gloomy voice.
“So they have,” Mr Hughes confirmed.
They trudged their way slowly back to Dunadd, beneath the tunnel of white trees. The bleak house stared back at them balefully, its windows blank. Granny Hughes shivered, pulling her headscarf a little tighter.
Everyone was relieved when Granny and her husband reappeared through the snow.
“I’m glad you came back,” Chris Morton admitted. “We were worried about you. Besides, we now have a little problem,” and she glanced in Mr Hughes’s direction. “How are you with electrics, Jim?”
“Ach, well …” he began, unconvincingly.
Although they looked to see if a fuse had blown, there was nothing obvious, so they promptly gave up.
“We’ll just have to wait till morning,” Chris said.
Later that night, with no power, no electricity and no heat – apart from the open fires – the adults decided on asleepover for the children.
“They can sleep next to the fire in the drawing room,” Mrs Morton suggested to Isabel. “With plenty of pillows and sleeping bags. That should do the trick.”
Isabel readily agreed. “At least they’ll stay warm that way.”
They banked the fire up until it was roaring. Outside the trees could only be seen dimly through a gentle curtain of white snowflakes, but the huge drawing room flickered with orange and crimson light from the big stone fireplace.
“I’ll leave you lot to sleep then. No wandering about in the night, okay?” Chris Morton instructed them.
They nodded their heads obediently and prepared to snuggle down, lying as close to the flames as they dared without scorching their feet. The hearth was so wide it could take plenty of large logs.
“This is fantastic,” Samuel said, wriggling his toes contentedly.
Charles leaned his back against a sofa, reading a book by the light of a single candle, snug inside his sleeping bag.
“You’ll hurt your eyes like that,” Fiona commented.
He ignored her.
As the house fell silent around them, the adults having retreated to their beds, Samuel leaned towards the others.
“Hey,” he whispered, “we can use this as an excellent opportunity to do some more research.”
“Great idea,” Fiona agreed.
Sebastian looked less enthusiastic. “Ghost hunting again? The whole house is in darkness,” he pointed out.
“Exactly,” Samuel said. “The perfect conditions. No onewill see us.”
“Apart from
you-know-who
!” Fiona shuddered slightly.
“What does she look like, anyway?” Samuel asked his friend, suddenly gripped by a morbid curiosity.
“Charles will tell you. Kind of thin and hungry-looking,” Fiona murmured quietly.
Charles looked up from his book. “She had sad eyes. There were shadows under them … and this white powdery stuff on her clothes and hair and things.”
“What d’you mean?” Samuel asked.
“I don’t know,” Charles said. “I can’t explain it.”
Samuel thought for a moment.
“I think we should look in the library, for books … for anything that might have some information … like Mr Macfarlane said.”
“On you go then,” Charles said.
Samuel stood up and went next door to explore the bookshelves. Fiona followed him, but soon decided against it.
“It’s too cold away from the fire,” she complained and ran back to the warmth.
Samuel selected one or two books with promising titles –
Disappearing Communities of Sheriffmuir
and
Sheriffmuir: A Brief History
– and brought them back with him. He plonked them on the floor next to his sleeping bag. By the light of the flames, he opened their hard leather covers and turned the pages. “Maybe one of these will tell us something about what was going on in 1604,” Samuel muttered. “Historically, I mean.”
“That doesn’t mean to say it will explain what happenedto Eliza and her brother,” Fiona pointed out.
“Or how they were murdered,” Sebastian added.
She rounded on her brother sharply. “We don’t know that
“So they have,” Mr Hughes confirmed.
They trudged their way slowly back to Dunadd, beneath the tunnel of white trees. The bleak house stared back at them balefully, its windows blank. Granny Hughes shivered, pulling her headscarf a little tighter.
Everyone was relieved when Granny and her husband reappeared through the snow.
“I’m glad you came back,” Chris Morton admitted. “We were worried about you. Besides, we now have a little problem,” and she glanced in Mr Hughes’s direction. “How are you with electrics, Jim?”
“Ach, well …” he began, unconvincingly.
Although they looked to see if a fuse had blown, there was nothing obvious, so they promptly gave up.
“We’ll just have to wait till morning,” Chris said.
Later that night, with no power, no electricity and no heat – apart from the open fires – the adults decided on asleepover for the children.
“They can sleep next to the fire in the drawing room,” Mrs Morton suggested to Isabel. “With plenty of pillows and sleeping bags. That should do the trick.”
Isabel readily agreed. “At least they’ll stay warm that way.”
They banked the fire up until it was roaring. Outside the trees could only be seen dimly through a gentle curtain of white snowflakes, but the huge drawing room flickered with orange and crimson light from the big stone fireplace.
“I’ll leave you lot to sleep then. No wandering about in the night, okay?” Chris Morton instructed them.
They nodded their heads obediently and prepared to snuggle down, lying as close to the flames as they dared without scorching their feet. The hearth was so wide it could take plenty of large logs.
“This is fantastic,” Samuel said, wriggling his toes contentedly.
Charles leaned his back against a sofa, reading a book by the light of a single candle, snug inside his sleeping bag.
“You’ll hurt your eyes like that,” Fiona commented.
He ignored her.
As the house fell silent around them, the adults having retreated to their beds, Samuel leaned towards the others.
“Hey,” he whispered, “we can use this as an excellent opportunity to do some more research.”
“Great idea,” Fiona agreed.
Sebastian looked less enthusiastic. “Ghost hunting again? The whole house is in darkness,” he pointed out.
“Exactly,” Samuel said. “The perfect conditions. No onewill see us.”
“Apart from
you-know-who
!” Fiona shuddered slightly.
“What does she look like, anyway?” Samuel asked his friend, suddenly gripped by a morbid curiosity.
“Charles will tell you. Kind of thin and hungry-looking,” Fiona murmured quietly.
Charles looked up from his book. “She had sad eyes. There were shadows under them … and this white powdery stuff on her clothes and hair and things.”
“What d’you mean?” Samuel asked.
“I don’t know,” Charles said. “I can’t explain it.”
Samuel thought for a moment.
“I think we should look in the library, for books … for anything that might have some information … like Mr Macfarlane said.”
“On you go then,” Charles said.
Samuel stood up and went next door to explore the bookshelves. Fiona followed him, but soon decided against it.
“It’s too cold away from the fire,” she complained and ran back to the warmth.
Samuel selected one or two books with promising titles –
Disappearing Communities of Sheriffmuir
and
Sheriffmuir: A Brief History
– and brought them back with him. He plonked them on the floor next to his sleeping bag. By the light of the flames, he opened their hard leather covers and turned the pages. “Maybe one of these will tell us something about what was going on in 1604,” Samuel muttered. “Historically, I mean.”
“That doesn’t mean to say it will explain what happenedto Eliza and her brother,” Fiona pointed out.
“Or how they were murdered,” Sebastian added.
She rounded on her brother sharply. “We don’t know that
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