The Curse of Loch Ness

by Peter Tremayne

  The sergeant replaced the receiver.

  ‘Now, sir, I’ll tell you what: if Miss Millbuie has not turned up by tomorrow afternoon, I suggest you come back here and I’ll get Fergus to go down to Balmacaan and see what has happened to her. I’m sure there is some simple explanation. Perhaps you misunderstood something the lady said or maybe you have the date wrong?’

  Tim nodded unhappily. In fact he was beginning to think the same thing himself.

  He thanked the sergeant for his help.

  ‘That’s all right, sir. Goodnight to you now.’

  Tim walked slowly back to the hotel, thoughts spinning through his mind. There must be some simple explanation to it all. There must!

  The sight of a telephone box gave him a sudden impulse. He went in and began to peer through the directory.

  ‘Kyle,’ he muttered to himself, as his eyes scanned the pages. That was the name in those solicitors’ letters that Jeannie had shown him. ‘Kyle … ah yes, Messrs Thompson, Kyle and Kyle. Damn!’ he glanced at his watch. ‘They’ll be closed now. But what was the name of the man … S something Kyle.’

  He flicked the pages again and cast his eyes down the list of Kyles.

  ‘Simpson Kyle, that’s the one!’

  He dialled the number.

  There was a brief moment before a dry voice answered.

  Tim pressed his coin into the box.

  ‘Hello? Mr Simpson Kyle? My name is Timothy Colbert. You don’t know me but I am Miss Jeannie Millbuie’s fiancé.’

  The voice on the other end was politely curious.

  ‘Indeed? What can I do for you, Mr … er, Colbert?’

  ‘Jeannie rang me a couple of days ago to say she was in a spot of trouble. She asked me to meet her today in the Caledonian Hotel here in Inverness. But she hasn’t shown up. I just wondered whether she had been in touch with you.’

  Simpson Kyle was mildly surprised.

  ‘How curious. No, Miss Millbuie has not been in contact with me since I saw her in my office last week. Did, er, did she tell you the nature of the trouble she was in?’

  ‘No,’ confessed Tim. ‘No. I just wondered whether she had consulted you about … well, about whatever it was.’

  ‘No, Mr Colbert. I have not heard from her since she went down to her property at Balmacaan. Perhaps you have mistaken the time or the place of your meeting?’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Tim grudgingly admitted.

  ‘Well, Balmacaan is in Strath Errick and not too great a distance from the town. Do you have a car?’

  ‘I came up by train.’

  ‘I see. Well, perhaps you could hire a vehicle? I would presume that Miss Millbuie is still at Balmacaan. If you see her, tell her that I am always available to discuss any problems that may arise. Good night, Mr Colbert.’

  Tim barely had time to respond before the buzzing of the dialling tone told him that Simpson Kyle had rung off.

  Continuing slowly back to the hotel, Tim decided that Simpson Kyle had a point. Strath Errick was not that far away. He mentally checked his bank account. Yes, it would stand the hire of a car for a few days but he would have to draw a little money out of his Building Society account to compensate.

  Back at the hotel he checked again for messages or for Jeannie’s arrival without much hope. Then he put in a telephone call to Johnson, his flat mate in London. He suddenly felt that Jeannie might have rung again in his absence. He had not told Johnson the reason for his sudden departure to Scotland and so, a few moments later, Johnson’s voice came across the wire breezy and unconcerned.

  ‘What ho, old man! No, she has not been in touch here by phone. Haven’t you caught up with her yet? You’d best hurry because from the sound of it she may have fallen in with some dark Hielan’ laddie!’

  Tim paused, frowning.

  ‘What are you talking about, Johnny?’ he said quietly. ‘Well, she sent you a postcard which came by the midday post. Couldn’t help but read the damn thing, old man.’

  ‘What’s it say?’ demanded Tim. ‘Can you read it to me?’

  ‘Just a moment.’

  There was a short delay while Johnson went off and found the card.

  ‘It says here … “My darling Timothy … ” ah’em … and … ’

  Tim was not listening.

