The Curse of Loch Ness

by Peter Tremayne

  ‘How long do you think they will hold us here?’ asked the girl, biting into an apple. ‘How long?’

  Tim shrugged.

  ‘I’ve no idea. Not even an idea as to what these people hope to achieve by all this.’

  ‘Well,’ said Morag practically, ‘it’s no use wondering on an empty stomach. Besides … won’t the people at the hotel in Foyers start missing you?’

  Tim’s face suddenly brightened.

  ‘By George, of course, ah … but with the car missing they will probably think I’ve just skipped off without paying my bill.’

  ‘What about the things you left in your room?’

  ‘That’s a point,’ admitted Tim. ‘But there wasn’t much, a change of clothes, shaving tackle, pyjamas … not enough to make them think I have made a sinister unpremeditated disappearance.’

  ‘But they will report it to the police,’ insisted the girl.

  ‘And what will the police do? It’s not enough to send them out tracking me down to Balmacaan Castle.’

  Tim abruptly slumped onto a wooden stool and took a hunk of bread and cheese from the tray that Mrs Murdo had placed in the cell. He bit into it savagely, his eyes wandering around the room as if seeking some solution to the mystery or a means of escape.

  His eyes kept returning to the black patch which was the ventilator.

  He suddenly dropped his piece of bread.

  ‘I think I have an idea,’ he whispered.

  Morag looked at him in puzzlement.

  Tim stood up and peered up at the grille.

  ‘Hold still, Morag. I’m going to extinguish the candle … take the matches and put them in your pocket so that we know where they are when we need them.’

  The girl obeyed wonderingly.

  Tim blew out the flame.

  They waited in silence while their eyes grew accustomed to the gloom.

  Gloom! It was Tim who recognised the significance of the fact. Gloom; not the total darkness that one would expect in such a place. He let out a low cry of exultation.

  He had been right. He could see the faint grey light seeping through the ventilator.

  ‘See it, Morag?’ He whispered excitedly. ‘That’s our way out!’

  ‘You’re going to have to be a bit of a gymnast to get through that,’ the girl returned.

  ‘Come on,’ said Tim, ignoring her protest, ‘light the candle and let’s get to work on that iron grille.’

  His excitement became infectious. Within a moment the flickering flame of the candle was lighting the room.

  ‘It’s going to be difficult to reach,’ observed the girl.

  Tim did not reply. He pushed the wood-planked bed over into the corner and then stood one of the stools on it. Carefully, he climbed onto this, balancing precariously, leaning his weight against the wall. By this means, his head and shoulders came level with the grille.

  He grinned down at Morag.

  ‘Voila,’ he said, triumphantly.

  ‘Yes, but how are you going to unscrew the grille?’ she demanded pessimistically.

  ‘Hand me up the candle.’

  She did so.

  ‘There are only two large screws,’ he said after a moment’s inspection. ‘If we can get those off, then the grille unhooks without any trouble.’

  ‘In case you’ve forgotten,’ said the girl, ‘we don’t happen to have a screwdriver handy.’

  Tim knitted his brows in a frown.

  ‘Don’t you carry a nail file or something?’

  Morag shrugged.

  ‘They took my handbag from me when they searched us. And I always thought that men came equipped with a penknife or some of those pipe cleaning things.’

  Tim climbed down.

  ‘That’s it then,’ he said sorrowfully.

  He returned to his interrupted breakfast.

  Morag started as he suddenly sprang up again.

  ‘What idiots we are!’

  ‘Now what?’ demanded the girl.

  Tim picked up a stubby metal knife from the tray.

  ‘The very thing. Thank God they didn’t give us one of those old-fashioned bone-handled things with the thin sharp blade. This blunt metal thing is just the job.’

  The girl looked at it doubtfully.

  ‘It’s not much of a screwdriver.’

  Tim was already climbing back to the grille again.

  ‘It’s better than sitting here twiddling our thumbs, young lady.’

