Loch of the Dead

by Loch of the Dead (retail) (epub)

  I sighed. ‘In my experience, the more riches people gather, the more they seem to want.’

  Dominik let out another cackle. ‘Thank you for your insight, sir. You are doubtless a worldwide authority on the intricacies of the human condition.’

  I stood up. I would take no more of his insolence. ‘Thank you, Dominik. That will be all. You have made many, many things clear to me – more than you think.’ I went to the door and manifestly produced the set of keys. ‘If I find the remains of your moonlight drinks with your servant, I shall let you know.’

  I slammed the door and locked it as noisily as the key permitted. At the moment I did not have the temper to question Calcraft, whom I expected to be even more brazen, so I decided I’d look at the grounds and –

  I started. Tamlyn stood in the corridor, silent and terribly pale. She was staring at me, her mouth opening and closing, but no sound came out.

  ‘Are you all right, girl?’

  She looked in every direction and came closer. ‘Sir, there’s something I need to tell you.’

  ‘Go ahead.’

  Tamlyn cast a fearful look at Dominik’s door. I asked her to follow me and we went to the end of the corridor, away from any of the rooms. ‘Speak freely.’

  She gulped, her eyes on the wide windows that looked over the gardens. ‘Promise me –’

  ‘I will tell no one you spoke to me. You have my word. Now, tell me.’

  Tamlyn took a deep breath, her hands at her chest. ‘I gave Miss Veronika a sponge bath just before you saw her. Do you remember?’ I nodded. I had seen her walk out of the girl’s bedroom with a basin full of scented water. ‘Well . . . I saw . . . something . . .’

  Her eyes pooled with tears and she pressed the back of her hand to her forehead.

  ‘Tell me,’ I encouraged her, as soothingly as possible. ‘You saw something . . . What was it?’

  Another deep breath. ‘Something . . . had bit her.’

  ‘Bit her!’

  She nodded frantically, tears now rolling freely. ‘Something bit her belly. I saw marks all over.’

  20

  McGray felt queasy almost as soon as he set foot on the boat, but it would not be as bad as the paralysing sickness he’d felt on the sea. Despite the gloomy weather, the loch was calm; the mist had thickened and then settled stubbornly, the lack of wind keeping it in place. And Miss Fletcher seemed to recognize his discomfort, so she rowed carefully.

  ‘We need to see the Nellys family on Juniper Island first,’ she said. ‘They will take us to the old Mr Nellys; he doesn’t like strangers.’

  ‘All righty,’ McGray answered, discreetly assessing the tall woman’s countenance. Her eyes were red; she’d probably not slept at all, like most in the manor. Still, she rowed with steadfast strokes and kept a straight face. That woman was a sturdy oak.

  ‘How are ye, lass?’

  She looked at McGray without expression. ‘What do you mean, sir?’

  ‘Cannae be easy, having yer son back and ye’ve not even talked to him.’

  Miss Fletcher pulled the oars with sudden strength. McGray instantly felt a wave of nausea and had to grasp the gunwale.

  ‘He’s not mine any more. That was the deal.’

  ‘Aye, I ken that, but last night ye ran like the wind when ye saw him.’

  Miss Fletcher glared at him, only just managing to blink her tears away. Sorrow and anger were bursting out together. ‘I can’t face him! I thought I could, but I was fooling myself. As soon as I saw him walk in I wanted to run to him, tell him that –’ She let go of the oars and took a deep breath. ‘He looks just like my late father . . . Their eyes . . .’

  The woman gulped, shook her head and put her severe face back on.

  ‘Ye cannae hide for ever, hen. Yer son will eventually see ye, and when that happens –’

  Miss Fletcher resumed the rowing, nearly capsizing the boat. ‘Sir, I’d rather we didn’t talk about that any more. With all due respect, you won’t hear me asking you how difficult it’s been dealing with your sister’s ailment.’

  McGray gagged just then, unable to give her a proper reply. Miss Fletcher looked away, pretending her full attention was now on the waters. She rowed faster, which did not help McGray’s nausea. He thought he perhaps should have started with the more crucial questions.

