The Ghost of Helen Addison Excerpt I
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‘I hope you’re not afraid of ghosts,’ said Helen.
Leo started violently. He tried to fathom what was going on. His immediate reaction was that he was being hoaxed; then he quickly realised the absurdity of the notion of a young woman, who looked exactly like Helen, abroad with a murderer on the loose on a freezing cold night wearing nothing but a thin nightie simply to prank a perfect stranger. Then he wondered if he was hallucinating. He instinctively dispelled this idea. And so he came to the rapid conclusion that this was, in fact, the phantom of Helen Addison. In spite of his previous personal experiences of the supernatural a chill ran down Leo’s spine and his skin tingled with fear as the effects of alcohol retreated rapidly within his brain. He made to speak, but the words choked in his larynx, such that he had to clear his throat and start again.
‘I-I-I’ve never been h-harmed by one in my l-life,’ he stammered, ‘thus far. Permit me to introduce myself –’
‘– I know who you are. And I know about your magic visions. I heard you talking with that policeman earlier.’
‘So you are able to… spy on folk, and listen into their conversations?’
‘Only some of the time. Why haven’t they caught him yet?’
Leo gathered his thoughts, keen to adjust himself to the surreal nature of the situation. It was crucial to make the most of this extraordinary opportunity.
‘I don’t know. Tell me who did it and I’ll tell them.’
‘I don’t know who did it. I couldn’t see his face. It was covered.’
‘Damn!’
‘Yep.’
‘Helen, I’m so sorry about what happened to you. The police, and myself, we’ll do everything we possibly can to catch this character and make sure he’s punished.’
‘He’ll be punished, one way or the other. Eventually. I’m just afraid he’s going to do it again.’
‘I understand.’
‘Well then?’
‘I only arrived today. Yesterday, rather,’ he said, glancing at his wristwatch.
‘So, what will you do?’
‘I’m hoping that my being here, at Loch Dhonn, will help stimulate my visions. In the meantime, now that we’ve connected, you must tell me everything you can about your ordeal. There must be some purpose behind you not having fully passed beyond the veil yet. I know it’s not easy, but please try. Just start at the beginning.’
‘It was like I was watching myself in a movie. Like I was there, but that I wasn’t really there. I don’t remember leaving home. The first thing I can remember was standing down there, not far from the water, and seeing a little rowing boat on the loch getting nearer and nearer. I watched him reach the bank and drag the boat up. I knew it was really cold but somehow I didn’t feel it. I was watching him from the trees down there. I was transfixed by him. It was like I was rooted to the spot.’
‘I wonder what the devil he was doing out on the loch.’
‘I’ve no idea. I think he was coming from Innisdubh. That island yonder,’ she said, gesturing towards the loch. ‘I bet there are clues over there.’
‘The police must have conducted a search.’
‘Well, look again.’
Leo gazed out at the misty surface of the loch, over at the little island with the keep on it which he had seen earlier. It seemed ugly and sinister to him in the night-time. Helen leapt down from her position on the folly and landed soundlessly beside him. She was pretty, slim, petite, small-breasted. Her bobbed chestnut hair looked as black as liquorice in the night, and her eyes shone with a strange, furious candescence. She had rather elfin features, and freckles which in the pale light looked as though they had been tattooed on with henna.
When she had been alive Helen had always dreaded moments of silence between herself and others. She felt that for a conversation to go into abeyance proved a deep-seated fear of hers: that she was a dull and uninteresting person. She had overestimated what conversation actually required, often wondering what people filled their sentences with – what on earth were they talking about? Therefore she had been anxiously inclined to fill blank spaces with little outbursts of tangential chatter. Yet over the last few days she had overheard several conversations, invisible as she was to the participants. And she had gained the knowledge that folk had been largely talking a lot of blethers all along. And because of this revelation this moment seemed pleasantly novel; she felt totally centred, comfortable in her own skin (such as it was), happy to let the silence play out between her and this strange man from Glasgow, towards whom she was for some reason able to physically manifest her spectral self.
She sighed, taking in the moonlit view, then continued relating her terrible tale.
‘It was misty over the loch, just like this. He was wearing gloves. Black-leather ones, I think. And this weird hood.’
‘Weird in what way – can you describe it to me?’
‘It was black. It had two little slits for eyeholes. You know, I couldn’t even see his eyes. They were just two deep shadows. At its top it came to a point, like the ones those racists in America wear.’
Leo recalled the oddly shaped headwear worn by the dark figure in his second vision. ‘The Ku Klux Klan?’
‘Yes. And he was wearing some sort of robes; they were black, too. The robes and the hood had these weird patterns. In red.’
‘Describe them, if you please.’
‘A kind of a star with something superimposed on it, like an animal’s head’
‘A goat’s head?’
‘It could have been a goat, yes. There was other stuff too. Geometric shapes… like diagrams.’
‘Can you remember what?’
‘A pyramid… some interlinked circles – no, ovals. Another star, inside a circle –’
‘A pentacle?’
‘I don’t know what a “pentacle” is.’ She turned to face him. ‘I can’t remember any more shapes.’
‘Then what happened?’
‘We walked up, towards the rhododendron paths.’
‘Did he force you to come with him?’
‘No. I was in like, a trance. I couldn’t but follow him. It was as though it was all kind of fated.’
‘What did he have with him?’
‘A stick.’
‘What was it like?’
‘Quite thick; it looked quite heavy.’
‘Could it have been made of metal?’
‘Yes. Like copper… or brass. He also had this bundle over his shoulder.’
‘Did you see the blade?’ Leo felt desolate upon uttering this sentence in so callous a manner.
‘Not then. He had it under his robes. He bashed me over the head with the stick. It hurt like heck and I nearly passed out. Then he put the bundle and the stick down, pulled out the knife, grabbed me by the neck and started stabbing me.’
‘What height was he?’
‘About six foot. More or less.’
‘What was his build like?’
‘It was hard to tell because the robes broke up his shape, but I think he was quite broad-shouldered. And he was strong… I could tell by his grip when he had me by the throat. I thought it might be that mute who worked for the Grey Lady.’
‘Bosco.’
‘He always scared me a bit. But maybe I’m being unfair; he never did me any harm.’
Suddenly, Helen turned on her heel and raced away, into the shadows, out of sight.
Leo made to yell after her, but his voice came out faint and broken, ‘Helen – I’ll catch him for you. I promise.’
And then he sat down upon a mossy tree stump and wept.
Leo started violently. He tried to fathom what was going on. His immediate reaction was that he was being hoaxed; then he quickly realised the absurdity of the notion of a young woman, who looked exactly like Helen, abroad with a murderer on the loose on a freezing cold night wearing nothing but a thin nightie simply to prank a perfect stranger. Then he wondered if he was hallucinating. He instinctively dispelled this idea. And so he came to the rapid conclusion that this was, in fact, the phantom of Helen Addison. In spite of his previous personal experiences of the supernatural a chill ran down Leo’s spine and his skin tingled with fear as the effects of alcohol retreated rapidly within his brain. He made to speak, but the words choked in his larynx, such that he had to clear his throat and start again.
‘I-I-I’ve never been h-harmed by one in my l-life,’ he stammered, ‘thus far. Permit me to introduce myself –’
‘– I know who you are. And I know about your magic visions. I heard you talking with that policeman earlier.’
‘So you are able to… spy on folk, and listen into their conversations?’
‘Only some of the time. Why haven’t they caught him yet?’
Leo gathered his thoughts, keen to adjust himself to the surreal nature of the situation. It was crucial to make the most of this extraordinary opportunity.
‘I don’t know. Tell me who did it and I’ll tell them.’
‘I don’t know who did it. I couldn’t see his face. It was covered.’
‘Damn!’
‘Yep.’
‘Helen, I’m so sorry about what happened to you. The police, and myself, we’ll do everything we possibly can to catch this character and make sure he’s punished.’
‘He’ll be punished, one way or the other. Eventually. I’m just afraid he’s going to do it again.’
‘I understand.’
‘Well then?’
‘I only arrived today. Yesterday, rather,’ he said, glancing at his wristwatch.
‘So, what will you do?’
‘I’m hoping that my being here, at Loch Dhonn, will help stimulate my visions. In the meantime, now that we’ve connected, you must tell me everything you can about your ordeal. There must be some purpose behind you not having fully passed beyond the veil yet. I know it’s not easy, but please try. Just start at the beginning.’
