Wild Island

Also by Antonia Fraser

Quiet as a Nun

A Splash of Red

Cool Repentance

Oxford Blood

Your Royal Hostage

The Cavalier Case

Jemima Shore's First Case and other stories

Jemima Shore at the Sunny Grave and other stories

Political Death

Reprinted in Arrow Books, 1999

3 5 7 9 8 6 4

Copyright © Antonia Fraser, 1978

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

First published in the United Kingdom in 1978 by Weidenfeld and Nicholson

This edition first published in 1981 by Mandarin Paperbacks and reissued in 1996

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Printed and bound in the United Kingdom by Cox &Wyman Ltd, Reading, Berkshire

ISBN 0 7493 0852 4

Contents

CHAPTER l

A Highland welcome

As Jemima Shore arrived at Inverness Station, it was early morning but already the sun was shining. She thought: I'm arriving in Paradise. At that moment a man's voice said in her ear: 

'All this way for a funeral.' It was an intimate voice. Almost purring. Jemima felt uncomfortably startled. She looked round.

Behind her a man of a certain age, tall, cadaverous, was bending down to pick up a suitcase. A younger man of much the same ilk was standing beside him. Possibly they were related. Both were dressed with extreme formality for the place - a station - and the time-it was 8.30 am. Jemima had just emerged from her sleeper. She did not feel up to such a situation, at least until she had had a cup of coffee. Whichever of the two men had spoken, it was nothing to do with her. She turned her head back and concentrated on the prospect of a porter.

'It's not all that bad, Colonel Henry,' said a second voice. 'In fact, in some ways it's good. In some ways it's very good indeed.'

Jemima shivered. She was glad she did not know, and never would know, anything more about a funeral to which it was possible to have anything but unmixed reactions of sorrow. She stepped firmly onto the platform. She had come here to getaway from that sort of thing. The first sight which met her eyes was an enormous splashed scarlet graffiti on a hoarding opposite.

'Up the Red Rose!' it screamed and then something beneath in what looked like Gaelic, as well as an odd separate sort of calligraph, which she couldn't make out at all. The scarlet letters were imposed wilfully on another, more formally written, white notice. To her irritation, she found herself trying to make it out instead of concentrating on the task of finding a porter, or even a barrow. Stronger men than her, with dogs and gun Cases to reinforce their claim, Were apparently engaging all conceivable porterage. 'A Highland Welcome', the original notice had read. That at least was friendly.

Of course the inhabitants of the Highlands could still welcome Jemima weekly on their television sets, if they were so minded. As 'Jemima Shore, Investigator' in a series put out by Megalith Television under that title, she generally found her way into the ratings. Jemima's speciality was in fact serious-minded sociological enquiry - housing, deprived families, these were the kind of topics which interested her; but the title of the series played on the notion of an amateur detective. That title had been an early inspiration of her boss, Cy Fredericks. Sometimes she felt that it had become almost too memorable, too much of a catch-phrase for journalists and cartoonists alike. But MTV, entranced by the series' prolonged success, would not dream of changing it.

Before her departure she had recorded what seemed like a monumental number of programmes in her new series. The public would switch on. But she herself would be absent-in Paradise. The sun was still shining. In fact it had been shining all of the ten minutes since her arrival at Inverness Station and not a drop of rain in sight.

She needed a rest from curiosity. All the same, who were they welcoming? 'HRH', those were the next letters, partly obscured by the word 'Red'. After that it was easy: 'A Highland Welcome to HRH Princess Sophie of Cumberland.' So Hurricane Sophie, as television had irreverently nicknamed the young Princess, was visiting the Highlands, was she?

That was yet another fact which need not concern Jemima Shore. Funerals, royal visits, none of that was going to stop her enjoying a well-deserved rest away from it all. And on an island. Could anything be further away from it all than a Scottish island in the middle of a fast-flowing river, complete with cliffs and chasms to protect its privacy ?

