McMahon assayed a smile, but it more resembled a grimace.
“I must be honest, Mr Holmes. From the first night I spent there, I have never rested easily. The chimneys howl and the floors creak, and if I were the type of man who believed in ghosts … well, it would be all too easy to do so after living in that house.”
“If it is so uncomfortable, why do you stay?” I asked.
“A provision in my great-uncle’s will requires me to reside in the house for one full year before claiming the rest of my inheritance. He was a leading light in the campaign to provide decent accommodations for the deserving poor, and he insisted that I continue his work by not becoming an absentee landlord. As a consequence, if I fail to sleep there for more than two nights in a row, I will forfeit the money.” McMahon sighed. “Believe me, gentlemen, I could use that fortune.”
Holmes leaned forward, eyes sharp and attentive. “And what would you use that fortune for, Mr McMahon?”
McMahon coloured and repeated his nervous hand-wringing. “Miss Caroline Fraser and I have loved each other for many years. Although we did not make any promises when I left Vancouver, we would have married before if I could have afforded to maintain a wife. Sadly, she has a brother who is simple, and who also needs support. This money would provide amply for our happiness, as well as for the care of her brother.”
“Most commendable,” I murmured.
“I see.” Holmes leaned back, his voice cool, as always when the subject of matrimony arose. “And if you do not fulfill the terms of the will, who then benefits? Your cousin?”
“No. My portion will be given to a charity my great-uncle supported: the Society for the Betterment of the Working Poor.”
“I see. Do similar restrictions apply to your cousin’s inheritance?”
“I do not believe so. He received my great-uncle’s cottage in Kirkcudbright as well as half his fortune, but he resides in Edinburgh.”
“Are you acquainted with this cousin?”
“We have dined together a number of times,” McMahon said with a shrug. “He seems a pleasant enough fellow, although rather absent-minded. At least half of the times he was engaged to dine with me he became so engrossed in his medical research that he completely forgot our appointment.”
I nodded. I knew several such types, for whom the intellectual challenge of research proved far more engrossing than the allure of society, and even of family ties. Edinburgh, as a seat of medical learning, was undoubtedly filled with hosts and hostesses confronted with empty places at dinner parties while their expected guests laboured in their laboratories far into the night.
“Medical research?” I asked, my professional curiosity piqued.
“Yes. Something to do with improving the vigour of the indigent population.”
“Your situation appears straightforward,” said Holmes, clearly impatient with my digression. “And now, please explain your problem.”
McMahon hesitated, a frown forming. “It began about a fortnight ago, and it would not be too strong to say that the events of that night will haunt me forever.”
Holmes spared me a glance before turning back to our guest. “Describe that night, if you will.”
“I doubt I can, Mr Holmes. It was … horrible.” He took a deep breath, as if to steady his nerves. “My housekeeper fled from the house that night, and now she refuses to stay after dark. I, myself, find it difficult to remain inside after the sun sets. My tenants have fled, leaving those once-bustling buildings empty.” McMahon gripped the arms of his chair so tightly that his fingers paled. “Tell me, Mr Holmes, have you ever heard the legend of the Old Town’s haunted bagpipes?”
“I have,” said Holmes, his expression one of tolerant amusement. “Residents have regaled visitors with the story for many years.”
“Apparently I inhabit the wrong social circles,” I said. “Although I have visited Edinburgh, I have never heard the tale.”
McMahon opened his mouth as if to speak, but Holmes anticipated him. “It concerns a secret underground passage that supposedly existed in the time of Mary, Queen of Scots. The passage is said to link Edinburgh Castle and Holyrood Palace, all the way at the far end of town.” Holmes drew on his pipe. “According to the tale, about a century and a half ago, a bagpiper made a bet that he could walk the length of it. He started at the Castle, piping merrily. The crowds were able to follow him through the streets above by the sound of the skirling.”
I was amused to note the slight burr that had crept into Holmes’s speech. My friend was a consummate actor, and as I have said before, he would have been considered a brilliant artist if he had decided to tread the boards.
