Loch of the Dead

by Loch of the Dead (retail) (epub)

  Mr Koloman’s eyes opened so wide I pictured his eyeballs falling out and rolling to the ground. He too made a fist, slowly raising it, and bared his teeth. Until then I had not realized how pale the man truly was. I thought he’d give Benjamin a mighty punch, and was preparing myself to break up the skirmish – Miss Fletcher was not someone who’d take that gladly – but then Mr Koloman’s pupils flickered in my direction. He took a deep breath, shaking with ire.

  He turned to Boyde. ‘Take me back to the manor. We’ll go in the small boat.’ And he stormed out of the hut. Boyde bowed nervously and then ran after his master.

  The shack remained silent for a moment, everyone stunned by what had just happened, by what might happen now. Benjamin turned to face his mother, but for a while that was his only movement.

  How contradictory love can be. They were both desperate to embrace each other, yet neither managed to take the first step. Another tear rolled down Miss Fletcher’s cheek, just as she managed to speak.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she stuttered, bending her knees and ready to beg forgiveness, but Benjamin reached out and held her with unexpected strength. The first time they had touched.

  ‘No, no,’ Benjamin mumbled as he pulled her up, and then cradled her face in his hands.

  ‘I’m sorry for everything,’ she insisted, now crying unabatedly.

  Benjamin made her rest her forehead on his shoulder, the son consoling the mother.

  ‘You did what you had to,’ he murmured. ‘There’s nothing to forgive.’

  Miss Fletcher lifted a faltering hand, eventually bringing it to the back of her son’s neck, while she cried out a lifetime of guilt.

  The reunion could have lasted much longer, but Mr Nellys let out a growl of pain. He had managed to contain his groans, grinding his teeth as the emotional scene developed, but it had proven too much.

  ‘I am afraid we need to take you to the manor,’ I said. ‘I can treat your wounds there.’

  The man remonstrated as much as his wife had, until Miss Fletcher came over and lifted him as if he were a bundle of feathers. Mr Nellys then burst into tears too, one hand covering his ashamed face, the other his punctured stomach. He already smelled of death.

  36

  McGray stood for a long while by the drawing-room window, expecting to see a light appear. He did not expect Frey to dawdle on that island; he could almost hear the foppish Percy rushing everyone, nagging Benjamin to stay close at all times.

  Helena and Miss Fletcher would be an entirely different story. The girl would want to stay with her father for as long as possible, and Miss Fletcher would probably have to drag the poor creature back to the mainland.

  McGray sighed, feeling a pang of compassion for the Nellyses, and decided to make his way to the pantry. He thought he’d pay Lazarus a quick visit, tell him that Helena and Miss Fletcher were checking on his father. The young man might see this as a friendly gesture. He might even open up and finally say something to help his case – if, of course, there was anything to say.

  The corridor to the storeroom was winding, dark and damp, and as McGray approached he heard the rustle of clothes. He turned the last corner and there he found Mrs Glenister, on her knees and about to slide a small piece of paper under the pantry door.

  She didn’t notice McGray’s presence until he stamped his boot on the piece of paper. The middle-aged woman let out a squeal and instantly jumped to her feet. Even in the dim light McGray could see how flushed she was – Frey was right: Glenister did look like a sour governess.

  ‘What’s this, missus?’ McGray asked, his foot firmly on the note. ‘Desperate to talk to Lazarus?’

  Mrs Glenister interlaced her fingers, her chin high. ‘That is personal!’

  ‘I wouldnae call it personal when yer trying to pass notes to a murder suspect.’

  She didn’t reply. She simply bent down to retrieve the paper. McGray let her pick it up but his voice was unwavering. ‘Hand me that.’

  Mrs Glenister pulled it away, but she only managed to tear it in half before McGray snatched it.

  ‘Don’t go anywhere,’ he told her as he unfolded the pieces and put them together.

  His eyebrows rose as he read the smudged lines. He was expecting to see a threatening message from the Kolomans, or a desperate note from Mrs Nellys . . . It was nothing of the sort.

  McGray looked up, dumbfounded.

  ‘Are ye . . . his mother?’

  Mrs Glenister snorted. ‘Of course I’m not! Do you see any resemblance at all?’

