Loch of the Dead

by Loch of the Dead (retail) (epub)

  ‘Get away!’ He brandished the long knife he’d been sharpening and jumped into the boat, which was tethered to a jutting stone. Lazarus gave the rope a swift pull and the knot came undone at once.

  McGray pictured the knot that had held McEwan’s corpse, and right then lost his footing. He stumbled, fell on his knees, grunted in frustration and then dragged himself on all fours over the rocks. Lazarus was but a few yards ahead now, the boat slowly drifting away. McGray could see his bony hands, one clasping the knife and the other pulling the rope. The frayed end was still on the rock, sliding quickly towards the water. It fell into the loch.

  McGray flung himself forward, plunged his hand into the cold water, and his heart skipped a beat as his fingers touched the fibres. He got hold of a few threads, pulled them up and then used his left hand to seize the rope firmly.

  ‘No!’ Lazarus shrieked, falling on his rump when McGray pulled the boat back. He rubbed the knife against his end of the rope, the strands snapping one by one as McGray pulled the boat towards himself, grunting with all his might.

  The boat hit the rocks and McGray stretched out a hand, but Lazarus stabbed at it.

  McGray wound the rope around his wrist, locking it firmly. ‘Don’t do something even more stupid, laddie.’

  Lazarus bared his yellowed teeth and kept the knife up high. ‘I’m not the stupid one right now!’

  McGray took a step towards him just as Lazarus made another stab. McGray pulled the rope in one swift move, and Lazarus nearly fell again. As he wildly tried to stab at Nine-Nails he completely lost his balance. McGray leaned forward and grabbed the man’s collar, but then Lazarus clutched him by the wrist, plunging both men into the water.

  It was as cold as McGray expected, and he heard himself panting desperately.

  He saw the knife, merely inches from his face. He had a fleeting memory of another blade: the one wielded by his own sister years ago.

  A wave of fire grew from within his chest. With more dexterity than he knew himself capable of, he seized Lazarus’s wrist and banged it against the rock. The man howled in pain and the knife slid from his grip.

  McGray saw Lazarus’s scared face, wrinkled and pale, and threw a punch for good measure. The man’s limbs went lax. McGray seized him by the collar and swam to a flat, smooth stone, pushing the whimpering Lazarus out of the water, before struggling out himself. He lay on the stone, taking glorious deep breaths.

  At last McGray rose, wiped the water off his face and said: ‘Consider yerself under arrest.’

  McGray and Miss Fletcher dragged Lazarus back to the house. Nine-Nails had used a length of the man’s own rope to tie him up, and although Miss Fletcher had helped, she’d done so with reluctance. As they walked across the grassland, where the bats were slowly returning to their living perches, she tenderly wiped the blood from Lazarus’s nose. McGray gave her a quizzical look; he’d never imagined she’d be capable of such delicate movements – then again, people made similar assumptions about him.

  She noticed his expression and blushed. ‘I don’t want his mother to see him like this.’

  But a clean face was little consolation. Mrs Nellys ran out of her little house, lifting her hem and trampling her own garden.

  ‘He did nothing!’ was her anguished shout, her face smothered in tears. Helena came close behind, her face red, crying, ‘No, don’t take him!’

  McGray felt terribly sorry for them. He spoke as calmly as his own racing heart allowed.

  ‘Missus, a man who’s done nothing wouldnae run away like that.’

  ‘He’s done nothing!’ Mrs Nellys whimpered again, cradling her son’s face in her hands. ‘Tell them, Lazarus! Tell them you’ve done nothing wrong!’

  Lazarus gave her the saddest, most devastated look but didn’t speak.

  ‘He went out last night, didnae he?’

  That silenced the women’s cries. They lived together in that tiny place; they knew he had. McGray felt wretched.

  ‘There’ll be an inquest in due course,’ he said. ‘We’ve tele-grammed our superiors. Yer son will have a chance to defend himself then.’

  ‘What will you do to him in the meantime?’ the distraught mother asked.

  ‘I’m afraid we need to keep him in custody. There are two other suspects, missus. We’re keeping them at the Kolomans’ manor.’

  Mrs Nellys lifted her chin, going from devastated to indignant in a blink. ‘You’re not taking my son there!’

  ‘I’m sorry, missus. I must.’

