Loch of the Dead

by Loch of the Dead (retail) (epub)

  ‘Why, many things have happened!’ she said with a bitter laugh, and then, as confident as a pedlar in a tavern, Miss Fletcher helped herself to more whisky. ‘First of all, Maximilian died about three months ago. He came back from one of his trips unexpectedly and very ill. My master, being his elder brother, fetched the best doctors money could afford, but it was no use. Maximilian just withered and died within weeks.’

  ‘What was the malady?’

  Miss Fletcher snorted. ‘The family wouldn’t tell, but all the other servants rumoured that it was a – gentleman’s disease. Served him well, the buggering bastard.’ She gulped the drink down in one go. ‘Excuse my language, sir.’

  ‘I have heard much worse,’ I assured her whilst refilling her tumbler, which she welcomed. ‘What happened then?’

  ‘I was told that Maximilian, on his deathbed, asked Mr and Mrs Koloman to bring my Benjamin back into the family. He signed a statement recognizing him as his son and heir.’

  Her tone left me puzzled; there had been a good deal of bitterness in those last phrases.

  ‘Were you not happy with that outcome?’ 1 asked.

  Miss Fletcher brought the glass close to her lips but did not manage to drink this time.

  ‘Maximilian also made his brother swear that Benjamin would be treated as part of the family, as an equal . . . but I know better. You, Mr Frey, seem quite well off yourself, if you don’t mind me saying. Do you think the boy has any chance of ever being treated as an equal in an upper-class family? Of course not! He’ll always be the housekeeper’s bastard!’

  Again she banged her glass down on the table, spilling whisky all around, and sat back and crossed her legs in a very mannish way, visibly annoyed by the skirts.

  I allowed her to take a few infuriated breaths before my next question.

  ‘Miss Fletcher, I understand your distress, but I suppose it was something else that brought-you here, was it not?’

  The woman rubbed her face, struggling to keep her anger under control. She stared hard at the floor, and finally spoke after a very long pause.

  ‘Something very strange happened a few days ago. I was in my rooms, at my master’s house, ready to go to bed, when someone smashed my window with a brick. It nearly struck me in the face.’

  ‘Oh?’

  She drew a hand from her jacket’s pocket. ‘With a message tied to it.’

  She handed me a crumpled piece of brown wrapping paper. I unfolded it and saw a scrawl in thick, black ink, the words smudged as if written in haste:

  KEEP YOUR BASTARD AWAY OR I SHALL KILL HIM

  I leaned forward, grasping the note. ‘Have you reported this to your local police?’

  ‘I have, Mr Frey, but our constable is a lazy, irresponsible bloody fool. He laughed at me and sent me away. Said it was nothing.’

  I shook my head. ‘This could be a very serious threat.’

  ‘I know, and nobody seems to care!’ she shouted, but instantly covered her mouth and sat back again. ‘Do . . . do excuse me, Mr Frey.’

  ‘No need to apologize,’ I said. ‘Did you manage to see who threw this?’

  ‘No, though I did look. It was a stormy evening, no moon or starlight.’

  ‘Do you have any idea who could have done it? Any enemies?’

  Her face became sombre. ‘I know of a few who wouldn’t want my son around Loch Maree. I could give you a list, but there is something more pressing at the moment.’

  ‘More pressing? Tell me.’

  ‘The Kolomans have already sent for my son. And I fear for him.’

  ‘He still resides in Thurso, I suppose.’ ‘Yes.’

  ‘Is he to travel on his own?’

  ‘Not if I can help it, sir. That’s why I came here.’

  I meditated for a moment. ‘I suppose you want the Edinburgh police to investigate this threat to your son and –’

  ‘And someone to watch over him on his journey.’

  Her request was rather problematic. ‘I hear you, Miss Fletcher, and I do appreciate your distress, but you must understand we are CID, not private bodyguards.’

  ‘I understand that.’

  ‘And I can tell from your accent that you have come all the way from the Highlands?’

  ‘Yes, the far north-west. Here, I brought this for you . . . ’

  She searched in her pockets and handed me one of those cheap travel books that are so in vogue these days.

