The Curse of Loch Ness

by Peter Tremayne

  Suddenly he swore softly to himself and sat up.

  There was a problem which he had overlooked. Country hotels locked their doors at midnight and one had to ring for a night porter, or obtain a pass key beforehand. When he went out that night, how was he to get back to his room again without disturbing anyone? There was really no valid excuse to be out after midnight in such a place as this; there was absolutely nowhere to go and the hotelier might wonder why he was wandering around the desolate shores of Loch Ness during the night. It would be best to avoid such questions altogether. But how?

  He stood up and went to the window.

  His room was on the first floor of the hotel, at the back of the building looking onto a small car park in which he had parked his car. It consisted of a small, level patch of gravelled land which was cut into the lower slopes of the surrounding hills. Immediately below his window, about three feet down, was the roof of an outhouse. Perhaps he could climb out, onto the roof, and then drop to the ground, and, hopefully, return the same way. He would check that out before dinner.

  He sat down on his bed again and picked up the telephone. The Caledonian Hotel reported that Miss Millbuie had still not arrived and had not telephoned either. Tim then called his flat in London and Johnson confirmed that there had been no calls there either, nor any further postcards.

  Finally Tim lay back on his bed and, after a while, forced himself into an uneasy sleep.

  He awoke about quarter to eight, washed and went down to the dining room. He ate a moderately light meal and was careful to avoid Professor Winstanley, who was holding forth to his party at a corner table.

  After the meal he went into the hotel bar where most of the guests were gathered, looking expectantly towards a group of three or four musicians who were tuning their instruments, a fiddle, a flute, a banjo. Tim ordered a drink and seated himself on a bar stool.

  The florid-faced manager came in, whispered to the musicians and then clapped his hands to attract attention.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he held up his hands as if in benediction. ‘Ceud mile failte … a hundred thousand welcomes. Tonight we are going to have a ceilidh beag , a wee ceilidh, and for those of you who don’t know what a ceilidh is, I’ll tell you. It’s a party, a get-together … so come on and enjoy yourselves now! To get things into the mood we’ll start up with a couple of Scottish dance tunes … “Speed the plough” and “The de’il amang the tailors”. Take it away, lads.’

  The fiddle struck up. It was a type of music that didn’t appeal to Tim. He sat sipping his drink and watching the other guests as they tapped their feet or clapped their hands in time to the reels. A couple of elderly women, oblivious of the spectacle they caused, stood up and were executing an unsuccessful attempt at a Scottish dance.

  The music ended and the manager came back again.

  Tim drained his drink and decided to leave.

  ‘Now, that’s broken the ice,’ the manager was saying, ‘let’s welcome our special guest tonight … a young folk singer from the isle of Lewis, from Stornoway itself, Miss Morag Ross!’

  There was a polite applause.

  Tim was sliding off the bar stool when the sound of the music made him stop and turn round. It was a clear-pitched girl’s voice, entirely unaccompanied, singing a lively song in a language which Tim supposed was Gaelic. It had a quick tempo, a lively tempo, from which the excitement of movement communicated itself to the audience. But it was the girl’s vibrance, the way the song came not just from her lips but through her whole being, that impressed Tim. He turned to the bar and signalled for the barman to refill his glass and resumed his seat.

  The song ended all too soon and Tim joined in the applause.

  The singer could not have been much more than twenty; a fair-haired girl, the hair cut short, with sparkling blue eyes, a white skin, with dashes of red on her cheeks, a heart shaped face and a humorous and full mouth. She had a boyish but attractive form and was clad in a deep blue T-shirt and jeans.

  She smiled shyly at her audience.

  ‘Thank you,’ her voice was soft and she spoke in the slow musical intonation of the Western Isles. ‘That was a worksong from the island of Barra. And now … a couple of love songs: “O Horo Mo chailin Bonn, Ho Ro my brownhaired maiden” and “Gruagach og an fuilt than, The fair haired maiden”.’

