‘Aye,’ said Miss Fletcher, ‘we still get pagan folk here. They come and do witchcraft from time to time.’
‘Is it not the crazy man who does it?’ asked Uncle.
‘No, sir. Mr Nellys isn’t up to this kind of thing.’
‘How can you be so sure?’ I asked. ‘You told us the man was insane.’
‘Was, Mr Frey. I told you, the waters cured him. And these skulls used to appear even before his family moved him here.’
‘Why do you not remove them?’ Uncle asked. ‘It looks as though it has hung there for months. Years, even.’
Miss Fletcher shrugged. ‘Mr Koloman’s old gamekeeper, may he rest in peace, used to take them down all the time, but they always appeared again. We don’t bother any more; they don’t do any harm.’
I arched an eyebrow. ‘Are you certain?’
‘Yes, sir. People might come and do odd things, but nothing evil. This island has been sacred for thousands of years.’
‘It certainly has a rather . . . eerie atmosphere,’ said Uncle, climbing the soft slope that led to the burial ground. Indeed, I felt an odd tingling at the back of my neck, but I did not mention that out loud.
‘It does not surprise me that it would be of interest to the Druids,’ I said. ‘You have a clear view of the sunrise and sunset: very useful for pagan rituals.’
Miss Fletcher pulled a waxy leaf from a nearby tree. ‘And this is the only island where oak and holly grow. There must be something special in the soil.’
I looked over my shoulder. The greenery on Juniper Island, the closest neighbour and the largest land mass in the archipelago, looked completely different even from a distance: a clump of very tall pines.
‘Not to ruin your theory, miss,’ I said, ‘but is it not a pagan tradition to plant acorns in people’s graves?’
She suddenly looked down, grinding her teeth for some reason.
‘Why so?’ asked Uncle.
‘Oak symbolizes eternal life. And holly is used in solstice and equinox ceremonies; it represents death and rebirth.’
Uncle whistled. ‘Ian, you seem to have acquired an enviable knowledge of the pagan and the occult.’
‘Most begrudgingly,’ I mumbled.
We marched over the soft moss. Miss Fletcher did not need to guide us; Isle Maree was small enough for anyone to find his way. Uncle went straight to an incredibly large oak, its stump as wide as a millstone, its roots clasping the ground like meandering tentacles. The rugged bark was pierced with countless pieces of copper, all coated in verdigris.
By the foot of the oak, and surrounded by the thick roots, we found the little well. It was but an unassuming circle of stone, less than three feet in diameter, and the stones formed three concentric rings of steps, making it look like a tiny Roman amphitheatre. The opening itself was less than a foot wide, descending to thick darkness. I thought I heard a soft whistle, as if holding a seashell to my ear.
‘Oh my! Is this the miraculous bloody well that –’
Thankfully he shut his mouth in time. Miss Fletcher, standing right behind him, did not seem to like his tone.
‘Yes,’ I said at once, ‘precisely this.’ I turned to Miss Fletcher. ‘Can you show us Mr Nellys’s . . . erm, residence?’
I thought it would be rude to use the word ‘hut’ (accurate though it might be, from Miss Fletcher’s account).
‘I told you we cannot call on him,’ she said at once.
‘Not without his family around,’ I recalled her saying, ‘I know. But I would like to have a quick look.’
Miss Fletcher grumbled, but in the end she pointed towards the centre of the island, where the holly seemed to take over. Even though I already knew the place was an ancient burial ground, the sight of the many tombstones made me feel a slight discomfort. Some were centuries old, battered, crooked and shapeless, their inscriptions eroded long ago. Others were as recent as 1885, with rich carvings of Celtic knots.
‘This is as close as we should get, Mr Frey,’ said Miss Fletcher, just as I saw a thin plume of white smoke. It came from the other side of the central mound, beyond the collection of graves, where a squat stone dome stood. Half covered in moss and the roots of trees, the little dwelling, barely four feet tall, looked more like a natural formation. Its crooked chimney was the only clear trace of human hand.
‘That’s where Saint Maelrubha lived when he came to preach,’ said Miss Fletcher. ‘According to legend.’
