The Cursing Stone: a gripping mystery and family saga

by Adrian Harvey

  ‘A moment, Mr McAteer. There is one further matter before I go.’

  Behind Craig, an old man raised his now empty leather briefcase to his chest and, unseen, turned on the spot and disappeared once more behind the curtain, there to detain the auctioneer. While Craig did not understand why he remained unmolested, he needed no further invitation. Gently he closed the ledger and sidled back around the bear, and into the show room. In moments he had found Joe and Elspeth, with whom he exchanged some hurried words before slipping through the door and out into the street.

  The bell’s final resonance greeted Mr McAteer as he emerged into the showroom with his new client. The books would fetch a tidy price and he calculated the likely commission they would yield, assuming the right buyers could be alerted: a good afternoon to make up for the annoyance of the morning. But he wondered who else had been in the shop and, more to the point, where his assistant might be. He shrugged and shook the old man’s hand and bade him a safe journey. Turning, he noticed that the sales ledger was not in its proper place, but instead was laying openly on the counter. McAteer considered the possibilities, running his tongue over his lower lip in concentration.

  ‘Miss Carmichael! I would be grateful for your attendance please!’

  McAteer waited for a moment, but no answer came, save for the clank of the bell above the door once more. His client departing, no doubt. But where was his assistant? From under the shadow of the stuffed beer, the auctioneer peered across the empty showroom.

  17

  A sudden rush of colour blurs the window, as the bus swings through curves with audacious fluency. The landscape, settling into focus, is familiar but cannot be placed in time or space. You have been here at some time, or will be in the future, and yet the golds and emeralds and rubies that fill the window are more vivid than they ought to be. You can taste the warmth of the day in their iridescence.

  The bus is more a van than a bus. It is small, with maybe fifteen seats. There is a name for it but bus will do just fine. Your fellow passengers are children but, while you are not a child, there is no difference in size or age between them and you. You know them and they know you. There are no strangers here. Behind you, you are certain that Shona is staring through the window, watching the thousands of rabbits hiding among the purple heather that clots the carpet of pink and white and yellow flowers filling the valley. The yellow flowers look like buttercups but they are not buttercups; they are larger and their stamen wave at you like kelp.

  The bus has gone and you are with your classmates among the plants of the valley. You remember that this is a school trip, a botany expedition, or something very like a botany expedition. There is no teacher and instead your sister, or someone who looks very much like your sister, is taking the class. With a long black stick, a rod made of some material you do not know, she pokes at a bundle, a heap, a mound that is cupped in a hollow. Birds circle overhead, soundless. One drops onto the bundle and begins to tug at the fabric wrapped around it, and the person that looks like your sister stops prodding it and stares at you expectantly. All your classmates are staring at you now, and you search their faces hoping to find the girl whose name skips away from you. She is absent and you doubt she was ever there at all.

  There is only the bundle and you. Everyone else has gone, like the girl. Even the rabbits and the birds have left, and the flowers too. There are only rocks and sedge now, everything in shades of grey and you notice that the bundle itself is grey. You should look inside the bundle, peel back the fabric to reveal what is inside, but you cannot, will not. And there is no-one to make you. You want to leave, but you are fixed to the spot: you are caught between your desire to run and the duty to approach the mound before you, wrapped in grey flannel, the same grey flannel as your school uniform.

  The bundle has the form of a boy, of a man, of a body, of someone you recognise. But still you won’t approach it. The vacant eyes stare across the beach, an expanse of pebbles and boulders, stretching to a distant, silent ocean. Behind you is the valley, from where the ghosts of your classmates’ laughter reach down to you. But you are fixed, despite your desire to fly to them. There is only you and the bundle. An old man, unknown, familiar.

  18

  Thousands upon thousands of books hung heavily from the swollen stacks, pregnant with every dream ever dreamt. Fergus ran his eye over the spines of those nearest to him, carelessly. Faded fabric bindings and dog-eared dust jackets succeeded in making the contents utterly unappealing. He gave up and instead sat on a black metal kick-stool at the end of a run of stale volumes detailing the geomorphology of the West Highlands. The books teetered precipitously above him.