  The screws were large and rusty and it was almost impossible to get a purchase on them.

  It took several minutes of effort and cursing before Tim forced the screw to turn a fraction with the rounded end of the knife blade. Soon he had managed to raise the head of the screw enough to turn the knife sideways like a handle and after that it was not long before the rusty screw was withdrawn from its hole. It took altogether about half an hour before both screws were removed. Then, bracing himself against the wall, so that he did not topple backwards from his precarious perch, Tim started to ease the rusty metal frame from the protrusions onto which it had been hooked. It was difficult and the sweat stood out on his brow. Finally, squeaking in protest, the grille lifted away.

  Tim leant against the wall breathing heavily.

  ‘Done it,’ he whispered.

  The girl took the grille from him and placed it on the floor.

  The hole that its removal revealed was scarcely more than a foot high and two feet in width. Tim regarded it with sudden doubt.

  ‘It’s going to be a tight squeeze,’ he admitted.

  He motioned Morag to pass up the candle again.

  The fresh air caused it to splutter as he leaned forward into the shaft.

  ‘It seems to slope upwards for a few feet and then … then … ’ he thrust the candle forward in disbelief. ‘Then it seems to end in a blank wall.’

  ‘Put the candle out again,’ advised the girl. ‘You’ll probably see from the way the light creeps in that the shaft changes direction; perhaps it curves upwards or has some sort of self-masking structure.’

  Without questioning the girl, Tim did as she bid him.

  After a moment his eyes saw the fall of the light in the shaft.

  ‘You’re dead right, girl wonder,’ he admitted. ‘It seems to turn upwards and, judging from the intensity of the light, I’d say that it is no great distance from the opening where the light is coming in. But the thing is … is the distance short enough for us to get out that way?’

  ‘The only way to find that out is to try it,’ replied Morag, becoming enthusiastic for the first time.

  Tim regarded the narrow entrance with another attack of doubt.

  ‘Here,’ he reached down the candle to her. ‘Light that up again for me.’

  Morag did so.

  ‘You’re thinking that you may be too big and get stuck in the turning of the shaft?’ she asked.

  ‘It did occur to me,’ said Tim, climbing down. ‘That would be pretty stupid in the circumstances.’

  ‘Then there’s only one thing for it. I’ll go. I’m smaller than you are.’

  Tim opened his mouth to protest.

  ‘I hope you’re not going to make any stupid male-ego-inspired objections about it being no place for a woman and all that rubbish?’ she grinned.

  Before Tim could frame a suitable reply, she had climbed onto the stool and her legs were disappearing through the hole.

  ‘I’ll tell you what is happening as I go,’ her voice drifted back to Tim. Tim remounted the stool and peered into the shaft after her.

  ‘Are you okay?’

  Morag chuckled.

  ‘I’m not actually ecstatic in here; it’s damp and a wee bit slimy … God alone knows what creatures have made their home in here.’

  In spite of her protest, the girl’s voice was cheerful.

  ‘It looks worse than it is,’ she called. ‘The shaft narrows into the room. As I go along, it gets wider. I’m reaching the turning … ’

  For a few seco
nds, Tim could only hear the sound of her panting breath.

  ‘It’s not so bad … it’s more of a gentle turn than a sharp one … I can easily turn up with it and … and I can see the light from outside.’

  There was a sudden exclamation. Morag said something in Gaelic which sounded remarkably like a curse.

  ‘What is it?’ demanded Tim.

  ‘The hole here … there are two bars across it.’

  Tim bit his lip in anxiety.

  ‘How far up is the hole?’ he called.

  ‘Not far,’ came the reply. ‘About five feet from the bottom of the shaft. I am pushing my way up to it. Right. I’m there. There are two iron bars about an inch thick embedded in the mortar.’

  Tim’s shoulders slumped and he swore softly.

  ‘That’s it then. You’d better make your way back.’

  There was a silence.

  ‘Morag?’ he called anxiously. ‘Morag? Are you okay?’

