‘C, of course.’
‘Exactly. Can you play an F minor?’
‘Yes, that one I know.’
‘Now alternate three Cs and three Fs. Do you like the six-eight tempo?’
‘I . . . could not possibly tell.’
She placed her hand on mine and pressed in the right rhythm. It already sounded like a tune. ‘It is my favourite tempo. It feels like the swell of the sea.’
Natalja took my other hand, the one closer to her, and placed it on the second chord. When she let go, the back of my hand felt suddenly cold.
‘Keep like that, Mr Frey,’ she whispered, then looked out of the window with dreamy eyes, her head swaying gently in time with the chords, and then she brought her fingers to the higher notes and filled the room with an enchanting melody I had never heard.
She nodded expressively, indicating me to slow down, and she brought the melody to a sharp, sweet conclusion. The last note lingered in the air for a while and my ear chased it, not wanting it to end.
There was a seemingly endless moment of silence, but Natalja appeared to embrace it.
‘I have a very busy mind,’ she said at last. ‘Music is the only thing that can placate my thoughts.’ She looked at me. ‘Have you ever felt overwhelmed like that? Your mind so full you can’t believe your skull doesn’t explode?’
I laughed. ‘Have I felt it!’
She smiled and then looked back down at the keyboard, playing what I recognized as one of Mozart’s mellow sonatas.
I did not want to ruin this fleeting peace, but I thought there would not be a better moment. ‘Miss Natalja, I am . . . worried about your sister.’
She missed a note but resumed immediately. ‘So am I. So are we all. But Mama told me she’s much better today.’
‘I understand this has never happened to her before.’
‘No,’ she answered quickly. ‘It hasn’t. She is a very healthy girl – as your uncle may have noticed.’
I sighed. ‘My good uncle can be –’
‘You don’t need to apologize for him. Veronika, for some reason, was glowing in his attention. If she is happy, I am happy.’
‘It is your sister’s good health that makes her fit of pain all the more perplexing. From her symptoms, unless she is only just now developing some sort of neural condition, I think she might have been poisoned.’
Natalja’s fingers went still. ‘She cannot have been. Who would want to do that?’
‘I cannot tell, but that is my strongest theory.’ I chose not to mention the possibility Veronika might have faked it all.
‘I can see why you’d guess that,’ said Natalja, ‘but there were only family members here last night, and servants who’ve worked for us for years.’
‘Years?’
‘Yes, decades even.’
I moved a little closer, oblivious that the distance between us was quite scandalous already. ‘What about the younger staff? Say . . . Ellie and Tamlyn?’
She looked up, a sudden spark in her eyes.
‘Well, Ellie has been here around a year. My late grandfather hired his servants at around that age – as children, so he could train and educate them; you may have noticed they all have very good diction. My father has done the same. Some people leave, of course, but others, like Plunket and Glenister, have stayed on and will probably work here for the rest of their lives.’
‘I see. And. . .’ I tried to drop the name as casually as possible, ‘Tamlyn?’
Natalja looked up, perhaps trying to remember. ‘Our chambermaid left earlier this year. She met a tradesman from Gairloch and went off to marry him, so Tamlyn had to be hired quickly. She came with very good references, from a large household in Aberdeenshire, but Mama didn’t have time to check all her details properly.’
I was still struggling to contain my astonishment. Ellie, whom I’d found disturbing evidence, and Tamlyn, who’d told me about those mysterious scars . . . those girls also happened to be the newest servants, those who would owe the least loyalty to the Kolomans. I felt a pattern begin to emerge, like one of those silhouettes in the mist – clearly there, but still too hazy to be identified.
I must have been silent for a while, for Natalja began closing the keyboard’s cover.
‘There is one more thing,’ I said. ‘I . . . I cannot tell you how I came to know this, but I have heard’ – I lowered my voice to a murmur – ‘your sister was bitten by some sort of creature.’
Natalja dropped the cover and a loud boom filled the room.
She looked at me with fear, puzzlement and a full range of other emotions I could not read.
Natalja leaned closer, so close I could see every streak and speck of cerulean in her eyes. ‘Bitten? How?’
