Loch of the Dead

by Loch of the Dead (retail) (epub)

  He lay in bed thinking about it, staring at the cracked ceiling. The yellowed curtains, paper thin, let in the already bright daylight, swaying slowly in the draught that came through the battered window. Mrs Jennings had let him spend the night, but under the strict condition that he left first thing in the morning. She’d given him a dingy, damp room on the top floor, with a bed far too small for him. He had slept with his boots on, his feet jutting out. The head nurse had mentioned that the room was free only because its elderly occupant had died the night before – as if such tales could scare away Nine-Nails McGray.

  He finally sat up and caught a glimpse of himself in the room’s tiny mirror. He did not care much for looks, but even he had to admit his appearance was rather bleak: his thick mane of black hair, specked with premature grey, was quite dishevelled, and his very square jaw, lean after years of constant strain, was covered in unkempt stubble. His eyes, wide and deep blue, were the one feature that still resembled the careless twenty-five-year-old who’d seen his sister go mad.

  McGray heard a distressed voice coming from the storey below: a woman’s voice, not one he recognized. There were thumping footsteps, followed by the angry yelling of Mrs Jennings.

  ‘Och, that fat bitch is up already,’ McGray grumbled, rubbing his eyes. The woman shouted again, a hint of despair in her voice this time. McGray let out a surly sigh, rose and donned his tartan trousers. As he stepped out of the room, wearing just the trousers and a half-unbuttoned shirt, he saw the wide woman herself hurrying towards him, followed by two younger nurses, all as pale as parchment.

  ‘What is –’

  ‘Your sister,’ said Mrs Jennings. ‘She’s gone!’

  Had she been a man, McGray would have seized her by the collar. ‘What d’ye mean, she’s gone?’

  ‘Mary here was bringing her breakfast, but the lassie is gone!’

  Mary was shaking from head to toe. ‘I’ve looked everywhere, master. The other rooms, the corridors . . .’

  ‘The kitchen and laundries,’ added the second nurse, equally anxious.

  McGray at once thought of his dream.

  ‘Youse don’t lock her room?’

  ‘We never lock any rooms,’ said Mrs Jennings with a note of pride. ‘We don’t keep prisoners here. And your sister has never done anything like this.’ She took a short step forward. ‘It is you who came and stirred the poor thing! She must have heard your shouting last night.’

  McGray wanted to punch the woman right in her rounded nose but instead he darted along the corridor towards the stairs.

  ‘I hope you are happy now!’ Mrs Jennings shouted to his back, but by then McGray was scouring the first-floor rooms.

  ‘No use, master,’ said the nurse Mary, who’d run right behind him. ‘We checked every room in the building before I even raised the alarm.’

  ‘Outside . . .’ McGray mumbled as he rushed to the main doors and on to the windy bay of Kirkwall. The chill of the morning hit him right in the bare chest, worsening the pang he felt as he scanned the open waters ahead of him.

  Manse Lodge sat on a lonely road that hugged the small bay, only a few yards away from the wide sandy beach where the waves roared.

  McGray unwillingly pictured Pansy running manically to the waters, perhaps hours ago, then plunging into the sea and getting forever lost in its immensity.

  ‘Pansy!,’ he bellowed, looking in every direction. The smooth, treeless grassland rolled on and on as far as the eye could see, empty and barren, almost like another sea. The only features were the houses that clustered around the harbour, half a mile away, and beyond, barely visible, was the spike of Kirkwall’s only church. But his sister was nowhere to be seen.

  McGray called for Pansy again as he ran along the bay. It was midsummer but the sun never warmed those islands very much, and his panting breath steamed up before his face. He heard the nurses come out, their voices joining his, and he felt completely powerless.

  ‘There!’ somebody yelled from behind. McGray turned and saw a young nurse pointing to the water. His heart skipped a beat.

  McGray strode in the direction the girl had signalled. The grass ended abruptly, the ground broken by the sea and descending steeply to a sandy path. The tide was low, exposing a flat beach which had been out of his sight. The wet sands glinted under the sun, the surface perfectly smooth. A loud wave had just broken, its waters rushing inland like a foamy carpet, and it was amongst that whiteness that McGray finally saw the tiny outline of Pansy.

