Loch of the Dead

by Loch of the Dead (retail) (epub)

  ‘Yes. We were brought up between Norway and Germany, but we travelled all the time. On one of those trips my sister met that hideous Nelapsi man – that is his actual name, Mr Frey: Silas Nelapsi. Sabina was madly in love with him from the very start; that was our first real fight. I never liked the man, not one bit.’

  ‘Why was that?’

  Her lips trembled. ‘When . . . when we met him he already looked as he does now. And I think he was already losing his mind; he would say the strangest things about blood, and the nature of cruelty . . . once, at the dinner table, he simply stood up for no reason and began reciting the works of some twisted philosophers. My mother opposed the marriage, of course. I was already engaged to Konrad; he and his father didn’t like Silas either, and they confronted him. That very night Sabina eloped, taking my mother’s jewels and my father’s gold. We didn’t hear of them for years – until they came to our door one winter, begging for our help.’

  Mrs Koloman shed tears, one, two, and then a torrent. ‘I could barely recognize her! She had already become what you see now, in only a few short years! By then Silas had gone completely insane and Sabina had squandered all her money looking for a cure, travelling across Europe and consulting the worst type of charlatan. What could I do but help her?’

  ‘What sort of help did they want?’ I asked. ‘More money?’

  ‘No,’ said Mrs Koloman ‘She had heard the legends about that miraculous well on Isle Maree . . . and other horrid tales of witchcraft. They wanted us to help them settle on the island, which we did. Konrad sent men to help them build their house. I sent them food, money – but every time I helped them they seemed to resent us more and more. They needed our help but it did no good to their pride. And then . . . to everybody’s surprise . . . Silas became better! Nobody knows how.’

  I raised my chin. ‘So . . . Miss Fletcher told us the truth about that?’

  ‘Yes, and it was then that they attempted to have children.’ Mrs Koloman had to cover her face. ‘I watched her little ones die one after the other. The graves of her poor babies are lined up on Isle Maree . . . Until I talked some sense into her . . .’

  ‘And you sent Miss Fletcher and Mrs Glenister as wet nurses,’ I completed, for she’d fallen silent.

  ‘Yes. And like Glenister said, I watched them become attached to the children, I became attached to them. They are also my blood!’

  She bit her lip, regretting she’d uttered that word.

  I spoke as gently as I could. ‘We seem to have come to the point, madam. Do you know of –’ I cleared my throat. There was no way to soften my words. ‘Do you know anything of blood baths . . . and rituals involving blood?’

  Natalja gasped and covered her mouth. It took Veronika another moment to react, and then she mirrored her sister.

  Mrs Koloman looked at her daughters with a strange, eerie grimace, and then pulled her hair, a hint of madness in her face. For an instant her attitude reminded me of Veronika, crouching and pleading in a dark corner of the corridor.

  Natalja took her sister’s hand, as if to gather courage. ‘Mama, is that the reason the Nellyses keep those bats?’ Her mother merely grunted in assent.

  ‘How can they keep them alive in winter?’ I asked. ‘Those are tropical beasts.’

  ‘The cave,’ Mrs Koloman said, nodding at Veronika. ‘They keep them warm and fed in a cave. Do you remember my husband’s maps? That cross on the north shore Veronika just mentioned?’ She did not wait for my answer. ‘The fishermen from Kinlochewe told us every autumn they see the bats swarming around a cave there. And then they see them emerge in the spring, always from the same crack in the rocks. That cross marks the spot.’

  ‘Why?’ I asked yet again. ‘Why would they want to breed bats that ruin their livestock?’

  Natalja’s eyes flickered, her mind apparently working at full speed. ‘Leeches,’ she said, looking at me. ‘Do you remember that book I gave you, Mr Frey? They must use them to keep the goats’ wounds open . . .’ She shuddered. ‘Mama, do they really . . . Are the tales from the villagers true? Do they really drink their goats’ blood? And . . . oh, dear Lord . . .’

  Mrs Koloman did not need to answer. We were all thinking of McEwan’s slit throat. We all had seen him, the dregs of his blood still dripping. And I had another, much darker image in my head: the piles of human bones strewn all over Rory Island.

