Gunmen, Gallants and Ghosts

by Dennis Wheatley

  ‘At certain phases of the moon, perhaps,’ Neils hazarded, ‘the Force—if there is a Force—might be stronger.’

  ‘Maybe. But she didn’t sleep any better in my room. It’s killing her, Neils. A few days ago she was at least scared, and fighting it. Now she’s just vague and won’t talk. She looked like death at breakfast this morning, but of course her father didn’t notice anything; he was buried in some book or other. I don’t like leaving her alone. If only I could get that dog to stay with her.’

  ‘What dog?’

  ‘The boar-hound that belongs to the place. He liked her at first, but now he runs away as soon as she appears. Can people be possessed, Neils?’

  ‘Certainly; but we’ve hardly enough evidence to presuppose such a thing in this case. Miss Clyde sounds like a girl suffering from a species of nervous collapse. Of course, a place having the history of Castle Stuart behind it would be filled with vibrations from the past, but apart from the dog’s behaviour there is nothing to suggest that her condition is the result of psychic causes.’

  ‘I know, Neils. But I’ll swear something queer is going on. Ten days ago, in London, Fiona was a normal, healthy girl with bags of energy; now she’s a nervous wreck and so washed out that one might—yes, one might even think that a vampire was sapping her vitality.’

  Pāst closed his eyes and purred softly. ‘Let us go,’ said Neils, ‘to Castle Stuart.’

  * * * * *

  As Bruce turned the car into the gateway the sun was brilliant over the Firth and mountain heads, and he felt a little ashamed at having summoned the famous psychic investigator for so nebulous a purpose. The Castle looked a mild architectural curiosity, but no more. There was nothing sinister here where the drive wound among the sun-burnished scrub and pines. Neils, with the cat upon his knees, glanced up at the brown stone battlements.

  ‘But this is not very old,’ he said smiling.

  ‘Oh, no, only about a hundred and fifty years. It’s just a copy. The ruins of the original castle are about two miles away. It marks one boundary of the estate.’

  In the great hall sunlight stabbed the worn surfaces of ancient flags that hung motionless, dropping long, twisted shadows across the stairway. While the servants were taking up Orsen’s luggage the Swede stood very still, his head inclined as though he listened. Bruce had left him, to look for Fiona. He brought her through the garden door into the hall, where she stood, bathed in the dusty sunlight, her golden hair responding to its caresses; but her lovely green eyes were cold and distant as she shook hands with Orsen.

  Her father rushed upon them from the library, American hospitality in every gesture. He was delighted to welcome Bruce’s friend … Past was cute … He had found some interesting material on the bird-life of the island … and the books were ready beside the sherry for the attention of Mr. Orsen.

  But Neils refused the wine, and Bruce said sadly, ‘I’m afraid he never touches alcohol.’

  Throughout luncheon Neils contrived to show a surprising knowledge of his purported subject and Arkon Clyde took to him immediately; but Fiona obviously found it an effort to concentrate her attention sufficiently to appear barely civil, and directly the meal was over she excused herself abruptly.

  ‘ ’Fraid my girl doesn’t take to this sort of life very easily,’ Clyde said in apology as the door closed behind her. ‘I guess she finds it a bit dull after New York.’

  ‘I’ll go and see if I can amuse her,’ Bruce volunteered. Neils made no sign. His small, gnome-like figure remained bowed in contemplation; one hand was playing with a lock of hair.

  Bruce found Fiona curled up on a garden seat behind the Castle. Sitting down, he said earnestly: ‘Fiona, do tell me what’s wrong. It’s sticking out a mile that you’ve got something on your mind.’

  ‘No! If I tell, you’ll say I’m crazy.’ She turned away from him and he saw the scarlet mouth tremble. ‘I’m beginning to think I must be; no sane person could feel the way I do—could’—she spoke in a hard, strained voice ‘—could feel haunted!’

  As he remained silent she went on desperately: ‘Dammit, Bruce, the Castle is haunted, and you know it. Why did you let Father bring me here?’

  Bruce nodded. ‘So I was right! Now listen, Fiona. My friend, Neils Orsen, is not really a naturalist but the world’s greatest psychic investigator. I wired for him when I saw how things were with you, and I’m darned glad I did, because if anyone can help you, he can. Let me fetch him; then you can tell him all about it.’