  I skimmed through the first pages, full of regional maps. ‘Edinburgh is certainly a long way from your home. You could have requested anybody else’s help. Why did you come specifically to us? What does Inspector McGray have to do with –’

  ‘I can offer him something in return,’ she interrupted, leaning forward, resting her elbows on her knees. There was a hint of a smirk on her face.

  ‘Miss Fletcher, a police inspector will not bargain for services. We–’

  ‘I can help his little sister,’ she spluttered in a deep voice. ‘I know how to cure Miss McGray.’

  2

  16 August (cont.)

  ‘Never in my entire life have I seen such a titanic woman,’ said Uncle Maurice, peering through the window and watching Miss Fletcher turn the corner. ‘Not even on that horrid trip to Scandinavia. Do you remember?’

  I looked at him in amusement, brandishing his large glass of cognac and an aromatic cigar, sporting a jacket of the finest wool money could afford. He reminded me of all the traits Scotland was slowly washing off me.

  While my own father had been an absent, rather blurry character throughout my childhood, Uncle Maurice was my true paternal figure, and indeed he has passed many a quirk of his on to me – his taste for a good drink, fine clothes and expensive cigars are the most obvious ones. We also share the Gallic features of our emigre ancestors: the same dark brown eyes and abundant dark hair. Uncle Maurice’s once lean features have filled out a little of late, but he is still as restless and active as ever. He is now forty-six years old but has perennially lived as though he were twenty; he never married, never fathered children, and has an unquenchable zest for life I have come to envy. Had my own education not been so restrictive, I might well have turned out very much like him.

  I had certainly laughed at his irreverent letter, announ cing rather than requesting his visit:

  Your stepmother has been telling everyone in London that you live in a pigsty without pavement or a decent roof over your head. Naturally, I must come and see. And I believe it is now grousing season in the Highlands . . .

  And when he arrived – his young footman dragging six boxes of wine and cognac, a hundred Cuban cigars and eight trunks full of fine suits and shirts and cufflinks – I remembered why I am so fond of him.

  ‘What did the lady want?’

  I took a sip – I had still not finished the measure the woman had poured me. ‘It is police business, Uncle. I cannot tell you the details.’

  Uncle smiled rather devilishly. ‘Oh, so you are not going to that Loch Maree?’

  I nearly spat out my drink. ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, Uncle! Were you eavesdropping?’

  He raised his palm, his cigar drawing swirls in the air. ‘I could not help it. I am sorry. I do not know how much Scotland has roughened you. I caught a glimpse of her and I feared you might be about to propose!’

  I massaged my temple. ‘Is my career a joke to you all? Some sort of idle hobby that warrants no respect?’

  Uncle sat in front of me, ignoring my protests. ‘I did not quite catch that last part. When she spoke about a cure?’

  I sighed. Concealing things from him would only pique his curiosity even more. ‘The woman believes in some wild tales about miraculous waters.’ I nodded at the travel book that still sat on the little table. Uncle picked it up and began leafing through it.

  ‘The Highlands,’ he said, a glow of excitement in his eyes.

  ‘Yes, Loch Maree, as you heard.’ I watched Uncle displaying a foldable map. ‘It is in the far north-west. Miss Fletcher
works for a family, the Kolomans, who live just off its shores.’

  ‘Yes, that part I heard, but then I had to run for a drink.’

  ‘That loch apparently has many islands, and some of those islands themselves contain tiny lochs.’

  Uncle smiled. ‘Would that make them . . . water-locked lochs?’

  ‘Technically, although the really curious thing is that in one of those islands there is a well. Its “miraculous” waters are supposed to cure madness.’

  Uncle whistled, extending the map on the table. ‘Waterfalls, islands . . . It says here there are good stocks of salmon and grouse at this time of the year.’

  ‘Uncle ...’

  He looked at the map’s margin and frowned. ‘Why do Scots always paint thistles as if they were bloody biblical wonders? They are weeds! Thorny dandelions at best.’

  ‘Uncle, are you listening?’

  ‘Magic well. Waters that cure madness. Yes.’

  ‘And the woman wants to take McGray there and show him the so-called miracle. His sister, you might remember–’

  ‘Might remember! That was the best story you have told me in years: the dead parents and the madness and the severed finger . . . But what miracle was she talking about? Has she seen people cured?’

