Loch of the Dead

by Loch of the Dead (retail) (epub)

‘I am afraid not. I know the name because he discovered the planet Uranus, the only planet not sighted in ancient times.’

  ‘I cannot blame you,’ said she, picking up one of the thermometers. ‘His work on light was overshadowed by that discovery. Look closer – you will find this fascinating indeed.’

  As Natalja cast Uncle a reproachful stare she drew the thermometer close to the canvas, to the centre of the violet band.

  ‘You will notice a slight increase in temperature.’

  I looked intently for a moment – Uncle Maurice yawned very discreetly – and just as I thought nothing was going to happen, the mercury in the thermometer rose but a fraction of a degree.

  ‘Did you see it?’

  ‘Indeed,’ I said.

  ‘What do you think will happen if I move the thermometer to the red band?’

  ‘Well, the same, I’d assume.’

  Miss Natalja did so, and sooner than before the temperature rose, this time by almost twice as much.

  I was impressed. ‘Different colours give you different amounts of heat! Who would have thought?’

  ‘Most remarkable,’ said Uncle, but again his eyes were otherwise engaged.

  ‘There is something far more remarkable,’ said Veronika, noticing my uncle’s stare but shamelessly enjoying the attention. ‘Show them, Nat.’

  Natalja moved the thermometer beyond the red band, to the margins of the canvas where there was no light. I was of course expecting the temperature to drop – but it rose instead!

  She nodded. ‘There you have it. Lord Herschel called them “heat rays”. Warmth, it seems, is just a form of light that our eyes cannot see.’

  ‘Light we cannot see?’ Uncle asked, finally curious.

  ‘Yes. And nobody knows why we cannot see it,’ said Veronika.

  I was speechless, but again Natalja went on before I could react. ‘Inspector, what do you think happens on the other end of the spectra? Beyond the violet?’

  I shook my head. ‘Does the spectra go on beyond that as well?’

  ‘Indeed, but what happens there is far more intriguing than heat. Temperature seems to increase only towards the red band. If I try the thermometer beyond the violet, it will take a long while for us to detect even the slightest increase – if any.’

  ‘So nothing is happening there,’ said Uncle, but Miss Veronika was reaching for a leather file, from which she produced a long strip of paper.

  ‘I don’t suppose you gentlemen are familiar with the work of Johann Wilhelm Ritter?’

  Uncle looked at me. ‘Ian, you are the one with the German blood.’

  Again I shook my head. ‘I have never heard the name.’

  ‘Few people have,’ said Natalja, ‘which is truly unfair. The poor man was a genius. He could have been a new Da Vinci, if only he had lived longer.’

  ‘He performed horrid experiments on himself,’ her sister intervened, wrinkling her nose in disgust. ‘Applied electric current to his ears, mouth, eyes . . .’

  ‘No wonder he died young,’ I said.

  ‘He read Herschel’s work and inferred that the light spectra must also continue at the other end – he had some exotic ideas about symmetry and polarity in nature.’

  ‘Naturphilosophie’, Veronika added with a perfect German accent, ‘a dangerous tradition of thought. Well, nothing good can come from that batch of German philosophers who claim –’

  ‘Sister, let’s not digress . . .’ Natalja said. She held one end of the paper strip and with the aid of her sister placed it against the projected rainbow. ‘Herr Ritter did find something beyond the violet band, so at least in this instance his philosophies were . . . somewhat right. See, like he did, we asked Papa to soak this strip of paper in a solution of silver chloride –’

  ‘What’s that?’ Uncle asked.

  I volunteered, ‘It is one of the chemicals used in photography. The CID has it in store at all times these days.’

  ‘Indeed,’ Natalja went on. ‘So you must know it is sensitive to light. Now, look at the stains on this strip.’

  The paper went progressively darker as it approached the violet band. Veronika unrolled her end of the paper, and the stain went darker even beyond the violet light.

  ‘And that is the main difference between sunlight and candlelight,’ she said.

  ‘We are using a candle right now,’ said Natalja. ‘But for this strip we used sunlight, which gives us the most noticeable stain. We hardly see any change of colour with a candle or a gaslight.’

