The Curse of Loch Ness

by Peter Tremayne

  Jeannie shivered involuntarily for it sounded oddly hollow and forbidding.

  She laughed to herself as the thought struck her that it seemed like a scene out of Robert Louis Stevenson’s Kidnapped in which the hero David Balfour arrives at the House of Shaws. She began half to expect an upstairs window to grate open and old Ebenezer Balfour to lean out with his blunderbuss and demand to know who was it that disturbed his rest.

  But nothing happened.

  Silence entombed the building.

  She bit her lower lip in perplexity. She did not relish the idea of driving over the mountain road now that it was dark; Simpson Kyle had definitely said that Mrs Murdo was going to remain at the house until it was decided what was to be done with it.

  She pulled at the bell chain again, more aggressively and with a longer peal.

  The silence was almost unbearable.

  She turned from the porch, an idea half forming in her mind to continue along the pathway to see if there were any side doors by which she might obtain entrance.

  Abruptly a window grated open; Jeannie turned and saw a light at a small side window, next to the main door. A dark figure was silhouetted by the light. A harsh female voice demanded:

  ‘Who are you? What do you want here?’

  Jeannie was momentarily taken aback. This was not the greeting she had expected on her arrival at Balmacaan.

  ‘Well, speak up girl? What is it you want here?’ the voice snapped again, impatiently.

  Jeannie felt a surge of indignation.

  ‘I am Jeannie Millbuie,’ she returned icily. ‘Who are you?’

  There was a pause.

  ‘Millbuie, is it?’ The voice had dropped an octave. ‘Did you say Millbuie was your name?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘Wait there.’

  The window was slammed shut with a suddenness that caused Jeannie to jump. She stood for a moment, open-mouthed in surprise. Then she forced herself to smile. Maybe she had arrived at the House of Shaws after all.

  There was a rasping of bolts and the great door was thrown open.

  ‘Well, well, come along in. Come in then.’

  Obediently, Jeannie crossed the threshold to find the door slammed shut behind her and the bolts thrown back again.

  A bewilderment of impressions caught in her mind. A hurricane lantern lit a great oak panelled hall from which, or so it seemed, antique furniture in the shape of sideboards and chairs emerged in the shadowy light. It also seemed as if oil paintings were hung along the walls and towards the back of the hall Jeannie could see a large wooden staircase to the upper floors.

  She turned to find a tall, pale-faced woman of fifty, or thereabouts, regarding her with a shade of hostility in her dark eyes. Her long face was drawn in grim lines of disapproval, the thin lips seemed to disappear apart from the occasional pouts of disfavour, a favourite facial gesture as Jeannie came to know. The woman’s hair was as black as jet, and scraped from her face and twisted into an old-fashioned bun on the back of the head. The woman seemed oddly dressed in a black two-piece costume. Jeannie’s immediate reaction was that Mrs Murdo would have been more at ease in a long, black Victorian gown with a bunch of keys hanging at her belt.

  The two women stood for some seconds in silence, each examining the other.

  Then the elder woman let out an audible sigh.

  ‘I am Mrs Murdo,’ she said in a voice that, though softly spoken, still sounded harsh and vibrant. ‘I am … I was the housekeeper to the old laird, Master Donald.’

  Jeannie tried to break the ice by holding out her hand.

  ‘How do you do, Mrs Murdo?’ she said. ‘I am Jeannie Millbuie … ’

  For a moment Mrs Murdo looked embarrassed and Jeannie thought she was going to refuse her proffered hand. Then she took it in a limp grip.

  ‘You are welcome to Balmacaan, I am sure, Miss Millbuie.’

  The voice was begrudging and held no warmth at all.

  ‘We’d best go to the parlour where there is a fire,’ the housekeeper said, picking up the lantern. ‘Follow me.’

  Obediently, Jeannie followed the woman across the great hall, through a side door and down a corridor which seemed to stretch for a very long way. Every wall seemed panelled in dark oak and there seemed no lights anywhere.

  ‘Is the house not fitted with electricity?’ asked Jeannie.

  Mrs Murdo sniffed.

  ‘It is.’

  Jeannie felt it hard to pursue the topic, so final did Mrs Murdo make her answer sound.