“They followed his tune down from the Castle,” Holmes continued, “along the top of the hill. In the vicinity of St Giles, the piping stopped suddenly, in the middle of a note. And that was the last ever heard of the piper.”
McMahon shuddered. “That is precisely the story my great-uncle wrote in a letter he included for me, Mr Holmes. He added that, according to legend, the piping stopped exactly beneath his house.”
“Poor fellow was overcome by some noxious gas, most probably,” I said, not bothering to hide my impatience with such fancied horrors. “The atmosphere in old passages and cellars can be fetid and unwholesome.”
Holmes lifted an eyebrow. “Some say the Devil was so captivated by the man’s playing that he carried the piper off to Hell.”
“Well, what of it?” I laughed. “As long as he and his bagpipes stay there, and he does not go about waking the neighbours.”
Obviously affronted by my levity, McMahon glared. “That is exactly what he has been doing for the last month, Doctor.”
I glanced at Holmes, expecting to find him as dubious about McMahon’s pronouncement as I. Instead, his expression was grave.
“You have heard the piping yourself?” Holmes asked.
“Everyone in the lane has heard it and is terrified. That is why they have all left.”
“Nonsense,” I said, disturbed by Holmes’s apparent acceptance of such a patently ridiculous tale. “There must be another explanation. You said the house’s chimneys are noisy. Or perhaps it is some peculiar trick of the wind carrying the sound of bagpipers playing at the Castle. Why should a ghost who has kept quiet for over a hundred years suddenly decide to return and frighten people?”
Holmes smiled. “That, my dear Watson, is what I am anxious to discover.”
“As am I,” McMahon said. “But the piping has done more than merely frighten, gentlemen. Two of my elderly tenants succumbed to terror after hearing the bagpipes, and a young woman recently miscarried.”
“Tragic,” murmured Holmes, his eyes hooded, smoke wreathing his head as he puffed on his pipe.
“It is not unknown for a shock to carry off the elderly,” I asserted, ignoring Holmes’s sarcastic tone and hoping McMahon did not notice it. “Nor to bring on miscarriages, if indeed these events are connected to the piping.”
Although Holmes and I had encountered the occasional inexplicable incident, most of what credulous individuals deemed otherworldly could be explained by science and logic. I was certain that was the case here, as well.
“What would you have us do, Mr McMahon?” Holmes asked.
“I must return to Edinburgh on the morning train,” he replied. “I would be very grateful if you, at least, would accompany me and investigate the cause of this. In order to claim the money, I must continue to live there for six additional months, and I admit that the prospect of even one more evening alone in that house fills me with dread.”
“There you have it, Watson.” Holmes emptied his pipe into the coal scuttle. “Will you join us? Or do the delights of hearth and home prove too alluring?”
His tone stung, but I set aside my annoyance. “Of course I will come. Tonight I shall arrange to have my practice covered for a few days.” I nodded to McMahon. “I will meet you both at King’s Cross in the morning.”
“Mr Holmes, thank you. And yo
u as well, Doctor.” McMahon rose and shook our hands. “I am exceedingly grateful to you.”
Once we had seen him out the door and into Mrs Hudson’s capable ministrations, Holmes turned to me.
“Sit down, my dear fellow. We shall have an early supper together and then you shall return home to make your arrangements and pack for the morrow, while I carry on a few inquiries regarding the McMahon family.” He rubbed his hands together, perhaps in unconscious emulation of his client. “I have the feeling this is a more complex affair than a howling chimney, Watson.”
* * * *
The following morning at 10.00, we prepared to depart King’s Cross on the Special Scotch Express to travel the four hundred miles to Edinburgh.
McMahon and I had already settled into our compartment when Holmes arrived on the platform. There were only moments to spare before the train departed.
“Mr Holmes!” McMahon called from the window. “Hurry!”
Steam and shouting filled the station as the train pulled from the station and Holmes joined us, flinging his valise onto the overhead rack and collapsing onto his seat.
“You cut that rather fine,” I said.
“My investigations took rather longer than I anticipated.” Holmes refused to say more, and when he proved disinclined toward conversation, staring out the window deep in abstraction, I endeavoured to make up for his lack of sociability.