  Veronika smiled coquettishly at Uncle. ‘Mr Plantard, you look a very strong, active man. Do you like hunting?’

  ‘I certainly do, miss.’

  ‘Have you ever wondered, whilst out in the open, why you get a tan from the sun but not from a candle or a hearth?’

  ‘My stepmother surely has,’ I said. ‘She never sits near a window unless it faces north.’

  ‘Very much like our mother and ourselves,’ said Veronika. ‘And we think the difference is there; whatever it is in sunlight that blemishes our skins, it must be beyond that violet band.’

  ‘Herr Ritter called them “chemical rays",’ Natalja concluded.

  I assented in silence. These girls were brilliant experimentalists – nothing like those amateur botanists who fill notebooks with useless sketches of sweet peas or those aristocratic ladies who pin common moths to frames and fancy themselves taxonomists. These girls appeared even more insightful than many scholars I’d had the chance to meet at the English universities.

  And their parents would not disappoint either.

  Miss Fletcher came back then, bringing us news rather than drinks.

  ‘Gentlemen, Mr and Mrs Koloman have just arrived,’ she said, opening the curtains with one powerful pull. ‘They will receive you in the main drawing room. I hope the girls have kept you entertained?’

  ‘Exceedingly,’ said Uncle in a silky tone.

  I saw that the long day was finally drawing to a close, the sky turning from bright blue to a deep indigo. As the dying daylight filled the gallery, I noticed that the Miss Kolomans were in fact wearing very odd dresses. They looked rather like those Regency engravings from the start of the century, or like the ancient Greek robes one could see carved in marble at the British Museum . . . only even simpler: plain garments of soft, flowing material, which followed the shapes of the girls’ bodies. No corsets.

  ‘Your father says you had better change into your dinner gowns while he talks to Inspector Frey,’ said Miss Fletcher.

  ‘That sounds more like he wants us out of the way,’ Veronika muttered, placing the paper strip back into the file.

  ‘As if we didn’t know what brought these gentlemen here,’ her sister added, and then, for the first time, she showed me a little smile. ‘We shall see you at dinner, then.’

  The girls curtsied and left, and as Miss Fletcher led us through a wide corridor Uncle whispered to me: ‘Gorgeous gals, Ian. Do you not think so? And . . .’ he lowered his voice further, ‘lovely shaped even without any corsets.’

  ‘Rather indecent, if I may say. They looked as though they were in their nightgowns! If I had a daughter, I’d never let her receive visitors looking like that.’

  Uncle winked. ‘Thank goodness you have not fathered all the girls in the world.’

  Miss Fletcher showed us the way to a large drawing room in the opposite wing of the manor. Before she opened the door she leaned towards me to whisper something.

  ‘Inspector, someone came from the telegraph office in Poolewe with a message for Mr Koloman. My . . . my master wouldn’t tell me anything about it. He said “not yet” . . . but I could see it in his eyes.’ She gulped. ‘I think something terrible has happened.’

  8

  Thurso, 19 August, 7:10 a.m.

  It had been a sleepless night through and through, but at least McGray had not faced the ordeal on his own. The doctor and the local constable had been incredibly solicitous: the body had been inspected, respectfully taken to
the constabulary for further investigation, and the doctor had even summoned one of his apprentices to clean the room.

  Constable McLachlan had arrived promptly, asked the proper questions and fetched a couple of officers to search the streets, in case the attacker had lingered. He’d also realized that Benjamin and the maid would give more useful statements in the morning, once their nerves had settled a little. McGray had agreed to meet him at the parish house at seven o’clock, but since he’d been unable to sleep he’d set off to inspect the surroundings as soon as the sky had begun to brighten, a little before six in the morning.

  McGray found the vegetable patch trampled in places, a few cabbages ripped from the ground by strong feet, and then traces of soil on the low stone wall. It proved useless to look for marks on the road, for it had rained in the small hours and the parish house stood in one of the busiest spots of the town. Right now the road was packed with carts carrying all manner of goods to and from the piers. McGray had not expected Thurso to be such a bustling place, and it would be at its busiest in the mornings, when most of the cargo and ships departed.

