‘Oh, nothing as secure as that in this place, Sergeant. We guard our tea money more closely than our old records. That was one of the reasons we were anxious to hand the damn thing over to the museum, but hey-ho.’ He pulled open the lid of the box to reveal old files, many tied together with red ribbon. The smell of must and age filled the room. ‘Now, let me see. Old Dryesdale was a conscientious bugger, by all accounts. Not all of this is relevant to the Kersivay House debacle, but most of it is.’ He peered through his half-glasses at a couple of old papers, blowing dust off them as he went. ‘Now, here we are,’ he said, handing a thick file to Scott.
‘You, Reverend More – I can hardly believe it,’ spluttered Bruce, standing on the frozen terrace of Kersivay House.
‘I have my reasons, Bruce. As, no doubt, you do yourself,’ replied More with a steely look in his eyes that disconcerted Shannon.
‘Yes, well, you’ve seen how my cousin behaves. The hour my uncle expires we’ll be marginalised within this company and who knows where it will all lead.’
‘And you don’t want to have to go cap in hand to Maxie for your annual dividend, am I right? Listen,’ he said in a more relaxed manner. ‘There’s nothing to worry about. There’s been a few little stumbles along the way, but everything will be fine.’
‘And what about Casely?’
‘Oh, I only know what I’ve heard. He was off-message, somehow. Too keen on other business, if you know what I mean.’
‘Women? That doesn’t surprise me,’ said Shannon, remembering their last meeting in the bar at Notting Hill Gate and the girl with the nice arse.
‘I’m here as a safety valve, that’s all,’ said More. His Australian twang sounded suddenly more pronounced, thought Bruce.
‘So you’ve been here all this time just waiting for this moment?’
‘No, not as simple as that, Bruce. As I say, I have my reasons, but nothing you have to worry about.’
‘Please tell me that these awful murders have nothing to do with our plan.’
‘They don’t. We’re as surprised as you. It seems your family has its fair share of enemies. But all that’s not important. We go ahead today as planned. All you have to do is stick to what we agreed.’
‘So nothing changes? What about Maxwell?
‘Just you play your part, Bruce. Leave Maxwell to us. Now, if you will excuse me, I have to get back to my wife. She’s been . . . Well, she’s not herself.’
More left Bruce alone on the terrace, staring down at the long stretch of beach on which his brother had disappeared fifty years before. He couldn’t work out whether his shivers were down to the extreme cold or the pounding of his heart.
Scott was looking at a clipping from the Kinloch Herald, careful not to tear the fragile old paper. THE MANSION ON THE HILL NEARLY COMPLETE, read the headline. It carried on in smaller typeface: The people of Blaan set to celebrate with the Shannon family.
Campbell handed him another newspaper. It described the forcible removal of Nathaniel Stuart and his family from the land upon which Kersivay House was constructed. Scott read on with great interest.
On Thursday last, at Kinloch Sheriff Court, a warrant was issued for the removal of Mr Nathaniel Sinclair Stuart and his family from the land on Kersivay Point, Blaan.
Sheriff McGowan, assisted by his officers and ten constables from Kinloch, travelled to Mr Stuart’s steading to effect the order. Unfortunately, they encountered much resistance by Mr Stuart and his extended family, numbering some thirty souls, intent on preventing the warrant from being lawfully executed.
Following what can only be described as the most extreme criminal behaviour and the arrival of a detachment of a company of Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders, peace was eventually restored and the rule of law enforced.
Mr Stuart and ten others were placed under arrest for varying offences including affray, assault on an officer of the court and numerous breaches of the peace and obstruction of constables of the law, as well as wanton utterances of extreme blasphemy and profanity in front of a representative of the Crown.
Mr Nathaniel Stuart will appear in Kinloch on Wednesday next in front of Sheriff A. P. McGowan to answer these charges.
In the opinion of this newspaper, the breakdown of the rule of law is a most serious turn of events. It is to be hoped that Mr Stuart’s punishment will be commensurate with the heinous crimes committed.
‘Sounds as though the local rag decided who was in the wrong here, eh?’ said Scott, handing the paper back to Campbell.
‘Not really surprising given that Archibald Shannon was its proprietor at the time. In fact, the family only sold the paper in the seventies.’
