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Chapter IX
“Ihaveapuzzledfeelingabouther.ThisafternoonIfoundsomemanuscriptpushedbehindabookonahighshelfinthelibrary.Angussaidhehadhiddenittherebecauseitwasasavagestoryhedidnotwishmetoread.ItwasthehistoryofthefeudbetweenIanRedHandandDarkMalcolmoftheGlen.DarkMalcolm’schildwascalledWeeBrownElspethhundredsofyearsago—fivehundred,Ithink.ItmakesmefeelsobewilderedwhenIremembertheoneIplayedwith.”
“Itwasabloodystory,”hesaid.“IhearditonlyafewdaysbeforewemetatSirIan’shouseinLondon.”
Thatmademerecallsomething.
“WasthatwhyyoustartedwhenItoldyouaboutElspeth?”Iasked.
“Yes.Perhapstheoneyouplayedwithwasalittledescendantwhohadinheritedhername,”heanswered,atriflehurriedly.“IconfessIwasstartledforamoment.”
Iputmyhanduptomyforeheadandrubbeditunconsciously.Icouldnothelpseeingawoesomepicture.
“Poorlittlesoul,withthebloodpouringfromherheartandherbrownhairspreadoverherdeadfather’sbreast!”Istopped,becauseafaintmemorycamebacktome.“Mine,”Istammered—“mine—howstrange!—hadagreatstainontheembroideriesofherdress.Shelookedatit—andlooked.Shelookedasifshedidn’tlikeit—asifshedidn’tunderstandhowitcamethere.Shecovereditwithfernsandbluebells.”
IfeltasifIwerebeingdrawnawayintoadream.Imadeasuddenefforttocomeback.Iceasedrubbingmyforeheadanddroppedmyhand,sittingupright.
“ImustaskAngusandJeantotellmeabouther,”Isaid.