  Mary had already been gone for longer than she had promised. It was not only boredom that made him restless, although it was certainly that too. Of course, she had to attend to her studies, but there were things he needed to do, especially in the light of what Craig had found the night before. However, there was no sign of her and Fergus could do nothing but wait. He looked along the shelves in front of him and started to imagine them as fragmented basalt cliffs, like those that clung to the eastern end of Hinba.

  He thought again of Jamie McCulloch. He hadn’t thought of him for over eight years, not since their second year at the school in Mallaig. Whatever closeness had been between them had worn to nothing once they had left the inescapable proximity of the island. Jamie had made friends among the mainlanders, had left Fergus behind, while Fergus had let him go. There had been no falling out, simply a drifting apart. Jamie had not returned to Hinba with Fergus. As Mary later would, he had chosen to stay in Mallaig until he had the qualifications to get into university. Unlike Mary, he had chosen to study in England. In London. Fergus was impressed by the efficacy of his subconscious.

  The low hum of the library swallowed the footsteps, so Fergus did not hear Mary approaching. Yet the gentle pressure of her palm upon his shoulder did not startle him, and he simply turned his head to smile up at his sister. Three short days together had mended the fracture between them and they were as they had been as children, before either had left the island, when they had each other and their family and there had been no space between any of them, when the island had seemed like the whole world to both of them.

  ‘I’m ready. Sorry. I wanted to get this and they’d put it on the wrong shelf…’

  There had been no shushing, nor scolding looks, but Mary dropped her voice to a whisper before she held up the slender volume: Pilgrims in an Atlantic Landscape – Archaeological traces of the beginnings of British Christianity. He took the book gently and flipped open its dusty beige cover. He did not need to look at the record of borrowers to know that it had been lost on the wrong shelf, unmissed, for some time: the pages reeked of neglect and disinterest. That Mary had spent so long tracking it down seemed an unusual indulgence, an over-elaboration of the situation at hand, but Fergus refused to begrudge his sister: in her own way, she had joined him on his quest.

  ‘I thought it might give you a bit of background. On the bullaun stone. They’re from the old religions really, and were just absorbed into Christianity. Like Christmas trees. And Easter bunnies. They were used for cursing people, as well as praying. You’d turn the stone, in its bullaun, which is what the Irish call the stone bowls like the one on Hinba, you know, at the bottom of the cross by the old monastery. Neolithic they think. Magical, as much as religious. Same thing really, back in the day.’

  ‘Thanks. I doubt I’ll have time to read it, before I have to get the train. Assuming I have to get the train. But I’ll have a gander.’

  Craig had been sure that it was London. He had not been able to write down the address in time, before he was discovered, but he had managed to make a mental note of the buyer’s name and he was certain that he was in London. His confidence that a simple internet search would provide the rest evaporated quickly; directory enquiries were similarly unhelpful. It seemed that Nicholas Maltravers was not to be found so easily.

  They
had slept on the matter, but morning brought no answers. Uneasily, Craig had agreed finally to try again and had set off in search of his friend once more. Mary watched him slip loose of the flat and stride away down Bank Street before suggesting that they fill the otherwise empty hours productively, which is how they had found their way to the library. And yet the distraction had failed to distract Fergus from his concerns. The trail had not gone cold but was tepid at best; he had no confidence that the girl would help again, especially now that she knew that her assistance was asked. Fergus could only fret about his next move, and the inevitable disappointment of his grandfather.

  ‘Well, that was awkward.’

  Outside, the rush of traffic reminded Fergus of how much he missed the sea. Craig had taken a seat on the far side of the table, a pint of lager still clenched in his left hand, and delivered his assessment of his meeting with Joe with daunting solemnity. He had still not fully caught his breath after his rapid walk across the width of the city centre, and he gulped down some of his beer before continuing.

