Page 1 of The Castle in the Bay

Chapter One

Monty

Monty MacNeil took a deep breath and peered out the window of the plane. Ok, should not have done that.He pulled his head back so it was jammed against the headrest, and pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. Flying had never been a problem for him before. Business class flights were pretty decent, but this. How could this even be classed as a plane? Utterly baffling. It had wings, but that was about it.

The seven other passengers onboard oohed and ahhed as the plane banked. The pilot looked like he knew what he was doing, which was about the best thing that could be said for having the cockpit visible. But none of that was the main problem. Monty’s eyes screwed up as he looked towards the window again. Holy crap, that was a lot of water. Other passengers had their phones out and were chattering excitedly about how clear it was, how blue, green, turquoise… Almost tropical.

No doubt it was all that, but Monty couldn’t bear to look. If the engines failed, they’d plunge to their doom in that sea. Clutching the armrest, he sensed the drop in altitude. Landing on Traigh Mhor beach on the Hebridean island of Barra featured on several people’s bucket lists. Tourists worldwide would have paid good money for weather like this to do it in, but Monty just wanted to get his feet on dry land. Maybe an island wasn’t the best place for that, but he had a job to do. And when Monty was given a job, he liked to do it properly. It was how he’d gained his reputation as a trustworthy banker and a dutiful son.

His hand darted to the seat beside him, and he gripped the bag containing what was left of his father. The ashes of Hector MacNeil were on their way home. Monty closed his eyes. A thud followed by some squeals and chat told him the plane had landed. He let out a breath.Made it.

Time to get off this glorified minibus and explore the island his father had told him so much about. Apparently, Monty had been here as a child, but he couldn’t remember. Maybe at thirty-six, a visit was long overdue.

He stopped as he crossed the beach runway, heading for the ‘airport’. The turquoise waters murmured gently on the pale golden sands in a rhythmic lullaby. Stunning really. As long as he didn’t have to get too close. He didn’t understand people who wanted to swim in there or do water sports. Getting wet and cold like that held no appeal for him.

Holding his bag close, he made his way to the long white building that was the airport. Kind of surreal that anything so industrial had made its way to such a rugged, out of the way place. The warmth of the sun beat on his back. He should take off his jacket, but with unpredictable weather forecast, he’d not been sure what to wear.

A taxi was waiting, and Monty went to the window. ‘Hello, I’m Monty MacNeil.’

‘That’s right,’ the taxi driver said. ‘In you get. You’re heading to An Grianan, am I right?’

‘Yes, please.’ Presumably the taxi driver had correctly pronounced the name of the farmhouse where he’d booked to stay. Monty had anglicised it in his mind but repeated it inside his head as the driver had said.Un GREE-uh-nun, with the emphasis on ‘gree’. He would try and remember that, so he didn’t sound ignorant. Memories of a trip to Ireland in his younger years surfaced. He’d made some embarrassing gaffs with pronunciations there and was determined not to do it again.

The driver got out and Monty put his luggage in the boot, still holding tightly to the small black backpack which contained the urn.

‘That bag can go in too,’ the driver said.

‘I’d prefer if it didn’t.’ Monty ran his hand around his lightly stubbled jaw. ‘This is rather precious.’

‘Right you are.’

Monty got into the passenger seat and strapped himself in. Once he was ready, the driver took off down the winding island road. The sea sprawled to his left, looking almost tropical in the bright sunlight. To his right were hills of scraggy rocks and tufty grass. Pink and white wildflowers danced in the light breeze along the roadside. No wonder his father had raved about thisplace. Monty opened the window and got a lungful of clear, fresh air.

‘Are you here on business?’ the driver asked.

Maybe dressing in a shirt had made him look more like he was going to work than on holiday, but he wasn’t good at dressing down. In fact, he tended to wear a similar style of outfit wherever he went – shirts and trousers or smart jeans. If he wore trainers with it, that was him being casual.

‘No. I’m having a break here, but I have got a job to do – not work, you understand? Just something I have to do.’

‘Oh aye?’

‘My late father’s last request was that his ashes were scattered at Kisimul Castle.’

‘Ah.’ Realisation dawned on the driver’s face. ‘Is that what’s in the bag?’

‘Yeah.’ Monty held them close.

‘And your surname’s MacNeil, aye? That can’t be a coincidence.’

‘It’s not. My father did extensive research on the family tree. He was quite insistent that we were related to the MacNeils of Barra and that somewhere along the line, our family was diddled out of Kisimul Castle.’

The taxi driver looked like he was battling a smirk.

‘I bet you hear stories like that all the time.’ Monty leaned his elbow on the windowsill and ran his fingers through his hair. His own mother had accused his father of being fanatical, and Monty wasn’t stupid. He knew the likelihood of such a connection to be slim and unlikely ever to be proven one way or another.

‘I do, though usually from Americans.’

Monty huffed a laugh. ‘Well, I’m not saying it’s true or not. That’s just what my father believed and I’m carrying out his last request.’ The least he could do really. Now that his father was gone, the place where he’d always been was filled with regrets.No one had seen it coming, but the gap he left was bigger than Monty could have imagined. If he could have the time over, he’d do more. Heshouldhave done more. Visited more often, listened closer, just been more present.

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