  ‘Tell me what. . .’ He repressed a retch. ‘Tell me what. . .’ Another one. Miss Fletcher had to halt. McGray shut his eyes, waiting for the boat to stop swaying. ‘Damn, this must be what Percy feels like whenever he sets foot in the Ensign Ewart pub!’

  Miss Fletcher made no comment. She rested her arms on her knees and waited.

  McGray cleared his throat. ‘Tell me what happened last night, when ye and the lassies found the constable.’

  She looked back at him with evaluating eyes. ‘We just found him. Well, the girls were the first ones to see him; they were walking ahead of me.’

  ‘Did ye –’ McGray covered his mouth with a clenched fist, not quite recovered yet.

  ‘If you don’t mind, I am going to guess your questions,’ she said, resuming the rowing, albeit at a much slower pace. ‘Did we see anyone? No, we thought we were all alone in the woodland. Did we notice anything out of place? No, we did not. Did we touch or move or’ – she gave McGray the sternest of looks – ‘do anything? No.’

  She sped up after that, and McGray found it impossible to speak again. He breathed deeply and fixed his eyes on the mist ahead. He could see the outlines of all the mountains and the islands, moving closer at a seemingly sluggish pace. Everything looked grey, indistinct, and this, combined with his dizziness, made McGray feel as if they were entering a land of ghosts.

  They reached the craggy edge of Juniper Island: imposing rocks jutting up like walls, eroded by wind and rain, with the hardy roots of pine trees growing into every crack and crevice.

  Miss Fletcher turned the boat and guided it in between the rocky shore and a small islet. The fog was thicker there, and it took McGray a moment to see they were heading towards a small sandy beach.

  ‘They’re waiting for us,’ said Miss Fletcher, but McGray had to blink before he could make anything out.

  As if materializing slowly from thin air, three figures became darker and clearer. McGray recognized two females of similar height, standing on either side of a very tall, lanky man. They all wore hoods, their faces obscured further by the fog.

  The wind began to blow and McGray felt a sudden chill. He was momentarily surprised by those ghostly figures standing there, expecting their arrival, before he remembered that this meeting had been agreed a few days earlier. The Nellyses would not even know about the death of the constable – unless they were involved. McGray could not stop thinking of that fleeting light he’d seen disappear over the dark waters the night before.

  The soft touch of the boat against the sandy beach and the ensuing stillness were a welcome relief. Miss Fletcher jumped out and offered McGray a hand. He was in no state to refuse help. Even when his boots sank in the wet sand and the figures approached, he still could not make out their faces with any clarity. He could see only noses and cheekbones, all very pale.

  The woman on the right, thinner than the other, came closer and removed her hood. McGray had to repress a gasp.

  The woman’s skin had been ravaged by the elements: it was leathery, dry, wrinkled and blotchy, as if it had withstood years of rashes and burns. Her hair, though arranged in an elegant chignon, was grey and brittle, and her eyes were framed by almost black rings. Those eyes, of a blue so pale they appeared nearly white, caught McGray’s attention; their expression was of sheer exhaustion, as if she’d lived for thousands of years knowing nothing but misery.

  She offered a gloved hand. ‘Amanda Nellys. Welcome to our island.’ Even through the glove, her hand felt bony and fragile. ‘These are my children, Lazarus and Helena.’

  The tall man pulled his hood back, but the face McGray saw looked more like the woman’s brother. His skin
was only a little less wrinkled but his cheeks were, if possible, even more hollow. He had the same pale-blue eyes, but instead of tiredness, his glowed with resentment. McGray could but guess his age.

  The daughter, to his surprise, looked fifteen or sixteen. She shared the clear eyes and the general features of the other two, but her cheeks were rounded and her skin, though almost as pale, was smooth and unblemished.

  ‘Pleased to meet you,’ she whispered in a shy voice. Her brother neither spoke nor offered a hand; he simply stared at McGray, as if gauging him.

  ‘Pleased to meet youse too,’ said McGray, not quite able to smile at them. ‘Mrs Nellys, can we have a wee chat? There’s been a . . . development.’

  ‘Of course. Please follow us. And mind where you tread; the ground is quite marshy here.’

  Miss Fletcher tied up the boat, pulled out a sack of provisions she’d brought from the Kolomans’ manor, and hailed the eerie family with a fondness McGray found surprising. The plump girl even ran to her and embraced her, and they whispered and giggled until they noticed McGray’s confounded stare. Miss Fletcher cleared her throat and they set off.

