Sweet Victory: A Romantic Comedy (The Dartmouth Diaries Book 2) Read online

  The fire in the Great Hall is blazing merrily, which is very welcome in the face of the escalating blustery weather outside. Kit and Freddy are sitting together playing cards, my traitorous mutt sandwiched between them snoring. As I look around the lofty room, taking in the ancient tapestries, musty and discoloured from hanging so long, I can’t help but reflect just what I could do with a few metres of tartan and a generous budget. Freddy waves me over to join them, but not in the mood for games, I simply wave back and wander through into the kitchen, up to now uncharted territory.

  An archway from the Great Hall leads to a narrow low ceilinged passageway before opening up into what appears to have been a kitchen since the tower was built, probably sometime in the fifteenth century. The ceiling is vaulted, and the units look as though they might have been top of the range in the middle ages. I stand at the entrance, reluctant to disturb Aileen as she bustles around what is clearly her domain, putting the finishing touches to our evening meal. I can’t tell what she’s cooking, but whatever it is smells delicious. After a minute or so, she turns and spots me lurking in the doorway.

  ‘Ah, guid eenin,’ she beams, wiping her hands on a tea towel. ‘Hou's aw wi ye?’ Having no idea what she’s talking about, I take a cue from her manner and smile hesitantly back before moving further into the room. ‘Dinner smells heavenly,’ I say with a deep appreciative sniff.

  ‘Thenk ye,’ is her answer, for once blessedly comprehensible, and I grin back at her, all the while bobbing my head up and down like a nodding dog. I’m just about to take the plunge and ask her what she’s cooking, when suddenly a black streak shoots through an open window followed a couple of seconds later by a frenziedly barking Pickles who appears to have morphed into Super Spaniel as he literally flies through the window and lands with a huge splash in the washing up bowl.

  Finding herself abruptly drenched with doggy scented soap suds, Aileen shrieks and covers her head with her apron.

  By the time the shock of his sudden bath has worn off, the black cat is long gone, a simple fact that Pickles grasps not at all, and after a couple of stunned seconds, he scrambles out of the sink, knocking over a large pan of partially peeled potatoes resting on the draining board. Barking with renewed excitement, he skates across the kitchen on a rolling sea of spuds as Aileen yells, ‘Och ye scunner, watch ma tatties,’ before disappearing into the passageway leaving a muddy wet trail behind him.

  We stand wordlessly for a couple of stunned seconds until the silence is broken by my father huffing and puffing through the kitchen door.

  ‘You seen Pickles?’ he breathes, hanging onto the door handle. ‘He spotted a damn cat and suddenly decides he’s the canine equivalent of Usain Bolt. Don’t know who the hell the bloody flea bitten thing belongs to, but I saw ‘em coming this way.’ Aileen points mutely towards the passageway, just as the ear splitting sound of howling and barking, together with a sudden crash, reverberates into the kitchen. The deafening racket puts an end to my trance, and with an apologetic grimace towards Aileen, I dash out of the kitchen towards the pandemonium coming from the Great Hall.

  As I skid into the room, my heart hits my feet as I take in the scene before me. The cat is hanging for dear life at the top of a pair of moth eaten curtains which are ripping in slow motion as a result of Pickles and Dotty hanging enthusiastically on the bottom. The other end of each dog is being held by Kit and Freddy as they vainly try to get the bloodthirsty twosome to let go. ‘What a complete horlicks,’ my father mutters as he appears beside me. ‘PICKLES.’ He changes volume with no warning and for a brief second I think I’ve gone deaf, then he strides towards the chaos yelling, ‘GET DOWN OFF THAT BOLLOCKING CURTAIN OR YOU’RE GOING TO BE RELEGATED TO THE GARAGE FOR THE REST OF YOUR BLOODY NATURAL.’ Now I’m assuming Pickles is not actually able to understand English, but it only takes one glance back at his master to tell him he’s in big trouble. He immediately lets go of the material and Freddy promptly goes flying back onto the unforgiving flagstone floor with Pickles on top of him. Simultaneously Kit lets go of Dotty in surprise and without the spaniel’s weight to hold it down, the curtain material springs upwards with the little dog still holding on by her teeth. I gasp but know I’m too far away to save her if she falls. Luckily Kit has it under control, and with an agile leap, she manages to grab hold of Dotty, who unfortunately is completely unappreciative of her brush with potential death and refuses to let go of the curtain. With a loud rending sound, the fragile material parts completely and lands squarely on Kit’s head covering her like a shroud.