  ‘I don’t think anyone can help me, but you can get him if you promise that Father shan’t be worried about me.’

  When Bruce returned with Orsen, she was sitting in the same position, staring at the ground. She turned her head slightly as they sat down. ‘Give me a cigarette, please, Bruce.’ Her hand shook as she held it. ‘There’s something after me in this place,’ she began. ‘It won’t let me alone. I felt odd when I first saw the Castle as we came up the drive. I knew just how it would look. That gave me a kind of shock, and I didn’t tell Father, but I wanted to run away. I knew I oughtn’t to go in or stay here. I lost the feeling a little until the evening—I was busy unpacking and getting the place straight. Then, when I was alone in my room before dinner, the door swung open suddenly and made me jump. It was perfectly light, and I could see nothing, but I was scared and ran out of the room. That damned door’s been opening every night—except when Bruce slept there—and there’s a queer, cold feeling in my head, as though I were forgetting how to think. All the time I have the idea that I know this place—that something is going to happen to me again. If only I could remember what—I might prevent it; but I can’t. Wherever I go the air is full of whispers that I can’t quite hear—and that was all—until last night.’

  ‘Last night,’ Bruce repeated.

  She nodded. ‘Yes; I was so frightened and wretched that I decided to sleep downstairs. I waited until you and Father were in your rooms. I thought perhaps the boar-hound would be sleeping in the hall; so I stood at the head of the stairs and whistled to him. And from my room—I’d left the door open—there came the most horrible chuckle, very hoarse and—and liquid. The Thing was there—it was watching me—laughing at me. I could feel it.’

  ‘What did you do?’ Orsen said quietly.

  ‘I heard the dog growl and I ran down to him—but he was scared of something and wouldn’t come near me. I stayed in the hall till about four o’clock. I couldn’t sit still and I couldn’t sleep, so when the light came I went for a walk. I got back about seven, had a bath and came down to breakfast. Oh, God! I’m frightened, Bruce—and I’ve never been frightened before. It’ll get me and keep me for ever and ever. Don’t let it! For God’s sake don’t let it!’ She began to sob hysterically.

  Neils stroked her hand soothingly. ‘I’ll do my very best to help you, I promise. Meanwhile, I suggest that you come and lie down in the hall. You have nothing to fear for the moment and you might be able to get some sleep.’

  When they had made her comfortable Bruce offered to show Orsen his room. The man-servant had unpacked all the suitcases save one. ‘I kept the key,’ Neils smiled, ‘and I’ll see to it later. It contains my cameras.’

  Bruce had already seen the cameras in Orsen’s company on one strange adventure, but their process—Orsen’s invention—was a mystery to him. Neils explained them only by saying that their plates were abnormally sensitive. He said the same thing of his sound-recorder, an instrument like a miniature dictaphone. Bruce wondered what his friend thought of Fiona’s story but knew from past experience that he would have to wait until the little man chose to enlighten him.

  ‘Where is Miss Clyde’s room?’ Orsen was asking.

  ‘Across the passage, the second door; I’ll sleep in it again if you like.’

  Neils shook his head. ‘No, Past and I will occupy it tonight.’

  He strayed towards the window and looked out across the Firth to where the blue hills melted into the horizon. ‘What a history those
moors could tell,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘Can you hear the skirl of pipes, Bruce, or see the kilted ghosts marching up across the heather?’

  ‘No,’ said Bruce uncomfortably. ‘All the same, I’m jolly glad I asked you to come up here. I’ll leave you now, as I expect you’d like to get your things straight.’ Bruce was a normal practical person, but as he left his small friend, standing with arms folded, heavy head sunk forward, and eyes half-closed, he thought—Neils himself gives me the creeps at times.

  Fiona was no longer in the hall, and going outside he found her lying on the grass at the entrance to the wild garden. As he approached she sat up and said coldly: ‘By the way, your friend is not thinking of spending the night in my room, is he?’

  ‘He certainly is.’

  ‘Well, he won’t find anything. Tell him not to fuss.’ She stretched her arms above her head. ‘I’m not worrying any more; I feel too tired to care.’

  Bruce stared at her. He could hardly believe that this calm aloof creature had been sobbing hysterically on his shoulder half an hour before. ‘Fiona,’ he pleaded, ‘there’s one thing you must promise. Stick by me and Neils. We won’t let any harm come to you.’