  Again I sighed. ‘So she claims. She says there is a rather strange family – the Nellyses, she called them – who live on those islands. According to her they arrived there several years ago, bringing a lunatic old man, who now has recovered all his faculties.’

  Uncle ran his fingers over the streams and shorelines on the map. ‘Will you mention all this to that Nine-Fingers man?’

  I breathed out. ‘I have to. That woman came asking for help, so it is my responsibility. Not that you would know the meaning of the word.’

  Uncle chuckled, and for an instant I thought I saw a hint of bitterness in the way he looked at the map. He puffed at his cigar. ‘What do you think he might say?’

  I laughed openly. ‘There is no need to guess, Uncle; I know it for certain. He will become mad with enthusiasm and do whatever this Miss Fletcher wants of him; he will go to those blasted lakes and get me into unimaginable trouble; he will eventually realize it is all another pathetic fishwives’ tale, and before I know it he will be pursuing some other weird nonsense.’

  ‘Do you not want to investigate? Help the damsel in distress? Bring more justice to our barbarous world, as you liked to preach when you worked in London?’

  ‘Uncle, even if I wanted to, I cannot simply pack my cases and start an enquiry. There are police procedures that–’

  ‘Did you not tell me the Scottish CID was still leaderless?’

  Indeed, I had told him in detail. The hopeless Superintendent Campbell had been dismissed after his gross mishandling of the Irving scandal, and since then the general attitude of Edinburgh’s CID had been of cheerful cluelessness: the ground officers did only what was strictly necessary to keep the city in order, whilst the higher-ranking officials fought like dogs over the vacant posts (not only the superintendent’s, but all those that would result from the natural shifts in the authority ladder).

  I said nothing. Instead I looked at Uncle Maurice, as he drank and smoked at leisure, perusing the book.

  ‘Well,’ he said at last, ‘you also told me that this . . . subdivision for the commiseration of the quack and the fool might be disbanded as soon as a new superintendent is elected.’

  I had to drink when I heard that. The Commission for the Elucidation of Unsolved Cases Presumably Related to the Odd and Ghostly (a name in fact more ridiculous than Uncle’s attempted parody) existed only because McGray had bribed the previous superintendent. Although anything is possible, I could not see a more corrupt rascal taking old Campbell’s post, and any sensible man – myself included – would simply get rid of the department without a second thought and put the cellar which was our office to more useful purposes (like storing sacks of flour).

  I could not believe I actually feared the prospect – despite all my moaning and my common sense.

  I sighed, preferring not to think about it at the moment. ‘Uncle, where are you going with this?’

  He closed the atlas with a crisp thump. ‘Ian, since you seem to be about to lose your job, would you not fancy a pleasant countryside holiday before going back to London?’

  My jaw dropped. ‘You must be joking!’

  ‘Not at all. Think about it. Fresh air, exercise, breathtaking landscapes – do you think you will ever come back to Scotland when you no longer have a job here? You may never have a better chance to look at that scenery. And we can have a jolly good time a-shooting and a-drinking while your unhinged boss has a taste of those miraculous waters.’

  ‘Uncle, please, do not say “jolly” again. You know how I detest the word.’

  He only laughed. ‘Besides, you just said that Miss Fletcher deserved a proper investigation. You might even be able to actually do some good.’

  I sighed. ‘I could do with some fresh air, I suppose . . . And it would certainly do me good to relax before I have to go back and face the upper-class vipers of London.’ I took another sip of whisky. ‘But no. I have surrendered under pressure in the past, and with dire consequences. It is my final word, Uncle: we are not going to Loch Maree.’

  3

  Loch Maree, 20 August, 2:50 p.m.

  ‘Let me pull the boat closer, so the gentlemen don’t get their boots wet.’

  I was about to retort, but Miss Fletcher jumped into the water at once. Uncle Maurice, rather amused, watched her as she threw the rope over het shoulder and waded knee-deep towards the shore. Her breath did not even quicken, which was congruent with her looks. She was now wearing thick hunting gear, and seemed infinitely more comfortable in that than in the skirts she’d worn at our first meeting.