I was already convinced these were all fishwives’ tales, but I still felt a twinge of curiosity. Inside those stone walls resided the old man who, allegedly, held the secret to curing McGray’s sister. Miss Fletcher had claimed she’d ‘witnessed the miracle’, and her intimidating height was the only reason I refrained from laughing right in her face.
‘And you said his family live on Juniper Island?’ I asked.
‘Yes, Mr Frey. Barely making ends meet. I’m close to them, but they don’t like strangers, I’m afraid.’
‘Inspector McGray has a way with . . . unfriendly people,’
I said, turning on my heel. ‘1 believe I have seen enough, miss. Thank you for the – Uncle, what are you doing?’
Uncle Maurice was kneeling by three very small gravestones. They were all plain rectangles of pale-pink granite, barely the size of my hand. There were no inscriptions or dates, but they had been polished to extraordinary smoothness, and their sharp edges told those were fairly recent interments.
‘These must have been babies,’ Uncle mumbled, taking his flat cap off as if we were in church. He placed a finger on one of the memorials, strangely mesmerized. For a moment he looked his age. ‘At least they have a handsome place to rest . . .’
He stared at nothing for an instant, but then noticed my puzzled face and rose to his feet.
‘Well, leafy and beautiful as it is, I cannot say this is the most remarkable spot I have ever been to.’ He pulled a cigar from his breast pocket. ‘I say we go back to the inn for a nice whisky. Eh, lan?’
I looked at my pocket watch. ‘We should still have time for that. Even if the Kolomans decide to be punctual this time.’
‘I told you they had an emergency,’ Miss Fletcher said immediately, a little indignant at my remark. ‘Mr and Mrs Koloman JPiil see you tonight.’
‘They certainly missed the glorious weather,’ said Uncle, squinting at the unusually bright sun and already making his way back to the boat. I had to hurry my pace to keep up with him.
Within a few minutes Miss Fletcher was rowing the boat southwards, taking us near the rocky edges of Juniper Island; not the most direct route back, but the one with the best views, she said.
Uncle Maurice, unable to wait until we made it back to the inn, produced his silver hip flask and had a couple of swigs.
He offered me a drink but I had to refuse. I wanted to be lucid when we met the Kolomans; I had many a question to ask them.
As we sailed around the island’s northernmost promontory, very close to the craggy rocks on which nestled twisted pines and thick bushes, I thought I saw a couple of white figures jumping about. Their outlines came in and out of the foliage, and I squinted, trying to make out what they were.
‘Uncle, can I borrow your binoculars?’
He handed them to me and I peered at the tall rocks. I saw the grey granite, the lilac heathers and the gnarly tree trunks, but the white shapes had –
‘Dear Lord,’ I mumbled.
I saw it for an instant: nothing but a flash in the greenery, yet clear enough to leave no doubt. It had been a snow-white goat frolicking on the rocks.
But there had been something else, something dark, coriaceous, fluttering amongst the shrubs and reflecting the sun like a lizard’s skin.
I could have sworn I’d just seen the black wings of a rather large bat.
4
Thurso, 18 August, 6:00 p.m.
The eyes of the clergyman were not white but of a sickly, yellowish hue, and with winding veins clumping in the corners. McG
ray was glad the old man could not see him staring at them. He should know better – nine-fingered as he was.
‘I’m sorry to break it to ye like this,’ McGray said, receiving the tea the chubby maid was handing him. ‘Ye’ll understand the situation doesnae allow for delicacy.’
As if attempting to match his news, outside the weather was foul. The Thurso sky was overcast with such dark clouds it might as well be midnight, and the wind and rain still lashed Scotland’s northern coast without mercy. From the sitting room’s narrow window, McGray could barely make out the lines of the port: the grey stone houses, sad-looking and crammed to the very edge of the shore, seemed to cling to the land like scared cats that feared drowning.
The priest coughed and wiped the corners of his mouth with a handkerchief as murky as his pupils. ‘The entire affair was never delicate, my boy.’
McGray smiled. The last person to call him ‘my boy’ had been his late mother.
‘Aye, I ken all the details. My colleague had them directly from that Fletcher lass.’
