I sought relief and hired a small room at an inn not far from the station. But my intended chamber had only just been vacated and as I waited, I took a seat in the inn’s crowded pub. A group of locals across the room who were singing to a fiddle were perhaps more irritating than picturesque. I was in no mood for festivity but recalled Holmes’s request to gather what gossip I could.
Soon a robust young serving girl brought me a steaming bowl of the local venison stew and I attempted unsuccessfully to engage a table of nearby diners on the subject of the McLarens. A few locals eyed me suspiciously, and laughed when I asked them about Braedern.
As my stomach filled and my equilibrium returned, I decided to find a clothing shop and provision myself with attire more suitable to the climate. Perhaps I would have better luck engaging with someone in the shop.
The innkeeper had churlishly refused to store my valise, and so I ventured, weighed down by the case, out into the streets. Outside it seemed midnight, though it was now just late afternoon. Gaslights along the street were yellow orbs in the swirling darkness, the wind damp from the ocean. A light snow was falling, and the pavements, while swept free of snow, were dangerously icy.
In due course I found a small haberdashery. The proprietor had just turned his sign and was locking the door. I approached and put my face up to the glass, and smiled at him hopefully.
The man, sharp faced and wary, with a smartly trimmed moustache and sideburns but a wild fury of red hair sprouting from the top of his head, mouthed the word ‘Nae!’ With a flick of his wrist, he indicated I should be about my business. I gestured in supplication. Getting no response, I pulled out a gold sovereign.
He immediately unlocked the door and beckoned me in. I explained that I was a traveller, called suddenly to the Highlands.
‘Sassenach!’ he said in mock disgust. ‘You’ll nae be takin’ my time for naught. Is that all ye have, then?’ he indicated my lightweight suit and thin, travelling mackintosh. ‘What were ye thinking, man?’
‘I came from the South of France, and had nae, I mean no, time to pack,’ I explained, immediately regretting my volubility. No one need know the details of my business.
The proprietor, who soon introduced himself as MacAuliffe, appraised me with the practised eye of the experienced clothier. ‘A winter suit. An ulster. Detachable cape. Some gaiters, a hat, and some boots, I would wager. Gloves. Have you nae warm undergarments? Two sets in wool, then. A warm knit. Not even a scarf, man?’
‘None,’ said I.
He quickly took my measurements and bustled around the shop gathering an array of ready-to-wear clothing. In three quarters of an hour, under his expert eye, I found myself kitted out with a remarkably flattering and comfortable set of garments, muted green and brown tweeds, a cloud soft cashmere cravat, and a very handsome shooting cap which would become my favourite ever after. In spite of our inauspicious start, this visit had turned out well. I was filled with renewed cheer.
As I looked over the bill, I reflected that the man’s careful, skilled attention and relaxed manner might indicate an open door.
‘I am off tomorrow to the Castle Braedern,’ said I. ‘Do you know it?’
He stiffened. ‘Ye’ve been invited?’ he asked.
‘A shooting party,’ I added lamely. ‘This weekend. I understand they are good people there.’
The man stared at me. ‘Shooting, you say? In this weather? And sae urgent ye canna pack your bag properly?’
‘Well, the invitation came late. And I am to see to one of the ladies there. I am a medical man as well.’ Good God, what had prompted me to say all this?
MacAuliffe stood back and stared at me with eyes gone bright with suspicion, and something else. Fear?
‘Ye had better watch yourself, Sassenach. ’Tis not a place for a casual visit. There’s nae one of us in this city who would be sleeping there of our own accord.’
I said nothing but reached down to unlatch my valise and retrieve the sovereigns.
‘Unless ye perhaps be a hunter of ghaists?’ he added.
Ghaists? ‘Do you mean ghosts, sir?’ I wondered. I was definitely no longer in London.
‘Aye. Are you fully kitted out, man? I suggest one thing mair – a good hunting knife, like this one here.’