  ‘Then why are ye telling him all this? Yer telling him to be brave, calling him yer child . . . This reads like a mother’s letter. And I remember ye crying yer eyes out when I brought him here.’

  Mrs Glenister smoothed out the folds of her skirts, the governess regaining control. ‘Pray, come to the kitchen and let me pour you a cup of tea. I’ll explain everything.’

  McGray sighed. ‘Very well, missus, but make it a glass o’ wine instead.’

  Something rather foul-smelling was simmering on the fireplace, the lid popping softly from time to time. The scullery maid was seated nearby, industriously scrubbing her master’s glass distillation set with a soapy sponge.

  ‘Leave us, Ellie,’ Mrs Glenister snapped, and the girl ran as if doing so for dear life. The woman reached for a decanter and poured McGray a generous measure. She made herself tea – taking her time – and they both sat at the large table. Mrs Glenister wrapped her cup with both hands, and for a while she stared at the wooden surface, eroded and scratched after hosting years of servants’ meals.

  ‘I . . . was his wet nurse.’

  McGray took a long drink. He didn’t speak until Mrs Glenister lifted her face and shot him a testing glance. ‘I see. How so?’

  She lifted the cup, but it was as though the drink suddenly repulsed her. ‘Mrs Nellys was sickly. She’s always been a wreck, I’m afraid, and her babies kept dying. The first one lasted only a few weeks; the second one, a little girl, merely days. I’ve been told that the third child survived a couple of months, but then died just as they thought the worst was behind them.’

  ‘That’s very sad,’ said McGray. ‘Did they come asking for yer help?’

  ‘You might say so. When Lazarus was born Mrs Nellys brought him here, as broken as we saw her today, with the dying child in her arms and begging for help. Her s–’ She covered her eyes with a hand. ‘Sorry, this is all too much.’

  ‘Take yer time.’

  Mrs Glenister shook her head. ‘My masters of course couldn’t refuse to help. They turned to me . . . I had just lost a child myself, you see.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  She shrugged. ‘Losing a newborn child is common enough these days, yet still so tragic whenever it happens. I already had two daughters – they are happily married now – but I still . . . I still imagine my only son . . . He would be Lazarus’s age, of course. The Nellyses’ baby was a blessing. I would have died of sorrow had I not had him. To rock him in my arms, to see him grow big and strong . . . He soon came back to life; that’s why they named him Lazarus.’

  ‘I see. Does he ken ye –’

  ‘Of course he knows. Just as Helena knows Miss Fletcher did the same for her.’

  McGray nodded, recalling his visit to Juniper Island. Miss Fletcher had treated young Helena with the tenderness of a true mother, entirely at odds with her hard demeanour.

  ‘We bonded with the children,’ Mrs Glenister went on. ‘It’s impossible not to. If you were a woman –’

  ‘Missus, I don’t need to be a woman to understand sorrow. It must’ve been bloody heartbreaking to give ‘em back to their mother.’

  She nodded. ‘Yes, though not as hard as watching them grow from afar, going through all sorts of hardships on those godforsaken islands while their silly, stubborn mother refused any help from my masters. The selfish woman just won’t see that –’ She brought a hand to her mouth. ‘Sorry, it is not for me to judge, even if I find it so terribly unfai
r. Lazarus has worked so hard all his life.’

  ‘Do ye see him often?’

  She nodded. ‘He is the one who brings us all the produce – the meat, the cheese, the gin. I usually receive him, though it should really be Mrs Plunket’s duty.’

  ‘Would ye say youse are good friends?’

  The bitter, overwrought face softened with the slightest trace of a smile. ‘Yes, I’d say we are.’

  McGray knew there wouldn’t be a better chance to ask this question.

  ‘D’ye think he’s capable of murdering someone?’

  Mrs Glenister had surely expected it, for her answer sounded well-rehearsed.

  ‘Lazarus is a good man. Why should he have to pay because the world lost a useless leech like that constable? He was one of those people who only spread misery. Nobody will miss him or visit his grave, yet there he is’ – she nodded in the direction of the cellar door – ‘well dead and rotting away, and still muddling us all.’

  McGray breathed out, frustrated. ‘Is that all yer telling me?’