  ‘Why?’ I prompted. ‘Why would anybody do something like that? Is it a ritual? Do they think it is a cure for something, like the well? Does it have to do with their skin –’

  A nasty chill invaded me and I could not finish the sentence. Mr Koloman’s weather log, lying on the drawing-room floor, had come into my mind. Also the crystal prisms and the light experiments.

  Now I understood . . . Not what they had told me, but rather something that they purposely hadn’t.

  Mrs Koloman went back to the bed, staggering a little, and sat down. ‘Something must happen to them when they drink the blood. You can tell they do so from their skins. There must be a physical . . . a chemical explanation – but I believe it is evil itself that makes them that way. It has to be their own wickedness taking hold of their minds and bodies, turning them into such wrecks. That makes me think that Helena can still be saved; she still has innocence in her eyes.’

  I looked at the creased notes, still in my hand. My fingers had gone numb and I barely managed to repress a slight tremble. Of course, Benjamin and Miss Fletcher had fled with that lot . . . It all made sense! I usually felt exhilarated when I got to the bottom of a case. Now I just felt deathly cold.

  ‘Would you . . .’ I breathed in, choosing my words very carefully. ‘Ma’am, you seem quite upset. Shall I open the window to allow you some fresh air?’

  There was an awkward silence, soon broken by Natalja. ‘Oh, don’t worry about us right now, Mr Frey. Glenister will see to us. You should go to the inn now. See if you can help Mr McGray and Mr Plantard. Your colleague said he’d go straight to the cave.’

  She sounded far too keen again. I seemed to have touched a nerve.

  I took a very small step towards the door. ‘Yes . . . yes indeed. I should go.’ I looked around, feeling the tension build up in my muscles, my legs and arms stiffening, just like the lips of the three women.

  ‘Miss Natalja . . .’ I began, ‘I . . . I might instead wait for the return of your father. He is bringing help, after all.’

  ‘Wait?’ she repeated, looking at me with sudden hatred. There was no turning back now.

  ‘Yes,’ I mumbled. ‘There is one thing I want to ask him. Would you . . .’ I looked at the curtains, still drawn. ‘Would you mind guiding me to the gardens? You might even join me for a little walk?’

  ‘A walk?’ she screeched. ‘Right now?’

  I took another little step to the door. I was but a couple of feet from the threshold. ‘Indeed,’ I said. ‘It would help my . . . mood.’

  Silence. The air around us seemed to have congealed into an oppressive, icy mass. I said no more, and waited patiently for a reply.

  Then, with the speed of a wildcat, Natalja rose to her feet and leaped forward, but just in time I reached the door and slammed it closed.

  I clumsily hunted for the key in my pocket, my other hand gripping the doorknob to keep it in place. I felt the women attempting to turn it with a surprising combined strength.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Natalja shrieked from the other side, and I heard fists banging on the door.

  I felt my grip slipping and I growled as I pulled the key from my pocket, barely able to hold the door in place. My hand trembled, I missed the keyhole twice, the women shouting all manner of insults, but I finally managed to lock it.

  Sweating, I took a step back. The door was being battered, the knob jerking madly as they all screamed and tried to open it.

  ‘Why are you doing this?’ Mrs Koloman moaned amongst the racket.

  ‘We are not the bloody villains!’ Natalja shrieked, bashing the door betwe
en each sentence. ‘The Nellyses will kill you! You and the idiotic inspector! And then they’ll come for us!’

  Doubt crept into my mind, but what was done was done. If these women had not concealed the crucial detail I thought they had, I’d be able to come back and explain later. I turned on my heel, thinking what my next move should be.

  ‘What have you done, sir?’

  Boyde stood in front of me, holding a ewer and basin. His eyes were wide. ‘Did you just lock the mistresses in there?’

  Mrs Koloman and her daughters were still shouting.

  I raised a palm, slowly bringing a hand to my breast pocket, where I’d put my gun whilst inspecting Benjamin’s room.

  ‘Erm . . . I might have. But I can explain –’

  From behind the door came a chorus of desperate cries: ‘Help us, Boyde!’ and ‘He’s trapped us!’

