Mrs Murdo bit her lip and for a moment Jeannie thought she was going to object.
‘Very well, Miss Millbuie,’ she said after a distinct pause. ‘I shall start the generator.’
Jeannie smiled.
‘Fine. I’ll come along and see how it is done. I might as well start learning about the old place, mightn’t I?’
Mrs Murdo pursed her lips.
‘This way then.’
She led the way into an adjoining room which had, in former days, obviously been a scullery, for there were two giant sinks and racks for utensils and crockery to dry in. To one side of this room were a series of bells hanging on springs, below which were wooden plaques with numbers on them.
Mrs Murdo saw her look of interest.
‘The numbers indicate the rooms, the bedrooms especially, and when one of the family rang for a servant, the bell used to sound in here and, by looking at the bell system, the servant could tell from which room the bell was being rung.’
Mrs Murdo had taken a key from a large wooden board screwed against the wall below the bell system. On this there were a series of hooks, each hook numbered but with some of the hooks bearing the moderately recent addition of a strip of brown sticking paper with a penned inscription on it; such inscriptions as ‘laird’s bedroom’; ‘study’; ‘dining room’ etc.
‘These are the keys to all the rooms in the house,’ explained Mrs Murdo shortly, seeing Jeannie examining the hooks with interest.
She turned and went through a door, down a corridor and Jeannie, following closely, found herself in the large entrance hall. Mrs Murdo stopped before a door which led under the stairs. It was bolted and the housekeeper drew back the bolts. Just inside the door was an oil lamp which Mrs Murdo lit before descending a flight of stairs.
‘This is the way to the cellars,’ she explained over her shoulder. ‘The generator is kept in what used to be the old wine cellar. That is on the first level of cellars. Never go down below that level because the conditions become dangerous after that.’
Silently Jeannie followed Mrs Murdo down into the cold stone cobweb-strewn vault, along the walls of which were rotting wooden frames which had obviously once housed wine bottles. In the middle of the room was a great metal monster with switches and dials.
‘This is the generator,’ said Mrs Murdo unnecessarily.
It took some time to get the machinery started and while Mrs Murdo busied herself with the task, Jeannie lit a candle and looked round the old wine cellar. She found that one corner was still apparently used for storing wine and uncovered, among thick layers of dust, a dozen or so bottles of wine and several more of port. She knew little about wine but, examining a label, it appeared to her that the old laird had good taste.
She turned back to the generator, becoming aware of a strong smell of gasoline.
‘It powers the generator,’ replied Mrs Murdo to her query. ‘The old laird used to store enough to keep the generator going for six months or so.’
Jeannie followed Mrs Murdo’s inclination of the head and found an adjoining cellar filled with several large drums of gasoline.
‘Isn’t it dangerous?’ she asked.
‘Dangerous?’ Mrs Murdo frowned.
‘To keep all this petrol stored below the house? What if it caught alight?’
‘It is not at all dangerous. It is fairly cold in the cellars, as you may have noticed, so there is no possibility of combustion. Also, I am the only one who ever comes down here to fix the generator. There is little chance of accident.’
Jeannie was unconvinced.
Still, she reasoned, now was not the time to comment on Mrs Murdo’s housekeeping habits. The woman obviously disliked her enough as it was.
The generator was finally started and Jeannie followed the housekeeper from the cellar.
‘Well, I’ll have my wander round,’ she said as they came into the main hall.
Mrs Murdo sniffed.
‘Very well, Miss Millbuie. I shall have luncheon ready about one o’clock, if that is acceptable.’
Jeannie nodded, the tone in Mrs Murdo’s voice indicated that luncheon would be ready at that hour even if it was not acceptable to Jeannie. The housekeeper turned on her heel and disappeared down a corridor.
Jeannie sighed as she let herself out through the main door of the house. Again she wished Tim, her boyfriend, was with her. He had a way of getting round prickly characters, a sort of diplomacy that she somehow lacked. She must remember to drop Tim a postcard as soon as possible and let him know what was happening.
