Read Chapter 2: First Survey

Rain drummed against the north windows of Castle Kintail as Eilidh spread the architect’s survey across the trestle table in the great hall. Ian, her senior assistant, had already set up the laser level on its tripod, and Morag was unpacking the thermal imaging camera from its padded case. The smell of damp plaster and cold hearth hung heavy in the air.

“Right,” Eilidh said, pinning the corners of the blueprint with stone chippings. “We’ll start in the east wing. That’s where the worst of the water ingress was flagged in the preliminary report.”

“You mean where you assume the water ingress is.”

Eilidh looked up. Hamish MacKinnon stood in the doorway that led to the west corridor, arms crossed, wearing the same frayed waxed jacket she’d seen him in the night before. His boots left muddy marks on the flagstones.

“Good morning to you too,” she said evenly. “I’d have thought you’d want to know what’s happening in your own home.”

“I know what’s happening,” he said, stepping into the hall. His gaze swept over the equipment with open suspicion. “Every one of those machines is going to vibrate half the pointing loose. You’ll be lucky if the ceiling in the north tower doesn’t come down on your head.”

“Thermal imaging doesn’t vibrate anything.” Morag’s voice was clipped. She was a small woman with grey hair pinned tight, and she had no patience for lairds who thought they knew better than surveyors.

Hamish ignored her. He was looking at Eilidh. “I told you last night. I don’t want you here. I especially don’t want your kind of restoration here. The moment you bring in power tools and central heating, you’re not restoring anything. You’re gutting it.”

“Your great-great-grandfather installed gas lighting in 1887,” Eilidh said, tapping the blueprint. “Your grandfather added plumbing in the 1920s. The castle has always changed. That’s how it survived.”

“Those changes were made by MacKinnons,” he said. “For MacKinnons.”

Eilidh felt a pulse of irritation. “Actually, the 1887 work was overseen by a firm from Inverness. Your great-great-grandfather was abroad at the time. It’s in the commissioning records, which I’ve read.”

Hamish’s jaw tightened. Whatever he’d expected her to say, it wasn’t that.

“The east wing,” she repeated firmly. “Ian, bring the level. We’re going to need readings every three meters along the corridor wall.”

They walked in a tense procession, Eilidh leading, Morag and Ian carrying equipment, Hamish trailing close enough that Eilidh could hear his breath. The east wing was colder than the rest of the castle, its corridor narrow and windowless save for a single lancet at the far end that let in a pale grey light. The plaster had blistered in long vertical streaks, and the floorboards creaked beneath their weight.

Ian set up the tripod while Morag swept the thermal camera slowly over the walls. Eilidh ran her hand along the surface of the plaster, feeling for give.

“We’re seeing a lot of damp here,” Ian said, peering into the level’s eyepiece. “The wall’s taken on water from somewhere up top. I’d say the gutter at the roofline junction is compromised.”

“It’s a gutter,” Hamish said flatly. “Rain falls on it. It does what gutters do.”

“Not when it’s blocked three-quarters full with dead leaves and bird nests,” Ian said without looking up.

Eilidh moved further down the corridor. Here, the wall curved slightly inward, losing the strict line that had held for the first ten meters. She stopped, frowning. The plaster in this section was newer than the rest—smooth, unpainted, patchy in a way that suggested a rough repair job rather than a professional one. She ran her fingers over the surface again, more slowly this time.

There was a bulge beneath the plaster. Not a water bulge, soft and crumbly. This was hard, deliberate. A square-edged shape pressing just slightly against the surface, perhaps forty centimeters by sixty.

She pulled the blueprint from her pocket and unfolded it, comparing the corridor’s line to the original plan. On paper, the east wing ran straight and unbroken from the staircase to the chapel. No alcoves, no closets, no secondary exits. But the bulge was unmistakable.

“Ian,” she called. “Come and look at this.”

Ian walked over, and Morag followed. Hamish didn’t move, but Eilidh felt his attention sharpen like a blade drawn across stone.