  She was about to protest again, but forced a deep breath. Her face furrowed even more as she struggled to compose herself. McGray partly understood why her face was so ravaged.

  ‘Who are the other suspects?’ she asked.

  McGray didn’t want to answer, but decided they had the right to know.

  ‘Dominik Koloman and a servant o’ his. One Calcraft.’

  The wrinkles deepened further, her indignation growing. ‘They’ll deceive you all. They’ll make you think my son is guilty. Promise me you’ll tread carefully. Promise me!’

  Helena cried louder than before. Miss Fletcher went to her and put her arm around the girl’s shoulders, whispering something in her ear.

  Mrs Nellys had the most drilling eyes, so McGray had to steel himself.

  ‘I’ll promise ye it will be a fair inquest.’

  The woman closed her eyes and turned her face away.

  ‘I’ll keep you up to date,’ said Miss Fletcher. She kissed Helena’s forehead gently and patted Mrs Nellys on the back. ‘And I’ll see Lazarus is well looked after. You know I will.’

  As soon as they moved, Mrs Nellys stepped up to her son, kissed his hand and mouthed, ‘You’ll be fine.’ And then she turned on her heel, unable to watch them go.

  McGray held on to Lazarus firmly and they headed back to the beach.

  ‘Ye did well to keep silent,’ said McGray as soon as the Nellyses’ dwelling was out of sight. ‘Yer mum ‘n’ sis don’t need to ken the details.’

  Lazarus kept his face down, staring at the uneven ground. ‘I didn’t kill him.’

  ‘We’ll find out, laddie. Right now I need to ask ye other questions. About a completely different matter.’

  Lazarus looked at him with confusion. ‘My father?’

  ‘Aye. We’ll do a small detour.’ McGray could almost hear Frey tearing his robes because he was about to take a freshly arrested man on a boat trip. He turned to Miss Fletcher, who was already pushing the boat into the water. ‘Lass, take us to Isle Maree.’

  Again, she looked hesitant, but she said nothing. Lazarus didn’t protest either when McGray pushed him into the boat. Nine-Nails felt queasy as soon as he set a boot in the swaying vessel, and it became worse when Miss Fletcher began to row.

  ‘Wait!’ they heard someone shout in the distance. McGray turned and saw Helena running down the hill. Like her brother, she knew every inch of the terrain by heart.

  The girl reached them quickly, water up to her knees.

  ‘You dropped this, sir.’

  And she handed McGray his gun. He received it, disconcerted. ‘Thanks, lassie.’

  ‘You will need it,’ she said, and she followed them with her eyes as they sailed away, until the fog between them turned her into a blurry, milky ghost.

  22

  Miss Fletcher took all her frustration out on the loch, rowing fitfully and grunting with each pull.

  McGray pressed a fist to his mouth, struggling to keep his breakfast in his stomach. He was only glad Lazarus faced the other way.

  The fog had not dissipated at all. If anything, McGray thought, it had become thicker, and when Isle Maree came into view it was but a grey dome of trees in the distance.

  ‘They’ve done it again,’ said Miss Fletcher.

  It took McGray a moment to see what she meant. After they had advanced a dozen yards or so, two tiny specks of golden light became visible. The fuzzy lights appeared to be suspended in the air, completely still, like ominou
s eyes expecting their arrival. Lazarus gasped.

  McGray thought he saw a pale face emerge around the lights. Only when Miss Fletcher secured the boat on the pebbly beach did he realize what it really was: a deer skull, nailed to the trunk of an oak. The lights were two candles ensconced in the otherwise empty sockets. Somehow – perhaps combined with his queasiness – the sight made him shiver, and as soon as he set foot on the ground he felt a stabbing oppression in his chest. The discomfort did not fade for as long as he stayed on that island.

  ‘I wouldnae like to live in this place.’

  Miss Fletcher helped Lazarus out of the boat.

  ‘So you feel it too?’ he said. ‘Not everybody does.’

  Miss Fletcher scowled. Of the three, she looked the most affected.

  McGray held Lazarus by the thick knot around his wrists. ‘Now take me to the well, lad.’ And he let the gaunt man lead the way. McGray had never imagined that his visit to Isle Maree would be guided by a tied-up murder suspect.

