She breathed in deep; she missed living here. It had been such a good three years, the best time

Sue Lawrence is a popular novelist as well as a cookery book author. The Night He Left is published by Freight. Down to the Sea, her first historical mystery, was published by Contraband in 2019. Sue’s latest book, The Unreliable Death of Lady Grange, was published in March by Saraband.

Fiona walked along Commercial Street, pausing to look over the road at a large stone building. Though it was now an antique car restorer, it had formerly been a jute mill.

A couple of years ago she had volunteered to help on a school trip from Glenisla and they had taken a tour of the building.

She had found it fascinating, finding out about the hardships of the jute workers in the 19th Century.

Linen, made in part from local flax, had originally been the main textile produced, but after flax imported from the Baltic states became too expensive, the supply of Angus flax was insufficient, and cheaper jute was imported from India.

By the 1880s, more than a million bales of raw jute were unloaded in Dundee for the mills all over the county.

On the school trip, the children had been told how the coarse jute fibres were wetted and mangled, then spun and woven.

Then there had been the major discovery that whale oil softened the harsh jute strands.

From then, the entire process became easier and Dundee’s whaling industry expanded alongside the jute.

Why had she not remembered that before, when she’d had to ask her dad?

He was so dippy in daily life but what an amazing memory he had for history – well, apart from specifics about his own family history.

Fiona got back to the car and drove north to Glenisla. As she neared the hills, she stopped and got out, looking back down the glen at the rolling hills and the sheep and the scattering of tiny cottages along the river.

She breathed in deep; she missed living here. It had been such a good three years, the best time since Iain had died.

Looked after

“Fiona, how are you?” Mrs C ran to the car and hugged her as if she had been away for years. “Good, thanks. Lovely to see you. Nice hair!” “Yes, well that new girl at the hairdresser asked if I wanted a wee rinse so I said why not.

“It was a bit too purple at first but it’s calmed down. More lavender now.”

She took Fiona’s arm in hers. “Come away in.” Fiona turned to look across the road at the cottage. “Looks just the same, is it being well looked after?”

“Yes, though she doesn’t keep it as nice as you did, Fiona.”

They walked inside and into the kitchen.

“I’ll get us some coffee and we can sit in the lounge. Doug’ll be back in a few minutes.”

A portly chef appeared from the larder. “Hello,” he said. “You must be Fiona. Mrs C’s told me all about you.”

“This is Billie, he used to work here years ago but then he went to Gleneagles.

“Now he’s back here, just had his first weekend with us.

“Tom couldn’t handle it all, he left and went to Glasgow.” Mrs C clattered about setting the tray with mugs and a plate of shortbread.

“Scones’ll be out in two minutes if you want to wait for those?” Billie pointed at the oven door.

“Yes, please,” Fiona said, looking around. “The kitchen looks different, really organised. Did you see it when Pete was in charge?”

Billie shook his head. “Nope, but I know I had a hard act to follow. Customers are still talking about that review.”

Fiona smiled. “Can I take that for you?”

She lifted the tray from Mrs C. They went through to the lounge, followed by Doug.

“So tell me all about Dundee and Jamie,” said Mrs C. “How’s school going?”

Fiona told them about Jamie’s first morning, and chatted about what they had been doing during the summer holidays.

Frowned

The door opened and Billie appeared with a plate of steaming scones. He handed a folder to Fiona.

“When I was doing a big clear up on Sunday, I found these in the kitchen office, tucked away under the huge volume of environmental health regulations. I presume it’s Pete’s.”

Fiona frowned and reached for the folder. When she opened it up she found pages of recipes.

“I’ve never seen this before, but it’s certainly his handwriting.”

She stopped at a page that said Mum’s Scones. Then on the back was Hilary Gibson’s Macadamia Ginger Shortbread and lots of scribbles annotating the recipe.

She forced herself to shut the folder and return to coffee and chat as Billie went back into the kitchen.

After an hour or so, Fiona said she had to leave and there were hugs at the door.

She waved and drove off down the road then, when she was safely out of sight of the hotel, stopped on the roadside and reached for the folder, inspecting every page in it.

Some were handwritten recipes, some cut out of magazines, and there were three more recipes from either Hilary or Mum.

And then, on the final page, she felt her stomach tighten as she read Sam’s Flapjacks.

Fiona scrutinised the recipe and realised it was the same one he used to make for Jamie, a regular flapjack recipe but with generous helpings of chopped apricots and white chocolate chips.

Not for the first time she found herself thinking, who the hell is Sam?

Sunday 4 January 1880

Ann took a deep breath and rapped on the door. There was the scraping of a chair and the scuff of footsteps before the door opened.

A girl, about eight years old, peered out at Ann through greasy, tangled hair.

She had bare feet and a ragged plaid shawl round her shoulders.

Underneath she wore a baggy dress that was far too big for her.

“Aye?”

“Is Mattie in?”

“Aye.”

The girl continued to stand.

“Who’s there, Elspet?” a voice boomed out from inside.

“A lady, Auntie Mattie, wants to see you.”

“Let her in.”

Ann pushed the door and entered the room. She had seen worse, and smelled worse.

Perhaps it was simply the pervasive odour of pipe tobacco.

The walls were bare stone and a piece of jute hessian hung from an open window.

She looked towards the empty fireplace to where Blind Mattie sat sucking on her pipe, her melodeon by her side.

“Draw closer, will you,” she said and Ann remembered the country lilt to her soft voice.

She smiled as she looked at the old woman but then steeled herself; she must not give herself away.