  And her face turned sour again. ‘That’s all I can tell you.’

  Before McGray could say another word the young scullery maid burst in, yelling at the top of her voice. ‘They’re coming back! They’re –’

  The girl froze when she saw McGray, but he did not enquire further. He downed the rest of the wine and went straight to the pier.

  He could already make out the silhouette of the Nellyses’ boat, its flaky paint reflecting the glow of a lantern. And the other boat was on its way, though at the moment it was but a tiny spark floating on the waters.

  ‘They are returning very soon,’ said Mrs Koloman, coming out of the manor wrapped in a thick overcoat.

  ‘Just as well. We didnae want yer nephew –’

  McGray noticed something strange. He blinked a few times, though he knew his eyes were not mistaken.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Mrs Koloman.

  ‘That’s yer husband. Only they’ve swapped boats. He’s coming in the Nellyses’ shabby wreck.’

  ‘Are you certain? He’d never willingly set foot into such a dilapidated –’ she squinted. ‘Oh, you are right. What could have happened?’

  They would not have to wait long to find out. They saw it was Boyde rowing, the strong man dripping sweat from his temples.

  As soon as the boat touched the pier Mr Koloman jumped out. His face was red and he snorted like a bull as he strode to the manor. His eyes met McGray’s for an instant but he passed him without saying a word.

  His wife went to him. ‘Konrad, what happened?’

  ‘Ask your nephew!’ he barked over his shoulder.

  McGray looked back at the waters. The second, larger boat would take a while to reach them, and no wonder. As it came nearer he saw the outlines of everyone else on board: Miss Fletcher and Frey, each handling an oar (Frey was pulling one of his shite-sniffing faces), Helena, carrying a lantern in each hand, and Benjamin at the back . . . cradling a pale, slight figure that from a distance looked like a corpse.

  37

  ‘This man needs help!’ I cried well before we reached the shore. Boyde was still at the pier, and McGray and Mrs Koloman reached forward, the lady covering her mouth with both hands.

  ‘What happened?’ they asked at once. Apparently neither Mr Koloman nor Boyde had explained the mishap. Miss Fletcher threw Boyde the rope and he pulled us closer.

  I tossed the damned oar to the pier, my hands already raw with blisters. ‘Mr Nellys is injured. And his wounds are badly infected.’

  ‘Dear Lord!’ cried Mrs Koloman.

  Miss Fletcher lifted Mr Nellys with utmost delicacy – the man already resembled a skeleton in her arms – and she went into the house with huge strides.

  I helped Helena and then Benjamin to disembark. As we made our sorry way to the entrance I looked up to the manor’s windows. Once more I saw Mrs Nellys staring at us.

  ‘She is not going to handle this well,’ I whispered.

  Then I asked Mrs Glenister (who for some reason was terribly flushed) to look after Helena and Benjamin, and as McGray and I rushed upstairs I told him quickly what had happened.

  He whistled. ‘The laddie stood up to Mr Koloman? I wish I’d seen it! The man was fuming like a kettle.’

  We reached the corridor to the guest room recently vacated by Uncle Maurice. The door was wide open so I pulled McGray to a halt.

  ‘I saw the man’s wounds,’ I whispered.

  ‘The bites?’

  ‘I cannot tell for sure those are bites. They are not like the scratches on your arm. His are punctures, like tiny pinpricks.’

  ‘But ye saw the wee beast’s fangs,’ Nine-Nails said. ‘They would leave tiny puncture marks, if they had the time to bite at leisure. The auld man’s wounds look like that.’

  ‘That I can grant you, but also . . . I think they have been tampered with.’

  McGray frowned. ‘What d’ye mean?’

  ‘I may not have seen bat bites before, but I have seen self-harm injuries, and I can tell you –’ I took a quick step aside to let Tamlyn pass with a bundle of towels, and I lowered my voice further. ‘Either this man scratched those open “bites” to oblivion . . . or he has been piercing himself.’

  McGray’s eyes widened, partly in surprise and partly in disgust. ‘Himself? Ye really think so?’

  ‘Indeed.’ I nodded at his arm. ‘Your wound has healed now.’

  He frowned. ‘Aye. Ye saw I even took the bandage off.’

