Read Chapter 26: Digging Deeper

The ledger was at the bottom of the strongbox, beneath a false panel Eilidh might have missed entirely if the morning light hadn’t caught the faint scrape of nails across the wood. She and Hamish had returned to the chamber at dawn, thermoses of coffee in hand, the storm having blown itself out overnight. The air still smelled of rain and old stone, and the room felt less haunted now that they had named its ghosts.

It was Hamish who noticed the panel first. “There’s a seam here,” he said, running a finger along the base of the box. “Too regular. This isn’t wear.”

Eilidh knelt beside him, heart quickening. “Let me.” She worked the edge with her pry bar, gentle as a surgeon, until the panel gave with a soft sigh. Beneath it lay a book bound in cracked leather, its spine unmarked, its pages yellowed but legible.

Hamish lifted it out. “Ledger,” he said, flipping it open. “Dated 1887 to 1892.”

The years Finella’s brother had controlled the estate.

Eilidh set it on the desk and they bent over it together, shoulders brushing. The handwriting was tight and precise—a factor’s hand, or a man who believed himself too clever for scrutiny. Entries listed rents, timber sales, cattle drives, all rendered in neat columns. But the sums didn’t add up. Eilidh had spent years reading estate records; her eye caught the discrepancies immediately. Income from the Kintail sheep sales appeared in one column, then quietly diminished in the next. Tenant rents were recorded as collected, then listed as “arrears” in the following season, the money vanishing into a line marked simply “expenses.”

“He was bleeding the estate dry,” Eilidh said. “Look—these expenses are never itemized. He was skimming everything he could before the entail could bite.”

Hamish’s jaw tightened. “How much?”

She ran her finger down a column, estimating. “Thousands. In 1890s money, that’s enough to buy an estate of his own. He was stripping Kintail to its bones.”

“And Finella stood between him and all of it.” Hamish’s voice was flat, but she heard the anger beneath. “He didn’t just want the castle. He needed it empty. Liquid.”

Eilidh turned another page and stopped. A folded letter, pressed flat between leaves. She opened it carefully. The hand was Finella’s—she would know it now anywhere, that elegant, fierce slant. The letter was addressed to her cousin Margaret, shorter than the others.

*Margaret—I have found his ledger. He has been stealing from us for years. I have copied the pages and hidden them with a solicitor in Dingwall. If anything happens to me, see that the truth is known. He cannot be allowed to profit from what he has destroyed.*

The date was a month before Finella’s death.

Eilidh looked up at Hamish. “She knew. She had the proof, and she knew what it would cost her.”

Hamish stood abruptly, pacing the small room. “And my family—my father, my grandfather—they kept the secret for a hundred years. They knew, or they suspected, and they *let it lie*.” He stopped, hand pressed to the stone wall. “I broke my promise to my father. But I’ll be damned if I let the lie stand any longer.”

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By midday, the news had escaped.

Eilidh never learned who leaked it. Perhaps one of the workmen had talked, or the old beams carried whispers into the village. It didn’t matter. By two o’clock, Fiona Ross from the library had called her mobile, breathless with excitement, saying a historian from Inverness had rung asking about “the Kintail scandal.” By three, a journalist from the *Scotsman* had left three messages on the castle’s antiquated answering machine. By four, a van from a Glasgow television station was parked at the foot of the drive.

Hamish stood at the window of the great hall, watching them set up a camera tripod on the gravel. “I should have thought,” he said, more to himself than to her. “Should have known it would get out.”

“It’s a good story,” Eilidh said carefully. “A hundred-year-old secret, a buried inheritance, a woman wronged. You can’t keep that quiet.”

“I wasn’t trying to keep it quiet.” He turned to face her. “I was trying to do right by her. By all of them.” His gaze flickered to the ring on her finger—she hadn’t taken it off since he’d given it to her. “But the world has its own ideas.”

The knock at the door saved her from answering.

A man stood on the threshold, silhouetted against the grey afternoon light. He was perhaps sixty, lean and sharp-featured, wearing a wool overcoat that cost more than Eilidh’s entire wardrobe. He smiled, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes.

“Hamish.” He stepped inside without waiting for an invitation. “You’ve been busy.”

Hamish’s face went still. “Iain.”

The man—Iain MacKinnon, Eilidh realized with a jolt—extended a hand to her. “You must be the restorer. I’ve heard wonderful things about your work. And your discoveries.” His voice was smooth as polished oak. “I’ve come to see the family seat. And to put a few things in order.”

“You haven’t been here in fifteen years,” Hamish said flatly. “You made it clear you wanted nothing to do with Kintail.”

“I’ve reconsidered.” Iain walked past them into the hall, his gaze moving over the portraits, the antlers, the worn stone. “A man’s family history matters. Especially when such history—such *revelations*—begin to surface.” He turned, fixing Eilidh with a look that was calculating and cold. “You understand, I’m sure. A castle of this importance, with this lineage—it should be in the right hands. The *true* heir’s hands.”

“The true heir is Finella,” Eilidh said. “And Finella’s line—through the Grants—is the one the deed recognizes.”

Iain’s smile thinned. “A deed you found. In a sealed room. Very convenient.”

Hamish stepped between them. “You’re not welcome here, Iain. Say what you’ve come to say and leave.”

“I’ve come to say this.” Iain’s voice hardened, the polish cracking. “I will contest your claim. And hers.” He nodded at Eilidh. “Those documents will be examined by experts. Their provenance questioned. And if necessary, I will pursue legal action to ensure Castle Kintail returns to the family that has always held it—the MacKinnons, not the Grants who married in by accident.”

Eilidh felt the words land like stones in her chest. “That’s not what the deed says.”

“Deeds can be challenged.” Iain’s eyes glittered. “Witnesses die. Documents get lost. It’s remarkable how much can be undone when the will is strong enough.” He turned to Hamish. “You had your chance to be laird, nephew. You buried your head in the heather and let the walls rot. I won’t make the same mistake.”

He walked out without another word, leaving the door open behind him. The television crew outside had turned their camera toward him; he waved at them as he climbed into a black Range Rover.

Eilidh turned to Hamish. His face was grey, his hands clenched at his sides. “He’ll do it,” Hamish said quietly. “He has the money. He has the connections. And he’s patient—he’s been patient for twenty years.”

“We have the documents,” Eilidh said, but the words felt thin.

“Documents can be lost.” Hamish looked at her, and for the first time she saw fear in his eyes. “And you’re standing in the middle of a war you never asked to join.”