‘I do not know. You were with her last night at all times. I thought you might tell me.’
‘Indeed. And I am absolutely sure nothing bit her . . . Not that I saw.’ She looked sideways. ‘What . . . what sort of injuries are you talking about?’
‘I have not seen them myself. I was not able to examine her properly – your good mother, you see.’
She nodded. ‘If she was curt, I apologize for her. Mama was so distressed.’
‘No need, miss, but I must examine your sister, and ask her about her symptoms. If I am wrong and she was not poisoned, those bites might well be the cause of her seizure. You may be present, of course, but. . .’ I felt terribly guilty, as if taking advantage of this young creature. ‘It would be best if we kept this between us. Your mother and father, caring as they are, might. . .’
Her eyes widened, and for an instant I feared she’d jump to her feet and scream that I was proposing the most licentious scheme. But she surprised me.
‘I can arrange it if you think it’s necessary. I’m terribly worried too, and Papa and Mama may not be cooperative . . . considering Dominik is locked away.’
I was about to apologize for that, but Natalja did not seem unduly bothered by it. She went on. ‘I can tell you I didn’t see anything – or anyone – approach Veronika last night . . . but as soon as I saw poor Constable McEwan hanging like that. . .’ She trembled and placed a hand on my knee, startling me. Newlyweds are less demonstrative. ‘I did not see things with clarity after that, I must admit. A pack of wolves could have passed in front of me and I would have hardly noticed,’
For a second I simply stared into her eyes. She was truly worried, but that was not what kept me from looking away.
Then she said something strange. ‘You’ve frowned more than you’ve smiled, Mr Frey.’ And she was about to touch the creased skin between my eyebrows.
Right then the door burst open and I snapped an involuntary ‘What?’
Uncle Maurice came in, looking exhausted after the long ride. Smeaton, the coachman, came behind him, his thin face soiled from the road.
‘Fetch me some of that wine we had last night,’ Uncle said to him. ‘And I will really appreciate your expediency.’
‘E-excuse me, sir. My expe-what?’
‘Hurry up, my good man.’
The little man bowed and left, and only then did Uncle realize how closely Miss Natalja and I were sitting. It was not she but I who rose swiftly, clearing my throat.
‘Uncle! Did you . . . did you . . .’
Natalja stood up, utterly entertained. She squeezed my forearm and smiled. ‘I’ll let you know when we can perform . . . the study you requested. Mr Plantard, I hope you had a pleasant journey.’
She curtsied, wearing a wicked smile, and left. I was blushing so much I felt the waves of heat emanating from my cheeks.
‘I most definitely need a drink right now!’ said Uncle, grinning from ear to ear and looking for a decanter of any sort of liquor, unable to wait for the servant. ‘Tell me absolutely everything; spare no detail.’
‘There is nothing to tell!’
‘Oh, nephew, nephew. Can you imagine how sweet that would be? You and I marrying twin sisters!’
‘Sweet! Did you not mean t
wisted?’
Smeaton came in then – I was surprised and relieved by his speed – bringing a decanter and two glasses.
I snatched the tray from him. ‘Leave us.’ I filled the first glass nearly to the brim, looking daggers at my uncle. ‘I am the one who needs to ask you some questions. Did you deliver the telegram?’
‘Ian, will you not humour me for a little while?’
‘Did you deliver the telegram?’ I hissed, and I handed him the full glass so abruptly I spilled some wine on the rug.
Uncle took it and had a leisurely sip. ‘Very well, I shall not tease. Yes, I delivered the telegram. What a waste of a morning! Abysmal roads – so bumpy I could not even read a word of my pocketbook.’ He drank again, probably thinking I’d be happy with that account.
‘What else?’
‘Well, there is hardly anything further to say. The bloody telegraphist was an utterly rustic little chap who could barely read. And that Smeaton kept gossiping and asking about the gals in town. Most vulgar, coarse talk I heard. If you and your nine-nailed boss had not made it so clear I had to see every single word delivered –’
‘But it was delivered?’
‘Of course. Would you doubt me?’
