by Caleb Carr
The headline of the pamphlet declared:
ALL THE DARK AND SECRET LOCALES OF EDINBURGH,
REVEALED!
The few pages of the thing described many spots where those willing to first part with an unnamed (but obviously considerable) amount of money and then venture out into the depths of a Scottish night might encounter ‘EVIDENCE OF THE WORLD BEYOND!’. And the featured attraction among this roster was clearly a visit to the royal Palace of Holyrood, in particular the scene of ‘the most ghastly murder in Scottish history, one so terrible that its victim yet visits the spot where he died every night, renewing the pool of blood that he shed there and searching for some unsuspecting Scotsman – or woman! – upon whom he may vent the rage he still feels against the nation that used him so cruelly, and that has, for centuries on end, left him unavenged!’
I studied the patently nonsensical but (loath though I was to admit it) effective document for several minutes. ‘But – where does one obtain this? Who conducts these “tours”? Some member of the staff, surely. But should Her Majesty discover it—’
‘Should Her Majesty discover it, the entire staff of the palace would likely be replaced,’ Holmes said. ‘For whom among them could she ever truly trust again? How could they not all know that such a breach of confidence had been committed, has been committed, not once or twice, but on almost a nightly basis?’
‘Aye,’ said Miss Mackenzie. ‘True enough, sir – and that is the very reason why no’ a soul will speak of it, though all who work here do, as you say, know of it.’
‘And do all know who conducts these illegal visits?’ I asked, still trying to keep my thought processes logical and coherent, despite the noises that drifted down relentlessly from above us.
The girl shook her head quickly. ‘They’re told from the start to no’ be curious. And they all obey the order – for there’s none as wish to lose their position.’ She looked up fearfully. ‘And none as wish to have the spirit come for them. I obeyed the rule, for as long as – oh, had I but known! But he made such a game of it, sir – only one of his many lies. He said that he could show it to me, and I would be safe in his company! But now – now I see …’
‘That he used it to keep you in his power,’ Holmes completed for the girl. ‘He said that he would show you the spot, “the blood that never dries” – he made an adventure of it, recognising your nature, and then said that if you ever betrayed him …’
The poor wretch trembled so fearfully at that instant that I rushed to her and placed an arm around her shoulders, as she whispered, ‘Aye! That if I betrayed what I knew, the Italian gentleman would come for me – and now he has! But I did no’ betray him, Mr Holmes, upon my life, I never did! Why, then? Why does this poor, unfortunate spirit torment me—’
As near to hysteria as she had grown, the girl was struck dumb when yet another sound joined the ongoing footsteps and occasional humming from the floor above. It was a male speaking voice, one tinged by an accent that called simply:
‘Signorina … signorina … it is almost time …’
Scarcely able to breathe now, much less speak, Miss Mackenzie clutched at the lapel of my jacket fearfully, and pressed herself hard against me.
‘You need have no fear,’ I whispered to her, tightening my grip on her shoulders. ‘Spirit or man, he shall not harm you, I swear it.’
I looked to Holmes, expecting him to second my pledge – and was surprised to find him instead smiling again: Neither for the first nor for the last time did I wonder about the strange amusement that my friend seemed almost determined to take from the entire subject of spirits. Recognising that I did not share his reaction, Holmes moved swiftly to the great fireplace, indicating the chimney; and then I realised his point. As the seemingly spectral voice returned to the humming of that same elusive tune, at once recognisable and unknown, I realised that the sound was not, in fact, emanating from all around us, but simply travelling down the chimney, to be projected onto the room as a whole by the enormous firebox behind the granite surround and mantel of the fireplace.
‘This is a cruel trick, indeed,’ said I, my hand again reaching for the Palm-protector, ‘and he shall pay for it, by God!’
I looked up, and was about to call out the worst threat that I could summon, when Holmes urgently murmured: ‘No, Watson! Not yet! This fellow counts himself clever – but like so many of the kind, he is too clever by half.’ Listening to the sound of the humming, Holmes seemed to be waiting for something: He was anticipating the return of the footsteps, and waiting for that sound to pass back over us, and into the area above the antechamber. Only when it had faded altogether, in the direction of the newer wings of the palace, did Holmes speak again.
