Luke parked the Lamborghini here before sliding out to stretch his legs.
He was a tall man, easily six feet, with a lean muscular frame. Used to an active life, since his writing success, he had kept himself fit with a twice weekly workout at a gym not far away from his London apartment, playing squash and badminton whenever he had the time. He was tanned, from a recent holiday in the Bahamas, and his hair was silvery fair, bleached even whiter by the sun. It was smooth, thick hair, overlapping his collar at the back, but it needed no hairdressing and always looked clean and vital to the touch. He was not a handsome man, but he was attractive to women, a fact he had not lived until thirty-eight years without appreciating.
The air was sharp for April, or perhaps he was soft from the milder London climate, he thought dryly, breathing deeply. And it was so quiet here. He doubted he’d be able to sleep. Looking about him, he wondered where Ella used to live. One of these cottages? Some transition to a May-fair apartment and a villa in the South of France. What a pity she had no relatives to share her success.
A huge lion’s head knocker resounded noisily throughout the presbytery, and he stood, his hands in the pockets of his black leather jacket, waiting to be admitted. He had never expected to stay at a priest’s house, but at least he had been baptised into the Faith.
The door was opened by an elderly woman in a long black dress and a white apron, a lace mob cap set on her grey hair. Good God, thought Luke in astonishment, do servants like this really exist outside of novels?
Smiling disarmingly, however, he said. ‘I’m Luke Jordan. I believe Father McGregor is expecting me.’
‘That he is,’ agreed the woman politely. ‘Will you come in, sir?’
Luke stepped inside, his eyes taking in the polished floor with its single rug, the dark wood panelling and angled staircase. The doors opening into the hall were all closed, but even as he registered this, one of them opened to an elderly man, leaning on a cane, whose sharply alert eyes belied any diminishing faculties of his advanced years.
‘Is it Mr Jordan?’ he asked, staring at Luke appraisingly.
‘That’s right, sir,’ Luke nodded. ‘How do you do?’
‘I’m well.’ The man smiled and held out his hand. ‘I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr Jordan.’
‘Luke will do,’ responded the younger man easily, taking an immediate liking to his host.
‘You’re not a Scotsman, Luke,’ observed the priest, leading the way back into the room he had just left.
‘No,’ Luke agreed. ‘I came from Liverpool, actually, although I live in London now.’
‘Ah!’ McGregor nodded. ‘Well, let us make ourselves comfortable, shall we? It’s a chill day, and you’re no doubt feeling the cold after all that central heating you have in the south. No such refinements here, I’m afraid. A fire is all we have. But it’s cosy, and it keeps you warm.’
The room they entered was a comfortable study, pleasantly illuminated by the fire burning in the grate, and lined with shelves of books. There was the scent of pine logs and pipe tobacco, and indicating that Luke should take the armchair at the opposite side of the fire from his own, McGregor issued the hovering housekeeper with orders for afternoon tea.
‘Unless you’d like something stronger?’ he queried, raising his eyebrows, but Luke said tea would be fine.
After they were seated, Luke added: ‘It’s very good of you to accommodate me like this. I mean, Scott tends to expect everyone to jump to his bidding at the studio, and I guess he lets the feeling carry him away.’
‘Any friend of Scott Anderson’s is a friend of mine,’ McGregor assured him warmly. ‘And you’re welcome to stay as long as you like. I enjoy a bit of company, and there’s a little enough goes on here at the best of times. Tell me, do you play chess, by any chance?’
Luke looked apologetic. ‘Not very well, I’m afraid.’
‘Ah, well. That’s a pity.’ McGregor reached for his pipe. ‘And you’re here to consider making a film of Ardnalui?’ He lit a spill from the fire. ‘Scott told me that you are a writer. Should I know your name?’
Luke grinned. ‘It’s possible. It depends what kind of literature you read. My books are not masterpieces, but I’ve been lucky enough to have a couple of them filmed, and now they’re wanting to make a television series about the third. That’s why I’m here. Scott commissioned the book, you see.’
McGregor chewed thoughtfully away at his pipe. ‘Do you know Scotland at all?’
‘No.’ Luke was honest. ‘This is my first visit.’
‘And yet you wrote about it.’
‘It’s not difficult, sir. I have been to Austria, and the scenery is not too dissimilar. And people are people, the world over.’
‘I doubt the people here would agree with you,’ remarked McGregor dryly. ‘But I know what you’re trying to say.’
‘Inverleven—the imaginary place in my book—isn’t intended to be Ardnalui,’ Luke explained quietly. ‘But I used Scott’s descriptions of the place, and it was his idea that I should come to see it for myself.’
‘With a view to filming here.’
Luke shook his head. ‘Somehow I doubt it. It’s too far off the beaten track, I’m afraid. I think Scott just wanted me to see this place—where he was born.’
The priest nodded. ‘I can’t deny you’ve somewhat reassured me. I don’t know that I like the idea of Ardnalui being overrun with film people.’
He made them sound like a different species, and Luke smiled. He had had similar reservations when his first book was bought for the screen. But he had met a lot of decent people in his association with the industry, and they offset the seamier side.
‘Are you a married man, Luke?’
McGregor had a priest’s healthy interest in the personal lives of his acquaintances, and Luke shook his head. ‘Not now. I was. I got married when I was about—eighteen. It didn’t work. We were divorced twelve years ago.’
‘Divorced!’ The priest looked regretful. ‘There is no divorce in the eyes of God, my son.’
Luke shrugged. He had expected that. ‘Jennifer’s dead now,’ he said flatly. ‘She married again, but she and her husband were killed in a car crash five years ago.’
The housekeeper returned with a tray of tea and some delicious-smelling scones and sandwiches. While McGregor took charge of the teacups, Luke looked round the room with interest. His host’s interest in chess was evident in the exquisite set of chessmen, set upon a board table to one side of the fireplace, but he obviously enjoyed fishing, too, for there were rods and a creel basket, and several boxes of flies.
While they ate, McGregor described the village. He was interested in its history, and mentioned how the Jacobite cause had been strongly supported in these parts. He talked about Prestonpans and the bloody defeat of Culloden, and it was with reluctance that Luke eventually pulled himself up out of his chair and explained his desire to take a walk around the village before supper.
‘Can it not wait till the morning?’ suggested McGregor hopefully, and Luke guessed the old priest was trying to prolong his stay. After the lazy relaxation of the last hour, Luke was not so averse to that as he might have been. His life in London was inclined to be hectic, and it had been good to loosen up and let time take care of itself for a change. And after all, he had nothing to hurry back to town for.
‘Well …’ he began, and guessing he was weakening, McGregor added: ‘You could take a walk down to the loch. Then tomorrow, I’ll accompany you on a tour of Ardnalui.’
‘All right,’ Luke nodded. ‘But I promised to phone Scott later.’
‘You