By daylight Balmacaan Castle was even more impressive than the brief glimpse Jeannie had seen of it through the twilight of the previous evening. It stood on a level of land at the foot of the mountain known as Beinn a’ Bhacaidh; a level of land which ran to the loch and suddenly tumbled down a granite cliff about a hundred feet into the black waters. In fact, the grey stone walls of the building which faced out to the loch rose straight from the cliff face as if it were but one wall.
Jeannie thought she would ask Mrs Murdo what the prospects of hiring a boat were. Maybe she could go out onto the loch and take some photographs because the castle, seen from that position, would certainly impress her friends in London.
She spent several hours merely wandering around the old stone building, observing the parts which were obviously ancient and those which had been added mainly in the Victorian period.
In the cobbled courtyard her heart skipped a beat when she saw that her Volkswagen was not in the place she had parked it on the previous evening. Then she saw one of the stable doors slightly ajar and went inside. Obviously Mrs Murdo had driven the car into the shelter of the stable which now served as an adequate garage. She must thank her for her thoughtfulness.
The stables were big and imposing and in keeping with the house. Balmacaan must have been a very big place in her grandfather’s day. She wondered what had made him leave it and settle in London, in a two up and two down terraced house in suburbia where there was hardly room to stretch. He must have turned his back completely on his family, for she was sure that he had never mentioned the Millbuies nor Balmacaan to her father or herself.
She wandered out into the gardens again. They were not very well kept. Only a small plot of land seemed cultivated as a vegetable garden close to the kitchen door at one side of the house. This obviously supplied Mrs Murdo’s wants. As for the rest of the extensive gardens, apart from a rough patch of lawn in the front of the building, they were nothing but a riot of weeds. Nevertheless, it was an impressive and beautiful place and Jeannie began to fall into a quandary as to what she should do with it. Sell it? That had been her first thought and also Simpson Kyle’s suggestion. But, standing in its grounds — even though they were run down, she felt no wish to sell the place at all. Perhaps it would make a holiday home for her friends and herself? But it seemed criminal to leave such a place empty for most of the year. Besides, Jeannie was socially minded; she would feel guilty about such a thing when there were thousands of homeless people in the country. But the possibility of settling at Balmacaan was not all that attractive. What could she do? What about her friends? In London she lived in a small tribe. How could she transplant them all to Scotland? And there was Tim. No, she could not live outside London. But Balmacaan was such a beautiful place.
She was pondering the matter as she walked across the weed-strewn lawn to a small clump of trees that had subconsciously attracted her interest.
Unconsciously she had registered the grey stone which showed dimly between the trees. Entering the small copse she found, in its centre, a small chapel-like building. It was made of large grey stones, with arched windows and doorway and a low but vaulted roof. It was hardly more than ten feet square and fifteen feet high. There was no glass in the windows nor door in the portal. Above the entrance was a crest of some sort and the date 1436 AD and some inscription in a language which Jeannie guessed to be Scottish Gaelic. It was surely too small to be a chapel. But it was
obviously part of the original castle. Perhaps it was a summer house? Did ancient castles have summer houses? Jeannie grinned ruefully. Perhaps not.
The trees shut out the sun completely and Jeannie, peering through the doorway, had to adjust her eyes to the gloom before she could make out anything.
Masonry, dust and dirt lay about in profusion.
In the centre of the structure was a stone well-head. A small rounded parapet of stone, on which was a rotting wooden construction by which the bucket had been drawn up from the well. The rope and the bucket had long since vanished but there was the wheel and handle.
Jeannie edged nearer, her curiosity overtaking her caution, and tried to peer into the well.
She could see nothing but darkness the shade of pitch.
It was a rather ornate piece of building to put over a wellhead, she mused, glancing around.
