The Ghost Tree: Gripping historical fiction from the Sunday Times Bestseller

Thomas

We had always been a God-fearing family. Serious and thoughtful supporters of the Reformation, as the sennachie told us boys, and before that true followers of the old church. Back into the mists of time, as he would say, using his favourite phrase for when his memories no longer served him, although he did mention the Picts and before them the North Britons as others who had been equally devoted to their gods. We were descended from kings, he told us, and when the line of descent strayed away from the throne we supported and served our monarchs with loyalty, if not always skill.

Probity and prayer drove my forefathers into the Presbyterian camp during the Civil Wars of the seventeenth century and through that loyalty they lost their lands and went into exile, first in Holland and then over the sea to the Americas. When they returned to Scotland and the restored Stuart line was replaced, their opinions were split; my mother’s brother and my father’s cousin fought for Prince Charlie and the lands were forfeit again. My other uncle and my cousin fought against the man they called the Pretender. Although all was now officially forgiven and the various branches of the family, through fines and oaths of allegiance, were once more in favour, in their hearts I suspect more families than ours retained their loyalty to the Stuart cause.

My father was a freemason; indeed, had been grandmaster of the lodge before I was born, and my parents were devout followers of the Calvinist faith; my brothers and I were brought up to go to the kirk with scrubbed necks and hands, our well-thumbed Bibles in our hands. My sisters were even more intense in their devotion.

And me? Did I believe? Oh yes, I believed but I am not sure it was in the same things as my family. I paid careful attention to what was required, but there was a whole universe beyond the strictures of the prayer book which I could see and sense with my own faculties. The sennachie knew; my brothers knew and teased me for it. Anne and Isabella were shocked and horrified. I did not learn in time to keep quiet about what to me was obvious. I was to regret that later in my life, but I never regretted the gift of second sight that I had been given. Ever.

11

Ruth looked with delight round the cosy bedroom. Its stone walls were hung with paintings and there were heavy tapestry curtains at the window. The bedside light threw a warm glow round the room. She went to the window and drew back the curtains, opening the window and leaning out into the clear darkness. The sound of the River Almond far below, splashing over the rocky falls, filled the room. Even over the sound of the water she could hear the hooting of an owl.

Pulling her laptop from her bag she opened it.

There was an email from Harriet:

I’ve been trying to reach you on the phone. Why don’t you pick up, you infuriating woman!! I want to know what’s happening.

That was the second vivid dream Ruth had had in the last two days. She woke suddenly, disorientated, staring at the unfamiliar ceiling, trying to grasp at the memory, aware of the boy’s shock and misery, his sense of powerlessness, his disbelief that he could be so arbitrarily sent away. She closed her eyes again. Thomas was telling her his life story. In the distance she could hear the sound of the sea, the waves, the rattle of rigging, the tapping of ropes against a mast, the whistle of the wind. In seconds she had drifted back to sleep.

Tom did not like Bath. It was crowded and noisy. He had been used to the press of people living in Edinburgh’s old town, but it was more claustrophobic here, prone to fog in the enclosing basin of hills. That it was fashionable, the home of all that was so desirable for the beau monde, escaped him completely.

His sister Anne had found them all lodgings together in a new house in the Walcot area and they settled in swiftly, just the five of them, the earl and countess and Anne herself, Isabella, Tom and their small household of servants.

A short time before, David had resigned his commission and returned to Scotland and, to Tom’s intense jealousy, he found that his eldest brother was to return to his education with Harry in Scotland. They would come south to rejoin their family for Christmas.

His parents felt instantly at home in Bath. They attended church and religious meetings and took part in long intense discussions with many of the great and the good who had come together in Bath over the summer, but Tom was lonely and confused. His pleas to continue his education so that he could practise a profession when he grew up fell on deaf ears. ‘I told you I could no longer afford your fees. Besides, it is time to earn your living now, Tom,’ his father said sternly when at last Tom plucked up courage to speak to him. ‘I have been making enquiries and discussing your future with, among others, our good friend, Lord Mansfield.’ There was a pause; Lord Mansfield, a fellow Scots aristocrat, had risen to dizzy heights in the English bar and was Lord Chief Justice. The two men were firm friends and Lord Buchan frequently turned to the older man for advice with his wayward brood of children. ‘We feel— I feel,’ he amended hastily, ‘that the Royal Navy would be a good career for you, and it has been arranged for you to sail with his nephew, Sir John Lindsay, as a midshipman.’