He held one out, and I could see immediately it was no ordinary knife. It was foldable, a jack-knife, but larger than usual. It had a distinctive handle of horn, inlaid with a silver Celtic design and an amber jewel in the centre. Its keen blade gleamed in the gaslight, and was sharp from the tip back an inch or so, then serrated. An unusual and beautifully crafted item. But I did not anticipate an immediate use for it.
‘No, thank you,’ said I. Buried deep in my bag was my revolver, and this I deemed sufficient protection. ‘What did you mean, ghosts?’
‘Many a tale is tellt about Braedern. The family is cursed, some say. A bairn vanished there long ago. A girl of only two or three. And the lady of the house, ne’er the same after that. ’Till she, too, died. A sad, sad, story.’
‘What was the lady’s name? I should hate to put a foot wrong.’
‘You will be finding out soon enough. But take heed. The ghaists, we understaun, are nae so friendly.’
‘Very well, I thank you, sir, for the excellent provisions here.’
‘Are ye sure about the knife, man? You’re gaeing into the Highlands after all. It can be useful, in sae many ways. And look here, it folds, sae nice and neat.’ He folded the knife in on itself. It was now compact enough for a pocket.
‘It is almost as though you would like to be rid of it!’ I laughed.
His face darkened. ‘What makes you say that?’
I shrugged. ‘Nothing really. But I can’t take it, I have spent enough. Thank you.’
He shrugged and busied himself with wrapping up my purchases in brown paper and securing them with string. ‘The distillery, at least, will be a fine destination. A remarkable whisky, McLaren Top. And the laird has made even the unwelcome welcome there.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘He has hired the unhirable, has the laird. Men, some of them crippled, missing limbs, blinded, half-witted, harmed by the wars, by accident, by life. He gies them help, and puts them to work in the distillery, each to his own ability. It is a fine thing he does.’
‘That sounds very charitable.’
‘Aye, that it is. And we in Aberdeen are grateful. Ach, these desperate men! Some went to war and returned to find their tenancies gone, victims of the clearances, and sheep grazing now where once they tended fields. What the landlords didnae realize was the anger. A whole population thrown away like rubbish. Now so many up to nae good with now’t to dream of and work for. It has brought madness into the land.’
‘So these are clearance victims who work the distillery? People whose land was taken?’
‘More are war veterans, as I said. Some with both war and clearance to mar their lives. But the laird has given, some say eighty men, work and hope. And the whisky, ’tis the finest in the land, if ye go by what is written.’
‘I shall be sure to sample it.’
He completed wrapping my clothes into a neat package tied up with string. ‘But hear me, man, be careful there, if you value your safety.’
I nodded. ‘Thank you. I will be off then!’
Later, as I finally settled in my little room above the pub, I stumbled about in the near darkness, as only one meagre candle had been furnished for my use in this rustic lodging. I opened my package to remove and store my new things in my valise, and to lay out warm clothes for the morning.
There, buried between the new woollens and tweeds something glinted in the dim light. I reached in and pulled it out.
It was the shiny steel edge of the folded hunting knife I had been offered earlier by MacAuliffe.
But why? I took it up and snapped open the blade, holding it up to the light of that single candle. It was indeed a beauty, the delicate design at odds with the fearsome blad
e, and I wondered at the generosity of the gift.
I looked closer. The candle guttered and the flickering light reflected on the polished steel, giving a sensation of movement. I shivered, and blinked my eyes to clear the vision.
I must have been more exhausted than I had realized. Holmes would surely have laughed had he been with me. I quickly folded the knife and hid it in my valise.
Collapsing on the bed, I fell into a heavy sleep immediately. I dreamed I was King Arthur and before me was Excalibur, though looking like my new jack-knife, and buried in the stone. I grasped it with two hands and pulled. Try as I might, the blade would not come free.
CHAPTER 13
Braedern
awoke just before dawn the next morning drenched in sweat despite the damp chill in the room. A serving girl brought me hot water and I quickly washed and shaved and donned some of my new, warmer clothes. Stowing my shaving kit in my valise, I caught the gleam of the knife and without a thought tossed it into my trousers pocket. Abruptly I realized I had forgotten to leave word of my lodgings for Holmes and would need to return to the station.