  Something McGray did find, however, were soil marks on the walls: someone had climbed to the priest’s window; the traces were all too clear. McGray bent down to look at a smear of mud, scraped on the edge of a jutting brick. There were similar marks all across the wall, made by a very skilled climber who could use even the slightest crack or bump as support.

  ‘Found anything, Inspector?’

  He rose to see the tired face of Constable McLachlan. He was a thin, middle-aged man with pale, perceptive eyes and very bushy mutton chops. He conducted himself with an utter lack of humour, not interested in making friends and speaking only when it was strictly needed, but his intelligence was evident.

  ‘The attacker climbed up this wall,’ said McGray. ‘See? There and there.’

  ‘You said the window looked untouched last night, right before the murder?’

  ‘Indeedy. So Father Thomas –’

  ‘Father Thomas let his attacker in through the window willingly?’ The constable arched one grey eyebrow to an unthinkable height.

  ‘Aye, and very quietly. I don’t think the maid or the boy had heard a thing until the old man yelled, which was just when I arrived. But we should verify that with them.’

  McLachlan produced a small notebook and took copious notes. He also inspected the prints on the wall and the trampled vegetables, before knocking at the door.

  ‘I hope they are fit enough for questioning.’

  He had to knock again before the maid came. Her eyes looked terribly red, and from her creased clothes McGray could tell she’d spent all night on a chair. She let them in and they found Benjamin standing at the centre of the parlour, the same room where Father Thomas had received McGray not a full day ago. The boy looked as though he’d been waiting for them on that very spot for hours.

  ‘Did you find anybody?’ he said at once. McGray noticed how dry the boy’s lips were.

  ‘Not yet,’ said McLachlan. ‘We need to ask you a few questions.’

  ‘I’ll bring youse some tea,’ said Grant, scurrying out of the room before anyone could even say whether they wanted any.

  It was McGray who had to offer the boy a seat.

  Benjamin ‘Smith’ – now Koloman – was a bashful fellow, quite tall but spindly, and he walked slightly hunched, as if his own height embarrassed him. He spoke with the exact same accent as poor Father Thomas, the soft, untraceable sort that McGray’s late father would have called ‘sheepish Scot’. Benjamin sat down and folded his long hands on his knees, unable to look them in the eye.

  McGray assumed that McLachlan would interrogate the boy with the same lack of tact typical of Frey, so he took the lead.

  ‘We’re sorry we have to ask this so soon, laddie. Are ye all right?’ Benjamin nodded, his eyes fixed on his own hands. ‘Did Father Thomas tell you why I came here in the first place?’

  Again Benjamin nodded, but soon he had to press his eyelids and there were tears slipping through his fingers. McGray guessed the attack must have happened shortly after that conversation.

  ‘What were ye doing when . . . when it all happened?’

  Benjamin was still covering his eyes. ‘P-packing. I . . . I didn’t take the news calmly. I locked myself in my room and started packing. If I had known . . .’

  McGray gave him a moment. He could only imagine the turmoil in the boy’s head: the sudden revelation about his origins, the prospect of leaving the only home he’d known, and then witnessing the gory death of his one protector.

  ‘Did ye hear anything? Someone enter the house?’

  The boy drew in deep breaths, rubbed his eyes and then forced himself to show his face. ‘I heard a window open and close, but Grant does that all the time to ventilate the rooms. Then I heard Father Thomas talking to someone, but I thought he must be dictating a letter to Grant. He does it almost every day.’

  ‘So there was nothing to make ye think he might be in danger?’

  ‘Nothing, sir. Everything was perfectly normal. Again, if I had known . . .’

  He looked away, as if about to retch. McLachlan was jotting down notes at full speed.

  ‘Did he see any visitors other than me yesterday?’ McGray asked, but Benjamin shook his head. ‘Is there anyone ye think might want to do him harm?’

  ‘Who could possibly wish that?’ Benjamin snapped, a sudden fire in his eyes.

  ‘Even I knew of Father Thomas,’ the constable muttered. ‘Everyone in Thurso did. He was very pious, very generous. He helped raise many children too.’

  That last sentence disturbed Benjamin a good deal, and McGray had to go to him, pat him on the back.

