Loch of the Dead

by Loch of the Dead (retail) (epub)

  ‘Thank goodness, I thought they had come back!’ She stood up and came to me, ready to take my hand. I lifted my palm immediately to keep her at bay.

  A torrent of questions swirled through my mind. I saw there was blood on the bed.

  ‘Where is McGray?’

  ‘Oh, your colleague is fine,’ Mrs Koloman said promptly. She peered at the blood too. ‘My husband was shot in the foot.’ She gulped. ‘By Benjamin.’

  ‘Benjamin?’ I squealed.

  ‘Yes,’ Veronika took over, for her mother was crying now. ‘He helped Lazarus escape. They took my father’s guns and ran away with Helena and her parents – and Miss Fletcher.’

  I frowned, utterly confused. ‘Ma’am, would you give me that gun?’

  Mrs Koloman’s fingers closed more tightly on the small weapon. She made to say something, but then handed it to me.

  ‘Where is everybody?’ I asked, shoving the derringer in my pocket. ‘Again, where is Inspector McGray?’

  Mrs Koloman went back to her daughter. ‘He went to the inn to borrow their boat and chase the Nellyses. He mentioned something about getting help from Mr Plantard.’

  Veronika looked away when that was said.

  I realized that Boyde was still wielding the shovel. ‘Put that down,’ I told him, but he only did so when his mistress spoke.

  ‘Do as he says,’ she snapped. ‘And bring him some water. He’ll want to wash his hands after digging a grave.’

  Boyde bowed and left. Mrs Koloman was probably expecting my gratitude, but she’d be disappointed.

  ‘Your son is gone too, ma’am,’ I said.

  ‘We had to let him out,’ said Mrs Koloman. ‘Konrad insisted on going to Poolewe to get help. Your colleague can’t face the Nellyses on his own. Konrad was adamant he’d take the carriage, and Dominik wanted to help.’

  I raised my hand in a movement calculated to make my gun visible. I wanted them to see I was armed but not to threaten them yet. ‘It looks as though your son was about to flee . . .’

  Mother and daughter bit their lips in perfect synchrony.

  ‘The idea did cross his mind when we unlocked his room,’ Mrs Koloman mumbled. ‘We talked him out of it, not without struggle. But he understood there is no need for him to run, not now that the truth is evident.’

  What truth? I thought. For all I knew they might have shot McGray whilst he lay in bed and the men were out there now, perhaps adding his body to the pile of bones on Rory Island. What on earth was going on?

  ‘How did you unlock the door?’ I asked. ‘McGray had all the keys.’

  Mrs Glenister came in then, bringing a tea service. There was a large patch of blackened blood over the right-hand side of her head, highlighted by her grey hair. She nearly dropped the tray when she saw me.

  Veronika’s voice became ominous. ‘Benjamin seized a master key from her. He used that to free Lazarus and to get my father’s weapons. Lazarus dropped it in the library, where he attacked my sister – she is fine, Inspector. We found the key there and used it to free Dominik when Papa insisted on leaving.’

  Mrs Glenister continued in, hunched, and put the tray on a little table.

  ‘You had a master key we knew nothing about?’ I shrilled. ‘Why would you not –’ I turned to Mrs Koloman. ‘Did you know of that key? You must have.’

  She shook her head fervently. ‘No, I swear! I mean, we had a master key but it went missing a couple of years ago. Or at least we thought it had. We seldom lock our rooms so never came to replace it.’

  Veronika sat up then, her eyes stern. ‘Mrs Glenister, you gave them the key, did you not? You gave it to Benjamin!’

  The old woman’s silence was eloquent enough.

  Mrs Koloman stood up slowly, her pale skin turning red. ‘You gave it to them? You kept it hidden all this time and now you gave it to them? You treacherous old hag!’

  I had to stand between the two women.

  Mrs Glenister was glaring at her mistress. ‘You can’t move us all about like pawns, Mrs Koloman! You can’t give me a child, ask me to nurture him right after my own baby died, and then take him from me and expect me to forget about him, as if nothing had happened. I still love him as if he were my own son.’

  Mrs Koloman was open-mouthed. ‘How dare you talk to me like that? We’ve done nothing but help you. When your husband died we kept you here. When your daughters married I gave them money to settle away, just as you wanted!’