  There was the sound of scrabbling.

  ‘Morag?’ he called again, sharply.

  ‘Hold your horses,’ came the girl’s voice. ‘Some of the mortar is loose around the bars. It’s ages old and very crumbly … can you throw that knife along to the bottom of the shaft?’

  A feel of excitement returned to Tim as he climbed down from the stool, picked up the knife and climbed back again.

  ‘Here it comes.’

  After a moment her voice came again.

  ‘I’ve got it. Hang on.’

  Eternal seconds ticked by. Tim grew agitated as he listened to the scrape, scrape, scrape. Then there was a dull metallic thud as something hit the bottom of the shaft.

  ‘Morag?’

  ‘Still here,’ came her cheerful voice. ‘I nearly brained myself with that blessed bar. They are not in very deep and the plaster they are embedded in is so old. It won’t be long before … ’

  Tim’s ears caught a new sound.

  ‘Morag,’ he whispered urgently. ‘Get back here as fast as you can, I think someone is coming.’

  He climbed off the stool and went to the door.

  Somewhere, from far, far away, he could hear the faint sound of a door banging, of the clink of metal keys.

  Slow seconds passed before the feet of the girl emerged from the hole. Tim sprang to help her down onto the stool. She looked a pretty rough sight stained by the slime that had gathered in the shaft over the centuries of disuse. Her clothes were torn and her hair was covered in plaster. But there was no time to think now.

  ‘Give me the grille, quickly,’ urged Tim.

  She handed up the iron grille as Tim climbed onto the stool and hooked it back in place. Then he placed the stool on the floor and pushed the bed back into its usual corner.

  His gaze returned to the girl who was trying to brush the mortar from her tangled hair.

  ‘No time for that now,’ he said. ‘Get on the bed and draw a blanket over you and pretend that you are asleep.’

  Morag nodded.

  Tim seated himself before the breakfast tray, heart beating wildly, as Morag drew the blankets around herself.

  A door banged fairly near. Tim could hear footsteps in the passageway outside.

  Then his ears picked up a new sound.

  A woman was sobbing.

  Tim stood up and moved towards the door, trying to identify the sound.

  He could hear the sobbing plainly through the door. Then a voice whose familiarity caused him to cry out in anguish suddenly moaned audibly: ‘Oh God, oh God … help me, someone help me!’

  It was Jeannie’s voice.

  Tim gave an inarticulate cry and started pounding on the door.

  ‘Jeannie! Jeannie! What are they doing to you? For God’s sake answer me! Jeannie!’

  A voice — Telstan’s — snapped through the door telling him to shut up.

  A door banged.

  There was a sudden quiet.

  For a moment Tim went berserk, throwing himself against the heavy cell door, banging with his clenched fists and kicking in futile anger with his feet.

  ‘Jeannie! Jeannie!’

  He suddenly collapsed on his knees before the door.

  Morag, the blanket still draped around her shoulders, had joined him, trying to soothe him.

  ‘You won’t be able to help Jeannie like that, Tim,’ she said softly.

  Tim turned dull eyes on her.

  ‘She’s alive, Tim … at least you know that,’ the girl continued.

  There was a sound outside the door, the scrape of bolts being withdrawn.

  Morag scampered back to the bed and drew the blanket over her.

  The door opened and Telstan stood there, a pistol in his hand, looking down malevolently at Tim’s kneeling figure.

  Slowly, Tim rose to his feet and backed a few paces, following the motion of Telstan’s gun.

  ‘Listen, Colbert,’ the chubby-faced man sounded unusually harsh and commanding, ‘I want no trouble from you.’

  ‘What are you doing to Jeannie?’ snapped Tim. ‘By God, if you harm her … ’

  He made a threatening step forward with a half-raised fist, only to be halted by the motion of Telstan’s gun.

  ‘That’s enough of the heroics,’ returned Telstan, a sneer in his voice. ‘You do not have to prove your manhood here, Colbert. As for harming Miss Millbuie, you may rest assured that her health is our prime concern, especially now.’