‘It was like I was watching myself in a movie. Like I was there, but that I wasn’t really there. I don’t remember leaving home. The first thing I can remember was standing down there, not far from the water, and seeing a little rowing boat on the loch getting nearer and nearer. I watched him reach the bank and drag the boat up. I knew it was really cold but somehow I didn’t feel it. I was watching him from the trees down there. I was transfixed by him. It was like I was rooted to the spot.’
‘I wonder what the devil he was doing out on the loch.’
‘I’ve no idea. I think he was coming from Innisdubh. That island yonder,’ she said, gesturing towards the loch. ‘I bet there are clues over there.’
‘The police must have conducted a search.’
‘Well, look again.’
Leo gazed out at the misty surface of the loch, over at the little island with the keep on it which he had seen earlier. It seemed ugly and sinister to him in the night-time. Helen leapt down from her position on the folly and landed soundlessly beside him. She was pretty, slim, petite, small-breasted. Her bobbed chestnut hair looked as black as liquorice in the night, and her eyes shone with a strange, furious candescence. She had rather elfin features, and freckles which in the pale light looked as though they had been tattooed on with henna.
When she had been alive Helen had always dreaded moments of silence between herself and others. She felt that for a conversation to go into abeyance proved a deep-seated fear of hers: that she was a dull and uninteresting person. She had overestimated what conversation actually required, often wondering what people filled their sentences with – what on earth were they talking about? Therefore she had been anxiously inclined to fill blank spaces with little outbursts of tangential chatter. Yet over the last few days she had overheard several conversations, invisible as she was to the participants. And she had gained the knowledge that folk had been largely talking a lot of blethers all along. And because of this revelation this moment seemed pleasantly novel; she felt totally centred, comfortable in her own skin (such as it was), happy to let the silence play out between her and this strange man from Glasgow, towards whom she was for some reason able to physically manifest her spectral self.
She sighed, taking in the moonlit view, then continued relating her terrible tale.
‘It was misty over the loch, just like this. He was wearing gloves. Black-leather ones, I think. And this weird hood.’
‘Weird in what way – can you describe it to me?’
‘It was black. It had two little slits for eyeholes. You know, I couldn’t even see his eyes. They were just two deep shadows. At its top it came to a point, like the ones those racists in America wear.’
Leo recalled the oddly shaped headwear worn by the dark figure in his second vision. ‘The Ku Klux Klan?’
‘Yes. And he was wearing some sort of robes; they were black, too. The robes and the hood had these weird patterns. In red.’
‘Describe them, if you please.’
‘A kind of a star with something superimposed on it, like an animal’s head’
‘A goat’s head?’
‘It could have been a goat, yes. There was other stuff too. Geometric shapes… like diagrams.’
‘Can you remember what?’
‘A pyramid… some interlinked circles – no, ovals. Another star, inside a circle –’
‘A pentacle?’
‘I don’t know what a “pentacle” is.’ She turned to face him. ‘I can’t remember any more shapes.’
‘Then what happened?’
‘We walked up, towards the rhododendron paths.’
‘Did he force you to come with him?’
‘No. I was in like, a trance. I couldn’t but follow him. It was as though it was all kind of fated.’
‘What did he have with him?’
‘A stick.’
‘What was it like?’
‘Quite thick; it looked quite heavy.’
‘Could it have been made of metal?’
‘Yes. Like copper… or brass. He also had this bundle over his shoulder.’
‘Did you see the blade?’ Leo felt desolate upon uttering this sentence in so callous a manner.
‘Not then. He had it under his robes. He bashed me over the head with the stick. It hurt like heck and I nearly passed out. Then he put the bundle and the stick down, pulled out the knife, grabbed me by the neck and started stabbing me.’
‘What height was he?’
‘About six foot. More or less.’
‘What was his build like?’
‘It was hard to tell because the robes broke up his shape, but I think he was quite broad-shouldered. And he was strong… I could tell by his grip when he had me by the throat. I thought it might be that mute who worked for the Grey Lady.’
‘Bosco.’
‘He always scared me a bit. But maybe I’m being unfair; he never did me any harm.’
Suddenly, Helen turned on her heel and raced away, into the shadows, out of sight.
Leo made to yell after her, but his voice came out faint and broken, ‘Helen – I’ll catch him for you. I promise.’
And then he sat down upon a mossy tree stump and wept.
The Ghost of Helen Addison Excerpt II
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The islet Innisdara took its name from the Irish hermit saint who lived there in glorious contemplation for twenty years during the seventh century. Its main features were the remains of Dara’s cell and the ruins of a twelfth-century chapel dedicated to him. It was here that Fordyce and Leo visited first. They half-beached the little dinghy on a pebbled southern shore and secured it to a nearby tree. Scrub and young woodland bordered the little bay, and a burn ran into the water.
‘We can follow this stream up to the chapel,’ suggested Fordyce.
A little track took them up a steep incline, and the burn tumbled through a mossy gorge a dozen or so feet below to their right. Despite the time of year there was still enough coniferous foliage to obstruct their passage and they had to be careful not to slip on residual patches of snow and ice. They happened upon the remains of the odd man-made fire, one of which was strewn with rusted lager cans, evidence of teenage tippling. Leo tut-tutted in disapproval, and scooped the cans into a neat pile with his shoe.
Further on, the track flattened out and the trees cleared. Down a gentle slope of rough grass sat what was left of the chapel, and beyond that what Fordyce would identify as Dara’s cell, which was merely a scattering of white stones.
‘The church was in use right up until the Reformation,’ Fordyce said.
‘If you look inside you can see the Latin inscriptions on what was the altar stone.’
The nave was muddy, and clotted with heather and blackened bracken. A large Celtic cross, about eight feet in height, was propped up against the northern wall. A plaque explained that it was one of the finest examples of late Dalriadan carving in existence, and that it had originated in Kintyre. At its centre was a raised spiralled boss, from which low-relief knotwork stretched out through the limbs with no beginning and no end, because all things belong and are interconnected.
Leo wondered aloud how they had managed to transport it all this way north and across the water. ‘It must weigh two tons!’
According to the plaque, the cross had been broken maliciously during the time of Knox and brought here for safekeeping. Leo ran his fingertip along a jagged scar of cement, where the fracture had been.
‘Anything?’ asked Fordyce.
‘Pardon?’
‘I mean regarding your powers . . . are you feeling anything, any vibes about this place?’
‘It doesn’t always work like that.’
‘Oh, sorry.’
‘I do think that this is a sacred place, Fordyce.’ Leo smiled. ‘I think Saint Dara was a good man; he imbued this island with good feelings.’
And you are a good man too, Fordyce Greatorix, Leo thought to himself about his newfound companion. They wandered past some ancient graves and through a charming little meadow, then through a screen of pines and onto the northern shore. Leo’s attention was arrested by the sound of a horn emanating loudly from the other side of the loch. He glanced up to see a diesel locomotive, which was hauling two dozen empty timber wagons, carefully negotiating a sharp curve in the line which led into the great pass he had noticed upon his arrival.
‘That’s Stob’s Bend,’ explained Fordyce. ‘It’s the only point at which the railway skirts Loch Dhonn, as it enters the Lairig Lom. It’s a blind corner, so the trains have to go dead slow in order to enter it safely. They always sound their horns.’
They walked a complete circumference of the island, before returning to the boat by crossing via a different, lonelier path than the original one.
Leo launched the Fairy Queen by planting an oar on the loch bed and pushing downwards. ‘Right. Now for Innisdubh,’ he declared.
Fordyce started the engine and took the tiller, and steered the boat round Innisdara and towards Innisdubh, about a half-mile away. Leo looked over at the mainland, noticing an ugly scar of stubble on the hillside above the village where commercial forestry had recently been harvested. A mood of nautical whimsy overtook him and he couldn’t resist making a series of light-hearted references to the ‘aft’ and the ‘foc’sle’. A snell wind suddenly whipped up the strait’s surface and the little outboard protested, whining like a buzzsaw as they rode the waves.
Leo and Fordyce instinctively pulled their headgear down to shield their faces, and hunched their shoulders to keep warm. Leo produced his hip flask and unscrewed the cap. Fordyce, who was still hungover, took a tentative swig; Leo took a long draught.
Other than Innisdara, Innisdubh was the only island of significant size on Loch Dhonn. It was slightly the larger of these two and sat rather by itself to the north, whereas Innisdara had the close companionship of several calf isles, some of which were virtually linked by sand spits. Innisdubh was a forebidding prospect. Unlike Innisdara it was surrounded by rocks, which made the waters there treacherous, and it took an experienced helmsman to negotiate a landing at the only possible place, at the south-eastern corner. Much of Innisdubh’s coast comprised steep slopes of black quartz, and at its western end the land came to an ugly jagged peak which jutted out pugnaciously over a sheer drop below. It was no accident that the ancient chieftains of Caradyne chose this for their citadel, Fordyce told Leo, such were its natural defences. The medieval keep was the chief man-made feature of the place, which was more thickly wooded than Innisdara. Dotted around these woods were tombs and mausoleums of various dead lords and their kin. The islet was also notable for several Iron Age standing stones.