She bent down and picked up a piece of masonry and tossed it into the well. She could hear it striking against the stone walls for a while and then … nothing. She stood waiting, expecting to hear the splash as it struck water. After a while she sighed. Probably the well was empty.
She was turning away when she heard it.
A strange feeling of coldness crept over her heart.
It began softly, a long slow wailing sound, not unlike the whisper of the wind in the trees. It grew gradually, grew louder and louder until it reached an uncanny pitch and then abruptly ceased.
Jeannie stood rooted to the spot.
It was the same sound she had heard during the night.
But this time it seemed to come from the very depths of the well.
Jeannie, in a moment of fright, stumbled out of the building, pushed her way through the copse and stood in the bright sunshine breathing deeply.
She rebuked herself for her momentary panic. Could it really have been as Mrs Murdo said … could that sound have been made by underground water? She supposed it was possible. But it did have such a strange quality to it. It sounded more animal-like, even like a human cry of desperation.
She suddenly laughed self-consciously.
The next thing would be that she would see the Loch Ness monster if she started to let her imagination loose in this manner.
Looking at her watch she suddenly realised it was nearly one o’clock.
She hurried to the house and washed before finding Mrs Murdo in the kitchen.
‘I trust you will not mind me serving your meals here. It would be a little ridiculous to open up the dining room just for one person,’ was her greeting.
Jeannie agreed absently.
‘But you are not eating with me?’ she asked, seeing that only one place was set.
Mrs Murdo’s eyes went up to her forehead in surprised disdain.
‘I am the housekeeper, Miss Millbuie,’ she said.
Jeannie tried to give her a friendly smile.
‘I am not one for old conventions, Mrs Murdo.’
Mrs Murdo gave an annoyed grimace.
‘Nevertheless, Miss Millbuie, the conventions have served well for many years and I see no reason to change them.’
Jeannie fell silent.
The woman was obviously an inverted snob, she thought. No wonder she dislikes me. I must stand for everything she detests. It was going to be a difficult relationship.
‘What is that old well building in the little copse outside?’ she said, trying to make conversation in the embarrassed pause.
Mrs Murdo gave her a sharp look.
‘You have been there?’ she demanded.
‘Yes.’
‘You should not go there.’
‘Whyever not?’ asked Jeannie, trying to overlook the curtness of the housekeeper’s tone.
‘The … the building is unsafe. It’s centuries old. One slip and the well could cave in. It is best to leave that place alone.’
‘What is it?’
‘As you say, it is the old well building for the castle.’
‘I saw a date on it … 1436 AD … and an inscription in Gaelic.’
Mrs Murdo’s eyes narrowed.
‘You understand Gaelic?’
‘No. I presumed it was Gaelic, though. What other language could it be in this part of the world?’
Mrs Murdo nodded.
‘What does it say then?’ Jeannie pressed, sighing to herself at the housekeeper’s lack of co-operation.
‘The building was erected by Mungo Millbuie, who accompanied the Earl of Angus and his army south when they defeated the English at Berwick in that year. The building was put up to commemorate the event.’
‘I see. And is the well in use at all?’
‘No. It has not been used for centuries. Take a care of that place, Miss Millbuie.’
Jeannie nodded absently, picking at her meal.
‘I think I’ll look round the house this afternoon,’ she announced.
‘I have to go into Balmacaan village this afternoon,’ replied Mrs Murdo.
Jeannie ignored the implied negative.
‘That’s all right. I’ll be able to find my own way about.’ Mrs Murdo pursed her lips.
‘Very well. The keys of most of the rooms are hanging in the scullery, the place I showed you this morning. But I warn you not to try exploring the cellars … ’
‘I have no wish to,’ interrupted Jeannie. ‘I just want to see the rooms of the house.’
‘Well, I would advise you to stick to the main rooms. Some of the other rooms have not been used in over a hundred years and their condition may be dangerous. Also you must not go into the old laird’s bedroom.’
Jeannie frowned.
‘I must not?’
A degree of aggression asserted itself in her voice. Mrs Murdo realised she had made a mistake.