  ‘Precisely, and that also makes me think this man’s wounds are not bites. Miss Natalja’s book says that the bats administer some substance that prevents clotting. Now look at your wound: the effect is not long-lasting. In Mr Nellys’s case, even with his poor health, those small punctures would heal very quickly, before there was any chance for them to become as badly infected as they are. If we were able to take this man to Edinburgh, I am almost sure Dr Clouston would corroborate the old man is harming himself.’ I watched McGray mull over my words. ‘He might not be as sane as he seems,’ I concluded. ‘I am sorry. I know what that implies for you. And for your sister.’

  He shook his head. ‘Can ye look at him more closely? Or is there a way to tell beyond doubt that –’

  ‘McGray, look!’

  From the other end of the corridor, dressed in a lavish dressing gown borrowed from Mrs Koloman, came Mrs Nellys. She was supporting herself on the wall, struggling to catch her breath.

  ‘Where is he?’ she asked. ‘Where is my husband?’

  There was an eerie determination to her stare, an unbreakable resolve that pulled her forward in spite of her body’s weakness.

  She saw the open door, the light coming from there, and before we could reach her she stormed into the chamber.

  ‘Leave my husband alone!’ she shrieked.

  When we stepped in we found Miss Fletcher holding Mr Nellys firmly in place, while Mrs Koloman pressed a brass syringe against the man’s bony forearm.

  Mr Nellys was barely conscious, but he managed to turn his head to his wife, an exhausted, agonized look in his eyes.

  ‘Minerva, what are you doing to him?’ Mrs Nellys demanded. ‘You’re poisoning him!’

  She darted forward, but McGray seized her by the shoulder. ‘There, there, missus. She’s just trying to help.’

  Mrs Koloman finished administering the medicine, pulled out the needle and cleaned the wound with cotton wool. Only then did she look up.

  ‘I am only giving him laudanum, Sabina.’

  Mrs Nellys growled. ‘Laudanum! Is that your answer to everything?’

  But her husband was already letting out a long breath, his chest and his face relaxing as he fell into a deep slumber.

  ‘See?’ Mrs Koloman said. ‘He already feels better.’

  Mrs Nellys shook her head. ‘She is poisoning him,’ she told us, not with madness or despair but with a resignation I found unnerving.

  ‘Madam, we are CID inspectors. I doubt this lady w
ould be foolish enough to poison your husband right before our eyes.’ I said those words staring directly at Mrs Koloman, who cast me a defiant look.

  ‘All I’ve ever done is help them,’ she said, ‘even though many times I simply wanted them to go away. Even after my husband’s countless objections.’ She reached for a bottle of iodine and began dabbing Mr Nellys’s wounds with dexterous hands.

  ‘Your husband will be well cared for,’ I told Mrs Nellys, gently pulling her arm. She resisted at first, but then allowed us to shepherd her back into her room. Helena waited there, muffling her sobs with a crumpled handkerchief. Miss Fletcher came right behind us, hugged the girl and whispered in her ear.

  There was little we could do but assure them Mr Nellys would be kept comfortable. Mrs Glenister brought them food and drink, but something told me they would not eat.

  McGray pulled the set of keys from his breast pocket and was about to lock the door, but then he shook his head and turned on his heel.

  He looked tired, sickened even.

  That night there was nothing but misery in the manor. You could feel it in the air, in the profound hush that had crept all around.

  I swirled the wine in my glass – the one thing I would miss from this place – as I stared at the quiet loch from my room’s window.

  No wonder I felt that oppression in my chest. Under this roof, miles and miles into the Scottish wilderness, were a dying man, a decaying corpse, three murder suspects, a handful of distraught women and men, and two wary CID inspectors who were simply waiting for somebody else to come and take charge. I’d be only too happy to leave.

  I finished the wine and went to bed, but I tossed and turned for a long while. I could not stop picturing that strange skull and its refulgent eye sockets. Witchcraft, I thought with a chill, thinking of Miss Fletcher’s words. Could there be something else on those islands? Something we were yet to meet?

  I shook my head at the idea, but an ominous feeling crept through my body, clutching at my heart like an invisible claw. A foreboding I can explain only in hindsight.