‘See, I’m reluctant to let the boy go. He still doesn’t –’ The maid put a cup in his hands. ‘Grant, be a good lass and give us a minute.’ The priest resumed when she had closed the parlour door. ‘The lad doesn’t know a thing about his parents. Mr and Mrs Koloman were adamant I never told him. He still believes he’s a foundling, left at the gates of this house in the middle of the night.’
McGray downed his cup in a swift gulp – they’d given him more salted herring on the ferry from the Orkneys and there had been no ale to wash it down this time. ‘Ye lied to him? That wisnae very priestly.’
The clergyman laughed. ‘Oh, my boy, I’ve seen so many cases like this. Believe me, no good would have come from telling the truth. Benjamin was never supposed to see his relatives again. The Kolomans wanted to be rid of him, to keep his very existence a secret. And the mother agreed.’
‘The mother was a sixteen-year-auld lassie back then.’
‘Precisely. Too young and her whole life ahead of her. My sin of secrecy would at least give her a chance to pick up the pieces and build herself a future. It will be difficult to tell the boy, but I still don’t regret a thing.’
‘D’ye want to break the news to him, or shall I do it?’
‘Of course I’ll do it, silly boy! I owe it to him. Benjamin has been the kindest of all the children that have been handed to me. The smartest too. Some said I had a wee bit of a predilection for him and they were right; I wish I’d had a son like him.’ He massaged the wrinkly skin between his wiry eyebrows. ‘I was expecting him to carry on with the parish when he was old enough. Alas, that will no longer be possible.’
‘So ye willlet him go?’
The clergyman sighed, and then slurped his tea and smacked his lips. Frey would have remonstrated at his manners, but McGray smiled at the confidence of a man who did not care about appearances any more.
‘What else can I do? If the Kolomans want him back, they’re in their right. And they’re the kind of people who always get what they want.’
‘They say Benjamin must never be told who his mother is.’
The priest laughed with disdain, and the laugh became a throaty cough. ‘Does she know of that condition? As far as I recall, she’s not a woman to be trifled with.’
‘I’ve nae met her yet, but aye, she kens. She told my colleague herself. And she agrees. She says she just wants the best for her son.’
‘That’s what we all want,’ said the priest, wiping his mouth again. ‘Will you take good care of him? Can I have your word?’
‘Course. That’s the reason I’m here. I won’t take my eyes off him. It’ll all end well.’
The priest let out another laugh mixed with expectoration. ‘Oh, this shan’t end well, my boy. Take my word.’ He raised his blotchy hand, bidding McGray to approach. When he felt McGray’s closeness he whispered, his breath reeking of diseased gums mixed with a whiff of vinegar. ‘I’ve heard terrible things about that loch, my boy. Terrible stories about people travelling there and never coming back.’
McGray leaned forward. ‘Now, have ye? What else?’
The priest raised his eyebrows, his forehead wrinkling like supple leather. For a moment McGray thought those milky irises were staring back at him. The man groped the air for McGray’s hand. When he found it he instantly felt the stump of the missing finger.
He let out another weary sigh. ‘We all carry our scars, don’t we? Living in these rickety bodies that give in so quickly.’
McGray snorted. ‘Och, don’t ye beat round the fuckin’ bush! What stories have ye heard? D’ye ken about the well? The healing waters?’
The priest squeezed McGray’s hand. ‘Those stories abound, my boy. Pagan tales I can’t defend . . . as the priest I am.’
McGray heard the uncertainty in that last remark. ‘And if ye werenae a priest?’
The milky pupils quivered, the old man gulped and shook his head. ‘Please, please look after him,’ he concluded. ‘Better than you’ve looked after yourself.’ And then the old man rose to his feet and called for the housemaid. ‘I’ll have a last supper with the boy and I’ll tell him everything. In private, if you don’t mind. And I want him to have a last quiet sleep here. You two can leave first thing in the morning.’
The maid came and helped the clergyman out of the parlour. He let himself be led away with the obedience of a young child, only to halt suddenly as they crossed the threshold. ‘Oh, and I’m writing a letter for Mrs Koloman. I’ll give you a sealed envelope tomorrow. It will be for her eyes and her eyes only. Don’t you dare tamper with that letter, or I shall know.’