I poured myself only half a glass. I felt I’d need my full senses for as long as I stayed next to this ill-omened loch. ‘You I trust. It is everyone else around here I worry about.’
As I brought the glass to my lips and sniffed the bouquet my eyes drifted to the windows, towards Loch Maree. I saw a boat docking at the Kolomans’ small pier.
A swaying Nine-Nails jumped on to the jetty. Even from a distance I could see the greenish hue of his face, but that was not what caught our attention.
‘What in the name of God is that crazy Scotch doing?’ Uncle asked, squinting. ‘Why is he dragging that rachitic old man?’
I held my breath, scrutinizing the pale, lanky figure. ‘That is not an old man . . .’ I whispered, and I could say no more. The sight of that man’s face made me shiver.
25
Uncle and I rushed to the entrance hall. There we found Boyde, running to the oaken back door. Natalja and her mother were at the staircase, their feet hammering down the steps as quickly as their skirts allowed.
‘Konrad!’ Mrs Koloman was shouting. ‘Konrad, come quick!’
I saw young Tamlyn emerge from the east wing, and Mrs Glenister right behind her, still grasping some needlework.
Uncle and I reached Boyde as he began to unlock the door. I felt an icy hand rest on my arm and saw it was Natalja’s. I realized she would have used this very door to go out for her walk last night.
As soon as Boyde opened it Uncle and I ran to the pier.
‘Is this the man?’ I asked before anybody else had a chance to speak. ‘Is he the one we saw in the woods last night?’
‘He won’t deny it,’ said McGray. His face was green indeed, and his feet quite unsteady on the ground.
‘Lazarus?’ Mrs Koloman shrieked from behind us. She came running with the agility of a young girl, her face in utter distress.
I looked at McGray. ‘Is he one of the Nellyses? The family who live on the island?’
‘Aye, the mad auld man’s son.’
No wonder Uncle had thought him an elderly person; blemishes and grey hairs had ravaged the features of a man well under thirty.
McGray could say no more, for Mrs Koloman reached us and pushed me aside.
She grabbed Lazarus by the collar. I thought she’d shout accusations, but her voice came out full of worry. ‘Why have they brought you here? What have you done?’
Lazarus looked down and Mrs Koloman pressed a motherly hand against his cheek; the contrast between their skins, one leathery and blotchy, the other one white and smooth, could not have been greater. She looked at him pleadingly, her eyes pooling tears.
Mr Koloman strode up, demanding explanations too.
‘I saw a man in a boat last night,’ said McGray. ‘Lurking around the spot where we found McEwan. It was this lad. He’s not denied it.’ There was a hint of guilt in his voice. ‘His mother and sister knew about his absence, and they have a wee boat at hand.’
‘He could not have done it!’ Mrs Koloman insisted.
McGray looked stern. ‘He tried to flee in his wreck of a boat when I confronted him. He nearly killed me.’
Mrs Koloman covered her mouth. Her husband turned to Lazarus. ‘Is that true?’ he asked him, not a hint of compassion in his voice. His reaction could not have been more different from that of his wife, who stared at him with fuming eyes. Lazarus neither spoke nor moved.
Miss Fletcher came up too, with slumped shoulders and a grim face.
‘Is that true?’ Mrs Koloman appealed to her. Miss Fletcher struggled to nod, as if her neck had gone numb.
Mrs Koloman could not contain her tears any longer. Miss Fletcher gently moved her away so we could pass, and Natalja joined her mother, consoling her with a tender hand. And I’d thought that girl could not look any paler . . .
Mr Koloman poked Lazarus on the shoulder as we advanced, but he was looking at McGray and me. ‘You will lock him up as well, will you not?’
‘Aye. ‘Til the inquest takes place.’
Mr Koloman looked at the weather-beaten man with contempt, but also with a trace of satisfaction; he must be thinking that Lazarus could well be Dominik’s salvation.
‘Take him to the pantry,’ he said. ‘The likes of him don’t deserve our last empty guest room. Tamlyn!’ The girl jumped and then came to us on trembling legs. ‘Guide them there.’
Tamlyn curtsied and mumbled something unintelligible, pointing at the door.