  ‘Yes, ma’am. I wanted them away. And you know why!’

  Mrs Koloman raised her chin, suddenly looking terrified.

  ‘And you should be glad I helped the Nellyses,’ Mrs Glenister added. ‘I told them to be kind to you and your family.’

  ‘Kind? My husband took a bullet! Lazarus battered Natalja’s face!’

  ‘You should be thankful the young miss is alive at all. You have no idea how much Lazarus despises your family.’

  Nobody spoke after that, I least of all – I still did not know whose words I should believe. Everyone seemed to have lied to me at one point or another, and I could not picture freckly young Benjamin lifting a weapon against anybody. What should I do next?

  ‘Mr Frey!’ someone said behind me. It was Natalja coming in from the corridor, her cheek swollen and beginning to bruise. I felt a pang of compassion for her.

  ‘Are you all right?’ I asked, but she would not answer the question.

  ‘Look,’ she said instead, handing me a few sheets of paper. ‘I just found these in Benjamin’s room. It seems he’s been in touch with the Nellyses all along!’

  ‘Let me see those,’ and I took the sheets from her. They were scraps of crumpled wrapping paper, and gave off a strong smell of lemon and vinegar. The scribbles on them – in three different sets of handwriting – did not look like ink but rather dark singes, and the corners of more than one sheet were partially burned.

  ‘I have seen this before,’ I mumbled. ‘If you write with vinegar, or lemon or orange juice, instead of ink, and leave it to dry, the words will be invisible and only appear when you bring the paper close to a flame.’

  Mrs Koloman came over for a closer look. ‘That’s wrapping paper from Mr Newington, our most trusted merchant in Poolewe! I’d recognize it anywhere. Why would he –’

  ‘Not him, Mama,’ Natalja jumped in. ‘Miss Fletcher takes parcels to Juniper Island all the time, the food and provisions you send them. And Miss Fletcher also wraps our own parcels and takes them to Poolewe or Kinlochewe for shipping. We send and receive correspondence at least once a week. They have been reusing the wrapping paper, or hiding their messages in the parcels’ wrappings.’

  Mrs Koloman covered her mouth. ‘Good Lord, and we always keep fresh lemons!’

  I looked at the door, thinking of Boyde’s swift exit. I recalled he’d smelled of lemons before the rowing and the digging had made him break sweat – and I raised an eyebrow.

  I looked alternately at the papers and at Natalja. ‘So . . . you are saying that Miss Fletcher has been the go-between, passing notes from the Nellyses to Benjamin and vice versa?’

  ‘That is what it seems,’ said Natalja, pointing at the writings.

  ‘Why would she do that?’

  ‘She clearly didn’t want Benjamin to live with us. Perhaps she still hates my mother for sending him away. But do read. From the notes I think they had this escape planned all along.’

  I tried to read them, but my mind was a whirling mess. Natalja had to point out the relevant lines:

  Benjamin,

  The day we’ve feared so much has finally come. The Kolomans will send for you.

  Be prepared.

  Love, H. N.

  The next note read:

  Benjamin,

  You’ll have to do the deed as planned. That which we can’t speak of.

  ‘I’m so sorry, but there is no other way. I know it will be so hard for you, but we will be at your side. It’s all been arranged.

  You know we love you so!


  S. N. & H. N.

  And the next sheet, its edge burned dangerously close to the message:

  Benjamin,

  We’ll be looking from the island. Leave a light in your window so we know you have arrived. ‘I’ll be looking just after sunset every night.

  Excellent view from Rory Island. Code in another message.

  All our love,

  L.N.

  After that the sheets were a collection of ciphers, a sort of simplified Morse code with series of dots and lines to mean things like ‘I am here’, ‘They are nice to me’, and then much darker ones, like ‘Help!’, ‘Don’t approach!’, ‘They are coming for you’ or ‘Death is near’.

  ‘The lamp!’ I spluttered, rushing out. Natalja followed closely and we stormed into Benjamin’s room. I went straight to the window, where I’d seen his oil lamp every time I came to leave his meals. There it was, in the exact same spot, and next to it, wide open on the window seat, a thick book. I picked it up.

  ‘Its pages are all singed,’ said Natalja. ‘He must have used this as a –’

  ‘As a screen to block the light at intervals,’ I interrupted. ‘He sent Morse code messages with this lamp.’