  McGray followed the family up a steep hill. The squishy ground gave under his boots, and very soon the grass, heathers and juniper bushes were as tall as his waist – no wonder the place was called Juniper Island.

  When they reached the top of the hill he had a full view. The woods were not as dense as they were on the southern shore; instead, the terrain looked like alpine grassland. The craggy mountains on the other side of the lake enhanced that illusion.

  Mrs Nellys walked on to a footpath and led the way to a flimsy-looking fence. Behind it the grass was much shorter than on the rest of the island, and McGray soon understood why.

  The fenced land was home to a herd of snow-white goats, which seemed to graze happily as far as the eye could see. The Nellyses went through a little gate, and when McGray followed, he again had to contain a gasp.

  All the goats had at least one bat clinging to their bodies. Some were simply perched on the goats’ backs, standing straight and almost proudly, wrapped in their own wings. Others crawled furtively to the animals’ necks and joints, looking for veins they could bite. McGray shuddered when he saw a goat carrying three bats, all clustered around a red spot on its neck.

  McGray gulped. ‘Yer beasts . . .’

  ‘Never mind them,’ said Mrs Nellys with a dismissive wave. ‘We’re taking care of that pest.’

  Ahead of them there was a small loch – a loch within the island – and in the centre of that loch there was a tiny islet, no more than ten feet wide and bursting with heathers and young pines.

  ‘The Celts said the queen of the faeries had her castle there,’ said Helena.

  Lazarus pulled her by the arm. ‘Leave the man alone. Policemen don’t believe in all that nonsense.’

  McGray smiled and winked at the girl, who blushed.

  Beyond the loch-within-a-loch there was a small dwelling of whitewashed stone and slate roofs. It had a crooked chimney emitting a trickle of smoke, and it was surrounded by a neat vegetable patch. On all the windowsills there were pots of bushy herbs. McGray found it rather charming; Frey, on the other hand, would have called it ‘a picturesque slum’.

  Mrs Nellys led them into a cavernous room that was at once kitchen, workshop, dining and living room. The central table was crammed with tools, vegetables and dried herbs; a pot was bubbling over the fire, and next to it there were several baskets and demijohns disposed around a low stool.

  It was a humble dwelling, and the interior was quite cold despite the crackling fire. McGray assumed it would be a warm place in winter, but in summer the thick stones refused to let the heat in.

  ‘Have a seat,’ Mrs Nellys offered, going to the fire to stir the pot. She was curdling milk to make cheese.

  ‘You’ve not finished with that gin,’ Lazarus told his sister, who sat by one of the baskets of juniper berries. The girl patiently pierced them with a needle one by one before putting them in a demijohn full of clear spirit.

  Miss Fletcher showed them the sack of provisions. ‘Mrs Koloman sends you this. There’s flour, eggs, honey and some lard.’

  ‘We’ve told her we need nothing,’ Lazarus snapped.

  His mother ignored him. ‘Thank you, Millie. Just leave it in the cupboard.’

  So she did, pulling out a small parcel wrapped with creased, probably reused brown paper. ‘And this is from me.’

  After carefully placing the little parcel on the shelf she sat with McGray at the main table.

  ‘Would you like something to drink?’ Mrs Nellys offered. McGray wanted to refuse, but Lazarus was already pouring him a small measure of gin.

  ‘We’ll take you to our father in a moment,’ he said, picking up a long knife he’d been sharpening. ‘I just need to finish off a few things.’

  ‘Just as well,’ said McGray, sniffing the drink. The scent was excellent: crisp and herbal. ‘I’m afraid we have to give youse some bad news.’ All three faces looked at him. McGray breathed in, not knowing what to expect. ‘Constable McEwan died last night.’

  Mrs Nellys’s jaw dropped, as did the wooden spoon into the pot. The-woman’s eyes immediately went to her son. She was about to tell him something, but covered her mouth in time. Slightly flushed, she looked at McGray. ‘He died? How?’

  McGray did not blink. ‘Murdered.’

  Lazarus was motionless, his fingers tense on the knife. His voice went down an octave. ‘Helena, collect the guano.’