  ‘Doesn’t it work then?’ she persisted.

  ‘The castle supplies its own electricity, Miss Millbuie. We are not on the National Grid system but we have our own generator. After the old laird died I felt it was a foolish extravagance to keep the generator operating when I was the only one in the house. I make do quite adequately with the storm lanterns.’

  Mrs Murdo’s explanation reminded her of how, when she was a young girl, a certain headmistress would explain a lesson to a backward child.

  ‘I see,’ she said softly.

  The parlour was a comparatively small room, warm and slightly stuffy with a crackling log fire blazing in an open hearth. Mrs Murdo obviously believed in the saying about ‘cast not a clout ’til May be out’ for it had been quite warm in recent weeks.

  The housekeeper hung the lamp from a hook on one of the low wooden beams which supported the ceiling of the room.

  She gave a dour glance at Jeannie.

  ‘I daresay you’ll be hungry, Miss Millbuie?’

  Strangely enough, Jeannie reflected, she did not feel at all hungry, although she felt more exhausted and tired on the journey from Inverness than she had felt from the long trip from London to Edinburgh or from Edinburgh to Inverness.

  ‘I could do with a cup of tea, Mrs Murdo,’ she said, ‘if that won’t put you to any bother.’

  Mrs Murdo sniffed.

  ‘Why should it put me to a bother?’

  Jeannie considered the question a rhetorical one and did not reply. She sat on a chair and watched while Mrs Murdo prepared a kettle which, to Jeannie’s surprise, was heated by a small gas ring by the side of the open hearth. The parlour seemed to be a sitting room of sorts, observed Jeannie, looking around.

  Mrs Murdo caught her wandering gaze.

  ‘This is my sitting room,’ she said abruptly, as if reading Jeannie’s thoughts. ‘This was, in the old days that is, the room which the housekeeper had as her private sitting room and office. In those days there were ten servants to look after the house.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Jeannie. ‘Are all the other rooms in the house habitable?’

  ‘There will be plenty of time to see things … tomorrow. The tea is ready and I am sure you must be tired after your journey?’

  The question was more a statement of fact than a question. Jeannie decided she was not going to like Mrs Murdo. Nevertheless, she nodded.

  ‘I do feel tired.’

  Mrs Murdo did not reply but placed the tea on the table and added to it a plate of cold buttered scones.

  ‘Do you have any baggage, Miss Millbuie?’ she asked as Jeannie began to eat.

  ‘Oh yes, of course. I left my cases in my car. I left it in the cobbled yard by the side of the house … aren’t you having tea?’ she added as Mrs Murdo started for the door.

  ‘I have had my tea, Miss Millbuie. While you are having yours, I shall collect your bags.’

  ‘Oh there is no need to do that. I’ll get them after I’ve finished.’

  ‘Do not disturb yourself, Miss Millbuie. If you will give me the key to your vehicle … ?’

  Jeannie found herself meekly handing over her car keys. Mrs Murdo was obviously a woman used to being obeyed, she reflected as the door swung shut behind the housekeeper. She was certainly a dominant personality and Jeannie could foresee a conflict. With a sigh she bit savagely into a buttered scone and swallowed a mouthful of hot sweet tea. It was not a very auspicious start to her new life.

&nb
sp; It was an hour later when Mrs Murdo showed Jeannie up two flights of creaking wooden stairs, along a darkened corridor into a large bedroom.

  ‘The room hasn’t been used since the war,’ observed Mrs Murdo, leading the way in, her oil lamp held high to cast its light around. ‘But when Mr Kyle said you might be coming I cleared it up and aired it for you. It is the best I can offer apart from the old laird’s room and you would not find that the most comfortable of places. The old master was somewhat eccentric in his habits.’

  The room certainly seemed cold. A large bed stood in one corner but was not the traditional four poster that Jeannie had been half expecting. It was a rather ugly bed with a carved wooden headboard whose bizarre quality had the hallmark of some Victorian enthusiast. The other furniture fitted in with the dark panelled room and the whole atmosphere was one of gloom and quite oppressive.

  For a wild moment Jeannie felt like asking Mrs Murdo which war she referred to when she said the room had not been used since that time. Could it be the Crimean War?