With the smell of strong coffee wafting from the inn’s pub below, I made my way downstairs in eager search of a quick breakfast. I had no sooner sat down before a large dish of porridge when I became aware of a shadow looming over the table from behind me.
Holmes! He stood smiling down at me, dressed for the Scottish weather in his familiar tweed ulster and travelling ear-flapped cap, a suitcase in hand.
‘Holmes!’ I cried, ‘You found me! I am so sorry, I forgot to leave word.’
‘Watson, my dear fellow, you leave quite a footprint behind you,’ said he. Setting the case down, he removed his outer garments and sat before me, ordering nothing but a cup of black coffee.
‘I see you managed to equip yourself for this visit,’ he said, eyeing my clothes.
‘Yes, a Mr MacAuliffe has furnished me nicely and – for some reason – he saw fit to give me this.’ I withdrew the beautiful knife and lay it on the table. Holmes stared at it in surprise.
‘That is a bonnie thing! The clothier gave you this? Why?’
‘Yes, it did strike me as odd. He seemed to be a bit worried about my going to Braedern. Said none in Aberdeen would stay overnight in the castle. Haunted, can you believe?’ In the morning breakfast room, with the sun pouring through the leaded window, it all seemed rather silly.
‘Well, a knife would do little against a ghost, Watson,’ said Holmes with a smile. ‘You do, however, have your Webley on hand, do you not, in case we encounter any living enemies?’
‘Always. Was your visit with Dr Fleming fruitful?’
‘Yes. But he has more to study. His initial theory is that death resulted from a brain haemorrhage under a flat, wide, eggshell crack to the occipital portion of the skull, as from a fall. Decapitation was probably post mortem, and done with a serrated blade, with the edges then burned, presumably to hide this. But he will be investigating further to confirm the cause of death, and I hope to hear from him in a day or so.’
We set out on a train journey of several hours westward towards Ballater and thence travelled by carriage to Braedern Castle.
As promised, there had been heavy snowfall during the night, which slowed our journey but made it all the more beautiful. It was a crystalline morning, the sky a deep blue, and the temperature down considerably from the day before.
The tracks ran along the valley of the Dee, passing the Catholic College of Blair, into rolling countryside, blanketed in snow and heavily wooded in areas, passing numerous glittering streams, croft houses with smoke arising from chimneys, small villages and various farm vehicles creaking over icy, rutted side roads. I caught a glimpse of Drum Castle and other ancient structures. Behind the nearby hills were smaller mountains – the so-called ‘Caledonian Alps.’ I was struck by the brilliant cold light and a sense of wildness that is not found in the southern regions of Britain. The Scottish Highlands have always been described as mystical and so they appeared to me as we made our way towards our remote destination.
Holmes, rarely moved by country scenery, ignored the sights, taking far more interest in the details of what MacAuliffe had told me of the legendary hauntings at Braedern, and especially of the laird’s hiring the ‘unhirable.’
‘Where does he find these men, I wonder?’ mused Holmes.
I knew, and told him. There were organizations in London who dealt with returning veterans damaged by the war and who had no means of sustenance. I reminded him that I had been in a sorry state myself when I arrived in London before we had met. But there were men far worse off than I. I had declined these same services when offered, but some unfortunates had no choice.
At last, after alighting at Ballater, we were conveyed by private coach another ten miles to the Castle Braedern, arriving in the early afternoon. The medieval castle stood on a hill, a monumental stone structure which had been added onto many times over the years. It had evolved as an uneven rectangle, with two wide round turrets and two quatrefoils taking up the four corners. An enormous wooden gate stood open, affording a glimpse of the courtyard within.
Beyond the castle and down the hill, at the side of the quickly flowing river, stood a large group of buildings, from one to three storeys high, one of which was topped with an odd, pagoda-like structure. Behind these lay a cluster of modest brick residences. Grazing fields and barns took up another area to the east, along with what looked like a reservoir.
‘A remarkable estate,’ I said.
‘The laird is one of the wealthiest men in the country, Watson.’