‘One would not expect such an audible step, from such an ethereal being – and the tune!’
‘Yes, what of the tune?’ I asked, as I encouraged Miss Mackenzie to take a little more of the whisky.
‘You did not recognise it?’
‘It was in keeping with the voice, I believe – vaguely Italian – and there were moments when I thought that I might know it. But ultimately, I could not place the thing.’
‘“Vaguely Italian”?’ Holmes replied, quite dubiously. ‘Watson, there really are times when I despair for your musical education. But never mind – it is but a distraction. Our solution is at hand, now, but we must move swiftly!’
I had persuaded Miss Mackenzie to release my lapel, and to resume her seat upon the bed. She clutched the little silver whisky cup I had given her as tightly as if it were life itself, and, though I knew that she must be near drunkenness, I poured her still a bit more of the stuff.
‘Miss Mackenzie,’ Holmes said to her. ‘You have said that this man, this Likely Will Sadler, frequents “the pub” – which of this city’s many establishments would that be?’
‘The Fife – Fife and Drum,’ she blurted out at last. ‘Off Johnston Terrace – just below the castle.’
‘A soldiers’ pub, then?’ Holmes asked.
‘Aye,’ the girl said. ‘The men from the garrison, he’s friendly with most of them – by way of his work there. He repairs the old weapons – even some of the old cannon.’
Holmes stood and turned to me, clearly perturbed. ‘A complication, Watson. No doubt these soldiers are Sadler’s drinking companions, and they will protect him, in his lair. We must be careful how we move …’ He looked up at the ceiling. ‘So he works on the old cannon? Quite a talented fellow, I should say.’ Crouching again before the girl, Holmes put a final series of questions to her: ‘Miss Mackenzie – do you understand that it was not a spirit that you heard just now, but a man?’ The girl tried to indicate assent, but the movement was no more than an anxious quiver of her head. ‘And do you believe as much?’
‘I – am trying, Mr Holmes. You canna’ ask for anything save my best….’
‘Well said, young lady – well said. This child of yours may have no father, when he comes, but he shall have a mother to more than make up the lack!’ Miss Mackenzie even smiled a little at that. ‘Now, then – the first of your trials. Clearly, you are no longer safe here – you must go down to the kitchens, to your aunt and uncle and your cousin. They will—’
The green Scots eyes popped wide open. ‘To the – no, Mr Holmes, I canna’ do it! I canna’ go below stairs again! My uncle, he shall have the hide from off my—’
‘He will have no such thing,’ Holmes answered. ‘For we shall go with you, and make certain that they understand what bravery you have shown, and how you have helped us in our efforts to break the grip that fear has so long held upon this palace. I believe, from my conversations with your uncle, that he will accept you, once he knows that you have chosen to actively oppose Sadler – and we both know why he shall, do we not?’
Giving the matter a moment’s thought, Miss Mackenzie reluctantly nodded.
‘Aye, sir. He’s reason enough to hate Will, ’tis true. But – what makes you think you will not suffer the same awful fa
te that Uncle Gavin – Mr Hackett – did? Can you no’ simply go to the police—’
‘Unfortunately, this matter requires the greatest secrecy – and so it is left to us. But fear not, we shall have help, come tomorrow night – not just Dr Watson and myself, but others of our acquaintance, who are more knowledgeable and reliable than any policemen we might ask for. And no doubt your uncle and cousin will lend their aid, as well.’ Holmes rose. ‘Only say that you will stand with us, thereby making it all the more necessary that Will Sadler return here, and I promise you some measure of redemption.’
He waited several long seconds for his reply; and when the girl’s assent came, it was in the form of the smallest inclination of her head. ‘Well done, Miss Mackenzie – well done. And now, come—’ Holmes turned, to begin the procession out; but then he checked his step, seeming to recall something. ‘Oh, and incidentally – you have been, I presume, to Likely Will’s workshop?’
‘Aye, sir. Many a time.’
‘Is that where he keeps the bird?’
Miss Mackenzie answered the question – which utterly baffled me – without apparent difficulty: ‘Indeed, sir. He has so many wondrous things there …’
‘No doubt.’ Holmes pulled a pencil and a scrap of paper from his pocket, and began to sketch furiously. ‘And among those wondrous things, is there a wooden machine that resembles – this?’
He placed the paper before the girl’s eyes, which lit up in recognition. ‘Have you been there too, then, Mr Holmes? I canna’ remember what they called it – but they found the pieces of it scattered in one of the sheds in the castle, ages ago. Will’s been at work on it for e’er so long …’
‘Indeed?’ Holmes placed his pencil back in his pocket as I helped the girl up. ‘Well, Miss Mackenzie – I should say that he has completed the task …’
Chapter X
THE MARCH TO THE FIFE AND DRUM
I have often alluded to Holmes’s tendency never to share all the pieces of a solution to a given crime until the moment when that solution reaches its fulfilment (in the early years of our acquaintance, I sometimes referred to this predilection as a ‘defect,’ an assessment that I have come to regret); and so it was with a familiar sense of expectant but resigned confusion that I set out into the Edinburgh night with him, following our delivery of Miss Mackenzie into the safe company of her family in the servants’ hall. As Holmes had predicted, the once off-putting Hackett (who, thankfully, wore a patch over his injured eye during this encounter, forgoing the glass eye that had so puzzled and distressed me earlier) became quite a changed man at the sight of the girl, and even more when he observed that she was entirely safe – if somewhat distressed, still a little tipsy, and in need of a hot bath. Mrs Hackett, particularly, was profuse in her thanks to Holmes and myself, saying that they all – the staff of the palace generally – had wondered if anyone from the outside world would ever come to do what they could not: reveal the disgraceful dealings that had gone on for so long in the west tower. Such statements may seem strange to those who know nothing of the life led by servants in a grand house (and no ‘house’ is grander, in every sense, than a royal palace). But those who do will recognise the characteristic terror of losing one’s position (and, perhaps worse still, of losing one’s reference for a position elsewhere), and the openings that these fears very often create for persons clever enough to orchestrate a great scheme of theft, of exploitation – or, as in this case, of imaginative and lucrative fraud. As Miss Mackenzie had intimated, and Holmes had stated plainly, trust between the owning and serving classes in a great household is a highly delicate machine, wherein the corruption of a single part can lead to the replacement of the entire works; and this explained why Hackett had never spoken to anyone of the doings in the palace generally and the west tower in particular.
Holmes, of course, had done a great deal more than guess at the extent of the corruption in Holyroodhouse; and Hackett had somehow recognised as much, and was therefore able to relax his guard, if only partially and only for the time being, the better to enjoy the safe return of his niece. But what was understood if unspoken between butler and detective would be fully revealed to me only later; for the time being, my attention was focused upon our march towards the great stone formation called Castle Rock, atop which sat the massive walls and stone barracks of Edinburgh’s great and ancient fortress. This journey began with our being escorted to the main entrance of the palace by Hackett and his apparently redoubtable son Andrew, the pair of whom promised, at Holmes’s urging, to instruct the women of the family to keep all the building’s doors not only locked but bolted that night; as for Hackett and Andrew, they agreed to keep watch at the gates of the inner fence until our return, ready to re-admit us or to repel our antagonists – whichever should come first.
‘You need have no fear on that account, Mr Holmes,’ Hackett said bravely. ‘We’ve a well-stocked gun room here – and if I’ve but one eye, I yet have Andrew’s two, and since he was but a bairn, he could shoot the eye out of a hare at fifty paces.’
‘Excellent, Andrew!’ Holmes pronounced. ‘Then the eye of a scoundrel should present no challenge.’ The pale-skinned giant of a youth blushed and then smiled, at which Holmes moved closer to him, eyes full of serious purpose. ‘I do not jest, my boy – should Will Sadler return here this evening, you must warn him off; and if he will not go, you would do better to put a bullet in his brain than to allow him near your cousin. For such, I can assure you, is the fate he plans for her.’
Young Andrew’s skin regained its usual pallor at that, and he scarcely managed to mumble, ‘Aye, Mr Holmes,’ in reply; but he took greater heart when Holmes clapped his shoulder.
‘Fear not,’ said my friend. ‘If I doubted you for an instant, I should not go. But I have seen something of the mettle of this family, and I know you are more than equal to your assignment.’ Andrew smiled once more, with real gratitude and admiration – and that was all Holmes needed to see. ‘And so, Watson!’ he declared, turning and striding quickly towards the western gate of the palace’s inner fence.
I smiled encouragingly to Hackett and his son, then turned to follow Holmes; but Hackett caught my arm as I did.
‘You must no’ think yourselves safe, Doctor,’ said he, ‘simply because you leave this place. The Fife and Drum is Will Sadler’s lair, as sure as if he were a wolf among his pack.’
The military man in me, which had bridled at Holmes’s comments on the train, was momentarily roused again at the suggestion that British soldiers would defend the rogue Sadler; but the earnest expressions in both Hackett’s and Andrew’s faces made my indignation pass instantly, and I thanked them both before hurrying along to join Holmes.
This short, hurried walk was interrupted when my eyes caught sight – again, it seemed, almost involuntarily – of the palace’s west tower, that seeming repository of all that was evil, past or present, about Holyroodhouse; and I confess that, as I stared at its baleful turrets, my step slowed once more, and my mind fell to wondering.
Were we truly protecting Hackett’s family from the palace’s most terrible dangers, by advising them to barricade themselves within its walls? Or had we not, in fact, done the work of the creature that was actually our most terrible enemy, by placing four innocents at his other-worldly mercy?
This unexpected moment of horrifying doubt was mercifully brief; a call from Holmes brought me outside the gate at a run, and once we were among the winding streets of the capital (for Holmes would not risk, even at the late hour of ten o’clock, our being sighted along the open stretches of High Street, the most direct route to the Castle), my friend broke the silence of our progress by rather pointedly and relentlessly whistling; and it was only after the first few minutes of the sound reverberating off the cobbles beneath us and the stone houses around us that I realised he was offering up the same tune that the mysterious visitor had hummed during his visit to Queen Mary’s rooms in the palace. I was on the verge of reminding Holmes of his
rather limited ability to carry a tune on anything save a violin, when it occurred to me that I knew the piece in question.
‘Good Lord, Holmes!’ said I. ‘Verdi!’
The man finally ceased his squeaking and nodded in satisfaction. ‘Verdi, indeed, Watson – to be precise, “Va, Pensiero,” from his Nabucco.’
‘But – Nabucco is a comparatively recent opera, surely.’
‘Comparatively – first performed at La Scala, in ’42.’
‘And yet our centuries-old “ghost” apparently knows it?’ Genuine relief gave my query a certain hauteur, I will admit.
‘Not only knows it,’ replied an amused Holmes, ‘but is aware – or has been told – that Miss Mackenzie does not know it, and cannot therefore determine that the person humming the tune is many things, but no sixteenth-century wraith. Which tells us …?’
‘That the impostor is intimately familiar with the staff of the house – it is reasonable, perhaps, to assume that the maids employed therein do not spend their evenings off at the opera, but it is certainly not safe to do so. First-hand knowledge of them would be vital.’
‘Indeed, Watson. There are many ways to come by such knowledge, of course – William Sadler could doubtless have had it from Miss Mackenzie herself, but one doubts that Sadler is himself a particular devotee of Verdi. Thus we begin to detect multiple hands at work here – as, indeed, the nature of the injuries to both Sir Alistair and McKay would indicate.’
‘Yes, that thought had occurred to me during my examination of the body. It is even unlikely that there were but two: An excess of fifty wounds, unless we are dealing with a madman, speaks in favour of as many participants as we may reasonably hold under suspicion.’
‘As does another factor,’ replied Holmes. ‘And it was among the reasons why Rizzio met his fate as he did – I speak of guilt, or, rather, the dissipation of it. There can be no sacrificial lamb among conspirators, so long as they all draw blood. As in the case of your own army execution squads – who can say who fired the deadly shot, or dealt the mortal blow?’