Campbell rummaged some more. ‘Here’s something you may be interested in. It’s a transcript from Nathaniel Stuart’s court appearance. As I recall, he was sent to Inverary Jail for a period of two years’ hard labour.’
‘Bugger me, that’s kind of steep, is it no’?’
‘One can only guess at this distance of time, but I think it would be fair to say that Mr Shannon had more than a little influence over Sheriff McGowan. They couldn’t banish Stuart from the area, so it suited them fine to have him turning the wheel up in Inverary while the house was being built, just in case he decided to organise another riot.’
‘Turning the wheel?’
‘Sounds innocuous, but in reality it broke many a stout heart. The prisoner was forced to turn a crank on a purpose-built machine for hours on end. The prison guard could change the degree of difficulty by means of a gearing system. Restrained brutality, breaking both body and spirit. As far as I’m aware, they subjected Stuart to it relentlessly, but in the end he prevailed, unbowed. Mark of the man, I’d say.’
Scott studied the article, which took up two full pages of the old newspaper, now brown and fragile with age. ‘What’s this bit here?’ he asked, pointing to a passage in the middle of the article underlined in faded blue ink.
‘The famous curse, Sergeant. Highlighted by Dryesdale, I assume. By all accounts it haunted him for what was left of his life. Turned from an agnostic into a pillar of the church, no less. And then he was found with his throat cut at the Rat Stone.’
‘Yes, Jim mentioned that. Is this where he has them doon for disaster every fifty years? I know all about that.’
‘Bit more comprehensive, Sergeant Scott. Here, I’ll read it.’ Campbell pushed his glasses higher up his nose and cleared his throat. ‘When asked if he had anything to say in reply to the sentence, Nathaniel Stuart replied thus: “I curse all you Shannons from now until the end of time. May calamity descend upon you this year and every fifty years in the future, as long as you hold our lands at Kersivay.”’
‘Aye, I’ve heard a’ that. What’s the rest o’ it?’
‘At the end of days there will be no eyes to see, no mouth to speak, no chest for breath and no finger to point. The many will follow the one consumed by flames after the fall, and death will descend upon you and all who help and aid you, in a deserved hell of fire and destruction, till you and all that come after you shall be left with nothing, not even life itself, and our family be returned to our home.”’ Campbell looked at Scott with a smile. ‘Poetic, really – wouldn’t you agree? He was no duffer, old Stuart, when it came to curses, I must say. Of course, after the boy disappeared fifty years ago, the whole thing was resurrected, but people only remember the curse about the fifty years upon fifty. The rest is always forgotten.’
‘And what aboot this Stuart? How did he survive? Seems that he left Blaan with very little.’
‘Indeed. Though if the stories are true, with his hereditary position as Arch Druid, or whatever he was called, he could always rely on help wherever those traditions prevailed.’
‘What? He was a druid? Surely they don’t believe in all that stuff anywhere else?’
‘Yes, it’s very popular in North America to this day, so I’m led to believe. Old myths and traditions have real power through generations of families separated
from the “old country”, as they would have it. Just look at all the bloody clan gatherings and pipe bands they have across there.’
‘Aye, but this mumbo jumbo? Come on, big man.’
‘Not as though any of you police officers are involved in any secret societies, eh?’
‘Aye, well, that’s a different thing all together,’ said Scott, clearing his throat and looking uncomfortable.
‘Yes, I daresay.’ Campbell smiled. ‘But don’t be carried away with the notion that Nathaniel Stuart was cast to the four winds, penniless and hopeless when he left Blaan. He may well have stumbled upon better times elsewhere. It’s almost a certainty, I would say.’
Scott thought for a moment, a frown spreading across his face. ‘I’ll need tae make a call, Mr Campbell.’
30
Superintendent Symington studied Daley as he donned the bulletproof vest and checked his sidearm. When she’d visited Daley’s home, she hadn’t cared whether he left his job or not. Now that she’d seen him working here in Blaan, cut off from just about all aid while dealing with a deadly situation, she had made up her mind that such an asset to her new division, to Police Scotland itself, could not be allowed to simply disappear. ‘Tell me again, Jim. I want to know how you intend to approach this in detail.’