McMahon and I discussed the timber trade in Vancouver, military life in the far-flung reaches of the Empire, and the race to the north between the trains of the Great Northern Railway and the London and North Western Railway. We passed Abbots Ripton and the topic of the rail disaster that had occurred there occupied us until we reached York.
After a hurried luncheon, Holmes returned to staring out the window. McMahon settled back in his seat and appeared to doze, and I followed suit.
Night and heavy clouds had descended by the time the train pulled into Waverley Station. We collected our bags and stepped out onto the streets of Edinburgh, the great granite sphinx of the North, crouching high on her towering rock, looking across the intervening plains to the waters of the Firth of Forth and the North Sea. Fascinating, regal, splendid, and cruel.
As we left the station, we caught our first glimpse of Edinburgh Castle, bleak and menacing, through a cloud of fog and rain.
McMahon paused beneath a street lamp, his gaze following mine.
“A grim sight,” he said. “I must admit, gentlemen, the view strikes me with fear, even on the sunniest of days.”
“Grim indeed.” As Holmes spoke, the lamp-light emphasized the curve of his nose, the firm set of his lips and jaw. “Part castle, part fortress, part prison. Wars have been plotted there; dancing has lasted deep into the night; murder has been done in its chambers.”
I shuddered and looked about for a cab. “This is no time to stand here chatting. Let us find shelter from this confounded rain.”
Holmes laughed. “Rain, Watson? You are growing soft. This is not rain, it is just a good Scottish mist.”
“Mist?” I tucked my muffler closer around my throat. “Hardly. I am soaked to the skin and my teeth are chattering.”
We were fortunate to quickly engage a cab, and McMahon instructed the cabbie to let us out in front of St Giles.
“Why St Giles?” I asked. “Are we not bound for Hangman’s Lane?”
McMahon smiled apologetically. “The lane is too narrow for cabs. We must go from St Giles by foot.”
“Of course we must,” I grumbled, staring out at the gutters, which were fairly running with muddy water. My wound ached, and I longed for a fire and dry clothing.
We left the shelter of the cab outside the Kirk. Rain dripped from the eaves and darkened the sooty stone. A pungent mixture of mildew, smouldering coal, and rotting refuse caught in my throat. We followed McMahon as he crossed the yard, splashing through puddles on the pavement.
With a grim smile, McMahon paused before a narrow opening between two buildings. “Welcome to Hangman’s Lane.” He turned and disappeared into the mist.
I paused for a moment. Although I was accustomed to London’s old neighbourhoods, with their winding streets and ramshackle buildings, they paled in comparison with the dank path that fell away before us.
“A narrow, steep little byway, eh, Watson?” Holmes clapped me on the shoulder. The brim of his hat dipped as he bent his head, sending a stream of water onto my coat.
“What a miserable place.”
Shoulder to shoulder we made our way down the slippery pavement.
“I do not like it, Holmes. No lights in any of the windows. Every building looks positively deserted.”
McMahon appeared before us. “As I explained in London, they are deserted, Doctor. One house in particular has not been opened for over one hundred years, but since the piping began, the rest of the inhabitants have fled. Due to my great-uncle’s charity, the rents have always been reasonable, but now I have lowered them to the vanishing point, and still there are no takers.”
We stopped before the only house that appeared inhabited. One window was illuminated, and a lamp burned beside the heavy oak door. McMahon took a large key from his greatcoat pocket and, with some difficulty, opened the door.
“Mrs Rennie?” he called as we stepped inside, our coats and hats dripping. “I hope she has not left yet, or at least—Ah! There you are.”
An old woman hurried into the hall, the candle she carried casting a glow over her old-fashioned lace cap and starched apron. “Och, ye have returned, Mr McMahon. The Lord be thanked.”
“Yes, and I have brought Mr Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson with me.”
She fussed over our wet things, the flickering candlelight casting sinister shapes across the age-blackened panelling.
“Good Lord, it is dark in here,” I murmured as I brushed the dampness from my jacket collar.