  She picked up a battered guitar and began to sing the lilting Gaelic melodies.

  Tim sat enthralled by the music and its interpreter and was sorry when it ended and the girl gave way to the musicians with their reels and strathspeys. Tim sat through them hoping that the girl would come back and sing some more songs. She did after a while, singing laments, work songs and love songs, running the whole gamut of emotions from the sad to the cheerful and the wistful.

  It was eleven o’clock when Tim, feeling rather guilty at his absorption in the music, went upstairs to his room. He put on a heavy woollen sweater and lay on his bed for a while with the lights off. He could hear the other guests gradually going to their rooms and finally a quiet spread through the hotel. Tim waited about half an hour before he made a move. He checked the time by his watch and found it was nearly one o’clock.

  He picked up his flashlight, which he had the good sense to bring, always keeping it handy in his car in case of accidents, and crossed to the window. It was a fairly easy task to lower himself to the outhouse roof below and from there to the ground. He stood ears atune for any sounds that would indicate that his unorthodox departure had been heard. The hotel stood in complete darkness. Nothing stirred.

  He walked to his car and muttered a silent prayer of thanks that he had parked it at the end of the piece of ground which served the hotel as a car park where the slope continued into the short drive leading onto the main road which swept down the hill to the village. This meant that he would not have to start the engine until he got into the village away from the hotel. At least people in the hotel would not hear his departure, although his return might create a problem.

  He fumbled at the car door a moment until he realised he had not locked the car when he had parked it. Well, that was something one could not get away with in London … but up here, well, who was likely to steal it anyway? He climbed in, closed the door as quietly as possible and slipped off the hand brake. At once the car began to roll forward. He did not turn on the sidelights but let the vehicle move forward of its own volition, gathering momentum down the slope to the roadway. Taking a chance, because he could see no sign of the lights of any other vehicle nor hear any sound, he let the car slip into the roadway and turned left down the hill.

  Towards the bottom of the hill he switched on the engine without stopping the car and flicked on the lights, so that he could accelerate away from the village and begin climbing the hill to join the main A862.

  Once away from the village he breathed a sigh of relief and smiled.

  He was pretty good at this subterfuge stuff, perhaps he should have been a spy!

  The roads were totally deserted and it did not seem long before he had reached the rough trackway which led out across Beinn a’ Bhacaidh.

  Tim turned onto it and followed its twisting route until he reached a spot which he judged to be just before the shoulder of the mountain, where it turned towards the south and came within sight of the woods that surrounded Balmacaan Castle. Then he reached forward and turned off his headlights and sidelights.

  He braked a little, slowing the car down to a few miles an hour, blinking to try to get his eyes adjusted to the darkness.

  A pale moon cast little light through the dark clouds that billowed through the night sky. The going was treacherous.

  He pulled at the wheel as the car moved too far to one side of the trackway and he found he had compensated too much, for the vehicle began to tilt over as its wheels climbed the embankment. He swung the wheel again and the car dropped back to the track with a bump which caused him to release the clutch too suddenly and stall the machine.

  A scre
am pole-axed him. It was a breathless female scream of fright.

  He turned, gripping his flashlight, adrenalin causing his heart to beat twice as fast.

  A figure was struggling under the car rug on the back seat.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  ‘What the hell … ?’ began Tim.

  The beam from his flashlight revealed a girl’s face glaring at him in frightened defiance.

  ‘Who the blazes are you?’ he demanded. ‘And what are you doing in my car?’

  He suddenly realised that the girl’s face was familiar. ‘Good Lord! Aren’t you the folk-singer from the hotel?’ The girl had emerged from the encumbrance of the car rug and was staring at him, still rather frightened.

  ‘Would you mind shining the light down a bit?’ she said slowly, blinking in its glare. ‘You’re blinding me.’ Automatically Tim switched it off.

  It was a moment or two before his eyes adjusted to the darkness.

  ‘Well?’ he said, after a long pause. ‘What are you doing in my car?’

  ‘Are you sure that this is your car?’ returned the girl.