  ‘What the hell is going on?’ The curt voice is not loud but nevertheless cuts through the pandemonium like a knife through butter and we all instantly look in the direction of the clipped tones. Shit, it’s the knob, and call me intuitive but he doesn’t look happy. For a couple of seconds, the only sounds are Kit’s muffled profanities as she struggles to get the curtain off her head, then suddenly a high-pitched scream splits the air. We all turn towards the sound in time to see old Mrs. Buchannan framed by the front door with her hand clutching her heart.

  ‘It’s the Lady, has she come to take me o’or th’other side then?’ she wails in a warbling voice before falling in a dead faint at our feet.

  I’m beginning to think Hugo’s mother might not actually survive if we stay more than a few days.

  I think I can safely say that dinner is not turning out to be the light hearted happy affair we might all have hoped for. Mrs. Buchannan is once again absent after being put to bed for the second time in one day. I’ve apologized profusely, promising to replace the damaged curtains at the earliest opportunity, but while Hugo seems inclined to accept my humble apology, waving away the incident by saying his mother has always had a penchant for theatrics, his son is determined not to let us off so lightly. Consequently, Pickles and Dotty have been relegated to our respective bedrooms where an occasional mournful bark can be heard from upstairs. Spike the cat, who by the look of him, has been here nearly as long as the Tower, is enjoying the spoils of victory – a bag of purring contented bones warming by the fire.

  Conversation started out stilted and has now deteriorated into excruciating silence. Jason Buchannan, unlike the rest of us, has obviously dressed for dinner and, much as it pains me to admit it, looks completely yummy in white shirt and chinos. I can’t help but notice (well there isn’t a lot else going on) that his hair is a burnished copper in the lamplight. It’s just a shame he looks as though he’s been sucking a lemon. As the silence becomes unbearable, I begin racking my brains for something to say. Unfortunately, Mabel gets there first.

  ‘Is it a sort of legend, this err Lady?’ she asks him timidly, ‘You know, like the woman in that film with Harry Potter in it?’ Freddy titters nervously, but the knob just looks over at the elderly matron, distaste in every line as he stares at her without answering. Outraged at his rudeness, I open my mouth to give him the dressing down he deserves, when unexpectedly Kit jumps in. ‘Is everyone this inhospitable in Scotland or is it just you?’ I glance over at my best friend in astonishment. Although her voice is quite calm, her face is flushed and I can tell she’s furious. This is so not like my Kitty Kat.

  The knob stares back at her for a couple of seconds, then inclines his head before saying stiffly to an embarrassed Mabel, ‘I apologize if I was rude ma’am. My only defence is my fatigue. It has been a very long day. I think perhaps my father might be better placed to answer your question.’ Hurriedly, Hugo takes up the story of Bloodstone Tower’s ghost, clearly eager to brush over the awkwardness.

  Although the Tower actually got its name from the colour of the stone, rather than its bloody history, there were nevertheless enough macabre goings on to have provided a whole series of Britain’s Most Haunted. Mrs. Buchannan’s Lady apparently refers to a woman who was imprisoned in the attic of the Tower many centuries ago and starved to death. Although, it’s not quite clear what she did to merit such a horrible fate, her kinsman supposedly tried valiantly to rescue her,
but were themselves caught, murdered and their bodies thrown from a top story window. Evidently their blood even now stains the floorboards in the attic and the Lady’s anguished cries can still be heard echoing around the Tower on certain days of the year. I stifle the urge to ask which days, hopeful that we’ll be gone before the she decides to show herself for real…

  Although undoubtedly interesting, Hugo’s tale of murder and mayhem does little to lighten the frosty atmosphere and I excuse myself as soon as we’re finished, going up to fetch Dotty and escape outside where the wind has finally died down. Unfortunately once outside in the dusk of early evening, I very quickly realize that we are providing a three course banquet for the bloody midges, and after Dotty sits down and refuses to go any further, repeatedly shaking her head and snapping at the tiny, almost invisible bugs, I give up and retreat back into the Great Hall.