Once she was satisfied with the disposition of our garments, Mrs Rennie lifted the candle. “If you will kindly step this way, there is a brae blaze aburnin’ and candles lit in the back parlour.”
As I turned my foot caught, and I stumbled. Holmes grabbed my arm, steadying me.
Mrs Rennie shook her head. “Go canny, gentlemen. This corridor is nae so smooth as once it was.”
“I apologise, Doctor,” McMahon said. “The house has settled, sending the boards out of true. I forgot to warn you.”
We carefully made our way down the dim corridor. The room at the far end blazed with light, and it took a moment or two for my eyes to adjust. I glanced around at the comfortable, well-used furniture and the heavily carved mantelpiece.
“What a magnificent old room. Just look at that fireplace.”
“Aye,” said Mrs Rennie with a frown. “Once there was life in this old house. Full of lords and their ladies, they say. But here will you be standing on the hearth and dryin’ your breeks.” At her insistence, we arranged ourselves in front of the fire.
“Brandy will help chase away the cold, as well.” McMahon filled the glasses with a generous hand. I took a grateful sip, welcoming the heat that spread through my chilled limbs.
Between the brandy and the warmth of the fire, we were soon comfortable, although the room smelt strongly of damp wool. A gust of wind rattled the windows, and a low moan sounded from the chimney. I glanced at Holmes. He raised an eyebrow and nodded once; he had heard it as well. I did not doubt that we would have McMahon’s mystery solved that evening.
Mrs Rennie pulled a heavy shawl around her shoulders.
“I have left a tasty cock-a-leekie pie in the oven for your supper, Mr McMahon. An’ now, if you’ll forgive me, I’ll unshunk mesel’ away.”
“Thank you for staying so late, Mrs Rennie.” McMahon set down his brandy. “I appreciate everything you have done.”
She smiled up at him. “You’re a good man, Mr McMahon. And you have your two friends to keep you company. Dinna fash yersel’. I’ll return in the morn, early.”
He walked her to
the door, then disappeared into the kitchen, returning with a heavy, earthenware dish, his hands protected by a folded dish-towel.
“Mrs Rennie is not a fancy cook, but her cock-a-leekie pie is delicious,” he said, removing the lid and releasing the heavenly scent of chicken and leeks.
After supper—and McMahon was right, the pie was very tasty—Holmes settled beside the fire and lit a cigarette.
“Now, please describe where you have heard the sound of bagpipes.”
McMahon indicated the far wall. “There. From inside the old Hurley house.”
“What do the Hurleys have to say about it?” I asked, cradling another glass of brandy.
McMahon frowned and shook his head. “No one has lived in that house for many years, Doctor. It is one of the fatal houses.”
“Fatal houses?” I glanced at Holmes. His expression was sombre.
“Houses marked generations ago by the great plague,” he explained. “Buildings harbouring those with the disease were marked by a large cross. No one dared enter or leave. Furniture was destroyed and doors and windows sealed. If the bodies of victims still remain inside, the plague is supposed to lie captive, ready to escape and spread sickness and death through the city if the doors are opened.”
“A tale fit to frighten the credulous, Holmes. Germs cannot sustain themselves for such a length of time.” I shrugged. “At least, we have no medical evidence that they can.”
The wind picked up again, rattling the windows and sending another low moan from the chimney. It sounded like the cry of the damned. I suppressed a shudder.
“There!” I said. “That must be what you heard. Just a peculiarity in the construction of the chimney.”
“No.” McMahon suddenly lifted his head, his eyes glittering in the firelight, and raised his hand. “Dear God, it has begun again!”
I shall never be able to describe the sound that crept into the room, a sound that grew more and more intolerable with every passing moment. The chimney’s howl was sweet as a cathedral choir in comparison to the infernal clamour that echoed in our brains and shredded our nerves.
McMahon and I clapped our hands over our ears, while Holmes leapt to his feet and dashed to the wall shared with the Hurley house, pressing his hands flat against the vibrating plaster. His high brow furrowing, he swept his palms across the wall in broad arcs, gradually concentrating his movements toward the door leading to the corridor.
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