  They reached the well, which was just as Frey had described it: an ordinary hole in the ground lined with grey stone. Even McGray couldn’t help finding it disappointing.

  ‘This is it,’ whispered Lazarus. ‘The waters that cured my father.’

  McGray pushed Lazarus towards Miss Fletcher. ‘Watch over him.’ He felt in his breast pocket. He’d taken a little vial from the Orkney nurses and was happy to find it, even after the skirmish in the water. McGray pulled it out and knelt next to the well.

  Lazarus took a step forward. ‘You can’t take anything off this island! You’ll be cursed.’

  ‘I’m already cursed, laddie.’ And McGray plunged his arm into the well. He felt the cool water, as still as a pond, and waited until the vial stopped bubbling.

  ‘I’m talking about a terrible curse,’ Lazarus insisted. ‘Real tragedies. Madness. Death.’

  McGray smiled with bitterness. He sealed the vial and shoved it back into the same pocket. ‘Told ye, lad. I’m already cursed.’

  As he said that he thought of Frey’s words about the blood baths, those baths that might be the actual cure for madness. The idea had been haunting him since he’d first seen the constable’s body, drained of almost all its blood: Could these people be doing something different? Using human blood? Could that be the reason the ritual had worked only for them?

  McGray cast Lazarus an evaluating look, debating whether or not to ask him those questions directly. He stepped closer to him and lowered his voice. ‘Have ye heard about animal sacrifices? And blood baths?’

  Lazarus kept his expression neutral, but when he spoke every muscle on his face looked tense. ‘I don’t know what you are talking about.’

  McGray raised his eyebrows. ‘Ye don’t?’

  They stared at each other in silence, a battle of wills. McGray finally gave in, thinking he’d better talk to the old man first. He would have plenty of time to question Lazarus later. ‘Very well, now take me to yer dad.’ Lazarus objected, but McGray unsheathed his gun and pressed it against his back.

  ‘I’ll mention this at the inquest,’ said Lazarus as he led them through the island’s small graveyard. ‘You’re abusing your powers.’

  McGray pushed the gun a little harder. ‘Do what ye want. And I can tell them I suspect yer dad took a wee boat ‘n’ did the deed himself.’

  He’d not said it seriously, but as he spoke he realized that was also a possibility.

  They reached a dwelling that again looked just as Frey had described. However, unlike the well, Frey had made it sound much worse than it really was; the foppish Englishman had obviously not seen how precarious some rural dwellings could be. This hut at least had a working chimney and, given the trickle of smoke, a good fire.

  ‘Is this where St Rufus lived?’ McGray asked.

  ‘Yes, but only his foundations are left,’ said Miss Fletcher. ‘The Nellyses built the top half and the flue.’

  ‘Let me talk to him first,’ Lazarus pleaded. ‘He doesn’t like strangers. This might upset him.’

  McGray agreed. After all, he wasn’t there to torture people.

  Lazarus went to the low, tatty door, and spoke with his cheek pressed against it. ‘Father? Are you all right?’ No response. ‘I’ve come to see you. Millie’s here too.’

  McGray heard someone stir inside, and then a latch being pulled. The door, swollen and cracked after years of damp weather, opened a couple of inches. McGray took a step forward but Lazarus threw him a begging look.

  ‘Wait outside for a moment, please. If he becomes upset, he won’t be of any help.’

  Miss Fletcher wore the same anxious expression.

  McGray peered through the gap, but could see only eroded stones lit dimly by a quivering fire. He knew it would take Lazarus but a few seconds to warn his father or instruct him what to say. Then again, there was no use questioning a troubled man. McGray exhaled in frustration.

  ‘Very well, but don’t try anything youse might regret. I’ll stay right by the door ‘n’ I’ll hear everything youse say.’

  ‘That is fair,’ Lazarus said, and then he and Miss Fletcher entered the hut.

  McGray watched fragments of their shadows, making out little of what was happening, and heard only murmurs. Lazarus sounded soothing, so did Miss Fletcher, and then came the cries of a husky, muddled voice. All McGray could catch was ‘tied’.

  Sooner than he expected, Miss Fletcher opened the door. ‘Mr Nellys says you may come in, but only if you swear you’ll treat his son with dignity.’

  ‘All right, all right. I’m nae beast.’