  Mrs Koloman and Veronika had followed us, and they’d heard it all. They stood there, pale and open-mouthed.

  ‘Benjamin was in here when the constable was murdered,’ I said. ‘Unless he managed to climb down . . .’ I was about to draw the curtains aside to look, but Natalja held my arm.

  ‘You are thinking what I’m thinking, are you not?’ she said, grasping my sleeve. ‘Benjamin killed Constable McEwan. Maybe Benjamin killed the priest too.’

  45

  McGray covered the distance to the inn at full gallop, spurring one of the carriage horses with frantic shouts.

  He let out a victorious cry when the brown stones of the inn appeared in the distance. The lace curtains and the quaint flowerpots were still there, looking prim and pretty, annoying reminders that nobody else in the world knew what had just happened at the manor.

  McGray reined in and jumped to the ground. The snorting, panting horse was drooling in exhaustion.

  ‘Och, I’m nae that heavy!’ muttered McGray, and then he hollered, ‘Mr Dailey!’

  McGray strode swiftly to the main door. The place, as usual, wasn’t locked, and he stormed in, calling for the owners again and again. A very alarmed Mrs Dailey came out from the kitchen, her chubby hands smothered in flour and dough.

  ‘What is –’

  ‘I need yer boat. And where’s yer husband? He might be of help.’

  ‘Why? What’s happen–’

  ‘Where is he?’

  The woman’s lip trembled. She pointed east, splattering drops of dough on to the carpet. ‘He . . . he went to Kinlochewe to get some supplies. He won’t be back ‘til the evening.’

  McGray cursed. ‘And where’s that soddin’ fake Froggie?’

  ‘Mr Plantard? Well, he’s in the sitting room, but I don’t think ye –’

  McGray was already rushing there, and as soon as he opened the door a pungent wave of a fruity bouquet hit him like a fist.

  Maurice was lounging in one of the armchairs, an empty glass in his hand and a rosy blush across his face. He looked as if he’d been slowly sliding down the seat, his body as slack as softened butter.

  ‘Och, what the fuck!’

  The man grinned at McGray, his words slurring. ‘Why, Mr Nine-Stumps! I’m trying to drown a few bad remini . . . reminisce . . . some bad memories. The Kolomans were so kind as to send me away with a cask o’ their wine . . .’ And he waved his glass in the direction of a little barrel that stood almost proudly at the centre of a nearby table. ‘Oh, do sshoin me! You look like you have your share of tribulee . . . treeba . . . troubles.’

  ‘Nae, thanks. I once tried to drown my sorrows in whisky. The bastards just learned how to swim.’

  And McGray went to him and picked him up by the lapels.

  Maurice dropped his glass and flapped his hand about, trying to retrieve it. ‘Oh, what are you – You, my rustic Scotch, are no sschentleman!’

  McGray cackled. ‘Aye, and yer about to see how fucking ungentlemanlike I can get!’

  McGray felt indescribably exhilarated when he pushed Maurice’s head into the loch. The drunken man jerked and kicked about in despair as McGray held him firmly in place from the edge of the pier.

  It took three long – long – plunges for the man to sober up, not completely, but just enough to understand McGray’s instructions. He pulled Maurice’s limp body back on to the pier, where Mrs Dailey waited with a towel at hand, and a mug of steaming coffee.

  ‘Did ye need to be so harsh, sir?’ she asked, gently wrapping Maurice’s shoulders. The man was coughing and spitting.

  ‘“Need” can be open to interpretation, hen,’ said McGray, patting Maurice’s cheeks a little too vigorously. ‘Can ye hear me now?’

  ‘Oh, stop it, you bloody bundle of bestiality!’

  ‘Ye fit enough to row?’

  Maurice took a long sip of coffee. ‘Are you fit enough to sit in the boat without turning green?’

  ‘I’ll take that as an aye.’ McGray turned to Mrs Dailey. ‘We cannae waste more time, missus. I need ye to go to the Kolomans’ and wait for Inspector Frey. As soon as he arrives back at the house, tell him I’m all right, and that the Kolomans are speaking the truth. He might doubt their word, especially since I’m nae there.’

  ‘Truth?’ she repeated. ‘What are ye talking about, sir? What’s happened?’