‘No!’ Tom felt the colour drain from his face. ‘No, Papa. Please. I hate the sea!’

‘You know nothing about the sea,’ his father retorted. ‘And you were happy enough to go aboard the ships in St Andrews harbour. You and Harry enjoyed the food they gave you, as I recall!’

‘But it was at anchor, Papa,’ Tom said miserably. ‘I would not like to go to the proper sea. Not at all.’

‘And what do you know of the proper sea, Tom?’ His father was exasperated.

‘I know it can kill you, Papa,’ the boy replied softly. ‘I watched it from the castle walls at St Andrews. A friend of mine was drowned!’ His words died away. His father knew nothing of the ghost boy with whom Tom had explored the ruins.

‘I could be a soldier!’ Tom said suddenly, brightening at the thought. ‘Now David has resigned his commission, I could have it instead.’ Anything was better than the navy and he had been covertly watching the dashing young men in scarlet uniforms escorting ladies to the Assembly Rooms, riding up and down the streets, driving their curricles too fast, laughing and shouting with their friends. The idea of joining them one day was rather appealing.

Lord Buchan turned away from him and sat down abruptly. His face was grey and Tom realised that his father looked ill and tired. ‘Please, Papa,’ he repeated. ‘I think I would like the army.’

‘The army costs money too, Tom.’ Lord Buchan frowned as he looked at his thirteen-year-old son. David, newly promoted to lieutenant, had thrown his chance away, announcing the life was not for him. ‘I am sorry. I can’t afford to buy you a commission, not even as an ensign.’

‘Anne could help,’ Tom pleaded. ‘She could ask some of her rich friends.’

‘No.’

‘We could ask them to pray for the money?’ In a household fixated on prayer it was a natural thing to suggest, but to his increasing despair he saw his father’s anger beginning to surface.

‘God expects us to help ourselves, Tom. You can pray to be a good officer in the navy. You will be paid. I am told the starting wage is one pound ten shillings a month and even as a midshipman you will be entitled to a share of any prize money your ship earns from capturing privateers. After a few years you will be richer by far than your father with the miserable allowance he is granted by his miserly trustees!’ He forced himself to smile.

Tom couldn’t trust himself to speak. He could feel shameful tears clogging his throat. He swallowed hard. He had seen ships of the navy at anchor off Leith; he had seen them off Bristol, the great sails set, heeling slightly before the wind, when his mama had taken him with her to stay with some of her church friends. He had seen the seamen and the swaggering officers and the huge bundles of supplies being lowered into small boats to row out to the great ships at anchor in the fairway. He did not like the idea at all.

His father sighed. ‘Tom, we are no longer at war; please God, there is no danger. And Sir John Lindsay is a well-respected captain. He has agreed to take you aboard and train you as one of his young gentlemen; his ship is a frigate, bound for the Caribbean. Your mother agrees with me in all this. You will experience wonderful things, Tom. It will be an adventure, you’ll see.’

There was to be no argument.

12

Finlay’s idea of a quick breakfast was formidable. Porridge, scrambled egg with smoked salmon, toast and coffee. As they sat over their final cups of coffee he put forward his proposal: ‘I think you should stay here with me. I’ve been thinking about this. That house of yours – and it is yours, or it will be, have no fear – is a gloomy place, an outrage to good taste, and you don’t feel safe there. Am I right?’

Ruth nodded.

‘And, I’m here, all alone, in a relatively large house which is beautiful, warm, safe and furnished in impeccable style.’ He gave a hollow laugh as the sound of a plane flying low overhead rattled the windows. ‘God bless Edinburgh airport for its convenience, but the noise I could do without. Don’t worry. The wind will change! Now, we can keep a close eye on your place, and ask your friend next door to do the same in case the fearsome Timothy decides to launch a raid, but my guess is he won’t. There’s too much at stake for him. If he’s playing a much larger game, which he seems to be, he is not going to endanger it for the sake of another look round inside Number 26.’ He reached for the coffee pot. ‘No strings attached. You would actually be doing me a favour being here. It would be lovely to have your company, naturally, but I go away quite a lot and it would save me finding a house sitter. And perhaps I can help with your family research. I propose that you use the dining room as your base. You can spread out your books and papers on the table there, and you can send me off to raid whatever libraries you need. I belong to them all.’