  Kit, Freddy and Mabel are playing cards by the fire. Jason is seated at a desk in the far corner writing something in what appears from this distance to be some kind of journal. Probably his very own book of evil spells. I wonder where he’s hidden his cauldron. There is no sign of Hugo or my father. Spike too has disappeared off to indulge in whatever feline sins of the night appeal to balding emaciated cats, so I let Dotty off the lead and go to join my friends.

  It’s going to be a long night.

  It’s nearly midnight and I’m back outside for the second time this evening with my mobile phone plastered to my ear – I’m beginning to think I might need it surgically removing by the time I finally get hold of Noah. Dotty and I are wandering along the side of the loch. The strange half light is casting fantastical purple shadows over the darkened landscape, creating a world more suited to Middle Earth. The midges have gone back to wherever midges live when they’re not eating people alive – apparently it’s only at dusk they’re a problem. As we pick our way slowly along the shore line, I wonder how long we’re actually going to be able to stay at Bloodstone Tower. Jason Buchannan is clearly suspicious of our motives, which makes me think he knows something already. But even if he doesn’t, once he hears the news tomorrow, our bags could well be out on the drive quicker than you can say, ‘guilty milord.’ I get the feeling that Hugo doesn’t really run the estate anymore, but I know he’s involved in this mess somewhere and most definitely doesn’t want his poker faced son to know about it.

  Deep in thought, I step down to the small beach and idly pick up pebbles to throw into the water. If Jason does throw us out, I don’t care what dad thinks, I’m going back to Dartmouth and sod the press. It’s truly beautiful up here, but if I’m going to have to lick my wounds somewhere, I’d rather it be home. With that decision made, I finally feel a measure of peace - which promptly shatters as my phone rings, the trilling shockingly loud in the quiet.

  Finally. At last.

  It’s Noah.

  Chapter Seven

  Forty years ago…

  The evening was sultry and humid, the heat still up in the mid nineties. Lieutenants Charles Shackleford and Hugo Buchannan had been assigned to accompany a lowly sub lieutenant on a sightseeing tour of Bangkok. This was unusual for several reasons, the chief of which was that a serving sub lieutenant would be very unlikely to be given a sightseeing tour of anything except maybe the inside of his superior officer’s broom cupboard. But this particular sub lieutenant was not all he seemed. He had “connections”, except that no-one really knew exactly what they were. There was of course a lot of onboard conjecture and speculation. However, the real truth remained irritatingly elusive and Sub Lieutenant John Day remained plain old Sub Lieutenant John Day - or Doris as he became known on board, in true Royal Naval tradition of why give someone a proper name when a nickname will do. (In this case alluding to Doris Day, the thinking man’s pin up back in the sixties).

  So, getting back to Lieutenant Shackleford’s orders, which came straight from the top. ‘Sub Lieutenant Day would like to learn about Thai culture. You, Lieutenant Buchannan and Able Seaman Noon will accompany him on a run ashore to Bangkok, show him the sites, take him round a few Buddhist temples and stuff. I want him back on board no later than twenty three hundred hours. Make sure you keep an eye on things Shackleford – and that means making sure that nothing bad happens to our Doris, or make no mistake, your balls are likely to end up round your neck.’

  Lieutenant Shackleford didn’t think that learning about Thai culture extended to obtaining a working knowledge of the capital’s brothels; however, Doris had bribed their guide, and within half an hour, here they were, bang smack in the middle of Bangkok’s red light district. Of course, it didn’t actually say brothel over the door. The sign said “Ap Ob Nuat”, which their guide Kulap assured Charlie was Thai for “Steamy Hot Shower Massage.”

  The problem was, Doris had been enjoying his steamy hot shower massage for the last forty five minutes and they were running out of time. Even their guide was starting to look a bit agitated, and, as more of the locals began to show interest in the three “farang”, he kept looking towards the back door as if gauging how long it was likely to take him to leg it there if he needed to do a runner. Charlie felt the sweat begin to run down his back and not totally from the humidity. His captain was going to have his balls for this.