  He rushed down, staggering over rocks, sand and seaweed, never taking his eyes from her. Pansy was utterly still, but McGray let out a long sigh of relief when he saw that at least she was standing.

  As he approached, McGray saw that his sister was still wearing her white nightgown. She’d wrapped herself in only a thin blue shawl, but most of the garment was loose and it rippled about in the strong wind, as if it were the standard of a sunken ship and Pansy was all that remained afloat.

  ‘Sister –’ he began, but then felt a hand grasp his shoulder.

  ‘She’s in her nightie,’ said Mrs Jennings, panting so hard McGray felt waves of her hot breath on his back. ‘Let me get her.’

  ‘Sod off, ye fat hag!’

  It was her words more than her hand that planted him in the ground. ‘Let her have some dignity.’

  She said it with actual sorrow – the woman could not be entirely devoid of compassion – and she strode over the sheet of water that was now flowing back to the sea. Mary came running to help, lifting her hem and splattering all about.

  As he stared at the women, both slightly shorter than his sister, McGray realized something. Time had passed for Pansy. She was not a girl any more; she was a tall, beautiful woman in her twenties, looking somehow dignified as she stared at the wild sea, her body as still as when she had stared at the gardens of the Edinburgh asylum. Seeing but not seeing.

  For the first time, McGray felt a dark, terrible certainty: Pansy would keep on growing, life would keep on passing her by, she’d grow old – and her dark-brown eyes would remain forever vacant.

  He stood on that same spot for a long while, feeling the gentle push of the water as it came and went around his feet.

  Pansy had flinched when Mrs Jennings had touched her elbow, and for an awful moment McGray had feared she’d dart into the sea. But that was all, a fleeting, sharp flinch, and at once she’d gone still again. Then the nurses guided her, one on each side, back to the lodge.

  They purposely avoided McGray, keeping Pansy as far from him as possible, and from that distance he could barely make out her features. After all his effort, after having travelled across Scotland, this was all he’d see of her.

  And he would not press further. This episode clearly was his doing, and the guilt pressed his chest more than the cold wind. Dr Clouston had been right. The man clearly understood Pansy better than he did.

  McGray dwelled on those thoughts for hours, planted firmly on the sand, his eyes lost in the sea. The sun was high in the white sky when a young man came to him. McGray had seen him come out from Manse Lodge but felt so drained he simply waited until the chap reached him.

  Are ye the peeler?’ he asked.

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘There’s a telegram for ye, sir. Hefty one too.’ And he handed McGray a thick envelope.

  It was a message from Ian Frey. Four entire pages of tele- grammed text – something only the flippant Londoner would be willing to pay for.

  McGray had read just the first lines when his pulse began to race:

  Highland woman visited. Has case for you. AND claims cure for Pansy.

  PART 1

  Do not look at wine when it is red, when it sparkles in the cup and goes down smoothly.

  In the end it bites like a serpent and stings like an adder.

  Your eyes will see strange things, and your heart utter perverse things.

  Proverbs 23:31–3

  1

  Edinburgh, 16 August, 6:45 p.m.

/>   I must admit I had to blink twice before being irrefutably convinced that she was a woman.

  Miss Millie Fletcher was vast: as tall as me, with even broader shoulders and hands so thick I as soon pictured her snapping rabbits’ necks. She nonetheless had a delicate, almost childish face – wide blue eyes with long lashes, fine rosy lips and a pointy nose – but it was as if she consciously tried to conceal any hint of that daintiness. Her cheeks were densely freckled, her skin weather-beaten, and a deep fold in her brow hardened her countenance at all times. She wore her wavy blonde hair in a very simple plait, and no adornments, no jewellery, not a speck of colour in her attire. She wore a baggy man’s jacket and plain woollen skirts, but something in her way of walking told me she was quite uncomfortable in them.

  I first encountered her in the courtyard of Edinburgh’s City Chambers, the headquarters of the Scottish police. I was keen to go home and celebrate that the long (and utterly useless) Irving-Terry-Stoker inquest was finally over. Furthermore, my dear uncle was in town, and I was eager to have a large brandy with him.