  She smiled queerly. ‘I think the harm has come to me already, and I’m living with it. Let me alone, Bruce; I’m not frightened any more.’ She turned away from him towards the house; but half an hour later through sheer inertia she had consented to move into the other wing of the Castle for the coming night.

  * * * * *

  ‘Everything is ready,’ Neils said to Bruce after dinner. ‘I have the cameras fixed and I’ve taken other precautions.’ He ran his fingers through his hair. ‘By the way, where’s the girl?

  ‘She’s in the music-room; I’ll go to her, I think.’

  ‘Let me. Without her knowing it I may be able to strengthen her sub-conscious defences so that she gets some sleep. You go into the library and talk to Mr. Clyde.’ Neils was gone as quietly as a shadow.

  On their way to bed he halted Bruce at the door of his own room. ‘I’ll come in here with you for half an hour in case the servants are about.’ He shut the door and drew back the window curtains. Past watched him with colourless, unblinking eyes as he added quietly:

  ‘There is something here.’

  ‘What d’you think it is?’

  ‘I can’t say for certain. There are earth-bound spirits which can do great harm. You’ve heard me talk of such things before—of the dark places where those who have not yet passed over must lurk, and long to return. Alternatively, although this place is not old as castles go, it may have seen bloodshed. Torture or murder done for power cause vibrations and echoes that never die. If they can find some material thing to focus on they may become evil entities of great power, and even materialise at times. I have not felt any strong evil here, but when I was with Miss Clyde tonight I needed all my strength to resist a sense of bitterness, of seeking for justice, a cold and lost feeling at the heart. Perhaps that room’—he pointed across the passage—‘holds the secret. We shall see.’

  ‘May I watch with you?’

  ‘No. I want you to go to the other wing and stay beside her door until it is light.’

  While the hours crept by and silence held Castle Stuart as though with a mighty hand, Bruce sat leaning his head against the lintels of Fiona’s door. At times he watched the slowly gathering shadows that touched the angles of wall and stairway and crawled along the vaulted ceiling; swirling like an eddying tide around his feet. Twice the door at his cheek swung open and he heard Fiona come to shut it. Down in the well of the hall he heard the boar-hound whining in its sleep, but no sound of alarm came from Fiona’s room and none came from the far side of the great staircase where Orsen kept vigil. By four o’clock the short northern night was over, and having seen the cold grey dawn begin to steal through the windows, Bruce sought his bed.

  He slept late and found no opportunity to be alone with Neils until Clyde retired into the libary and Fiona had set out on her morning walk.

  Neils looked pale and weary; his eyelids drooped. ‘There was nothing,’ he said, ‘nothing at all. And you?’

  ‘Nothing. Her door opened twice, but she didn’t look out.’

  ‘Did she open it?’

  ‘I don’t know. I heard her come and shut it, but this morning when I asked her how she had slept she didn’t complain of anything.’

  ‘I have never passed a night in a room so free of vibrations,’ the Swede said slowly. ‘It is most perplexing. Past, too, felt nothing or he would certainly have shown it; and he is perhaps the severest of all tests. I think.’ he added, ‘I will spend tonight down in the hall.’

  They passed an uneasy day and were glad when Fiona and her father retired to bed.

  Again Bruce kept watch. Again, save for the opening and shutting of the door, he was not disturbed, and in the morning Neils, too, reported an untroubled night.

  Fiona had now become so far withdrawn from the three men that, to Bruce’s mind at least, she seemed to move among them like a spirit. She did not appear unhappy, but her wide green eyes were heavy and shadowed, contrasting violently with the transparent pallor of her face, and her lovely hair seemed to reflect the moon rather than the sun. She made polite conversation at meals, and escaped after them. Every effort that Bruce made to talk to her was coldly received.

  At dinner on the third evening Neils spoke only when addressed. For the rest of the time he was silent, his gaze fixed on Fiona. She had not changed from the tweeds she had worn all day and sat calm and composed, her eyes staring vacantly at the table.

  ‘Only six days to the twelfth,’ Clyde said. ‘I hope I shall have the pleasure of Bruce’s company and yours, Mr. Orsen, for the first few days at least.’

  ‘Not mine, I fear,’ Orsen said absently.

