes, a cleft in his chin worthy of the Douglas family (I remarked on this and said there might be a connection, since Douglas is a Scottish name, but Roo said they made it up and they're Jewish like everyone else in Hollywood). Next to him Archie McGoogle, painted when he became the Laird, had the faded yellow complexion of last year's tan, greying hair, the same blue eyes though slightly lighter (possibly an effect of the tan), a flourishing moustache, and a sporran on his chin which passed for a beard. The Victorians, of course, were big on beards; I think it had to do with the British Empire, and the men having to be so macho. Male-dominated societies always do beards: it's because all guys hate shaving, and in a social system where they have the edge they don't feel they have to placate the women. (The Romans were generally clean-shaven, but then, half of them were gay.)

You'd think in a nation ruled by a woman the girls would have got more of a look-in. Fat chance. These mad female supreme rulers all like to surround themselves with men: it's a perk of the job. Elizabeth I had Raleigh and Drake and the one she executed by accident (Essex boy?) and the one played by Joseph Fiennes in the film. Victoria had various prime ministers like Gladstone and Disraeli and that Scottish guy who was her butler or pool cleaner or something. Maggie Thatcher had the Tory party. (Elizabeth II's different, but she isn't really a supreme ruler so she doesn't count.) Put a woman at the top, and the testosterone count of the whole country goes up. Instead of becoming more sensitive and caring, men become more . . . well,
male
. Maybe it's some kind of reaction. Female leader equals macho society. Strange but true.

I thought of mentioning this to Nigel, as it's the sort of concept he would be bound to go for, but decided against it. It would only lead the conversation round to sex again.

Anyway, Nigel was really hitting his stride, showing us even more dreary pix of past McGoogles, and explaining their relationships to each other and whatever dirty deeds they had deeded. One of them was Lady Mary McGoogle, Alasdair's tragic mother, dressed tragically in black from the day her daughter-in-law disappeared. Somebody should have told her unrelieved black is very unflattering for the older woman. But it was probably Victoria's fault: she set the trend. Another thing about female supreme rulers is they never have any fashion sense. Elizabeth I went in for those spangly stand-up collars and vast skirts that seem to be made from upholstery; Victoria wore the crinoline and the bustle (how
did
you sit down in a bustle?); Maggie Thatcher had shoulder pads and big hairspray. The supreme-ruler gene obviously comes hand in hand with another labelled fashion accident. Of course, if you're supreme-rulering, no one's going to tell you you look a twit, for fear of being decapitated.

When the lecture tour was over we got back to Elizabeth's murder and the big issue of whodunnit.

‘If it was Iona,' Nigel insisted, ‘the motive had to be revenge. Elizabeth stole the man she loved. Remember, he was also the local laird: it would have been a very good match for her, by the standards of the day. Her family were respectable but their social status was lower than the McGoogles and they had no money to speak of.'

‘Then why was Lady Mary so keen on the marriage?' Roo said. ‘You'd think she'd prefer her son getting off with an heiress like Elizabeth. You said the McGoogles weren't rich.'

‘No, they weren't. But you're forgetting that Lady Mary was a woman of her time. She'd been brought up in the strict Christian ideology of the Scottish Presbyterian Church. She believed Alasdair was committed to Iona, even though there had been no formal engagement, and contemporary morality was inflexible. Alasdair's attachment to Iona was known and accepted; for him to back off, as he did, was considered extremely dishonourable. Records show some local dignitaries actually cut him, though they seem to have changed their minds when invited to his wedding with Elizabeth. Her fortune might have helped to reinstate him in their eyes, I suspect.'

‘What happened to it when she died?' Roo asked. ‘If no body was found, could Alasdair inherit?'

‘Her money passed to him on their marriage: that was the law of the time,' Nigel responded. ‘But he had little chance to enjoy it – he went off to Africa almost immediately. Lady Mary seems to have left it virtually untouched. In the end, Archie inherited it, with the title, the castle and all.'

‘And Iona married the lot,' I said. ‘Where
was
Archie at the time of Alasdair's wedding?'

‘In Africa. There's no doubt of that, I assure you. He was suppressing a native uprising – the kind of thing that went down very well with the Victorians, though it would have been frowned upon by us. It was a particularly bloody insurrection, even by African standards; we have the documents to prove it. There's no way he could have been back in Scotland, even supposing a relationship between him and Iona, and there's no evidence of one. I suspect your dream took an assortment of facts and mixed them up. Dreams are not noted for their accuracy.'

I gave him a
very
cold shoulder. I can't stand it when these academic types turn patronising and superior.

Besides, the re-enactment scenes were nearly all finished now, so I didn't have to be charming any more.

‘He could be right,' Roo said later. ‘Your dream doesn't really fit in with the chain of events, does it? You obviously got Alasdair's love for Elizabeth confused with his connection to Iona. After all, it
was
just a dream. Dreams do muddle things.'

‘It wasn't that
kind
of dream,' I said, though I was beginning to doubt myself. ‘It was so . . .
real
.'

And, to Ash, ‘What do
you
think?'

‘Most dreams, like most ghosts, come from the dark places of the mind. How far they could be subject to an outside influence I don't know. The past is always with us, but . . .'

He was plainly hedging his bets. For a psychic researcher, he seemed rather cautious about believing in things.

But then, I don't believe in ghosts either. In daylight, the impression of my dream was fading, and I wondered, reluctantly, if Nigel might be right. I must have seen Iona's picture many times in a not-noticing sort of way; perhaps I'd heard him or HG say it was her. The rest could have come from a confusion in my imagination. I wasn't going to go around talking about my intuition or any of that bullshit; I'd leave that to Brie.

I took the opportunity to remove Roo from Ash's company (in case she was enjoying it) and take her into the dining room for a late breakfast.

Brie was in there, drinking something that looked like her own urine – camomile tea? – and eating a boiled egg with no marmite soldiers. Her latest diet. Yuk.

She was talking to Dorian because there was no one else around. Or rather, listening, in a sort of catatonic trance, while he explained the details of some computer game he'd invented. Brie, too, was obviously having a go at being a good listener, and was finding it even more heavy going than me. At least I'd had HG to practise on; the thought of doing it with Dorian was truly scary.