Kidnapped in Dunvegan

1

Half an hour had already passed since my scheduled time. I could only hope that the lawyer Mr. Ferguson didn't have any other appointments after me. However, it felt as if I was jinxed. Today was just one of those bad days when everything went wrong. First of all, the museum employed another conservator right at the last minute who had more experience. Somebody please explain to me how it is possible for a conservator fresh out of university to gain experience when nobody gives her a chance? And then, to top it all off, I also missed the bus back to my small two-bedroom apartment and had to run. I just couldn't afford a taxi. Not with the limited funds I had left in my bank account, the last sum of money I had left over from my parents' inheritance.

If I didn't find a job quickly, I would soon be roaming the streets or I would have to move back in with my grandmother, which definitely didn't bear thinking about. Alice Kent was one of those people who loved having control and who always wanted to know the latest gossip about the lives of others. However, she was also a very cold and ignorant person. I grew up with her after my parents died in a train accident near London. I was fourteen years old at the time and maybe I wasn't particularly sociable either. I just didn't really enjoy living with my grandmother.

I walked down the long street full of villas, searching for house number 143. The lawyer who had sent me an invitation had an office in this building. I didn't have a clue what he wanted from me. When I asked him on the telephone, he just said that it was about something important which he was only allowed to talk to me about in person.

That's why I reluctantly took the bus right to the other end of London and was now walking in the rain searching for the right house. The heels of my department store shoes clattered on the stone slabs. Puddle water splattered onto my calves and went right through my silk tights. I would have liked to have changed clothes, but I didn't have enough time. This was despite the fact that I had to head back home from the museum to pick up the letter from the lawyer, which I had left at home and which had his address on the letterhead.

I wasn't especially intrigued why Mr. Ferguson wanted to meet me in person. Given my penchant for bad luck, I had run a red light once and hadn't paid the fine. Nevertheless, I was now heading for his office because even if I wasn't reliable, I was at least aware of my responsibilities. And, if I had actually forgotten to pay a bill, I would pay it if I was able to.

I finally reached house number 143. Like all the other buildings in this area, it originated from the Victorian era and was in very good condition. It had dark-red plastered walls, white frames around the windows, a low black cast iron fence and flower boxes placed in front of the high windows in which pansies were blossoming. I climbed the steps to the front door, rang the doorbell and while I was waiting I closed my umbrella with the beautiful poodle motif and adjusted my anthracite-colored pencil skirt and the suit jacket that went with it, which I had put on especially for the contract signing at the museum.

A middle-aged woman opened the door to me, gave me a slightly timid smile and glanced at me with her forehead raised.

"Ms. Sands?"

I gave an uncertain nod and suppressed a sniff as a rain drop lay on the tip of my nose.

"Please come in. My husband is waiting in his office for you. You are late," said the woman who no doubt already had some grey hairs hiding under her perfect chestnut-brown hair. She was wearing a bright blue suit similar to that which the Queen liked to wear. This suit was undoubtedly in a similar price range to that of the Queen's.

She moved to one side and let me step into the spacious foyer. "Please leave your umbrella in here." She pointed to an umbrella stand. I responded to her request with a fake smile. I had rarely met somebody who was so unfriendly from the moment I met them like this woman. Her arrogant glance which continually looked me up and down, the false smile that barely played upon her lips and her proud posture which showed that she considered herself to be something special. Her pinned up hairstyle looked better than mine at least which wasn't down to the fact that I had just been rushing through the streets of London, but rather because my head was only decorated with a simple bun, while her hairstyle looked like that of a professional with a number of hairpins, an artistically decorated comb at the back of her head and a dark green silk flower over her ear.