Two men watched her alight. Unlike the funeral party, this second pair were dressed in such a nondescript fashion as to rouse exactly that suspicion which they presumably intended to avoid.

'Look, Miller, that's Jemima Shore,' said the more stolid-seeming of the two. 'I fancy her.' He made his approval sound like an announcement from the pulpit.

'She was on the box last night,' the man named Miller spoke wonderingly.

'She's always on the box.'

'But she's not always at Inverness Station. And come to think of it, Tyne, nor are we. Where's HRH then?'

'HRH is putting the finishing touches. Plenty of time.' The man named Tyne continued to look lugubriously after Jemima Shore, whose figure was vanishing down the platform. Her hair, its pure Madonna-like style made famous by television, ruffled slightly in the breeze. 'My wife fancies her too. She's somewhat the same type, my wife. Same colouring and hair style. Once in a shop, someone came up to her...'

A discreet cough interrupted these reminiscences, and as a glimpse of something bright and girlish, red, a coat, a hat, perhaps, was seen through the corridor window, both men proceeded to give their full attention to the interior of the train, rather than the outside world of the platform.

If Jemima Shore noticed the heads turning at all, it was in some automatic register of her brain. It meant absolutely nothing to her. The only sign of recognition she would welcome this morning would be from her future landlord Charles Beauregard. And he was to convey her, rapidly she hoped, away from the panoply of Inverness Station
en fete
to her much-desired Highland retreat.

But twenty minutes later, sitting in the Railway Hotel, whose name belied its distinct if old-fashioned grandeur, there was still no Charles Beauregard to rescue Jemima Shore. She was now surrounded by her luggage, one of the dog-and-gun-case set haying condescended to share a vast truck with her. But the effect of the multitude of suitcases distributed round her in the lounge of the hotel was to make her feel like someone who had been shipwrecked. It was expensive American luggage acquired during her last trip to the States and her enthusiastic young secretary Cherry had insisted on having it all stamped with her full name.

'Oh, Jem, you never know when it might help. Your name being so famous in every comer of the globe. In a tight corner, it might prove invaluable.' Cherry had a vivid if cliche-ridden imagination. To her, all corners were tight, and all names in television famous throughout the universe.

Now, Jemima reflected sardonically, here was a tight corner indeed. Herself sitting with her luggage in a remote corner of the world-surely the Highlands of Scotland qualified for that-with absolutely no way of getting to the holiday cottage she had rented for a month. No telephone. No directions. And an address which at the time had struck her as infinitely romantic, but now as rather ludicrously imprecise: 'Eilean Fas, Inverness-shire.'

The staff of the Railway Hotel was amiability itself. Part of this amiability extended to the fact that its members had no objection to her sitting there indefinitely; they neither -pressured her into partaking of breakfast, or otherwise enquired ofher intentions. But it was no good pretending that this mountain of luggage proclaiming the name of Jemima Shore was cutting any ice with them whatsoever.

Jemima took out Charles Beauregard's letter which was rapidly becoming her last link with her projected holiday. 'Beauregard Estate Office,' it was headed, 'Kilbronnack.'

Dear Miss Shore,

This is to
confirm
the arrangement made over the telephone with your secretary.
You
will rent the cottage known as Tigh Fas on Eilean Fas
for
one month starting from...

Yes, right day, right month. Not that Cherry could fail, but clearly Beauregard Estates could and in a sense had done so. The letter ended:

As Eilean Fas is difficult to find, and the bridge rather tricky, it seems simplest if I meet you in Inverness with the Land-Rover. I can explain details about the cottage, heating, etc, then and hand over the keys.

I should tell you that you won't be able to get television on Eilean Fas but if there is anything special you want to see you can always come over-to the Castle to watch it.

I look forward to meeting you.

The letter itself was carefully typed, and the signature: Charles Edward Beauregard, careful - even measured - in the writing. But there was a scrawled PS, where the writing was larger and not so tidy. It gave the impression of being written under some stronger impulse than the mere details of a holiday let:

PS. There is another matter concerning Eilean Fas which I should like to talk to you about personally. It can't be put in a letter.

