Contents ( 57)
- Prologue
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty-One
- Twenty-Two
- Twenty-Three
- Twenty-Four
- Twenty-Five
- Twenty-Six
- Twenty-Seven
- Twenty-Eight
- Twenty-Nine
- Thirty
- Thirty-One
- Thirty-Two
- Thirty-Three
- Thirty-Four
- Thirty-Five
- Thirty-Six
- Thirty-Seven
- Thirty-Eight
- Thirty-Nine
- Forty
- Forty-One
- Forty-Two
- Forty-Three
- Forty-Four
- Forty-Five
- Forty-Six
- Forty-Seven
- Forty-Eight
- Forty-Nine
- Fifty
- Fifty-One
- Fifty-Two
- Fifty-Three
- Acknowledgements
- About the Author
- Also by Sharon Gosling
‘It’d be a pretty slim volume,’ piped up the old man from behind him. ‘The truth of this place wouldn’t even fill a sheet of paper. “In 1812 local landowner James MacDonald decided to invest too much of his vast fortune in the design and construction of a lighthouse tower on a hill over the village of Newton Dunbar. It cost a lot and he called it after himself, as such men are wont to do. He designed it as a private library. It’s now a bookshop. The End.” It’s not much of a story.’ The old man squinted up at him, his face suddenly shrewd. ‘Not enough to get a book out of, that’s for sure.’
Toby smiled. ‘Ah-ha. Does that mean I’m infamous in these parts already?’
The old man grinned. ‘If you’re the chap who’s here to write a book, it does.’ He stuck out one bony-fingered hand. ‘I’m Cullen MacDonald.’
‘Toby Hollingwood,’ Toby shook the thin fingers. ‘So you’re a MacDonald? Of the MacDonalds that built this place?’
‘Oh aye, that’s us.’
Toby was about to ask which bits of the story Dora McCreedy had told him were in fact true when a commotion broke out behind him. The door through which he’d entered was flung open. Toby turned towards the noise and saw a small, broad man launch himself sideways through the door as if entering stage left, his arms outstretched with the kind of gusto usually reserved for an operatic performance, an unkempt and distinctly wet collie at his heel.
‘No, no, no!’ cried the woman, dashing out from behind the counter with a curious little hop over the space in front of the wood burner. ‘Out! Shake!’
The newcomer turned back to the door as if about to leave. The collie did not seem as keen and trotted across the floor, tongue hanging out of a happy doggy grin. The cat on Cullen MacDonald’s lap lifted its head, watching with narrowed eyes.
‘Ron!’ the woman cried, grabbing the dog by the collar and tugging him back towards the door. ‘Bukowski! He’s wet, make him shake outside before you bring him in!’
‘Ah-ha!’ boomed the man, ‘For a moment there I thought you meant me. Right-oh. Come on, lad, let’s be having you.’
The collie was ushered out. The woman pushed the door almost closed and stood at the open crack, as from the other side of the door came several exhortations to ‘Shake, boy. Shake!’, and then the sound of frenetic canine activity. A moment later she opened the door again, stepping back to let the damp duo inside.
‘This is a bookshop, Ron,’ she scolded gently, as the man and his dog entered once more. ‘Books and wet don’t mix.’
‘I know, lass, I know,’ the man called Ron said with true contrition. Then he looked across the room to where Toby stood in front of Cullen’s chair, and his face lit up like a beacon. For one brief moment Toby thought he was about to deploy his baritone voice in song. ‘Cullen!’