  ‘“My darling Timothy”?’ he asked incredulously. ‘She wrote that? But she never calls me Timothy and she hates the term “darling”!’

  A sigh of exasperation came over the phone.

  ‘Perhaps she’s being sarcastic, old man. Now, do you want me to read the damn thing or not?’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Very well: “My darling Timothy — this is just to let you know that everything is fine. I am having a wonderful time. In fact, I may stay up here for a few weeks longer than I originally anticipated. Will write soon. All my fondest love. Jean.” That’s it, old man.’

  Tim shook his head in bewilderment. Was he going mad? That didn’t even sound like Jeannie. She never signed herself ‘Jean’, not even in formal letters, and that ‘all my fondest love’ was utterly out of character.

  ‘When was that posted, Johnny?’ he asked after a pause. ‘Inverness, old boy.’

  ‘No, when? Not where.’

  ‘Sorry. Yesterday’s date. First class mail, I wish all my letters were delivered that quickly.’

  ‘All right. Thanks, Johnny. I’ll be in touch.’

  ‘Cheerio, old man.’

  For a long time Tim sat in his room, his mind in a whirl. How could Jeannie have sent him that postcard? It was so stilted, so unnatural, so unlike her. And then it had been posted after she had made her extraordinary telephone call to him. It did not make any sense at all. Something damned peculiar was going on somewhere.

  He picked up the telephone and asked for the reception desk.

  ‘Could you arrange a hire-car for me for ten o’clock tomorrow?’

  ‘Certainly, Mr Colbert. How long would you want it for?’

  ‘Only for a few days.’

  ‘Very well … er, the rate would work out cheaper by the week, if you think you might require it for that period, sir.’

  ‘All right, a week then.’

  ‘Certainly. It will be ready for you tomorrow, sir.’

  Tim glanced at the time. Damn it! It was nearly ten o’clock and he had not eaten.

  ‘Is there any chance of getting a meal now?’

  ‘Sorry, sir, our restaurant has stopped serving meals. You’ll probably find a fish and chip shop in the town or a Chinese restaurant if you want something hot.’

  Tim silently cursed the British tradition of set hours in hotels for meals. If he had been in a Continental hotel and wanted a meal then a meal would have been organised for him no matter what time he ordered it. He certainly did not fancy scouting around for fish and chips or Chinese food. ‘Can you organise me some sandwiches and a pot of tea?’

  ‘I’ll see what can be done, sir.’

  Long after a waiter had brought a tray of sandwiches and a pot of tea to his room, Tim sat staring at the walls, trying to work out some solution to the strange mystery with which he was confronted.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  There was still no message from Jeannie the next morning and neither had she put in an appearance. If Tim had not already resolved on a course of action he would have been frantic with worry. But resolution had a calming effect on his nerves. He ate a substantial breakfast, even though he had to force himself to chew and swallow each mouthful. Afterwards he settled his bill, having decided it was ridiculous to keep his room at the hotel if there was a likelihood that Jeannie was still at Balmacaan Castle, and picked up his hire-car keys. He left a message for Jeannie just in case she contacted the hotel and told the receptionist that he would telephone later in the day.

  His hire-car, a Hillman Avenger, was waiting in the hotel forecourt.

  Soon Tim was speeding southwards on the road which ran parallel with the River Ness and beyond the Caledonian Canal,
in whose extensive basin he could see the superstructures of numerous ships from many countries unloading cargoes of wood at the quayside. Within a short space of time he had left the dismal collection of tweed and woollen factories, the distilleries and engineering and ship-building works which clustered around the county town and which added to its size, making it impossible for one to believe that this ‘Capital of the Highlands’ had a population of only 30,000 souls.

  Just north of Dores he caught sight of the grey waters of Loch Ness and his mind was forced to give thought to the breathtaking beauty of the countryside which, for a moment or two, relegated even his fears and anxieties to a secondary place.

  At Dores, following his map, Tim did not turn off along the lochside road built by General Wade but continued on the faster A862 which swung away from Loch Ness towards the southern end of Loch Duntelchaig, passed Achnabat, along the northern shore of Loch Ce-Glais through Torness and across the River Farigaig into the wild beauties of the valley of Strath Errick.

