Storm Of Love

PRELUDE DUNDEE, SCOTLAND, MAY 1827 Scudding clouds slid over a half-moon, sending shifting shadows across the serried gravestones, while a slight breeze whispered through the near-naked branches of the trees above us. “This way.” Barbara crouched in the shelter of a marble angel, gripping her canvas bag to prevent the contents from rattling. “Keep your head down.” She did not need to warn me. We moved from gravestone to gravestone, keeping in the shadows and cursing the fitful moon. I had hoped for full dark, or at least a cloudy night, but here, nature had not proved our ally as it sent God’s lantern to betray our mission. “This one.” Barbara stopped beside a weathered yew. Somewhere in the dark, an owl called, the sound echoing. I pushed away the sinister images that filled my mind. “Are you certain?” I looked around; it was only a few hours since we had watched the funeral but, in the dark, nothing looked familiar. “I’m quite certain, Catriona.” Crouching at the side of the grave, Barbara opened her bag and handed me a short-handled spade. “Come on, before the grave watchers see us.” Hitching up my skirt, I knelt at the side of the grave and plunged the spade into the earth. “Sorry,” I apologised to the man who lay beneath. “I’m dreadfully sorry.” The first few spadefuls were easy, and I shovelled the earth to the side, making progress with little effort. At my side, Barbara did likewise, gasping as she delved into the dirt. I started as the owl called again, the sound eerie in these surroundings. “Don’t stop,” Barbara urged. “The watchers could be on patrol at any time.” I glanced up at the squat stone watchhouse, where the flicker of a candle was visible through the small window. Somebody laughed. “I think they’re having a celebration in there,” I said. “They bring in whisky against the cold.” Barbara shovelled as she spoke. “Now be quiet.” We made rapid progress, creating a hole so deep that soon we had to slide inside. The walls of the grave seemed to close in on me, crumbling slightly, so I shivered at the thought of my own mortality. “We’re lucky there’s no mortsafe,” I said. I had dreaded finding a mortsafe, a heavy cage that relatives placed over the grave to deter such activities as that in which we were engaged. “Keep quiet! Here.” Barbara tapped her spade on something wooden. “We’ve reached the top of the coffin.” I stopped for a moment as a renewed burst of laughter and snatches of a bacchanalian song came from the watchhouse. Somebody left the building, swinging a lantern. The light bounced from the gravestones, heading in our direction. Peering across the top of the grave, I saw the figure of a tall man in a high hat, striding purposefully with a shotgun in his hand. “I see you!” He roared. “Get out of that grave!” “Keep still,” Barbara hissed. “For God’s own sake, keep still!” What am I doing here? I asked myself as I crouched on top of the coffin lid with small pieces of earth from the grave crumbling around me. Why am I digging up a grave with a woman I do not like, in the middle of the night? I sighed, and thought back to the beginning of this whole sorry episode and the men who seemed set on ruining my life.