I sighed. ‘Well, I have only just been through a very difficult case and a five-week inquest.’
‘Ian,’ said Uncle, shifting in his chair, ‘jokes aside, what do you think you will do when your ludicrous “ghostly” subdivision is no more? You said it might well happen very soon.’
I took a deep breath. ‘Oh, Uncle, I have avoided thinking about it.’
‘Would you go back to London?’ he asked, rather innocently.
I snorted. ‘I have considered it, but with the Laurence and Eugenia affair . . .’
Needless to say more: our circles in London were still scandalized by Eugenia breaking our engagement – jilting me to marry my loathsome elder brother instead. Their engagement was to last a few more months yet, and I refused to show my face in London whilst they made the most of it.
When had my life become so complicated? It seemed that both my personal and professional circumstances had joined forces to shackle me in the land my father abhorred like no other.
‘You’d be more than welcome in Gloucestershire,’ Maurice said with a grin. He had inherited a substantial country estate on the outskirts of the Forest of Dean. That inheritance partly explained why he had never married or had children; instead he had devoted his life to managing the land – and to smoking, drinking and chasing young ladies. No wonder he was always cheerful. ‘It might be a good idea for you to spend some time there; you know it will all be yours when I am gone. Though it looks like you might beat me in that race!’
The innkeeper’s wife arrived then with our drinks.
‘Mrs Dailey,’ I said as she put the glasses on the little table, ‘we are expecting the local constable .. .’
‘McYon?’
‘No, no. I believe Miss Fletcher said his name was McEwan.’
‘Aye. McYon.’
I blinked twice. ‘The very man, yes. Could you send him to us as soon as he arrives?’
We did not have to wait for long. We’d barely had a few sips of the claret and gin (which Uncle described as divine) when the man came in.
The constable was everything I expected after hearing Miss Fletcher’s statements: middle-aged, with rosy cheeks and a beardlike a tangle of greasy wire. His plumpness suggested he’d not needed to run or even walk at a brisk pace in years. With his languid gait, half-open eyes and creased clothes, the man spread apathy like a contagious disease. And he was picking his nose as he stepped into the room. Thankfully he did not offer a hand to shake.
‘Which one o’ youse is Nine-Nails?’
‘The man is rather famous,’ Uncle whispered.
‘Inspector McGray, if you will,’ I said. ‘And neither of us. We expect him to arrive this evening with the boy.’
McEwan sat in the last free armchair, sprawling lazily as if readying himself for a nap. ‘Then who ‘re youse?’
‘Inspector lan Frey. This other gentleman is not of your conce–’
‘Youse are in my province. I say what’s o’ my concern.’
‘Your province indeed,’ I said. ‘So you are the man who refused to investigate the death threat against Miss Fletcher’s son.’
‘What’s that to ye, pretty boy?’
Uncle Maurice rose at once. ‘I shall be in my room, lan. Unlike you, I lack the tolerance to deal with thugs of this variety.’
McEwan followed him with his eyes. Even his pupils moved at a sluggish pace. ‘He yer husband? A wee bit auld for ye.’
‘Why did you refuse to investigate?’
He interlaced his fingers. ‘Insufficient evidence.’
‘Insufficient! The note was perfectly solid. Miss Fletcher’s window was smashed and –’
‘And the lass could’ve done it herself.’
I rolled my eyes. ‘Why on earth would she do such a thing?’
McEwan simply shrugged, and then distractedly brought a finger back to his nostril. For once I wished Nine-Nails were around; he would have chastised this specimen swiftly.
‘Do you realize there is a real possibility someone might try to harm that boy?’
With unexpected attention, McEwan inspected whatever matter he’d just pulled out of his nose. ‘There’s nae been a murder or a crime or a robbery in this land for almost seventeen years.’ He tossed the thing on to the carpet. ‘In fact, the last serious crime was reported by Miss Fletcher herself. The lass likes the limelight.’
‘What crime was that?’
The man yawned so widely I could see his uvula and the broken lines of his back teeth. ‘Alleged rape.’