  ‘This used to be Miss Catriona’s room,’ said the housekeeper, again apparently divining her thoughts.

  ‘Miss Catriona?’ echoed Jeannie.

  ‘Aye. She went off to London during the war. They say she became an ATS. She was killed in an air raid, or so word came back to us.’

  Jeannie wondered what an ATS could be.

  ‘I hope you will pass a pleasant night, Miss Millbuie.’

  With a curt nod, Mrs Murdo was gone, leaving Jeannie staring blankly at the closed door.

  Slowly she shook herself.

  ‘Damn!’ she suddenly said vehemently. ‘Don’t let ’em get you down, Jeannie.’ She stood surveying the unfriendly room in the flickering light of the single candle Mrs Murdo had left her. Then she repeated the expletive with the same vehemence before opening her suitcase and dragging out her nightdress.

  *

  Jeannie woke up with a start.

  Moonlight cast its pale glow in a long shaft through the tiny lattice windows of the room, falling across the floor and lighting the room with an ethereal quality.

  She lay listening to the deathly stillness of the night.

  She was sure that some noise had awoken her.

  Only the rhythmic beating of her heart echoed in the tiny pulses of her ears.

  How long she lay thus she did not know but it was a long time before she turned over and closed her eyes, telling herself that she must have been mistaken.

  She was just dropping off to sleep again when the noise came.

  It began softly, like the whispering of the wind in the trees, gradually increasing its tone until it became a high-pitched wail. Then it ceased abruptly.

  It was as if the sound were made by an animal crying in pain.

  Jeannie sat up, head to one side, listening. But there was silence once again.

  She swung herself out of her bed and went to the window.

  The white moonlight shone brightly, flickering across the waters of the loch. She could clearly see the expanse of water reflecting the bright light. The tall black hills rose on every side and Jeannie had to admit that it was a majestic, a spectacular landscape. The scene was painted in blacks, blues and whites.

  Yet apart from the flickering reflections of the moonlight on the waters, there was no movement anywhere.

  She stood by the window peering out a long, long time, expecting the sound to come again.

  Perhaps it was a wild dog or even a wolf? Did they still have wolves in Scotland? She could not remember.

  It was some time before she gave up the problem and returned to her bed but sleep did not overtake her for several hours.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The next morning Jeannie found Mrs Murdo preparing bacon and eggs in the kitchen, a large room situated next to the parlour. Jeannie found it by following the aroma. The housekeeper glanced up dourly at Jeannie’s bright ‘good morning’.

  ‘Will bacon and eggs suit you?’ she asked, ignoring the greeting.

  Privately, Jeannie would have settled for a cup of coffee and some plain toast but she nodded her assent. She had already got off on the wrong foot with Mrs Murdo, for what reason she could only guess and she did not want to complicate matters further. She felt Mrs Murdo would take umbrage if she disapproved of the breakfast which was already sizzling in a large frying pan on the stove.

  ‘It is a beautiful morning, Mrs Murdo,’ she observed. The sun was streaming in through the large kitchen windows and rebounded against the whitewashed walls. The view from her bedroom across the loch had looked especially attractive and Jeannie could not wait to get outside to explore the castle grounds. She seated herself at a large pine wood table on which the breakfast things had been laid. A glass of chilled orange juice stood on her plate. An irrelevant thought crossed her mind: how had Mrs Murdo produced chilled fruit juice without electricity.

  ‘The kitchen is fitted with gas,’ Mrs Murdo’s sullen tones cut into her thoughts causing her to suppress a shiver at the uncanny interruption. It was not the first time Mrs Murdo had apparently read her mind. Well, she decided, that was not unusual. People did say she had an expressive face. She glanced across to Mrs Murdo, still intent on the contents of the frying pan.

  ‘It really is a gorgeous day,’ she persisted.

  The woman scowled.

  ‘I’ve seen worse days,’ she grudgingly admitted.

  Jeannie finished her fruit juice.

  ‘I heard something funny last night,’ she began.

  There was a clatter from the stove.

  Mrs Murdo had dropped her spatula on the floor. She had turned and was looking intently at Jeannie. Abruptly she shook herself, almost like a dog, bent and picked up the spatula, put it into the sink and took out a new one from a drawer.