  In other circumstances, Tim would have revelled at the poetic-sounding Gaelic place names and the spectacular beauties of the country. He had to keep reminding himself that he was still in the island of Britain and not in some remote foreign land. He suddenly grinned. Of course, the fact was that he was in a foreign land, in spite of the technical assertion of the London Government that Britain was one nation; it was a multi-national state and the Scots were as much foreigners to the English as the French were and vice versa . And he silently breathed a prayer of thanks that it was so. It would be an appalling world where everyone was the same. Vive la difference culturale!

  He drew in at a village called Errogie, set on the northern edge of a great loch and, appropriately enough, called Loch Mhor. Whoever it was who had described this area as the land of ‘lochs and bens’ — lakes and mountains — had certainly not been mistaken.

  ‘Are you lost then, mister?’ asked a voice.

  Standing by the car was an old man regarding him with a friendly expression on his weatherbeaten face.

  ‘I’m looking for a village called Balmacaan,’ replied Tim. ‘It doesn’t seem to be on the map.’

  The old man spat reflectively.

  ‘Neither would it be, mister. It’s a dead place. No one goes there. No one lives there. At least, not to my knowledge.’

  ‘But isn’t there a big house there?’ insisted Tim.

  ‘Aye, there are one or two. There’s the old castle where Millbuie lived. But he died a while ago and I shouldn’t think anyone lives there now. Millbuie was a dour fellow. A hermit. They say he had no relatives so I would say there is no one there.’

  Tim smiled patiently.

  ‘How would I get to Balmacaan?’

  The old man regarded Tim for a moment and then shook his head.

  ‘Aye, well, it’s your business, I suppose. You follow the road down by the loch here, through Lochgarthside to Bailebeag. Keep on the main road, don’t turn off to Foyers. You’ll pass a hotel to your right and then you’ll come upon a wee hill, Knockie it’s called. Beyond that you’ll see a bit of a mountain, Beinn a’ Bhacaidh. Take it slowly and you’ll find a rough trackway to your right which will lead you across the shoulder of the mountain in the direction of Loch Ness. Follow the trackway and mind how you drive. I can’t recall it being used much and it may be a rough road. Anyway, it goes as far as Balmacaan Castle. If it is the village that you’re wanting, then you’ll have to continue on foot a mile or two. But as far as I recall, most people left the village back during the Great War when most of the menfolk did not return.’

  ‘Why was that?’

  ‘Killed,’ said the old man laconically. ‘Why else? Twenty of them all killed. The rest went either to Glasgow or London to earn a living. I reckon it has been deserted since then.’

  Tim thanked the man and started his car.

  ‘What was the name of this mountain that I turn off at?’

  ‘Beinn a’ Bhacaidh.’

  Tim tried to memorise the Gaelic name: Ben ah Vak-ah.

  ‘Does it have an English name?’ he asked, because he knew that most of the Gaelic names had been anglicised by now. Actually, he found it confusing when consulting a map of the area. Some names appeared in English, some in Gaelic and others were distorted by anglicised spellings.

  ‘Why should it?’ returned the old man. ‘It’s borne that name for close on two thousand years.’

  Tim, not wishing to offend, ventured to explain his confusion.

  ‘I mean,’ he added, ‘the village you mention, Foyers, now that’s English enough.’

  The old man laughed.

  ‘You are wrong, my friend. Foyers is merely the anglicised corruption of the Gaelic name Foithear , a slope, for the village is built on a slope.’

  ‘Do you speak Gaelic then?’ asked Tim interested, despite himself.

  The old man shook his head wistfully.

  ‘Och, no. My mother spoke it. She was one of the last native speakers from this area. But the language has died out around here, though I daresay you will come across some speakers here and there but they would mostly come from the islands or places on the mainland like Glenelg. It’s almost dead now … all we are left with are our songs and our name places and even remembrance of what those mean is dying.’

  ‘That’s a shame.’

  The old man sighed.

  ‘Aye. A shame. When a language and culture dies, a little bit of humanity dies with it. Anyway, good luck to you now.’