  ‘Oh, ladies, would you please –’I’d turned my face to the door just a fraction but Boyde took the chance to throw the hot water at me, and then the basin, which I barely managed to block with my forearm. And before the china had shattered on the floor he was already upon me, his thick, sweaty arms pushing me against the door. I threw a few punches at him, but he soon grabbed my neck and squeezed it.

  ‘Oh, you . . . damned brute!’ I gagged, my limbs flailing about as the man strangled me. I saw stars and felt a chill spreading from my fingertips to the rest of my body. The women were shouting but I could no longer understand their words. The world had reduced to that unyielding pressure on my throat and my futile attempts to draw air in, witnessing how my vision began to blur.

  I gagged, making one last attempt to breathe, but then everything around me went black and I fell limply to the floor. And then came a miracle: air rushed into my lungs and Boyde’s body fell right in front of me. I pressed my forehead on the carpet, taking in noisy, guttural breaths, my mouth opened as wide as possible.

  A hand squeezed my shoulder and helped me up. I saw Mrs Glenister’s stern face and a silver candlestick in her hand, now stained with Boyde’s blood. She’d just saved my life, but there was no trace of emotion on her lined face.

  ‘You’ll understand I have to run now,’ she said, and before I could reply she strode down the corridor, the girl Tamlyn by her side. They reached the staircase, and I never saw them again.

  47

  McGray nearly fell out of the boat as he leaned over to vomit. Again.

  Maurice was not faring much better. He was feeling the worst effects of the hangover now, his head beating, and the Scot’s continual gagging made everything worse.

  ‘Have you not yet managed to spit out your spleen?’

  ‘Och, fuck o–’ Another noisy spurt of vomit.

  Maurice focused his eyes on the beauty of the lake. The sky was beginning to turn pink, and the canopies of the pines . . . No, he could not. The sound of retching was too much. ‘I am so sorry I did not try the salmon here. Mr Dailey said it was top quality, but now that you have so graciously emptied yourself in these waters I will have to wait for at least a lustrum before –’

  ‘Will ye ever shut up?’

  Maurice smirked. ‘Not very nice, is it? Being on the receiving end?’

  McGray turned his head to him, wiping his mouth with his sleeve, and unsheathed his gun. ‘One . . . more . . . fucking word . . .’

  Maurice did close his mouth, but began rowing in a more erratic way.

  ‘I imagine you have some sort of plan,’ he said as they crossed the winding strait between Juniper and Rough Island.

  ‘Aye,’ said McGray. ‘Raid that cave. Seize the bastards and then escort them to the nearest police station.’

  Maurice chuckled. ‘Why, so very simple!’

  McGray shook his head. ‘Och, yer worse than yer sodding nephew. Yer probably more inbred too, did ye ken that?’

  ‘Oh, do excuse me . . . Did who what?’

  ‘Sod off.’

  They crossed the north side of the loch without speaking. McGray took in deep breaths, sounding as if he were in labour. He saw the craggy rocks that delimited Loch Maree: ancient granite, dark and eroded after centuries of rain and wind, and the bushy oaks that grew beyond. The mountains rose behind the trees, imposing and unassailable.

  ‘I will try to keep to the shoreline,’ said Maurice. ‘If we follow it closely it might be longer before they see us.’

  ‘Aye,’ answered McGray, but he was only half aware of what had been said.

  Maurice rowed straight to the jagged rocks. When they reached them he spun the boat, and then used an oar to push against the stone and propel the boat forward.

  ‘What does the cave look like?’ he asked, peering intently at the rocks.

  ‘Just look for a bloody crack,’ McGray said – or rather moaned.

  They rounded a promontory and they saw it.

  ‘I assume that is the spot,’ said Maurice, pointing to a boat moored ahead of them. It had been tied to a weather-beaten, algae-covered pole, perhaps the only remnant of a very old pier. The boat was empty, rocking gently and from time to time tapping a wet stone by its side. It was a natural formation, but it looked as though someone had built a small, flat step. Unlike the pole, that step was not covered in algae but was caked with layers and layers of a repugnant whitish matter, like the bottom of a birdcage that had not been cleaned in years.

  ‘Guano,’ said Maurice, grimacing.

  McGray retched. ‘I hate that word. What’s wrong with “bat shite”?’