  He chuckled as if at some joke.

  ‘What is it?’ demanded Tim. ‘Why have you kidnapped her? Is it ransom? She told me the estate wasn’t worth much. Why are you doing this?’

  Telstan smiled.

  ‘It is better that you do not understand, you and the young lady there. You already know a little more than is wise for you.’

  ‘Telstan!’

  It was the voice of Mrs Murdo calling from further along the passage.

  ‘I need you immediately!’

  Telstan’s eyes did not flicker from Tim’s face.

  ‘Coming!’

  He backed from the room still smiling.

  ‘Do not make any further trouble, Mr Colbert,’ he said gently. ‘We do not want to precipitate any action we may have to take because of your unwelcome interference in our affairs.’

  He swung the door shut and the scrape of the bolts came again to Tim’s ears.

  Morag swung off the bed.

  ‘Now what?’

  Tim stood in indecision.

  ‘Jeannie is here. She’s alive. The only thing I can think of is that she is being held to ransom by these people because of some money she has inherited. But nothing really makes sense … ’

  ‘You are right. Why hold her in Balmacaan? If you kidnap a person you don’t hold them to ransom in their own house.’

  Tim shook his head in bewilderment.

  ‘I suppose not; not unless they reason that this would be the last place they would look for her.’

  ‘They?’

  ‘Presumably they are demanding the ransom from her solicitors in Inverness.’

  ‘Well,’ returned the girl, pushing the bed back again towards the grille, ‘speculating won’t get us far. We need to get out and get help. These people are a nasty crowd and the sooner we’re away from here, the better I shall like it.’

  Within minutes they had removed the iron grille again and Morag was back in the shaft struggling with the second iron bar.

  The removal of the first bar had apparently weakened the second one for it was only a few moments before Tim heard the dull metallic clunk as it fell from its socket.

  ‘That’s it,’ called the girl. ‘The opening is as wide as the shaft, wide enough to wriggle through. It leads onto a little ledge overlooking the loch. We actually come out on a granite cliff face just under the main castle walls but it is still about a hundred or more feet above the water … ’

  ‘Is there any way of climbing down? Can you tell?’

  ‘Wait! I’ll wriggle out onto the ledge.’

  There was a
silence.

  ‘No, I’m afraid it’s a sheer drop into the loch. But I reckon it would be a fairly easy dive if you can swim. The water is quite calm. We could swim to shore further down. Can you swim?’

  ‘More importantly, can I get through the shaft?’

  ‘With a squeeze.’

  ‘Very well. We might as well get cracking. I’m coming along now.’

  Using his arm muscles, Tim gripped a protrusion just inside the shaft and hauled his body inch by inch into the opening. It was a very tight squeeze and for a moment Tim experienced a terrible sense of claustrophobia. He pushed on down the shaft and found, as Morag had said, that it widened slightly and the going became easier. It was not long before he reached the turn where the shaft angled upwards and he found that it was not so acute as to make it impossible to follow its turn.

  His head suddenly bumped against something.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘You’re okay. That was just my feet,’ rejoined Morag who was apparently balanced directly above him. ‘I’ll have to climb out of this shaft into the entrance before you can come up further. And I’ll have to dive first because there is no room on the ledge.’

  ‘All right. Sure you can swim?’

  The girl chuckled.

  ‘I’m an islander, you know.’

  ‘Off you go then.’

  The girl scrambled upwards and suddenly Tim saw the bright light of day pouring into the shaft above him. He lay some seconds watching the black shadow of Morag’s lithe body pushing upwards and finally disappearing into the entrance.

  ‘All clear to come up now,’ she called.

  Tim hauled himself into an upright position.

  Standing upright in the shaft, he found his head on a level with the entrance, which gave access to a short tunnel some four feet long, through which he could smell and sense the open skies and the waters of the great loch. Morag was lying in the tunnel, her body blocking most of the view.