  Alas, that would have to wait. McNair, a very efficient but equally scrawny constable, was having trouble containing the woman.

  ‘I’m telling ye, he’s not here!’

  ‘Then where is he?’ she answered in a firm voice and a rich Highlands accent. ‘He’s the only one who can help me!’

  ‘For the third time, I cannae tell ye, hen. I’m sorry!’

  I was tempted to walk round them hiding my face. That woman looked just like the sort of deranged character that gravitated towards McGray, a harbinger of calamity, hogwash or a mixture of the two. Nevertheless, she looked mortified, and that truly annoying conscience of mine again betrayed me.

  ‘What is the matter, McNair?’

  The young man was relieved to see me. ‘Oh, Mr Frey, so good yer here. This lass, Millie Fletcher, wants to see Inspector McGray.’

  ‘He is not in Edinburgh,’ I said, consciously holding back that he’d gone to the Orkneys. I examined the tall woman, who rubbed her forehead in distress. ‘What is the matter?’

  ‘I’m leaving for the Highlands tomorrow first thing, but I need his help. I need to talk to him.’

  Again I wished I could shrug and walk away, but the woman was about to shed tears of frustration.

  ‘Inspector Ian Frey, madam,’ I said with a resigned sigh. ‘I am Inspector McGray’s second in command. I will hear your case, if it is so important.’

  She looked at me with suspicion. ‘Would you . . . would you mind if we spoke in private, sir? It’s a very delicate matter.’ Despite her strong accent she had a well-modulated voice, with no trace of the unintelligible dialect or baffling slang.

  ‘I was just heading home,’ I said, looking at the coach that already waited for me. ‘Would you care to join me?’

  Again she hesitated, taking a deep breath before assenting.

  She jumped on to the coach with the agility of a chimneysweep and we set off at once.

  The cab took us near the looming castle, which looked rather ghostly beneath the grey clouds. A light mist had set around its jagged mount, adding to the mythical appearance. It was still summer, but Scotland will be forever Scotland.

  Miss Fletcher seemed confused (almost alarmed) when she realized we were heading to the more elegant streets of New Town, and she whistled at the Georgian mansions on Great King Street, where I had my not-so-humble abode.

  We were received by Layton, my very thin, very English valet, who stared at Miss Fletcher with mystified eyes.

  ‘Oh, Mr Frey, I did not know you’d bring company; your good uncle –’

  ‘Please do not tell Uncle I am here. I need to discuss CID matters with this lady. Send us some drinks to my study. Tea, Miss Fletcher?’

  ‘If you don’t mind, sir, I’d prefer some whisky.’

  Rather forward for a lady, but I nodded at Layton and led Miss Fletcher upstairs.

  My private study was small but cosy, with a narrow fireplace, comfortable leather armchairs, a bearskin rug and a nice view of the sandstone mansions across the road.

  ‘Not bad for a Scotch’s den,’ Uncle had said upon his arrival.

  Layton came soon with a decanter and a few glasses on a tray. I dispatched him swiftly and closed the door, fearing Uncle Maurice would come and interrupt us in his very flamboyant way.

  Miss Fletcher had already installed herself quite confidently in one of the armchairs, and was pouring herself a liberal measure of whisky. As I sat, she served me just as much, and I thought I could not possibly drink all that before my dinner. The woman, however, downed the full drink in one gulp and poured herself a second one.

  I interlaced my fingers around the cut-glass tumbler, trying not to stare too quizzically at her. ‘So, how can I help you, Miss Fletcher?’

  I’ll be honest with you, sir. I’ve come because I was told about Mr McGray’s . . . erm . . . interests.’

  I nodded, ready to hear something most likely very silly. McGray’s subdivision, after all, was devoted to investigating the ‘odd and ghostly’, and I cannot believe I have spent nearly a bloody year under his command, chasing witches and will-o’-the-wisps.

  Miss Fletcher might well be bringing a case as absurd as that of the sly footman who claimed a goblin had killed and roasted his master’s fattest pig. I did not want to appear disrespectful, mindful of both her apparent distress and the size of her fists, so I made my questions careful.

  ‘May I ask how you came to hear about Inspector McGray?’