‘I’m reasonably sure that someone has our missing constable, ma’am. I would bet my life on the fact that Maxwell knows more than he’s letting on and that he’s either involved or pressure is being put on him.’
‘Right, so you and five of the unit are going to where Jock reckons he saw this guy.’
‘Yes, ma’am. That’s about the height of it. Any word from HQ?’
‘Worse than yesterday. If this continues across the country, I’m told that the government are going to call a state of emergency. Across the board we’re working at less than forty per cent normal operational manpower levels – worse in the rural divisions. Officers simply can’t get to work. We’re on our own here.’
Daley was about to reply when the phone rang in his pocket. ‘Brian, what’s happening?’ He listened for a few moments. ‘Get a copy of this to me on email.’ He ended the call.
‘Not more problems, I hope?’
‘Put it like this, ma’am, things just got a lot worse than yesterday,’ said Daley, explaining the nature of Scott’s call.
‘We really are facing a concerted effort to bring down the family,’ said Symington. ‘Brockie murdered, Grant killed and mutilated, Bergner sacrificed and burned on the bonfire – this curse, or whatever you’d call it, is being re-enacted to the letter, would you agree?’
‘Yes, I would,’ replied Daley, checking his weapon. ‘The question is, what does the rest of it actually mean?’
‘After the fall and all this fire and destruction stuff?
‘Yes.’
‘It means we’re exposed beyond belief, DCI Daley. This is how we’ll proceed. I want you to go and check out Jock’s lead now, but I can only afford to give you two other officers. I’m taking charge in the mansion, Jim, while you work on the ground, so to speak. I’ll need a weapon.’
‘Yes, of course, ma’am.’
‘If you can’t find our missing colleague up this hill, I’m afraid our priorities will have to change.’
‘Meaning?’
‘It’s been made very clear to me that my first duty is to protect the Shannon family.’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ said Daley, trying not to let his exasperation show.
‘But, I’m here on the ground, Jim. I don’t care what their surnames are, I intend for us all to survive this.’
‘And this AGM, ma’am – shouldn’t we make them postpone it?’
‘What does it matter? We’re all stuck here, anyway. It’s been intimated to our superiors that if we stand in the way of any Shannon International business, they will take legal action against us and the government. You can only imagine the response.’
‘The meeting goes ahead.’
‘Indeed. Now pass me that sidearm, please.’
Daley looked on as Symington checked and rechecked the weapon. ‘Textbook stuff, ma’am. I see you’ve handled fire-arms before.’
‘I was an inspector in the Territorial Support Group in the Met, Jim. Don’t look so surprised, women can fire a gun just as well as men.’
‘Oh, yes, of course. I didn’t mean . . .’
She smiled. ‘You’ll find out a lot about me you don’t know, DCI Daley. You get going, leave the Shannon AGM to me. And be careful.’
It took Scott three trips to carry the files from Campbell’s office to Kinloch Police Office, following which he was tired and hungry. He decided to head to the County Hotel in the hope of getting something hot to eat.
After negotiating the two hundred yards or so of deep snow, he stamped his feet before swinging open the large doors to the hotel.
‘Fuck me, if it’s no’ Guy Fawkes,’ shouted Annie from behind the bar.
‘How did you get back?’ asked Scott.
‘Before you. I got a lift fae Duncan Henderson in the tractor. I canna say it was the maist pleasurable trip I’ve ever had, but jeest as well I came back, the place is going like a fair. I’ve never seen it this busy on New Year’s Day.’
The bar was indeed crowded; Scott noticed that people were being served drinks but no money appeared to be changing hands. ‘What’s this, very happy hour, or something? A free bar?’
‘Naw, nor free. Auld Geordie Kennedy has had some kind o’ windfall. He put three hundred behind the bar, aye, an’ he says jeest tae gie him a shout when that’s done an’ he’ll put another three hundred up. You’ll be after a hair o’ the dog yourself?’
‘No, you’re all right. Just a coffee for me. Have you got anything hot on the go? I’m famished.’
‘You’re jeest in the nick o’ time. We’ll run oot o’ diesel for the emergency generator in an hour, so I’m told. There no’ a pint o’ the stuff tae be had in the toon. They’ve kept what’s left for the hospital and yourselves in the emergency services. So get your order in noo or it’ll be sandwiches by candlelight.’