  ‘Of course,’ replied Tim. ‘What … ’

  ‘I mean, if this is your car, is it not a rather uncommon way of leaving a hotel?’

  Tim suddenly laughed.

  ‘I see. You think I am a car thief?’

  ‘It had crossed my mind,’ admitted the girl.

  ‘I am a guest at the hotel. The car is a hire-car. I hired it,’ said Tim, as if teaching a catechism to a backward child.

  ‘Oh?’ There was still scepticism in the girl’s voice.

  ‘But that,’ continued Tim, ignoring her tone, ‘does not account for what you are doing in my car. I thought you were a cabaret artist at the hotel.’

  ‘Yes,’ replied the girl. ‘I hitch-hike round the country with my guitar singing here and there when I can get the jobs. It’s just a tourist season thing and the pay isn’t too good until the season really starts about June. So I cut expenses when I can.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Tim, puzzled.

  ‘Well, you don’t think the hotel is going to pay me and give me free accommodation as well? I only make a few pounds a night. No, I have to supply my own accommodation where I can. On the fine nights it is great and I can usually find places to unroll my sleeping bag.’

  Tim became aware that there was a bundle on the back seat beside the girl. A sleeping bag.

  He began to see the situation.

  ‘So, looking for a place to sleep for the night, you found my car door open and decided to bed down on the back seat?’

  ‘Aye, that’s the size of it,’ replied the girl and then added with emphasis, ‘if it is your car, that is.’

  Tim sighed.

  ‘I can’t help what you think about it, young lady. It is my car and that’s that.’

  ‘Och, don’t get so high and mighty with me,’ admonished the girl. ‘You’re not that old yourself. I bet you’re even less than thirty.’

  ‘It is hardly the time of place to discuss our respective ages,’ said Tim sarcastically.

  The girl sighed and gave a furtive glance into the surrounding darkness.

  ‘Aye, and where the devil are we? Why are you driving around with your lights out?’

  Tim could feel her giving his face as close a scrutiny as she could in the gloomy interior of the car.

  ‘You’re not a thief, are you … ?’

  ‘The car,’ began Tim, heavily, ‘the car … ’

  ‘Aye, I know what you say about the car. But is it an honest man who creeps about in the middle of the night, sneaking out of a hotel and driving about the roads without lights? Who are you?’

  ‘I can assure you, Miss … Miss … ?’

  ‘Morag Ross.’

  ‘Miss Ross: I can assure you that I am not a thief, robber or any other breed of crook.’

  ‘Well, you’re acting mighty suspiciously.’

  ‘So are you, come to that,’ snorted Tim indignantly.

  ‘Well, you have the cheek! Where are we and what are you doing?’ replied the girl with spirit.

  ‘We’re on … on,’ Tim tried desperately to recall the Gaelic name. ‘On Ben ah Vakah.’

  ‘Beinn a’ Bhacaidh?’ repeated the girl. ‘But that’s in the middle of nowhere. What are you up to?’

  Tim scratched his head in perplexity.

  What was he going to do with this unwelcome passenger? He certainly could not allow her to tag along with him to Balmacaan Castle. On the other hand, he couldn’t turn her out into the middle of nowhere at this time of night.

  ‘Well?’

  The girl’s voice was tinged with suspicion.

  ‘If you must know,’ said Tim desperately, deciding on the truth, however improbable it sounded, ‘I believe my girlfriend is being held against her will at a house not far from here. I am trying to find out if she is being held there.’

  The girl gave a rich chuckle.

  ‘Oh aye?’ she said softly.

  Tim felt an unjustifiable anger at her amused cynicism. ‘Aye!’ he growled savagely. ‘And as I didn’t invite you, no one is asking you to stay. The path leads back to the main road and you can probably get a lift there.’

  A tone of dismay crept into the girl’s voice.

  ‘At one o’clock in the morning in this part of Scotland? It’ll take me ages to reach the roadway, provided I don’t get lost on this blasted mountain.’