  The old man turned and walked away.

  Tim sat for a moment, wondering why he felt a peculiar sensation of guilt, but then his mind came back to the present and he pushed his car into gear.

  He was feeling hungry by the time he reached the imposing slopes of Beinn a’ Bhacaidh. He made the right-hand turn correctly and followed the rough bouncing trackway, swinging over the shoulder of the mountain. To his right he could see a couple of smaller lakes dwarfed almost immediately by the grand vista of Loch Ness, with its spectacular expanse of black and peaty water.

  He wondered whether he should have halted and eaten lunch en route. No, it was more important to find Jeannie first.

  He swung down through some woods and came to a large stone wall, two rusty iron gates hung half closed at what must have been the main entrance. He stopped his car, pulling hard over to one side of the trackway, climbed out and examined the faded lettering on one of the gates.

  So this was Balmacaan Castle. He had caught a brief glimpse of an imposing structure with two square towers a while back from the mountain. Did Jeannie really own this? He gave a low whistle.

  He decided to leave his car and walk through the woods, down the driveway to the big house.

  It was certainly an impressive place, its structure fronting the edge of the loch with one wall seeming to be part of the extension of a granite cliff which fell nearly a hundred feet into the black waters.

  He walked up to the massive front door, found the ancient bell handle and pulled.

  It was a long time before there was a movement inside.

  An austere looking woman opened the door and glared at him in obvious disapproval.

  ‘Yes?’

  The voice was distant and unfriendly.

  ‘My name is Timothy Colbert,’ he said.

  The woman raised one eyebrow slightly. Her mouth was set in a vicious thin line. He hesitated as there was no reply and then plunged on.

  ‘I am looking for Miss Millbuie.’

  ‘Miss Millbuie is not here.’

  Tim’s face fell.

  ‘Can you tell me where I might find her?’ he persisted.

  ‘I have no idea.’ The woman started to close the heavy wooden door.

  Tim felt a surge of anger. He raised one hand and pushed his palm against the door to prevent it being shut.

  ‘Just a minute! Just a minute!’ he almost snarled. ‘I have come all the way from London to see her.’

  The woman paused in surprise and refo
rmed her features into neutral passivity.

  ‘I am sorry for your long journey. But, as I say, Miss Millbuie is not here. She left yesterday.’

  ‘Left? Yesterday?’ Tim repeated, stupefied. ‘But where did she go?’

  ‘She packed a bag and said that while she was in the north of Scotland she would like to explore the islands.’

  ‘The islands?’

  ‘Yes. I think it was her wish to explore Skye and she drove off to Mallaig to get the ferry. She said she might stay there a week or two.’

  Tim leant weakly against the doorjamb.

  ‘But why?’ he asked, aghast. Was it all some joke? Or had he imagined what Jeannie had said over the telephone? And why the postcard? At least that seemed to fit in with what the woman was saying.

  The woman sniffed.

  ‘I cannot tell you why Miss Millbuie does anything. I am merely the housekeeper here and Miss Millbuie is an independent young lady and does not include me in her confidences. Now, if you will excuse me … ’

  ‘Wait a moment,’ gasped Tim. ‘May I use your telephone?’

  ‘I regret that we are not on the telephone here.’

  ‘Well, can you tell me if there is any way I can contact Jeannie … er, Miss Millbuie? Did she leave a forwarding address of any sort?’

  ‘I am afraid not. Unless you want to go to Mallaig and make enquiries from the ferry people. You might be able to find exactly where in Skye she is staying from them.’

  While Tim stood indecisively on the doorstep, the door was firmly closed in his face.

  He swore vehemently to himself.

  The whole thing was odd, so damned odd. He had half a mind to ring the doorbell again and press for some further explanation. Why, for instance, had the woman been so unfriendly? That didn’t fit in with his experience of Scottish hospitality.

  He turned and started to walk slowly back along the pathway towards the woods. Once or twice he turned to stare at the great edifice that was Balmacaan Castle and each time he thought he saw something move at a lower window as if someone was watching his progress from its bleak latticed panes, ducking behind the curtains each time he looked round.