Grant, the stout housemaid, helped McGray find a room at the port’s only inn. After a generous serving of potatoes and – yet more – salted herring, McGray settled himself in a surprisingly comfortable armchair in a lonely corner of the common room. Other than a couple of fishermen who’d already passed out from drunkenness, he had the place all to himself.
McGray savoured a cigar whilst pondering his best course of action.
I should have told the priest about the threat to the boy, he thought, puffing out smoke.
According to Frey’s telegram, the note had been wrapped around a brick thrown at Miss Fletcher’s window. A clear warning:
KEEP YOUR BASTARD AWAY
OR I SHALL KILL HIM.
McGray himself would have suggested keeping the boy away until things became clearer. The fact that the local constable had mocked Miss Fletcher and refused to investigate was rather alarming; it could be simple incompetence, but there was also the possibility that someone had bribed the man – someone who did not want the affair investigated. Or it might be an empty threat, part of a typical family quarrel that would become evident after very little digging, but one could never be sure.
The one thing McGray knew for certain was the true source of his own motivation. He was helping these people only because of that miraculous well and the faint possibility that it might at last cure his sister. In his hurry, however, he might be putting an innocent boy in danger, and that little voice in his head would not go away.
His one consolation was that he knew very little about the mysterious Miss Fletcher. She too was following her own agenda, offering that alleged cure as blatant bait. For all McGray knew, she might be telling nothing but lies.
Once again, he’d have to take a leap of faith.
5
Loch Maree, 20 August, 5:20 p.m.
The innkeeper; one Mr Dailey, received us as warmly as when we’d first arrived. The man was round-bellied and rubicund, with a bushy moustache that more than made up for the utter absence of hair on his scalp. His wife was of such a similar height and girth one could have easily thought they were siblings, only she had an abundant mane of ginger curls, which had only begun to turn grey.
She led us to the well-appointed sitting room, whose wide windows offered a very pretty view of the loch and its islands.
‘Can I get youse
gentlemen a wee gillie to wet yer whistles?’
Uncle Maurice, a proud Gloucestershire dweller, was baffled. ‘E-excuse me, ma’am?’
‘Do you want anything to drink?’ I translated, lounging in the nearest armchair.
‘Oh, good woman, you have read my mind! I will have a measure of your best Scotch, please.’
‘Och, if ye loo yer spirits ye must try the gin from Juniper Island. Ye’ll sirple a whole tappit-hen. Bet youse.’
Uncle would have had more chance had she spoken Arabic or Japanese. He simply stared blankly at her.
‘She says you should have the gin.’
‘Did she?’ Maurice shook his head. ‘I . . . I shall follow your advice, madam.’
‘Another gin for ye, Mr Frey?’
‘Oh, no, I am not drinking tonight, Mrs Dailey. Just fetch me some claret, please.’
Uncle waited until she had left us. ‘Why, lan, you have become an expert in the lingo! I have not said it before, but’– he looked at me with scrutinizing eyes, as he’d been doing since his arrival in Edinburgh –’ I find you very much changed.’
I interlaced my fingers. ‘Do you?’
‘Indeed, and it has not been a very long time; I last saw you at Christmas, remember? That scar, for instance.’ He pointed at my right hand as I reached for an ashtray. ‘That must have been a nasty burn.’
‘Chemical explosion.’
‘Did it also reach your cheekbone?’
‘Oh, no, that was another chemical explosion, a couple of days later.’
‘And’ – he tilted his head – ‘I did not want to mention this, but I think your nose looks slightly, well, odd.’
I chuckled. ‘Oh, that was a . . . I would call it an involuntary blow to my face.’
‘Involuntary?’
‘Erm . . . from Inspector McGray.’
‘What! The man for whom you work?’
‘Far too long to explain, Uncle. You should read my case notes some day.’
‘Oh, Ian, you know perfectly well I am not that much of a reader. But I was not finished. I will risk sounding too much like my dear late sister, but you look alarmingly thin.’
Loch of the Dead Page 4
