Chapter 1

“I’ve seen how you tremble, whenever he walks through your mind. Stirring up memories that cloud up your eyes, where the light of our love ought to shine ... He’s just a ghost story. So don’t let him scare you. He’s not really there like it seems ... And tonight when I hold you, I’ll hold you so close, I’ll love him right out of your dreams...”

The Don Williams song came out of the stereo speakers, the beat of the music in time with the sound of the Bridgestone four-track tyres on the tar beneath the SUV. Ghosts and spirits were far from my mind; something I saw on TV or read in a book, but never paid much attention to. How this will impact my immediate future, I had no idea.

It was late afternoon when I finally took the N1 highway out of the central business district of Cape Town. This was a Thursday afternoon, just before 15:00, and the traffic was moderate on the M62. So, keeping to the middle lane before the N1 highway began, the running was smooth. I left the intersection with the last traffic lights behind, and with traffic thinning out somewhat I set the cruise control to 80 kilometres an hour. Later, past the industrial suburb of Paarden Island, I will up it to 120 km/h.

My destination was Franschhoek, or rather Berg River Dam, on the Berg River, flowing through a green valley between the high cliffs of Skerpheuwel, Dassenberg, Olifantsberg and Afrikakop mountains. The Berg River Dam was a blue jewel nesting in the valley. It was not a big dam, but not your run-of-the-mill farm dam either. It more or less represented a small lake, or “loch,” as Uncle Alex used to call it. This is South Africa and here a loch looks more like a lake to me.

With the sun over my back to the west, I was driving east. The music from the stereo system surrounded me, enveloping me at a moderate sound level. No, not a Tchaikovsky or Mozart or Beethoven; that will come later, savoured with a nice Pinotage red wine. This was more of drive-along music, something to ease the monotony of driving alone on a smooth flat top.

Not a care in the world troubled my soul. This trip would come as a well-deserved long weekend for me. My businesses were in good hands. Clive, my sidekick, and Lizz, my personal assistant, would run things until I got back on Tuesday. Leaving the sound studio and the many artists on my books in the capable hands of Clive was something I needed to do long ago and take a break. There were not any big concerts or events coming up, and my personal appearances were few and far between. So, why not take a break?

Although this weekend was a well-deserved rest, it was also an investigation of a property I inherited from my “long-lost uncle.” Okay, I knew Uncle Alex; I visited a few times at his estate on the Berg River Dam and found the old soul to be a leftover from the Scottish descent I hail from. Uncle Alex had many stories to tell and was also my introduction to the tasty fruits of the Scottish Highlands: single malt whisky!

Uncle Alex had wandered all over the world and somehow ended up settling here in South Africa. He always longed to go back to his beloved green hills of Scotland, but never got around to doing it.

At eighty-eight, he departed to the green hills up yonder in the sky, where all old warriors go. He will no more wander far away. He is at peace now, after the last piper called him home, and left me the estate.

The estate was, well, a castle that he replicated from Sorn Castle in Scotland. Stone for stone, rafter for rafter, and window for window, he replicated McIntyre Castle. And now it is mine. What the hell am I to do with a Scottish castle in the heart of Africa? Time will tell. Well, it doesn’t look like a typical castle, more like a big manor house on steroids.

And then the estate came with its own support staff: a butler; a housekeeper; two cleaning staff; a cook; and three groundsmen. On the grounds to the side of the pink sandstone castle, olive trees, apple trees, and a small vineyard were maintained by a few of the locals on a permanent payroll. And then there was land, somewhat further away, that was rented to the local farmers. That land provided more than adequate income to sustain the estate.

Well, let me introduce myself. My name is Bruce. Bruce McIntyre, forty-eight years young, never married. Six foot two in the old imperial measurements, or one comma eight nine metres in modern metric tongue, if you prefer. Sandy hair just touching my shoulders, blue eyes and not too skinny, neither obese. Just right. Not even looking like any of my far-off Scottish nieces and nephews.

Now on with the story.

From the south of Muizenberg side, a bank of clouds was rolling in from the sea. The expected cold front was on its way, and by nightfall Cape Town would be shrouded in dark clouds with cold rain sifting down. By that time, I would be at the estate, an hour and a half away. It will be cold, but with the relative screening from the mountain, there may not be rain falling in the valley ... but one never knows. The weather does what the weather wants to do.

In the meantime, the Range Rover purred along at a hundred and twenty kilometres an hour. The cruise control was set to 127 Km/h, and that equated to precisely 120 Km/h on the GPS, and the Cape Flats of Joostenbergvlakte slipped into my wake. South Paarl was the next turn-off and there I will take the R101 off-ramp, all along the Berg River, towards Franschhoek, and Berg River Dam.