  Joe had not been at the Necropolis. It had taken the best part of an hour to find him, in the café across the road from the Art School. His mood was darker than usual: Elspeth had lost her job as a result of the previous night’s adventure and was seriously thinking of ending her relationship with Joe as a result. Her absence from her post had led McAteer to decide to dispense with her services; he had no idea that anyone had been searching through the sales ledger. It had been Craig’s warning that had prompted Elspeth and he to flee when McAteer had called, and there had in fact been no need. They had left with the old man that had been in McAteer’s office and, as they slipped into the night, it had been he who had confirmed that the auctioneer had seen nothing untoward, had in fact been distracted by the unwilling client. Craig had not been discovered and it had been his panic that had robbed Elspeth of her livelihood.

  ‘So that’s that then.’

  Fergus thumped his palm onto the table, making the drinks and the other customers jump a little; the barman looked over with concern. It was plain that even if the girl were inclined to help – which seemed doubtful – she was no longer in a position to do so.

  ‘No, not at all. The strangest thing. Joe was obviously really pissed off with me, but when I mentioned Maltravers’ name, he just laughed. Seems he’s some upscale art dealer. Sorted Joe’s parents out with some saucy statues from Cambodia a couple of years ago. A bit naughty. Contravened all sorts of export bans, Joe reckons. Sounds like he’s your man.’

  Craig smiled wryly and winked at Mary, who smiled back her gratitude. Fergus was too relieved and thankful to object or even to notice. Only once their excitement had abated and their friend had been toasted, did Fergus dare to ask for further information. Craig was happy to provide it.

  ‘Yep, he’s got a gallery down in Mayfair, on Half Moon Street. That’s W1J, if it helps.’

  Craig slid a piece of paper across the tacky table top towards Fergus. But while his fingers pointed towards her brother, Craig’s eyes were fixed on Mary.

  19

  ‘Hello? Can I help you?’

  ‘Mum, it’s me, Fergus.’

  ‘Oh, sweetheart! It’s so lovely to hear your voice… Davey! Come through: it’s Fergus on the phone! Well now, how’ve you been? Has your sister been taking good care of you?’

  ‘Aye, everything is fine. Mary is fine. Glasgow’s not so bad. I miss you all, of course. And the island…’

  ‘Shona is fine. I say that… she’s pining for you, of course, can’t wait for you to get back. Is that why you’re ringing? Are you coming back now?’

  ‘No, I’m sorry to say. In fact, I’ll be away a while longer. There’s been a complication, but never mind that. She’s pining for me, you say?’

  ‘Mooning about the place like a lovesick puppy. She misses you. We all do. Why have you to be away longer? I don’t understand, what do you mean, a complication?’

  ‘Well, you see, the fellow that took the stone away from the island, he sold it to…’

  ‘Yes, I know, at the auction house. I know all this.’

  ‘…he sold it to a man in London. So, I’m going to have to do down there to fetch it back.’

  ‘London! No-one said anything about you going to London. It’s too much. I really think you should just come home, let somebody else take care of it. Davey, Fergus says he has to go to London to fetch the bloody thing. London!’

  ‘Mum, calm yourself, it’s no big thing. I’ll just be there for a couple of days, tops. Mary’s going to put me on a train and I’ll be back before you know it.’

  ‘What’s that? Hold on a second, love… Uh-huh, right, of course. Fergus, your father wants to know if you’ve got enough money. It’s a long way and it’s expensive down there, he says.’

  ‘Tell him I’ve plenty. I’ve barely touched the roll he gave me; I’ve just been using the cash from Mr Galbraith and the Reverend, and that’s not gone yet. It’ll be fine. I just need to sort out somewhere to stay down there. Which is the other reason I called. Do you have Jamie McCulloch’s number?’

  ‘Wee Jamie McCulloch? I haven’t seen him for years, and you two used to be such friends too. I see his father, of course, in the Bell every now and then, but not Jamie. He’s gone away I think.’

  ‘Aye, he’s in London, studying. So, if I had his number I could maybe…’

  ‘Of course! I’m sorry sweetheart, it takes a minute for me to catch up sometimes. I’m sure we could get Jamie’s number from Neil… yes, your father says he’ll see him in the Bell this evening. We’ll get it and phone you in the morning, is that OK?’

