The Ghost Tree: Gripping historical fiction from the Sunday Times Bestseller. Barbara Erskine

Finlay’s cooking was famous. It was also probably responsible for his somewhat large girth. He was a cookery writer and in a small way a TV celebrity.

      Glancing in the driving mirror again he indicated right and changed lanes, then he slowed to turn off the main road. Ruth leaned back in her seat, her eyes closed, relaxing for the first time in days. Seconds later she was shocked into wakefulness as Finlay swung the car left and then right again into a quiet housing estate where he pulled in sharply in front of a parked furniture van.

      ‘Finlay! What’s happening? What are you doing?’

      ‘Hush! Duck right down.’ Finlay was studying the wing mirror. ‘I was wrong; he was following us. It’s OK, I think I’ve lost him, but he’ll turn round when he realises. I recognised the car. He moved up closer in the heavier traffic just now so I was able to check the number. He must have been waiting round the corner as we left. That’s the problem with having a red car; it’s easy to spot.’ Finlay drove an old maroon Daimler.

      They sat in silence for several minutes then Finlay pushed open the door. ‘You stay here. Lock yourself in. I’ll go up to the corner and peer round. See if he’s cruising up and down the road.’

      ‘I’m not staying here on my own!’ Ruth reached for the door handle.

      ‘He’ll recognise you if he’s there.’

      ‘You think he won’t recognise you?’ She stared at him incredulously. ‘You spoke to him on the doorstep. And he’s not going to forget what you look like, Finlay Macdermott!’

      ‘Touché! Come on then.’ He reached out for her hand.

      They looked round cautiously. There was no sign of Timothy’s car.

      ‘Do you think it’s safe?’ Ruth breathed.

      ‘Probably. I won’t drive straight home, just in case.’

      They drove around for twenty minutes before deciding it was safe to head for Cramond. As they drew to a halt outside the mellow stone-built old house with its long driveway and broad gravelled parking area, it was already growing dark. Ruth followed him through the front door and into his kitchen. ‘Ssh!’ Finlay put his fingers to his lips. Tiptoeing across the floor, he pulled the curtains and only then did he turn on the lights.

      Ruth looked round. The room was warm and full of the succulent fragrance of cooking herbs. It was years since she had been here. Then it had been with Rick and they had had the most wonderful few days in Fin’s company. The kitchen was exactly as she remembered it, with a huge oak dresser and refectory table, a bookcase stuffed with cookery books and several framed French posters on the stone walls. The only nod to modernity was a circular ceiling rack laden with shiny saucepans and utensils, and an elegant kitchen island with an attendant cluster of high stools.

      ‘It is lovely to be here again, Fin.’ She climbed onto a stool and accepted a glass of chilled Pinot Grigio. ‘We had such a lovely time when I came with Rick.’ She watched as he slid a dish out of the oven and checked it. Satisfied, he pushed it back, threw down the oven gloves, adjusted the heat slightly then he turned to her. ‘I’ve got something to show you. Wait there.’

      The something was the writing slope. He had mended the lock and somehow removed the deep scratches from the wood. Ruth exclaimed with delight. ‘You’re so clever. You would never know it had been damaged!’

      ‘I enjoy doing things like that. A bit of a hobby. Open it.’

      She did so. Inside was an envelope. She picked it up. ‘What’s this?’

      ‘Something I found when I was mending it. The blotter is made to lift up to form yet another secret cavity.’

      She peered into the envelope and extricated a small folded piece of paper. ‘It’s a letter!’

      ‘A very old one.’

      She unfolded it carefully and laid it on the table. The handwriting was small, closely crammed on the page, the ink faded to sepia. Screwing up her eyes, she could just make out the last line of the address at the top. ‘It’s Sussex. Where my grandparents lived.’

       My Darling Daughter

      it was signed

       Your loving mother, xxx

      With a grunt Finlay climbed off his stool to fetch a magnifying glass from the dresser. ‘I needed this to read it. Very charming. I’ve no idea who these people are, but it seems affectionate. Try this.’ He pushed the glass over towards her.

      Ruth studied the letter. ‘I’ve no idea who they are either.’

      ‘Ancestors of yours?’

      ‘I don’t know. I suppose they must be.’ She looked up. ‘I’m going to try to construct a full family tree. But I’m not sure how to begin.’

      ‘You start at the bottom with you. Then go up to your mum and dad. Then up to your grandparents – on both sides if you can, to keep it fair. You can get that far, presumably?’ He grinned. ‘Then if there’s no one you can ask – cousins? Uncles and aunts? – and no birth certificates and things like that to look up, there’s always the Internet these days. And, in your case, you can start the other end, with your Lord High Chancellor himself. His wife, his children and grandchildren are bound to be easy to find as he was famous, and then you can go down from there towards you until you meet in the middle, or backwards to find out his ancestors and on up a tree full of ghosts into this glorious aristocratic jungle your father hated so much.’ He looked at her mischievously. ‘What fun. Count me in for help if I can do anything. This research of yours is a perfect way of taking your mind off the horrors of the low life that is Timothy Bradford.’

      Ruth looked up at him fondly. ‘I don’t know what I’d do without you.’

      ‘You’d manage.’ He reached for the bottle to top up her glass. ‘Come on. Let’s eat.’

      Timothy had pulled up at last at South Queensferry near the towering girders of the Forth Railway Bridge. He climbed out of the car and went to stand by the parapet, overlooking the Firth, his hands in his pockets. He shivered as the wind found its way down the neck of his jacket. He had been looking forward to telling April that he had found out where Ruth’s minder had taken her and now he had lost the trail. But there was always tomorrow. He would go and stake out Number 26 again and this time he would make sure he followed Ruth everywhere she went.

      His mind went back to April. It was odd how she had gone all superstitious on him, shuddering when she tried on those rings, or whenever he mentioned the loot, anxious to be rid of it all. Thank goodness he had the sense to see that as long as they held onto it there was no possibility of anyone spotting it. It would be a shame to chuck it away. His eyes strayed out over the cold grey water. The tide was running fast and there were white-topped waves crashing onto the shingle below the wall.

      He turned away and headed back across the road towards the Hawes Inn. The bright lights reflecting out over the wet road were comforting and there was just time for a pint before they closed. Inside there was warmth and food and companionship and escape from the sound of the crashing waves. He saw the door open and then close behind a man and a woman. They hesitated for a moment before the onslaught of the weather, put up their umbrellas and began to battle into the wind. It was only then he realised it was raining.

       Thomas

       We had always been a God-fearing family. Serious and thoughtful supporters of the Reformation, as the sennachie told us boys, and before that true followers of the old church. Back into the mists of time, as he would say, using his favourite phrase for when his memories no longer served him, although he did mention the Picts and before them the North Britons as others who had been equally devoted to their gods. We were descended from kings, he told us, and when