  Tim bit his lip in frustration.

  ‘Look here, Miss Ross. I know it sounds unusual but I am speaking the truth.’

  The girl was silent. He had spoken with such earnestness that she could almost believe him.

  Finally, as she did not reply, Tim went on: ‘Look, it seems we are stuck with one another for a bit. I must press on and find out what is going on. You’ll have to come with me and stay in the car.’

  The girl made no reply.

  Then she asked: ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Colbert, Timothy Colbert.’

  ‘You’re from the south of England, aren’t you?’

  ‘From London,’ confirmed Tim. ‘I lecture in English at the London Polytechnic.’

  ‘Well, Mister Colbert,’ the girl said with emphasis, ‘you sound honest even if what you say is a load of nonsense and what you are doing is highly suspicious.’

  Tim felt a sudden desperate urge to make this girl understand and believe him.

  ‘I tell you, I really mean what I say. Look … ’

  Very briefly, Tim hurried through the events of the past few days. His voice sounded so sincere, so earnest, so eager to be believed, that Morag Ross dropped her cynical smile.

  Several thoughts were running through her mind. At first she thought that he was merely a car thief. Now she believed that he had been a guest at the hotel and that this was probably his car; but then what accounted for his strange behaviour? Certainly not the preposterous tale of a disappearing girlfriend that he was now telling her, no matter how true he made it sound. Yet, in a strange way, she wanted to believe him.

  She drew her thoughts together. No, more likely he was one of those London crooks that one read about, a crook about to carry out some burglary on one of the big houses that were to be found here and there in the country roundabout. She felt a shiver of apprehension go through her as she contemplated the idea. He was a big time crook about to pull a — what was the word? — a caper and she had queered his pitch. What would he do with her? A moment of panic seized her only to be dismissed by the boyish earnestness of his voice.

  ‘You do believe me, don’t you?’ he was asking.

  ‘Would you mind shining your torch on your face for a moment?’ she suddenly asked.

  Puzzled, Tim did so.

  ‘Aye,’ the girl said softly. ‘You’ve even got an honest face, Mr Colbert. It’s actually quite a nice face, too.’

  Tim switched off the torch.

  ‘Well?’ he demanded.

  Morag Ross bit her lip.

&
nbsp; ‘Let’s put it this way, I’m not sold on your story. But I think this whole business is mighty queer. However, I don’t have much choice but to go along with you for the time being.’

  ‘All I want from you is that you sit quietly in the car and don’t make any fuss while I check to see if Jeannie, my girlfriend, is in the house as I suspect’

  The girl sighed.

  ‘Well, what can I lose apart from my beauty sleep and that I’ve lost already.’

  ‘You’ll do it?’ insisted Tim.

  ‘I’ll stay in the back of the car and it will be as if I hadn’t woken up at all. Okay?’

  ‘Great,’ Tim heaved a sigh of relief.

  He turned, started the car again and began to edge it forward along the trackway. The clouds had now dispersed a little and there was a faint silver glow which illuminated it and made it easier for Tim to manoeuvre the vehicle around its tight curves.

  ‘Why don’t you use your lights?’ demanded the girl from the back seat.

  ‘Because if anyone is looking out of the house down there, they’ll see us coming across the mountain and be ready for us.’

  ‘At this time of night they’ll hear your engine anyway. The sound carries across the mountains.’

  Tim cursed himself for a fool.

  ‘You’re right,’ he admitted as he switched off. ‘Anyway, it’s downhill all the way from here so I’ll let her coast down.’

  It was not long before the car trundled to a halt near the forbidding stone walls which surrounded the entrance to the Balmacaan Castle estate.

  Tim put the car keys in his pocket and turned to the girl.

  ‘I don’t know how long I’ll be, not all that long I shouldn’t think. Now will you stay here until I get back?’

  The girl nodded.

  ‘I’ll probably be asleep,’ she yawned.

  ‘I’ll try not to wake you again,’ said Tim sarcastically.