Fordyce had to take care to avoid a colony of ill-tempered Canada geese, before cutting the outboard and skilfully ferrying them to shore using the oars. They landed at a small strand of dull flint which was fouled by decomposed vegetation and aquatic weeds. Leo stood upright in the bow, scanning the ground in front of him. A little apron of dark sand between the water and the flint was disturbed by different human visitations, footprints and also the marks left by various boats.
‘Looking for something, old stick?’ enquired Fordyce.
‘Yes: an indentation similar to the one we just saw on the mainland. An indentation made by a boat – the same boat – having been hauled ashore. And behold – there it is!’ Leo announced excitedly, pointing at a groove which bore the distinctive tramline pattern. He leapt ashore, withdrew his little tape measure and bent down to confirm the match. He then produced his phone and took a photograph of the evidence. ‘However, there are no shoeprints on this sand which match the one we saw earlier, the ones the police had taken a cast of.’
Leo and Fordyce had to get their shoes wet again in order to drag the dinghy beyond the waterline and away from the hazard of the rocks. Leo withdrew a box of miniature Cohibas, a little luxury to compensate for his cold extremities, and offered one to Fordyce.
‘No, thank you. I can’t seem to take to the things.’
Leo lit his and set off through the trees into the dark heart of Innisdubh, his flesh creeping at the ancient malevolence that seemed to inhabit the place.
The keep was in remarkably good condition considering its antiquity. A portion of the inland-facing wall had collapsed, affording one a partial view of the tower’s interior.
‘It was built by the Green Lord in the thirteenth century.’
‘Pardon my ignorance, Fordyce, but who was the Green Lord?’
‘Sorry, old stick. He was a notoriously cruel clan chieftain who, legend has it, impaled several of his enemies and left their bodies to rot on the stake for months on end, as a warning to folk to toe the line. One day the locals turned against him and hanged him from the rafters of the keep. First, they slit his belly open so that his innards would spill out when the rope tightened.’
‘Why was he called the Green Lord?’
‘Because it is said that they left him hanging up there so long that his face turned green. It was their means of revenge. You see that stone over there?’ Fordyce indicated a large, rough-hewn slab. ‘That’s where he’s buried. As I mentioned, all the chieftains and barons of Caradyne are buried around here.’
They walked over to the slab, and Leo examined the faded Latin inscriptions and rudimentary caricatures of gargoyles, serpents, griffins and dragons.
‘It’s really odd,’ said Leo.
‘What is?’
‘Why they chose to be buried over here, rather than on Innisdara, where the church is. A holy place.’
‘Perhaps the locals didn’t want the Green Lord buried on consecrated ground.’
‘Good thinking. And in doing so started a tradition, such that all his descendants were laid to rest on Innisdubh.’
Next to the Green Lord’s grave was a hideous modern tomb of black marble and granite which stood about seven feet tall. It was devoid of Christian markings, and upon the frontage was carved a long and complex series of runic lettering, surrounded by occult symbols including fylfots, trapeziums and skulls. Leo was intrigued, and traced his fingers over some of these strange hieroglyphics. A couple of them were similar to ones described to him by Helen, which had been on her killer’s robes.
‘That, I believe, is where the thirteenth baron is interred,’ said Fordyce in a low voice.
Leo took several photographs of the engravings. He realised that some of the symbols were Masonic, and he wondered what degree of the Craft the old baron had attained and what dire initiations he had fulfilled. A little further on was the most impressive sepulchre of all, a proper, walk-in mausoleum belonging to the tenth baron who had died in the year 1801. Fordyce hesitated, then followed Leo down a short flight of stairs and stepped into the vestibule which smelled of dampness and old masonry. Leo tried the iron double doors that sealed off the main chamber, but they wouldn’t budge. He withdrew his pencil torch from his detective’s kit, which revealed a padlock on a hasp.
‘The lock looks recent: late twentieth or twenty-first-century,’ he noted. ‘Oh well, nothing ventured.’
Fordyce exhaled and hurried back up the stairs, secretly relieved that Leo’s quest to enter such a ghastly place had been frustrated. They walked further round the island, through some woods which opened into a stagnant little heath. Towards the loch the ground fell away sharply, and below there was a grove of melancholy ash trees, flooded by water which was brown with deposits. A deep fungal smell assailed the men’s senses and Leo took in an impressive circle of druidic standing stones.
‘Innisdubh indeed has a dark past,’ said Fordyce. ‘If Innisdara is the island of the blessed then this is its delinquent sibling. Archaeologists have speculated that it was used by the Celts as a place for human sacrifice.
They excavated a part of the shore which was once below the waterline and found human bones. The ancients believed that where land met water was a mystical place, a junction between this world and the other world.’
The largest stone had long since collapsed and lay on its side like a mammoth building block. Leo stooped to examine its surface. He withdrew a little plastic bag from his detective’s kit and picked the item up with a pencil.
‘What have you got there, old stick?’
‘Signs and wonders, dear boy, signs and wonders.’
‘It’s just a dead toad,’ observed Fordyce, crouching down alongside Leo to examine the item dangling from the end of the pencil.
‘Not quite. It is part of a dead toad,’ said Leo, dropping the thing into the bag and slipping it into a pocket before again scanning the huge stone. He noticed something else, withdrew a magnifying glass, and held it between his eye and the face of the rock.
‘Et voilà!’ he exclaimed.
‘What’s that? It’s just a blob of tar.’
‘Wrong again, I’m afraid. It’s candle wax. Someone’s been dabbling in things they shouldn’t be dabbling in.’
‘Gosh, it must be hellishly ticklish to be a dick!’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘You know, a dick – a private eye, a detective.’
‘Oh. Yes, it is rather,’ said Leo a touch smugly, as he stowed away his glass and sealed the wax in another little plastic bag.
‘And you do resemble Sherlock Holmes somewhat with that eyeglass and that deerstalker. Anyway, what do you mean when you say someone’s been dabbling illicitly. Dabbling in what, pray tell?’
Before Leo had a chance to explain, a distant, angry voice arrested their attention. They both looked northwards, out over the loch, where a sailing dinghy not dissimilar to the Fairy Queen bobbed upon the swell. There were two men on board. One, a florid-faced character wearing the tweedy outfit of the country gent, shouted over urgently. Leo strained to hear.
‘Pardon?’
‘I said you, arsehole, what are you doing on my island?’
So affronted was Leo that he was rendered speechless. And so he turned his back to his antagonist, unbuckled his belt, unbuttoned his waistband, unzipped his fly, peeled down his trousers and underwear, and bent over, to provide a full and magnificent view of his arse. He even patted his white rear cheeks as though to further establish the point. Leo resumed his dress and his dignity, a little shocked by his own ungentlemanly riposte. He placed his binoculars to his eyes and gazed out at his slack-jawed antagonist. Now it was his turn to be rendered speechless. The other man, however, a heavy-set, middle-aged, evil-looking customer with shadowy jowls and deep eye sockets, looked quite impassive. Amused, even. He grinned malevolently at Leo as he gripped the oars in his enormous hands.
Fordyce’s initial astonishment gave way to mirth, and he dunted Leo on the back to congratulate him on his unorthodox victory. They watched as the sinister man pulled the oars inside the boat, started the engine and steered the vessel in the direction of the boatyard.
‘You do realise that was the fifteenth baron of Caradyne?’
‘No.’
‘No prizes for guessing which clan his house is liege to.’
‘I am glad for having offended this man. I have heard of the Caradynes; they owned land in Glasgow. They grossly insulted my family, more than a century ago. Of course his people wouldn’t record a slight against a bunch of ignorant Micks, but our memories are more enduring.’
After a further inspection of the area proved fruitless, they headed back towards the boat. On the way Fordyce filled Leo in about the feudal baron.
‘He lives in the great house above the village of Caradyne, which is a few miles south on the other side of the loch. He still owns much of the land over there, but he only thinks he owns the islands. In fact, they were sold to the MacArthurs – the so-called Grey Lady’s lot – by the thirteenth baron. Yet the Caradynes think themselves the rightful masters of all they survey and have been trying to wangle out of it ever since, saying that the deal was only for the walled parkland and gardens on the eastern bank – where we were earlier. The baron has powerful blood allies, but they haven’t been able to trick the islands back into their possession.’