I was taken aback. Their stay at in Antibes, their clothes, and their casual change of holiday plans had left a clear impression of ease, but their holdings were impressive nonetheless.
‘How wealthy, Holmes, do you know?’
‘Their fortunes were built on land, water rights, and steel, but whisky is the laird’s passion. They could buy the Grand Hôtel du Cap if they so chose to do so.’
‘Well, they certainly thought they could buy you.’
‘All in service of my plan,’ said Holmes. The carriage turned and approached the massive open gate, entering a large courtyard paved in rough stones. Within were several carriages of various sizes, and some rougher wagons as well with a number of grooms handling the horses. The driver pulled up to a gothic arched main entrance We were greeted by a footman, who immediately fetched the butler, a taciturn, balding man.
We entered a reception hall, which was enormous, freezing cold and empty. A wide stone staircase led steeply upwards.
The butler signalled and two tall footmen approached. They looked like wrestlers so muscled and rough were they. ‘Your weapons, please,’ demanded the butler as two men stepped forward to receive them.
Holmes and I exchanged a glance. ‘Ah, yes,’ said Holmes. ‘An old Highland custom, guests are to leave their weapons at the door. That did not go well for Duncan, did it? Well, I have nothing. Only my wits, which I am told, may have a rather cutting edge. And Watson here, well, you have what, that penknife?’
Did he mean the jack-knife given me in Aberdeen?
‘You peeled an orange on the train?’ prompted Holmes. ‘Remember?’
‘Ah, yes,’ I said and fumbled for the small, dull little knife that I usually carried.
The butler stared at me suspiciously. ‘It will be returned to you,’ said he. ‘But certainly Mr Holmes carries a weapon of some sort? You are in a dangerous business, are you not, sir?’
Holmes turned an icy glare to his interlocutor. ‘My business is none of yours. And no, I have nothing further.’
‘The laird awaits you this way, sir,’ said the butler, indicating a passageway to the right. Holmes swept past the butler and directly through the two footmen who stepped aside to let him pass.
Handing the butler my penknife with a look I hoped was more remonstrative than worried, I followed Holmes, secure in the knowledge that I had both a Webley and the strange
Scottish knife I had been given secreted about my person. I was already leery of Scottish customs.
We soon found ourselves in the Great Hall, a strange and cavernous combination of medieval pageantry and modern convenience. It was two stories tall, with gothic arches leading in various directions, and stone walls decorated with an array of Scottish weaponry and heraldic banners. Beams of light crisscrossed the ornate tile floor, augmented by modern electrical lighting fixtures spilling small pools of light at regular intervals along the walls and on various carved tables around the perimeter.
Isla McLaren and Sir Robert stood on a rich Turkish rug before a large roaring fireplace. The mantel was taller than a man’s head, and carved with either writhing or dancing figures, I could not discern.
The lady, upon spotting us, cried out in joy and rushed forward. ‘At last you are here, Mr Holmes and Dr Watson. I am so very glad! These are troubled times.’
The laird stepped forward with a look I could not read. Pain, certainly, was part of it. ‘I am relieved that you are here, gentlemen. I am sorry to have left France so suddenly. Your telegram arrived this morning, only a few hours before yourselves. I apologize for not having sent my carriage to the station.’
‘Let us commence the inquiry into the late parlour maid’s demise,’ asked Holmes. ‘The longer we wait, the colder the trail.’
‘Immediately,’ agreed the laird. ‘I will have your things brought to your rooms in the East Tower. My daughter-in-law is perhaps your most ardent admirer, Mr Holmes. She has convinced me that no one is more qualified than yourself to deal with your vexing problem.’
‘Good, then let us begin, Sir Robert,’ said Holmes. ‘What have the police been told?’
The laird looked past us to where the footmen stood with our luggage. ‘What has become of the … do you have with you the—’
‘The girl’s partial remains are with a forensic medical expert in Edinburgh. I should have more information soon from him. And now, Sir Robert, the police?’
The laird and Isla McLaren exchanged a look.
Unquiet Spirits: Whisky, Ghosts, Murder Page 12