‘I did not mean it to sound like an order. It was the wish of the old laird that his room be left untouched until Mr Kyle could come and sort out his effects.’
‘But,’ observed Jeannie in surprise, ‘it has been over a year since the old laird died. And Mr Kyle has not been able to sort out his effects yet?’
‘Mr Kyle is a busy man and Balmacaan is off the beaten track, Miss Millbuie,’ replied the housekeeper.
‘I see,’ said Jeannie, not seeing at all and wondering whether Mrs Murdo was lying and, if so, for what reason.
An hour later Jeannie watched Mrs Murdo set out to walk to the village of Balmacaan which she understood was across the shoulder of the hills that lay to the south of the house and not too far away.
She spent the next hour or so wandering through the main rooms of the great house. Most of them still retained furniture; the magnificent dining room was hung with portraits of countless Millbuies glaring down in disapproval upon her; a music room containing a spinnet, piano and other instruments whose antique category astonished her, although all were covered in dust and out of tune — as she discovered when she tried to play the spinnet and the piano. The library was covered in book cases, which stretched round the walls and were full of volumes dating mainly from the Victorian era. Each room stood as if the occupants of the house had simply walked out one day in the late nineteenth century and had never come back. There seemed nothing that did not belong to that period. It was rather depressing and Jeannie tried to lighten her mood by wondering how valuable such a collection was.
The upstairs rooms were mainly unfurnished. An old nursery room still had its garish patterned wallpaper, wooden cots and a few toys strewn about the place with a broken wooden rocking horse in a central position. Spiders’ webs and dust curtained everything. It was eerie … as if the children, too, had walked out and not returned. Everything seemed to be laying waiting for their return. An old spelling book was cast down on the floor, open at M for Mother and a once brightly coloured picture of a smiling young woman holding a child peered vainly out of the dust above the mantelshelf
Eventually Jeannie found herself on the third floor outside two ornate doors which heralded the entrance into what was obviously the master bedroo
m of the house. This would be the old laird’s room, thought Jeannie. Tentatively she tried the handle. It was locked. For a moment she felt a tussle with her conscience but her rebellious spirit won and she raced down the stairs to the scullery to fetch the key. Why did Mrs Murdo not want her to examine that room? Why had she put forward such an obviously weak story that Simpson Kyle had not yet sorted out the old laird’s effects?
She was still wondering when she returned to the doors and inserted the key, whose brown label had been inscribed with Mrs Murdo’s thin, spidery handwriting — ‘laird’s bedroom’. The key turned with some difficulty and Jeannie pushed open the door and entered.
The bedroom was musty and cold.
Jeannie’s immediate reaction was one of total depression and she wondered how old Donald Millbuie could have existed in such a place. The room was like something out of The Old Curiosity Shop; everywhere there were knick-knacks, bric-a-brac piled upon furniture that was clearly antique.
The room must contain a small fortune, Jeannie reflected, feeling a trifle guilty, as if she were trespassing on forbidden territory.
Old Donald Millbuie must have been a strange man.
By his bed, an ancient, almost black, four poster, still with its heavy blue velvet curtains gathering dust, stood a bookcase. The volumes in the case were, for the most part, ancient leather bound tomes … she drew forth a few and found that they were in Scottish Gaelic. Old Donald Millbuie must have been something of a scholar in the language. In one volume she glanced at, whose title she tried to pronounce — Leabhar Mor na Moireabh — there was a sheaf of papers which showed, on examination, that Donald Millbuie had been trying to translate the work into English. With a passing interest, Jeannie thrust the sheaf of handwritten papers into her pocket and returned the book to its shelf.
She wandered to the mantelshelf and admired the small collection of delicate porcelain figurines which stretched from one end of the marble shelf to the other. As she turned away to survey the other parts of this veritable Aladdin’s Cave, her eye caught sight of something in the fireplace.
The Curse of Loch Ness Page 5