‘Finlay!’ Ruth looked at him fondly. ‘How can I refuse?’

‘OK. Soon as you can, ring your solicitor chappy and tell him where you will be and tell him to do whatever he has to do to set the wheels in motion for nailing Timothy, then we can go back to the house and collect those books you mentioned and anything else you might need.’

‘It was that simple,’ Ruth said later when she rang Harriet back the following day. ‘We collected all my stuff and the rest of the books and all the boxes, turned off the gas and electricity, called on Sally Laidlaw, collected Mummy’s books from her, asked her to ring me if she sees Timothy poking around, and that was it.’

‘And where is Finlay now?’ Harriet asked.

‘He’s gone into town to see someone about his next project.’

There was a thoughtful pause from Harriet. ‘I take it he isn’t married? You haven’t mentioned anyone else being there?’ she said.

Ruth smiled. ‘No. No wife; no husband; no partner. Rick and I used to wonder about that. I think we assumed Finlay was gay, but he doesn’t seem to need anyone; he’s just a lovely cuddly person, complete in himself.’ She smiled fondly.

‘My goodness, Ruth. You have fallen on your feet!’ Ruth could hear the amusement in Harriet’s voice. ‘The only trouble with this paradisiacal set up is that the ghost you need to interview is back at Number 26.’

Ruth laughed uneasily. ‘Forget that! I found some letters in the cupboard which are copies of letters Thomas had sent to his daughter. He seems to be telling her the story of his life. I looked at one or two last night and found myself reading about his first days in the navy. Poor kid, he was only just fourteen when they sent him away.’ She had looked up the dates. ‘It would have been hard not to resent his two brothers for using up their father’s money; they were allowed to go to university, which seems to have been his dream, and he was packed off to God knows where with no prospect of coming back any time soon.’ And she had dreamt about it, she remembered with a jolt. She had dreamt about it vividly and in detail.

‘Any further mention of his being a spirit guide?’ Harriet was not to be diverted.

‘No. Nothing.’

After the call was ended, Ruth let herself out into the garden and walked down the lawn. Finlay’s house had been one of the several water mills along the River Almond, the same River Almond that Thomas had mentioned in his letter. She had mentioned it to Finlay. Apparently Broxburn was less than twenty minutes’ drive away and there, somewhere, was Kirkhill, the house where Thomas had studied before leaving with his family for St Andrews. Then the area had been quiet countryside and rural villages. It was in the nineteenth century that industry had come to Strathbrock in the form of shale and coal mining, and to the River Almond.

There was little left here now of the Almond’s nineteenth-century past beyond the stone-built miller’s house and some old pilings. The garden was separated from the public footpath along the riverside by iron railings and a steep drop, thick with undergrowth. Fin had created a sort of belvedere there and she stood, looking over the railings towards the water far beneath. Behind her the wind was dancing across the flowerbeds and a shower of autumn leaves scattered round her on the grass. She was thinking again about Tom and the fact that she had dreamed about him in such detail and suddenly she shivered. It was as though he was looking over her shoulder.

Easing himself into his car, Finlay sat for a moment staring ahead through the windscreen, deep in thought. The meeting with his agent had gone well. He was planning a new TV series and full of excited enthusiasm for the project. It meant he would be away filming sooner than he had expected but Ruth did not seem worried about being in the house on her own and having her live there would be a relief. He would help her sort out her problems with this wretched man before he left, and when she had custody of her inheritance. The Old Mill House would give her somewhere as an alternative base while she decided what to do with it.

He reached into his pocket for a piece of paper he had put there as he left the house. It was Timothy’s address. He had noticed it as she laid out her papers on the table the night before. She had put the file of solicitors’ letters to one side and James Reid’s note had slipped out. Finlay glanced at it as she reached forward to push it back out of sight and remembered it long enough to make a note of it later. He sat looking down at it, then leaned forward and tapped the postcode into his satnav. It wouldn’t take long to drive there and there was no harm in sussing out the enemy’s lair. Pulling away from the parking meter he turned on some music. Dvořák seemed like a good accompaniment to a hunting expedition.

