The Magical Painting

1“It's Mr Miles on the phone for you, sir.” Andrew Lambert groaned, the voice of Sinclair, the last remaining servant of Castle Strythe rumbling down the hallway. This was not the plan he had in mind for his first night back in Scotland, but Miles insisted. He wanted to meet up. No arguments. A cold shower did little to bring life back to Lambert's body, a whisky not helping to relieve his exhaustion, but here he was, driving through the night towards his friend's castle. Squinting into the developing darkness, the rain starting to fall, with his mouth dry and tongue rough and foul tasting, he wished he'd been firmer, told Miles to wait until tomorrow. But Lambert knew his old university friend was not the man to argue with and now, with his eyes red raw and full of sleep, Lambert strained to keep the car straight, the headlights bouncing back at him from the solid wall of rain. His life, like the Scottish weather, was bleak and filled with trepidation. Returning from London to his ancestral castle in Scotland had not been a clear-cut decision for Andrew Lambert. With his company facing an uphill struggle for survival, the problems often seeming insurmountable, it became increasingly difficult to choose between reviving his business, and closing it for good. He'd decided on taking the easier course and an inherited castle nestling in the shadows of the Highlands, a place, although seldom visited, he viewed as his eternal shelter. The place where he had grown up, happy memories seeping from every stone. The decision to return lightened the blow of losing almost everything he'd worked for over the last few years. Business, however, was not something which sat comfortably with him and so, with Jennifer's acerbic words ringing in his ears, he set off on the long journey north, driving his car into a new adventure simply to prove to himself this was not the end of the world. He knew the longer he dawdled, the worse the journey to Miles' home would be, so he'd taken the bag of peaches old Sinclair had thrust into his hand and now, his stomach rumbling louder than the car engine, he picked one out and took a bite. The sweet, overly ripe flesh erupted in his mouth, the juice spilling down his chin onto his shirtfront. He cursed, held the peach between his teeth as he struggled to pull a paper handkerchief from his trouser pocket. Twisting his body, raising himself off the seat to gain access to the tissue, his foot pressed harder on the accelerator. The car surged forward. As he battled with the wheel, his mobile phone sprang into life. The details grew hazy from that point, but of one thing, he was completely certain. As he fought to keep control and answer the mobile at the same time, his headlights picked out the figure of a woman in the road. She stood unperturbed by the downpour or by the oncoming vehicle. He screamed, pulled down hard to the left and everything went blank. They dropped Andrew Lambert off at the castle in the late afternoon of the second day and Megan came bounding down the steps with her tail wagging and her mouth open in as close a thing to a grin as a dog can get. The two ambulance personnel laughed as Lambert tried and failed to keep the big, black Labrador from assaulting him with huge licks of her wet tongue. The worst journey of his life had brought him finally home. A few days ago, he'd arrived at his ancestral castle, tired from his journey, and paused to take in the view. The hard, granite walls were as he remembered, every lead-latticed window black, grim, the west tower foreboding. He'd spent his youth here and when he left for university, he hadn't shed a single tear. Childhood was an adventure, adolescence suffocating. Now, standing here and taking it in, a tinge of regret ran through him, a moment's wish for years gone by, a brief return to more innocent times when cares and worries had no place. He should have appreciated it more, but the curse of being a teenager never allowed him such thoughts. He longed to escape; having done so, he wished he never had. Appearing from nowhere, Sinclair relieved Lambert of his bags, a thin smile splitting his craggy face. “I'll take these to your room, sir.” It was as if he had never been away. Given the opportunity, he wandered alone around the many rooms, all so silent and empty, the memories flooding back. Little had changed, but in the study, he turned his attention to a series of three paintings he had never seen before, neatly arranged above the fireplace. Scenes from the past, of how the castle might have looked two hundred, four hundred and seven hundred years before. The third, depicting the castle in ruins, gripped him more than the others and he stepped closer to read the inscription running along the bottom of the frame, 'Castle Strythe, 1386'. He frowned, wondering what had happened to cause everything to appear pulled down, or destroyed. The view of the surrounding hillsides, the distant loch, the same as the accompanying pictures, was in sharp contrast to the desolation of the castle. Curious, he decided to ask Sinclair for an explanation; the scene troubled him, the blackened masonry sinister and the vague portrayal of a woman sitting forlorn on an outcrop of rock so sad it caused him to consider something very wrong had happened in the depths of history. What a difference a matter of days could make. For now, returned from the hospital with the accident so recent, all previous troubles