  She lifted a rock the size of a flagon, secured the rope underneath and then looked up at me. ‘Do you need a hand, Mr Frey?’

  Again I was going to refuse, but Uncle hopped out rather abruptly, making the entire boat jerk and I nearly lost my balance. Miss Fletcher grasped me by the arm and did not let go until I had both feet firmly set on the gravelly beach.

  I cleared my throat. ‘Thank you, miss,’ I said, a little flushed.

  ‘Can’t be too careful, sir,’ she said, without a hint of mockery, as I adjusted my Norfolk jacket. The tweed was so new and pristine I felt rather embarrassed – Miss Fletcher’s loose knickerbockers and high boots had clearly seen many a season in the countryside.

  I threaded my way over the fine pebbles, still astonished at the speed with which events had been set in motion. I had telegrammed McGray the morning after my meeting with Miss Fletcher, and I had his reply before dinnertime. His answer had been everything I expected: he asked me to travel to Loch Maree immediately, but only after having consulted his blasted gypsy clairvoyant (Madame Katerina, a woman Oscar Wilde could only have envisioned after half a bottle of absinthe). I saw her, grudgingly, very early the following morning, only to be told some gruesome stories about the region – which I shall detail in due course. Not two hours later Uncle and I were already on the train. McGray had agreed to set off for Thurso and bring Miss Fletcher’s son himself. If everything went well, he’d meet us here this evening – I had not heard from him since, so I could only hope things had gone well on his side.

  Had it not been for a last-minute change of plans, we would have already met Mr and Mrs Koloman – apparently much admired in this corner of the Highlands. They had telegrammed Miss Fletcher telling her they’d come to greet us at the loch’s only inn, but had later sent their apologies due to an unexpected engagement. I would have preferred to wait for them at our lodgings, but Uncle Maurice insisted we go to the legendary islands, given the unusually fine weather. Miss Fletcher, who seemed increasingly nervous, had been only too eager to take us there in one of the inn’s boats.

  ‘So this is the famous Isle Maree,’ said Uncle, looking around with pleasure and stretching his b
rawny limbs. He seemed so high-spirited nobody would have been able to guess his true age.

  He lifted his binoculars and perused the northern shore. It was a fine August afternoon, with the blinding sun high in a cloudless sky – an oddity in those regions. The calm, dark waters extended six miles east and fourteen miles west, flanked on the north and south by steep mountains, as if Loch Maree were a deep gash in that craggy corner of the Highlands.

  I remembered the map in the little guidebook, which Uncle had monopolized since that first evening. We were in the dramatic archipelago right in the centre of the loch. Isle Maree, one of the smaller islands, was also the one closest to the northern shore, lying a little apart from all the others, almost as if her sisters had cast her away – a reminder that the site was plagued with legends.

  ‘I’d call it infamous,’ said Miss Fletcher, as if reading my thoughts.

  ‘What do you mean?’ I asked her, but she simply scraped the sole of her boot on the gravel.

  ‘Ian, do look at that,’ Uncle said, pointing at a gnarly oak that grew right on the edge of the beach, with multiple trunks that grew almost horizontal, bent under the weight of their branches.

  ‘People call that tree the pleading hand,’ said Miss Fletcher as I approached. Her remark only added to my sudden shiver. Nailed to one of the knotty trunks there was a long, sun-bleached skull.

  ‘A deer?’ I said, looking at the mighty antlers, very much like the hunting trophies that hung on Maurice’s walls in Gloucestershire.

  ‘Yes. Red deer, I would say,’ he replied. ‘Just like those we have in the Forest of Dean. This one must have been a fantastic beast in life.’

  I wrinkled my nose. The long, rusty nails were bent around the eye sockets, like hooks to keep it firmly in place. The cracked teeth and the sharp snout, pointing at the lake, made me think of a silent, portentous sentinel. I nearly whispered some of the words uttered by the mad gypsy, but I repressed them; I’d save those gruesome tales for McGray’s ears.

  ‘Is that pagan?’ I asked, as I noticed dry wax dripping from the empty sockets. The skull must be a ghastly sight at night, its eyes lit with candles.