‘Just a plate o’ mince an’ tatties for me, Annie.’
‘Coming up. I hope you’re feeling better after last night?’
‘Och, I just got singed, nothing tae worry aboot.’
‘No, I mean before that. Dae you no’ remember falling your length on the snow? Your eyes were in the back of your heid, man. Fair gibbering you were, tae.’
Scott remembered the vision he’d had, lying in the snow at the back of the Black Wherry, and shuddered. ‘We’ll just keep that to ourselves, Annie,’ he said and made his way to the last empty table, beside a group of old men sitting in the corner of the bar.
‘Hey, Hamish, you’re friend fae the polis is here,’ said an elderly drinker, surprising Scott, as he could see no sign of the old fisherman.
The table moved, almost spilling a couple of drinks. A hand appeared, then another, clutching at the air. Assisted by his drinking companions, and after no little effort, Hamish was restored to his chair. ‘Brian, my auld friend.’
‘It’s no’ even lunchtime, man. You’ve had a good New Year and no mistake.’
‘Och, it’s Geordie here. Just an absolute gentleman an’ that’s a fact.’ This brought a murmur of consensus from the others at the table.
One old man was sufficiently moved to rise, unsteadily, to his feet to speak. ‘Of all the folk I’ve known in the toon, Geordie is by far the best.’
‘Morris, are you no’ the main man, right enough,’ replied another drinker with a smile. ‘I’m fair chuffed that you like me so much.’
‘Aye, I dae that. Lang may your lum reek.’
‘Mind you,’ said Geordie, taking a sip of his whisky, ‘it was only last week you called me the maist thrawn auld bastard you’d ever met.’
‘But you weren’t buying him drink then,’ declared Hamish.
‘You’ve always got too much tae say for yersel, Hamish,’ said Morr
is, still on his feet. ‘The way you patter on, you’d think whisky was as big a stranger tae you as bath water.’
Hamish leaned across the table, knocking over two glasses of whisky, and grabbed Morris’s jacket. ‘Don’t you think you’re safe standing up there, you bugger. I’ll jeest fair loup o’er this table an’ gie you the thrashing o’ yer life.’
‘So you will. If I was as auld as you I’d be back in the hoose wae a blanket o’er my knees, nursing a mug o’ cocoa. But if you want tae die wae a drink in your hand, well, you’re going the right way aboot it.’
‘Noo, boys,’ said Geordie. ‘Not only is this a new year, I’m getting tae celebrate my guid fortune, noo I’m oot the clutches o’ that daughter o’ mine.’
‘Just you sit back doon, Rocky’ said Scott, pulling Hamish back into his seat. ‘What was your good fortune, if you don’t mind me asking, Geordie?’
‘Ach, happened jeest efter Christmas. I was sitting in the hoose, fair lamenting the fact that my daughter and her weans weren’t going back up tae Glasgow until after Hogmanay, when I got a knock at the door. Tae cut a long story short, it was two fellas, said they were collecting auld photos o’ the area and did I have any?’
‘And you did, I take it?’
‘Loads, jeest loads. My dear mother was a right wan for photographs. I’ve got that many o’ hers I don’t know whoot tae dae wae them. These blokes went through them a’ – aye, every one.’
‘You’d be glad to get rid o’ them, I’m quite sure,’ replied Scott.
‘That’s the strange thing. They were only interested in five photos. But bugger me, they weren’t short in paying for them, right enough. They gied me three grand . . .’ He hesitated, as though he’d said something wrong. ‘But you good folk’ll not be interested in a’ that.’
‘Three grand for five auld photos. What were they of, Bonnie Prince Charlie, Lord Lucan?’
‘No, jeest my mother when she worked at Kersivay Hoose in Blaan.’
‘You never telt me that,’ said Hamish rising from the table again, his fists bunched into tight balls. ‘So you got three grand and jeest thought you’d make your way intae my hoose when you knew fine I had similar pictures, since oor mothers worked together. Well, if you got any mair dosh for them, I’m wanting my share, right noo, you thieving swine!’ He took a swing at his drinking companion, then tipped backwards and was caught by Scott, who guided him safely back into his chair.
The Rat Stone Serenade Page 20
