She led him down the corridor, which was lined with renderings of various solemn, long-dead ancestors, scowling absurdly under effete tartan bonnets, and alcoves housing fine busts of the principal Stoic philosophers, towards the south wing.
‘There was a time when this poor old house was fully staffed,’ she informed him as they walked. ‘Now it is just Bosco, when he’s around, two Ugandan women who come in once a fortnight, and a whole lot of dust covers. Many of the rooms haven’t been opened in years.’
The Grey Lady’s voice was forthright and authoritative. Leo enjoyed the clipped way in which she pronounced her syllables. She led him into an exquisite drawing room which, unlike the cold halls, was properly heated by a blaze of fir heartwood burning merrily between two fine Jacobean firedogs. This was surrounded by a huge fireplace carved from Carrara marble, which towered above Leo. The room was decorated in two-tone turquoise, which contrasted with extensive white-painted wooden panelling and delicately moulded stucco forms and medallions on the ceilings and walls. The south window, which looked out on to the chase of fir trees, was dressed with huge satin drapes, and flanked by two magnificent Grecian columns, finished with cloudy pale-blue ersatz marble and topped with ivory-painted scrolled capitals. Upon the north wall was mounted a large canvas, Stag Hunt in the Snow, by Jan Fyt.
‘Do sit down,’ implored the Grey Lady, gesturing towards an elegant rosewood suite upholstered in Persian-blue fabric. Leo guessed it was a Chippendale reproduction by Edward Tolly, the renowned nineteenth-century Edinburgh cabinetmaker.
The Grey Lady busied herself at an antique Russian samovar converted to run with an electric element which was set upon a fine mother-of-pearl-inlaid cabinet.
‘It is a shame we are required to bear it alone,’ she said obliquely.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Our gifts. I foresaw your visit, prior to Fordyce’s telephone call, and the fact that you are a seer. Who first noticed that you possessed darna shealladh?’
‘A holy man.’
‘A priest? A minister?’
‘No. A Muslim mystic. We were holidaying in Baghdad when I was a five-year-old child during a tour of the Near East. My upbringing was a humble one, and this uniquely exotic trip was funded by a not-inconsiderable win by a Pools syndicate, of which my mother was a member. Anyway, we were browsing the souk when a dervish picked me up in his arms and declared to my father – may God rest his soul – in Arabic (our guide later translated): “This child is my beautiful brother. We both enjoy God’s special blessing, the power to see that which the eye cannot. May he be an instrument of truth.” I remember the fellow had wild, shining eyes, a dazzling smile, a bushy beard and a tall sikke hat. He smelled of tallow and cannabis, and had a charisma to him that spellbound everyone in the place. He performed a ritual about me, as my parents looked on rather nervously.’
‘How marvellous! My mother was a clairvoyant. She knew I was too, even when I was in the womb. Yet neither of us was blessed with your extraordinary faculty, Leo: the power of visions. With us it was just feelings, you know, intuition. And information we possessed that we had no right to know . . . it was just there. You’re Catholic, aren’t you?’
‘Via, Veritas, Vita.’
‘Good. It will fortify you for the trials that follow.’ Leo felt a shiver run down his spine. ‘I sense that you are here to investigate poor Helen’s awful murder.’
Leo didn’t answer. ‘Are you Catholic, Jane?’ he enquired, recalling the statue of Our Lady he had seen outside.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Another aspect that keeps me apart from the folk . . . down there.’
‘I’m sure they don’t hold it against you.’
‘No, but we Papists will always feel something of the outsiders in Scotland. Anyway,’ she began, suddenly shifting tack, ‘my man is innocent . . . he was with me all night.’
Leo was slightly taken aback by the abrupt change of subject. ‘How do you know for sure? He could have left his room.’
‘I mean with me. In my room. In my bed. I am a chronic insomniac, and that night I hardly slept a wink. Therefore I can testify for certain to Bosco’s innocence. Although I already knew him incapable of such an outrage.’ She noticed Leo struggling to mask his disapproval. ‘Does it shock you that the gossips are correct about my sex life?’
‘No,’ Leo fibbed. Great Scott! he thought. Everyone’s up to it these days apart from yours truly.