As it turned out Timothy Bradford lived on the edge of a run-down housing estate in the shadow of a high-rise block barely ten minutes’ drive from Cramond. Finlay slowed the car to walking pace, scanning the house fronts. The one he was looking for turned out to be the right-hand half of a stuccoed semi. The small front garden had been turned, by the destruction of the low front wall, into a parking space adorned by a selection of bins. Finlay recognised the car that was drawn up there, its nose almost pressed against the front wall of the house beneath what was, judging by the array of downpipes on the wall, almost certainly the kitchen window. He grabbed in his glove box for his dark glasses and slid them over his nose as he drove past.

‘April!’ Timothy was standing at the sink, filling the kettle. ‘Look at that! That fat bastard minder of Ruth Dunbar’s has just driven by.’

‘What?’ April had been standing at the cooker. She turned and elbowed her brother out of the way, staring out. ‘Where?’

‘There. He’s stopped to have a good look.’ Timothy drew back slightly.

April stared through the blind as the car came to a halt, the engine running. ‘I’ve seen that guy before,’ she said after a fraction of a second. ‘He looks like someone on the telly. That Scots cook, the one who tells people how to make scones!’

Brother and sister stood side by side, watching. ‘It is,’ she said. ‘It’s Finlay Macdermott.’

‘Don’t be daft, woman. How can you tell from so far away? Besides, what would he be doing here?’ Timothy had never watched Finlay’s programme. ‘He’s gone now.’

‘Get after him!’ April gave Timothy a shove. ‘Quickly! Now! Go after him. Whoever he is, find out where he lives!’

‘But supposing he’s not going home?’ Timothy hadn’t told her of his previous attempt to follow the man.

‘Then stay with him until he does.’

This was one of the few times he was pleased they had an ordinary old vehicle, unlike the one he was following which in daylight stood out a mile. His was dirty, mud-splashed with its number plate barely visible under the layers of crud. Finlay Macdermott. He murmured the name to himself resentfully. A TV chef! April was probably right. He had always been impressed by the way she recognised faces off the telly and she was never wrong. She would dig him in the ribs with her elbow as they walked down the streets and hiss a name at him and point, and he would stare, embarrassed. Luckily she didn’t go and ask people for autographs or selfies, but pointing was almost as bad.

Ahead of him, Finlay was signalling a left turn. The traffic was lighter here and it was growing dark. Timothy let himself drop back slightly and settled down to drive with exaggerated care.

Only five minutes later he was following Finlay down the road past Lauriston Castle, towards Cramond. He was much more cautious now. There was hardly any traffic here. He crawled up to the turning into a leafy lane and followed it slowly down towards the river. No cars here. The houses were tucked in amongst the trees with plenty of space to park. They had high walls and fences. There were several turnings and he approached each one slowly, until he arrived at the end. Ahead was a no-through-road sign.

And then he saw his quarry. Through the trees he caught glimpses of a stone house with a gravelled turning area in front of it and there was Finlay, climbing out of his car. Timothy watched intently for a couple of seconds as the man stooped to retrieve a bag of some sort and then locked the door. With a quiet exclamation of triumph he reversed away from the turning, swung backwards onto the muddy verge, then drove towards the main road. He was looking for somewhere unobtrusive to park.

Finlay had never once looked back.

13

‘I had a fruitful meeting this afternoon.’ Finlay was still thinking about the plans for the next series. ‘It calls for a bottle of bubbly, methinks!’

He found his ice bucket in a cupboard, brought a bag of ice cubes out of his freezer and emptied it into the container.

‘That sounds wonderful.’ Ruth smiled as she watched. ‘This is so refined! Rick and I didn’t own an ice bucket. If we needed champagne – or to be honest, more likely Prosecco – we stuck the bottle in the freezer for the shortest time possible!’

‘Vandals!’ Finlay placed the bucket on the table. ‘Well, you should be pleased I have standards. I have an image to protect, don’t forget.’ He glanced at her. ‘Which leads me to my news and a favour I need to ask.’

Ruth pulled up one of the high stools at the kitchen island and hauled herself onto it.

‘Name it.’