  He had to stoop to pass over the threshold, but then descended a few steps. Almost half the abode was below ground, so that even McGray and Miss Fletcher were able to stand upright. The place stank of mould.

  McGray looked around. It was a small, almost cave-like dome that looked more like an oversized kiln. There were no windows; the only light came from the fire and through the cracks in the door. The slabs on the floor were covered with woven mats and blankets, for there were no furnishings. The only contents were a heap of provisions (a sack of potatoes, a block of cheese and old loaves of bread) and a pile of ancient-looking books. The leather of their covers was cracked and eroded, and the pages of the open volumes were crumpled by dampness.

  And then he saw Mr Nellys: curled up by the fire, wrapped in at least three ragged blankets and with a heavy book on his lap.

  McGray felt almost physical pain at the sight of him. The man’s skin was grey, blotchy, as dry as the covers of his books and as pale as that of larvae. There were scant strands of hair left on his head, all white and brittle. He looked frail, broken, and when he shifted his legs – the smallest of movements – his joints cracked. The old man’s eyes, on the other hand, were sharp and alert, evaluating McGray from head to toe.

  This was the man Miss Fletcher alleged had been brought back from incurable madness, the man who every day drank from the miraculous well.

  ‘Is this the chap?’ the old man asked Lazarus, who nodded. Mr Nellys’s voice was coarse and throaty but he enunciated clearly. And his stare was so acute even McGray felt slightly daunted.

  ‘Adolphus McGray,’ he said, sitting on the floor by the fire. Again he looked around, thinking how to ease his way to the important questions. ‘I see ye like reading? What are yer books about?’

  Mr Nellys closed the book with a thump. ‘Your time here is precious, young man. Don’t waste it with small talk. What do you want?’

  That might have offended others, but McGray smiled, happy he could be direct. ‘I heard ye were ill beyond hope – mental illness – but ye came back. I want to know how.’

  Mr Nellys half closed his eyes. McGray felt the man was looking through him.

  ‘Who do you want to help? Someone you love very much, I suppose, if you’ve come this far.’

  McGray saw no reason to lie. ‘My sister. She was fifteen when she lost her wits. She . . .’ he barely managed to finish the sentence, ‘did thi
s.’ And he showed his mutilated hand.

  Mr Nellys stretched out his own, bony and veiny, and felt McGray’s scarred stump, looking at it with stern eyes. ‘I’m very sorry.’

  ‘She’s nae violent any more, but she has nae spoken in six years. Unless someone stirs her she won’t walk or even move. She simply – exists . . .’

  He felt a painful lump in his throat.

  Mr Nellys nodded, the loose skin on his neck quivering. His eyes were full of understanding. ‘Amazing, what one is willing to do for those one loves.’ He looked at Lazarus, whose lip was trembling, and then the ancient eyes fixed on McGray again. ‘I can see the hope in you. You’ll never give up. You’ll never accept what’s happened. Your brain tells you that you should, but your heart won’t let you.’

  McGray had to bite his lip, blinking tears away. Nobody had ever described his feelings more accurately, not even himself.

  Mr Nellys sighed. He extended a quivering hand, held McGray’s and brought it close to his eyes. The man examined the stump, the remaining fingers, the skin on the palm and the back, and then let go. ‘I’m sorry for your sister,’ he said, and then his voice dropped to a low, gloomy tone. ‘But these waters are not for her.’

  McGray almost snapped his neck as he looked up. ‘What?’

  ‘I’m sorry, son.’

  ‘How . . . how can ye tell?’

  ‘I just can. I am cursed, my son. That’s what these waters cured me of.’

  ‘What sort o’ curse?’

  Lazarus breathed out noisily at this.

  ‘That’s my concern, young man,’ said Mr Nellys.

  ‘My sister said it was the Devil’s work. And I McGray swallowed. ‘I saw the Devil. Don’t ye think she might be cursed too?’

  The fire crackled and a few sparks fluttered above the hearth, as if the flames themselves reacted at the mention of their master. McGray could almost feel the mystified stares of Lazarus and Miss Fletcher, while the blue eyes of Mr Nellys, as pale as his son’s, moved slowly from side to side, visibly confused.

  When he looked at McGray his face was again composed. ‘Cursed she might be, but that changes nothing. I’m looking at you and I can tell your sister’s cross is nothing like mine. This cure is not for her.’