‘Why are they so keen to keep folk off?’
‘Family pride, I suppose. He’s always hated the fact that Lady Audubon-MacArthur granted the public free access to the islands, even in the days before the right to roam Act.’
The return crossing, rather choppy due to the squall, combined with the whisky from the hip flask, the cigar smoke and the excessive portions he had consumed at breakfast, made Leo feel slightly dizzy and a little nauseous, and he was glad to step back onto terra firma. He took a few minutes to rest by the lochside. The baron’s boat, Argus, was already fettered to the jetty, and there was no sign of its owner or his manservant.
Leo helped Fordyce reinstall the Fairy Queen in her shed and then stated his intention to provide DI Lang with an update. Fordyce said he would take the opportunity to finish some tasks at the boatyard. Before he left, Leo turned to his companion.
‘Fordyce, one thing: this hermit fellow . . .’
‘James Millar.’
‘Yes. How did his wife die?’
‘It happened in Turkey, while they were on holiday. It was in the papers and everything. She was murdered.’
‘We can follow this stream up to the chapel,’ suggested Fordyce.
A little track took them up a steep incline, and the burn tumbled through a mossy gorge a dozen or so feet below to their right. Despite the time of year there was still enough coniferous foliage to obstruct their passage and they had to be careful not to slip on residual patches of snow and ice. They happened upon the remains of the odd man-made fire, one of which was strewn with rusted lager cans, evidence of teenage tippling. Leo tut-tutted in disapproval, and scooped the cans into a neat pile with his shoe.
Further on, the track flattened out and the trees cleared. Down a gentle slope of rough grass sat what was left of the chapel, and beyond that what Fordyce would identify as Dara’s cell, which was merely a scattering of white stones.
‘The church was in use right up until the Reformation,’ Fordyce said.
‘If you look inside you can see the Latin inscriptions on what was the altar stone.’
The nave was muddy, and clotted with heather and blackened bracken. A large Celtic cross, about eight feet in height, was propped up against the northern wall. A plaque explained that it was one of the finest examples of late Dalriadan carving in existence, and that it had originated in Kintyre. At its centre was a raised spiralled boss, from which low-relief knotwork stretched out through the limbs with no beginning and no end, because all things belong and are interconnected.
Leo wondered aloud how they had managed to transport it all this way north and across the water. ‘It must weigh two tons!’
According to the plaque, the cross had been broken maliciously during the time of Knox and brought here for safekeeping. Leo ran his fingertip along a jagged scar of cement, where the fracture had been.
‘Anything?’ asked Fordyce.
‘Pardon?’
‘I mean regarding your powers . . . are you feeling anything, any vibes about this place?’
‘It doesn’t always work like that.’
‘Oh, sorry.’
‘I do think that this is a sacred place, Fordyce.’ Leo smiled. ‘I think Saint Dara was a good man; he imbued this island with good feelings.’
And you are a good man too, Fordyce Greatorix, Leo thought to himself about his newfound companion. They wandered past some ancient graves and through a charming little meadow, then through a screen of pines and onto the northern shore. Leo’s attention was arrested by the sound of a horn emanating loudly from the other side of the loch. He glanced up to see a diesel locomotive, which was hauling two dozen empty timber wagons, carefully negotiating a sharp curve in the line which led into the great pass he had noticed upon his arrival.
‘That’s Stob’s Bend,’ explained Fordyce. ‘It’s the only point at which the railway skirts Loch Dhonn, as it enters the Lairig Lom. It’s a blind corner, so the trains have to go dead slow in order to enter it safely. They always sound their horns.’
They walked a complete circumference of the island, before returning to the boat by crossing via a different, lonelier path than the original one.
Leo launched the Fairy Queen by planting an oar on the loch bed and pushing downwards. ‘Right. Now for Innisdubh,’ he declared.
Fordyce started the engine and took the tiller, and steered the boat round Innisdara and towards Innisdubh, about a half-mile away. Leo looked over at the mainland, noticing an ugly scar of stubble on the hillside above the village where commercial forestry had recently been harvested. A mood of nautical whimsy overtook him and he couldn’t resist making a series of light-hearted references to the ‘aft’ and the ‘foc’sle’. A snell wind suddenly whipped up the strait’s surface and the little outboard protested, whining like a buzzsaw as they rode the waves.
Leo and Fordyce instinctively pulled their headgear down to shield their faces, and hunched their shoulders to keep warm. Leo produced his hip flask and unscrewed the cap. Fordyce, who was still hungover, took a tentative swig; Leo took a long draught.
Other than Innisdara, Innisdubh was the only island of significant size on Loch Dhonn. It was slightly the larger of these two and sat rather by itself to the north, whereas Innisdara had the close companionship of several calf isles, some of which were virtually linked by sand spits. Innisdubh was a forebidding prospect. Unlike Innisdara it was surrounded by rocks, which made the waters there treacherous, and it took an experienced helmsman to negotiate a landing at the only possible place, at the south-eastern corner. Much of Innisdubh’s coast comprised steep slopes of black quartz, and at its western end the land came to an ugly jagged peak which jutted out pugnaciously over a sheer drop below. It was no accident that the ancient chieftains of Caradyne chose this for their citadel, Fordyce told Leo, such were its natural defences. The medieval keep was the chief man-made feature of the place, which was more thickly wooded than Innisdara. Dotted around these woods were tombs and mausoleums of various dead lords and their kin. The islet was also notable for several Iron Age standing stones.
Fordyce had to take care to avoid a colony of ill-tempered Canada geese, before cutting the outboard and skilfully ferrying them to shore using the oars. They landed at a small strand of dull flint which was fouled by decomposed vegetation and aquatic weeds. Leo stood upright in the bow, scanning the ground in front of him. A little apron of dark sand between the water and the flint was disturbed by different human visitations, footprints and also the marks left by various boats.
‘Looking for something, old stick?’ enquired Fordyce.
‘Yes: an indentation similar to the one we just saw on the mainland. An indentation made by a boat – the same boat – having been hauled ashore. And behold – there it is!’ Leo announced excitedly, pointing at a groove which bore the distinctive tramline pattern. He leapt ashore, withdrew his little tape measure and bent down to confirm the match. He then produced his phone and took a photograph of the evidence. ‘However, there are no shoeprints on this sand which match the one we saw earlier, the ones the police had taken a cast of.’
Leo and Fordyce had to get their shoes wet again in order to drag the dinghy beyond the waterline and away from the hazard of the rocks. Leo withdrew a box of miniature Cohibas, a little luxury to compensate for his cold extremities, and offered one to Fordyce.
‘No, thank you. I can’t seem to take to the things.’
Leo lit his and set off through the trees into the dark heart of Innisdubh, his flesh creeping at the ancient malevolence that seemed to inhabit the place.
The keep was in remarkably good condition considering its antiquity. A portion of the inland-facing wall had collapsed, affording one a partial view of the tower’s interior.
‘It was built by the Green Lord in the thirteenth century.’
‘Pardon my ignorance, Fordyce, but who was the Green Lord?’
‘Sorry, old stick. He was a notoriously cruel clan chieftain who, legend has it, impaled several of his enemies and left their bodies to rot on the stake for months on end, as a warning to folk to toe the line. One day the locals turned against him and hanged him from the rafters of the keep. First, they slit his belly open so that his innards would spill out when the rope tightened.’
‘Why was he called the Green Lord?’
‘Because it is said that they left him hanging up there so long that his face turned green. It was their means of revenge. You see that stone over there?’ Fordyce indicated a large, rough-hewn slab. ‘That’s where he’s buried. As I mentioned, all the chieftains and barons of Caradyne are buried around here.’
They walked over to the slab, and Leo examined the faded Latin inscriptions and rudimentary caricatures of gargoyles, serpents, griffins and dragons.
‘It’s really odd,’ said Leo.
‘What is?’
‘Why they chose to be buried over here, rather than on Innisdara, where the church is. A holy place.’
‘Perhaps the locals didn’t want the Green Lord buried on consecrated ground.’
‘Good thinking. And in doing so started a tradition, such that all his descendants were laid to rest on Innisdubh.’
Next to the Green Lord’s grave was a hideous modern tomb of black marble and granite which stood about seven feet tall. It was devoid of Christian markings, and upon the frontage was carved a long and complex series of runic lettering, surrounded by occult symbols including fylfots, trapeziums and skulls. Leo was intrigued, and traced his fingers over some of these strange hieroglyphics. A couple of them were similar to ones described to him by Helen, which had been on her killer’s robes.
‘That, I believe, is where the thirteenth baron is interred,’ said Fordyce in a low voice.
