The Pearl Thief

And that gave me the excuse to be tucked into Father’s side with his arm around my waist, receiving a kiss on the head instead of the dreadful birthday bumps we used to get as small children. By this time I was fairly sure my diversion was successful and Florrie wasn’t gasping for me today.

When the afternoon was over, one of the big guest bedrooms at Glenmoredun Castle was relegated to the girls to change in; and we got to use the bathrooms, which was delightful (if rushed). The castle is as old as the one at Aberfearn, bits of it fourteenth century, but in good nick. Their hot-water boiler was installed five years ago, modern and efficient, unlike ours which is Victorian.

By the time the ceilidh was to start I’d been fully transformed not just by the green-gold dancing frock and long white gloves and priceless necklace that wasn’t mine, but also by my fairy godmother Solange’s incredible magic wrought with hot curling tongs and sugar-water. I swear it took a full hour for her to wave my hair and, if it was not as swift a transformation as Cinderella’s, it was certainly as complete. Not a single hairpin was used and I ended up looking like I was ready to be photographed for Vogue.

Solange indeed looked beautiful too, in a dress of asymmetric black and white panels that she bought the last time we were all in France. The other girls were rather in awe of her recent brush with injustice; I found myself feeling protective and proud.

The party was bittersweet, knowing we’d probably not be here next year. Also, as I found myself whirling and stamping to the same tunes that Euan had piped us three weeks ago, I grew melancholy about the McEwens.

I had a moment of glory during one of the breaks as everyone sang ‘For She’s a Jolly Good Fellow’, and Father made a speech in which he teased me about my aim but praised my fortitude, in light of my not-so-recent accident. I did not sit out one single dance. This, of course, was because I was being cunning about whom I danced with. And Francis Dunbar looked splendid in his Black Watch kilt and black Prince Charlie jacket twinkling with silver. It took careful planning to end up across from him.

Ellen’s necklace was a source of much probing curiosity.

The other ladies, to Mother: ‘My dear Esmé, where do Julia’s pearls come from? That’s surely not a birthday gift?’

‘They’re part of the Murray Estate. She says Sandy found them among the objects he’s cataloguing for the Murray Collection.’

‘Really, they ought to be locked up.’

‘She’s to return them the second she takes her clothes off, I can assure you. And they will be locked up, or more likely put on display in a museum, but don’t you think it’s lovely that they’re being worn?’

And the Menzies girls, my own age, to me: ‘Are those your pearls, Julie?’

‘They’re on loan from the Murray Estate.’

‘I’d be terrified to touch them, let alone dance in them!’

‘Go on, touch. They don’t bite!’

And Francis Dunbar, mid-waltz: ‘Are those Fearn pearls too?’

‘No, they’re Tay pearls. They’re not mine. They’re part of the Murray Estate.’

‘Part of the Murray Estate,’ he echoed, staring down at me with that air of perpetual bafflement that makes him seem faintly vulnerable and which I find so appealing. ‘I thought those pearls were sold.’

‘Sandy found ’em in the Hoard,’ I said. ‘They have to go back tonight.’

‘How disappointing for you!’

‘No, I’m happy I get to wear them for my birthday party. They make me sensational.’

He laughed. ‘You’d still be sensational without them.’

And because Mary had given me the key to her kitchen door to allow me to return the pearls to the Murray Collection straight away, Mummy let me have the Magnette so I could stop at the Inverfearnie Library on my way back to Strathfearn House. And because Frank was going back to Strathfearn House too and there was an extra seat in the car, I asked him to come along with me.

Oh, that was probably an error. My own error. I should have at least told someone he was coming with me. But I was no longer being watched over like a Russian princess and it was late, and I was feeling adult and elegant and sure of myself – dressed for Vogue, old enough to be married – and I thought I was being responsible.





18


AS FAIR ART THOU, MY BONNIE LASS

The moon was one single night past full, the light flooding and shadowing the birch wood and the River Fearn. It was stunningly, ethereally beautiful. The little library on Inverfearnie Island had two yellow lights left welcomingly glowing, one in the kitchen and one upstairs.

‘Mary went straight home after the shoot. She said she’d go to bed about nine,’ I said, as I drew the car up on the gravel in the circular drive in front of the old building and shut off the motor.

The undying night voice of the Fearn was suddenly interrupted by a sharp, warning bark. Frank started.

‘Is that the Travellers’ dog?’

‘It’s the heron. They sometimes hunt at night. Listen …’

The heron cried again, wild and strange in the dark.

‘I’m glad you know what it is!’ Frank told me.

‘Me too,’ I laughed. ‘I don’t like ghosts!’

I got out. Frank had a harder time extracting his long body from the confines of the little Magnette. I laughed again, and went round the front of the car to hold the door for him.

‘I’m supposed to do that for you!’ he objected.

‘Never mind, I know you can be chivalrous when you try.’

The night air was still warm; even in the evening wind of the open motor car I hadn’t wanted a wrap. I got out Mary’s key. Frank offered me his arm as we made our way around the back. He held the door open for me, and followed me inside.

‘Have you been here before?’ I asked softly. Silly, I know, to keep our voices low, as Mary couldn’t possibly have heard us. But knowing she might be sleeping made me want to be quiet.

‘I’ve not been inside.’

‘How ridiculous! It’s a national treasure. It’s one of the oldest public lending libraries in Scotland, opened in the seventeenth century. Mostly just useful stuff for farmers and landowners, but there’s a rather wonderful display of first editions of Robert Burns, and …’

It was too dark to see the display cases downstairs. I didn’t want to switch on lights.

‘I can’t show you in the dark, but there’s a pearl bracelet that belonged to Mary Queen of Scots as a child. She gave it to the Murrays and they gave it to the library.’

He drew in a breath, then exclaimed, ‘How wonderful!’

I led the way upstairs.

‘This is the Upper Reading Room. This is where they’ve been cataloguing the Murray Collection.’

The casement window was propped open to the silver night. The Keiller jar of stolen pearls (minus the ones I was wearing) was still sitting on the big table in the middle, unopened, undiscovered.

There was one electric standing lamp which Mary had left alight by the stairs. I glanced over my shoulder at Dunbar, a pace or two behind me; his face was shadowed, but the light behind him caught on his silver cuff buttons.