I nearly knocked my claret over. ‘Rape?’
‘Aye. She said Mr Koloman’s brother had “taken advantage o’ her” in one o’ their wine cellars.’
‘Was that rape –’
‘Alleged rape.’
‘Was that how she became pregnant?’
‘Aye.’
I sat back, taking the information in. Miss Fletcher had not mentioned that point at all. Out of propriety, I had not asked her about the details of her liaison with the recently deceased Maximilian Koloman.
I looked up. ‘You did say alleged. I suppose the man was never prosecuted.’
‘Course he wisnae. Maximilian Koloman denied it all.’
‘And was that all the evidence you needed?’
McEwan laughed. ‘Lad, I know that type o’ wench. Most o’ the time they’re asking for someone to do them a favour, pulling down their cleavages ‘n’ swaying their hips in front o’ their masters. And then they moan ‘n’ cry when they finally get some attention.’
I felt fire in my stomach. ‘I can see how . . . thorough your investigation must have been back then.’
‘Och, don’t look at me like that. Ye’ve met the lass. D’ye think it would be easy to pin down a mastodon like that? Nae, she must’ve wanted it.’
I needed a deep breath and a pretty long sip of claret, vinegary though it was. I would emphatically recommend the man’s dismissal as soon as we had a new superintendent, but for the time being I needed to extract as much information from him as 1 could.
‘What can you tell me about Miss Fletcher’s employers, the Kolomans?’
‘They’re a very respectable family,’ he rushed to say. ‘Very good landlords, I always hear, and I’ve been constable here for nearly thirty years. Mr Koloman, uncle to the illegitimate brat, is a very elegant, very well-read man. His wife is too, and she is always helping the neighbours: every autumn she runs a wee school for the children in Poolewe, and gets them clothes ‘n’ toys. And she is good at medicine, always knows what’s wrong with folk. Och, and the Kolomans’ daughters are delicious things to behold – I only wish they went out more.’
My frown deepened. ‘That is entirely at odds with the reputation of the late Maximilian.’
‘That lad was an entirely different beast. He was abroad all the time and came back only two, three times a year. We had to hide our lassies when that happened.’
I arched an eyebrow. ‘But you still doubt he mistreated Miss Fletcher.’
‘Och, aye! The man was what the lassies call handsome. Ye’ll see when ye meet his brother; they looked very much alike. And besides his looks and his money, he knew how to seduce his women. Aye, I doubt he ever had to force anyone: if a lassie said nae, he only had to go on to the next one.’
‘In my experience,’ I said, ‘such charming men usually find a refusal all the more alluring.’
McEwan’s answer to that was a blank stare. I took a deep breath. I had no wish to hear another word from him, but Nine-Nails had given me specific instructions in his telegram: I should learn as much as possible about the people that lived in the archipelago.
‘I must ask you: are you acquainted with the Nellys family?’
‘The madwags on the islands? Of course. Michty ugly wretches.’
‘And have you heard about that . . . miraculous cure of theirs?’
‘Everyone round here has, but I think it’s just an auld hags’ tale. They say the manky water from that well has cure
d the man but that it only works as long as he stays on the island. The foolish lot!’
I recalled Madame Katerina stating the same. And there was also an alleged curse on anyone who took anything, be it an acorn, a pebble or a grain of sand, off the island. Ridiculous.
I heard a throat clearing and I saw Mr Dailey stepping in. Followed by Miss Fletcher.
She was already tense, as if she’d been preparing for this encounter, but when she saw the constable she still changed colour. She made me think of a whistling kettle, her lips tensing as she exhaled noisily.
McEwan, the man who had laughed at her misfortunes and then done nothing, received her with a cynical smile.
‘Miss Fletcher! Looking as ripe ‘n’ tempting as always.’
If I felt outraged, I can only wonder what went through Miss Fletcher’s mind. Mr Dailey looked furious. He took a little step forward, as if to block the way in case Miss Fletcher decided to strike.