  ‘But you won’t be leaving us so soon?’

  ‘Tomorrow, I’m afraid.’

  Bruce checked his astonishment. By no look, by no lift of the eyebrow or whispered word had Neils given him a hint. Fiona heard of Orsen’s projected departure without speaking. She ate practically nothing. Before coffee was served she got abruptly to her feet and left the room. Her father stared after her with a worried frown creasing his forehead.

  ‘I think Fiona must have gone fey,’ he said, ‘she looks mighty queer tonight.’

  Orsen glanced quickly at his host. ‘Why should she go fey? Only Scottish people are supposed to do that’

  ‘Well, she is Scotch—or anyway, a good half. Her mother was a McAin.’

  Bruce saw that Orsen’s enormous eyes were gleaming with suppressed excitement. But it was not until they had left the table and were alone that he whispered urgently:

  ‘Her Scottish ancestry! I felt just now we should learn something important tonight. Quick! We must hunt the library for any books dealing with the history of Castle Stuart.’

  For an hour the two men searched, dragging out volume after volume and frantically scanning their pages for a clue; they had almost despaired, when suddenly Orsen gave a cry of relief.

  ‘This—this should give us the link we seek. It’s the history of Castle Stuart, translated into English by the Reverend Father Cox, Chaplain to the Castle from 1698 to 1717.’ He ran his finger down the index and turning to a page half-way through the book, began to read:

  ‘Of all the Lordes of Castle Stuart, they do tell that Donald Stuart was the blackest of them all. He were fitter companie for men-at-arms in their drunken brawls than for the fair young maide he did bring to be his bryde.

  ‘She was the Ladie Fiona McAin, own daughter to the McAin of Crath, a winsome lass of sixteen summers who did grieve most sorely to leave her mother’s side.’

  ‘Good God!’ Bruce broke in. ‘D’you realise Fiona’s mother was a McAin and there’s the extraordinary coincidence of the Christian names?’

  ‘Of course,’ Orsen nodded impatiently. ‘It’s something of this kind that I’ve been hunting for.’ And he read on:

  ‘I
t becometh us not to linger on that mating, for of a truth it was of an eagle and a dove, contrarie to the laws of nature and a thing offensive in the eyes of God. Poor maide how could she find happiness with such a spouse, and who shall caste blame upon her that she did welcome the young Lorde Ninon when fresh from the Court of France and full of the grades of the French he did come as a guest for a while beneath Black Donald’s roof?

  ‘Lorde Ninon was a courtly, slender man, with smiling face and witty tongue. He did strum upon the lute for the Ladie Fiona’s pleasure, write poesie for her and in the French fashion oft did kiss her hand.

  ‘Some say that no more passed between the twain than this, for well did the Ladie Fiona know the jealous heart of her own dark Lorde. Yet on a night of feasting—so the tale is told—when the women had withdrawn and the men were in their cups, Black Donald did sud-denlie miss the Lorde Ninan from his board and calling for his claymore he did stagger up the stairs to his Ladie’s chamber.

  ‘The lovers herde his loud approach, and knowing there to be murder in his drunken vengeful heart, the Ladie Fiona took Lorde Ninan’s hande and guided him by a secret stair behind the tapestry down to the inner court.

  ‘But Black Donald knew well the secret stair, and swift for all the liquor he had drunk, followed cursing upon their heels.

  ‘They had but reached the postern gate when he espied them and shouting to his men-at-arms rushed after. Near-by the well Lorde Ninan turned at bay, but the Stuart clansmen fell upon him piercing him with a dozen pikes and skean dhus, so that he fell backwards over the well’s rim, saving himself from plunging into its rockie depths onlie by the clutch of one stronge hande.

  ‘The Ladie Fiona screamed for them to spare him but he knew his life was done, and as he hung there he cried aloud:

  ‘ “Fiona! I’ll wait for thee, m’darling!” Then with one stroke did Black Donald slice off the clutching hande and the young Lorde fell to his death in the icie water sixty feet below.

  ‘ ’Tis said that the Lorde Ninan’s spirit doth wait there, uneasy stille, so that in passing the end of the avenue that leads up to that grim stronghold, the belated traveller yet may hear the last laugh of Black Donald when his bloodie wille was done, and that last heart-cry of the Lorde Ninan: