Loch of the Dead

by Loch of the Dead (retail) (epub)

  Again he lost it for a moment. It must have been a matter of seconds but it felt like an eternity. McGray reached the fishermen’s houses, halted for breath and looked around; the riverbank was crammed with boats, barrels and fishing nets. Not a soul was awake, all the tenants sleeping placidly while such horrors happened just outside their homes. McGray stepped swiftly towards the shore, his boots plunging into the mud, and turned his head in every direction. All he could hear was the boisterous current of the river, discharging its choppy waters into the North Sea.

  McGray saw something there, drifting away on the current: a dark, almost undistinguishable shape, long enough to be a thin boat, but already so far out he could not tell for sure. And right above, clearly silhouetted against the dull sky, he saw once again the outline of a bat’s wings.

  McGray cursed on every step of the way back. There was no use chasing that shape on the river; he was not even sure of what he’d seen. And there was a man in dire need at the parish house.

  He saw the front door wide open and flapping in the wind, but the entire place was otherwise as still as a grave. The priest’s window was now only half lit. McGray rushed in at once, perfectly aware of what he’d find there.

  As he climbed the stairs he heard desperate sobbing, a male voice struggling to draw air in. McGray found the door ajar and slammed it open.

  The splatter of red caught his eyes immediately, intensely dark as it spread across the old priest’s nightgown. For an eerie second McGray thought Father Thomas had sat up to stare at him with his cloudy eyes, now fixed in a tormented gaze. He had to blink before he realized that the man was dead. His head had been lifted by the sixteen-year-old boy who was now cradling the clergyman’s limp body.

  It was the first time McGray met Benjamin, and for the rest of his life that would be the image he’d recall when people mentioned the name: a very thin, blond boy, his freckles like drops of blood on his ghastly pale face, his features distorted with grief and his bright-blue eyes reddened with tears. His trembling hands, drenched in blood, were both clasping the priest’s neck keenly, as if his grasp could keep the old man with the living. The boy’s guttural sobs seemed angst itself.

  McGray looked around and found a clean towel on the ewer and basin, perhaps left ready for the morning. He took it and knelt by the corpse. He first closed the man’s eyelids, as gently as his fingers allowed. Then he looked up at the boy.

  ‘Benjamin?’ As he expected, the boy was not able to reply. McGray carefully placed the towel on Benjamin’s hands, whose entire body twitched at the contact. McGray wrapped the stained hands in the towel and held them firmly. ‘He’s resting now, laddie.’

  McGray gave him a moment, feeling the intense tremor and the blood oozing through the cloth. After a while he lifted the boy’s hands – not without resistance – and delicately rested the priest’s head on the floorboards.

  It was a sorry sight, but McGray had to steel himself. From the moment he first saw the wound he’d known Father Thomas was beyond salvation. He reached for a blanket from the bed and covered the body, and then helped Benjamin wash his hands.

  ‘Where’s the lass? Is she bringing help?’

  Benjamin nodded, his eyes fixed on the gore on his hands.

  ‘Better ye don’t look,’ said McGray as the pristine porcelain basin became tainted. He was patting the boy’s hands dry when they heard tumultuous footsteps on the staircase. The maid came back in, leading a middle-aged man who clearly was the town’s doctor. The woman covered her mouth when she saw the now stained blanket over the body. Her own hands were still smeared with blood.

  McGray approached her. ‘I’m so sorry, Grant. I ken this is really hard on ye, but I need yer help tight now.’ He felt it was terribly unfair; the maid was distraught, but unlike Benjamin she seemed in control of her movements. ‘Take the laddie downstairs ‘n’ youse both have a nice cup o’ tea. Please look after him until I come to see youse. I’ll deal with everything here.’

  Grant nodded, and even in her sorrow she managed a hint of a smile. She must be glad she would not be facing it all on her own. She led Benjamin away, and as soon as they left the room McGray shut the door. The doctor was already lifting the sheet to examine the body; even he was unable to repress a gasp when he saw the gore beneath.

  McGray allowed himself a deep breath. He had so much to do.

  7

  Loch Maree, 20 August, 6:20 p.m.

  ‘We cannot lodge with them,’ I repeated, as Uncle Maurice saw his trunks loaded on to the Kolomans’ coach.

  ‘They have very kindly offered, Ian. And I refuse to share a roof with that blasted, stinking, foul-mouthed, raucous- chewing constable. I swear I could hear his gobbling from the upper floor.’

  Miss Fletcher was fastening the trunks on the carriage roof, so I drew a little closer and whispered in Uncle’s ear. ‘Do you understand the nature of my job? I need to investigate these people. For all I know, the Kolomans themselves could be behind the threat to the boy. I cannot fraternize with them.’

  But Uncle Maurice was looking at his travel book. ‘Oh, look, their manor is even mentioned here. “An awe-inspiring example of eclectic architecture, amalgamating elements of neo-Gothic and Continental –”’

  ‘I do not give a damn!’

  The driver started and Miss Fletcher nearly dropped the last trunk. My good uncle closed the book and squeezed my shoulder. ‘Ian, I did not mean to upset you. It may not sound like it but I do appreciate how crucial your job is. I have never done anything for the betterment of humankind in my entire life.’

  ‘Then how is it that –’

  He lowered his voice. ‘Give yourself some leeway. Accept their dinner, talk to them. Be suave. You might find more about them that way than by simply bursting in with a quizzical brow and a stiff lip.’

  I snorted again; not because I disagreed but realizing that McGray might have said something along those same lines – though instead of ‘stiff lip’ he would have probably said ‘shite-sniffing face’.

  ‘Very well,’ I said, following Uncle Maurice to the carriage. ‘But I am coming back to the inn. And early. Do not expect me to linger until I have to spend the night there.’ I was about to step into the carriage but then recalled . . . ‘Uncle, wait. I need something.’

  ‘What?’

  I whispered, ‘I left my gun in my room. I will not be long.’

  ‘A gu–’ I nearly slapped his face to silence him. He lowered his voice. ‘A gun! Whatever for?’

  ‘I’d much rather have it and not need it than –’

  ‘Oh, as you wish. But you should relax. This is only a minor investigation, did you not say so yourself before we departed? It is not as if someone has died.’

  The carriage took us along a very scenic path that followed the shores of the loch. To our left, opposite to the deep waters, there were thick pine forests and steep hills that reminded me of a Bavarian landscape. The still deep-blue sky, now dotted with clouds coming from the west, reinforced that impression. It was almost impossible to believe we were still in Scotland.

  The trip was a brief one, for the Kolomans’ manor was indeed nearby. According to Uncle’s guidebook, the family owned only a very small portion of land – hardly five acres – but extension was irrelevant, for the estate was situated on the most handsome point of Loch Maree’s shore. From the map I predicted their house would have the best views of the islands and the hills beyond.

  The road gradually separated from the shore, until the thick forest flanked the track on both sides. The pine trees were tall, dark and so dense I imagined the ground below them would be in utmost darkness throughout the year. These were the woods owned by the Kolomans, interrupted only by a granite arch with a small gatehouse beside it: the entry to a well-maintained path that meandered through the forest like a leafy tunnel. We could see little ahead, until the wild forest gave way to the manor’s formal garden.

  There the path was flanked by very tall rhododendrons in fu
ll bloom. The scarlet flowers were of a variety I had never seen, and the lower trunks were trimmed and evenly spaced, so that we had a good view of the smooth lawns, where perfectly shaped yews drew intricate geometric patterns. My eyes flickered from Greek-style statues to clumps of exotic flowers that Kew’s Botanic Gardens would have envied.

  The rhododendrons then opened up to reveal a majestic country house, built entirely of granite in various tones of grey: dark for the window frames, a little lighter for the walls and the stone steps, and almost white for the Dutch-style dormer windows lined up on the top storey. It was not a very large building, but it had elegant, solid lines, and a deceptively simple design. I’d gradually learn that every element was enriched . with some detail, like the beautiful weathervane that crowned the centre of the façade, shaped as a pointing Hermes.

  ‘Those columns remind me of Wallenstein Palace,’ said Uncle, looking at the rounded double pillars that supported arches all around the ground floor.

  ‘They look more Austrian than Bohemian to me,’ I said, just as we halted by the wide main door.

  Miss Fletcher opened the carriage for us and Uncle Maurice jumped down with the eagerness of a youngster.

  ‘Simply stunning,’ he said, looking all around. ‘And you nearly missed it all, Jan.’

  I was beginning to share some of his enthusiasm (it was impossible not to feel uplifted under that bright sky and with the lush, immaculate foliage all around us) but I still hardened my countenance. ‘I shan’t be here for long, Uncle.’

  The driver jumped from his seat.

  ‘To the first guest room,’ Miss Fletcher told him and then turned to Uncle. ‘Smeaton will look after your luggage, sir. Please follow me.’

  We climbed the flagstone steps to the main door. It was old oak with enormous wrought-iron hinges shaped as grapevines. It opened just as we approached, pulled by a young but muscly servant, and I saw that the door must be at least eight inches thick. We stepped into a small but impressive entrance hall, its grey stone walls decorated with only a few well- appointed tapestries. My eyes went to the imposing staircase: marble steps carpeted in burgundy, with simple straight lines and a square landing; it was a clear statement of strength and wealth. Underneath it, on the other side of the hall, there was an oak back door framed by a thick Gothic arch, which must lead to the shore right behind the manor.

  ‘Boyde, are the master and mistress available now?’ Miss Fletcher asked the young man.

  ‘Not yet, missus,’ he said, bowing to us. ‘But they said the Miss Kolomans could receive the gentlemen.’

  ‘Are they in the Shadows Room?’

  ‘Aye.’

  Miss Fletcher took us to the east wing on the right. The Gothic windows looked on to the gardens and the double columns. The latter I thought were entirely misplaced: that corridor, facing south, could have received plenty of daylight, particularly on a summer day like this, but the roofed portico right outside blocked most of it. The building must have been designed by a Continental architect, utterly ignorant of how gloomy the Highlands could be.

  We soon reached a door that Miss Fletcher opened for us.

  Why she’d called it the ‘Shadows Room’ became obvious as soon as we stepped in: the place was in almost absolute darkness. I had to blink a few times to realize we were entering a long gallery, its walls entirely covered with bookshelves, its large windows enveloped with thick velvet curtains. The only light was a bright, silver ray projected across the room. It came from a black wooden box to the left, the beam emanating from a hair-thin slit and expanding sharply like a solid cone in the air. At first I could not see what was projected on the opposite wall, for there was a Chinese folding screen, intricately painted and carved, blocking the view.

  ‘Goodness, I am going to trip,’ said Uncle.

  ‘The darkness is to a purpose.’

  The female voice came from behind the screen, and we saw emerge the face of a twenty-year-old woman.

  I first thought I was looking at a ghost: her skin was as white as fresh snow, and under the silver light it glowed like mist. She wore a very dark dress that became lost in the shadows, momentarily making her appear as an ethereal head and shoulders floating in the air. Her golden hair, falling freely in pronounced waves, only enhanced the illusion.

  I felt a shiver and drew breath sharply, and only then did I notice how beautiful the creature was. She had the most striking eyes I have ever seen: her irises were cobalt blue at the edges and turquoise in the centre, which made her pupils look as if they glowed from within. Amidst the prevalent black and white, for a moment those eyes seemed to be the only speck of colour left in the world.

  ‘Good evening, sirs,’ she said in a clean voice that cut the air like a knife, and just as I convinced myself she was not an apparition I saw an exact replica of that alabaster face emerge from behind the folding screen.

  For a moment I thought I’d gone mad, but Miss Fletcher stepped in. ‘May I introduce Miss Veronika and Miss Natalja? They’re Mr and Mrs Koloman’s twin daughters.’

  Uncle Maurice moved forward at once, grinning. ‘Maurice Plantard, your very humble servant for the rest of my days. Why, you are the most beautiful gems in God’s creation!’

  The second girl, standing at the back, frowned a little, but her sister, the one with the darker dress, showed a cunning smile and offered her hand. She must be quite used to flattery.

  ‘It is a pleasure to meet you, sirs,’ she said as Uncle kissed her very fine hand. ‘Can you guess which one of us is Miss Veronika?’

  Uncle raised a brow, not letting go of her hand. ‘Miss, you undoubtedly look like a Veronika to me.’

  The girl squinted slightly, casting him a sly look. ‘Is that the professional verdict of a police inspector?’

  ‘He obviously is not the inspector,’ the second girl said, approaching me and offering me a hand – clearly to shake, not to kiss. ‘Natalja Koloman, pleased to meet you.’

  ‘Oh, Nat, you always spoil the fun,’ said Miss Veronika, her hand still wrapped in Uncle’s.

  ‘You must be Inspector Frey,’ said Miss Natalja; the tone of her voice was a touch lower than her sister’s. In the future I’d recognize them first by their voices rather than their looks.

  ‘How could you tell –’ I did not finish the sentence; instead I touched the faint yet noticeable scar on my cheekbone. ‘Oh.’

  ‘And that and that,’ she said, pointing at my burned hand and my now slightly bent nose.

  Uncle laughed. ‘I keep telling him the job is eating him alive.’ He looked around. ‘Would you young ladies mind it terribly if I opened the curtains?’

  ‘Oh, I’d much rather tell you about our work, Mr Plan- tard,’ said Veronika at once, pulling Uncle’s hand. ‘That requires this very nice penumbra.’

  Miss Fletcher cleared her throat. I thought she’d push Maurice away from Veronika, but she simply said, ‘I shall call for some refreshments. Brandy, sirs? Gin?’

  ‘Gin?’ Veronika cried. ‘Never mind that horrid stuff. I am sure Mr Plantard and Mr Frey will want to try some of the wine from our vineyards.’

  Before I could object, Miss Fletcher had already gone and Miss Veronika was leading Uncle to the folding screen. I did not even have a chance to ask whether someone shouldn’t chaperone us. Everyone in that house seemed to move a smidgen more quickly than I could react.

  ‘Are you at all interested in the principles of spectrog- raphy?’ asked Miss Veronika.

  ‘I have never heard the word in my life,’ declared Uncle. ‘But coming from your sweet lips it sounds like the most fascinating topic.’

  Miss Natalja and I shook our heads in almost perfect synchrony.

  I saw there were in fact two folding screens, as identical as the girls, and between them two cushioned sofas, a little table and a tea set. And scattered all around there was a disarray of books, notes, quills, pencils, instruments (three thermometers of varying lengths, a compass, measuring tapes . . .) and all manner of
drawing tools (rulers, protractors and right-triangles).

  Against the wall there was a white canvas mounted on a mahogany frame, on to which the light was projected. Only it did not look white but was diffracted into a perfectly square rainbow.

  ‘That is incredibly pretty,’ said Uncle, although I could tell he was merely being polite. Is that one of those new colour slides?’

  I spoke before Uncle showed the full extent of his upper-class ignorance. ‘These young ladies seem to be experimenting with light. I assume you have a crystal prism inside that box?’ I pointed at the source of the light. ‘It separates a beam into its compounds, just like rain droplets do in the sky. I saw a few demonstrations in Oxford but never such a perfect separation of colours.’

  ‘We use Bohemian crystal commissioned expressly for us,’ said Miss Natalja. She went into the darkness and brought out a small chest made of polished ebony. It was lined with green velvet and divided into compartments, each one containing a prism of slightly different dimensions. She handed me one. ‘These are not only different in shape but also in composition. We’ve found that the spectra changes depending on how much lead the crystals contain. Before you arrived we were in the process of measuring the width of each band of colour.’

  ‘It is not only lead we look at,’ Miss Veronika added. ‘Any substance will produce its own unique . . . rainbow, if you will. And it also depends on the light; the spectra of candlelight will be very different from that of the sun. We are particularly interested in the latter.’

  ‘That sounds fascinating indeed,’ said Uncle, although his eyes were drifting towards Miss Veronika’s neckline.

  ‘Are you measuring temperature as well?’ I asked, nodding at the thermometers.

  ‘We are reproducing William Herschel’s experiments,’ answered Miss Natalja. ‘Have you read his work, Inspector?’