  McGray snorted. He had no time to explain that the Nelapsis had just confessed to being blood-drinkers or that Mr Koloman had been shot.

  ‘Ye’ll see when ye get there. Just tell Inspector Frey exactly what I’ve said.’

  McGray made the woman repeat the message twice, and then made her fetch any weapons her husband might have. She came back with a light shotgun Mr Dailey maybe used to shoot pigeons, and a little pouch full of bullets. McGray weighed the weapon in his hand; it was the kind of thing one would hand to upper-class ladies (or Frey) to keep them entertained during a hunt.

  ‘Better than nothing,’ he grumbled.

  ‘It’s the Nellyses youse are after, right?’ Mrs Dailey asked, unable to contain a small smile of relief.

  McGray didn’t answer, though he knew his silence was confirmation enough.

  ‘Get in there,’ he told Maurice, who threw him a killing stare before crawling inelegantly into the boat.

  ‘Your turn, young chap. I’m looking forward to watching this.’

  McGray took a deep breath. He felt nauseous already, just from looking at the sway of the boat.

  He took a faltering step forward. He did not fear the cave nearly as much as he did the trip there.

  46

  I looked at the messages, reading the lines again and again, Natalja’s words spinning in my mind.

  ‘So Lazarus didn’t kill the constable . . .’ Mrs Koloman whispered, sinking on to the bed. She reached for Natalja’s hand. ‘But it was Benjamin?’

  ‘It makes sense, Mama,’ the girl insisted, and then looked me in the eye. ‘Benjamin was not locked in here the first night. He told me so himself.’

  She seemed far too keen to convince me. Perhaps because she was defending her brother, but what if there was . . . another reason? I felt as though my head was about to explode.

  ‘Why would Benjamin be in touch with the Nellyses?’ I said. ‘I can see why he might murder the constable, but then why the priest? And why would he and Miss Fletcher want to go with them? It makes absolutely no sense.’

  Mrs Koloman trembled and lost all self-control. ‘And now Helena will become like them . . . sickly and burned and –’

  She halted, her eyes instantly flicking in my direction. She tried to say something else, but it was too late.

  I took a step closer to her. ‘Madam, I can see, as clear as day, there is something you have not yet told me.’

  Mrs Koloman
grasped Natalja’s hand, looking as scared as a cornered cat. Veronika sat next to her mother and took her other hand.

  ‘It is no use,’ Mrs Koloman mumbled, inexplicable defeat in her eyes. ‘I’ll just –’

  ‘You must tell us all, Mama,’ Natalja prompted. ‘Start by – Before Inspector McGray left, Papa mentioned something about . . . the atrocities the Nellyses commit . . . He mentioned a cave.’

  ‘Indeed,’ Veronika jumped in, ‘arid he said that a cross on the map of the loch showed its location. How could he know that? You and Papa have been hiding something from us, have you not? Something about the Nellyses?’

  Mrs Koloman cried silent tears. I waited for her next words, not pressing her but holding my breath, as if I were stalking a nervous doe and the slightest sound might scare her.

  The woman stood up and reached for the side table, where there was a carafe of wine. Benjamin had not touched it, for it was still full to the brim. Mrs Koloman poured herself a full glass, drank long sips, and before the initial effect of the alcohol receded she spat out the words: ‘Sabina Nelapsi is my sister.’

  ‘I knew it,’ Natalja mumbled, looking down, as if a sea of unconnected pieces suddenly began to fit together in her mind. ‘That’s why you help them all the time . . . That’s why you wanted Helena to move in here so badly. She is your niece!’

  I went to Mrs Koloman, for neither daughter attempted to move. There was something odd, some strange expression on their faces I could not read. Were they appalled at their own mother? Were they disgusted by this new information? I took the glass from the woman’s hand and put it aside. Only then, knowing the truth, did I see the resemblance between her and Mrs Nelapsi. The same cheekbones, the same lips . . . but Mrs Koloman’s skin was smooth and unblemished, and her eyes, not as pale as her sister’s, had a resolution, an energy the other woman seemed to have lost long ago.

  She smiled bitterly, perhaps reading my stare. ‘We are twins too, would you believe it? Fraternal, not identical . . . but we still looked so much alike.’ She covered her face. ‘God, I still love her! Even after all that’s happened.’

  ‘Go on,’ I said softly. ‘Did you grow up together?’