  ‘What the bloody hell’s taking so long?’ he hissed to Hugo. ‘You think one of us should go up to have a shufti?’ Both officers turned in unison towards the third member of their party. Completely oblivious to the tensions around the table, Jimmy Noon was busy writing a letter to his fiancée. As the silence finally penetrated his literary absorption, the small man looked up, surprise and wariness chasing themselves across his face when he realized his companions were staring at him.

  ‘Mr. Noon, I’d like you to take a look upstairs and see what the bloody hell Dori…, I mean Subby Day, is doing. When you find him, please inform him that we need to get our arses back to the ship pronto.’

  Jimmy opened his mouth to protest, then closed it again with a sigh. Why else had he been brought along if not to do any necessary dirty work? Folding up his letter, he tucked it into his jacket pocket and stood up, noting as he did so, that every eye in the house was suddenly on him, causing a vague uneasiness to prickle down his spine.

  ‘Where should I look Sir?’ Jimmy whispered, stalling for time.

  ‘Just start at the first door and look behind each one until you find him. Simple.’

  ‘But what if there’s someone else behind one of the doors, you know, someone other than Dori…, Sub Lieutenant Day?’

  ‘Always allow for a self adjusting cock up Mr. Noon, carry on.’ Lieutenant Shackleford’s voice was relatively mild but made it clear that any refusal to implement the proposed recce would be considered insubordination.

  Jimmy nodded his understanding and, stepping round their table, headed in what he hoped was a nonchalant manner towards the stairs. If anyone stopped him, he could say he was looking for the heads. The steps up to the first floor were rickety to say the least. Their guide certainly hadn’t brought them to the classiest of Bangkok’s “steamy hot shower massage” establishments; the emphasis here was not so much steamy as sweaty. As he continued casually up towards the first floor landing, Jimmy could feel hostile eyes boring into the back of his head and he resisted the urge to bolt for the upstairs hallway.

  After what seemed like hours but was probably less than two minutes, he finally arrived at beginning of a long dim corridor. He took a deep breath. ‘Lieutenant Day?’ he murmured, knocking at the first door, with his ear plastered to the ancient wood.

  Nothing.

  Softly he opened the door and peaked into the room. Empty.

  He continued down the passageway, heart beating ridiculously fast. ‘For God’s sake, it’s only a frigging knocking shop,’ he told himself sternly, ‘get a bloody backbone Jimbo.’

  The next room was occupied by someone of Asian persuasion if the groaning gobbledygook was anything to go by. Two more rooms proved empty, which left just o
ne more, right at the very end.

  By this time Jimmy was beginning to get a bit peed off. Why should bloody Doris Day be allowed to get his rocks off while the rest of them sat twiddling their thumbs downstairs? Who the hell was this chap? Pausing finally in front of the last door, Jimmy coughed loudly in the hope of alerting Doris that he was there. Now it seemed certain he had the correct room, he was struggling to avoid the mental picture of his superior’s skinny backside bobbing up and down in time with his dangly bits. If he was forced to view the reality, it could potentially scar him for life. When the cough failed to elicit any sound whatsoever, Jimmy knocked as hard as he could and, after a short pause, followed it with, ‘Sub Lieutenant Day, are you there Sir? It’s Able Seaman Noon.’

  Jimmy briefly thought he heard a short scuffle, but then there was silence again. ‘SUB LIEUTENANT DAY ARE YOU THERE SIR?’ This time Jimmy held nothing back and was pretty certain that if Doris was in there, he would have heard him. In fact it was possible the whole of Bangkok’s red light district also heard him, which is why a few seconds later Charles Shackleford appeared at the top of the stairs hissing, ‘You jabbering idiot Noon, you looking to alert the whole bloody neighbourhood?’

  ‘I don’t think he’s in there S…,’ Jimmy started to say, only to stop short when the door was suddenly flung open by a raven haired beauty dressed in nothing but a tiny satin robe. Startled, Jimmy stared at the vision in front of him, all thoughts of Emily vanishing as quick as you could say, ‘I’ll have a quick one.’ With a sultry smile, the woman pulled him through the open doorway and after a small squeak and a panicked look back towards his superior, Jimmy found himself on the other side of the door.