“What do you make of that?” Eilidh asked, running her palm over the bulge again.

Ian examined it. “Could be an old chimney breast, boxed in at some point. Somebody plastered over it and the timber’s swollen behind.”

“It’s not on the blueprints,” Eilidh said.

“Blueprints don’t always tell the truth,” Hamish said from behind them. His voice was flat, but there was something beneath it—an urgency that wasn’t quite anger. “That’s a structural tie. The wall’s been moving for two hundred years. The last laird—my grandfather—had it reinforced. Plastered over to hide the damage.”

Eilidh turned to look at him. “Your grandfather reinforced the east wall and didn’t tell anyone?”

“It’s not the kind of thing you put in a pamphlet for tourists.” Hamish stepped closer. He was tall enough that Eilidh had to tilt her head back to meet his eyes. There was a controlled quality to his expression, like a man holding a door closed against a draft.

“I’ll need to see what’s behind the plaster,” Eilidh said. “If it’s structural, we have to know what state it’s in. It could affect the whole wing.”

“You’ll leave it as it is.”

“Mr. MacKinnon.” Eilidh kept her voice level, though her temper was beginning to fray. “If that’s a structural tie and it’s failing, you could lose the entire east elevation in the next bad storm. You can’t just plaster over a problem and hope it goes away.”

“It’s kept the castle standing for fifty years,” Hamish said. “It’ll keep standing for fifty more if you people leave it alone.”

“Fifty years ago, your grandfather might have known what he was doing,” Morag said, sharper still. “Are you saying you don’t?”

Eilidh saw Hamish’s hands curl at his sides. For a moment she thought he might order them all out. Instead, he looked at Eilidh, and something flickered in his eyes—not hostility exactly, but a guardedness that was almost fragile.

“I’m saying there are things in this building you don’t understand,” he said quietly. “Things that aren't in your blueprints. And they don't need to be disturbed.”

He turned and walked back toward the great hall, his footsteps loud on the boards. Morag watched him go and then made a face. “That man’s hiding something,” she said.

“He’s just territorial,” Eilidh said, but her mind was already elsewhere. She looked back at the bulge in the wall, her fingers tracing its edges. It wasn't a structural tie. She’d seen enough boxed-in chimney breasts and fake supports in her career to know the difference. This was something else. Something deliberately concealed.

“Get the moisture readings done,” she told Ian. “Morag, I want you to sweep this section again with the thermal camera. Slow pass.”

“What are you planning?” Morag asked.

Eilidh didn’t answer right away. She was thinking about the way Hamish had looked at her—less like a man defending his home than a man standing guard over a secret. The east wing ran parallel to the chapel. Between it and the outer curtain wall there should have been nothing but rubble fill and open air.

But the bulge was real. And it wasn't structural.

“Nothing yet,” Eilidh said finally. “Just gathering information.”

The survey went on in silence. Ian took his measurements while Morag shot the thermal images with quick, efficient swipes. Rain continued against the windows above, a steady percussion that Eilidh barely registered. She stayed by the bulge for the rest of the afternoon, running her fingers over the plaster, trying to estimate its age, the depth of the cavity behind it, the nature of the mass that pushed so stubbornly against the surface.

When the long daylight finally began to fail, Ian and Morag packed up the equipment. The steady drumming had turned to a heavier downpour, and the corridor had grown so dark that Eilidh had to use the torch on her phone to make out the shapes of the walls.

“We’ll head back to the inn at Aberfoyle,” Ian said. “You ready?”

Eilidh nodded. She waited until their footsteps faded down the main stairwell before she pulled out her phone and opened the camera app.

She took a slow, careful sweep of the bulge, capturing every angle. Then she knelt and pressed her cheek to the cold plaster, turning her head so her ear lay flat against the surface.

Nothing. Just silence and the faint, distant sound of rain running down inside the walls.

She stood, brushed the plaster dust from her knee, and switched off her torch.

“Whatever you are,” she said quietly to the wall, “I’m going to find you.”

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