Jemima Shore, however, was not the slightest bit interested in the personal details of the island, nor for that matter how and when to watch television in the Highlands-perish the thought! She wanted a Land-Rover and breakfast, preferably in that order. In short she wanted a Highland Welcome, such as had been promised to Princess Sophie-or any welcome. But if not, at least breakfast.

Jemima made a decision. She went to the reception desk and said in her most pleasant, brisk manner: 'My name is Jemima Shore.'

The receptionist was quite a young girl with dark hair and healthy pink cheeks. Jemima did not pause for any possible reaction. 'And I am waiting here for Mr Charles Beauregard. If he arrives and asks for me, will you tell him I am in the dining room having breakfast?'

But the girl behind the desk continued to stare at Jemima. Her mouth was truly open, a rare phenomenon. And she said nothing at all. Jemima wasn't even quite certain she had taken in the message. As for this fan reaction, it was all that Cherry could have hoped for. So she repeated:

'Mr Charles Beauregard. You know Mr Beauregard ?' The letter had stated the arrangement clearly enough: 'We'll meet at the Railway Hotel, where they know me and Alistair, the head porter, is an old friend of mine.'

The girl gave a strangled sound which could at least be interpreted as 'Aye', and immediately dived through the little door at the back of the reception desk cubicle.

Jemima passed into the dining room where a series of vast pictures of steam trains rushing through Highland gorges enlivened the otherwise tomb-like room. There were a number of scattered breakfasters. Two of them, seated at a table near the door, were conspicuous in their dark suits. Jemima recognized them from the train and that snatch of rather eerie conversation* The rest wore tweeds, jeans, thick jerseys and even - on one very stout and elderly man - a kilt.

A huge dog was roaming about among the tables. A labrador.? Or was it a St Bernard? Its head came up nearly to die level of the table. Jemima was vague about dogs, the intricacies of their breeding and maintenance never having penetrated her world of television-and she herself never having led that kind of settled domestic life which would either inspire her or enable her to own one. Jemima felt an affinity for cats, cats headed by her own long-haired white-pawed tabby, with her mackerel markings, Colette.

This dog was beige, although that was probably the wrong word when applied to a dog. Jemima, however, admired the colour beige; it was in fact her favourite colour and she was wearing it at the moment. Beige, a great deal of it, including beige trousers, from a man's tailor (for free, as a discreet advertisement), beige silk shirt (Yves St Laurent, in no way for free), beige and white pullover (ditto). Even the boots beneath the tailored trousers were dark beige.

The dog, she thought, would make an artistic addition to the ensemble. The dog seemed to think so too. He came snuffling up to to the table where the waiter had installed her, wagging his tail as though he hoped to sweep the room with it, and disturbing many tablecloths round him as a result. He put his huge head in Jemima's lap and looked at her passionately.

'Jacko!' shouted the elder of the two men in the dark suits. Then with more fury: 'Jacobite.' His voice entirely lacked the purring note of that remark in the train. It had great authority, was even stentorian.

'Jacobite-Here, boy.' The dog turned and bounded with instant obedience in the direction of his master. It was an impressive performance. Although Jemima could not easily imagine anyone, man or beast, or even woman, disobeying that voice.

Moodily, she ordered a breakfast of things Scottish, more because she thought she ought to, than because she was any longer very hungry: finnan haddock, which was delicious. The coffee was awful. She sipped it, wondering whether the next step was to ring up Cherry-a confession of failure considering how firmly she had announced: I'm away for a month, Cherry. No letters which aren't urgent, which means no letters. No calls-you can't telephone me anyway and I'm not going to trudge to a Scottish call box to call you. No telegrams if you can resist it.' Cherry loved telegrams, whose language satisfied the dramatic side of her nature. No, she really did not want to telephone Cherry just twelve hours after that conversation.

How maddening for the Estate Office not to give its telephone number on the writing paper. Kilbronnack itself must have telephones even if the islanders didn't.