  ‘Yes, sir. I – well, Mrs Koloman, the lady I serve, showed me an article in the Scotsman. It mentioned Mr McGray’s involvement in that theatre affair last month.’

  ‘The Henry Irving scandal,’ I confirmed. ‘Yes, that case was – how shall I put it? Well covered by the press.’ In fact, had it not been for the murder of Clay Pipe Alice – the latest Whitechapel butchery – that case would still be monopolizing the headlines. ‘Why do you think Inspector McGray’s . . . unorthodox experience might help you?’

  I made an effort not to add that even though I’d come to – somewhat – respect McGray’s skills as a detective inspector I still thought him a reckless, deluded, loud and mentally damaged wreck.

  ‘Oh, sir, I think I am the one who can help him.’

  I tilted my head and took a small sip. ‘Do you? How?’

  The woman shook her head. ‘Well, I had better start at the beginning. I –’ She stared at the ceiling, and her expression made me think of an inexperienced diver who’s already jumped off the cliff: hesitant, fearful, but realizing it is too late to go back.

  ‘Sir, the first thing I need to tell you is something very few people know about me. And it must be in strict confidence. Can I have your word?’

  ‘Of course, miss. I am a CID inspector and a gentleman.’

  She frowned a little as her words came out. ‘I . . . well, I have a son. I had a son when I was very young, though I have never married.’ The frown grew deeper. ‘And the father was my employer’s brother.’

  I swirled my tumbler and sat back. ‘Your secret is safe with me, rest assured.’

  ‘Thank you, sir. That was sixteen years ago. I was barely a girl myself, a servant girl, with no money and no family to protect me. You can imagine the trouble I got myself into.’ She gulped the rest of the drink and put the tumbler on the table with a loud thump. ‘Maximilian Koloman was a wretched feller and told me to sod off. He said it wasn’t his child; he didn’t want anything to do with me or my son.’

  1 nodded. ‘A dreadful situation. What did you do?’

  ‘1 was so desperate I had to appeal to his brother, that is my current master, Mr Konrad Koloman, of the Kolomans of Loch Maree. Have you heard of the family?’

  ‘I am afraid I have not, but I have not spent much of my life in Scotland. How did your master take the news?’

  ‘He was very kind to me. He and his wife, Mrs Minerva. They surely showed some mercy.’

  ‘For
give my indelicacy . . . they did not doubt the parentage?’

  The lady looked at me sideways. ‘They knew Maximilian – and they knew me. They had no doubts. When I couldn’t hide my state any more they sent me to a nearby inn and I gave birth in secret. They paid for the midwife, the inn, everything, and they let me go back to my job, but the Kolomans didn’t want the entire region to know that Maximilian had fathered a bast-’ She forced a deep breath. ‘A love child.’

  Miss Fletcher went silent for a moment, and I gave her time.

  ‘Benjamin,’ she said eventually, tears now pooling in her eyes. ‘I named him Benjamin, after my late father. Mrs Koloman arranged he be sent north, to Thurso; a wee coastal town on the northernmost tip of Scotland. They knew a priest there through some family connections. My boy stayed in Thurso and was brought up in the parish. Dressed, fed, well educated. And Mr and Mrs Koloman again paid for everything.’

  I rocked my glass gently. ‘You said you were allowed to keep your job with the Kolomans. May I ask why you agreed to that? The prospect of working close to your son’s estranged father must not have been very appealing.’

  ‘It was part of the agreement, sir. They would pay for my child for as long as I worked for them and remained quiet.’

  ‘I understand. So they bought your silence and kept a close eye on you.’

  ‘Yes, Inspector, but it wasn’t as bad as you’re thinking. Maximilian never worked – the family is very wealthy – and he was always travelling in Europe, so I saw him only once or twice a year. And even then he avoided me, or the family sent me on errands to Glasgow or Edinburgh. They’re not insensitive.

  ‘And so the years passed . . . In due course I became the Kolomans’ housekeeper, while Maximilian spent his life elsewhere, squandering his inheritance, and my own child grew happy and strong in the north, or so the priest’s letters said. He told me my son was becoming a very clever young man.’ There was a clear hint of satisfaction in her voice.

  I shifted in my armchair. ‘1 suppose that something has marred the situation, to make you come here?’