‘We aren’t recusants, you see: I converted to the old faith because my late husband was of French extraction. I was brought up and schooled in a very liberal fashion, and one doesn’t entirely shake off such ways. Anyway, after all of this dreadfulness occurred I dispatched Bosco to Glasgow, as soon as the police had interviewed him.’
‘Why, might I ask?’
She raised her voice above the hissing of the samovar as she filled the teapot. ‘Because he is a strange foreigner with strong hands and a mute tongue. He is also my link to the outside world and I couldn’t bear the thought of him being the target of tittle-tattle and sideways glances.’
‘But surely the police wanted everyone to stay put?’
‘Yes, but they have no right to insist upon it,’ she replied, turning off the valve and walking over to him with a tray upon which sat the teapot, crockery and a little plate of arrowroot and Abernethy biscuits. ‘Anyway, I assured them that he would check in at a local station once he arrived in the city. Also, I told the police everything that I have just told you, about Bosco being with me that night. It’s just so difficult to gauge if those people believe one or not.’
‘I gather that Helen visited you in her capacity as a nurse. Do you think Bosco might have unintentionally . . . frightened her a little?’
‘It is possible. He certainly admired her – she was an entirely admirable person – but in a perfectly appropriate fashion. He thought her peculiarly beautiful and good. He told me so, in writing, which is how we communicate. What possible objection could there be to that?’
‘None whatsoever.’
Leo sighed inwardly as he felt the Bosco lead crumble to dust. He had come to another dead end. Loch Dhonn was quite evidently reluctant to give up its secrets. His heart sank and a feeling of frustration rose in his chest. He could hear the hooded crows cawing outside, mocking him.
‘She was indeed a fine person,’ continued the Grey Lady. ‘Kind and thoughtful, if a little unsure of herself at times – if anything that added to her charm somewhat, and self-assurance would have come with age. Youth can be so infinitely selfish and frivolous, but Helen seemed to bypass all of that.’
She poured the tea.
‘Thank you.’
She took a slice of lemon, Leo a sugar lump. He held the delicate china and took a sip, glad of the pause. The Grey Lady tactfully pretended not to notice his disfigured hands.
‘Jane, is there any history of occultism in these parts?’ asked Leo.
‘I was once told that certain residents at the Kildavannan community practised Wicca. I believe the parties in question have since moved on.’ She noticed Leo’s countenance flash with disapprobation. ‘Harmless enough, don’t you think – a couple of white witches?’ she mused, proffering a white-tipped Turkish cigarette from a cedarwood box which was lined with red felt. He decided to accept as a special treat and tapped its end gently on the tabletop. She lit it for him from a silver-plated table lighter, then one for herself. She smoked elegantly, her arm crooked and her fingers splayed.
‘Not according to Deuteronomy,’ said Leo.
‘Ah, but doesn’t that chapter also forbid divination? Surely, therefore, you and I are equally guilty?’
‘I am quite assured that our gifts are meant to serve God,’ replied Leo, ‘for it is written: “I will pour out of my Spirit on all flesh, And your sons and your daughters shall prophesy–”’
The Grey Lady interrupted him, completing the verse from Acts: ‘“And your young men shall see visions, And your old men shall dream dreams.”’
‘Quite. Anyway, I was thinking more of Satanism than mere witchery.’
‘The Baron of Caradyne’s grandfather was an occultist and a necromancer. A horrid, lecherous man by all accounts, quite infamous around here; dear Grandpapa wouldn’t utter his name. He also dabbled in alchemy and astrology. As for actual consorting with the devil, it wouldn’t surprise me in the least.’
Leo took a meditative drag on his cigarette and exhaled two thin streams of smooth blue smoke from his nostrils. ‘Do you think there is any possibility it might have continued?’
‘Within the family, you mean? I don’t think so. Douglas, the present baron, is an inveterate twerp, but I don’t think he’s in league. Anyway, the thirteenth baron used to lock himself away in Ardchreggan House on the other side of Loch Dhonn, casting his vulgar little cantrips. Apparently, one could see flashes of weird-coloured light for miles around. Meanwhile, the estate fell into neglect, so he was forced to sell his lands on this side of the loch and the isles to my family. He then tried, unsuccessfully, to renege on the deal for the isles using legal chicanery, citing obscure, ancient charters that allegedly gave his lot ownership until the end of time. There has been bad blood between our families ever since.’
‘And the current baron sold the Mintos Ardchreggan House, which is now the Ardchreggan Hotel?’
‘Yes. By the time the thirteenth baron died it had fallen into grave disrepair. No one particularly wanted to venture there, after all the evil that had taken place, and the Caradynes kept to their main ancestral pile, which is a bit further south. There was one particularly awful story . . . but there’s no evidence.’
‘What was it?’
‘The baron had procured for himself a young woman – some foreign unfortunate, from Eastern Europe I believe, someone who didn’t speak English or Gaelic and therefore couldn’t gossip locally. He claimed that she was his housekeeper for when he was spending time at Ardchreggan. Anyway, she stopped being seen about the place, and a legend grew up that he had murdered her, as part of one of his rituals. Apparently Grandpapa was deeply concerned and the police were eventually persuaded to question the baron, but he was adamant that the girl was lazy and had been sent back home.’
‘What about the current baron? You don’t seem to like him.’
‘I don’t. And he’s my second cousin, I’m afraid to say. The Caradyne barons are one of the few houses in Scotland who remain openly proud to have stood alongside Butcher Cumberland at Culloden. He actually asked me to marry him, would you believe, years ago. Transparent little toad; it was glaringly obvious all he wanted was to regain his family’s former lands.’
Leo took a contemplative sip of tea.
For its part, the beast had become enthralled when it first researched the thirteenth baron’s history. It seemed seismic that a spirit so kindred in every sense should have roamed these glens a mere two generations ago. And it had been initially terrified, then thrilled when it came to believe that the old sorcerer was communicating from the other side and guiding it in the ways of Satanism. Up until then the beast had occasionally felt a pang of shame at its own wickedness. Its lust for cruelty could seem barbaric and tawdry even to itself. Now that it was ordained by a power beyond the veil it was legitimised, somehow. And on the island of Innisdubh the magick was particularly strong, the dark power rooted deep. What an indescribably visceral thrill it was to summon it up from the ground in the dead of night.
19
LEO was delivered to the hotel by McKee just as the storm closed in, and he felt overcome by a wave of lassitude and a burgeoning sense of disillusionment with the case which threatened to overwhelm him. While still half clothed, he collapsed upon his bed where he instantly fell asleep. Such was his fatigue that he had even left his Oxfords in the little depository in the service corridor, a practice he normally abhorred as it offended his socialist principles to have another human being clean his footwear. He had left his door unlocked, and at one point Fordyce tapped lightly upon it before entering. He gazed at the slumbering Leo for perhaps a minute, with great affection, before composing a note in beautiful handwriting inviting him to dinner, and leaving it on the bedside table.
Leo was awoken by the sound of the wind rampaging through the glens and shaking the window-panes in their frames. His sleep hadn’t improved his state of mind but he was reluctant to refuse another of Fordyce’s invitations and he telephoned his friend’s room to accept. He had plenty of time until dinner, which allowed him to take a shower he barely required. Leo’s fastidious regime of personal hygiene had prevailed for as long as he could remember; he recalled even as a young child being irked by the sensation of having sticky hands, and, much to his playmates’ chagrin (on the scarce occasions when he actually had playmates), he would often take time out to go home and wash them.
He dressed for dinner, telephoned his mother, and then headed downstairs slightly early, carrying with him his precious Palgrave’s Golden Treasury, a lovely, crimson cloth-bound edition which had belonged to his late father. It would provide him with some spirit-lifting stimulation until Fordyce arrived. As he descended the staircase he could hear Bill and Shona Minto arguing in the reception area. At the foot of the stairs, beside a fifteenth-century suit of plate armour with a fearsome-looking halberd gripped in its right gauntlet, the Mintos had installed a Sheraton sideboard, upon which sat racks containing leaflets for various local visitor attractions: a botanical garden and a hydroelectric dam, a working steam locomotive and a country house. Leo put down his poetry book and chose one at random (for the nearby St Fillan’s Kirk, an eccentrically designed Victorian church) and pretended to read it as he tuned into the conversation round the corner. Shona’s tone was bullying, Bill’s supplicating.
‘We should just tell them.’
‘It is out of the question, Bill. I’m not having our good name dragged into the mud.’
‘It won’t get out.’
‘Of course it will! These policemen would sell their grannies to make a few shillings. And anyway, it won’t help them at all.’
‘Look, dear, it would be for the best –’
‘No!’ shouted Shona, before checking herself and lowering her voice to a snarl. ‘That’s final. I am not, I repeat, not, discussing this again.’
She stormed off into the office. Bill Minto watched her go, then wandered towards the kitchen to oversee things, unaware of his guest’s presence nearby. Leo absent-mindedly stuffed the leaflet into an inside jacket pocket before departing – forgetting to pick up his book. He walked towards the dining room, oblivious to the presence of Kemp, the baron’s man, who was sitting in the telephone alcove. He noticed Leo passing, smirking as he glanced up from his newspaper.
Leo pretended not to see George Rattray, who was going into the gents, then entered the dining room, which was half full – busier than it had been since the murder – and was offended by the Baron of Caradyne before he had even set eyes upon him.
‘Fucking useless Polack,’ muttered the puce-faced, portly nobleman as Ania the waitress fled from his table in tears.
The baron sat alone, a platter of oysters before him, the virgin white of the tablecloth despoiled by a gout of Burgundy, doubtless the cause of the altercation.
‘What did you call her?’ demanded Leo, fury rising within him like poison, his anger unfettered due to his already black mood.
The baron looked round, grunting a vague noise of surprise.
‘I said, what did you call her?’ spat Leo, reaching for and missing the lapels of the baron’s Harris Tweed jacket.
‘Kemp!’ the baron ejaculated in a high pitch, a look of terror flashing in his eyes as he tried to fend off Leo, who was a few inches taller than he, with a cirrhotic hand.
‘That’s right, call on your fucking gorilla,’ said Leo, instantly regretting using the profanity.
The conversation around the room, which had already been muted by the baron’s treatment of Ania, now ceased altogether. Leo felt a restraining arm on
his chest. It was Fordyce. He ushered him back a yard. Leo felt a pang of shame as he realised the physical inadequacy of his antagonist.
‘Everything all right, sir?’ boomed a deep Doric voice.
The doorway framed Kemp’s huge figure. A cringing Bill Minto appeared, dreading a further scene.
‘Everything’s fine now, Kemp,’ said the baron, in his pipsqueak accent. Then he spoke in a quieter voice to Leo: ‘I remember you. You’re the arsehole who was on my island.’
‘Evidently it takes one to know one,’ said Leo. ‘Come on, Fordyce, we can sup in my chambers. I only ever dine in the company of gentlemen.’
‘He’s a big fucker, isn’t he?’ the baron hissed as he indicated Kemp, who had resumed reading his newspaper through the doorway in the telephone alcove. ‘He’s also a sadistic bastard, and he’s getting restless. So if you molest me one more time I will set him loose upon you.’
Let it slide, son. Leo remembered his father’s gently chiding words. Choose your battles carefully; keep your powder dry. There will be another time.
Leo took a deep breath, turned and walked out.
‘How’s yer head?’ enquired Kemp sarcastically as Leo and Fordyce passed by, his massive hands making his tabloid seem the size of a mere pamphlet.
Leo stopped to regard Kemp’s smirk, then thought better of it and walked on.
‘That’ll teach ye to stay off his lairdship’s island in future.’
Leo, unable to contain his ire any longer, whirled round. ‘Look here, Mr Kemp. It’s nothing personal, but I should inform you that I am subject to an ancient disinclination towards your employer’s house. I realise that the locality doubtless overflows with innumerable resentments against them, so just to explain, my specific one is rooted in a certain long-dead chief’s refusal to sell a plot of land to a fellowship of poor Irish immigrants who wished to build a place of worship in a Glasgow parish. The reason he baldly gave was that they were Roman Catholics. Now, my people – my flesh and blood – were among those unwanted, kindly folk. So, no, I will not keep off his bastardship’s damn island.’
The Ghost of Helen Addison Page 14