The hills are bare now, and autumn leaves lie thick and still across the carpet of green lawn grass around the castle. The trees around the yard were showing signs of winter rest, and stood like black and grey skeletons against the darkening sky. Fog rolled in over the mountains surrounding the estate, bathing everything in a misty shroud. The dam had just about disappeared in the mist. But even though the fog blotted out most of the sight of the water, the sound of the water lapping along the shore told anyone who listened that it was still there and restless.

Despite the fact it was not even dusk as yet (for it was only just past five in the afternoon), the gloomy fading light caused the lights inside the castle to be on. Yes, the castle was electrified during the early ‘70s, therefore bright light streamed out of most of the windows on the ground and second floors.

As I said before, this castle looked more like a big manor house on steroids than a castle with a drawbridge over a moat. In front (okay, let’s call it a manor house), the house has a covered car park sort of thing. There must be a name for it, but that detail escapes me now. You know that thing where you stop your car before the front entrance, and a pageboy opens the car door for you? Well, now you get it. That thing. Oh, yeah! Thanks. The old mind works a little slow. It’s called a porte-cochère.

I pulled up to the porte-cochère, and as I got out, I was greeted by Samuel, the butler.

“Good evening, Sir! You arrived just in time before the rain sets in.”

“Hello, Sam! You look good. You did not age at all since the last time I was here.”

“Why, thank you, Sir,” Chuckle, “Although the old bones say otherwise. Come, let me get your bags and get you out of this chill.”

“I only have two bags, Sam. Don’t worry, I’ll just hitch it over my shoulder, and carry the guitar case in my hand.” Sam knew me and that I was sort of a man on my own. I was always friendly and respectful to the staff and treated them as equals and not as lord and master over them. Thus, putting up a fight to carry my bag would be fruitless.

“As you wish, Sir Bruce! If you give me the keys, I’ll go stable the car in the garage.”

“Here you go, Sam,” And I handed him the keys to the Range Rover.

“Magda has prepared the master bedroom for you Sir Bruce. Let me escort you up to the bedroom. You can freshen up and supper will be served in the dining room.”

“Thank you, Sam. I hope you did not have a full spread done as always. I am not that hungry!”

“Food won’t waste around here, Sir. There are some hungry mouths around that would appreciate the leftovers.” Chuckle.

“Are the cats still around?”

“All seven of them. Just keep your bedroom door closed, or they will come and shove you off the bed or bring you some dead lizards as gifts!”

“Ah, Sam, I don’t mind the cats or their gifts. But let’s get inside. I think we are in for some icy weather.”

“Good, Sir Bruce. Come, I will take you up to the master bedroom first.” And he turned and walked into the house. I hitched my duffle bag up on my left shoulder and followed him into the big entrance hall.

Everything was just as I recalled it. The big stairway leading to the upper floors was right in front of us. To the sides were doors to passages leading to the west and east wings of the castle. The smell of the place brought back memories of long forgotten excursions to the estate. Somehow, I felt at home. I will just miss the booming voice of Uncle Alex.

Outside the fog started to cover everything. Like a lace curtain it folded down, wrapping everything with an eerie, misty blanket. The dark skeletons of the trees in their winter rest stood with wet fingers pointing to the sky, slowly fading before my eyes in the fog and the gloom.

Closing the big oak front double doors with a heavy clunk, Sam strode up the central stairway, and I followed suit. At the top, he turned to his left and took the left-hand stairway to the first and second floors. This old castle had a basement floor, a ground floor, a first floor, a second floor, and then of course there was the attic or third floor, evident of all the windows in the roof.

At the second floor landing, he turned to his right and went down a passage to the last heavy oak door on the left, where he stopped and opened the door.

“Your bedroom, Sir Bruce. You are now the owner of the estate, and thus the master bedroom is yours. Welcome to McIntyre Castle, Sir!” He said. I went into the huge room, and Sam followed me in.

“Thank you, Sam.”

I have been in this room only once before: the time when Uncle Alex wanted to show me one of his shotguns he got in the hope of ever going duck hunting in Scotland, but never did.

The room was big, with wood panelling on all the walls. The ceiling was painted a dark shade of pink, more of a faded maroon than a pink colour. It contrasted sharply with the dark, deep brown rafters and the light brown wall wood panelling. A thick white carpet covered the floor.

To the foot of the double bed, there was a white marble fireplace and one green high back easy chair stood to the side of the fireplace. On the other side of the fireplace another pastel green easy chair stood, and under the single window there was a third easy chair covered in white fabric.

A radiator type heater was along the wall to the right of the bed, but what caught my eye was the painting of a beautiful blond girl, staring at me with her pale green eyes. Who she was I did not know, but there was no mistake that she was dear to Uncle Alex. I even recalled his words he whispered that single time I was in this room with him.