McGray pushed Lazarus, who, hunched and tired, dragged his feet forward. I have seen that beaten walk only in men on their way to the gallows.
As we stepped in I was shocked to see the state of Mrs Glenister. The woman was crying copiously and wringing the needlework as if set to tear it to pieces.
I would have asked her why, but then I saw someone prowling in the semi-darkness of the hall.
Benjamin.
‘What do you think you are doing here?’ I snapped.
He did not answer. He was staring at Lazarus, thunderstruck, his lips parted.
Lazarus looked back at him, and I thought I heard him let out the faintest of sighs. Then Natalja went to her cousin, put her arm around him and moved him sideways.
‘Take Benjamin to his room,’ I told her. ‘No detours, please.’
McGray and I waited only until those two reached the stairs, and then resumed our way to the west wing. I peeped back and had a glimpse of the flustered Mrs Koloman, her face buried in her husband’s shoulder – he himself looked quite self-assured. Further back, a dark silhouette on the door’s threshold, was Miss Fletcher, as still as a stone. I wondered if she had seen her son.
I wondered if he had seen her.
26
The pantry was a large room right underneath the kitchen, very cold and full of the smells of spices, root vegetables and cured meats. I found those scents very pleasant, but McGray, still a funny colour from the moving boat, had to bring a clenched fist to his nose. Lazarus, if possible, looked even worse, as though the mere sight of meat sickened him.
McGray made him sit on a pile of sacks of caustic soda, lifting a little cloud of the white powder.
‘Well?’ I said, wasting no time. ‘Did you do it? Did you kill the constable?’
Lazarus said nothing. He simply slouched, as if trying to bury his heart deep inside his chest.
‘You are not doing yourself any favours with your silence. From where we stand, it is as damning as an open confession.’
He looked up, his very pale eyes full of thick, bright-red veins. His lips were dry and cracked, and his entire face was covered in blotches ranging from dull brown to bright pink, layer upon layer of skin damage, some of it clearly years old.
‘What is wrong with your skin?’ I asked, in as conciliatory a tone as possible. In the sem
i-darkness of the pantry I could not see it properly. ‘Is it some sort of allergy?’
‘None of your business,’ were his first words to me.
‘I’ve tried, Frey,’ McGray said, his patience gone. ‘The lad won’t speak. And he did attack me.’ He made his way to the door. ‘Perhaps a few nights in the quiet will persuade him to talk.’
I gave Lazarus one last look, and as I glanced at his stained cheeks a creeping chill took hold of me.
There we left him. I turned the key and shoved it into my pocket, along with all the keys to the other restricted rooms.
The corridor was dark and completely deserted, so I took the chance to whisper the uncomfortable questions.
‘Did you see the old Mr Nellys?’ McGray nodded. ‘Is he sane?’
McGray pressed a hand to his forearm, opened his mouth, but then hesitated.
‘It’s complicated, Frey.’
I whispered as softly as I could, ‘If this man Lazarus killed the constable, do you realize what that implies? That he drained his blood and –’
‘I see that!’
The echo boomed around the corridor. Nine-Nails rubbed his jaw and then lowered his voice. ‘I see that, Frey, and . . .’ He gnashed his teeth. ‘Let’s discuss it later.’
I did not want to press further. McGray’s mind must be in turmoil. If those absurd legends were true – and that was a big if- that meant that Pansy’s cure would involve . . . bathing her in human blood. I felt a nasty tingle at the back of my neck. Would McGray be willing to perform such a gruesome deed? I decided I did not want to know the answer – not yet.
‘So what do we do now?’ McGray asked, bringing us back to our more immediate troubles. ‘Are we done for the day?’
‘Almost. I would like to check on the corpse. Just to make sure it is not rotting yet.’
McGray let out a wry little laugh, perhaps predicting what we’d see.
The cellar already smelled of death. A nuanced note but sickly nonetheless, and I felt a wave of nausea when I saw McEwan’s face. I forced myself to prod the neck and cheek, and when I did the latter a ghastly yellowish liquid leaked out of the dead man’s nostrils.
Loch of the Dead Page 18