seemed far away. He sat in a wheelchair after they'd dropped him off, his right leg covered in a thick plaster cast, took Megan by the collar, and ruffled the great dog's fur. He looked up to see Miles striding towards him across the gravel. Miles sighed, shaking his head. “You don't do things by halves, do you?” Lambert shrugged, becoming a little hot around the collar, and turned to the first paramedic. “Thanks. I'll see you in around three weeks.” Miles took the handles of the chair and pushed his friend towards the castle entrance as the ambulance drove off, tyres crunching over the hard-packed shale of the sweeping driveway. At this time of year, the wisteria and ivy clinged to the dappled cream granite walls of the castle like a second skin, breaking up the drab exterior with splashes of violet-blue flowers hanging in clusters from the spreading plant. Lambert hadn't noticed it on his first arrival, and he wondered why this was so. Nevertheless, grateful for the lightness of heart the wisteria brought him, Lambert breathed in the perfume and relaxed for the first time since the accident. Miles grunted as he pushed the wheelchair up the incline of the makeshift ramp placed over the entrance steps. As he struggled to the double doors, Sinclair appeared. Dressed in a striped black and white apron the manservant beamed, joining with Miles to push the wheelchair into the hallway. “Mr Lambert, good to see you looking so well…given the circumstances.” “It's good to be here,” said Lambert as Miles stepped back, breathing hard. “I was making a late lunch,” said Sinclair, wiping his hands on a tea towel. “I trust you are feeling up to eating?” “I'm always ready to eat, Sinclair.” He patted his midriff. “Too much sometimes. And a couple of days of hospital food have made me eager to sample something slightly more imaginative.” “Mr Miles has been very kind and went shopping for some fresh trout, which we will have for dinner, but lunch will be something light and quick.” “Well, whatever it is, I'm sure it will be delicious,” said Lambert, threw a smile towards his old retainer and allowed a recovered Miles to wheel him into the dining room, Megan running around enjoying the game, barking with excitement, her thick rope of a tail thwacking anything within close proximity. Lambert rubbed his own arms, “It's cold in here.” “I'll get Sinclair to make the fire,” said Miles, positioning Lambert close to the huge, open fireplace. “I should have told him to do it before, but he insisted on making some weird concoction he said was your favourite.” “I think I can guess. Corn-beef hash,” said Lambert with a chuckle. “He's a rock that man.” Miles pulled a face and was about to go when he stopped and turned to his friend again. “Andrew, tell me how it happened. From what I heard it sounded a ridiculously stupid thing to do.” “Thanks, Miles, I can always count on you for a kind word.” Miles tilted his head. “You swerved, so you told the police, to avoid a squirrel? Is that it?” “You phoned me as I was driving. I tried to answer, lost control. You knew I was coming, why the hell did you phone?” “Oh, so it's my fault? Sorry, I understood you were the one behind the wheel.” He shook his head, “I phoned to see where you'd got to, you surly sod. I was worried. And thanks to me, leaving your phone open, I heard it all. It was me who called the ambulance, even though I had little idea where you were.” “There's only one road to your place.” “Exactly. So you're bloody lucky to be alive, all thanks to me. But don't mention it, you ungrateful bastard.” He laughed. “You must have been driving at some speed though, bonny lad. What actually happened?” Lambert sighed, grimacing as he tried to reposition his leg. “If I told you, you'd think I was drunk or something.” “The 'something' is probably closer to the mark. So tell me.” Lambert gazed into the gaping fireplace, the grate full of ash from the previous blaze. “I saw someone.” Miles came closer, put his elbow on the mantelpiece and frowned. “You mean a person?” Lambert nodded. “So what was this about a squirrel?” “I had to tell the police something. So, I used the first thing that came into my head.” “I don't understand. If it was a person you saw, why didn't you tell that to the police?” “Because she was standing in the middle of the road.” “She? And you didn't hit her, so did she run away, what? The police made no mention of there being anybody else involved.” “That's because by the time they got me out of the ditch she was nowhere to be seen.” “But who the hell was she?” “I don't know.” “Was she old or young? How was she dressed? Was she—” “Miles, please,” said Lambert holding up his hand, “You don't understand.” “Andrew, are you certain this is right? You saw a woman standing in the road and you swerved to avoid her, ended up in a ditch with a busted leg and you have no idea who she was or where she went?” “She was dressed in Edwardian clothes, Miles.” His friend forced a laugh, “This gets weirder by the second. Had you been drinking?” Lambert shook his head. “I lost consciousness for a brief moment, but I don't understand why. An image came into my head, but I can't recollect any part of it. I think it was the castle.” He pointed to the three studies of the castle on the wall. “I can't remember. Weirder still, I had the wherewithal to switch the engine off and when I glanced back at the road, she had gone. Not a sign.” “She'd run off?” “No, Miles. She'd disappeared.”