‘If all goes to plan, I’m going to have to be away for a time, filming in the Hebrides, far sooner than I expected. Would you be willing to stay here to keep an eye on the house? I know you said you would, but I genuinely envisaged being here to protect you from Timothy for a while at least. I quite fancied myself as Sir Lancelot. To leave you alone now seems churlish.’

‘Of course I’d be willing.’ Ruth was surprised at the sense of loss which swept over her at the thought of being without Fin, but she hoped it didn’t show. ‘When are you leaving?’

‘Not sure yet. We agreed a format this afternoon, one which I think will suit the producer, and the money men. Then the hard work will start.’ He gave her an impish grin, full of almost childlike excitement. ‘I’ve been working on this idea for ages. It is going to be such fun! And I want you to have fun too, Ruthie, so while you’re here, especially if you’re in charge, you must have a car to drive and as it happens I have a spare.’ Before he left the kitchen he reached up to the hooks by the door and she found herself holding the keys to the old MX5 he kept tucked away in his garage.

Champagne flutes in hand, they wandered through the dusk and stood on the belvedere, looking down towards the water, listening to the cheerful babble of the weir in the distance.

‘I thought we’d be filming here, in my own kitchen, but the powers that be like the idea of setting it in the Highlands and Islands, perhaps using the kitchens of people who still cook the traditional foods. Old black iron stoves, that sort of thing.’

‘Are there still such people?’ Ruth asked. She was watching reflected lights dancing on the ripples. Somewhere behind them an owl hooted and they both looked round.

Finlay laughed. ‘That’s what my editor said. And the answer is, there are a few, though not for much longer, I fear. TV, the Internet, modern technology, they are all conspiring to wipe out the past. People’s grannies are no longer wearing long black skirts and checked shawls and aprons,’ he sighed theatrically, ‘as they are in my imagination; they have supermarket deliveries or fly to the mainland and go shopping in Inverness or Edinburgh or Paris! But, and this is the important part, the recipes do survive, and my show will do its bit to preserve and disseminate them.’ He shivered. ‘Come away in, it’s cold out here. Let’s eat.’

Having parked his car, Timothy had crept silently along the side of the house. It was almost dark now and he could see lights on at the far end of the building. The sound of the wind in the trees masked any noise he made as he sidled closer, keeping his back to the wall. There were creepers of some kind there; they provided cover as he reached the lit window and peered in. He could see into the kitchen. It was large and expensive-looking and Finlay was standing by the table talking to Ruth. He saw the champagne bottle and narrowed his eyes resentfully, wishing he dared press his ear against the window. He couldn’t hear what they were saying.

When they had moved into the next-door room and opened the French doors he froze, his back pressed into the trellis. If they looked to the side they would see him, but the sudden darkness after the bright light must have blinded them. They stepped outside, laughing, and walked down the grass away from the house without seeing him, leaving the doors open behind them. He hesitated. What was to stop him walking in?

The sound of the owl so close beside him freaked him out. It was eerie, like a horror movie. They heard it too. He saw them both turn. He held his breath. They seemed to be looking straight at him but in the dark they didn’t see him and after a moment they went back to their conversation, talking together softly and laughing as they stared out towards the river. His nerve had gone. He took his chance, sliding back round the corner of the house and out of sight. He knew where they were. He knew that, at least for now the house – his house – in Morningside, was empty.

HMS Tartar was a 28-gun sixth-rate frigate with a complement of two hundred men and officers. She sailed from Spithead on 28 March 1764. Tom had watched a burly sailor stow his sea chest in the cockpit down on the orlop deck with increasing despair. His new uniform of blue jacket and white breeches sat uneasily on his small frame and his buckled shoes hurt. He sat down on the chest, staring round in the gloom, his cocked hat clutched defensively on his knees. They were below the waterline here and the air was fetid and damp. He looked up at his new friend Jamie and bit his lip fiercely. He would not let himself cry.

‘You’ll get used to it,’ Jamie said wisely. ‘We all do.’ He spoke from several months’ experience as a midshipman. ‘We are lucky; we have a good captain and Lieutenant Murray is popular with the men.’

Tom wiped his nose on his sleeve and took a deep breath. ‘It didn’t sound like it, not from the way that sailor was swearing.’