  ‘What did you hear?’ she said.

  Jeannie frowned at the edge in her voice.

  ‘It was like some sort of dog howling.’

  ‘Oh, there are plenty of dogs in these parts.’

  Jeannie shook her head.

  ‘It was rather strange, though. It sounded as if the noise came from below the house. Are there any cellars? Could a dog have become accidentally locked in the cellars?’

  ‘Nonsense,’ snapped Mrs Murdo, the tone of her voice taking Jeannie aback. ‘You probably heard the noise of the loch waters in the underground caves. Balmacaan is built on a series of underground caverns which sometimes fill up from the loch.’

  Mrs Murdo almost thrust the plate of bacon and eggs before Jeannie.

  ‘Oh no,’ contradicted Jeannie, ‘this was definitely like the noise made by an animal … ’

  ‘Miss Millbuie, I have lived here a good many years. I well know what sound you heard and I am telling you it is the water in the underground caverns.’

  Jeannie was surprised by the vehemence in the woman’s voice.

  ‘Very well, Mrs Murdo,’ she returned with ice in her voice. ‘I did not presume … ’

  Suddenly Mrs Murdo sighed and sat down, almost collapsing into a kitchen chair.

  ‘I am sorry, Miss Millbuie,’ she said, her voice tinged with tears. ‘I have not been well of late and that makes me somewhat short of temper.’

  Jeannie swallowed, unable to keep pace with the woman’s sudden change of temperament.

  ‘Why, of course, Mrs Murdo,’ she responded, feeling a little guilty at her dislike of the housekeeper. ‘It must be a very difficult time for you. Won’t you have some of this coffee?’

  The housekeeper nodded and allowed Jeannie to pour out a cup of coffee into which she liberally spooned sugar and added milk.

  ‘Since the old laird died, you see,’ she went on, ‘it has been a very difficult time; the uncertainty, you see … not knowing what will happen to the old place. I’ve worked here ever since I was a little girl. I was born and grew up in Balmacaan village, you see.’

  She paused. For a moment her eyes glazed as she appeared to be remembering something.

  Jean
nie leant forward.

  ‘I can appreciate your position, Mrs Murdo. All I can say is that as soon as I have made up my mind what to do with Balmacaan Castle I shall tell you.’

  The glazed eyes refocused on Jeannie and seemed to go hard again.

  ‘In the meantime, Miss Millbuie,’ Mrs Murdo said, her voice returning to her old sullen tone, ‘I can assure you that the noise you heard was made by water. The foundations of this castle go back many centuries; in fact, they go back nearly a thousand years to the original building. The old castle was built purposely, or so they say, on a series of great underground caverns, most of them are below the level of the loch itself.’

  ‘Isn’t that pretty deep?’ asked Jeannie.

  ‘Pretty deep,’ agreed Mrs Murdo, ‘though not as deep as the deepest troughs of the loch. Some parts go down as much as seven hundred feet. There is such a trough that passes by the castle, starting from Foyers for a distance of eight miles towards Fort Augustus.’

  She paused and sipped her coffee.

  ‘The castle was built over the caverns and the upper caves have served as storage vaults for centuries. But it is very dangerous to venture down there these days. You could be maimed or killed by falling debris or trapped by the waters that come through the cave system. It is the noise of the water cascading through the caves and tunnels that sometimes makes strange, eerie sounds like animals.’

  Mrs Murdo forced a smile and stood up.

  ‘So that is the explanation for your strange sounds, Miss Millbuie.’

  Jeannie nodded, wondering why Mrs Murdo was so anxious for her to accept the explanation. Anyhow, she had no reason not to.

  She finished her breakfast and rose to her feet.

  ‘I’d like to do some exploring today Mrs Murdo. Is it all right if I just wander around the grounds?’

  Mrs Murdo hesitated.

  ‘Well, yes … I suppose so. It is your property after all.’

  ‘Fine. There is no need to trouble yourself, Mrs Murdo. I can find my way around.’

  She had turned to the door when a thought struck her.

  ‘By the way, is it possible to get the generator for the electricity operating? I know the oil lamps are very ethnic and picturesque but if we have electricity and can afford it, I cannot see any reason why we should not use it, do you?’