The House Between Tides by Sarah Maine Page A

years, and no one had given it a thought. Aonghas gave it to me to scribble on when I was a kid.” He grinned at her expression, then turned tothe back of the book and showed her childish drawings of aeroplanes and rocket ships. “That’s my contribution—I suppose the book came from the big house when they cleared it out. I found it again when we moved Aonghas out of the farmhouse and realised then what it was. I liked those two particularly.” She turned back to study the drawings, and even as the thought struck her, he spoke again. “It’s the same girl as in The Rock Pool. ”
    â€œWho is she?”
    â€œNot sure.” He shrugged and gestured to her mug in the hearth.
    â€œCould it be his wife?” She reached for it and noticed that the file on the floor lay open at the illustration of the cracked wall of Muirlan House.
    â€œNo. He married late. He was only nineteen in 1889, and the clothing suggests an island girl. Painters often used local people in their compositions.”
    â€œBut there’s more, surely. There’s a familiarity . . .” she said, looking more closely.
    â€œâ€”with the form beneath the clothing?” His eyes gleamed a moment. “I know what you mean.” Then he nodded towards the kitchen area, changing the subject. “That phone call was from a supplier on Skye. Apparently the ferry’s had to turn back with engine trouble, so if the police team were on board, they’ll not be here until tomorrow.”
    But she was still looking at the girl stretched out on the sand. “I wonder if they’ll be able to find out who it was.”
    He shrugged again. “Who knows.”
    The peat settled in the fireplace as he sat down opposite her, placing his mug in the hearth. Neither spoke for a moment, then she gestured to the open report on the floor. “Were you having a rethink?”
    â€œâ€™Fraid not. The facts remain.”
    Was it just the facts? She sipped at her tea, looking at him over the rim. Or something else. Something hidden.
    She hesitated, then decided to probe a little. “You don’t approve of my plans, do you?”
    He looked taken aback and picked up his mug again, taking a moment to reply. “Doing anything with the old place would cost you a fortune.”
    â€œYes. You said.”
    He smiled, swirling the tea around in his mug and staring into it. “Nothing’s going to change that, you know. No amount of dreaming or planning. It’s a wreck.”
    She picked up the report from the floor and flipped through the pages, piqued by his manner. “Perhaps I should get a second opinion.”
    â€œBy all means.”
    She turned his illustration of the cracked wall on its side, pretending to study it again. “There’s something you don’t like about the project, though, I can tell. And I bet you have an idea who the bones are,” she added, flicking a glance at him.
    â€œIf I knew—”
    â€œI didn’t say know , I said have an idea . Or can guess? Or maybe Ruairidh can.”
    He sat back, nursing his mug against his chest, considering her. “Like we said, there’s no island lore about someone disappearing, unaccounted for.”
    She glanced again at the sketches, then added, “But identifying the bones is only one question, isn’t it?”
    â€œMeaning?”
    â€œSomeone else did the killing, and the burying. Maybe you have an idea about that?”
    He seemed amused by the interrogation. “Tricky one, that, not knowing who the victim is. Next question?”
    She hesitated. “Alright. Tell me what island lore says about Theo Blake. I’d like to know.”
    â€œWould you?” He got to his feet and brought the teapot over, refilling both mugs, then he reached up to one of the photographs hanging on the wall and passed it to her. “Recognise this?”
    She took it, a faded sepia image of a