Jamie laughed. ‘That was O’Brian. He is a bit of a troublemaker, but a good sort at heart. Here’ – he dived into the shadows and produced a canvas bundle – ‘this is your hammock. Let me show you how you hang it. Did you bring a pillow?’ As he moved around, the shadows cast by their only light, a candle stub stuck to an oyster shell balanced on the narrow table, leapt and flickered against the wooden walls of the compartment which served as cabin for the midshipmen, separating them from the rest of the crew. They staggered slightly as the ship moved restlessly beneath them and Jamie laughed as Tom threw out an arm to steady himself. ‘You will need to find your sea legs quickly, my friend. We’re still at anchor here!’ he crowed. He was right. As they headed out into the ocean swell, Tom began to feel sick. The feeling grew worse and worse until he thought he might die. Then one morning as he climbed, half asleep, out of his hammock at the beginning of his watch he found the feeling had gone. It never returned.

It must have been climbing trees on the edge of the River Almond and the Brox Burn at Kirkhill that had given Tom a head for heights, that and scrambling round the ruins at St Andrews, or hauling himself up into the ancient chestnuts and oaks and onto the crumbling walls of the priory on Inchmahome Island. Always, when he could, he had climbed.

As he looked up at the towering masts of the ship, the network of ropes, the huge billowing sails and realised that he was expected to climb up there, now, he felt a sudden surge of excitement. ‘Can you do it, boy?’ Lieutenant Murray looked down at him. There was a certain sympathy in the man’s eyes. He had seen too many boys quail and shudder and cling in terror to the lowest rigging.

‘I can do it, sir.’ Murray saw the glee there and recognised it as genuine. For once there was no bravado. ‘Up you go then. To the cross trees and wait there for further orders.’

‘Aye-aye, sir!’ Tom resisted the urge to spit on his palms as he had seen the sailors do. He must remember he was one of the young gentlemen and expected to behave with a certain decorum.

George Murray watched, shading his eyes against the sun, then he turned to Jamie who was standing beside him. ‘Better go with him. Keep an eye on him.’

Jamie saluted gravely. ‘Looks as though he was born to it, sir. I expect he could teach me a thing or two.’

The ship heeled slightly in the swell of the sea, heading south. On the quarterdeck the captain paused in his slow patrol. Hands behind his back and seemingly relaxed, he was watching the ship. Early days yet, but it was coming together well. His attention was caught by the movement at the foot of the main mast and he watched the two figures as they swarmed up the ratlines. He gave a barely perceptible nod. Young Erskine would make a sailor yet; and by the time he returned to England he would be a man.

‘It’s amazing.’ Tom was talking to Jamie at the end of their watch. ‘You can see the whole world from up there.’

Jamie scowled. ‘The whole sea, more like.’ He was not going to admit to Tom that he was still unhappy going aloft, clinging to the handholds, his whole body iced with fear.

‘It’s like being a bird, soaring high over the waves,’ Tom went on, oblivious. ‘The sound of the wind in the sails and the whistling of the rigging is like music. Doesn’t it excite you?’

‘No.’ Jamie sat on his sea chest and pulled off his shoes. His feet were covered in blisters. ‘These are too tight. I will have to see if I can swap them. The purser gets angry if we grow too fast! If I’m lucky, one of the lieutenants might have an old pair he doesn’t want any more.’ He groaned with relief as he stretched out his toes.

Down below the cockpit was full of the sounds of the ship, the creaking and easing of her joints, the slap of a rope against the masts, the surge of water beneath them in the bilges. Below deck they could smell the stink of it. From beyond the thin partition between them and the seamen’s quarters they could hear the low voices of men talking, the occasional burst of laughter, a shout of anger.

Tom was growing used to the routine on board; their lives were ordained by the sound of the bell every half an hour, by the division of their day into four-hour watches, by the longing for mealtimes and for sleep. At first he had thought he would never fall asleep in his hammock, but sheer exhaustion soon won and he was unconscious as soon as his head touched the rough brown canvas. Nearby one of the smaller middies was crying quietly, trying to muffle the sound in his arms as he clenched his eyelids against an intolerable world and Tom found himself aching with sympathy and at the same time relief that he himself felt, if not at home, then at least able to bear it.