  ‘But I just started

  ‘Go’

  Miss Fletcher looked at the girl with a reassuring smile. ‘Do as your brother says, darling. I’ll come and see you in a minute.’

  Helena had no choice and banged out of the house, stamping her feet. Mrs Nellys took the pot off the fire and sat at the table, whilst McGray told them briefly what had happened.

  Lazarus grimaced, looking quite stressed, and his mother shook her head, but neither seemed saddened in the slightest.

  ‘We probably met the man less than five times in twenty years,’ was the first thing Mrs Nellys could say.

  ‘You were the lucky ones,’ Miss Fletcher said bitterly.

  McGray took his time to savour one last sip of that outstanding gin. He knew the pleasantries would end as soon as he spoke.

  ‘My colleague ‘n’ me saw the body last night. . .’ McGray kept an eye on Lazarus’s hand, which was popping veins as he clenched the knife harder and harder. ‘We saw – nae, we chased someone. Someone was in the woods around the time the constable was murdered – someone who took a wee boat ‘n’ sailed on to the loch.’

  Mrs Nellys held her breath. The knife caught a glimmer from the fire.

  McGray concluded: ‘This is the closest dwelling to the scene – by boat.’

  Lazarus stared at the blade, feeling the edge with his fingertip. The silence was absolute; even the fire seemed to have halted its crackling.

  The man looked at McGray. He must have been in his late twenties but he appeared twice that age. An inexplicable anger was boiling in his eyes.

  And then he attacked.

  21

  With a swift push Lazarus lifted the table and all its contents rained down on to McGray, who barely had time to cover his face with his forearms. The mother yelped. As McGray pushed the battered table away he had a glimpse of Lazarus crossing the threshold.

  ‘Stay here!’ he shouted at the women, unsheathing his gun and sprinting across the vegetable garden.

  A frightened Helena was crouching on the ground, picking up whitish bat droppings.

  ‘Where did he go?’ McGray yelled.

  The girl pointed to the grassland, northwards, and McGray saw Lazarus running like the wind through the herd of goats. He followed.

  ‘Stop!’ McGray roared, but Lazarus wove between the animals with an agility McGray had not expected, familiar with every mound and dent in the terrain. ‘I’m armed!’ McGray shouted, and as a
warning he shot into the air.

  A mistake.

  A cloud of scared bats rose up, their dark wings filling the sky and flapping madly all around him. McGray ran on, protecting his face and trying to keep his eyes on Lazarus. Through the mess of fluttering wings he saw the man’s long legs, much further away than he’d –

  McGray let out a squeal. One of the bats clung to his raised arm and McGray had a disturbing view of its beady eyes, hog-like nose and muzzle smeared with blood and dribble.

  He jerked his arm as he ran, never slowing down, and when the bat finally let go McGray looked ahead. Lazarus had gone.

  The terrain rose in a steep slope and McGray ran until his legs burned. He reached the top and looked in every direction. Another bat flew towards him, but he threw it a sideways punch and the animal spun in the air.

  McGray looked back at the house and saw Miss Fletcher running after him, scaring the bats away with her brawny arms. He saw the goats dotted all over the field, and then looked ahead again, where the ground descended rapidly towards a narrow bay. That side of the island was rocky and dense with conifers. McGray squinted, managed to make out a dilapidated boat tied to a tree and, not waiting to spot Lazarus, he rushed in that direction.

  He stumbled between sharp rocks and thorny pine trees, his feet struggling to find footholds. At least the bats didn’t venture here. His boot sank into a crack in the rocks, his foot twisted and before he knew it his entire body was falling forward, only to be stopped abruptly by a thick dead trunk.

  McGray felt the impact throughout his body. He saw stars and his gun rolling down the hill. And then his eyes found Lazarus. The dark figure was leaping expertly from rock to rock, getting closer and closer to the boat.

  Grunting, McGray pushed himself from the trunk and thrust himself onward recklessly, not looking where he stepped or paying attention to the searing pain in his ankle. Lazarus had already reached the shore.

  ‘Stop!’ McGray hollered, covering the distance as fast as he could. Lazarus looked back and nearly lost his balance. His long arms twirled and his torso swayed, but his feet remained firmly in place.