Leo took several photographs of the engravings. He realised that some of the symbols were Masonic, and he wondered what degree of the Craft the old baron had attained and what dire initiations he had fulfilled. A little further on was the most impressive sepulchre of all, a proper, walk-in mausoleum belonging to the tenth baron who had died in the year 1801. Fordyce hesitated, then followed Leo down a short flight of stairs and stepped into the vestibule which smelled of dampness and old masonry. Leo tried the iron double doors that sealed off the main chamber, but they wouldn’t budge. He withdrew his pencil torch from his detective’s kit, which revealed a padlock on a hasp.
‘The lock looks recent: late twentieth or twenty-first-century,’ he noted. ‘Oh well, nothing ventured.’
Fordyce exhaled and hurried back up the stairs, secretly relieved that Leo’s quest to enter such a ghastly place had been frustrated. They walked further round the island, through some woods which opened into a stagnant little heath. Towards the loch the ground fell away sharply, and below there was a grove of melancholy ash trees, flooded by water which was brown with deposits. A deep fungal smell assailed the men’s senses and Leo took in an impressive circle of druidic standing stones.
‘Innisdubh indeed has a dark past,’ said Fordyce. ‘If Innisdara is the island of the blessed then this is its delinquent sibling. Archaeologists have speculated that it was used by the Celts as a place for human sacrifice.
They excavated a part of the shore which was once below the waterline and found human bones. The ancients believed that where land met water was a mystical place, a junction between this world and the other world.’
The largest stone had long since collapsed and lay on its side like a mammoth building block. Leo stooped to examine its surface. He withdrew a little plastic bag from his detective’s kit and picked the item up with a pencil.
‘What have you got there, old stick?’
‘Signs and wonders, dear boy, signs and wonders.’
‘It’s just a dead toad,’ observed Fordyce, crouching down alongside Leo to examine the item dangling from the end of the pencil.
‘Not quite. It is part of a dead toad,’ said Leo, dropping the thing into the bag and slipping it into a pocket before again scanning the huge stone. He noticed something else, withdrew a magnifying glass, and held it between his eye and the face of the rock.
‘Et voilà!’ he exclaimed.
‘What’s that? It’s just a blob of tar.’
‘Wrong again, I’m afraid. It’s candle wax. Someone’s been dabbling in things they shouldn’t be dabbling in.’
‘Gosh, it must be hellishly ticklish to be a dick!’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘You know, a dick – a private eye, a detective.’
‘Oh. Yes, it is rather,’ said Leo a touch smugly, as he stowed away his glass and sealed the wax in another little plastic bag.
‘And you do resemble Sherlock Holmes somewhat with that eyeglass and that deerstalker. Anyway, what do you mean when you say someone’s been dabbling illicitly. Dabbling in what, pray tell?’
Before Leo had a chance to explain, a distant, angry voice arrested their attention. They both looked northwards, out over the loch, where a sailing dinghy not dissimilar to the Fairy Queen bobbed upon the swell. There were two men on board. One, a florid-faced character wearing the tweedy outfit of the country gent, shouted over urgently. Leo strained to hear.
‘Pardon?’
‘I said you, arsehole, what are you doing on my island?’
So affronted was Leo that he was rendered speechless. And so he turned his back to his antagonist, unbuckled his belt, unbuttoned his waistband, unzipped his fly, peeled down his trousers and underwear, and bent over, to provide a full and magnificent view of his arse. He even patted his white rear cheeks as though to further establish the point. Leo resumed his dress and his dignity, a little shocked by his own ungentlemanly riposte. He placed his binoculars to his eyes and gazed out at his slack-jawed antagonist. Now it was his turn to be rendered speechless. The other man, however, a heavy-set, middle-aged, evil-looking customer with shadowy jowls and deep eye sockets, looked quite impassive. Amused, even. He grinned malevolently at Leo as he gripped the oars in his enormous hands.
Fordyce’s initial astonishment gave way to mirth, and he dunted Leo on the back to congratulate him on his unorthodox victory. They watched as the sinister man pulled the oars inside the boat, started the engine and steered the vessel in the direction of the boatyard.
‘You do realise that was the fifteenth baron of Caradyne?’
‘No.’
‘No prizes for guessing which clan his house is liege to.’
‘I am glad for having offended this man. I have heard of the Caradynes; they owned land in Glasgow. They grossly insulted my family, more than a century ago. Of course his people wouldn’t record a slight against a bunch of ignorant Micks, but our memories are more enduring.’
After a further inspection of the area proved fruitless, they headed back towards the boat. On the way Fordyce filled Leo in about the feudal baron.
‘He lives in the great house above the village of Caradyne, which is a few miles south on the other side of the loch. He still owns much of the land over there, but he only thinks he owns the islands. In fact, they were sold to the MacArthurs – the so-called Grey Lady’s lot – by the thirteenth baron. Yet the Caradynes think themselves the rightful masters of all they survey and have been trying to wangle out of it ever since, saying that the deal was only for the walled parkland and gardens on the eastern bank – where we were earlier. The baron has powerful blood allies, but they haven’t been able to trick the islands back into their possession.’
‘Why are they so keen to keep folk off?’
‘Family pride, I suppose. He’s always hated the fact that Lady Audubon-MacArthur granted the public free access to the islands, even in the days before the right to roam Act.’
The return crossing, rather choppy due to the squall, combined with the whisky from the hip flask, the cigar smoke and the excessive portions he had consumed at breakfast, made Leo feel slightly dizzy and a little nauseous, and he was glad to step back onto terra firma. He took a few minutes to rest by the lochside. The baron’s boat, Argus, was already fettered to the jetty, and there was no sign of its owner or his manservant.
Leo helped Fordyce reinstall the Fairy Queen in her shed and then stated his intention to provide DI Lang with an update. Fordyce said he would take the opportunity to finish some tasks at the boatyard. Before he left, Leo turned to his companion.
‘Fordyce, one thing: this hermit fellow . . .’
‘James Millar.’
‘Yes. How did his wife die?’
‘It happened in Turkey, while they were on holiday. It was in the papers and everything. She was murdered.’
The Ghost of Helen Addison Excerpt III
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McKee dropped Leo at the impressive gates of Fallasky House, which were entwined with two wrought-iron serpents. Fading coats of arms were embossed upon the gateposts. He tried the handle and the right hand gate opened with a creak worthy of any Hammer film. He walked up the cinder path towards the house, beneath a louring sky, taking in the environs as he went. Within thickets of rhododendron, laurel and holly he could discern a grotto shrine to Our Lady of the Snows with a perfect white statue in ecstatic contemplation. Set upon the splendid lawn were dormant display beds, various classical statues, a bird bath, a lectern shaped sundial and, by a pond, a weeping willow which Leo imagined would look magnificent in summertime. He had a sense that acres of enclosed policies stretched out from the opposite side of the mansion.
The breeze hissed in a chase of huge fir trees which overlooked the southern side of the lawn and house, and a pair of hooded crows croaked irascibly as they hopped around, patrolling their territory. The brisk wind seemed to add a melodramatic edge to Leo’s mission; he fancied for a moment he was being filmed in movie close-up.
Fallasky House itself was beautiful if rather creepy. The façade was of blond stone which had been aged by more than a century and a half’s exposure to weather, and further darkened by spreading tendrils of ivy.
The south wing was a square tower with parapet, from which extended the main spine of the edifice. Off this projected three front gables with the original sash windows still in place. These gables were craw-stepped in a paler stone from the facing, and ten magnificent chimneys and several dormer windows protruded from the roofs. Leo pretended not to notice the figure watching him from one of these. He must have presented rather a curious customer as he strode forth armed with Fordyce’s walking stick, his head swathed in bandages, a tuft of unmanageable mouse brown hair sticking up, his expressive face betraying his every thought as he surveyed the scene.
The rain had intensified, so Leo was glad to make the porch and pull the bell. As he waited he scraped his shoes and admired the fine, dark-red wrought-iron lacework. In a while the door opened.
Leo could barely discern the person framed by the gloom of the hallway, but after a pregnant period a voice called out stridently, at last putting him at his ease: ‘You must be Leo! Do come in out of that beastly dreich weather.’
‘Thank you, madam.’
‘Please, call me Jane – any friend of Fordyce’s, and all that.’
Once in the hallway Leo’s eyes quickly adapted to the light. It was a fine, late Georgian chamber, the floor tiled in an oblique geometric pattern of gold, rose and violet which shot off down corridors to either side. A stunning chandelier filled the stairwell. A grand staircase with heavy mahogany banisters curved up from the left to a half-landing, beneath which was an archway leading to the rear quarters. Above the landing was the hall’s, and indeed the entire house’s, centrepiece: a marvellous window depicting the birth of spring, and Leo, ever the aesthete, couldn’t help but stare at it in awe.
‘You like the window?’
‘I don’t believe I’ve ever seen anything so perfect!’
‘You are most kind. Grandpapa, like his father, was a Victorian Romantic and polymath, and among other architectural items he championed stained glass. He had it commissioned after we lost the original – a far plainer affair – in a storm. When the sun shines in through it on a summer’s morn it is like standing inside a Kandinsky.’
Suddenly, Leo could feel his father’s eyes upon him, and he resolved not to be seduced by the opulence and glamour of nobility. Such is how the Establishment recruits its minions and perpetuates itself, he chided. Instead, think upon the poverty wages that built this mansion. Think upon the crime behind every great fortune. Think of the skilled, hardworking craftsmen who were paid a pittance as the rich luxuriated amid splendour they hadn’t lifted a finger to create.
Yet Leo couldn’t help but like the Grey Lady. She had the inevitable Anglicised accent, with a slightly husky smoker’s catch, but something about her demeanour was down-to-earth and not in the least stuffy. She was aged approximately seventy and wore her grey hair, which was straight and quite long, down. Her eyes, too, were grey, and sparkled with wit and intelligence. She was attired in a mocha long-sleeved dress with a crocheted bodice. However, these muted tones clashed eccentrically with her bright stockings and loud silk scarf, printed with images of botanical blooms, under which she wore purple heliotrope beads and a yellow-gold Celtic cross. Such vibrant colours were converse to her local sobriquet, Leo noted.
She led him down the corridor, which was lined with renderings of various solemn, long-dead ancestors, scowling absurdly under effete tartan bonnets, and alcoves housing fine busts of the principal Stoic philosophers, towards the south wing.
‘There was a time when this poor old house was fully staffed,’ she informed him as they walked. ‘Now it is just Bosco, when he’s around, two Ugandan women who come in once a fortnight, and a whole lot of dust covers. Many of the rooms haven’t been opened in years.’
The Grey Lady’s voice was forthright and authoritative. Leo enjoyed the clipped way in which she pronounced her syllables. She led him into an exquisite drawing room which, unlike the cold halls, was properly heated by a blaze of fir heartwood burning merrily between two fine Jacobean firedogs. This was surrounded by a huge fireplace carved from Carrara marble, which towered above Leo. The room was decorated in two-tone turquoise, which contrasted with extensive white-painted wooden panelling and delicately moulded stucco forms and medallions on the ceilings and walls. The south window, which looked out on to the chase of fir trees, was dressed with huge satin drapes, and flanked by two magnificent Grecian columns, finished with cloudy pale-blue ersatz marble and topped with ivory-painted scrolled capitals. Upon the north wall was mounted a large canvas, Stag Hunt in the Snow, by Jan Fyt.
‘Do sit down,’ implored the Grey Lady, gesturing towards an elegant rosewood suite upholstered in Persian-blue fabric. Leo guessed it was a Chippendale reproduction by Edward Tolly, the renowned nineteenth-century Edinburgh cabinetmaker.
The Grey Lady busied herself at an antique Russian samovar converted to run with an electric element which was set upon a fine mother-of-pearl-inlaid cabinet.
‘It is a shame we are required to bear it alone,’ she said obliquely.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Our gifts. I foresaw your visit, prior to Fordyce’s telephone call, and the fact that you are a seer. Who first noticed that you possessed darna shealladh?’
‘A holy man.’
‘A priest? A minister?’
‘No. A Muslim mystic. We were holidaying in Baghdad when I was a five-year-old child during a tour of the Near East. My upbringing was a humble one, and this uniquely exotic trip was funded by a not-inconsiderable win by a Pools syndicate, of which my mother was a member. Anyway, we were browsing the souk when a dervish picked me up in his arms and declared to my father – may God rest his soul – in Arabic (our guide later translated): “This child is my beautiful brother. We both enjoy God’s special blessing, the power to see that which the eye cannot. May he be an instrument of truth.” I remember the fellow had wild, shining eyes, a dazzling smile, a bushy beard and a tall sikke hat. He smelled of tallow and cannabis, and had a charisma to him that spellbound everyone in the place. He performed a ritual about me, as my parents looked on rather nervously.’
‘How marvellous! My mother was a clairvoyant. She knew I was too, even when I was in the womb. Yet neither of us was blessed with your extraordinary faculty, Leo: the power of visions. With us it was just feelings, you know, intuition. And information we possessed that we had no right to know . . . it was just there. You’re Catholic, aren’t you?’
‘Via, Veritas, Vita.’
‘Good. It will fortify you for the trials that follow.’ Leo felt a shiver run down his spine. ‘I sense that you are here to investigate poor Helen’s awful murder.’
Leo didn’t answer. ‘Are you Catholic, Jane?’ he enquired, recalling the statue of Our Lady he had seen outside.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Another aspect that keeps me apart from the folk . . . down there.’
‘I’m sure they don’t hold it against you.’
‘No, but we Papists will always feel something of the outsiders in Scotland. Anyway,’ she began, suddenly shifting tack, ‘my man is innocent . . . he was with me all night.’
Leo was slightly taken aback by the abrupt change of subject. ‘How do you know for sure? He could have left his room.’
‘I mean with me. In my room. In my bed. I am a chronic insomniac, and that night I hardly slept a wink. Therefore I can testify for certain to Bosco’s innocence. Although I already knew him incapable of such an outrage.’ She noticed Leo struggling to mask his disapproval. ‘Does it shock you that the gossips are correct about my sex life?’
‘No,’ Leo fibbed. Great Scott! he thought. Everyone’s up to it these days apart from yours truly.
‘We aren’t recusants, you see: I converted to the old faith because my late husband was of French extraction. I was brought up and schooled in a very liberal fashion, and one doesn’t entirely shake off such ways.
Anyway, after all of this dreadfulness occurred I dispatched Bosco to Glasgow, as soon as the police had interviewed him.’
‘Why, might I ask?’
She raised her voice above the hissing of the samovar as she filled the teapot. ‘Because he is a strange foreigner with strong hands and a mute tongue. He is also my link to the outside world and I couldn’t bear the thought of him being the target of tittle-tattle and sideways glances.’
‘But surely the police wanted everyone to stay put?’
‘Yes, but they have no right to insist upon it,’ she replied, turning off the valve and walking over to him with a tray upon which sat the teapot, crockery and a little plate of arrowroot and Abernethy biscuits. ‘Anyway, I assured them that he would check in at a local station once he arrived in the city. Also, I told the police everything that I have just told you, about Bosco being with me that night. It’s just so difficult to gauge if those people believe one or not.’
‘I gather that Helen visited you in her capacity as a nurse. Do you think Bosco might have unintentionally . . . frightened her a little?’
‘It is possible. He certainly admired her – she was an entirely admirable person – but in a perfectly appropriate fashion. He thought her peculiarly beautiful and good. He told me so, in writing, which is how we communicate. What possible objection could there be to that?’
‘None whatsoever.’
Leo sighed inwardly as he felt the Bosco lead crumble to dust. He had come to another dead end. Loch Dhonn was quite evidently reluctant to give up its secrets. His heart sank and a feeling of frustration rose in his chest. He could hear the hooded crows cawing outside, mocking him.
‘She was indeed a fine person,’ continued the Grey Lady. ‘Kind and thoughtful, if a little unsure of herself at times – if anything that added to her charm somewhat, and self-assurance would have come with age. Youth can be so infinitely selfish and frivolous, but Helen seemed to bypass all of that.’
She poured the tea.
‘Thank you.’
She took a slice of lemon, Leo a sugar lump. He held the delicate china and took a sip, glad of the pause. The Grey Lady tactfully pretended not to notice his disfigured hands.
‘Jane, is there any history of occultism in these parts?’ asked Leo.
‘I was once told that certain residents at the Kildavannan community practised Wicca. I believe the parties in question have since moved on.’
She noticed Leo’s countenance flash with disapprobation. ‘Harmless enough, don’t you think – a couple of white witches?’ she mused, proffering a white-tipped Turkish cigarette from a cedarwood box which was lined with red felt. He decided to accept as a special treat and tapped its end gently on the tabletop. She lit it for him from a silver-plated table lighter, then one for herself. She smoked elegantly, her arm crooked and her fingers splayed.
‘Not according to Deuteronomy,’ said Leo.
‘Ah, but doesn’t that chapter also forbid divination? Surely, therefore, you and I are equally guilty?’
‘I am quite assured that our gifts are meant to serve God,’ replied Leo, ‘for it is written: “I will pour out of my Spirit on all flesh, And your sons and your daughters shall prophesy–”’
The Grey Lady interrupted him, completing the verse from Acts: ‘“And your young men shall see visions, And your old men shall dream dreams.”’
‘Quite. Anyway, I was thinking more of Satanism than mere witchery.’
‘The Baron of Caradyne’s grandfather was an occultist and a necromancer.
A horrid, lecherous man by all accounts, quite infamous around here; dear Grandpapa wouldn’t utter his name. He also dabbled in alchemy and astrology. As for actual consorting with the devil, it wouldn’t surprise me in the least.’
Leo took a meditative drag on his cigarette and exhaled two thin streams of smooth blue smoke from his nostrils. ‘Do you think there is any possibility it might have continued?’
‘Within the family, you mean? I don’t think so. Douglas, the present baron, is an inveterate twerp, but I don’t think he’s in league. Anyway, the thirteenth baron used to lock himself away in Ardchreggan House on the other side of Loch Dhonn, casting his vulgar little cantrips. Apparently, one could see flashes of weird-coloured light for miles around. Meanwhile, the estate fell into neglect, so he was forced to sell his lands on this side of the loch and the isles to my family. He then tried, unsuccessfully, to renege on the deal for the isles using legal chicanery, citing obscure, ancient charters that allegedly gave his lot ownership until the end of time. There has been bad blood between our families ever since.’
‘And the current baron sold the Mintos Ardchreggan House, which is now the Ardchreggan Hotel?’
‘Yes. By the time the thirteenth baron died it had fallen into grave disrepair. No one particularly wanted to venture there, after all the evil that had taken place, and the Caradynes kept to their main ancestral pile, which is a bit further south. There was one particularly awful story . . . but there’s no evidence.’
‘What was it?’
‘The baron had procured for himself a young woman – some foreign unfortunate, from Eastern Europe I believe, someone who didn’t speak English or Gaelic and therefore couldn’t gossip locally. He claimed that she was his housekeeper for when he was spending time at Ardchreggan.
Anyway, she stopped being seen about the place, and a legend grew up that he had murdered her, as part of one of his rituals. Apparently Grandpapa was deeply concerned and the police were eventually persuaded to question the baron, but he was adamant that the girl was lazy and had been sent back home.’
‘What about the current baron ? You don’t seem to like him.’
‘I don’t. And he’s my second cousin, I’m afraid to say. The Caradyne barons are one of the few houses in Scotland who remain openly proud to have stood alongside Butcher Cumberland at Culloden. He actually asked me to marry him, would you believe, years ago. Transparent little toad; it was glaringly obvious all he wanted was to regain his family’s former lands.’
Leo took a contemplative sip of tea.
For its part, the beast had become enthralled when it first researched the thirteenth baron’s history. It seemed seismic that a spirit so kindred in every sense should have roamed these glens a mere two generations ago.
And it had been initially terrified, then thrilled when it came to believe that the old sorcerer was communicating from the other side and guiding it in the ways of Satanism. Up until then the beast had occasionally felt a pang of shame at its own wickedness. Its lust for cruelty could seem barbaric and tawdry even to itself. Now that it was ordained by a power beyond the veil it was legitimised, somehow. And on the island of Innisdubh the magick was particularly strong, the dark power rooted deep. What an indescribably visceral thrill it was to summon it up from the ground in the dead of night.
The breeze hissed in a chase of huge fir trees which overlooked the southern side of the lawn and house, and a pair of hooded crows croaked irascibly as they hopped around, patrolling their territory. The brisk wind seemed to add a melodramatic edge to Leo’s mission; he fancied for a moment he was being filmed in movie close-up.
Fallasky House itself was beautiful if rather creepy. The façade was of blond stone which had been aged by more than a century and a half’s exposure to weather, and further darkened by spreading tendrils of ivy.
The south wing was a square tower with parapet, from which extended the main spine of the edifice. Off this projected three front gables with the original sash windows still in place. These gables were craw-stepped in a paler stone from the facing, and ten magnificent chimneys and several dormer windows protruded from the roofs. Leo pretended not to notice the figure watching him from one of these. He must have presented rather a curious customer as he strode forth armed with Fordyce’s walking stick, his head swathed in bandages, a tuft of unmanageable mouse brown hair sticking up, his expressive face betraying his every thought as he surveyed the scene.
The rain had intensified, so Leo was glad to make the porch and pull the bell. As he waited he scraped his shoes and admired the fine, dark-red wrought-iron lacework. In a while the door opened.
Leo could barely discern the person framed by the gloom of the hallway, but after a pregnant period a voice called out stridently, at last putting him at his ease: ‘You must be Leo! Do come in out of that beastly dreich weather.’
‘Thank you, madam.’
‘Please, call me Jane – any friend of Fordyce’s, and all that.’
Once in the hallway Leo’s eyes quickly adapted to the light. It was a fine, late Georgian chamber, the floor tiled in an oblique geometric pattern of gold, rose and violet which shot off down corridors to either side. A stunning chandelier filled the stairwell. A grand staircase with heavy mahogany banisters curved up from the left to a half-landing, beneath which was an archway leading to the rear quarters. Above the landing was the hall’s, and indeed the entire house’s, centrepiece: a marvellous window depicting the birth of spring, and Leo, ever the aesthete, couldn’t help but stare at it in awe.
‘You like the window?’
‘I don’t believe I’ve ever seen anything so perfect!’
‘You are most kind. Grandpapa, like his father, was a Victorian Romantic and polymath, and among other architectural items he championed stained glass. He had it commissioned after we lost the original – a far plainer affair – in a storm. When the sun shines in through it on a summer’s morn it is like standing inside a Kandinsky.’
Suddenly, Leo could feel his father’s eyes upon him, and he resolved not to be seduced by the opulence and glamour of nobility. Such is how the Establishment recruits its minions and perpetuates itself, he chided. Instead, think upon the poverty wages that built this mansion. Think upon the crime behind every great fortune. Think of the skilled, hardworking craftsmen who were paid a pittance as the rich luxuriated amid splendour they hadn’t lifted a finger to create.
Yet Leo couldn’t help but like the Grey Lady. She had the inevitable Anglicised accent, with a slightly husky smoker’s catch, but something about her demeanour was down-to-earth and not in the least stuffy. She was aged approximately seventy and wore her grey hair, which was straight and quite long, down. Her eyes, too, were grey, and sparkled with wit and intelligence. She was attired in a mocha long-sleeved dress with a crocheted bodice. However, these muted tones clashed eccentrically with her bright stockings and loud silk scarf, printed with images of botanical blooms, under which she wore purple heliotrope beads and a yellow-gold Celtic cross. Such vibrant colours were converse to her local sobriquet, Leo noted.
She led him down the corridor, which was lined with renderings of various solemn, long-dead ancestors, scowling absurdly under effete tartan bonnets, and alcoves housing fine busts of the principal Stoic philosophers, towards the south wing.
‘There was a time when this poor old house was fully staffed,’ she informed him as they walked. ‘Now it is just Bosco, when he’s around, two Ugandan women who come in once a fortnight, and a whole lot of dust covers. Many of the rooms haven’t been opened in years.’
The Grey Lady’s voice was forthright and authoritative. Leo enjoyed the clipped way in which she pronounced her syllables. She led him into an exquisite drawing room which, unlike the cold halls, was properly heated by a blaze of fir heartwood burning merrily between two fine Jacobean firedogs. This was surrounded by a huge fireplace carved from Carrara marble, which towered above Leo. The room was decorated in two-tone turquoise, which contrasted with extensive white-painted wooden panelling and delicately moulded stucco forms and medallions on the ceilings and walls. The south window, which looked out on to the chase of fir trees, was dressed with huge satin drapes, and flanked by two magnificent Grecian columns, finished with cloudy pale-blue ersatz marble and topped with ivory-painted scrolled capitals. Upon the north wall was mounted a large canvas, Stag Hunt in the Snow, by Jan Fyt.
‘Do sit down,’ implored the Grey Lady, gesturing towards an elegant rosewood suite upholstered in Persian-blue fabric. Leo guessed it was a Chippendale reproduction by Edward Tolly, the renowned nineteenth-century Edinburgh cabinetmaker.
The Grey Lady busied herself at an antique Russian samovar converted to run with an electric element which was set upon a fine mother-of-pearl-inlaid cabinet.
‘It is a shame we are required to bear it alone,’ she said obliquely.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Our gifts. I foresaw your visit, prior to Fordyce’s telephone call, and the fact that you are a seer. Who first noticed that you possessed darna shealladh?’
‘A holy man.’
‘A priest? A minister?’
‘No. A Muslim mystic. We were holidaying in Baghdad when I was a five-year-old child during a tour of the Near East. My upbringing was a humble one, and this uniquely exotic trip was funded by a not-inconsiderable win by a Pools syndicate, of which my mother was a member. Anyway, we were browsing the souk when a dervish picked me up in his arms and declared to my father – may God rest his soul – in Arabic (our guide later translated): “This child is my beautiful brother. We both enjoy God’s special blessing, the power to see that which the eye cannot. May he be an instrument of truth.” I remember the fellow had wild, shining eyes, a dazzling smile, a bushy beard and a tall sikke hat. He smelled of tallow and cannabis, and had a charisma to him that spellbound everyone in the place. He performed a ritual about me, as my parents looked on rather nervously.’
‘How marvellous! My mother was a clairvoyant. She knew I was too, even when I was in the womb. Yet neither of us was blessed with your extraordinary faculty, Leo: the power of visions. With us it was just feelings, you know, intuition. And information we possessed that we had no right to know . . . it was just there. You’re Catholic, aren’t you?’
‘Via, Veritas, Vita.’
‘Good. It will fortify you for the trials that follow.’ Leo felt a shiver run down his spine. ‘I sense that you are here to investigate poor Helen’s awful murder.’
Leo didn’t answer. ‘Are you Catholic, Jane?’ he enquired, recalling the statue of Our Lady he had seen outside.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Another aspect that keeps me apart from the folk . . . down there.’
‘I’m sure they don’t hold it against you.’
‘No, but we Papists will always feel something of the outsiders in Scotland. Anyway,’ she began, suddenly shifting tack, ‘my man is innocent . . . he was with me all night.’
Leo was slightly taken aback by the abrupt change of subject. ‘How do you know for sure? He could have left his room.’
‘I mean with me. In my room. In my bed. I am a chronic insomniac, and that night I hardly slept a wink. Therefore I can testify for certain to Bosco’s innocence. Although I already knew him incapable of such an outrage.’ She noticed Leo struggling to mask his disapproval. ‘Does it shock you that the gossips are correct about my sex life?’
‘No,’ Leo fibbed. Great Scott! he thought. Everyone’s up to it these days apart from yours truly.
‘We aren’t recusants, you see: I converted to the old faith because my late husband was of French extraction. I was brought up and schooled in a very liberal fashion, and one doesn’t entirely shake off such ways.
Anyway, after all of this dreadfulness occurred I dispatched Bosco to Glasgow, as soon as the police had interviewed him.’
‘Why, might I ask?’
She raised her voice above the hissing of the samovar as she filled the teapot. ‘Because he is a strange foreigner with strong hands and a mute tongue. He is also my link to the outside world and I couldn’t bear the thought of him being the target of tittle-tattle and sideways glances.’
‘But surely the police wanted everyone to stay put?’
‘Yes, but they have no right to insist upon it,’ she replied, turning off the valve and walking over to him with a tray upon which sat the teapot, crockery and a little plate of arrowroot and Abernethy biscuits. ‘Anyway, I assured them that he would check in at a local station once he arrived in the city. Also, I told the police everything that I have just told you, about Bosco being with me that night. It’s just so difficult to gauge if those people believe one or not.’
‘I gather that Helen visited you in her capacity as a nurse. Do you think Bosco might have unintentionally . . . frightened her a little?’
‘It is possible. He certainly admired her – she was an entirely admirable person – but in a perfectly appropriate fashion. He thought her peculiarly beautiful and good. He told me so, in writing, which is how we communicate. What possible objection could there be to that?’
‘None whatsoever.’
Leo sighed inwardly as he felt the Bosco lead crumble to dust. He had come to another dead end. Loch Dhonn was quite evidently reluctant to give up its secrets. His heart sank and a feeling of frustration rose in his chest. He could hear the hooded crows cawing outside, mocking him.
‘She was indeed a fine person,’ continued the Grey Lady. ‘Kind and thoughtful, if a little unsure of herself at times – if anything that added to her charm somewhat, and self-assurance would have come with age. Youth can be so infinitely selfish and frivolous, but Helen seemed to bypass all of that.’
She poured the tea.
‘Thank you.’
She took a slice of lemon, Leo a sugar lump. He held the delicate china and took a sip, glad of the pause. The Grey Lady tactfully pretended not to notice his disfigured hands.
‘Jane, is there any history of occultism in these parts?’ asked Leo.
‘I was once told that certain residents at the Kildavannan community practised Wicca. I believe the parties in question have since moved on.’
She noticed Leo’s countenance flash with disapprobation. ‘Harmless enough, don’t you think – a couple of white witches?’ she mused, proffering a white-tipped Turkish cigarette from a cedarwood box which was lined with red felt. He decided to accept as a special treat and tapped its end gently on the tabletop. She lit it for him from a silver-plated table lighter, then one for herself. She smoked elegantly, her arm crooked and her fingers splayed.
‘Not according to Deuteronomy,’ said Leo.
‘Ah, but doesn’t that chapter also forbid divination? Surely, therefore, you and I are equally guilty?’
‘I am quite assured that our gifts are meant to serve God,’ replied Leo, ‘for it is written: “I will pour out of my Spirit on all flesh, And your sons and your daughters shall prophesy–”’
The Grey Lady interrupted him, completing the verse from Acts: ‘“And your young men shall see visions, And your old men shall dream dreams.”’
‘Quite. Anyway, I was thinking more of Satanism than mere witchery.’
‘The Baron of Caradyne’s grandfather was an occultist and a necromancer.
A horrid, lecherous man by all accounts, quite infamous around here; dear Grandpapa wouldn’t utter his name. He also dabbled in alchemy and astrology. As for actual consorting with the devil, it wouldn’t surprise me in the least.’
Leo took a meditative drag on his cigarette and exhaled two thin streams of smooth blue smoke from his nostrils. ‘Do you think there is any possibility it might have continued?’
‘Within the family, you mean? I don’t think so. Douglas, the present baron, is an inveterate twerp, but I don’t think he’s in league. Anyway, the thirteenth baron used to lock himself away in Ardchreggan House on the other side of Loch Dhonn, casting his vulgar little cantrips. Apparently, one could see flashes of weird-coloured light for miles around. Meanwhile, the estate fell into neglect, so he was forced to sell his lands on this side of the loch and the isles to my family. He then tried, unsuccessfully, to renege on the deal for the isles using legal chicanery, citing obscure, ancient charters that allegedly gave his lot ownership until the end of time. There has been bad blood between our families ever since.’
‘And the current baron sold the Mintos Ardchreggan House, which is now the Ardchreggan Hotel?’
‘Yes. By the time the thirteenth baron died it had fallen into grave disrepair. No one particularly wanted to venture there, after all the evil that had taken place, and the Caradynes kept to their main ancestral pile, which is a bit further south. There was one particularly awful story . . . but there’s no evidence.’
‘What was it?’
‘The baron had procured for himself a young woman – some foreign unfortunate, from Eastern Europe I believe, someone who didn’t speak English or Gaelic and therefore couldn’t gossip locally. He claimed that she was his housekeeper for when he was spending time at Ardchreggan.
Anyway, she stopped being seen about the place, and a legend grew up that he had murdered her, as part of one of his rituals. Apparently Grandpapa was deeply concerned and the police were eventually persuaded to question the baron, but he was adamant that the girl was lazy and had been sent back home.’
‘What about the current baron ? You don’t seem to like him.’
‘I don’t. And he’s my second cousin, I’m afraid to say. The Caradyne barons are one of the few houses in Scotland who remain openly proud to have stood alongside Butcher Cumberland at Culloden. He actually asked me to marry him, would you believe, years ago. Transparent little toad; it was glaringly obvious all he wanted was to regain his family’s former lands.’
Leo took a contemplative sip of tea.
For its part, the beast had become enthralled when it first researched the thirteenth baron’s history. It seemed seismic that a spirit so kindred in every sense should have roamed these glens a mere two generations ago.
And it had been initially terrified, then thrilled when it came to believe that the old sorcerer was communicating from the other side and guiding it in the ways of Satanism. Up until then the beast had occasionally felt a pang of shame at its own wickedness. Its lust for cruelty could seem barbaric and tawdry even to itself. Now that it was ordained by a power beyond the veil it was legitimised, somehow. And on the island of Innisdubh the magick was particularly strong, the dark power rooted deep. What an indescribably visceral thrill it was to summon it up from the ground in the dead of night.