“If those lips could only speak. If those eyes could only see. If those beautiful golden tresses were here in reality. I could take her hand, as I did when you took my name. But it’s only a beautiful picture in a beautiful golden frame... ”

I never did find out who the girl in the picture was. No-one said anything and Uncle Alex never spoke on the matter to me again. I only assumed it was his wife, although no-one ever mentioned an “Auntie Alex.”

Now she looked at me, out of the golden picture frame, with those same pale green eyes; never looking sad, never looking happy.

“I can have the painting removed, if you wish, Sir Bruce?” Sam questioned.

“No ... No, Sam ... Leave it for the time being...”

“As you wish, Sir Bruce.”

“Who was she?”

“That was Lady Amelia, adopted by Sir Alex, and given a home here in South Africa.”

“But ... Sam ... Ain’t she entitled to the estate then?”

“She died tragically in a car crash on her eighteenth birthday. She was run over by a drunk driver ... Both she and her horse...”

“You knew her, Sam?”

“No, Sir Bruce, she died the year before I started to work here at the castle.”

“Is she buried here on the grounds?”

“Yes, Sir. Out back near the Loch ... ah, I mean the dam, Sir. We see to fresh flowers on her grave every week.”

“I never knew ... no-one ever spoke of her. You said her name was, Amelia?”

“Amelia Iona Sinclair. After Sir Alex adopted her, her name was changed to McIntyre. A sad story: both parents died during an IRA bombing in London. She was only a five-year-old child then with no family. She ended up in a foster home, but that did not work out too well for her. That is all I know about her. Sir Alex did not say much more.”

“Thank you, Sam.”

“You’re welcome, Sir Bruce. All I can add is that lady Amelia would have turned forty-four this year, but you could find that out yourself if you go to visit her grave. Her bedroom is still untouched and three doors down from yours. Now, if there’s nothing else, let me go and tell Maggie to lay the table for you, Sir.”

“Thank you, Sam, that will be all,” I said, and he left the room, closing the door behind him.

I found myself staring at the painting again. Rooted to the spot and not knowing why, I could not tear myself away from those pale green eyes.

“If those lips could only speak ... those eyes could only see. If those beautiful golden tresses were here in reality ... You look so serene, Amelia. I hope I can call you Amelia. You are now stuck with me, but I’ll not have you ever removed from here. I’ll go visit your grave tomorrow...” I said it out aloud, and then shook my head. I was speaking to a painting! Can you believe it? A sane man, speaking to a painting.

After a refreshing shower and some more warm clothing, I left the bedroom and went down to the dining room. Magda, or Maggie as Sam called her, surprised me with a hearty cooked meal. This was not my usual way to sit at a table and eat a cooked meal. I just usually wing it and eat whatever, whenever I was hungry. It felt lonesome to be sitting down at an oak table that could seat twenty guests at a time, but hey, I’m now Lord of the manor. If I stay here, I need to find some alternative to dining in the dining room. Maybe ask Maggie just to do something in the kitchen for me.

After the nice supper, Sam told me that there’s a decanter of Scotch available and asked if I would like to retire to the private lounge.

“No, thank you, Sam. I would like the Scotch, but I will retire for the evening. You can tell the staff to do the same,” I instructed.

“Very well, Sir. There’s an intercom in your bedroom, Sir. Whenever you need me, just press the red button.” There was a look in his eyes that conveyed a message that his words did not say. Whatever it meant, I dismissed it.

“I don’t think it will be necessary, Sam, but thank you.”

“Then I will bring you your Scotch, Sir.” And with that, he strode out of the dining room.

I lingered a while longer and then made my way up the stairs to the master bedroom. I was contemplating reading a book I brought along and was just getting comfortable in the green easy chair, when Sam knocked on the door and entered with a silver tray, On the tray was a crystal glass decanter, an ice bucket and a glass.

“Shall I pour for you, Sir?”

“Nah, Sam. I’ll do the honours myself. You can go for the night.”

“Thank you, Sir Bruce, and good night, Sir.”

“Good night, Sam.”

After he left, I poured myself a measure of whisky and dropped two cubes of ice in it. I settled down with my book. The room felt warm, and I realised that Sam had turned on the heater in the room. It felt cosy despite the large floor surface of the room.

At just past nine, I felt drowsy after two glasses of scotch. The book was good, but now it was time to turn in. My eyes were getting watery, and a yawn or two had me thinking of the bed. I switched off all the lights in the room. The bed felt good. Uncle Alex did have good taste when it came to sleeping. The mattress was not too hard, but not too soft either. Nice and fluffy pillows too. I drifted off, and soon I was asleep.