‘The Kolomans sent their scullery maid with a message,’ he said without any formalities. ‘Inspector, they invite ye and yer good uncle to stay in the manor for as long as yer investigation may last. Youse will be well looked after; they have an impressive kitchen and an even better cellar. Much better than I could offer youse here.’
‘I appreciate the gesture, but this is not a social visit.’
‘They thought you might say that,’ said Miss Fletcher, holding the note in her hand. ‘But they insist you at least come to dine with them tonight. Their house is not two miles away, and I understand Inspector McGray will be going there directly.’
I checked the time. ‘I am sorry. If we were to dine there tonight, we’d need to leave at once, and I still have a few questions to ask this . . . individual.’
‘They have also thought of that, Mr Frey.’ She had to take another deep breath. ‘You might prefer to continue your questioning tomorrow morning –’
‘Impossible!’ McEwan jumped in. ‘I need to go back to Poolewe. That’s ten bloody miles away! It took me half the day to get here, and I won’t wear out my good beast just to come back here ‘n’ talk about these dumb trifles.’
Miss Fletcher managed to keep herself composed, but only just. She was clenching both fists, her jaw was tense and she had slightly bared her teeth. When she spoke, her voice was low and throaty. ‘Mrs Koloman apologizes for the inconvenience . . . sir, and says you can spend the night here. She’ll pay for your accommodation. And anything you might consume.’
McEwan rubbed his hands together. ‘Och, ye should’ve said so sooner, lass! Hey, ye, tell yer wifie to fetch me some ale. The good stuff, nae that watered shite youse give the Soothrons.’
‘If you’ll follow me to the dining room,’ said the innkeeper, ‘you can have it with your dinner. The stew is ready.’
‘Even better!’ And McEwan jumped to his feet and headed for the door. As he walked past Miss Fletcher he slowed down a little, casting her a lascivious look. Quite daring, for the man was at least six inches shorter.
As soon as he left, Miss Fletcher let out a quivering exhalation, shutting her eyes and throwing her head backward.
I stood up and went to her. ‘I have no words to describe the way that despicable wretch has treated you. I will do everything I can to see him dismissed and then get a proper constable to oversee this area.’
‘Thank you, sir, but my son is my main worry. Promise me he’ll be your priority.’
I offered my hand to shake. ‘You have my word, miss.’
And then, for the first time since I’d met her, I saw Miss Fletcher give the hint of a smile. She knew exactly what I’d just committed myself to – and I wish she had warned me.
6
Thurso, 19 August, 1:15 a.m.
‘Fucking useless!’ McGray snorted, jumping out of the hard bed. As he had predicted, he could not bring himself to sleep; in fact, he felt as wide awake as if it were mid-morning. If he’d been in his Edinburgh house, he would have given up long ago and gone to his cluttered library to read the night away. In this tiny, damp inn bedroom, however, there was little to distract him.
He had heard the rain slacken, and when he pulled back the moth-eaten curtain he saw that the night sky was surprisingly clear. The waning moon shed silver light all across the port of Thurso; McGray could make out the coast, the harbour and the road in plenty of detail. The place was deserted and, other than the dull murmur of the sea, as silent as a grave.
‘Might as well,’ he mumbled, reaching for his favourite overcoat – the one Frey described as ‘jute-sack-couture’ – and made his way downstairs. A midnight walk might soothe his mind, or at the very least occupy it.
As soon as he stepped out he felt the wind hit him in the face, laden with the salty smell of the sea, and cool but not uncomfortable.
He was tempted to light a cigarette, but the insistent wind would burn it away before he could take more than three puffs. He thought of following the road that went round the bay, towards the cliffs, from where he would have a nice view of Scrabster Pier, but as he glanced up at the church’s bell tower something caught his eyes.
A small, black shape, of a darkness the moonlight could not penetrate, was fluttering around in that direction. McGray recalled the small bats he’d sometimes seen around his father’s farmhouse in midsummer. He squinted, but then the erratic shape descended and became mixed with the shadows of the church.
McGray headed there. At a bend in the road he saw the familiar walls of the parish house. There was a solitary square of golden light coming from the upper level. He guessed that would be the window of the priest’s bedroom; the old man was perhaps still dictating his letter for Mrs Koloman.
Then something blocked the light for an instant.
McGray could not tell whether it had been something inside the room or that same dark flying shape dancing around the house. Whichever, it had moved fast, come and gone in a blink.
He felt a sudden draught, chillier than the rest, and it was like an invisible hand pushing him forward, towards that lonely window.
McGray saw the low stone wall that enclosed the vegetable garden, lush with cabbages and carrots and plenty of garlic. He looked up at the window. From that distance he could make out the lace curtains, and through them a dark beam across the ceiling.
He saw it again: a fluttering shadow flashing behind the curtains, inside the room. There came a scream.
McGray’s heart skipped a beat and he instantly leaped over the stone wall. As he ran to the porch he realized it was the clergyman’s voice, anguished and piercing.
He tried to open the door but it was locked. The scream had still not ended, and with no time to think McGray kicked at the wood with all his strength. The rusty lock gave in at once, and McGray rushed into the darkened house. The housemaid had just emerged from her back room, carrying a taper and looking deathly pale.
‘Stay here!’ McGray snapped, rushing to the stairs. As he climbed the steps he heard a last throaty moan, as if the priest were suffocating, and then the sound of glass shattering.
McGray reached the corridor and kicked the bedroom door open without even glancing at the latch. The cold wind met him, and he caught a glimpse of a black coat jumping through the smashed window. Right beneath the frame there was a solid desk, a disarray of paper being blown about. The little oil lamp had smashed on the floor and a small mat was catching fire. In front of the flames, lying on the floor, was the trembling priest.
His white nightgown was splattered in scarlet, and the old man covered his neck with both hands, retching and choking in his own blood.
McGray stamped on the fire and knelt by the old man. His milky eyes were wide open, his mouth welling with dark, viscous liquid.
‘Jesus!’ the maid screamed, kneeling on the other side. She’d ignored McGray’s command, but he was glad of it now.
‘Hold him!’ he said, lifting the man’s fragile torso and resting it on the woman’s lap. ‘Put pressure on the wound!’
And befor
e she could say a word McGray jumped through the window and into the night.
He landed on the porch roof, skidding on the wet tiles, and then leaped down to the garden’s muddy ground. The attacker was running down the deserted street, heading east at unnatural speed.
‘Stop!’ McGray darted forward, his eyes fixed on the dark figure until it turned a corner and vanished.
McGray cursed and sped up, his legs burning and his heart throbbing. When he reached that corner he looked desperately in every direction. He saw the low fence that surrounded the town’s graveyard, the black shadows of the tombstones delineated sharply against the undulating terrain. Beyond them were fishermen’s houses, and in between those, further away still, he saw the glinting reflection of the moon on the waters of the River Thurso. Everything was so infuriatingly dark.
McGray wished he’d carried his gun, or at least a lantern, but why would he? He’d gone out for a peaceful walk. As he cursed again, something seemed to move amongst the gravestones. McGray saw it from the corner of his eye, and when he looked down everything was still again. He approached the graveyard furtively, aware that the attacker might still be carrying whatever instrument he had used to slit the priest’s throat. McGray’s hands were empty.
He thought he heard something. It could have been the rustle of feet on dead leaves, or a rat, but it was the only trace he had, so he stepped forward slowly, his eyes combing the ground, peering into every nook and shadow, expecting to see the gleam of a bloodstained knife rise up from anywhere.
There was something there, McGray was certain. He could feel its presence, heavy in the air and creeping like a chill over the back of his neck.
There was a movement. McGray somehow felt it rather than saw it: a dark mass slithering soundlessly through the night.
‘Stop!’ he shouted again. The figure rose as if sprouting from the ground and rushed towards the river at a frantic pace.
McGray ran in pursuit, hearing nothing but his own trampling and panting. How could anyone or anything move so silently? He saw the figure intermittently, losing it every now and then in the darkness of the narrow streets, each time thinking he’d lost it for good, and then seeing it flash against the silvery glow of the waters ahead.
Loch of the Dead Page 5