  ‘Sorry, laddie. Just one more question before we let ye go. Father Thomas said he’d send a letter to Mrs Koloman, yer aunt. Ye just said ye thought ye heard him dictating something.’

  ‘Yes. I did think so, but Grant told me Father Thomas didn’t ask her to write anything last night.’

  McGray raised an eyebrow. ‘That’s odd. Did ye make out any of his words? Anything at all?’

  Benjamin shook his head. ‘No. He was mumbling. He always does –’ He looked down. ‘He always did, when dictating.’

  The boy was on the verge of tears, so McGray told him he could go now. He would try to ask more questions later.

  Just after he left, the maid came in. She faltered as soon as she saw that Benjamin was not there, and McGray had to stand and lead her gently to a seat. Grant had done a very poor job with the tea, but McGray could hardly blame her (and he drank it gladly, still thirsty from all the salted herring of the previous days).

  McGray asked the same questions he’d asked Benjamin, and Grant’s statement matched his:

  ‘I went to bed early, sir,’ she said, her hands shaking. ‘I . . . I must confess I did eavesdrop a wee bit . . . I heard what Father Thomas told Benjamin about his family. I’m sorry, I–’

  ‘All right, all right,’ said McGray. ‘We’re all human. Benjamin says . . .’ McGray stopped, thinking he should not volunteer anything just yet. ‘Did ye go to yer room straight away?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Yesterday was a long day. I still had a few chores to do, but I left them for today.’

  ‘Nae letters?’

  ‘No, sir. Father Thomas did mention something about a message, but in the end he just said I could go to bed.’

  ‘Did ye hear anything after that?’

  She instantly frowned and tears rolled down her cheeks. ‘Oh, sir, no! I fell asleep like a log. To think I was dozing like a baby while –’

  Grant sobbed and wiped her tears with the edge of her apron. McGray poured her some tea. She seemed to be telling the truth.

  The most immediate facts covered, McGray could now focus on his own troubles.

  He was not sure he should ask his final question with McLachlan present, but McGray was past caring about perplexed looks. ‘Lass, did ye . . . ever hear him talk about madness or m
iraculous cures?’

  Grant shook her head and McLachlan stopped taking notes. ‘What is all that about?’

  ‘I’ll explain later,’ said McGray, but with no intention of doing so.

  Grant could not provide any further help and seemed only too glad when they stood up to leave.

  McGray took a deep breath as he put his coat back on, feeling utterly frustrated. A cruel crime had been committed right under his nose and he’d not been able to do anything about it. His one comfort was that had he not been around the attacker might have gone on to slaughter Benjamin too. Perhaps the boy had been the main target, and the poor priest had simply been in the way.

  Outside the daylight was dull, the sky entirely covered with a uniform layer of clouds. They found Benjamin kneeling down by the flattened vegetables, looking rather intently at a sorry cabbage.

  ‘He liked it pickled,’ he mumbled, rising slowly to face them again. He folded his hands by his chest in a very priestly manner. ‘Grant and I were going to harvest them next week.’

  The boy’s eyes were full of sorrow, but at least those moments on his own had taken the edge off his grief.

  ‘I’ve lost very dear folk too,’ said McGray. ‘And it was just as awful as last night. Believe me, I ken how ye feel – and I think yer handling it brilliantly’

  He squeezed Benjamin’s shoulder. The boy gulped with difficulty, but then looked at him and nodded, a little reassured.

  ‘Father Thomas said you’d take me away today. This morning, in fact.’

  ‘Aye, but –’

  ‘Will that still happen?’

  McGray was not expecting him to recall the logistics of the trip. ‘Laddie, d’ye really want to leave right now?’

  Benjamin looked up at the open window and shuddered. ‘I couldn’t spend another night here.’

  It was McGray’s turn to assent. He’d not once revisited the farmhouse where his parents had died, and that had happened six years ago.

  ‘Well, we were s’posed to take this morning’s ferry, but –’

  ‘I am afraid you’ve missed that, gentlemen!’

  The rich, clear voice came from the road, and McGray saw two tall figures approach. One was an elegant blond man of around twenty-five, wearing a light-grey velvet coat and waving a top hat in a lively manner. An older chap, rather rough-looking with prickly stubble and a quarrelsome expression, followed him closely.