  That rocky step led upwards to a thin sliver in the rocks, its edges dotted with splatters of the same substance.

  ‘That’s the entrance,’ said McGray. It was little more than a foot wide (the Kolomans’ cook would not fit through) but ample enough for either of them. Just as he said it a dark form came fluttering across the sky: a bat looking for shelter.

  Maurice brought the boat closer and tied it to the pole. There was not much room to manoeuvre, so they had to jump into the other boat and then on to the stone step. McGray went first, his boots skidding on the slimy guano. Awkwardly but effectively, he planted himself on the rock and squatted down, thanking heaven for the firm, still surface. He pinched his septum and closed his eyes. Breathe, he thought. Just sodding breathe!

  ‘Not that I want to make you feel worse, but remember we still have to go back,’ said Maurice, standing up in the boat as he looked west, where the sun was just setting between the mountains. It was an arresting, heavenly view, the fading light painting sky, water, leaves and stone in shades of gold. A soft breeze brought the sweet scents of moss and pines, and then another bat came by. Its meandering flight added to the serenity of the scene as the creature plunged into the shadows.

  ‘Glorious world,’ Maurice whispered, and then sighed. ‘Have a good look at that, Mr McGray. It might be the last sunset we ever see.’

  They’d need a place to roost, Frey had said. A cave, perhaps.

  McGray remembered those words as soon as he set foot in the cavern. He felt his feet plunging into a milky mess, the layers thicker and fresher the deeper they went.

  ‘Disgusting,’ Maurice muttered behind him, but the bat excrement was the least of McGray’s worries. He knew he was about to witness a monstrous thing – a series of them – and that certainty built up in his chest like an icy, clenching hand.

  The rocky floor went from flat to a narrow V, and they had to place their feet at odd angles, pressing their hands against the walls to keep their balance.

  ‘Oh, saintly mother of God . . .’ Maurice moaned, for the rock was damp and sticky with a ghastly mixture of guano and the water that infiltrated through the ground. The place reeked of ammonia.

  ‘Don’t drop that shotgun,’ McGray told him, his own weapon aimed forward, his eyes peering into the ever thicker darkness.

  ‘We should have brought a lantern,’ said Maurice, squinting. ‘I do not –’ Then a bat came in, its sharp squeaks filling the passage. In its rush it clashed against Maurice’s shoulder, and he let out
a repulsed cry.

  The bat flapped about, screeching and bouncing between the rocks and the two men. McGray felt the leathery, furry wings against his face, and he shivered just as the animal found its way in.

  ‘A johnny-come-lately,’ he said, his heart pounding.

  He took a few deep breaths, noticing how dark it had become. Then the passage bent, and as they took the turn they plunged into absolute blackness. They picked up faint noises ahead, like the rustle of feathers, intermingled with muffled squeaks.

  There was not just a handful of animals inside. It sounded like a multitude, like a colony of thousands. Could there be that many, or was it only the echoes bouncing and multiplying across the void?

  McGray was looking for his lighter, but then he saw a faint glimmer ahead. The wet rocks caught a weak shine, and then he heard scratching on the rock. A pair of bats clung to the walls not a couple of feet from him, grooming each other. Their huge eyes were like flashing beacons, amplifying what dim light they reflected.

  McGray heard Maurice’s agitated breathing right behind him. He was going to say something to soothe him, but then they heard voices.

  He moved on slowly, the guano now so thick it made a revolting squish when they stepped on it.

  The light became slightly brighter, just as they came across another pair of bats, and then a cluster of five, and very soon the animals covered a good deal of the rock.

  From then on McGray struggled to find a spot to rest his hand; wings and stubbly ears constantly brushed against his skin. He felt the urge to scratch himself.

  Maurice could not repress a small whimper. McGray turned back to him, but then accidentally pressed his hand on the head of a bat. The animal screeched, baring its tiny fangs, its hairy muzzle smeared in crimson, and stretched its wings defiantly.

  McGray took a deep breath and looked for another support.

  A few feet ahead the floor became flatter again, and then, after another turn, the passage opened into what appeared to be a small gallery. From where he stood McGray could see only the opposite wall, and he had to gulp.