"Actually, it's sort of personal," I said, smiling faintly, aware I was blinking a lot.
Mrs McS looked at me oddly. "Is that a fact? Well, then, would you wait in the library?"
"Ah… all right," I said.
We walked through the hall. "Isn't this Gulf thing terrible?" Mrs McSpadden shouted, as if trying to be heard there. I agreed it was terrible. She showed me into the library, on the other side of the lower hall from the kitchen entrance. I stood in there nervously, trying to breathe normally, letting my gaze flick over the ranked rows of impressive, dark leather spines. I wished my own was half so noble and upright. The room smelled of leather and old, musty paper. I went to look out one of the room's two small windows, at the garden and the wood beyond. I adjusted the knife down the back of my jeans so that I could get at it easily.
"Prentice?" Fergus Urvill said, entering the library. He closed the door behind him. He was dressed in tweed britches and a Pringle jumper over a checked country shirt, with thick socks and brogues. He brushed some grey-black hair away from his face. His jowls flexed as he smiled at me, lifting a little from the collar of his shirt.
I cleared my throat.
Fergus stood there, his arms folded. After a moment he said, "What can I do for you, young man?"
I moved from the window to the large wooden table that filled the centre of the room, and put my hands lightly on its surface to stop them shaking. A seat back pressed into my thighs.
«Fergus…» I began. "I wondered… I wondered if you knew where… where my Uncle Rory might be."
Fergus frowned, then one eye closed and he sort of cocked his head. Still with his arms folded, he leaned forward a little. "Sorry? Your uncle —»
"Uncle Rory," I said. Maybe a little too loudly, but at least my voice didn't sound as shaky as I'd expected. I lowered it a little to say, "I thought you might have an idea where he is."
Fergus stood straight again. The frown was still there around his eyes, but his lips were smiling. "You mean Rory, who disappeared…?"
"Yes," I nodded. My mouth felt dry and I had to fight to swallow.
"I've no idea, Prentice." Fergus scratched behind one ear with one hand. He looked mystified. "Why do you think I might know?"
I felt myself blinking too much again, and tried to stop it. I took a breath.
"Because you got a man called Rupert Paxton-Marr to send match-book covers to my dad." My hands were shaking even though they were planted on the surface of the table. I pressed down harder.
Fergus rocked back a little on his brogues. His frown-smile intensified. "Rupert? Sending your dad… what?" He looked a little amused, a little confused, and not nervous in the least. Oh God, what am I doing? I thought.
Of course, I hadn't thought to bring any of the match-book covers with me. "Match-book covers," I said, my dry throat rasping. "From all over the world, so that dad would think Rory was still alive."
Fergus looked to one side and unfolded his arms, sticking his hands in his pockets. He looked up at me. "Hmm. Would you like a drink?" he said.
"No," I told him.
He moved to the other end of the table, where there was a small wooden desk like the top of a lectern. He opened it and took out a squat decanter and a crystal glass. He took the glittering, faceted stopper out of the decanter and poured some of the brown liquid into the glass, frowning all the time. "Prentice," he said, shaking his head and mating stopper and decanter again. "I'm sorry, you've lost me. What are you… what is… what do you think is going on? Rupert's sending, or was sending Kenneth…?"
"Match-book covers, from hotels and restaurants and bars in various parts of the world," I told him, as he stood, relaxed, one hand in pocket, one hand holding the glass, his face scrunched up in the manner of one trying hard and with some sympathy to understand what another is saying. "Somehow," I struggled on, "they were meant to convince dad that Rory was still alive. But I think he's dead."
"Dead?" Fergus said, drinking. He nodded at the seat I was standing over. "Aren't you going to take a seat?"
"No thanks," I said.
Fergus shrugged, sighed. "Well, I can't imagine… " The frown came back again. "Has Rupert told you he was doing this?"
"No," I said.
"And are you sure it wasn't Rory?" Fergus shrugged. "I mean, was it his handwriting?"
"There wasn't any handwriting."
There wasn't… " Fergus shook his head. He smiled, an expression that looked to be half sympathy and half incomprehension. "Prentice, I'm lost. I don't see… " His voice trailed off. The frown returned. "Now, wait a moment," he said. "You said you thought I might know where Rory is. But if he's dead…?" He stared, looking shocked, into my eyes. I tried hard not to look away, but in the end had to. I looked down at the table-top, biting my lip.
"Prentice," Fergus said softly, putting his glass down on the table. "I've no idea where your uncle is." There was silence for a while. "Rupert is an old school friend of mine. He's a journalist who goes all over the world; he's out in Iraq at this moment, in fact. I haven't seen him for a couple of years, though he used to come and shoot on occasion. He is a bit of a practical joker at times, but… " Fergus looked thoughtful. He shrugged. "Rory did tell me something once about setting fire to a barn on the estate once; accidentally, when he was very young. That might tie in with these match boxes… " He shook his head, inspected the contents of his glass. "But I don't think I ever mentioned that to Rupert."
I felt sick. "Nothing about… some pieces of writing makes any sense, does it?"
"Writing?" Fergus said, tilting his head, one eye narrowing. He shook his head. "No. Whose writing?"
"Rory's. Based on something that you saw here; up in the roof-space of the castle, and which you told Rory when you were in that bothy together. The night you shot the rat."
Fergus had leaned forward again. He looked totally bemused. Finally he jerked upright and laughed. He looked at the glass he held. "Maybe I should lay off this stuff. You're making less and less sense as you go along here, Prentice. Rory and I did spend a night in a bothy once, on the estate. But there wasn't any… rat." He smiled and frowned at the same time. "Or any shooting. I don't think we even had guns with us; we were fishing some of the out-of-the-way lochans and streams." He sighed, giving the impression of patient weariness. "Is this something you've read?"
"Yes," I conceded.
"What, in your father's papers, since his death?" Fergus looked as though he felt pity for me.
I nodded, trying not to look down from his gaze. "Sort of," I breathed.
"And who is meant to have seen what?" He raised one finger to his mouth, bit briefly at a nail and examined it.
"None of that makes any sense to you, does it?" I said. "No… confession, revelation? Nothing to do with Lachy Watt?"
Fergus looked hurt. He swirled the glass, drained it. "That was a very long time ago, Prentice," he said quietly.
He looked at me more sorrowfully than accusatorily. "We were only children. We don't always appreciate the seriousness of what we do… " He glanced at his empty glass… "when we're younger."
He put the glass on the table.
I couldn't match his gaze, and lowered mine again. I felt dizzy.
I heard Fergus take in a breath. "Prentice," he said, eventually. "I was quite close to Kenneth. He was a friend. I don't think we saw eye-to-eye on anything really, but we… we got on, you know? He was a gifted man, and a good friend, and I know I feel the loss. I can imagine how you feel. I… I've had my own… What I mean is, it isn't an easy thing to cope with, when somebody that close dies so suddenly. Everything can look… Well, everything can look very black, you know? Nothing seems right. You even resent other people their happiness, and, well, it just all seems very unfair. It is a terrible strain to be under; don't think I don't appreciate that. And just now, when the world seems… " He took another deep breath. "Look, old son —»