  ‘That’s perfect mum. I mean, I’m sure Craig could help out, suggest someone I could stay with, but…’

  ‘Who’s Craig? I don’t think I’ve heard of a Craig…’

  ‘Craig is a friend of Mary’s, here in Glasgow. I mean he’s from down there, Stevenage, but he’s at the university with Mary.’

  ‘Is our Mary courting and hasn’t told us?’

  ‘I don’t know, to be honest. I thought so, at first, but I’m not so sure now. But whatever he is, he’s a fine lad, really. Anyway, that’s for you to talk to her about: not my business.’

  ‘Fingal, I’ll explain later, Fergus is on the phone now… OK, well, tell her to expect some questions when I call back in the morning!’

  ‘OK, will do. She’ll be delighted, I’m sure. Anyhow, I’d better get on. I want to call Shona, and I’m using all of Mary’s credit as it is.’

  ‘All right, Fergus, I’ll let you get on. And we’ll speak in the morning, OK. Take care of… What, was that? OK, Fingal, I’ll tell him… Fergus, your grandfather wants you to know that he’s very proud of you; the whole island is, he says. Me, I just want you home safe. Promise me that you’ll do nothing daft down there. It’s just some lump of old rock. Not worth getting into trouble over.’

  20

  The train slid out of the station and across the river. Along its bank, the jumbled face of the city assembled to offer a final glance to the departed. Swaying slowly, the train picked its way between the high-rise blocks and litter-clogged gullies, but within a quarter of an hour the route scythed through gentle hills and farmland; a bare, broad-backed landscape punctuated by sheep and streams, familiar and comfortable. Fergus watched the world race away from him, the shrinking towers on the horizon serrating the sky just as the mountains of Skye did when he stood on the beach below Duncannon’s place.

  He clung to the paper cup, fearful that the still-hot tea should be upturned; yet the train at speed swung through curves with audacious fluency and his tea stayed safe. It was afternoon already; the morning had sped away from him in a whirl of plans and goodbyes. The day had started early with the sound of Mary’s phone from her bedroom, followed by twenty minutes of murmured, then barked, conversation. When Mary emerged to hand the phone brusquely to Fergus, she had glowered, her mouth twisting to contain its rage. She stood over the sofa, arms crossed, while Fergu
s took down the address and phone number of his school friend. Mary had glared at him as he had offered his love and wishes to the people at home before hanging up.

  ‘Why did you say that to mum? Do you have any idea what sort of hell you’ve created for me? Why on earth did you say I was seeing Craig? That’s just messed up; you’re just messed up!’

  She had been incandescent and had not noticed Craig standing within the frame of his bedroom door, had not seen his face fall, nor recover, and only his cheery greeting and the offer of tea had diffused Mary’s anger. Fergus had squeezed her hand when he returned the phone and they had turned their attention to preparing for his journey south. There had been no time for anxiety until now, when he was safely underway, installed on the train.

  Fergus contemplated another cup of tea, but instead nudged his ticket around the table, astounded that something so small could cost so much. It had required all of the money that remained within the crisp, white envelope that the Reverend had pushed into his hand early on at his engagement party. Fergus didn’t know whether there had actually been a collection, but the awkward speech made by first the teacher, then the Reverend, implied that the envelope contained both the hopes and gratitude of the whole island. And now it was gone, exhausted. Fergus would need to rely on the roll of notes given him by his father.

  Imperceptibly, the train crossed the border. At Carlisle, few passengers boarded or disembarked and still no-one joined Fergus at his table. He stretched once more into the space allowed him, his feet under the facing seat, and he ran through his plan once more. That Jamie had been so open to his visit had, with hindsight, been a surprise. They had not spoken for years; a call from out of the blue and a request at short notice ought, Fergus reasoned later, to have been an imposition. No matter, he had a bed for the night. Jamie lived close by the Elephant and Castle: Fergus rolled the imagery around his head, allowing himself a small smile that broadened with the thought that Mannion House was in SE1, close enough to W1J that, assuming all went well in the morning, Fergus might be able to take a return train by the end of the day.